by Angela Couch
“No.” Rachel relinquished her hold but remained on the wagon. “You can’t do this. Where is the law? Where’s mercy? This isn’t right and every one of you knows it. He’s a prisoner of war, a soldier who obeyed orders, not a criminal.”
“I lost both my sons to the likes of those Redcoats,” a woman cried out.
Another shouted from the back. “They invaded our lands, and killed our men. Someone must be made to pay.”
“I understand your anger. I also lost my father to them. But I can see that this isn’t justice—it’s revenge.”
Very few seemed to listen to her pleadings and strong hands hauled her to the ground.
“No!”
“Careful, miss.” A smile warped Cowden’s face. “You might scare the horses.”
Andrew was on the flatbed of the wagon, head lowered and eyes filled with peace. Closing them, his mouth moved, offering one final prayer. He still loved his God. If only God loved him in return. How could He allow this otherwise?
I don’t understand, Lord...but please don’t let him die like this. Rachel glanced away, not wanting to see what was about to happen.
Daniel’s pistol rested in his holster.
Without another thought, she grabbed it and leveled it at the driver. “If that wagon moves, so help me, I’ll shoot you dead, Rodney Cowden.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Daniel moved to take the pistol back.
“Don’t touch me, or I’ll shoot him. And don’t move that wagon.”
Cowden scowled at her. “Think for a minute, girl. If you fire that pistol the horses will bolt. Either way, the Redcoat is dead.”
“Yes, but you’ll be dead with him.”
The world paused as they glowered at each other—Cowden with the reins hovering over the backs of the excited horses, and Rachel aiming the flintlock.
Everyone waited.
Now what, Lord?
“What are you doing on my land?” Joseph’s voice boomed, causing several people to startle.
Even Rachel jerked, her thumb twitching over the trigger. It was a blessing the piece wasn’t sensitive.
Joseph reined Hunter in from the road.
“Glad you could join us, Garnet. We were about to practice some good old British justice. Just as they would like to see done to every last one of us ‘traitors to the crown,’ as they say.” Sarcasm laced Cowden’s words. “We know as well as they the benefit of gallows for traitors.”
“Are you suggesting I’m a traitor?” Joseph stopped at the edge of the crowd.
“Yes,” Cowden spat. “For harboring an enemy officer at a time of war.”
“If being a Christian is treason, then you can hang me as well. I wouldn’t want to be part of this country we’ve been establishing. The Bible’s full of examples of the Lord defending a righteous nation when they fought for their country and freedom, but let us also remember the words of Christ when He told His disciples to love their enemies and do good to them. I believe God is in support of these United States of America and our desires for freedom, but I also believe that if I had left this man to die when he was no longer a threat to our freedom or safety, the condemnation would have been upon me.” Joseph glanced out across the group gathered. “I ask you to look into your own hearts and souls. Would the Lord justify you in killing this man in cold blood? Will we stain our country with the killing of men who have already surrendered to our mercy? If that is so, you may hang me, for I will not allow this.” He urged Hunter forward.
Cowden gave an abrupt shout, slapping the reins against the horses’ rears.
They leaped, jerking the wagon.
Andrew’s feet shot out from under him, the rope cinching around his neck.
Several men standing near the horses when they bolted grabbed the harnesses and pulled them to a stop.
Andrew gagged as he attempted to regain balance on the edge of the wagon tremoring with the horses’ nervousness. Then his feet slipped, swinging with his body into midair.
32
Rachel screamed. Her hands flew to her face but she was unable to block out the horrible image. Her body slumped against Daniel, unable to support itself. No, God. No.
Joseph yelled at Hunter. The stallion immediately reacted. People jumped out of his way to avoid being trampled. Even before Joseph reached Andrew, the knife was ready. The blade sawed through the rope. After another breathless moment, Andrew’s limp body fell to the ground with a solid thud and a cloud of dust.
