Chapter Four
The canoe glided through the salt marshes, carrying Alice and Richard ever farther from the scene of their crime. By late afternoon, they had put several miles between themselves and Hutchinson Island. The sun beat down on the winding tidal creeks, and sweat trickled down their faces, but neither dared stop paddling for long. Her dress soaked and clinging, Alice helped as best she could, using an oar to push off when the canoe snagged in reed-beds.
They followed the broad Savannah River downstream, staying near the reedy banks to avoid the main channel. More than once they passed small fishing boats or saw a distant farmstead on the Carolina side of the river, and each time their hearts pounded with fear of being spotted. But the fishermen were intent on their nets and the distant settlers took no notice of a lone canoe amid the marsh.
Towards dusk, they reached a bend where the river widened and the currents grew confusing among barrier islands. Richard guided them into a secluded inlet beneath drooping willows. “We’ll wait here until dark,” he murmured. They dragged the canoe ashore onto a muddy bank. Alice’s arms were so tired she could barely lift them.
As evening fell, they huddled under the shelter of a twisted live oak. Swarms of mosquitoes whined in the humid air. Alice and Richard shared the loaf of bread and cheese in strained silence. Both were haunted by the enormity of what they had done. At one point Alice realized her hands were still speckled with Wise’s dried blood. She stumbled to the water’s edge and scrubbed them furiously, her breath hitching in sobs she struggled to contain. Richard came to her, gently taking her hands from the water and wrapping them in a kerchief. He didn’t speak – no words could erase the memory of that day – but he held her until her sobs subsided.
Night descended, moonless and close. Crickets and tree frogs serenaded them, oblivious to human worries. Richard finally broke the silence. “We should reach the Isle of Hope by morning if we keep going,” he whispered, pointing southward. The Isle of Hope was a wooded island downriver, sparsely inhabited. They had heard boatmen speak of it as a lonely place beyond Savannah’s patrols. “We can hide there for a time.”
Alice nodded, though the thought of trekking through swamps teeming with unknown dangers frightened her. Still, it was a far better prospect than facing a hangman’s rope in Savannah. “We’ll manage,” she whispered back, attempting confidence. Richard gave her a wan smile and squeezed her shoulder.
Under cover of darkness, they set out again. Richard paddled steadily, navigating by the stars and the flow of the river. Alice bailed water that seeped through the canoe’s seams and kept watch for any lantern lights that might signal other boats. The rhythmic dip of the paddle and the murmur of water were almost soothing. Several times Alice caught herself nodding off, the adrenaline of their escape giving way to utter exhaustion. Each time, a jolt of fear at what lay behind – and ahead – snapped her awake.
Hours passed. In the earliest gray of dawn, they finally approached the Isle of Hope – a moss-draped, oak-covered island rising out of the marsh. True to its name, it looked like a refuge. They found a small creek and guided the canoe into a hidden cove where cattails and cypress knees shielded them from view.
Dragging themselves onto solid ground, they collapsed beneath a grove of oaks. For the first time since fleeing, they allowed themselves a few hours of uneasy sleep, trusting the island’s solitude to guard them.
When Alice awoke, the sun was already high. Her neck ached from sleeping against a tree trunk, and insect bites peppered her ankles. Richard was still asleep beside her, one arm thrown over his face to block the sunlight. For a moment, watching him, Alice felt a pang in her chest – a mix of love and despair. They were alive and together, but as fugitives with little more than the clothes on their backs.
She quietly moved to the canoe and checked their supplies. Nearly half the cheese remained and some bread. The coin purse she had taken from Wise jingled with a few coins – she emptied it into her palm: two gold guineas and several shillings. That meager sum was their entire fortune now. Still, it could buy food or lodging if needed.
Richard stirred and sat up, blinking in confusion at their surroundings before memory returned. He stood and joined Alice by the water’s edge. Mud clung to his boots and trousers. He looked as disheveled as she felt – and much thinner than when they first arrived in Georgia, Alice realized.
He offered her a small smile. “We made it through the night.”
Alice managed to smile back. “We did.” She reached and took his hand. For a moment they just listened to the soft lap of water in the reeds.
“From here,” Richard said, “if we go on foot through the marsh, we can cross into the Carolina colony. We’ll have to be careful of gators and snakes, but I think it’s doable.” He sounded as if trying to convince himself.
Alice swallowed. The idea of slogging through swamps teeming with hostile wildlife unnerved her. But before she could respond, a distant sound pricked her ears – the baying of a dog.
She and Richard exchanged alarmed looks. There should be no hounds on this isolated island, unless…
“Someone’s coming,” Richard whispered. He quickly kicked dirt and leaves over the remains of their small fire from the night before. Alice hurriedly tucked the coins back into the purse and slipped it inside her blouse. They grabbed their bundle and crept into the thicker underbrush, crouching low.
The barking grew louder, joined now by men’s shouts. Through the tangle of palmettos, Alice glimpsed movement – a flash of color amidst the green. There were people on the island, moving not far from their cove. Her blood ran cold.
