Rising Wind

by Cindy Holby

Overview

Last of the Duncans, leaving behind the highlands for the New World at the tender age of ten, Connor Duncan quickly learned that only the fit and the fortunate survive. He was both, becoming a scout and an expert marksman...a man to be reckoned with. He knew his way through the backwoods as well as any Shawnee, but he was far less comfortable in the drawing rooms of Williamsburg. What was a rough-hewn frontiersman like he to do with a sheltered beauty like the governor's niece/ But there seemed to be no way to avoid the "Virgin-Widow", especially when she insisited on accompanying him on a dangerous mission through the wilderness to Fort Savannah. Neither capture, not torture, nor the violent birth pangs of a young nation could keep them apart or stop the founding of a brand new dynasty of Duncans.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940153129655
Publisher:	cindyholbybooks
Publication date:	04/14/2014
Sold by:	Smashwords
Format:	eBook
Sales rank:	847,913
File size:	414 KB

About the Author

Cindy Holby is published in multiple genres. She writes historical westerns and fantasy. Under the name Colby Hodge she writes sci/fi romance. Under the name Kassy Tayler she writes Young Adult.

Read an Excerpt

Rising Wind

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By Cindy Holby

Dorchester Publishing

Copyright © 2007 Cindy Holby
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8439-5865-2

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Chapter One

Connor Duncan realized it was his twenty-eighth birthday when he rode into the great city of Williamsburg at dusk and saw the candles in the windows. The citizens traditionally put candles in the windows to celebrate great English victories. Culloden certainly met that requirement.

It was easy to lose track of the days when you were in the wilderness. Easy to lose track of the years too. Had it really been eighteen years since he'd come to the colonies as a bond servant?

Twenty-eight years since his birth. Twenty-eight years since the death of his father. Eighteen years since his mother's death, and his forced servitude. Eleven years since he was freed. Seven years since his friend, benefactor and former master, Sir Richard Abbington, had died.

April was always the month for happenings in his life. And here it was another April, another birthday, and he carried a summons to the Governor's Palace. What great event could he look forward to now?

The summons had come through his friend and mentor, Andrew Lewis. General Andrew Lewis. It was hard to think of him as an officer in the militia, since Connor had spent so much time with the man on the frontier.

Andrew's letter suggested the two friends meet beforeConnor answered the summons. He appreciated the caution his friend showed where he was concerned. Perhaps he thought of Connor still as the young bondservant, newly arrived from Scotland and terrified to find himself in the middle of a war with the French and the Indian tribes.

If not for Andrew and Sir Richard, he would not have survived it. There were many who would have taken his scalp because of its bright copper hue. And the idea of killing a ten-year-old boy did not cause those who wanted his scalp any concern at all.

Connor rode his chestnut mare through the bustling streets to the Raleigh Tavern. The populace, a mixture of rich and poor, master and slave, townsman and frontiersman, quickly moved about, in a hurry to conclude their business for the day and find their supper.

Connor found that he was looking forward to a nice meal himself. He had spent most of the day in trade, turning a healthy profit on the furs and skins he'd trapped during the winter. He was suddenly hungry for food, fire and conversation. He spotted Andrew as soon as he entered the tavern. The man was hard to miss because of his stature. Connor was one of the few men who could look him in the eye.

Andrew waved him with a pewter tankard toward a table by the fire.

"I see you survived another winter," he commented as Connor joined him at the table. "With all your hair."

Connor grinned at him. "The Cherokee like my hair upon my head."

"I'm sure the females do," Andrew said, returning his grin. James Southall, the innkeeper, pushed his way through the crowd with ale for Connor and the promise of a roasted chicken. "So all is peaceful on the Blue Ridge?"

"Aye. But no' farther north, I hear?" He rolled his rs, as was his wont. Even after all these years in the colonies, his Scots heritage was evident in his speech.

"There's been unrest up around the Greenbrier and New."

"Shawnee?"

"Yes. And there are rumors that they've signed a treaty with some of the other tribes."

"Delawares? Wyandots?"

"Mingoes, Miamis, Ottawas, Illinois and some others," Andrew continued. "It happened last autumn."

A barmaid set two plates of chicken before them, along with a crusty loaf of dark bread. She gave Connor a saucy look before she walked away. Andrew smiled benignly as Connor ignored the woman and dug into his meal.

"Who is the war chief?" Connor asked after swallowing. Sir Richard had been a stickler for proper manners, even on the frontier.

"Keigh-tugh-qua." Andrew carefully pronounced the name.

