The Scarlet Coat

by Angela Couch

  He glanced up. Shades of brown circled his pupils, merging with and darkening the green of his irises. “How did I come to be here?”

  Rachel struggled to keep her thoughts from returning to that day—the gruesome images which hadn’t ceased haunting her. “We found you.”

  “The American Colonies,” he stated absently, rubbing the back of his knuckles against his short whiskers. He paused as his gaze sought hers. “Is that where we are?”

  “No. These are the United States of America.”

  “United States of America.” He squinted at her. “I have the most peculiar feeling, a little unsettling…but my mind is completely absent of details. Who are you in connection to me?”

  “I am…” She blew out her breath. “To put it bluntly, you attacked this valley.”

  “I did?”

  “You and other British officers led hundreds of Tories and almost a thousand Iroquois against us. Thankfully, the Lord preserved us.” Thoughts of Pa ached in her chest. “Most of us.”

  “Then I am your enemy?” The man swallowed, the cleft between his eyes deepening. “If that be so, why am I here?”

  “My mother raised me a Christian. We couldn’t leave you there to die when you were no longer a threat.” She stood, smoothing out her skirts with her free hand. “If you want the truth, we didn’t expect you to live through the night. Unfortunately, you did.”

  “Unfortunately?” Then he nodded. “I understand.” Drained from the effort of speaking, his eyes grew heavy, as did his voice. A muscle danced in his cheek. “I apologize I could not have been more cooperative.”

  Rachel returned to the potatoes that still needed to be chopped. Something in his last comment refused to leave her. There had been a depth to his voice—almost as though he’d meant every word.

  7

  Rachel finished the evening chores and pulled the barn door closed. The sun continued its downward course, sinking below the tops of the trees to the west. It was already well past supper and still no sign of Joseph. She wasn’t sure what to think, but the longer his absence, the more she feared the reasons for it.

  She detoured to the well to draw water. The pail hung heavy in her hand as she pushed through the door, glancing at the British officer just long enough to know he was still awake. After hefting the pail onto the table, Rachel tested the soup she’d removed from the fire before she’d left. Lukewarm. She dished a bowl for herself and sat at the table with some fresh bread.

  The British officer’s reflective gaze never deviated from her.

  She turned away from him. What she wouldn’t give for some privacy. She ate quickly, and then continued the mending she’d started earlier. Joseph needed the tear in these breeches stitched, and she wanted to get it done so she could begin other required projects.

  There was wool to spin for stockings, mitts, and a warmer shawl for herself, as her last one was beyond repair. A growing pile of other mending also awaited her, as well as gardening, curing meat, and helping Joseph. The list was endless. After several minutes her stitches faltered, The sensation of constantly being watched was grating. Rachel dropped the breeches and retreated to the bedroom.

  It was too much to resist sinking into the comfort her bed offered. She closed her eyes and folded her arms. Just a few minutes of sleep and she’d feel better. Would it be so wrong to push everything else from her mind for a little while? No worries, no cares to trouble her…thoughts began to drift.

  A loud crash and pained cry echoed within the cabin’s thick walls.

  Springing from the bed, Rachel ran into the main room.

  The wounded man lay face down on the floor, the blanket wrapped snugly about his torso and legs, his hands working to pull himself to the chair she had abandoned.

  “What happened?”

  He looked up, his face pale, eyes stricken with the agony inflicted upon his hip. He slammed his fist against the floor.

  “You were trying to get to Joseph’s breeches, weren’t you?” Did this man have no sense? “You have been on death’s doorstep the past four days, and you tried to get up on your first day of progress? With that stupidity, it’s no wonder the British will lose this war.”

  He glared at her, his jaw clenching. “Indeed. And perhaps it would have been better for you if your mother had taught less Christian goodness and more common sense.” He rolled onto his side, protecting his right hip. His eyes clamped shut, his teeth ground together. A short laugh escaped him only to merge into a moan.

