The Officer's Desire

by Colleen French

  "Neither." Cassie insisted indignantly. "I was trying to steal a horse."

  "Don't lie to me, I haven't the time. If you don't tell me, you'll tell my commander back at the camp." the soldier told her in a gruff voice.

  "I'm telling you I'm no spy!" She slipped the three-cornered hat off her head, letting her hair fall to her shoulders. "My name's Cassie Marsh and I'm looking for my husband, First Lieutenant Marsh. He's with the Blue Hens." She squinted in the bright noon light. "You ought to know him. Isn't your regiment under Lord Stirling, too?"

  The soldier shook his head. "I know no Lieutenant Marsh." He raised his rifle again, eyeing her suspiciously.

  "Then how about Mordecai. . . Mordecai. . . Oh pox, I can't remember his last name. He's a lieutenant under Colonel Smallwood."

  "Anyone could know that Colonel Smallwood had a lieutenant Mordecai Steele." Becoming nervous, he poked her with the barrel of his rifle. "Come on, I'd better get you back to my camp. My captain, he doesn't take too kindly to spies, especially women spies."

  "Wait!" Cassie pushed the barrel aside. "I haven't got time to follow you halfway across this island. Look, anyone could know that Mordecai Steele was a lieutenant, but would anyone know that he was expelled from William and Mary College for tying a sheep in his schoolmaster's bed?"

  A flash of recognition passed over the soldier's face and Cassie spotted it. "Aha!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "And the sheep was dressed in a lady's nightcap and gown. What British spy would know that?" She dropped a hand to her hip, a rush of confidence washing over her.

  Slowly the Marylander lowered his rifle. She was right—what northern British spy could know that? He knew the story well; it was a favorite among Mordecai's men. "I suppose there's some truth in that." the soldier said.

  "Look, I'm not blaming you, who can be too careful?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Now if you could return my squirrel gun and tell me where the Delaware Regiment is, I'll be on my merry way."

  "I'm going to let you go, but I'm not at liberty to give you any information." He leaned on his rifle, searching his pockets for his tobacco and pipe.

  "Come on!" She reached for her rifle and swung it on her shoulder. "If I was a British spy, don't you think I'd have sense enough to know where the blasted enemy was!" She was beginning to grow weary of this fellow. She knew he was just trying to do his job. He was young and he was green, but still, he ought to have been using his head for something other than to keep that hat on!

  "Suppose you're right." The soldier's cheeks grew flushed. "They're still holding Brooklyn's west side."

  Cassie nodded, checking her bag. "When did Howe move in?" She glanced up. "I take it these are Howe's men crawling over this island like fleas on a dog."

  "The night of the twenty-second." He lit his pipe. "You should have seem 'em! Barge after barge." He exhaled and the smoke from his pipe curled upward. "We're guessing about fifteen thousand troops." He cursed beneath his breath. "Don't know if we can hold 'em. I've been out here on patrol, but word is, they're bringing us in." He pointed a finger at her. "If I was you, I'd get myself out of here while the gettin's good."

  "I intend to." Cassie assured him, pressing a small pouch into his hand. "Here's some tobacco. I brought it from home for my husband. It's a little damp, had a swim, but it's good." She looked up, grinning broadly. "Best tobacco grown in Delaware."

  "Thanks." The Marylander nodded graciously. "You take care and don't be getting caught stealing any Tory horses."

  She flashed him a grin. "I'll not get caught." she assured him, turning to go.

  "Wait." the young scout called after her. "If you get through, tell Mordecai that Les Bennett's still got his hair." He managed a smile.

  Cassie nodded. "I'll do that." she said softly . . . and then she was gone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Halt! Who goes there?" a male voice called from the darkness.

  A soldier clad in blue stepped from behind the trees, and Cassie pulled hard on the reins of her stolen horse.

  "Drop your weapon to the ground and dismount!" the young private ordered in a shaky voice. He held his firelock dead on target.

  Cassie released the flintlock she carried on her shoulder, letting it hit the hard ground with a thump. Throwing her hands up to demonstrate she meant no harm, she pulled up the skirts she'd stolen off the Tory's clothesline and slid to the ground easily. "I mean no harm." she called out, keeping her hands well above her head. She squinted, trying to get a better look at the obviously green recruit. He was a colonial, she was certain of that. "My name is Cassie O'Flynn Marsh. I'm looking for my husband, First Lieutenant Marsh of the Delaware Regiment."