Rachel was hardly aware of the pistol falling as her wobbly legs carried her to him.
He gagged, gasping for breath, the rope still about his throat.
She pulled it over his head. A bright red welt marked its place. “Are you...?”
Andrew coughed. His breathing was short and sharp. His throat sounded as though it were still restricted. He struggled to move, but was unable to with his wrists bound under him. Rachel fumbled with the knots until Joseph pushed her aside and cut them loose.
Turning onto his stomach, Andrew’s hands rose to his throat and face. Ever so slowly his breathing steadied and deepened. He pushed onto his hands and knees.
She held his trembling shoulders, finding it hard to catch her own breath. Eyes closed, she buried her face in his hair. Andrew was alive…For this moment, that was enough.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, his voice shaky and hoarse. “The Lord is watching over us.”
“He’s only ever failed me.”
Andrew coughed again, trying to clear his voice. It did little to help as he attempted a few more words. “No. He heard you today.”
“But—”
Joseph pulled her up, tearing her away from Andrew. Strong arms wrapped her in place despite her struggles.
Andrew’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body losing strength as two men dragged him to his feet. The mob seemed oblivious to the fact that their prisoner had lost consciousness. They continued to aim their weapons while arguing over what was to be done.
“Hold on!” Benjamin Reid made his way through the crowd, using his cane to push aside anyone who stood in his way. Fannie followed in his wake. As they broke free of the mob, she hurried to Joseph’s side.
“Listen up.” Benjamin waved the cane above his head as he moved in front of the British captain. He soon had everyone’s attention. “This man a prisoner of war. We will take him to Fort Schuyler where Colonel Gansevoort can decide what’s to be done. Now who has a horse we can take him on?”
Joseph released Rachel. “I’ll accompany you with my wagon. He isn’t in any condition to ride.”
Rachel looked back to him, in his red coat and homespun breeches. His eyes were again focusing, but he still leaned heavily on the men holding him. Oh, Andrew.
“Then I suggest everyone else go home,” Benjamin shouted. “The excitement’s over.”
While several grumbled, most appeared eager to get back to their own farms and chores before evening. The mob dispersed—Rodney Cowden and Daniel among the first. By the time Joseph returned with both horses hitched to the wagon, only a few men remained.
Fannie stayed with Rachel, clinging to her arm as they waited. When Joseph pulled the wagon to a halt, the younger woman let go and hurried to him. She gripped his leg. “Are you sure it’s safe for you to go?”
Joseph leaned over and brushed his hand down her face to tuck a lose curl out of the way. “It’ll be fine.” His face, however, was stone and his brow lowered with concern. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Fannie pushed up on the side of the wagon and planted a firm kiss on his cheek.
He looked down in surprise, then pleasure as she withdrew to where Rachel stood. A wide grin flashed across his face. It vanished just as quick. Joseph turned back to the other men who forced Andrew into the back of the wagon. “Watch that right leg of his.”
A groan escaped Andrew. His brow furrowed and his eyes closed. “Could I have some water?”
The men appeared to ignore him.
“Get out of there, girl,” one of the men shouted at her.
She shook her head. “I’m going, too.”
Joseph pivoted in his seat and pointed a finger. “No. Give him a drink, and then get out of this wagon.”
“Please let me go, Joseph. I can’t—”
“No. That’s final. You stay here and take care of things ‘til I get back. You hear me?”
“But...” There was nothing left to say.
By the expression on his face, he wouldn’t give in. “Hurry.”
Rachel glared at her brother before helping Andrew drink. With trembling hands she wrapped the quilt around his shoulders.
His fingers found hers, squeezing them. “Thank you.” Andrew’s hand withdrew. His face turned away. He was letting her go. He wanted her to go.
Somehow finding strength, she crawled to the tailgate and slipped to the ground.
“I’ll try to be back by tomorrow night,” Joseph said, pulling her gaze from the man she loved. “If something happens and...if for some reason I’m detained, I’ll send word.”