  Rachel restrained from assisting him. “Would you have preferred we left you with the rest of your dead, to join them?”

  “I don’t know,” he groaned. “But you would have preferred it.”

  “And what if I would have? At the moment it’s too late for turning back. If you don’t die of your own foolishness, you’ll probably recover well enough.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you’ll be turned over to our army as a prisoner. You’ll neither be our concern nor a threat.”

  “A threat? How could I possibly threaten you?” His gaze again found hers. “Look at me, I cannot...I cannot even function as...as a human, never mind the soldier you claim me to be.” He cried out as he rolled to his back. “I only wish that if I had to lose my memory, it would be of this part of my life and not the earlier.” He began to chuckle, pained and pitiable.

  Rachel knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. It really wasn’t fair of her to badger him. “Do you think you can get back onto the bed with my help?”

  With a glance at the cot, he shook his head, causing several reddish-brown locks to fall into his eyes. “I think I would rather stay here if it is all the same to you.”

  On impulse, Rachel brushed the hair back from his forehead, wet with sweat and deeply ridged. She reached for a pillow and placed it under his head, then rolled a blanket and slipped it under his right side to protect his thigh. In several minutes she had him situated relatively comfortably on the floor. “You’ve done a fine work on your hip.” A scarlet stain saturated the side of the blanket. “I’ll change the bandaging as soon as Joseph returns and we can get you back on the cot.” Rachel softened her voice. “Is there anything else I can do for you now?”

  He hesitated.

  “You can ask.”

  “Well, I suppose since I have fallen this far...” He almost smiled as his eyes did a slight roll. Then he shook his head, color rushing to his face.

  “What is it?”

  He looked away, his expression somber. He pinched his eyes closed and set his jaw. “You would not by chance have...”—he released the air from his lungs,—”a chamber pot.”

  Flames lit Rachel’s cheeks, as well. “We don’t.” She stood. “But I’ll find you something.”

  A grunt rose in his throat. “No need to hurry.” Again his pale face flushed with red. “I am truly sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “But I am...” He glanced at her. “Ardently. I apologize for the trouble I have caused you, and I do...I do appreciate you sparing my life.”

  Her chest tightened, and she opened her mouth. But what was she supposed to say to that? “You’re welcome,” didn’t quite seem appropriate.

  The pounding of hooves as a rider neared the cabin pulled Rachel from his penetrating gaze.

  A horse whinnied and was greeted by the gelding in the pasture.

  She turned and rushed to the front yard in time to catch a glimpse of Joseph as he led Hunter into the barn. Hitching her skirts high, she darted across the yard. “Where were you? Why did you ride off without telling me? Do you know how worried I’ve been? Dinner’s cold.”

  Without a word Joseph pulled something red from his saddlebags and thrust it to her, then turned back to heave the saddle from the horse.

  A gasp escaped as she grabbed the soiled British uniform. “What...? Where did you get this?” She stared at it, heart pounding. “Joseph, you didn’t...” Her hands lowered as her gaze rose. “It’s
his, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” His voice lacked emotion. Instead of returning the horse to its stall, Joseph gave him some oats and started gathering harnesses for the wagon.

  She clung to the red coat, fighting back the sudden rush of feeling as she followed after him. “What are you doing? Why don’t you come in for something to eat? There’s soup. I can put it back on the fire.”

  He wouldn’t look at her.

  “Stop walking away and talk to me!”

  He turned, his face granite, the harnesses draped over his shoulder. “All right, I’ll talk to you. I’ll tell you about riding into that ravine full of rotting corpses. The stench. The turkey vultures.” His hand crossed over his eyes. “I’ve thought this through, and Daniel’s right. We can’t risk keeping that man here. I’m taking the wagon to Fort Schuyler tonight while everyone is in their homes. That coat and its owner are coming with me.”

  “But we agreed to wait. It’s twenty miles. If you take him now, he could die.”

