Excerpt

3:00 p.m., Friday, May 1, 1759

Molly Lake ran to keep up with her father as he hurried through the trees. It was late afternoon, and the dark shadows cast by the forest loomed ominously between the splintered sunrays. Behind every tree, she imagined an Indian brave lurking, holding a tomahawk and bloody scalp. Images of her burning cabin and the lifeless body of her baby brother, Little Pete, dominated her thoughts. She felt afraid like never before and could see fear in her fathers eyes, too.

Poppy, might we rest a spell?

Yes, said Peter reluctantly. But only for a few minutes.

Could we have a fire? she asked, hoping for additional time.

No, sweetheart, it would signal where we are. We mustnt chance it.

Molly flopped to the ground and hung her head. Nearby, Peter crouched, scanning the forest for movement. After a few minutes, he knelt beside Molly and opened his pack. Peter took out a bread loaf, broke off a corner, and said, Here, eat this. You seem to be flagging.

Molly thought back to half an hour earlier. She and her father were returning to the cabin from the wheat field when they saw a group of men clutching her mother by the arms. Molly and Peter ducked behind some vegetation. Together they counted twenty Canadian raiders and Iroquois. Molly watched her father silently pull back the flint of his musket.

Peter thought, there are too many and Ill get Marie and Molly killed. His face contorted in horror as the war party argued over his wifes fate.

The Canadian leading the raiders backhanded a man in his group and bellowed in French, I, Savournin, say that the woman is not to be killed. Then Savournins expression lightened a bit, and he said, When we arrive in Quebec, this beauty will bring a handsome reward.

After the raiders started north, Peter and Molly cautiously approached the smoldering cabin. Seeing her baby brothers bloody corpse by the cabin door, Molly buried her face in her fathers chest and wept. His chest was heaving in emotional gasps. Moments later, Peter placed a hand on her shoulder and said with his voice cracking, We need to bury Little Pete.

Peter and Molly took shovels from the shed and began digging in silence. After completing the babys grave, Peter shook his fist at the sky and said between clenched teeth, Savournin will die for this. A moment later he added, Im going to get Marie back.

Molly said, I want to help you.

Youll slow me down, Molly. Peter started to gather supplies. Im taking you to the Johnson farm.

Ill run away from the Johnsons first chance, Poppy. Im coming with you.

I dont have time to argue. Grab your things, Molly. Since youre coming, you better keep up. They grabbed what food remained in the cabin and ran off into the forest heading southeast.

Mollys mind returned to the present and she looked over at her father. Though a peaceful farmer, her father was determined to find his Marie ( regardless of the sacrifice. He adored her and could not imagine life without his pretty Acadian. Peter was physically formidable and stood over six feet tall. His steel blue eyes sparkled when he laughed. And he still possessed the same infectious grin that once charmed Schenectadys girls. But now, the smile was absent, and his eyes only reflected his steely resolve.

With a well-deserved reputation as a crack shot, Peter provided the Lakes supper table with plenty of game. His neighbors considered him a reliable friend, and he knew they would generously support him in his time of need. But seeing his wife in enemy hands, he chose to risk everything, the farm, his life, even Molly, to gain her back.

Poppy, I heard at church last Sunday that an English army is camped northeast of Albany. If theyre going to Quebec, maybe we could join them?

No, Molly. Those regulars wont move fast enough. Were heading to New York City.

Molly thought, New York City? She said, Thats the other direction.

I am opting for the naval expedition taking on supplies there. That general who captured Louisbourg last year is in charge. His name is Wolfe, and he is sailing right where they are taking your mother. And it will be much faster and safer to go by ship than track them through Indian country.

Peter looked over at his fifteen-year-old daughter. Before setting out, Peter armed Molly with a musket, a hatchet, and a knife. He believed frontier survival in their colony required an early education in hunting and self-defense, and Peter had taught Molly well. It had been Molly, after all, who had shot the stag yesterday and put meat on the familys table. He observed her as she quietly nibbled the bread. Like her mother, Molly had auburn hair, which she wore pulled back from her face and tied with a string. The freckles across her pert nose were more pronounced than Maries, but they always vanished during the winter months. Molly never fussed about them anyway. Peter regarded her as a hard worker in the field and a wonderful companion. His daughter rarely required correction. She did seem to have a bit of the Old Nick in her at times; though he could never recall a time when she had broken her word. She could, however, talk her way out of a tight spot like few others, and she seemed to contain an endless fount of energy and enthusiasm. And at least once a week she would challenge him to a footrace home from the fields. Peter remembered the many times he had bounded through the front door, panting and laughing and coming in second.

Peter sensed a clawing heaviness in his chest. Mollys similarity to her mother threatened to plunge him into a paralyzing sorrow. He couldnt allow that; he must stay alert to his surroundings. Shaking his head ...