Richard eased the pistol from his belt and checked the priming. They had only one shot. He motioned for Alice to stay behind him.
The barking suddenly stopped, replaced by an eerie quiet. That silence was broken an instant later by a man’s voice calling out: “Show yourselves! We know you’re out here!” The voice was unfamiliar, with the twang of a Carolina accent.
Alice felt Richard tense. Perhaps they don’t know it’s us, she thought wildly. Maybe hunters? But who would be hunting with hounds on this particular island if not seeking people?
Richard cupped his hand to his mouth and tried to mimic a casual tone. “Who’s there?” he called.
A brief pause. Then: “King’s militia. And you, friend, who might you be?” The reply dripped with false friendliness. Between the tree boles, Alice discerned two, no three, figures stepping carefully through the undergrowth about thirty yards away. One held a musket at the ready. At their feet, a brown hound sniffed eagerly at the ground, pulling on its leash.
Richard glanced back at Alice. They both knew bluffing was useless. The militia. Their worst fear realized – they had been tracked.
Richard raised his pistol, keeping it low by his thigh, and stood from their hiding crouch. Alice rose just behind him, her heart in her throat. They emerged from the bushes slowly.
Three militiamen confronted them across a narrow glade. All wore rough uniforms and carried firearms. The leader, a stout man with a tricorn hat, smirked upon seeing them. “There y’are,” he drawled. “Looking worse for wear, too.”
Richard tried to affect calm. “We’re just travelers passing through,” he called, stepping forward a pace. “No trouble to anyone.”
The militiamen fanned out slightly. The dog strained and barked once more, clearly excited to have found its quarry. The leader chuckled darkly. “Travelers, eh? From where, might I ask?”
Richard didn’t answer. Alice’s mouth had gone dry. She tightened her grip on the dagger hidden in the folds of her skirt.
The man in the tricorn stepped forward. “That canoe on the shore – wouldn’t have come from Hutchinson Island, now? There’s a nasty rumor that a Mr. William Wise got himself murdered there yesterday.” His eyes glinted as he watched their faces. “I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that?”
Alice felt the blood drain from her face. Rumor had spread already. Of course, she thought – by now Patrick or the boatman must have raised alarm. A wave of despair washed over her. They had so little head start.
Richard lifted the pistol subtly, trying to keep it out of view behind his leg. “We heard nothing of any murder,” he lied.
The militiaman sighed theatrically. He spat to the side. ”Let’s drop the charade, eh?”
His two companions cocked their muskets. The metallic clicks echoed.
Alice’s pulse pounded loud in her ears. Her eyes darted to the surrounding trees – there was nowhere to run.
Richard realized the same. With a sudden motion, he raised the pistol fully, aiming at the leader. “Stay back!” he shouted, thumb on the cock.
In the same instant, one militiaman flinched and fired his musket. The shot boomed across the glade. Alice cried out, expecting to feel a bullet tear through her – but the ball whistled past, thudding into a tree behind them. The shooter had been too hasty.
Richard did not hesitate. He squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The flint sparked and a blast erupted. The leader shouted and staggered as the ball grazed his shoulder, tearing his coat. He fell to one knee with a curse.
Before Richard could even see if his shot had struck true, the third militiaman leveled his musket and fired. There was a burst of smoke and Richard let out a sharp gasp. He dropped the pistol and staggered back into Alice.
“No!” Alice screamed, catching him as he slumped. A red stain was already blossoming on Richard’s left side.
The leader recovered from his own wound and surged forward with a snarl. “Grab them!” he ordered. The militiaman who had first fired was already charging, bayonet fixed.
Alice felt rough hands seize her arms from behind. The second man had circled and taken hold of her with a grip of iron. She kicked and struggled, but he yanked her dagger from her hand and twisted her arms painfully behind her back.
Richard was on the ground, gasping. His eyes were wide with pain, one hand pressed to his bleeding side. The militiaman with the bayonet stood over him, weapon poised inches from Richard’s throat. “Yield, or I’ll skewer you,” he growled.
Chest heaving, Richard raised a shaking hand in surrender. There was no fight left.
Within moments, the militia had them both trussed like livestock. The dog barked excitedly at the commotion, dancing around as if it had done a splendid job. Alice and Richard were forced to their feet, hands bound behind with coarse rope.
The leader inspected Richard’s wound – the musket ball seemed to have passed clean through his flesh at the ribs. Blood soaked his shirt, but it looked not immediately fatal. “He’ll live to hang,” the leader grunted, tying off the bandage one of his men had rudimentarily wrapped around Richard’s torso.
As they were marched back towards the canoe, Alice’s vision blurred with tears. She leaned toward Richard, who stumbled beside her under guard. “I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. Richard only shook his head slightly, eyes downcast. Regret and fear etched lines on his young face that no youth should bear.
They had tasted freedom for barely two days. Now heavy ropes bit into their wrists, and every step toward Savannah felt like marching to their doom. The bright morning sun bore witness as the fugitives were led away, captives once more.