Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2)

by Meredith, Anne

  His voice lowered. “I do not know the kind of muskets and rifles they have in your pampered time, but these require mastery.”

  “These are exactly what I learned to shoot with—it was part of my job. I’ve shot with actual antique rifles from this time. And 200 yards is twice as far as the most accomplished athlete of my time can run with a stupid football and be a millionaire!”

  His face went slack with confusion as she overwhelmed him with the trivial measure of a man in the twenty-first century, but he was unmoved.

  “If you don’t have enough guns, I can load for others. I can even make paper cartridges, if you have the paper.”

  “How do you even know about paper—why do I ask. No. Take these mysterious talents and go home and protect Mrs. Adams, that I may remove you from the cares of my mind.”

  The sweeping condescension, his utter dismissal of the idea that she might be useful to him in battle, angered her.

  “Oh, all right!”

  She stomped away from him and down the gangway, then disappeared into the crowd surrounding the wagon. She moved to the other side of the wagon and sank down to watch Bronson until he finally turned away, responding to a question from another man. Both headed abaft.

  She hesitated only a moment, pondering what she was about to do. She respected him and knew the last thing he needed was a distraction. But he had no way of knowing her competence with a firearm. She understood what it was like to work under pressure. Jimmy had certainly taught her psychological warfare.

  Still, she thought how little he had asked of her, and how much she yearned for his trust. How much he would need to rely on it—whether he understood it or not.

  Reluctantly, she turned away and began to walk back toward the cabins.

  “Good sir!”

  The call came when she’d walked perhaps thirty yards away, and she turned.

  It was Captain James, calling her.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked, turning back.

  “You shall not desert, this early in the game. Board with the rest.”

  “But, sir, you don’t understand. I—”

  “Nor do I care. Go on now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With that, she raced along the gangway and boarded, then immediately slipped down a hatch. She caught the ladder almost in afterthought as she hurried down, then a few steps on the next deck, then down again, and again, and again, into the hold.

  She prayed her husband would forgive her. In the end, she had no choice.

  She would help him, as best she could.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The ship was underway only a few minutes later, slicing through the cold waters of the James, downriver toward Norfolk. Even with her eyes closed, Marley could hear rats rustling and squealing. The place was dank and musty and very nearly lightless. In thin strips of lantern light coming from the hatch, she saw a selection of casks, no doubt some containing foodstuffs, should their battle drag on, and some containing gunpowder.

  She crossed to one, tried to move it, and failed. Some kind of salted meat, or perhaps rum. She tried several others before she was able to budge a cask without hearing any internal liquid. She withdrew her knife, and carefully pried open the lid.

  Rich, faintly aromatic powder filled the cask.

  She located a scoop and carefully filled the powder horn, then closed it and settled it at her waist. She saw a long, more narrow crate and pried it open, sighing loudly when she spotted three rifles. She knew that most of the men at Rosalie—indeed, any colonial family—likely owned their own guns for shooting food for their families, so perhaps Bronson’s offer of firearms had been unnecessary. She withdrew the rifle from the crate and carried it closer to the hatch, admiring its beauty and its craftsmanship. Then she returned to the long crate and closed it, laying the rifle atop it.

  From another box she was able to find balls, and settled a generous supply of these in her bag. Finally, she was able to find a cloth that she cut into small squares for patches, using her knife and the muzzle of the rifle to get the size right.

  When she was certain she had a supply to last her through the night—no soldier could carry an unlimited amount of ammunition—she found a dry corner away from the food and took a quick nap. When she awakened she thought she’d slept only a few minutes, but she regretted the nap, because she wasn’t sure. She could’ve been asleep for ten minutes or for two hours. At least, the ship was still moving.

  Why was everything so quiet?

  She loaded her rifle and crept up the stairs nervously. The next deck contained cables, and was deserted, illuminated by only a single whale oil lamp.

  Men were positioned at the next deck, behind cannons. And as she hesitated, peering around, someone grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth with one hand and divesting her of her rifle with the other.

  “Why are you here?”

  The angry whisper in her ear filled her with relief and terror. As he removed his hand from her mouth to grab her waist, he pointed her back to the hatch.

  “Be careful, it’s loaded,” she whispered.

  “Down.”

  She skipped down to the cable tier in four steps. He took it in two. She backed away from him instinctively, tripping over a gigantic cable and landing against a wall.

  “I sent you to Rosalie. Why are you here?”

  “I was leaving, and Captain James stopped and accused me of desertion. I had no choice.”

  He continued moving toward her. Only faint light showed, lighting his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His eyes and his mouth were in shadow. “Can you in fact hit a target at 200 yards?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved closer. “Are you sure James had no idea you’re a woman?”

  Now, feeling his heat within inches of her, her fear melted away into hunger. Still, his anger at her left her uncertain. She could not bear his rejection.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he blind?”

  He lowered his head, his mouth hovering over hers—she tasted his breath, felt his urgent need. He skimmed his hand lightly along the lacings on her dress, then cupped her breast—the soft leather was far too thick. She lifted her breasts in supplication to him, lifted her lips in invitation—and he drew back.