She nodded, but dread welled. “Be careful.”
Benjamin scaled onto the seat beside Joseph and three other men mounted. The group directed their horses to the road.
The two women watched as their silhouettes, outlined in the lowering sun, disappeared from sight.
“Will you pray with me?” Fannie whispered.
Rachel continued to stare at the last spot she’d seen the riders. She would never see Andrew Wyndham again. But at least he was alive. “Pray?” she echoed. “Yes.”
~*~
The temperature continued to plummet. Rachel pulled the rocking chair near the fireplace, and sat with her feet curled under. Tightening the blanket’s grip around her shoulders, she rocked back and forth, willing the movement to calm the anxiety which had been growing within her throughout the day. “Where are you, Joseph?” she questioned into the heavy silence. “What’s keeping you?”
Her attention returned to the dance of orange and red flames over the charcoaled logs. It’d been over twenty-four hours since the men left for the fort. Every minute making up those hours brimmed with worry for both Joseph and Andrew. Now, as night came and the sun faded from sight, her hope of Joseph’s safe return sank as well.
No longer able to hold still, Rachel surveyed the room. Her mother’s Bible sat on the edge of the table, untouched since Andrew brought it back. She brushed her hand over the cover, her heart yearning for comfort. She melted into a nearby chair and pulled a lamp closer, turning through the pages, her thoughts far away.
This had been Andrew’s love. He’d made the Bible a part of who he was. So many recollections of him involved this book as he read out loud, discussed and quoted it—spouting the Word.
The Bible was all she had left of him except...a hand stole to her pocket and her fingers closed around the small scrap of wool. She studied the fabric, remembering the scarlet coat as it was forced onto him, as he was led to the wagon, as he hung from that horrid rope. The memory strangled her. What if Joseph hadn’t come in time? What if...I love you. Rachel closed her hand around the swatch, and her gaze moved to the words on the page. The Book of Psalms, fortieth chapter. She submitted and began to read.
I waited patiently for the Lord; and He inclined unto me, and heard my cry.
Rachel hadn’t waited with any sort of patience for the Lord. At her first true trial of faith, she had faltered—avoided Him, instead of calling upon Him for support and comfort. No wonder everything continued to fall away from her.
He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock and established my doings. And He hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our God: many shall see it, and fear, and shall trust in the Lord. Blessed is the man that maketh the Lord his trust.
Trust. The thing that held her from her God. Rachel had always believed in His existence, but had she ever truly trusted Him? There had never been much of a need before. Her life had been simple and happy. She’d taken for granted that it would not change. But with the death of her father, while still recovering from the loss of her mother, everything had changed. She couldn’t help but blame God. How could she trust Someone Who would cause her such pain?
Don’t hate God for this deed. For my sake, don’t blame God for what men do.
“But God could’ve stopped them,” Rachel whispered. “Doesn’t He have the power to stop men from doing evil? If God created the world and everything on it, why couldn’t He have saved Papa? Why couldn’t He have protected Andrew...” And now Joseph?
A trial of faith. Isn’t that what Andrew was trying to tell me? Men were born to be tried. But why?
Her head snapped up as the explosions of muskets firing split the night and shattered the silence. Rachel tore to the small window near the door. Just as she lowered her head to peer into the darkened yard, one of the logs in the fireplace sparked loudly, pitch igniting. She jerked, glancing over her shoulder at the flames. Even as she ascertained it was not a danger, glass sprayed in all directions, the windowpane bursting. Something heavy crashed to the floor.
Her shaking hands brushed the sharp splinters from her shoulder as she stared at the large stone.
Shouts of men sounded through the broken window, angry and most almost incoherent—intoxicated.
“Come out, you traitors!”
33
Andrew placed one foot in front of another, limping badly. He was fortunate to be able to walk at all, and even more so to be alive.
