The Caged Graves Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Clarion Books

  215 Park Avenue South

  New York, New York 10003

  Copyright © 2013 by Dianne K. Salerni

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Salerni, Dianne K.

  The caged graves / by Dianne K. Salerni.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Returning to her hometown of Catawissa, Pennsylvania, in 1867 to marry a man she has never met, seventeen-year-old Verity Boone gets caught up in a mystery surrounding the graves of her mother and aunt and a dangerous hunt for Revolutionary-era gold.

  ISBN 978-0-547-86853-0 (hardcover)

  [1. Arranged marriage—Fiction. 2. Love—Fiction. 3. Buried treasure—Fiction. 4. Murder—Fiction. 5. Community life—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 6. Pennsylvania—History—1865—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S152114Cag 2013

  [Fic]—dc23 2012021008

  eISBN 978-0-547-86854-7

  v1.0513

  To my parents, Fred and Rosemarie, and my mother-in-law, Madeline, for all their support, encouragement, and occasional shameless promotion

  JULY 1778

  Wyoming Valley, Pennsylvania

  EVEN FACING probable death, Private Silas Clayton couldn’t stop thinking about that leather satchel.

  Screams and gunfire echoed off the mountain walls in the distance. Light from burning homesteads flickered through the trees, and smoke hung over the valley, obscuring the stars. Silas knelt in the dirt, his hands bound behind his back and all his thoughts bent toward that bag, which fellow captive Sergeant Anders wore slung across his chest.

  Across the clearing, British officers consulted, occasionally passing cold eyes over their prisoners as they considered what to do with two dozen stray Continentals.

  Silas hadn’t known much luck in his eighteen years. The sixth child of nine on a failing farm never had much to look forward to growing up, except hunger and the sure fact that there wasn’t enough of anything to go around. Joining the militia hadn’t improved his lot in life, only reinforced his conviction that luck was something he’d have to make for himself.

  Tonight, his luck—and his life—hung in the balance. If his regiment had waited for reinforcements inside Forty Fort as originally planned, he’d have been sleeping safe inside the stronghold tonight, but then he would never have come within reach of that satchel. As it was, goaded by Captain Stewart’s brashness, Colonel Butler had led them out against the enemy, and the whole damn militia was routed in less than an hour.

  Stewart was dead now, and God knew where the colonel was. Silas had fled the battlefield during the confusion, doggedly following Sergeant Anders through the mountain forest. With his usual luck, he’d run right into the hands of the blasted Indians.

  Mohawks, he’d been told, with some French blood thrown in. They had hidden in the shadows between trees and rocks, rising up out of the ground like ghosts to corner him just when he had freedom in sight. Now they stood patiently behind the British soldiers, waiting for orders.

  Somewhere out in the darkness a woman screamed—a harrowing cry cut unnaturally short—and the British officers lifted their heads only briefly before returning to their conversation, unmoved. Judging by the ominous glow over the treetops, it seemed the Redcoats and their Indian allies were burning every homestead in the valley.

  Meanwhile, this small regiment of British soldiers had just been saddled with a score of prisoners they didn’t want. They might march Silas and the others back to their encampment and from there to imprisonment, or they might do something a lot less honorable. Silas had seen their treatment of his fellow soldiers on the battlefield, even ones who’d surrendered, and had no intention of waiting around for the inevitable decision.

  For the last several minutes, he’d been sawing at his bonds with the knife that had been concealed in his boot. It was slow work, holding the knife upside down in sweat-slicked hands to reach the rope around his own wrists, and every time one of the soldiers looked his way, he had to stop, lest he draw their attention. Anders knew what Silas was doing; the big blond sergeant glanced sideways at him every now and then, and Silas could swear Captain Striker—also bound and kneeling across the clearing—was watching him too.

  Captain Striker. How he hated that puffed-up old rooster! In the last fifteen months the captain had whipped Silas more than his father ever had—for insubordination, for disobedience, for gambling, and for everything else he could think of. “You’ll never amount to anything, Clayton!” Striker had shouted just two days ago, after he’d caught Silas carving dice out of musket balls. “You’ll end up in a pauper’s grave, boy, mark my words!”

  Silas didn’t plan on going to the grave anytime soon, and he wasn’t going to be a pauper when he did.

  The ropes around his wrists gave way suddenly, and he lurched forward as his arms swung free. Regaining his balance, he jerked himself back to his previous position and looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

  Anders had. His blue eyes were wide and worried. “C’mere,” Silas whispered, and the sergeant scuttled nearer on his knees. Reaching behind Anders’s back, Silas pressed the blade of his knife against the rope and sawed as hard as he could. This was harder to conceal, two prisoners leaning together like a pair of fainting women. He’d have to be fast.