  The soldier relaxed slightly, but kept his aim. "Take the reins and move forward, the camp is just ahead." He motioned with the cocked rifle. "We'll see then who you are, ma'am." Stepping to the side, he waited for his prisoner to follow orders.

  Shaking her head and murmuring beneath her breath, Cassie caught the reins of her dapple gray and led him forward. "Don't be leavin' my weapon behind." she told the soldier. "From what I've seen back there"—she motioned in the direction she'd just come—"we're going to be needing it here shortly. I fear your general's fallen slack; this island is crawling with King's men!" She shook her head as she passed the soldier.

  Long before Cassie came upon Brigadier General Lord Stirling's patriot camp, she could smell it and she could hear it. The murmur of male voices and an occasional order filled her ears. The smell of low burning fires, tired horseflesh, and unbathed bodies wafted through the air, filling her with a strange exuberance. Childhood memories long gone, long passed, flashed through her head. Home . . . I've come home, she thought wryly.

  Threading her horse's reins through her fingers, Cassie made her way toward the firelight ahead. Men were running and shouting, horses were being untied, and ammunition was being rolled out in wagons. Something was afoot.

  "This way." the young private called. "Colonel Haslet's gone to Manhattan, the lieutenant colonel, too—a court-martial. You'll have to speak with the major."

  "What the hell is going on here?" Cassie called over the din. "I've got to find my husband!" Men in blue-and-white Delaware uniforms were everywhere, pulling on their coats and rushing to pick up fresh ammunition.

  "What's goin' on here, you ask?" A smocked Marylander turned to Cassie, greatly surprised to see a woman. He continued to load his firelock. "The British is comin', that's what's happening." He nodded in the direction Cassie had just come from. "Grant and five thousand men are headed our way." He rammed his metal rod into the barrel of his gun, grinning. "Gonna be a long night, ma'am." He turned back to his rifle. "A long night."

  "Come on." the private who had brought her in ordered. "There ahead. The tent. Leave your horse here."

  Cassie swung around. "The pox on you! I crawled on my belly through two wheat fields in Flatbush to get that nag." She tightened her hold on the reins. "I leave her here and she'll be gone in a wink of an eye." She stepped up to the private, sticking her face in his. "Wouldn't you rather ride than walk? Be a fool if you would!"

  The young private took a step back. He was nervous enough as it was without having to deal with this crazy woman. She couldn't be a spy—who would have her? "No one's going to steal your horse." he told her.

  "No? You going to guarantee that, laddie boy?" she snapped. When he made no response, she gave a nod with her head. "Didn't think so. Now give me my rifle and let me find my husband. You have got something to do, haven't you . . . with the British hot on our heels and all?" She glared at him.

  The private took a deep breath. "Nope, sorry ma'am. Can't let you go. You'll have to see Major Macdonough. My orders are to let no one pass, man nor woman."

  "Hell's bells!" Cassie mumbled. She didn't suppose she could blame the poor private; he was just trying to do his job. Still, he was a bit of a simpleton. "All right, let's get on with it. Where's this major of yours?" She stopped to let three men pass wheeling a cannon
.

  Dropping her reins outside the tent the private had indicated, she turned to him. "Stand here and watch my horse. If he's gone, when I come out here, I'm holding you responsible." Not waiting for a reply, she slipped inside.

  Pulling Devon's work hat off her head, Cassie cleared her throat. An officer in the Delaware's blue and white turned to face her. His eyes widened with surprise. A woman? "Who are you? How in the—" he caught himself. "How might I ask did you get here, ma'am?"

  "Cassie O'Flynn Marsh, sir. I came ashore last night." She grinned. "Right under the noses of a handful of the King's men." She banged her hat on her skirted knee.

  The officer scratched his bearded chin, looking the woman up and down. She appeared as though she'd been traveling. Her hair was tangled, her shirt dusty, her face smudged with dirt. Only her skirt of blue tick was presentable. Still, no one could have gotten onto Long Island last night. Howe had been unloading troops on the shores for days. Was she a spy? "Why are you here?" He studied her face. Remarkable eyes, he thought.