  “Better him than us.” The fear in his words glowed vivid in his eyes. He hurried back to Hunter and worked to fasten the harness. “Rachel.” His voice softened. “We can’t hide him anymore. We can’t risk it. He isn’t our problem.”

  “Why can’t we wait a little longer? Only Fannie and Daniel know, and they wouldn’t tell.”

  “No one else knows?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do we know that? How could we? Anyone else could have overheard us that night from the road. We could never be sure. And even if nobody else knows right now, how long do you really believe it’ll stay that way?” Joseph moved the horse to the wagon, connecting the straps and buckles. “Rachel, surely you remember the way it was at the beginning of the war. The Cunninghams and others who professed their continuing loyalties to King George and Britain—they were considered a threat. They were persecuted, their homes burned, crops ruined and livestock run off. People got hurt. Everything that could be done short of murder, until the Tories were driven out. That’s who we were fighting a few days ago—the ones we used to call neighbors. We were face to face. I even recognized some of them. Bayonets, the butts of our rifles, even our bare hands. That’s how we killed each other.” He released the last of his breath. “We would be considered the same if we were discovered to be hiding this man.” Joseph took a rope to get the other horse from the pasture. He returned several minutes later with Sorrowful, the lanky gelding, and hitched him beside Hunter. Joseph climbed onto the wagon seat.

  “What about the siege at Fort Schuyler? You said that we don’t know if it’s been broken.”

  “Then I’ll head down the Mohawk instead. I don’t care if I have to take him all the way to Albany, he’s not staying here another night.”

  She took hold of the strap that ran across Hunter’s shoulder. “Don’t do this. Please.”

  “Rachel, haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? Don’t you understand we don’t have a choice any longer?”

  “He woke up today.”

  “What?”

  “He’s awake now.” She ran a hand down the horse’s neck.

  Joseph lowered the reins. “Why should that change anything? It appears he’ll probably live. That’s what you wanted.”

  She looked up at him and shrugged one shoulder. “He doesn’t remember anything—not even who he is.”

  His eyebrows pressed together as he frowned. “That changes nothing.” Joseph clicked the reins against the back of the horses, encouraging them forward.

  “But—” Rachel grabbed the hook of the bit and jerked Hunter to a stop. “I’m won’t let you do this. Not tonight. Not like this.”

  “Let go!”

  “Not yet, Joseph. He needs more time. Give him a couple more days. Give him a chance to—”

  “A chance to what? Get us hung?” He slammed his fist with the reins to the wagon seat. Both horses flinched, but remained in place. “Can’t you see it, Rachel? I’m scared. Yeah, and I’m even pathetic enough to admit it. It’s like some awful dread welling up in me, telling me we’ve got to get rid of that man before he becomes the death of us.” Joseph yanked off his hat and raked his fingers through his thick locks. “Why must we risk our lives for him?”

  Rachel walked to her brother, draping the coat over the side of the wagon as her hands stole to his closest knee. “A couple more days, Joseph, please.” She leaned her head against his leg, a sob welling within her. She refused to release it despite the growing ache, even as his hand smoothed over her hair like Pa’s often did when she was a child. She missed Pa so fiercely the effect was suffocating. If only he were here now and they didn’t have to figure this out on their own.

  Joseph sagged into the seat. “Fine. A couple of days. But no more.”

  8

  He stared at the roughhewn rafters above, not really seeing them. His mind instead rehearsed the few things he could remember—mostly since he had woken up in this...shack. Even some of those memories were obscured by the dense fog clinging to every thought. Frustrated, he pushed up, maneuvering the downy pillow so he could see more of the room. Pain jolted from his thigh in every direction. He breathed deeply as he waited for it to subside to a throbbing ache. The four or five days since he’d awakened had seen little improvement of his hip, though the gash on his head seemed to be mending quickly enough. If only his mind would heal. If only he could remember.

