The Scarlet Coat

by Angela Couch

  “After bringing him this far, we can’t leave him. Only a couple more miles, and we’ll be home.”

  Home…would not that be agreeable? At least, it conjured a pleasant sensation within him. No images, though. A dim light glowed high above as he forced his eyelids open, blinking against the grit. As much as his eyes begged to remain closed, he refused to allow them such luxury. Not with the face of an angel hovering so near, shadowed but still somewhat visible in the moonlight. Young. Large eyes. A halo of gold. Who was she?

  Someone yanked on his arm, heaving him upward. Lord, not back on the horse. Anything but that. “No.” He tried to pull away, and his body again sagged to the earth.

  “He’s awake.” Her voice.

  The man’s was edged. “How is that possible when he shouldn’t even be alive?”

  Did they speak of him, implying he should be dead? Perhaps that explained the pain—the struggle to remain cognizant to anything around him. Dead. How far off was he from slipping away completely? What held him here? He stared at the young woman as she knelt beside him.

  “We’re trying to help you.”

  He attempted to wet his lips, but his tongue was just as dry. Blood and gunpowder tainted his senses. “What happened?”

  “You were—”

  The man pulled her aside. “There’s no time for this. We either get him back on that horse, or leave him here.”

  As they dragged his body from the ground, all thoughts and awareness fled, returning in waves of oblivion and torture. Finally, he awoke on a solid surface, a floor, the only movement the flickering of a candle set upon a table across a small room. Closer, a chair held the form of a woman, her head tipped back. Asleep. He let his eyes close, allowing exhaustion and pain to take him. No use fighting it any longer. God willing, he would awaken. But if not…he only wished he could remember what he had sacrificed his life for.

  2

  The first rays of sun lighted upon her face, warming it. Rachel’s eyes flew open as she pulled away from the nightmares. An involuntary shiver passed through her entire body, the images of death and gore slow to fade. She stretched her sore neck. A kink burned like a hot coal in her right shoulder, but that was no wonder. Joseph had told her to go to bed. Covering a yawn and trying to blink the tiredness from her eyes, Rachel leaned forward in her mother’s rocking chair. With the soft glow of the sun in the small windows, she studied the man lying on the floor against the wall.

  His brown hair held highlights of red, especially in the whiskers which showed on the relaxed slope of his jaw. His nose was prominent, but in an attractive way. Slight lines marked the corners of his eyes. He appeared to have several years on Joseph’s twenty-two, but was probably still younger than thirty.

  Rachel laid a hand across his ashen face, only to yank it back an instant later. His forehead seemed the temperature of a pot hanging over a fire. She tucked the quilt around his chin, and hurried to where a pitcher of water sat on the table. She poured some into a basin, and then grabbed a rag from the stash she’d made from an old dress.

  The front door of the cabin creaked opened and Joseph stepped in looking bedraggled, his eyes bloodshot. “He’s still alive? How is that possible?”

  Rachel dropped to her knees beside the man, swatting what remained of her braid out of the way. She dipped the rag into the warm water, wrung it out, and then laid it across the British officer’s brow. “I don’t know how much longer he’ll last. He’s burning up.”

  “What are you doing?”

  She glanced at her brother. “I’m trying to help his—”

  “We’re not helping him, remember?” Joseph walked to the table where he deposited his tricorn hat, and poured some water. He took several long gulps before slamming the tin mug onto the table “We’re only giving him a place to die, though he doesn’t deserve even that much.”

  Rachel glanced at the man on the floor, not sure whether to retreat or go back to her ministrations. Her insides twisted. This man fought for life. He was the enemy—her mind knew it—but lying here so helpless…he was only a man. Could she sit back and do nothing while he died? Her emotional state was not up to that task.

  A grunt huffed from Joseph’s throat as he came to her side. He crouched, and then yanked back the blanket, baring the wounded thigh. He removed the wad of cloth they had pushed into the gaping hole to keep the injury from leaving a crimson trail.

  Rachel gasped, recoiling at the mess of blood and dirt tinged with whitish-yellow pus. “How awful.”

