Miranda Jarrett - The Secrets Of Catie Hazard

Autumn was slow in coming that summer he turned eight. It was the middle of September, yet only the very tops of the maple trees had begun to turn from green to red, and there were still tall stalks of snapdragons— rose, white, palest yellow—nodding around the base of the sundial in Grandmother’s garden. A long summer, but a peaceful one, too, the first that Anthony could remember when the Frenchmen and their Iroquois allies hadn’t threatened the wide valley around Plumstead. Otherwise Grandfather would never have brought him out to these woods to hunt, far from the big house or any of the lesser farms. Most likely he wouldn’t have been on these lands at all, but off with the rest of the militia, fighting with the other king’s men against the French.

Anthony shifted his musket from one shoulder to the other and stole another glance at Grandfather. Grandfather was about the oldest gentleman Anthony knew, his long hair snow-white beneath the flat brim of his hat with the old-fashioned sweeping plume, but he was also the wisest and the bravest gentleman, too. Everyone in the valley said so. Though he’d given over being the leader of their county’s militia, Anthony heard how they still called him Captain Sparhawk instead of Master Sparhawk or just plain Kit, though only Grandmother did that. They all came to him whenever they had a problem, too, and day or night, there always seemed to be someone waiting in the hall to see Grandfather.

But not today. Today Anthony had Grandfather all to himself, and he couldn’t quite believe his good luck.

“Here, lad,” said Grandfather, holding back a branch for Anthony. “We’ll stop here for a moment, then onward to home.”

Anthony nodded, the shy little ducking of his head that he always used around Grandfather, and obediently clambered up the big rock before them. Beneath his tired legs, the stone felt smooth and warm from the sun, and with a contented sigh he settled as close to the older man as he dared.

Grandfather drank deeply from the wooden canteen, then handed it to Anthony. “Your grandmother will be glad to see us tonight, won’t she?” he said, cocking his head toward the three wild turkeys they’d shot, now lying on the rock beside them, with their feet bound together for carrying. “ You’re a good companion, Anthony. You know the rare virtue of silence.”

Anthony flushed with pleasure, and prayed Grandfather would never guess that his silence came from being tongue-tied with awe, rather than from virtue.

Grandfather was studying him closely, his expression thoughtful. “You’re like your father, you know. He wasn’t full of empty talk, either, but there wasn’t a better man in the forest or in a fight. If you turn out like him, you’ll do well by yourself, and by his memory.”

Anthony handed him back the canteen, desperately wishing he’d hear more about his father. He’d been only a baby when his parents died and he remembered nothing of either of them. “I want to be like him,” he said wistfully, “’specially if he was like you.”

Grandfather grunted “Ah, well, Richard was more like your grandmother, small and dark, the way her people were. You’re more pure Sparhawk. The green eyes mark you, lad, like it or not. Cat’s eyes, eh?”

His smile was bittersweet as he rested his hand on Anthony’s shoulder, the weight heavy, but comforting, too. “There won’t be much I can do for you, Anthony. Your father was my youngest son, and by English law and entail there’s little to come your way.”

“I don’t care,” said Anthony promptly, and at that moment he didn’t. “I’m a Sparhawk, and that’s enough.”

Grandfather laughed “A good answer, that. But think well before you make such pledges. My father, and his father before him, were good, honorable men, strong men. There’s a responsibility to being in this family, you know, and it isn’t easy. In this valley, we’ve always been the ones to watch over those who can’t, to guard and treasure what we love most and believe in. Can you understand that?”

Anthony squinted a little as he looked up at Grandfather. The setting sun was bright around the old man’s shoulders, almost like a halo. “I think I do,” he said slowly. “You want me to help everybody and keep them safe from the French and make sure we all can be free, loyal Englishmen, the same way that you do?”

Grandfather laughed again, softly, and pride was warm in his eyes. “If you do half that much, Anthony, then you’ll do well indeed. Here, I’ve something for you.” He reached inside his hunting pouch and held out his open hand to Anthony. “A small trinket, I know, a bit of silver I’ve had fashioned for trading with the Abenaki, but still, it might serve as a reminder for you.”

It was a small silver disc, polished and gleaming against his grandfather’s lined, worn palm. Etched into the silver was a fierce bird with spread wings, perched on a stick or branch and surrounded by tiny stamped hearts.

“A hawk on a spar,” explained Grandfather as he traced his finger across the design. “A spar’s part of a ship’s mast, you know, or maybe you didn’t. A spar with a hawk. Spar-hawk, eh? There’s a pin on the back, too, so you won’t lose it.”

Anthony held his breath as Grandfather bent to pin the silver circle to his hunting shirt. He’d never had anything so beautiful or so wonderful in all his life.

“There now, Anthony,” said Grandfather. “Wherever you go, you look at this and you’ll always remember what we said this day.”

Anthony slipped his hand inside his cloak and touched the same pin on his waistcoat, there where he always wore it. With time, the silver had grown scratched and flattened, but the magic of that afternoon—and the message—had never dulled.

To be strong and watch over those who were weak, to guard and protect what he loved and treasured most—that was why he’d become a soldier in the first place, and why, too, he was here now. He must take care to remember that. With Ridley, he had let his reason and his judgment become clouded. He must not let it happen again.

And yet, strangely, it wasn’t his grandfather’s voice that echoed in Anthony’s conscience now, or the sharp taunts that had come from Ridley, but a softer, more passionate voice.

You truly have no shame, no loyalties, do you?

He swore to himself, ordering the woman’s words from his thoughts. But what remained was the woman herself, the way the winter sun had gilded her face as she stood by the window, her bowed head framed by the squares of the panes. Catharine Hazard could deny whatever she wished. He was certain they’d met before, and not just in passing. He thought again of her neat ankles in the colored stockings, and how—

Abruptly the gelding shied away at the sound of the musket shot, reduced by the wind to a dry, muffled crack, and Anthony pulled hard on the reins to wheel the frightened horse away from the sea. It was then that he heard the second shot, and felt the sharp, sudden bolt of pain rip through his upper left arm. Fifty yards to the west lay the dark shadow of low, scrubby pines, more than enough to shelter a man—or men— and their muskets.

Anthony swore again, cursing his own carelessness as he struggled to control the terrified horse. He dug his heels hard into the gelding’s sides and bent low over the animal’s neck, striving to make himself as small a target as possible as he raced back toward Newport.

Not that Anthony expected his assailants to follow. Rebels never did. Yet when at last he reached the town, he felt more relieved than he knew he had any right to, and he didn’t slow the gelding until Hazard’s swinging signboard was in sight.