He hid a smile. He’d learn the routes the Tories used for smuggling. That knowledge in the right hands should give the Patriots an advantage.
They’d be gone for some time, he mused. The thought gave him pain, for he wanted to see Kirsten again. But he couldn’t let her know, not when doing so would make her hope, believe, they had a future together. And it wouldn’t be fair for her to wait for him. What if he didn’t make it back? At any time his double life could be uncovered. If the Tories knew the truth, they’d kill him . . . perhaps torture him first to learn what he knew.
Kirsten . . . The image of her wounded expression when he’d left her made his insides twist painfully. He’d departed from her only hours ago, and he could still smell her sweet feminine fragrance.
She’d looked a vision in her scarlet gown. He’d never seen her wear her hair up that way; the style gave her an air of elegance. The jeweled haircomb in her silver blond tresses was impressive, but it hadn’t sparkled as much as her glistening aquamarine eyes had.
If only he could hold her again, lie with her one more time.
He became angry with himself. What good would it do to prolong the torture of their final parting?
Remember how it was when you left her the last time. Those days that followed . . . the longing for her company . . . the comfort of her arms. And what if a child came from their joining?
He drew a sharp breath. Dear Lord, was it possible that she was with child from their time together at the mill?
Closing his eyes, he pictured her curves and was somewhat comforted by the memory of her in her red silk gown. Her waist had been small. Hadn’t he encircled it with his hands?
Then came the startling realization that even if she were pregnant her body wouldn’t have changed in so short a time, at least not her waist.
Her breasts? He vaguely recalled hearing that a woman’s breasts changed when she was with child. They swelled, became larger. Kirsten’s breasts had nearly spilled over the top of her gown. Dear God, he thought. The mental image of full honey-colored flesh above her red bodice brought him terror at the same time it seared his loins with fresh heat.
He had to know. He had to return to Hoppertown someday if only to find out if he was a father and could help the babe. It could be months from now . . . years, depending on this blasted war and the enduring strength of both sides. What if there was someone else in Kirsten’s life then? He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. At least he could see them happy and comfortable in their circumstances. It was the least he could do for not being there when she gave birth to his child.
Richard felt the strongest desire to hurry toward the Van Atta farm, and confront Kirsten with the one question that would forever haunt him until he knew the answer. Pushing to his feet, he moved toward the woods.
“Canfield, where are ye going?” Abernathy inquired, his eyes narrowing.
Richard stopped in his tracks. Where in heavens was he going? He couldn’t leave now Not after being gone for over an hour earlier—and missed.
Damn! He had to forget his concerns. He had to forget Kirsten! He faced the Tory with a raised eyebrow. “I’m going to take a piss,” he said.
A Patriot spy! Gazing up at the top board of her alcove bed, Kirsten smiled into the darkness. It was late, hours after the party at the Hermitage; and yet her mind still spun with the exciting events of the evening. Her first dance. Her conversation with the general. Her meeting with Richard . . . and his kiss.
She’d left the doors to the bed wide and opened her bedchamber window. Glancing toward the raised sash, Kirsten saw the stars twinkling in the night sky, the moon’s soft glow over a distant field.
She sat up, and hugged herself. She imagined she was with Richard again. They were dancing as she and Martin had done. It was a country dance—the Roger de Coverley.
Did Richard know how to dance? She decided that he most probably did.
In her imaginings, she wore a different gown for the occasion, a lovely creation of blue satin with a cream stomacher and a neckline that plunged to just above her nipples. Her skirts made swishing sounds when she walked or moved . . . or pressed up against his lean, hard, masculine body.
The music in her dreams was divine. There were three musicians instead of one—a woman with a harp, a man on a pianoforte, and a second gentleman with a violin. The lulling tune lured her into a land of enchantment where love and Richard were all that mattered. There was no war—no King George. Only her and Richard and the musicians playing the song.