  “You there!” an officer called. “Move apart!” Silas didn’t even look up, redoubling his efforts. The British captain strode across the clearing, his hand reaching for his sword as his eyes raked over the two of them. “What do you have there, Sergeant?” Now he’d spotted the leather bag Anders wore, and the officer looked back at his own men in disgust. “Didn’t anyone search these prisoners? Someone get that satchel off him.”

  No time for subtlety left. Silas wrenched his blade up through the rope, hoping it would be enough, and surged to his feet with a roar. He took the officer by surprise, grabbing the man’s sword hand before the weapon had cleared the scabbard and thrusting forward with the knife. The captain howled as the knife grazed his ribs but caught Silas’s wrist before he could strike again. For a moment they grappled like a pair of wrestlers, while the British enlisted men shouted and brought their muskets to their shoulders. Silas raised himself up on the balls of his feet and smashed the taller man in the nose with his forehead.

  Blood spurted; the officer roared, and Si
las shoved him backwards toward his men and bolted for the woods.

  Anders had thrown off his bonds and was already yards ahead of Silas, his long limbs churning up the dirt. Not a coward normally, nor one to spurn a fight, he didn’t stop to help Silas or look back to see if he was following. He had his orders regarding that satchel, and Silas knew the sergeant would follow them, loyal to the cause until the last.

  Musket fire erupted just as Silas reached the line of trees, chewing up bark on either side of him. The Indians who’d been standing behind the British melted away from the clearing as though they’d never been there. Silas plunged headlong into the forest, hunkering low and straining to spot the sergeant’s blond head dodging between the trees.

  There was hardly a point to escaping if he didn’t keep up with Anders.

  The Redcoats gave pursuit, cursing and crashing through the underbrush. Between their noise and their bright uniforms, Silas had no fear they’d catch him unawares. The Indians would be the far deadlier foe. Somehow, he’d retained a grip on his knife. It wouldn’t make much of a defense against a musket ball or a tomahawk, but he clenched his fingers around it anyway. Leaping over fallen trees and dodging low branches, he sprinted through the thick forest growth and came upon Anders sooner than he’d expected.

  The big sergeant had stopped, lost and disoriented. He flinched when Silas appeared but didn’t argue when the younger man grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him onward, hissing, “This way!” The ground sloped steadily downward, into the valley of the Susquehanna River. The sound of pursuit diminished to shouts in the distance, but Silas pushed onward without stopping. The more dangerous enemy would come upon them silently, and he was certain they were still on the hunt.

  Soon their feet sank into moist earth, and water welled up around their ankles. They staggered to a halt, up to their knees in water. This wasn’t the river. This was the foul bog that filled up the lowland in the valley along the river’s edge.

  Silas tried to glide through the marsh without splashing, and Anders followed. The stink of decaying plants and animals filled the air. Silas kept to the edge, avoiding the open areas where moonlight illuminated masses of floating weeds. Sounds echoed on the water, and he heard distant splashing . . . voices . . . sobs.

  They weren’t alone in the swamp. There were others fleeing through the water: burned-out settlers, maybe even fellow soldiers who’d escaped the battlefield that day. In fact, as Silas stood still to listen and watch, he realized the swamp was filled with refugees—and slinking behind them, shadows.

  The sobbing grew louder. In the middle of the water, which lay like a putrid lake beneath the stars, a woman was crossing with two children slung across her shoulders. Silas saw her struggle to drag her sodden skirts through the mire, but with both arms burdened, she was making little headway. He didn’t know why she was trying to cross the open water, except that she must have feared what she couldn’t see more than what could see her.

  The sergeant had been resting, crouched over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Strong as he was, the day had taken its toll: the battle; their first flight, which had ended in capture; and now this dash for freedom—all while carrying that heavy satchel. Nevertheless, at the sight of the woman and her children, he straightened with a sigh. “We have to help them.”

  Silas shook his head. “Carrying that bag?” He glanced up at the trees. “’Twould be better to hide it and come back when the Redcoats are gone. Why don’t you hang it on one of those limbs?”

  A flicker of suspicion crossed the young sergeant’s eyes. “You know I can’t do that. Captain Stewart charged me with its safety. With his dying breath, Clayton! I got to get this bag to Colonel Dennison. But first, these people need our help. It’s our duty.” Anders turned away, toward the black waters of the bog, the woman and her children . . . and the waiting Indians.

  Silas nodded grimly. It was time for him and Anders to part company. “Wait, Sergeant. I’ll come with you.” He caught hold of the other man’s arm and moved quickly to his side.

  Anders grunted and groaned—then swayed like a tree that didn’t know which way to fall. He stared at Silas in confusion, one hand shaking as he felt his way down his own chest and encountered the hilt of a knife. His knees gave out, and the big man folded, sinking into the filthy water. “Why?” he gasped.