The guard, however, was impatient and gave a shove forward. “Hurry along.”
“If you desired your prisoners to move faster, it would do you well to not shoot them in the legs during battle.”
“I agree,” the guard answered with another push. “If we shot them in the head, it would speed things along nicely.”
“Always trust a colonist to lighten a conversation.”
The guard grunted and moved to un-plank a solid wood door. “In here.”
Andrew stepped past, pausing as the door sealed. He blinked his eyes to adjust to the dim light of a lamp on a table near the far wall. Men sat, laid, or paced the large room. Most wore the familiar regimentals—though many of the scarlet coats hid under woolen blankets to ward off the chill bite in the evening air that seeped through the cracks of the ill-fitting log walls.
“Bless me, I swear I am seeing a ghost,” one man exclaimed, coming to his feet. He wore a thick beard and was dirty and tattered. He reached out to touch Andrew’s arm. “My eyes swear that you are none other than Captain Wyndham, our God-praising clergy, but I know I saw the same man fall in battle two months ago.”
The man had been another of the seventy British reinforcements St. Leger had sent the Tories and Iroquois at Oriskany. “Surely you did not expect me to allow a little musket ball to send me to the next life, Derek O’Conner.”
“I should have guessed. But tell us, Captain, where have you been keeping yourself all these weeks if you never made it back here before General St. Leger broke siege? They have not returned, have they?”
“No. As far as I have heard, they are long gone from the area.”
“Yes, our guards have been pleased enough to inform us of all their victories.” His friend looked at him, a question marked his brow. “But you have yet to answer me, Captain. Where have you been keeping yourself, and how did you ever survive? And your regimentals—you seem to have lost all but your coat.”
Andrew glanced down at the clothes the Garnets had given him—another reminder of what he left behind. He forced his mind from Rachel. There would be plenty of hours with her memory in the days to come. “First, what do you know of my brother? Did you see what happened? Was he still with the general when they retreated?”
Th
e man shook his head. “I am afraid not.”
His stomach clenched. “He...he is dead, then?” Andrew wiped a hand across his face, feeling numb and exhausted. He’d lost everything. He almost didn’t catch what his friend was saying.
“Course’ not.” Derek motioned to where a soldier pulled to his feet, staring wide-eyed at the newcomer. His reddish beard was wispy and short, his face marked with dirt, but his green-brown eyes twinkled.
With a flood of relief almost stealing his strength, Andrew staggered across the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around Stephen, his fingers gripping the woolen fabric of his brother’s coat.
“We thought you were dead.” Stephen clapped him on the back.
“No deader than you.” Andrew released his hold.
“But when they came back from Oriskany, they said—”
“They were mistaken. I was wounded, but a Christian family took me in and brought me back to life. The Lord has been watching over both of us.”
Stephen looked at him as though questioning his sanity. “We are prisoners in a rat hole. Does nothing dampen your faith?”
“I found you, and you are alive. To think I could have started north and never learned your fate.” One hand came up to massage the crimson welt circling his throat. “How could my faith be dampened after the miracles I have beheld?”
“What happened to your neck?” Derek forced Andrew to face him.
“Good old British justice. I believe that is what they called it.” Andrew tried to clear the rasp from his voice. “But tell me what happened after I fell. I struck my head and remember nothing more. I believe that was before you started retreating.”
“I saw you go down,” Derek said. “I was sure you were dead the way your head was bleeding, and your hip a bloody mess. I tried to make my way to you, but soon we started falling back. Our Iroquois warriors decided they could not stand anymore and began to retreat. There was little to be done after that. We still slaughtered those rebels though—by the hundreds.”
Andrew couldn’t contain a cringe. Rachel’s father had been among them. “And our losses?”
“Indians, a little over sixty. Otherwise, only seven men for sure killed, though the count I heard placed about twenty wounded or missing.” He gripped Andrew’s shoulder. “One less, now.”