Their country is on the brink of Civil War; George Morgan and friends seek to escape harassment. But each must ask himself what price he’s willing to pay for freedom.
Excerpt
George stood perfectly still, mesmerized by the faint suggestion of a fire as the vision appeared and reappeared between the wind-stirred branches. His rage and anger grew, threatening to consume his reason. He wanted to tear down the hillside, rush Bouchard’s camp, snatch up Mirabelle and ride away hard. He pushed away images that loomed in his mind, images of what that man could be doing to his Mirabelle. Reason won the battle and in spite of the imminent danger she might be in, he knew he needed to think this through. He needed a plan. It could be dangerous for himself as well. George saw again the revolver that hung at Bouchard’s hip, its slick black shape seemed to be a part of the man’s being. He would have to catch Bouchard unaware. Perhaps once the man fell asleep, he could somehow steal that gun. The night was young. He would wait for those pre-dawn hours when fatigue blunted a man’s vigilance. Wait until the moon began to slip below the horizon. Wait…all
the while fighting his imaginings of what could be happening to his wife.
As he watched, his plan began to solidify. He would leave his horse tied here at the top of the ridge. Once he freed Mirabelle, they could make their way better if they were on foot. First he would have to steal Bouchard’s horse. Bring it back here. That would enable Mirabelle to be mounted. With a semblance of a plan in mind, he made himself comfortable, hoping to still the images in his imagination long enough to catch a few winks. Waiting was always the hardest part.
He woke in a sweat, his thoughts still disturbed by a fast fading dream. He remembered cabins consumed in flames…fields, ripe with corn, swept by fire…all that remained were smoking stalks. There had been scored of men, clouds of dust trailing behind as they walked away from their homes. Left behind were their wives, aprons covering teary faces as their bent shoulders shook with their sobbing. Beside the women, the children stood, their faced filled with confusion and bewilderment.
There had been other images…more horrible…more heart-wrenching. He watched as swarms of faceless bodies surged like an ocean’s tide down lush-green hillsides to encounter other clouds of faceless bodies…watched as they came together with a thundering roar of angry voices, the roar punctuated by the sharp staccato of barking rifles. He watched the puffs of gunpowder explode…smelled the sickening sweetness of blood gushing from gaping wounds…heard the howls of shock and pitiful cries of pain and anguish. It had been so confusing, so befuddling.
What did it all mean? He gave a shake of his head, trying to break the hold of those terrible images. Suddenly, he widened his eyes in recognition of where he was…what he had to do. A picture of his family flashed before his eyes. Abigail, now eight years old, pudgy baby-fat smoothing into a solemn sprite whose large dark eyes seemed to hold the wisdom of all ages. Jacob, with his stocky well-proportioned frame that continually gave the impression of containing a coiled spring. And there was Mirabelle, their mother and the light of his life….
He jumped to his feet. He had to get her back.
Copyright 2008 Gay Ingram. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Post a Comment