Limbs thick and numb, she stared back, unable to find the strength to make her way to safety. Somehow she heard a voice from behind that pulsed blood through her legs. Run, child. Run.
Sprinting, she yanked her skirts to her knees and darted to the barn as yells and frantic footsteps raced from behind.
The winter air drove spikes into her heaving lungs and brushed past her cheeks and up her skirts as she hurled herself to the barn, slowing only enough to slip sideways through the gap in the sliding door. Hannah rushed to the nearest horse and flicked the latch of the back door.
Faster.
She gripped the horse’s mane, launching herself onto his unsaddled back only seconds before two soldiers rushed in.
“There!” The taller soldier ran forward. “You’ll not get away so easily, you trollop.” He lunged, when a flash and crack jerked his progress. He bellowed and crumpled forward as the first soldier spun around, spitting curses that sparked in the damp air.
Ensign stood half-bent, weapon in hand, blood gushing over his fingers as he pressed a fist to his wound. He looked to Hannah, a rainstorm of emotions clouding his eyes.
The remaining soldier looked back and forth between them. His dark glare went wicked, and he grabbed for his dagger, lunging and thrusting the blade into Ensign’s gut.
Hannah’s scream scraped up her throat. “Nooo!”
The soldier yanked the blade back, and Ensign slumped to his knees before falling to the ground.
Grief and shock choked her, as thick and course as a rough-hewn rope.
Slowly the soldier circled back, when once again that gentle voice whispered from the heavens.
Go.
Hannah blinked, helpless against the crippling shackles of confusion and fear.
Go, now!
Compelled by a power not her own, Hannah gripped the horse’s mane and kicked her heels. Clutching her mount, she trained her focus on the black road. She must get to safety. But where? To whom could she turn? Who would know what to—
Clear as a summer sky, the answer scrolled across her mind as if written with a heavenly quill.
Militia camp. Nathaniel Smith.
Aye, Nathaniel. She leaned closer to the horse as his head bobbed, heedless of the biting, speed-induced wind that cut against her ears. It had been years since she’d seen him, but he would surely know what to do. His work with the Patriots’ cause was renowned.
Tears burned, spilling hot streaks against her freezing skin. She could not think of Ensign now. She must make the forty miles. And then…then she could weep for him. Then she could seek to avenge his bitter loss. For he, she vowed, would not have given his life for her in vain.
Chapter Four
“Aw, good fellows. Look who has finally cared to join us.”
Joseph pulled on the reins of his horse and dismounted, chuckling in reply to Nathaniel Smith’s jocular greeting. “I figured I ought to lend my services. Heaven knows you poor souls won’t be able to succeed without me.” He ignored Nathaniel’s outstretched hand, instead pulling him into a brotherly embrace. “Good to see you, old friend.”
Nathaniel patted him hard on the back before pulling away, his beaming grin and bright eyes preaching both strength and weariness. The collar of his jacket was pulled up, a thick scarf around his neck. “Our little band was not complete without you.” He motioned to a young boy who stood several paces back. “Jackson, walk my friend’s horse for him, will you?”
The boy rushed forward, taking the reins with a gleeful expression on his whiskerless face. “Aye, sir.”
Nathaniel turned to Joseph but motioned to camp. “You can see to your horse later. First, we must talk.”
From behind Nathaniel, Henry Donaldson broke from a group of somber troops and welcomed Joseph with a warm smile and firm clasp of hands.
“Welcome, Joseph.”
“Good to see you, Donaldson.” Joseph glanced past Henry’s broad shoulders to the sorry scattering of shelters, where the other volunteers huddled around pitiful fires or inside makeshift huts. “So this is our fearless army, eh?”
“Come,” Henry said, gesturing with a flick of his hand. “Allow us to give you a tour of our grand encampment.”