An owl hooted from somewhere in the distance, bringing her attention back to the present. The call was sad and lonely, as if the bird were on its own, beckoning for its lost mate.
Kirsten giggled softly and shook her head. An owl sad and lonely? She was truly getting fanciful to think such nonsense. The smile left her face as it occurred to her why she was entertaining such thoughts. It was because of Richard. Her every thought since learning the truth about him came back to the wonders of love. Now the land seemed greener. The stars twinkled brighter in the black sky. The soft summer breeze caressed one’s flesh like a gentle lover’s hand . . .
Kirsten climbed from her bed and went to the window. Her room faced the back of the house. There was a tree directly outside, but she could see past it to her father’s fields. A ribbon of dark glistening water threaded its way from her left, the south, to the north on her right.
Where is Richard now? It was a strange, thrilling experience knowing that he was nearby. Were the Tories camped in the forest? Or a field?
Richard had said that he must leave. He wouldn’t say when he’d return, if he’d return, but she knew he would. She’d seen the look on his face after they’d kissed. He loved her; he must!
She had to have patience. He had a mission to complete, and she had her own work to do for the cause. Tomorrow when she arose, she would go to Martin’s tavern. With Washington and his aides at the Hermitage and his troops encamped at Paramus, she’d be able to transport the rest of the supplies to the Van Voorhees’ farm in relative safety . . . as long as she and Miles didn’t stumble into the path of the departing Tories.
Kirsten turned from the window and went back to bed. Richard was gone. All she could do now was hope and pray for his safe return and continue with her work as before.
She had best get a good night’s rest. There was a great deal to be done on the morrow. When he’d brought her home from the party earlier, Martin had told her he’d found her someone to help in moving the goods to the Van Voorhees’.
The next morning Kirsten left the homestead for her cousin’s inn. When she arrived, her help was awaiting her. Among the four men that Martin had asked to come was John Ackerman, who had so irritated Kirsten the evening before. He grinned at her when he spied her, his expression smug. Stifling annoyance, she smiled at him politely before she addressed the group.
“Thank you, kind gentlemen, for offering to assist us.”
Each man had brought a wagon from his farm. An hour after Kirsten’s arrival, each wagon was full, and the drivers were headed down the road to the Van Voorhees’ place.
They traveled along together in single file. The area was occupied by Continental forces, but there was no telling who else might be about. There were hungry deserters and small enemy bands roaming the countryside. The supplies were a valuable cargo that must be protected.
Kirsten had her own wagon to drive. Her father’s flintlock musket lay next to her on the seat. She kept a careful watch on the surrounding woods as the group moved on to their destination. Her vehicle was the second one in line. Thomas Banta, Rachel’s brother, was directly ahead of her, in the lead. His cinnamon brown hair glinted in the bright rays of the summer sun each time he passed under an opening in the green canopy above them.
They had gone about a half-mile when the road was blocked by a group of soldiers. A man stepped forward, clearly in charge. Kirsten recognized him as being the same soldier who had guarded Washington’s tent when s
he’d made her visit that first day.
The young soldier stood in front of the line of six vehicles. His arms folded across his chest, he glared at Thomas, before his narrowed gaze moved slowly to each one of the drivers.
“Who goes there? And what have you in your wagons?” The soldier held up his rifle.
Kirsten recalled the state of the men at camp and felt a faint flicker of unease. She rose up from her seat. “You ! You were the guard at Mynheer Washington’s tent.”
He stared at her, raising an eyebrow. “And you are the wench who dared to venture into our camp alone.”
She stiffened, insulted by the implication. “I had business with the general.”
He approached, passing Thomas’ wagon until he was beside her and looking up at her. Placing a hand on the wagon, he leaned against it casually and studied her boldly from head to toe. She met his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. He straightened, transferring his attention to the goods in her wagon.
“And what business is this?” he asked. He fanned his hand over her load, wooden crates. “You are perhaps denying the general supplies?”
