MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night by Pamela Clare Page A
Authors: Pamela Clare
Ads: Link
thick braid down her back, she wore one of Sarah’s old court gowns, a creation of blue silk and pink embroidered roses that Sarah and the other women had altered to fit her, the color a perfect match for the blue of her eyes.
With the MacKinnon brothers, their wives, and Joseph as witnesses, Killy and Hildie stood together before Iain and Annie’s hearth, each plighting their troth to the other, their wrists bound together with a strip of MacKinnon plaid. The bride’s cheeks were pink, the groom’s streaked with tears.
They celebrated with a feast and with music from Sarah’s harpsichord, laughter and dancing leaving them all breathless. But the hour grew late, and soon it was time to bid the newlyweds good night.
Killy and Hildie were escorted to the partly completed cabin, which the women had decorated with pine boughs, holly, and ribbons. And then the bride and groom began to argue — loudly.
"You can’t mean to carry me!" Hildie said.
"Aye, I do." He glared up at her. "I’d not be able to call myself an Irishman if I let you walk over that threshold."
"You devil! I’m quite capable of walking up those steps and through that door alone. You’ll hurt your back and be lame for days. What good will you be to me as a husband then?"
"Hurt my back? Not bloody likely!" Killy glared at Hildie , pushed his sleeves up his arms, and scooped her off her feet, carrying his shrieking bride through the open door of the cabin and leaving his cheering friends to seek their own beds — and pleasures.
And as they turned toward their own cabins, Iain, Morgan, Connor, and Joseph agreed that the New Year would be a good one.
CHAPTER 10
New Year’s Day, 1761
Lord William stood on the deck of the vessel that would carry him to New York Harbor, his gaze fixed on Albany. How different the town now seemed from the day when he’d first arrived. He’d thought it the very edge of civilization then. Yet, its streets were cleaner than those of any English city, its poorest inhabitants better fed and clothed than London’s wretched beggars, its leaders educated men.
For almost seven years, it had served as his home.
His gaze dropped to the quay, where men loaded and unloaded cargo, pulled handcarts or drove wagons drawn by draft horses. A trapper, his bundle of furs slung on his back, made his way toward the gates of the stockade to trade. A group of Indians in painted hides huddled together over a campfire, surely also here to trade. Near the gangway below, a sailor bade farewell to a tearful woman and a little boy, their words just beyond William’s hearing.
He looked away, his gaze now following the river northward. Up there, beyond stretches of untamed forest at the spot Indians called The Great Carrying Place, stood Fort Edward, watching over the falls of the Hudson and the route northward. Behind the fort’s high walls, William had worked to shape the Crown’s strategy, helping to ensure a British victory. How uncertain that victory had seemed in the early days of the war, when the British had lost battle after battle.
Now, the fort held only a thousand Regulars, and Ranger Island — where the MacKinnon brothers and their men had camped with their Mahican allies — was now abandoned, wooden crosses marking the graves of the dead.
"Your quarters are prepared, my lord," Captain Cooke said from behind him. "We should get you below decks and out of this bitter wind. Your fever has only just broken. I wouldn’t wish to see it return."
William had no desire to be cooped up in a cabin. "Will you miss Fort Edward, Captain? Will you miss this land?"
Cooke hesitated, perhaps confused by the question.
"Do speak freely."
"Yes, my lord, I shall miss it. When I reach home, I fear I shall struggle to put that which I have seen into words. A forest so thick and vast that it could swallow an army. Mountains that stretch on forever. Lakes as wide as seas. Rivers teeming with fish so that a man can earn his
With the MacKinnon brothers, their wives, and Joseph as witnesses, Killy and Hildie stood together before Iain and Annie’s hearth, each plighting their troth to the other, their wrists bound together with a strip of MacKinnon plaid. The bride’s cheeks were pink, the groom’s streaked with tears.
They celebrated with a feast and with music from Sarah’s harpsichord, laughter and dancing leaving them all breathless. But the hour grew late, and soon it was time to bid the newlyweds good night.
Killy and Hildie were escorted to the partly completed cabin, which the women had decorated with pine boughs, holly, and ribbons. And then the bride and groom began to argue — loudly.
"You can’t mean to carry me!" Hildie said.
"Aye, I do." He glared up at her. "I’d not be able to call myself an Irishman if I let you walk over that threshold."
"You devil! I’m quite capable of walking up those steps and through that door alone. You’ll hurt your back and be lame for days. What good will you be to me as a husband then?"
"Hurt my back? Not bloody likely!" Killy glared at Hildie , pushed his sleeves up his arms, and scooped her off her feet, carrying his shrieking bride through the open door of the cabin and leaving his cheering friends to seek their own beds — and pleasures.
And as they turned toward their own cabins, Iain, Morgan, Connor, and Joseph agreed that the New Year would be a good one.
CHAPTER 10
New Year’s Day, 1761
Lord William stood on the deck of the vessel that would carry him to New York Harbor, his gaze fixed on Albany. How different the town now seemed from the day when he’d first arrived. He’d thought it the very edge of civilization then. Yet, its streets were cleaner than those of any English city, its poorest inhabitants better fed and clothed than London’s wretched beggars, its leaders educated men.
For almost seven years, it had served as his home.
His gaze dropped to the quay, where men loaded and unloaded cargo, pulled handcarts or drove wagons drawn by draft horses. A trapper, his bundle of furs slung on his back, made his way toward the gates of the stockade to trade. A group of Indians in painted hides huddled together over a campfire, surely also here to trade. Near the gangway below, a sailor bade farewell to a tearful woman and a little boy, their words just beyond William’s hearing.
He looked away, his gaze now following the river northward. Up there, beyond stretches of untamed forest at the spot Indians called The Great Carrying Place, stood Fort Edward, watching over the falls of the Hudson and the route northward. Behind the fort’s high walls, William had worked to shape the Crown’s strategy, helping to ensure a British victory. How uncertain that victory had seemed in the early days of the war, when the British had lost battle after battle.
Now, the fort held only a thousand Regulars, and Ranger Island — where the MacKinnon brothers and their men had camped with their Mahican allies — was now abandoned, wooden crosses marking the graves of the dead.
"Your quarters are prepared, my lord," Captain Cooke said from behind him. "We should get you below decks and out of this bitter wind. Your fever has only just broken. I wouldn’t wish to see it return."
William had no desire to be cooped up in a cabin. "Will you miss Fort Edward, Captain? Will you miss this land?"
Cooke hesitated, perhaps confused by the question.
"Do speak freely."
"Yes, my lord, I shall miss it. When I reach home, I fear I shall struggle to put that which I have seen into words. A forest so thick and vast that it could swallow an army. Mountains that stretch on forever. Lakes as wide as seas. Rivers teeming with fish so that a man can earn his
Similar Books