Joseph hurried after his horse to unlatch his small satchel from its spot on the saddle, then followed after them. He nodded briefly at a handful of men who eyed him, bobbing their heads as he passed, not a whisper of a smile on their worn faces. Joseph looked up, quickly scanning the other small groups scattered around the clearing. Were they all so gaunt? Washington’s petition for more volunteers had swept up and down the coast, and now Joseph could clearly see the need had not been exaggerated. Joseph eyed a weary pair whose matching red hair named them as father and son. Taking note of their threadbare coats and shoes that gaped at the sides, Joseph’s gut twisted. The boy could be no older than Jacob. Dear Lord. He stared overlong at the innocent expression on the lad’s face, praying once again that Jacob would feel God’s strength and peace. For once, the tragedy of Jacob’s accident seemed almost a mercy.
“Are all these men from Sandwich?” Joseph lengthened his stride to walk beside Nathaniel. “I thought I knew everyone from town, but it seems I give myself more credit than I deserve.”
“Nay, these groups are varied and scattered.” Henry answered first, nodding at a lone soldier as he passed. “But we tend to stay with your local militia as best we can.”
“Connecticut, Rhode Island, even Pennsylvania men, they’re all here, scattered along this line, awaiting the British to make their move. Or Washington—whoever acts first.” Nathaniel touched his hat as the three of them passed a shack constructed of canvas and old pieces of roof. The men inside lowered their chins, never moving their outstretched hands from the weak fire that waved only inches above the small circular pit.
A realization dawned, and Joseph scowled. “Where is Thomas?”
Nathaniel led Joseph to the largest tent at the edge of camp. Flapping back the door with a loud whack, he motioned for Joseph to enter. “He’s been appointed as Knox’s right hand. He’ll be here this evening.”
Joseph nodded, not in the least surprised that the humble, steadfast man had been chosen to help in such a capacity. Ducking to avoid the shallow opening, Joseph grinned in mock surprise. “These are your humble quarters then?”
Henry followed and stopped just inside when a man rushed up to them.
“Captain Donaldson.”
“Aye?” Henry looked from the man to Nathaniel, then back again. “What is it, Private?”
“A dispatch rider, sir. Says he must speak with the leader of these groups—that is you, isn’t it, sir?”
Henry nodded the affirmative and looked to Nathaniel. “I shall return.”
Nathaniel offered a quick bob of the head in reply.
Henry turned. “Let us see what news awaits us.”
Both men hurried back into the milky daylight, the tent door flapping closed behind them.
Joseph looked up and removed his hat. His height brought his head only inches from the drooping canvas roof. Nathaniel motioned to one of the two simple wood chairs that waited with arms outstretched, ready to ease any weary traveler. Joseph was all too willing to comply.
He sat with a humph and rubbed his finger and thumb against his eyes. “How long have you been in camp?”
“Three days.”
“Three?” Joseph’s eyebrows pinched down hard. “And already Donaldson has risen to such a rank?”
“His military experience is more than all the rest of us combined. The men are in desperate need of leadership and discipline.”
Looking to the tiny slit of light that wedged through the tent door, Joseph hummed in agreement. “I could not think of anyone better suited for such a position.”
Wiping a hand down his face, as if attempting to scrape away the thick exhaustion that dulled his eyes, Nathaniel fought a yawn. “We’d hoped to make the journey from Ticonderoga in only a few short weeks, but the
devil had his fingers in the weather—impeding our progress at every turn.” Nathaniel took the other chair and sat. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees while he rubbed the back of his neck. An airy sigh, full of memories and sprinkled with amazement, laughed from his throat. “By God’s good grace alone we survived the trip, and with the artillery intact. But I shall bore you with the victories and woes of our journey another time. Needless to say, Washington has the cannon and may use them as soon as he wishes. Until then, we wait.”
Joseph leaned back, reveling in the blissful stretch he could allow his long, ride-weary legs. He sat, studying the sudden pensive stare that pulled lines across Nathaniel’s brow. “You are tired.”
Nathaniel released an audible grumble of agreement. “We all are.”
The unusual quiet of the man Joseph had known since childhood—a man who always had a ready wit and jubilant nature—made Joseph sit rigid in his chair. “What is it?”
Nathaniel’s neck corded, and he pulled his bottom lip through his teeth. “Our situation is grave. More grave than any of us care to admit. Therefore we do not.” He spit out the answer like spoiled food.