  “Are you quite aware of what you’re feeling right now?”

  “I need you—very much.”

  “Excellent. That is what I feel when I see you in this. I need my wits about me in battle—not occupied in imagining ways to have you on the cables.”

  Her hands rose to his chest, lightly scratching. “It would only take a minute, I promise.”

  He stepped away from her. With the butt of the rifle firmly on the deck, he leaned the muzzle toward her.

  She was stung, and she took the rifle dejectedly as he made for the ladder. Then he walked the few steps back and pressed his lips hard to hers. “But know that you will be punished for that, most emphatically. Next time, consider what you’re doing before you toy with a live round.”

  He rubbed her bottom, then lightly patted it before he strode away.

  The Adventurer sailed down the James and into the Elizabeth River. They followed the river nearly to Great Bridge, anchoring offshore. The number of men who’d traveled with them filled the landing boat several times, but soon they were all safely ashore.

  Marley looked back at the ship, filled with a sense of foreboding. The land and its terrain was different in these days, and even lacking simple landmarks, it was difficult to get her bearings. She had traveled this area frequently all her life—both as a child with her parents and in her experience with the Adventurer dig.

  This Elizabeth River was astonishing in its newness and purity. And yet, she knew, as they had passed through the harbor town, that already the estuary was beginning a pattern of decline that within 240 years would leave its toxic floor entirely lifeless.

  Still, she knew by its simple location in the river that this was the location where this ship woul
d be destroyed. Whether today or another day, this was where the Adventurer met its end.

  She had no idea how any of them would find their way home—but she was relieved when the ship was empty and the last of them had made it to shore. The Great Bridge Battle, after all, had no major patriot casualties; for that, she was blessedly thankful.

  The Adventurer, however, originally had. She would have been unsettled at the idea that she was changing history—except that history was far better off with Bronson around.

  She glanced about, noticing on the far shore another ship. In the dark night, little was visible but the stars—and a few lamps flickering on the warship. The Royal Navy.

  “Marley.”

  At Bronson’s urgent whisper she turned, hurrying to catch up to him. He’d gone perhaps just ten feet without her while she gazed at the ship, but his face, drawn and tense, anchored her in the present. They weren’t exactly on a church picnic.

  So what if American fatalities hadn’t appeared in history’s reports of the Great Bridge battle that she’d grown up with? she thought, sobering. Neither had she appeared in that time.

  Focus, for heaven’s sake. Memento mori. Not a bad motto to live by, after all.

  Her breath escaped her in the cold, and she was grateful for the long-sleeved, lined flannel shirt Bronson had retrieved from his cabin and placed over her. His purpose had been to disguise an outfit he found arousing, despite its long hem and trousers. But it gave her an added insulation as well as warming her with his faint scent. There were some perks to a place where doing laundry was so inconvenient.

  The surreal scenery around her captured her attention. The sulfurous smell of the salt marshes lingered in the humid December morning. The sweeping silence was unnerving as the hundred men trudged away from the river and through the weeds. She knew that up ahead lay a battle scene plotted out by the opposing military leaders: on their side, one Colonel William Woodford; on the other, Captains Leslie and Fordyce.

  They reached the camp in another hour and joined the ranks. In the distance, she heard the orders being given in an English accent, and her blood stirred with adrenaline and pride at the reminder of where she stood. The first battle of the American revolution on Virginia soil was the Battle at Great Bridge. Virginia, the mother of presidents, the birthplace of a nation.

  By the time the sun began to rise over the Chesapeake Bay, the men of Virginia had been engaged without result by the British Army’s grenadiers. The Brits had retreated back over the bridge, and Virginia had lined up behind its entrenchments. Several cannons were lined up there.

  Finally, when visibility improved, the musket fire began. Marley walked to the edge of the camp, then peeked out for a better view.

  A cannon boomed from the other side, and Bronson rushed out to grab her back behind him.

  “Stay here.”

  “Like hell.”

  “I’ll return posthaste.”

  She snorted. “You can’t shoot and fight me, and you might as well realize that now. I will help.”

  He shot her an angry glance.

  They joined Rashall at the entrenchment, and he made room for them in the line of men along the dirt barricade.

  “We’ll never reach them with musket fire at this distance,” Marley said.

  “Well, thank you, General Pocahontas.”

  “Must everyone make fun of my outfit?”

  Bronson glanced at the line of big guns. “Why aren’t we firing our cannons? Where are the carriages—Ah. The smoke clears.”

  “Some blockhead left both mountings and carriages behind. The guns are there to intimidate.”

  “Hope they remembered shot for the muskets.”

  After perhaps another five minutes, Woodford directed the riflemen off to the left. Marley followed in that direction, and Bronson grabbed her.

  “Can you tell me why we’re here, if not to help?” she asked.

  Rashall glanced at him. When Bronson merely glared back at him, he shrugged and returned to refilling his musket. “’Tis a fair question, is it not?”

  Bronson sighed and headed in the direction of the Culpeper men, knowing he need not direct her to follow.