  “It won’t be long before the poison spreads through his body. It’ll be what kills him since he hasn’t already bled to death.” Joseph pressed the cloth back into place and pushed to his feet, the exertion betraying his exhaustion.

  “He needs a doctor.” Rachel glanced to where her cap hung near the door.

  Joseph followed her gaze. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

  “We could fetch Doctor Weber.”

  The man wasn’t a real doctor, but the closest they had within twenty miles. He lived near what was left of Frankfort, about ten miles farther down the Mohawk.

  If she rode hard, she could be back by midafternoon.

  “He can’t help here.”

  “But this man will die.” Rachel stood, facing her brother.

  “That’s what we want, remember? He’s the enemy.” Joseph’s voice was sharp, but hushed—almost a whisper. “There are dozens of our own men and soldiers who need the doctor’s help before I would allow him to waste his time here. Even if there was only one other American man, woman, or child who needed the doctor for something as slight as a splinter in his finger, I wouldn’t ask him here.”

  Rachel’s mouth opened, then clamped shut. He was right, of course. How could she have forgotten the men who had returned with the general, or even Herkimer’s own condition? Or what would happen if anyone knew this man lay here in their home? “So we sit back and let him die?”

  Joseph blew out his breath. “I guess not. I reckon I didn’t think this through last night. Otherwise, I would have realized that wouldn’t be an option for you. Heat some water and wash this wound good and clean. Don’t be worried about hurting him, ‘cause he probably won’t feel anything anyways. Just scrub it out. A warm milk and bread poultice like Ma used to make will probably do the most good.”

  Joseph half staggered to the table to rip a large piece of bread off the stale loaf. “After I finish the chores, I’ll head over to the Adlers’. I brought Jarrett’s body back with Pa’s.” He collected his hat, staring at it for several moments before shoving it on his head and pulling it low.

  “But you haven’t had a wink of sleep.” Rachel marveled that he still moved at all. Marching, hours of battle, fighting for his very life, staying out there with Pa until the end…and still no rest. “Why don’t you lie down for a while? I’ll see to the chores.”

  “No!” He shook his head, his eyes haunted. “I don’t want you going out there. Just…stay in the cabin until I get Pa ready to bury.”

  No need to employ her imagination. Not after last night. “All right. I’ll stay in. But you still need to rest. I tended the animals yesterday before I came for you. They can wait long enough for you to—”

  “There’s too much to do.” He waved her suggestion away. “Besides, I dozed on the wagon. Hunter and Sorrowful didn’t need any help coming home.” He turned to the door.

  “Joseph.”

  “I can’t, Rachel. I can’t stop, or I’ll not move again. Already I can feel my body stiffening, my strength slipping away…almost like a corpse. I have to keep moving.” He motioned to the British officer. “I doubt he’ll wake up, but don’t take chances.” Joseph withdrew the pistol from his side and slid it across the table. “It’s loaded. If he does wake when you’re alone and causes you any trouble, shoot him.”

  Shoot him? Rachel glanced at the unconscious man and shuddered. Thankfully the likelihood of that was nonexistent. At least, today.

  Th
e door closed.

  She raised her gaze to the window, catching a glimpse of Joseph on his way to the barn where Pa’s body lay in the back of the wagon. She should be the one preparing it for burial.

  Tears burned behind her eyes. Pa. This was as close as he would come to home. The stabbing ache in her chest threatened to consume her as she looked at the dying man. The side of his head was still caked with blood, matting the hair. They had done nothing to save him other than bring him here. And soon he would be dead, the same as the others.

  Dead.

  Rachel shook her head. She couldn’t let it be that simple. She had to do what she could to save his life. The rest would be left to God’s discretion. Her thoughts on the task at hand, Rachel stoked the fire and filled the kettle. As she gathered clean rags for bandages, a part of her screamed that she should stop and mourn the loss of her father. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. If she took even one minute for grief, it would be unbearable to continue, and she had to. It was her duty as a Christian, wasn’t it?

  With the heated water, a pile of rags, and a bowl of bread expanding in some of the milk Joseph had dropped off, Rachel again knelt beside the British officer and folded the thin blanket aside. “Oh, Lord, help me.”