Joseph stared, his expression growing heavy the longer he awaited the continuation of Nathaniel’s unspoken thoughts.
“There are so few men,” Nathaniel said. “And those who do remain are plagued by one horrid aliment or another.” He stopped and shook his head, his mouth thinning as he stared at the far corner of the tent. “I fear the pox will end this war before it has begun.”
The pox. Motionless, Joseph allowed the ugly word to burn in the heated silence before glancing to Nathaniel once again. “How many are afflicted?”
“More than I can number.”
Dear God.
Nathaniel rose and went to his desk. Pulling a canteen from the drawer, he took a drink before offering it to Joseph. He took it gratefully and refreshed his thirst while Nathaniel finished speaking.
“I have inoculated a few, those who will allow it, but it races through the men like fire in a wheat field. If we cannot contain it…” Nathaniel returned to his seat with a huff of tangible worry.
Joseph exhaled, resting the canteen on the ground beside him. He’d rarely seen his friend with such deep lines on his face, such a firm set to his jaw. Glancing down, Joseph picked up the bag and opened it, reaching to the very bottom to pull from hiding the lifeblood of Nathaniel’s spirit.
“Your wife’s generosity kept my belly full on my journey. You’ve married a good woman.”
Nathaniel’s head flicked up, eyes round, tone reverent. “You saw her?”
Joseph nodded and extended the note. Nathaniel straightened, joyful disbelief spinning in his expression. Taking it, he caressed the seal with his fingers, as if across the miles her skin could feel his touch against the paper. He looked up again, this time speaking the simple words as if they were a prayer. “How is she?”
“Very well.” Joseph looked to the tent door, a twinge of grief tugging at his memory. “I asked her if she would be willing to look after Jacob.”
“She agreed, of course.”
Nathaniel spoke with such confidence, as if he knew without question how his wife would act. What would it be like to be joined with someone who carried the same mind, loved with the same heart?
He rested the almost empty bag on the floor. “I had prepared to leave earlier, as you know, but Jacob’s fever returned, and I could not bring myself to leave him.”
“He’s improved then? How is his leg?” Nathaniel tucked the precious note inside his jacket, no doubt eager to read it when he could treasure his wife’s loving words in sacred solitude.
“His leg is nearly fully healed. The wooden leg and crutch allow him to walk without too much difficulty.” He stopped, gratitude burning at the back of his eyes. He chuckled to release himself from the strain of emotion that thickened his throat. “Now, because of your heroism, he’s considering studying medicine instead of remaining on as my apprentice.”
At this, Nathaniel’s white smile beamed through the room. “Well”—he chuckled—“it would be difficult for anyone, indeed, to not be supremely impressed by my skill. Don’t take it as an affront to your trade, Joseph. Blacksmithing is…honorable.”
“Honorable?” Joseph leaned back, a chuckle on his breath as he rested his hands behind his head. “I should like to see you swing a hammer for days on end. I doubt you could.”
He tilted his head, a grin at his lips. “Then again, ’twould seem I am the hero.”
“Aye, but without my honorable trade, you would not have the tools for heroics.”
Nathaniel laughed full out. “Touché, my good man. Touché.”
Grinning, Joseph rose and went to the table, examining the large map of Boston, neatly organized correspondence, compass, and unlit oil lamp. “Truth is, I, uh…I have recently purchased an addition to my trade.”
“Oh?” Nathaniel followed suit and moved around the desk, standing opposite him. “What would entice you to expand in such a way? You needn’t the money.”
’Twas true. He’d inherited his father’s wealth four years ago at his passing, leaving Joseph with the deepest pockets in both Sandwich and Plymouth. Aye, he dressed well when required and donated generously to those in need, but the frivolities of the upper classes never held any allure.
“I know blacksmithing so well—I want more of a challenge.” He picked up the compass and circled it in his fingers. “I bought Ensign Young’s foundry.”
Nathaniel dipped his head, his brows jumping. “As in Philo Young’s brother. As in…Hannah’s uncle.”
