The Scarlet Coat

by Angela Couch

  “‘And whosoever liveth and believe in Me shall never die.’” He let his eyes close. There was so much clarity with the words—surely he could remember more than them.

  “Christ said that, didn’t He?”

  He nodded.

  Rachel pulled hard on the stick. It smashed against the lid, dislodging it and spilling buttermilk and chunks of yellow curd onto the floor.

  He pushed himself up a little more, wincing as he did so. Pressure built within his skull. “I have upset you.”

  “You’ve not upset me.” Rachel jerked to her feet. “It’s the way you speak and the red coat that is now hidden under a pile of hay in the barn.”

  He dropped back. Pain spiked through his lower body. “Then for that I am sorry.”

  “And for that I will allow you to apologize,” She said as she snatched a rag from the table, “though at this time I cannot accept it.” She hurried to sop up the mess on the floor, then tossed the rag onto the table and fled the house, leaving the half-churned butter behind.

  ~*~

  Rachel stumbled as her feet touched the hard-packed ground. She recovered and took a few more steps, her hands coming to her face. What was wrong with her? She’d left the butter, and it would spoil if not attended to soon. And yet she didn’t care. Her insides seemed turned upside-down. Lifting the hem of her dress, she ran across the yard toward the grove where her father lay buried beside her mother. She made it only as far as the tilled earth of the garden. The large stump remained in its place, new branches turning it into a round bush, thick roots reaching unseen beneath her feet.

  The spade stuck out of the ground where she’d left it at the edge of the potato patch. Rachel wrapped her fingers around the handle as she moved past. The dirt was hardest near the base of the stump, but she started there anyway, hacking away at the tops of the roots, her motions too unfocused to make any real progress as she tried to push the image of the man from her head. He was a British officer. They had killed her father, and now he was disarming her. She wasn’t supposed to feel this much compassion. She wasn’t supposed to worry so greatly for his wellbeing, his health. He was the enemy.

  Why would God torture her like this? Had He no consideration for what He’d done—was doing—to her?

  “Oh, Papa.” Her chest heaved as she paused, her gaze nailed to the stump and the life it boasted, the life it stole from the vegetables. The spade slipped from her fingers as she dropped to her knees. Tears flowed down her face, no longer able to be contained.

  9

  Faces, hazed but familiar. Images of a room, its walls polished wood—so different from the ones surrounding him now—and a chair, dark leather. Memories. But what was this room...and where? Who were the people?

  He clamped his eyes closed against the agony piercing his temples—his reward for thought. This was the way it always was. The harder he tried to climb through the mist, the thicker it became, adding to the constant pressure at the front of his skull until it became unbearable and he was forced to stop. He pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. After a while the pain subsided, and he relaxed. Taking deep breaths, he allowed his mind to empty, succumbing to the numbing silence of the vacant house. The part he hated most this past week was the hours and days of nothingness—a vast void encasing him.

  Surely there were household chores. Ones that took more than minutes to perform before the woman—Mrs. Garnet—escaped the cabin. Escaped. That was probably all too apt. It was so easy to forget his position when he had no memories of his past. And his feelings were far from war-like. He wanted words.

  But there were none.

  He lived for the few minutes before the young couple retired to their room. They would sit at the table while they ate their dinner, and talk. No conversation was directed to him, only a plate of food and turned backs, but he savored the sounds of their voices.

  He eyed the handle of a broom leaning near the door. If he pushed down the straw bristles, it would probably be tall enough to fit under his arm like a crutch. But leaving in his condition was lunacy. Still, how much longer could he inflict himself upon them?

  “God, help me.”

  His voice cut the silence, but not the loneliness.

  ~*~

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  Rachel refused to look at him. The quicker she washed the dishes that had piled up, the sooner she’d be free of his presence. “What do you need?” Her words came harsher than intended. With a sigh, she glanced up. The man’s gaze did not waver from her face, his own stringent. Rachel released her rag into the basin. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Do not concern yourself, madam. It is obvious you are occupied and do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “It’s too late for that, so you might as well speak your mind.”