  "My husband, sir." She took a step forward. "First Lieutenant Devon Marsh."

  The major's brow creased. "Marsh? You're Marsh's wife?" Then it all came back to him, the stories that had circulated just before they'd left Delaware. Everyone was in a titter over the red-haired woman Marsh had married. It was rumored she'd been a bonded barmaid. "You're telling the truth."

  "Yes, I'm telling the truth. I've come to find my husband." Her eyes dropped to the ground, and then she tipped her head to look him straight in the eye. "But I've also come to enlist."

  The officer swore beneath his breath. She was serious!

  "I'm a good soldier, sir. Fought with my papa in France. My mama was a gunner. I've got a horse and a rifle, and I'm a good shot. But if you're prefer it, I'll load cannon." One corner of her mouth turned up. "I'm a good shot with her, too."

  Major Macdonough made a gesture of helplessness with his hands. "I don't know what to say."

  "What can you say? By the sound of that cannon, I'd say you're going to need all of the help you can get tonight." She slid her flintlock off her shoulder and leaned against it in the doorway of the tent. "It doesn't have to be official or anything. I just want to fight. I want to help."

  He was mesmerized by the redhead's striking green eyes. He believed her . . . he believed every word she'd said. "What of your husband? I don't know where Marsh is and we're falling out shortly."

  "What of him? To tell you the truth, Major, things aren't well between us right now. He might be happy just to have me blown out of his life." She laughed, her voice filling the tent with a clearly feminine voice. "Come on. Take a chance with me. I won't let you down. I'll warrant you, I can shoot to match you."

  The major crossed his arms over his chest. What the hell, he thought. I'll probably not live through the night anyway. "All right, Mistress Marsh. I'll grant your request, but when this is over, I want you to promise me you'll find your husband and get his word on this. I don't like this, not one bit, but I'm short of men and I have a feeling I can use you."

  Cassie's cheeks grew rosy. "Look at it this way, Major. What's the difference between a woman fighting with a gun and a woman at home sewing uniforms? We do what we can for this cause." She shrugged good-naturedly. "And I don't sew."

  Cassie crouched, throwing her hands over her head. "Fire!" the sergeant called, and a boom wracked her senses as the cannon wheeled back, releasing a leaden ball. Without hesitation, she was on her feet again, tamping another load of black powder.

  Sheer chaos reined around the cannoneers as they reloaded and aimed again, firing into the advancing British line. "Fall back! Fall back!" a voice called from the distance. A retreat had been ordered by Lord Stirling. Surrounded by British Grenadiers and the 42nd Black Watch, the Patriot Army on Long Island was crumbling.

  Thick smoke clung in the air and the smell of black powder and dying flesh filled Cassie's nostrils as she clung to the cannon. Boom! They fired again. Men were running now, their voices a jumble. Orders rang out in the thick night air and soldiers cried out in pain. Men fell to the left and right of Cassie now, but she gave them no heed loading again and again. When a musket ball ripped through the sergeant's chest and he collapsed, staring up with sightless dark eyes, she rolled his body aside and gave the command herself. "Prime! Load! Fire!" she screamed above the sound of rifle fire and men's screams.

  "Retreat!" voices called from the darkness. "Retreat! Get those cannon the hell out of here!"

  Taking ahold of the cannon's carriage, Cassie and two privates wheeled her around and started for the bay. The British were almost upon them now. The haunting melody of the Black Watch's bagpipes filled her ears, bringing tears to her powder-stung eyes. Funny thing, she thought, her mind wandering idly as they wheeled the cannon faster. You never see the enemy. You hear their battle cries, you smell their blood, you taste their black powder on the tip of your tongue . . . but you never see the bastards.

  A lieutenant dressed in a torn Delaware Regiment coat raced passed the cannoneers and then turned around. "Cassie Marsh?" he shouted above the ricochet of musket fire. "My God." he breathed. "What in the Christ are you doing here?" Cassie didn't recognize the soldier, but she'd seen so many like him that their faces all ran into a blur. His once smart new uniform was torn and soiled, his face black with powder and smudges of blood. Clean streaks of tears ran down each cheek.

  "Cassie Marsh it is." she called in her bravest voice, managing a smile. "Have you seen my husband, sir?" She turned back to the two privates who wheeled the cannon. "How 'bout another, just for good measure?" she hollered.