  The side of his once white breeches had been shredded and soaked. Sooner or later they would have to be removed completely, but she would leave that task for Joseph. She took up a pair of shears and cut around the opened flesh, cringing at the jagged edges clinging to the fabric. She’d have to soak if free. A moan rumbled from the man’s throat as she laid a wet cloth to the wound and let the hot water run down.

  His brows pushed together, but his eyes remained closed.

  Rachel relaxed the pressure. “Shhhh.” Not that her soothing would have any effect on him, but she kept her touch gentle while working the section of his breeches loose. The last threads gave way and she set it aside before withdrawing the wad of cloth from the wound. Even though she’d already seen it, the torn muscle and discolored excretions turned her stomach. The bleeding had been staunched, but could she clean the dirt and strands of grass away without increasing the flow? Rachel laid a towel under his thigh and ladled warm water directly over the wound.

  As the steaming liquid ran into the open flesh, the man groaned and reached down.

  “No.” Rachel dropped the ladle to intercept his hand.

  His eyes remained closed, though his face bore the intensity of his pain.

  “I’m sorry.” Taking the ladle with her left hand, she intertwined her fingers with his and tightened her hold. Except for family, she’d never held a man’s hand and the heat resonating from his seemed to extend through her. Not as callused as her father’s hands, the man probably hadn’t been a farmer or laborer. But of course he hadn’t. He was a British officer. Riding his horse and shouting commands. He wouldn’t know what it was to sink roots deep into the land, making a wilderness into a home…only to have an army rise against him, stealing away the people he loved most.

  Rachel stared at the man’s hand, wanting to walk away. She tried to ignore him as she continued to ladle water over the wound. When she’d applied the poultice, she rotated him onto his side so the soggy bread would remain in place while she covered and bound it. Finally, she folded his arms across his chest and tucked the blanket under his chin.

  She gathered her leftover supplies and put them away. Her head light, she moved to wash her hands and strain the rest of the milk. Maybe the warm cream would help settle her stomach.

  An anxious whinny pulled Rachel to the window, and she peered through the thin glass Pa had brought all the way from Boston for Mama. The Adlers’ black mare appeared through the gap in the trees and turned off the trail toward the Garnet farm, Matthias astride. Jarrett’s father.

  Joseph wasn’t in sight.

  She glanced back at the British officer…looking little like an officer or a Brit, but a risk nonetheless. His presence in the main room had to be remedied. Immediately. Rachel hooked her hands under the man’s arms and lugged him toward the bedroom door. The dead weight of his unconscious body seemed to cleave to the floor planks. With a last heave, she deposited him just within the door and pulled it closed. A large crimson stain marked his original position. She grabbed the rocking chair and swung it over the area, and then hurried to meet Matthias on the narrow porch. As she stepped out, she shut the door.

  “Rachel, vhere is your Vater?”

  She stared for a moment, her mind wading through his thick German accent. The lines on his face appeared deeper. “He—he’s…dead.” The word sounded almost surreal, but it remained a fact, as did the fate of Adlers’ youngest son.

  “And Joseph?”

  “Alive.” Praise the Lord for that much.

  “Did he say anything about Jarrett? Did he see my boy?”

  The answer must have shown in her expression because Matthias took a step back and folded his arms at his chest. “He is killed. Das is vhat you mean to say. Jarrett is dead.” He tipped his face from her. “Vhen I heard nothing, I knew.”

  “I’m so sorry.” It was hard to put anything but air behind her voice, and the breeze snatched that away.

  “I vill go find him.” He turned to his horse.

  “Wait.”

  The creak of hinges on the barn drew both their gazes.

  Joseph stepped out, his eyes widening when he saw Matthias. He looked to Rachel.

  She guessed his thoughts and replied with a subtle shake of her head. No. That secret hadn’t yet been discovered.

  A measure of relief showed on Joseph’s face and he hurried across the yard. “I was about to bring Jarrett…his body…to you.” He pulled the hat from his head. “I’ll come with you now. If you give me but a minute with my sister…”

  Matthias nodded and started toward the barn, his steps slow, no doubt dreading what awaited him there.