  “Speak my mind?” He released a tight laugh. “Indeed, you say that, but you have no desire to listen to me, or anything I might say. I shall not torture you.”

  “I...” Rachel planted her hands on the table. She had done everything humanly possible to keep him alive and comfortable, catering to every foreseeable need. Was he angry because she hadn’t rushed to his side when he was in want of something? She let her eyes close, though it was impossible to tell if they burned from want of sleep, or frustration. “What do you expect from me?”

  He turned his head enough to avert her gaze as the rigidity drained from his face. “Nothing. It would be wrong of me to expect anything more than you have given. My words were said in haste.”

  Rachel dried her hands. Did this man have any idea how greatly he manipulated her emotions? “What is it you wanted? Just...tell me this time.”

  “You have informed me of the whereabouts of my coat, but I was wondering what became of the remainder of my garments.”

  “We burned them.”

  He gave little reaction to the news.

  “We thought it better not to leave evidence of your identity.”

  “Just my coat.”

  “Yes.”

  The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. “What of my boots, or shoes, or whatever I wore?”

  “We buried them.”

  “Indeed. Of course you did. What could possibly be more logical?”

  “You don’t seem to realize the risk we are taking having you here.” She shoved her hands into the lukewarm water to find her rag.

  “I apologize, I did fail to grasp that. I would think your army to be grateful for another prisoner. An officer, no less. Though I do not suppose interrogation will get them very far.”

  “What were we thinking? Why did we bother keeping you alive if you’ll be of no real use to them?” Rachel landed her hands on her hips, the wet rag soaking her dress. She tossed it to the table. Perhaps she’d talk to him when he was acting more rational. Or she could simply avoid him. The latter held most appeal. She would finish washing the dishes in the evening. There was enough work to do elsewhere.

  The wind that morning had been a bit gusty, so Rachel made sure her white lawn cap embraced her head properly as she stalked to the door. The British officer’s voice caught her hand on the latch.

  “You shall leave at that?”

  “Joseph is probably finished hitching the wagon and will be waiting for me.”

  “Except he said that he would come for you.”

  She turned to face him fully. “What do you want?”

  “While I am very grateful for this shirt you have given for my use, and I am equally aware of my position in this...” his eyes focused past her to the door, “prison, and that I have no rights to ask anything of you—”

  “It’s so British of you to make the full speech.” Rachel shook her head. “Can’t you simply tell me what you want?”

  His gaze momentarily dropped and a muscle tightened in his jaw. “Clothes, Madam. That is all I ask.”

  “Clothes.”

  He gave a nod.

  She pursed her lips. Clothes. Fine, then. Rachel spun toward the bedroom,
skirting past the table and pushing the door halfway closed. Clothes. Pa’s oak trunk sat against the far wall, Joseph’s limited wardrobe piled on top. Her brother would have to forgive her later. There was no way she was giving a British soldier her father’s attire.

  She couldn’t let herself forget that fact, as easy as forgetting would be when he turned those green eyes her way, flecks of brown changing their depth with the flow of his emotions. Rachel fought a smile. She hadn’t seen him this angry before today, but did it ever make his eyes vibrant. You can’t think like that. He’s the enemy. He’s the enemy. And it was only a matter of time before he remembered that as well. If he didn’t already.

  Rachel chose the recently mended breeches and a pair of long socks, her motion slowing. What if the loss of memory and identity was all a ruse, a ploy to keep their guard down? No. There had been too much sincerity in his confusion when he’d first regained consciousness. But what about after that? His memory may have returned quicker than he let on. That would explain his change in attitude over the past few days. Did it make him dangerous?

  “Rachel?” Joseph’s call jerked her upright and caught her breath. She hurried, depositing the clothes on the foot of the cot with hardly a sideways glance at the British officer. She stepped outside into the sun.