  “You know why.” Silas grabbed hold of the leather straps with both hands and shook the satchel free of the other man. Slipping it over his own head, he felt its weight with satisfaction.

  “Oh please, dear Lord, help me,” the sergeant moaned as he collapsed into the water.

  Silas turned away. Without so much as a glance back at his fallen comrade, he pushed aside the marsh grass and disappeared into the dark.

  JUNE 1867

  Catawissa, Pennsylvania

  One

  IN COMPLETE disregard of the conductor’s instructions, Verity Boone sprang from her seat before the train came to a full stop. The other passengers glanced at her with disapproval, but she paid no heed. As the locomotive slowed, Verity fluffed out her curls beneath her bonnet and smoothed her dress. If he was waiting on the platform, she wanted to make a perfect first impression. Then, satisfied she’d done her best after two days of travel across three states, she gazed out at the town of her birth—a place she hadn’t seen in fifteen years. She’d known she was leaving city life behind when she’d departed from Worcester, Massachusetts, but she hoped Catawissa wouldn’t be as rural as she feared.

  The conductor opened the door, scowling at the young miss standing so boldly where she shouldn’t be. When her traveling companions, two widowed sisters from Worcester, had disembarked at the previous stop, they’d asked the conductor to watch over her until she reached her destination. Verity wasn’t sure whether she herself or the conductor was more relieved to see his responsibility for her come to an end.

  She stepped onto wooden planks speckled with raindrops. The darkening sky suggested that more rain could be expected, and she glanced up and down the platform anxiously. In a matter of minutes the clouds would open and a deluge would fall, but with any luck she’d be under the roof of a carriage by then. Surely he would already be here to greet her. Verity hoped she’d recognize him, for it would be humiliating to bumble around from stranger to stranger.

  Then she spied a figure at the end of the platform and sighed. She did recognize the man who’d come for her, although he wasn’t the one she’d been hoping for. She’d seen this man only twice in the last five years, but she knew him at once.

  Ransloe Boone. Her father.

  Of course her father had come to meet her train. Verity chastised herself for a moment’s disappointment. Their eyes met, and he looked startled. Verity knew she had changed more than he had in the years since their last meeting. A young woman of seventeen was quite different from a girl of . . . what had she been? . . . fourteen at his last visit?

  Verity forced down any feeling of discontent. She should be happy her father had come for her. It was just that she’d thought Nate might be waiting at the station.

  “Verity?” her father asked when he reached her side, as if he still weren’t sure.

  “Hello, Father.” She offered a smile in greeting, but he seemed too dumbfounded to return it, sweeping his gaze over her from bonnet to boot. She surveyed him more discreetly, noting his overlong hair, his patched coat, and the dingy shirt he wore open at the collar without a tie or cravat.

  “Your trunks?” he inquired after an awkward moment of silence. Verity produced a ticket, and her father accepted it with relief, as if claiming the baggage were a more comfortable task than greeting a grown daughter he barely knew.

  To Verity’s distress, her father had brought a farm wagon to fetch her from the station. She had a feeling it was all he owned, but—glancing apprehensively at the sky—she wished he had borrowed a covered conveyance.

  He supervised the loading of her trunks, then climbed up onto the driv
er’s seat and took the reins. Only when the porter handed Verity up beside him did her father seem to realize he should have done that himself. He half rose from his seat, looking embarrassed, but Aunt Maryett had warned Verity not to mind his brusqueness. “He’s been alone too long,” she’d said. “You’ll probably have to reteach him his manners. Go gently with him!” Verity smiled at her father and settled her skirts around her.

  Ransloe Boone drove the wagon down the main street of town, away from the Susquehanna River, past square lots filled with businesses and houses. Verity was relieved to spot at least one store and a lovely town common, as well as a telegraph office, a hotel, and the business sign of a photographer hanging outside a well-kept home. Perhaps she hadn’t consigned herself to the wilderness after all, although she would miss Worcester’s sidewalks and gas streetlamps—and the only home she could remember.

  Yesterday morning she’d awakened for the very last time in the bed she’d shared for years with her Gaines cousins. Polly had cried until her nose turned red. “Write us every week,” her cousin and closest friend had implored her. “Tell me all about him, and whatever you do, try to make a good impression and show some tact!”

  Mindful of this, Verity bottled up her thoughts for almost a quarter of a mile, but eventually she could not resist turning to her father and blurting out, “I thought Nate might come to the station.”

  Ransloe Boone looked at her with a furrowed brow. “Nate?”

  “Nathaniel McClure,” she said pointedly. Her father ought to know whom she meant; he’d agreed to their engagement.

  “Why would he come?” her father grunted. He turned back to face the road and clucked at the horse. “You’ve never met him.”

  “Precisely why I thought he might come.”

  “It wouldn’t have been suitable for him to fetch you from the station,” her father went on. “Besides, you’ll meet him on Friday.”