  Catching Rachel’s arm, Joseph tugged her inside the cabin. He stopped short and glanced around. “Thank goodness you had the presence of mind to move him. The Adlers are good people, but we can’t take that risk.”

  “I know.”

  “Then let’s be off. We’ll take Jarrett home. It will mean a lot to Marta to have you there.”

  Rachel gave a nod and took her cap from its peg, and then wiped a hand across her forehead. When had she eaten last? A full day, at least. Her strength had been spread thin over the long ride to Oriskany and back, an almost sleepless night, and caring for the enemy. Combined with the constant ache of Pa’s death, she simply had nothing left to give poor Jarrett or his family. She wasn’t as strong as her brother. “Can I stay?”

  Joseph’s brows pulled low and together. “You don’t wish to bid Jarrett farewell?”

  “What am I supposed to say to him? That I wish he were still here—that he’d never left?” She let her eyes close and drew a breath into her burning lungs. “The same as I must tell Pa.”

  A warm hand squeezed her arm. “Marta will understand you are feeling unwell.”

  “Thank you, Joseph.” Rachel followed him to the door but remained inside.

  He disappeared into the barn. Guilt already pricked her. He’d suffered so much greater than she, yet he didn’t shirk from what needed to be done.

  Several minutes later, Matthias emerged and mounted his mare. Joseph led Hunter, a body wrapped in a blanket slung facedown over the saddle. Sandy hair showed on the portion of the head that remained uncovered.

  Rachel slunk back and pressed the door shut.

  3

  Rachel leaned into the wall and peeked into the bedroom.

  Though the British officer still slept, emotion played across his face as though he dreamed. Or perhaps his leg and head proved endless torture.

  She turned to the basin and scrub brush. On her knees, she poured out some of the water, letting it pool over the ugly stain. The busier her hands, the easier it was to distract her thoughts from the corpses and carnage, of Jarrett being hauled away over Hunter’s b
ack, of Pa lying dead in the barn.

  Rachel’s hand slipped, causing her knuckles to grate against the raw floor planks. She yelped and dropped the brush, viewing the bloody scrape and more than one splinter on her fingers. But at least the floor showed only a slight discoloration now. She tended her hand, and then hauled the basin outside to pour on the garden.

  Just beyond stood the grove Pa had left untouched by the ax because Mama had loved the peaceful seclusion it provided. They’d buried Mama there, and they would bury Pa at her side.

  Abandoning the basin, Rachel fetched the spade from where it protruded at the edge of the potato patch, and entered the stand of trees, moving to where a stone marked Mama’s final resting place. Sarah Garnet, 1734-1775. Beloved wife and mother. Rachel stepped a few paces to the side and planted the edge of the spade. At least her parents would be together now.

  “Rachel?”

  Her fingers lost their hold on the handle. The spade tipped as she spun. The eldest of the Reids’ offspring stood in his homespun clothes with one arm bandaged. “Daniel.”

  “I didn’t see either Joseph or your Pa when we retreated yesterday. I had to know…” He looked from her to the spade and back again. “Oh, Rachel. Who?”

  “Pa.” She sniffled and took up the spade. “Joseph’s over at the Adlers’ helping to bury Jarrett.”

  The brown of Daniel’s irises appeared black as emotion rose. “It’s a miracle anybody made it out of that ravine alive.”

  Her thoughts went to the man hidden in the cabin. It was too early to determine if that were a miracle, or a curse. Most likely it would only be another grave.

  Daniel reached for the spade with his good hand. “You shouldn’t be the one digging.”

  “And how do you intend to do it? Were you hurt badly?”

  “I was a little slow blocking a tomahawk. Took a piece out of me but should heal well enough. Any slower and I wouldn’t have an arm.”

  Or a life. Rachel laid her hand across the course fabric. “I’m glad you’re safe, Daniel.” She meant every word. Their families had come to this wilderness together and a bond had been formed. Deep friendship—though both their parents had hoped for something more. Perhaps there would be…someday.