Upstate New York
Saratoga Area, August 7, 1777
Dark-haired, nineteen-year-old Abagail Densbury paused mid-stride and listened. She frowned. Was it barking she was hearing, there, off in the distance? No, it couldn’t be; not here in the dim forest, and yet… It did sound like the howling of many hounds.
As though she were ill, Abagail’s stomach turned over. Had Miss Stockenridge awakened? And, if she had, was she really so cruel as to send the hunting dogs after her?
Fear washed through Abagail’s body, the emotion sickening her already discouraged spirit. But, was she wrong? Had the mongrels merely been let loose to help the men hunt for the inn’s evening meal?
But, no. From the sound of their howls, they were coming closer and closer to her.
Panic struck Abagail. It had to be true. The hounds were on her trail.
She shut her eyes momentarily. It was so unfair. Miss Stockenridge was an employee of Mr. Wilson, a balding man who was the proprietor of the Saratoga Tavern & Inn, an inn nestled deeply into the woods several miles away from the town of Saratoga. Miss Stockenridge had no authority to override his wishes, did she?
Abagail frowned, recalling—if only briefly—howMr. Wilson had rescued her own person earlier this very morning. Mr. Wilson must have heard the lashing being given to Abagail, because he had forced his way into the back room of the inn and had commanded Miss Stockenridge to cease the whipping at once. And, Miss Stockenridge should have stopped.
But, she hadn’t. Instead, she had increased the fury of her attack, screaming, “The lass be a thief and in league with misfits! And, since I be the one who bought her servitude contract, I can do as I like with the likes of her.”
“In league with… Now, what was it the lass stole?” asked Mr. Wilson, reaching up to stay the lash.
“Why, it be a fine necklace, taken from one of the ladies stayin’ here at the inn,” replied Miss Stockenridge. “This lass be nothin’ but a thief! And, I’ll—”
“Where be the necklace now, so I can return it to its rightful owner?”
“I’ll be returnin’ it!” yelled Miss Stockenridge. “Now get thee out of here while I give this gal the whippin’ she deserves!”
Abagail ridged her shoulders, expecting another blow. However, it never came.
With a crash and a scream, Miss Stockenridge ceased the beating, and Abagail heard the sound of a body falling onto the floor. Looking over her shoulder, Abagail beheld withsome shock the broken vase in Mr. Wilson’s hand and Miss Stockenridge’s body, now lying on the floor.
“I had ta do it now, lass. She ain’t hurt none, and she’ll awaken soon enough. But, gal, ye need to get!”
Old and kindly Mr. Wilson had then cut the ties from around Abagail’s hands, allowing her to quickly pull up her linen blouse to hide the marks on her back, even though some of those wounds were now bleeding. Inwardly, she cringed at the pain as her blouse touched her injuries.
“Here, gal, take this coin I be given ye”—he placed it into the pocket of her apron—“and get thee to Fort Stanwix, quick as ye can! Ye be free to go there and wait for me until I can join ye! Now, get!”
Mr. Wilson had said she was free to go. Was it, then, his intention to free her of the status of being an indentured servant? Or had he simply meant she was free to leave Saratoga Inn?
Obviously, his design must be the latter since he had told her to stay at Fort Stanwix until he could join her. Indeed, why else would he be planning to meet up with her there? She, being an indentured servant, was hardly important.
The barking of the inn’s hounds and the high-pitched clinking sounds of the coins in her apron as she was running had the effect of bringing Abagail back to the present moment, ending her musings. Indeed, it sounded as if the dogs were even closer to her now.
Miss Stockenridge had to have been the one to order the dogs after her. It wouldn’t matter to Miss Stockenridge that she had no authority to override Mr. Wilson’s wishes regarding Abagail, bidding her to get. Could Miss Stockenridge really be so heartless and cruel?
Abagail answered her own question. Had Mr. Wilson not stepped in to help her, Miss Stockenridge might have killed her.Indeed, the woman would have either murdered her on the spot or left her in a condition worse than death.
Well, this was a dangerous mess she was in. Worse than anything she’d ever experienced. And, goodness knew her young life had been full of misadventures, having grown up on the streets of London.
What would those hounds do to her once they found and caught her? Would they tear her apart, as though she were a fox and this a fox hunt?
Fear turned quickly to terror, causing Abagail to catch her breath and to stumble and fall onto the colorful beauty of the red, orange and golden leaves littering the ground. Immediately, she breathed in the crisp scent of the fallen leaves over the ground. But, she didn’t have a moment to spare to give the elegance of the sharp autumn day more than a quick notice.
Leaping to her feet, Abagail ran on, trying to increase her speed, and she raised up her brown cloth-worn dress so she could take bigger strides. She barely heard the clinking of the coins in the pocket of her dirty white apron—the samecoins Mr. Wilson had given her.
At least she’d had the good sense to wear her brown leather boots this day instead of her usual slippers, which had holes in the soles. Of course, even though the leather boots helped her to run, she knew it was impossible to remain free and alive. She couldn't outrun the inn’s hounds.
No, she would be caught, and, if they didn’t kill her on the spot, the hired men would drag her back to the Saratoga Inn. And, there she would be given no quarter. Miss Stockenridge would ensure it, despite Mr. Wilson’s kindness.