  Locking his jaw against the heavy weight sitting on his chest and the tightness in his throat, he focused his gaze on the girl seated on a stool across the room. No, girl wasn’t quite right. A woman. Old enough to be out in society. Society? Several faded images of elegance flickered in his mind, but not enough to understand its meaning to him...or his place in it.

  Rachel. The name fit her well. The beloved wife of Jacob, a virtuous woman. A kind, compassionate, lovely creature...who was married. But then, how awkward would her care of him be, as she attended to his needs and nursed him to health, if she were unmarried? Unimaginably.

  He dropped his gaze to the tall, wooden, barrel-like contraption on the floor, held in place between her knees. A long, thin pole stuck out of the top. She pumped it upward and down, her mouth moving slightly, and her head swaying as though she were...was she singing? Silently?

  “What is that you are doing?”

  She glanced up, her movements halting. “Making butter. Have you never seen a churn and dasher before?”

  “No, I am quite sure I have seen something similar in the past, only, I was unsure of how to employ it. I thought perhaps a laundress may put clothes in there and then...” He winced at the profound disbelief in her brown eyes. “Never mind.”

  She returned to her work as though he had never spoken.

  He allowed several minutes to pass. “What is that you are singing?”

  Rachel didn’t look up. “A song my mother taught me. It helps me maintain rhythm with the dasher.”

  The room again lapsed into silence.

  How weary he was of silence. “Are you opposed to conversation?”

  She didn’t pause or look up this time. Her face remained unreadable.

  “If you would rather not, I understand.” They had not spoken much since the day he’d first regained consciousness—at least, not more than necessary. She seemed to prefer it that way, but the need for some human interaction gnawed at him.

  “No, I suppose it’s all right,” she said, still maneuvering the stick. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I am not sure. Perhaps you could tell me about this farm?”

  “Like what?” She plunged the dasher downwards. The cadence of her motions faltered.

  “I hardly know. I am unacquainted with general farming practices. At least, that I remember. I have glimpses of memories of the streets of a large town, or city, perhaps. Strange, I cannot remember anything more. Nothing of my family, or what I did before the army. I suppose I may always have been a soldier.”

  That brought a reaction. Her lips thinne
d and her movements quickened.

  He grimaced. “What of your family?”

  “My parents came here from Boston about four years ago for a new beginning. This was their homestead. They’ve both since passed on.”

  “My condolences.” That made sense as to her age. She had come with her parents, and then when illness or accident took them, she had married. Though she seemed to care for the man who shared her room, deeper affection appeared to be lacking. It was probably a marriage of necessity. A knot formed in his stomach. A marriage of convenience. No love. No feeling. But why should he be so affected at the thought of such? It didn’t concern him, and thinking about it only hurt his brain. He cleared his throat. “I apologize for so greatly imposing upon you and your husband. He appears to strongly disapprove of my recovery.”

  The dasher stalled and she looked up. “What?”

  “Your husband understandably resents my presence here. I am—”

  Her gaze never left him as she released the pole and wiped her hands across her apron. “First of all, Joseph fought against your troops more than once. Secondly, my father was killed in that last battle. And thirdly...” Her mouth hung open for a moment before she closed it with a tight smile.

  “And thirdly?”

  “It’s not important. The other reasons are plenty to excuse his behavior.” Her knuckles showed white as she sent the dasher down with force.

  But what was ‘thirdly’? He glanced back to the rafters. So her father had been killed by the British and her husband had fought them. Was it any wonder they attempted to ignore him? What made no sense was that they had kept him alive in the first place and were still sheltering him and nursing him back to health.

  “I am sorry for your loss.” The apology was meager at best. He search for something more he could offer her. Words flowed from the darkened recesses of his mind, forming on his tongue. “‘I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in Me, though he were dead...yet shall he live.’”

  Lashes flickered over deep pools of brown as her gaze met his.