Kirsten scowled. “We deny our Patriot brothers nothing! Have not your bellies been full since you came? Your thirst quenched? You have been offered our finest kost and drank, mynheer. Do not dare to suggest we do anything but!”
The young man seemed taken aback by her vehemence. The other drivers had climbed out of their vehicles to rally at Kirsten’s side.
“We are merely preparing for a British invasion,” Hans Bogert said shortly, and Kirsten was surprised at his show of firmness. “Our village is small, but there are women and children to be protected.”
John Ackerman came forward, pushing his way past some of the other drivers. “You have food aplenty in your camp. When you leave here, we will see that you have more than enough to last for weeks. Why take what you cannot use, what would be put to better use in the safekeeping of women and children against the King’s men!”
The guard eyed them narrowly. “I sincerely hope you tell the truth, dear lady.”
Martin came up from behind the others. “Lieutenant Rhoades!”
The soldier’s face brightened. “Mr. Hoppe! I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously,” Martin said dryly, and the man blushed. “This lady you question is my cousin. Will you not allow us to pass without incident? She tells the truth, as do my friends here.” He gestured toward Hans and John.
The man nodded, apparently happy to trust the owner of the local tavern. “Certainly, Mr. Hoppe, if you vouch for them.”
“I ride with them,” Martin pointed out dryly. Lieutenant Rhoades gave a sharp command to his comrades, and the soldiers cleared off the road.
Returning to their vehicles, the drivers climbed back into the wagons. Kirsten’s fingers gripped the handle of her rifle as she clicked to her horse and the wagon began to move. She felt the soldiers’ eyes on her as she passed by. It wasn’t until they’d reached the Van Voorhees’ home that Kirsten was able to relax. It disturbed her to have felt so threatened by men under General Washington’s command. The fear brought home the fact that war did strange things to men—all men. Would she ever truly feel safe again?
The Van Voorhees’ home was large, with a double front door flanked by two windows on each side and five windows above it on the second floor. There were several outbuildings on the property—including a smokehouse, a summer kitchen, and a huge barn. All were kept in good order by Samuel Van Voorhees and his two sons, Johannes and Jacob. Sarah Van Voorhees, Samuel’s wife, was a short slim woman with golden hair and a gentle disposition. She greeted Kirsten and her male helpers with a pleasant smile. It was quickly obvious to Kirsten that she had this lady’s support in the work they were doing, that Sarah was sincere in her efforts to help the Hoppertown residents, her neighbors and friends.
Samuel Van Voorhees was a contrast to his wife, being tall and large boned with rippling muscles. The man was active in the local militia as were his fifteen-year-old twin sons. Seeing Samuel and his wife together, one would think them a strange pair, but it was obvious to Kirsten how taken they were with each other. The big, hefty man treated his small wife like fine-blown glass, while he showed his children brusque affection.
With the Van Voorhees males’ help, the wagons were unloaded in record time, the goods stored in the cellar under the main house. Soon the Patriots were on their way home. After hearing about the encounter with the soldiers, Samuel and his sons insisted on escorting the wagons for part of the journey. When it appeared that Washington’s men had returned to camp, the Van Voorheeses left for home.
Back in the safety of her father’s house, Kirsten still couldn’t forget the attitude of the guard, the implied threat of the soldiers’ blockade. She had half a mind to speak to the general! Such behavior in his men wasn’t right. The Hoppertown Patriots had been nothing but hospitable to his troops.
She would seek out General Washington in the morning, she decided.
Chapter Eighteen
A shot rang out in the night, and Richard ducked as the musket ball whizzed past him.
“To the other side,” he bellowed at Elias Greene. “Now!”
The man didn’t move, but crouched, frozen in fear, behind a thicket on the left side of the dirt road, a few feet ahead of where they’d deserted their wagon of goods.
“Elias, for God’s sake, move your arse across the road!” Richard shouted. He was positioned several yards away on the same side.