  They crouched into position, and Marley aimed her rifle, hesitating a moment. She had never once fired a gun toward a human being. She knew that if it hit true, the ball inside this rifle was likely to kill a man.

  While she struggled with herself, a cannon fired, and a ball whooshed directly above Bronson’s head. They all crouched, and the ball fell far behind them.

  Marley came back to her knees, aimed at the gunner controlling one of the cannons, and fired. The gunner went down. She spun the chambers, quickly scanned the cannons for their progress, and fired again. Another casualty.

  “Holy—” Bronson’s exclamation echoed that of the men who spared her a startled glance.

  Trembling, she scrambled out of the line to allow another rifleman to move into position while she reloaded. Her gaze strayed toward the men she’d shot. One was on the ground, cradling his arm. Another lay still on the ground beside him.

  The minutemen had brought a good supply of paper cartridges, and so the balls she’d brought remained merely a weight in her bag.

  She reloaded, returned to the line, aimed at another gunner, and fired. She aimed for hands, but people rarely stood still during a battle. More than once someone stepped into the line of fire, and once she watched, sickhearted, as she hit a man square in the chest.

  After her second time at the line, other men began offering their rifles for her use and reloading for her instead while she shot.

  Surprised at their humility, she continued shooting, taking down one gunner after another.

  Presently, a ball came whistling past her ear, and Bronson threw her to the ground, his eyes wild as he landed atop her.

  “Get the shirt off. You’re as vivid a target as those lobster-backs.” He quickly pulled the maroon flannel shirt over her head and threw it to the bottom of the entrenchment.

  She pulled her hat back in place and crawled into a crouch, lower now, her gun even with the top of the entrenchment. She aimed, she relaxed, and she fired.

  Aim. Relax. Fire. Aim. Relax. Fire. Aim …

  Marley’s hand shook. She tried to steady herself, then aimed again. More shaking. Relaxing was impossible. She moved away from the entrenchment to allow another man to take her place.

  She felt lightheaded, nauseated.

  She scrambled behind a tree and vomited. She glanced back at the line, noticing Bronson eyeing her. She gave a short wave and nod, reassuring him she was fine. She collapsed against the tree, trying to catch her breath. Then she quickly crawled back to his side.

  “All well?”

  “I don’t think I can shoot for a bit.”

  “Stay at my side. Look! They’re spiking their guns,” he shouted.

  Marley peeked over the entrenchment. Sure enough, the gunners were hammering spikes into the touch holes, disabling the guns—at least temporarily.

  Surrender. The battle was over. A loud cheer went up.

  Rashall arrived with laughing glee. “Scarcely enough time to finish shaving and breakfast.” He looked down at Marley. “You look green. Too much for you?”

  She gave him a pale smile.

  “Quiet.” This from Bronson.

  Rashall glanced back at him. Then he walked away after a simple pat of encouragement on her back. “See all of you back at the ship. I’ll begin boarding and preparing to weigh anchor.”

  Bronson casually sank to sit in the dirt beside her, now holding her rifle as well as his.

  “You’re a better shot than I am,” he said at last, with a small chuckle. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

  She smiled. “I got to learn how to do it at my old job. Then I got to teach people how to.”

  “What else did you do?”

  “I’m an archaeologist. And a historian. I divided my time between digs and the duties related to them, and spent mo
st of the rest of my time lecturing about how people lived in the past.”

  “And by the past, you mean now.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  Ashanti approached them, his handsome face grim. He stooped beside them, bracing his musket across his bent leg. He lay his hand on Marley’s moccasin. “Merrilea, I know who you are.”

  She nodded, knowing Camisha would’ve allowed no secrets between them. “Of course.”

  He looked across at the British, then back at her. “As someone who has watched a woman with modern sensibilities living in these rude days, I can tell you it will be hard for you. If you have the choice, choose the way of your sister.”

  “Mr. Adams, my wife belongs with me.” This from Bronson with quiet assertion. “We are together until death.”

  He nodded. “Your brother recognized he could do more through his own death than through staying here.”

  “Grey did not die,” she said. “He was only thought to die.”

  Ashanti looked at his musket. “That I do not know.”

  “I saw him. I saw him through the portal in Rosalie, a man as old as you and Camisha, there with my sister. He looked exactly like Thomas Trelawney looked in portraits done of him at the same age.”

  “I’m not here to argue. I am here to tell you that my Camisha is ten times as strong as any woman I’ve ever known, and this time is hard for her. Were it my choice, I would in a moment take her to a better time. This is an awful time for anyone.”

  “And yet the men and women who fight these wars will be remembered, some day, that they began a fight that would eventually afford freedom and equality to all.”

  Marley glanced at Bronson, startled at his clarity. He knew firsthand how his best friend was treated; he knew that a better country lay in the future; and he knew the many battles necessary to reach that place.

  Ashanti reached to touch Marley’s upper arm, then grip it with bracing encouragement. “I mean to strengthen you, child. To prepare you for the life you will lead here. I never even lived the life of ease Camisha describes to me—turn a faucet, clean water is delivered; press a button, your home is warmed; press another, your home is cooled. It is beyond my frail understanding. You will miss it.”