  “We need to hurry,” Joseph said. He pointed to the north where a black haze cradled the tree lined horizon. Storm clouds filled with moisture. How many hours did they have to get the cut wheat from the field and into the loft? Probably not enough.

  ~*~

  The mumble of their voices faded, and silence again seeped through the walls, enveloping him. He stared at the breeches and socks resting over his left leg. Still no boots. Or coat. He breathed out, but the feeling of someone sitting on his chest remained.

  Lord, what am I doing?

  Sun streamed through the window, warming the room beyond the point of comfort. He pushed up on one elbow and caught his fingers in the folds of the clothes, ignoring the pinch in his thigh as he dragged the material close. One of the socks showed a snagged thread threatening the start of a hole. Maybe he needed to wait longer. How far would he get without proper footwear? A chuckle tightened his throat as a spike of pain greeted his attempt to sit up a little more. The lack of boots was the least of his problems.

  Unfortunately, he had already determined his course of action.

  10

  Rachel tightened the ties of her cap to keep it from being snatched away by the wind that howled through the valley. What had been neat stacks of wheat were being flattened and spread out, and the branches of the tall trees lining the field whipped violently. Another gust stole her breath. It was cold—almost frigid—despite the fact that there was still more than a week until the start of September.

  Between blasts of wind, Joseph forked the last of one pile onto the back of the wagon and signaled Rachel to move it forward. She clicked her tongue, more out of habit than necessity, and jiggled the reins to encourage the horses. They seemed as anxious as she and bolted forward. Rachel jerked on the reins, but they still overshot the next stack.

  “Back it up, boys,” she mumbled, giving the reins short pulls. With the wagon finally where it needed to be, Rachel rubbed her arms vigorously. She should have dressed warmer, but there had been no reason for it a couple hours ago.

  Joseph caught up to the wagon. “Why don’t you slip up to the cabin and grab your cloak. It will take me a little while to load this pile. Actually, you might as well stay where it’s warm. I’ll bring the load around to the barn after this one.”

  The thought of warmth was truly tempting, regardless of the British officer’s presence in the house. Still, she hesitated. It wouldn’t be fair to leave Joseph alone to battle this weather. “I can wait,” she said as a shiver worked its way through her body. “You might need me.”

  “Not as much as you need to warm up,” he shouted over the howl of the wind. “You’re wasting time arguing. Tie off the reins. The horses will stay put. It’ll do no one any good if you catch your death of cold.”

  “But—”

  One look silenced her, and she did as directed, notwithstanding the heavy feeling dragging her steps.

  The storm was on its way, and there was still too much to do.

  Rachel paused at the barn first. Upon stepping out of the wind, warmth began to return to her body. Her extremities remained chilled. As much as she wanted to bask in the relief of shelter, she needed to fetch her cloak from the cabin if she was to help unload the wagon. But he was there. She slipped deeper into the protection of the barn.

  The milk cow greeted her with a prolonged melancholy bawl.

  Rachel stopped to scratch the wiry brownish-red hair between its ears. “Have you missed me that much?”

  Two large dark eyes seemed to answer, and Rachel rubbed a little harder.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve missed you as well. All right, not really.” She sighed. “Not after you kept trying to step in my pail this morning.” She lowered her hand to scratch the jawbone. “But don’t worry—you’re preferred company.”

  With a final pat on the cow’s neck, Rachel reached for the wooden pail hanging from a beam, and searched out where the chickens had laid their eggs that morning. Thankfully, their favorite spots rarely changed. Within a few minutes she’d gathered almost a dozen.

  “Why does it have to be so cold today?” She moved back toward the doors.

  They couldn’t afford heavy rain until they’d gathered in the last of the cut wheat.

  There were a couple acres Joseph hadn’t touched yet, but the moisture would do them little harm at this point.