The man turned to look at Richard blankly. Richard cursed, wondering what to do next. At the first sign of Continental forces, they’d abandoned the cart of goods to take cover in the woods. Richard had run for an old oak with a huge trunk, while Elias had blindly fled until he’d reached a thicket of small evergreens. Richard and Greene had been on foot, guarding the left side of the vehicle, while Greene’s brother Sid and the newest man, Joseph, flanked the right. The youngest Greene, John, drove the wagon with Merritt Abernathy. Kendall Allen and the others in the band stayed back at Randolph’s farm, preparing a second run of goods to New York.
Richard rose up to glance across the dirt trail to the other side, but could see nothing. It was either fight or die like a helpless lamb. He raised the stock of his rifle to his shoulder, leveled the barrel, firing the flintlock toward empty space. These men were Patriot soldiers, and while they knew nothing of his work and would no doubt kill him if they got their hands on him, he couldn’t shoot them.
He glanced back to the spot where Greene cringed like a coward, saw that he’d finally moved to the edge of the road. Gunfire rained beyond a thicket. The fighting was heavier on the other side of the road, and young Greene needed assistance.
He sighed as Elias slipped from behind one tree to the next and crossed the road. Richard knew he could hold this area on his own. If he got caught . . . He didn’t dare think of that now, for he was a long way from General Washington’s camp. There was no one here to vouch for him.
A nearby bush crackled as it moved, and Richard raised his rifle, training it on the swaying branches. Go away, he thought. If you’re a Patriot, I don’t want to kill you. And it’s too soon to destroy my cover. The leaves rustled again, and then the action stopped. Whoever—whatever—it was had left.
Lowering his gun, Richard released a pent-up breath. The Patriots had climbed into the cart, and were now driving it away. The exchange of gunfire continued, but Richard watched with a half-smile. The Continental officer was a smart one. He’d gotten the message Richard had left him at that inn, had found the trail marks Richard had made.
Now if only I can get out of this mess alive!
The cart creaked as it rolled over rocks in the forest path. It was the noise of the wheels that had alerted the troops to the exact location of the smuggling party. Richard ducked low and moved back several yards, keeping himself hidden much as Greene had done. Most of the Patriot troops had gone; only one, or perhaps two, remained to continue the rain
of rifle fire. Soon, the shooting stopped and the noise died down. It was quiet for a moment or two, and then Richard heard a cry of pain. Someone in the group must have taken a bullet.
Greene? He was a cocksure fellow, much like his older brother. Richard frowned, recalling Elias’s earlier behavior and surprised to have seen marked fear in the man.
Richard crept through the woods and across the road to see what had happened to the Tory smugglers. He heard the soft murmur of voices . . . and the moan of a man in agony.
He skirted a copse and saw them—three men huddled over a fourth. There was one missing. Dead? Who had died and who was injured?
He gave their secret call before he approached.
“Canfield,” someone said. “Thank God you’re all right.”
“Who’s down?” he asked.
“Sid’s dead. Abernathy here is hurt. Taken a ball to his left leg.”
Richard bent over the man to take a look. Abernathy had taken the piece in his thigh, and it didn’t look good. Examining the open wound closely, Richard wondered how best to treat it . . . if it was worth trying. Could they remove the ball? The leg muscle had been ripped wide open; the ball must have hit the flesh in just the wrong way. Already the poor victim looked half dead.
“Joseph?” Richard glanced up at the newest member of the band for a second opinion.
“I don’t know,” the man replied, his gaze doubtful, his brow creased into a frown of concern.
Greene looked shocked, his gaze unseeing, and another man—Greene’s youngest brother John—was vomiting in the bushes after seeing his dead brother’s body.
“Elias?” Richard asked.
“His brother is dead,” Joseph said. “No sense talking to him.”
He sighed. War was such a waste of human life. When would it be over? Would it ever be over?
He turned his attention to Merritt Abernathy. “Merritt? How are you feeling?”
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