"Cornstalk," Connor translated for him. "The chief support of his people."

"Do you know him?"

Connor felt the familiar shiver down his spine at the thought of the time he had spent as a hostage of the Shawnee. The never-ending screams of his friend Tom still haunted his dreams. He took a long swallow of his ale. There were things he did not care to remember. He had seen sights he never wanted to see again.

"Aye, I ken him," he said finally. "They chose well for their purpose."

"You're the only one who's spent any amount of time around him and survived to tell the tale," Andrew reminded him. "After his treachery at Muddy Creek, he's become a legend."

"I was a prisoner," Connor said. He pushed away his plate, his appetite suddenly gone. "I was only in his presence twice."

"But you got his measure."

"He is no' one to trifle with."

They sat in silence for a moment. Connor was glad for it. It gave him time to get the fear back under control.

Having to watch your best friend burn alive for what seemed like an eternity was something he'd never thought he'd survive. Especially when he knew the same fate awaited him. If not for Daniel Boone ...

"Lord Dunmore wants to hear your story," Andrew said quietly.

"It isnae something I like to share," Connor said. "With anyone."

"He needs the measure of the man," Andrew reminded him. "He should know the enemy."

"Boone kens their ways better than I," Connor said.

"Boone's eyes are turned west," Andrew said. "He still mourns James."

Connor nodded. Sixteen-year-old James Boone had been skinned alive by a raiding party just last autumn. They found his body within a few miles of his father's camp. Boone knew the ways of the Indian well.

"Lord Dunmore has sent for Boone too," Andrew said. "But his plans for him lie in Kentucky. Dunmore hopes he can claim the land there before the Governor of Pennsylvania does."

"Politics," Connor said quietly. There was no escaping it. Since the day he was born he had been tossed back and forth by politics. "Ye would think that as vast as this land is, there would be plenty enough for everyone." His tankard was empty and he motioned to the barmaid.

"England does not wish to share with France or Spain. Why should her governors share with each other?"

Connor nodded as another tankard was set before him. He cast his eyes toward a closed door at the back of the common room. It was known far and wide that the House of Burgesses used the room for meetings.

Andrew saw where he looked. "You heard about Boston, then?" he asked.

"Aye," Connor said. Some colonists had dared tweak the nose of Parliament by dumping tea into the harbor this past December.

"It's been a bit hard for the house to meet," Andrew said, referring to the House of Burgesses, which represented the colonists. "Without raising Lord Dunmore's ire."

"I hear that Henry is getting more vocal in his protests about taxation without representation."

"Patrick has been vocal for years," Andrew said. "I think that finally some are willing to listen to him." He looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping and lowered his voice so that Connor had to lean in to hear. "But until we solve the problem on the frontier, we cannot address the problem closer at hand."

"If we can achieve some sort of peace on the frontier?"

Andrew raised his hand to keep Connor from saying anything that could be perceived as treason by listening ears.

"Lord Dunmore is having a ball tomorrow night to introduce his niece to Williamsburg," he said, quickly changing the subject. "She has recently come from England, where it is rumored that she was widowed thrice before she was married once."

"How can that be?" Connor asked.

"It seems that her bridegrooms have a habit of dying just before the wedding."

Connor burst out laughing. "Is she that terrifying? Perhaps she is hideous and they preferred death to waking up to the sight of her?"

"They call her the Virgin Widow," Andrew said.

"Do the authorities suspect her of harming her intendeds?"

"I do not know," Andrew said. "The rumor is that her father has given up on her marrying in England and hopes that perhaps she will make a marriage here. He is an officer of the king and has been in Boston of late. Her mother died recently, and she traveled here with her brother, who is also an officer in the army."

"And her father sends her to Virginia, where we have a kinder view of the British than those in Boston."

"Do not wear your sentiments on your sleeve, Connor," Andrew advised him. "There are many who would make a profit at your expense by accusing you of treason."

"What could they gain by my imprisonment?" Connor said. "I have naught but a small cabin and a decent horse, which I hope to breed. It is not as if my treasonous thoughts would be a surprise to anyone, especially the British, considering where I come from and how I got here."

Andrew looked at Connor as if taken aback by the hostility in his voice. Then a sudden understanding filled his eyes.

"Culloden," he said. "The anniversary of your birth."

Connor raised his tankard as if in a toast. "To anniversaries," he said, drained it and waved his hand for another. "The good people of this town see fit to celebrate it."

Andrew grabbed his arm. "We have all evening to drink to your health," he said. "Why the rush?"