  Rachel slumped against the door, out of reach of the wind. She took a breath, but her chest remained tight, weighed down with the enormity of keeping their farm from failing—of surviving this wilderness without Pa. She glanced to the skies, but there was only gathering darkness—no sign of God. He had abandoned them.

  Her red, icy fingers still held the handle of the pail, and she shivered. She needed to go to the house but was frozen in place, so weary in every form of the word. She couldn’t feel like a stranger in her own home. The thought of facing another day, catering to the every need of that man...”I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.” She’d put off Joseph’s insistence that they needed to turn the British officer over to the army too long already. He would no doubt survive the trip now, so why hesitate? If the rain delayed harvest, now would be the best time. No more excuses.

  Another tremor coursed the entirety of her body. She exhaled. There was no time to stand here moaning. The barn groaned from the wind, and the temperature continued to drop. The clouds approaching looked even darker than the ones overhead.

  As she entered the cabin, Rachel glanced to where the British officer lay, and then moved to add fuel to the last of the glowing coals. The room wasn’t very warm anymore. She halted mid-motion. The cot was empty.

  Her heart leapt as she bolted across the room, barely aware of the eggs as they cracked against each other in the pail. Without thought, Rachel tossed them and the bucket on the bed and tore into the bedroom. It was empty. She couldn’t even call his name because she didn’t know it.

  “Joseph!” Running from the cabin, Rachel hollered even though it would be impossible for him to hear her over the wind. “Joseph!” Rachel raced past the barn. She climbed the rail fence, almost falling to the ground. The wind whipped, snatching away her breath and stinging her eyes. They watered, hazing her vision. “Joseph!”

  Joseph worked to fasten down the high load even as the wind tried to scatter it over the field. “What’s happened?”

  Rachel braced against the high walled box as she caught her breath. “He’s...he’s gone.”

  “Who’s gone?”

  “The…the man. The British...officer.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just...gone.”

  Joseph’s smoky blue eyes showed the depth of his pondering. He started
toward the front of the wagon. “Perhaps it is just as well. We needed to get rid of him somehow. It’s better for us that he accomplish it himself.”

  Rachel stared at her brother. “But—but what’ll happen to him?”

  “What does it matter to us?” Joseph climbed onto the seat and loosed the reins. “We have at least one more load before it begins to pour. And you still haven’t put on something warmer. Are you coming?”

  Rachel’s mouth opened as her mind churned. Maybe he was right. Maybe they should let the man go and be done with it. “Joseph, he can’t make it very far on that leg, and in this weather? He’ll die. And what if someone finds him? He’s wearing your clothes. What if someone recognizes them?”

  He shot her a look of disbelief. “No one will suspect us of helping a Redcoat.”

  “What if he tells them?”

  “That’s not what you’re concerned about, is it? I bet you don’t even believe that he would tell someone. Now, do you want a ride back or are you walking?”

  Rachel scanned the area. “I know he wouldn’t tell anyone. I can’t let him...” The sentence broke off as she raced back toward the cabin.

  Reins jingled as leather cracked over the horses’ backs, encouraging them to a run.

  She cut through the fence, and they arrived back at the barn at the same time.

  Throwing the reins to the seat, Joseph jumped to the ground.

  Rachel reached the cabin, pulled on her cloak, and shoved past him.

  Joseph stood in the doorway. “What are you doing?” He grabbed her arm, jerking her back.

  Rachel yanked away. “I’ll go look for him, and don’t expect me back alone.”

  “Since when did you worry so much for a British officer? Have you forgotten who he is?”

  How could she forget? But...Joseph was right. Why couldn’t she leave him out there? “He is not a bad man, Joseph. I know he fought with them, but he’s not evil and doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t even remember who he is.”

  Joseph’s jaw flexed. “A lot of men die who don’t deserve to. Pa didn’t deserve it either, but some Redcoat Brit shot him dead without a second thought.”