  The lieutenant ran to her side as she ordered the cannoneers to turn the gun around and load again.

  "How did you get out here?" He grabbed her shoulder. "What are you doing here?" he begged desperately.

  "Prime! Load! Ready!" She threw herself to the ground, pulling the lieutenant down with her. "Fire!" she ordered. Boom! The cannon sounded, making the earth rock beneath them.

  Cassie pushed herself up off the ground. "If you see him, sir, do me a favor." She wiped her face with her coat sleeve. "Don't tell 'im I'm here. I've got a feeling I'm in trouble." She gave him a wink. "Now get going with you. Haven't you heard? The bloody British are coming."

  Wheeling the cannon around, Cassie and the privates started their retreat again. When soldiers burst through the darkness behind them, she swung around to fire on them with her flintlock, catching a kilted Scotsman square in the chest. "Shoot on 'em and then run." she ordered the privates.

  Cassie squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of their discharging weapons and then she fired again. "Reload, reload!" she screamed, leaping over the cannon's hitch. But the privates were too slow. They fumbled with their ramrods, too frightened to get it right on the first try. It tore at Cassie's heart to leave them behind, but she knew it was every woman for herself when the enemy was upon them. Grabbing the scruff of the nearest man's neck, she pulled him along. From the corner of her eye, she saw the other private fall.

  Racing through the Marylanders' lines, Cassie made her way west. Word was that the British left wing had been reinforced with another two thousand men and Grant was closing in on the patriot army. They were trapped here in Brooklyn. The sound of deafening screams behind her filled Cassie's ears as she ran blindly, still dragging, the private along with her. The fur-capped grenadiers had now gotten close enough to use bayonets. Now men would fall.

  Reaching the lines of wounded men being marched west, Cassie left the private behind, giving him a squeeze. She was praying that here among these men she would find Devon. "Take care of yourself." she told him with a smile. "A job well done tonight. What's your name?"

  "Charles . . . Private O'Donahue." he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

  "Well, private, live through this night and I'll speak to Colonel Haslet himself on your behalf. I'd say there's a promotion in this for you!" Releasing him, she reached down to take a dead man's rifle. "Rel
oad and then see what you can do for some of these men. It'll be a while still before the British reach us."

  Pushing her way through lines of wounded and dying men, Cassie searched for Devon's familiar face. "Devon! Devon Marsh!" she cried out occasionally. Then she spotted him, just up ahead. . . .

  For a moment, Cassie froze. She just couldn't move one booted foot in front of the other. Men passed her, some limping, some carrying a wounded friend over their shoulders. Just ahead and to the side, a tall officer in a smart blue-and-white uniform stood over a wounded man. The officer's hat was still on his head, its plumes drooping to one side. His broad shoulders rippled beneath his coat as he leaned to offer the dying man a sip of water from his can. This could be no other man but Devon. She could see his raven hair tied in a queue at his neck; she could hear his low, soothing voice as he eased the frightened soldier to a comforting death.

  Cassie's heart caught in her throat and tears welled in her eyes. He was safe! God love him, he was safe. "Devon! Devon!" she screamed above the sound of marching feet and moaning soldiers.

  Devon stiffened. Was he going mad? It was true, his Cassie was haunting his thoughts, his dreams . . . but now he was hearing her voice. "Devon Marsh!" The sound of her sweet, graveled voice made him swing around. There through the thick smoke he saw her coming. She was running to him, her arms stretched out to him, a flintlock rifle slung over each shoulder. Suddenly his surroundings began to melt around him. The dying soldier seemed farther away, the sounds of cannon fire and musketry faded in the distance. Devon saw nothing but a red-haired woman in an old cocked hat running toward him.

  Devon's arms moved of their own accord reaching for her, encompassing her soft warm flesh, and still, he didn't believe. She was a hallucination. Cassie was home at Marshview, home where she was safe. . . .

  Suddenly, the world grew loud and frightening again. He wasn't dreaming. Cassie was here, here in his arms, and she was crying.

  "So afraid you were dead. Didn't think I would ever find you. Slaughtering us, they a re. . ." The words tumbled from Cassie's mouth as she clung to Devon, squeezing him so tightly her knuckles were going white. Tears ran unchecked down her face as she molded her body to his, burying her face in his torn coat.