"I have a lot of anniversaries today," Connor said. He saw the concern in his friend's eyes but was in no mood to be coddled. "And the day is almost done."

The barmaid arched a questioning brow at Connor as she set down another round. Andrew dropped some coin on her tray, then looked at his young friend.

"You've survived more in a few short years than most have in a lifetime," he said. "And you've come through it with strength and intelligence. Yet tonight you sound bitter."

"Why should I nae be bitter?" Connor asked. "Should I be grateful that the English killed my father on the battlefield and hanged my mother ten years later in front of me because she dared to show a bit of the plaid on the anniversary of her husband's death?"

"The men responsible for that were not acting on the king's orders," Andrew said. "They should have been held accountable."

Connor almost laughed. "Yet that did not stop them from chaining me up, throwing me into the hold of a ship where I almost died and selling me as a slave," Connor continued. Why was he bitter on this day? What made this anniversary different from all the others he had observed? He usually let them pass, taking a moment to pay tribute to the courage of both his parents. It would have been easier for both of them to run. But they hadn't. They'd stood their ground. And they'd died.

Leaving him alone. Today of all days the loneliness seemed worse, if that was possible.

"You were luckier than most," Andrew said gently. "Sir Richard cared for you."

Connor raised his tankard. "To Sir Richard," he said. "Although at first I didn't know which was worse, Sir Richard's threats that he would surely beat me to death or the way every Indian we met looked at my scalp."

"You were in a sorry state," Andrew agreed. "When Sir Richard said he was off to get a bondservant to help with his surveying, I expected someone big enough to carry his equipment, not a scrawny lad such as you, with a wild look in his eyes and hair the color of blood. You looked as if a stiff breeze would blow you away."

"That's because I dinnae eat anything the entire time I was on the ship. I couldnae keep anything down," Connor protested. "Then the first thing Sir Richard did was douse me in a trough. He handed me some clothes to put on, which were much too large, and the next thing I knew I was on the road north, walking into the middle of a war."

"It's a good thing the clothes Sir Richard put on you were too large. Once you started eating, we were afraid you were never going to stop."

"Sir Richard did complain that he got the worst of it when he saw me eat," Connor admitted. "He thought he'd gotten a bargain since I was so thin. He figured it wouldnae take much to keep me."

"And once you got over your wariness, you were determined to put a knife in the back of General Amhurst because you were sure he commanded the entire British Army. Including the ones patrolling in Scotland." Andrew roared with laughter.

"One red coat looks pretty much like the next," Connor said with an indolent shrug. "And I was anxious to use the knife ye gave me." He pulled the blade from its sheath and placed it on the table. "It has served me well."

"Then it has served its purpose," Andrew said. "I'll never forget the look on Amhurst's face when you said that the army might do better if we hid in the trees and fought like the Indians instead of marching down the middle of the road banging on those drums. We'd been telling him that for years, but the fool wouldn't listen. I was surprised he didn't hang you on the spot."

"Sir Richard got a good laugh out of it," Connor said. "After he beat me for insolence."

"Sir Richard rode with Braddock. As did Washington. Both learned from the experience."

"The problem with the English is that they are so stiffnecked," Connor said.

Andrew once again placed a warning hand on Connor's arm. "I've got a room for you at Christiana Campbell's. It's just across the street. You'll need a bath and a decent coat before youmeet with the governor. I've arranged for both."

"Thank you, Andrew," Connor said. "For everything."

"Just mind your manners for me, son," Andrew said. They rose as one and made their way through the press of the crowd to the door. "Especially with the governor." They stepped into the night air. It smelled fresh and clean after the staleness of the tavern. It smelled of spring. "It's easy to speak your mind when there's no one to hear you but the wind," Andrew said as Connor took the reins of his horse to lead it down the street.

"I understand," Connor said. "Will ye be there when I meet the governor?"

"I'll be there," Andrew said. "Sleep well, my friend."

Connor watched as Andrew moved on down the street and disappeared into the darkness. Most of the candles had been extinguished now, leaving nothing but the light spilling out from the taverns located on Duke of Gloucester Street.

In the darkness above, a few stars pricked the night sky. It almost seemed empty. When he was on the Blue Ridge, it seemed as if there were millions of stars, close enough that he could pluck them from the sky. Sometimes he fancied that they were tiny holes in the heavens that his parents could look through. That they were watching over him.

But that was when he was much younger. He was twenty-eight years old now, and the governor expected to hear about one of the more horrible times in his life.

It was April, after all.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Rising Wind by Cindy Holby Copyright © 2007 by Cindy Holby. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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