The sound of her name stroked Joseph’s ears, and he shook his head to ease the seducing sensation. Unable to voice the answer, he nodded with a weighted sigh. “I stopped by on my way here to finalize the agreement.” Joseph set the compass back down and turned, resting against the edge of the table. “I regard the man with great esteem. You would be hard pressed to find anyone more skilled or more sincere.”
“I do not know Ensign, though I know of him, of course. His good reputation is unmatched indeed. I do, however, know his brother.” There was disdain in Nathaniel’s tone, as if the taste of his statement was as unpleasant as the man himself.
Philo’s sneer and hollow eyes heaved from Joseph’s carefully arranged memories. He shuttered the image away. “They are nothing alike.”
Shadows, haunting and black, snapped at his heels. He too had had a brother—one whose spirit matched more the dank underbelly of earth than the bright sun-gifted light of day. But his brother was dead. And now his brother’s son was Joseph’s to love and raise as his own.
“There were rumors he was planning to sell…” Nathaniel’s words pulled Joseph from the slippery bank he nearly fell from. His friend rounded the desk and stood beside him, staring questions Joseph could read as easily as a handwritten missive.
If he dared speak it…
Joseph gripped the edge of the table, recalling the battle that had waged within him—the battle that still waged. Should he have done it? Would she flee at the mere thought of his taking over for her beloved uncle? Sighing his answer, Joseph shrugged. “’Twas time for me to expand my trade, that is all.”
“Does she know?”
There it was. Blinking slow, Joseph faced forward and gripped the edge of the table. “Nay.”
“You do know she will find this out.”
“Not until the war is over. Ensign has given me his word.”
Nathaniel pulled his head back, one eyebrow sloped. “You trust him then.”
Standing, Joseph brushed past the overgrowth of frustration. “When I spoke with Ensign only a few days ago, he gave me his word he would not apprise her of my purchase until the conflict is finished and that he would keep watch over the property until I return.”
“Then?”
Joseph slanted his head and glanced at his friend, who seemed dangerously curious. “Then they will stay on, and Ensign will do the books.
”
“What is Hannah to do?”
“I don’t know what Hannah is to do.” The answer sputtered too loud and too quick. “She is free to do whatever she pleases.”
Nathaniel looked down, then back up, the teasing nature fleeing from his expression. “That is why we are here. To secure her freedom to do just that.”
Freedom. A single acknowledging hum bumped through Joseph’s chest. That was why they were there. To ensure the freedom of them all.
He glanced to Nathaniel, who studied the matted grass at his feet. Joseph’s gut twisted. He’d never revealed everything that had happened between him and Hannah. Should he tell him? Perhaps ’twould be good to finally relieve his heart of the swelling pressures of the past.
He took a deep breath, piling the courage it would take to form the words, let alone hear them on the air. Opening his mouth to speak, he snapped it shut when a soldier burst through the tent door.
“Doctor.”
His tight mouth and rigid stance brought both men to their full height.
“You are needed immediately.”
Nary a moment’s pause, Nathaniel hurried to the door, speaking over his shoulder as he left. “I shall be back shortly.”
Joseph stared after him, his feet at the edge of the cliff he nearly attempted to clear. Speaking aloud the things he kept inside would have been fatal. Hannah was a beautiful, dangerous memory he oughtn’t to indulge. If he did, the pain might bring him to that place he loathed to linger. Love—the love he had given and felt in return, the love whose shattered pieces still littered his soul—that love was no friend to anyone.
* * *
Shouts and pillars of color surrounded her body, which cried out in pain, as her mouth could not. Every movement, every breath stabbed with the spears of cold.
Unable to open her eyes, Hannah slumped against the horse’s neck, gripping hard to his mane. Frozen, after hours upon hours of riding in temperatures far too low, she wanted only to sleep. But the blissful black evaded her. Willing her mouth to speak the words her lips were too cold to form, she groaned as best she could. Did she actually voice Nathaniel Smith’s name or merely dream it?
So Pure a Heart (Daughters of His Kingdom Book 4) Page 4