The Scarlet Coat

by Angela Couch

  “The Garnets?”

  Andrew nodded. “I owe them my life.”

  “And that is enough reason for treason?”

  No, it probably wasn’t, but what was he supposed to tell him? “If you do decide to send men regardless of my warning, I want to go with them.”

  “Why would you want that when you believe it to be a trap?”

  He raked his fingers over the stubble on his jaw. “Because I wish to remain in this valley.”

  “Mr. Reid wasn’t fighting shadows, was he? This has everything to do with Miss Garnet?”

  There was no denying it. “Yes.”

  “Fine. We are still sending the men, though they will be on the highest alert. You may go with them.” He glanced to his man. “Find Captain Wyndham a sword—but only a sword.” Gansevoort gave Andrew a thin smile. “It wouldn’t do to send you into a possible battle without a weapon, and I imagine you are adept at the use of that one?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “But if you make one wrong move, my men will have orders to shoot you where you stand. You have your chance to prove yourself. I pray you speak the truth...and yet, if you do, my men will be marching into a trap.” He shook his head. “May God help us all.”

  37

  Rachel shook her hands, restless energy needing some form of release. At least Andrew had made it here without getting his head shot off. What had he been thinking to risk his life? She glanced to the blue heavens. Lord, was this Your doing? Please tell me it is—that this is where he’s meant to be. A hand on her shoulder pulled her attention to her brother.

  “It sounds as if we’ll be leaving soon.” He tightened his grip. “Stay here until we return.”

  “But if it is a trap set by Brant...must you go with them? You know we can’t trust Rodney Cowden.”

  “I know.”

  “What I don’t understand is why, if he’s working for the British, he would lead the mob against our home two nights ago? Could Andrew be mistaken?”

  Joseph shook his head. “No, we’re already certain of who we trust. If anything, Rodney was making sure no one could doubt his loyalties. Especially if he was worried about a certain British captain saying something against him. Daniel thought it strange how set Rodney was on killing Andrew, when an hour earlier he’d been trying to convince the mob that there was no need for violence against a British soldier if he was no threat.”

  “So he decided Andrew was a threat because he could identify him and was…” Rachel gave a tiny smile as more than the sun’s warmth touched her face, “fraternizing with the locals.”

  A bugle horn sounded, and Joseph’s head jerked up, his hand coming to his pistol.

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head as his hands relaxed. “Nothing. It looks as if they’re calling the soldiers to mount their horses and gather. I’m just not used to our side using a bugle. It’s what the British are known for, and this is the first time I’ve heard the Continental troops utilize it. I don’t like it.”

  “Though, if it works...” Rachel brushed her fingers down his sleeve.

  “I should mount up, as well.”

  “Joseph...”How am I supposed to let you go? She’d already lost Pa.

  He pulled her into an embrace. “You take care of yourself, all right?”

  “I’m supposed to tell you that. I’m safe here, while you—” She gripped his coat, remembering the feel of Pa’s arms around her just before they’d marched to Oriskany. Joseph was so much like him. She hadn’t realized that until recently, watching him fill Pa’s boots.

  “I know.” He squeezed her arms and stepped to Hunter.

  “Joseph, promise me you’ll come back.”

  He glanced at her and sighed. “You know I can’t do that.”

  Daniel reined his horse beside Joseph’s. He pulled his hat off, and looked down at it. “Rachel.” He took a breath. “I wanted to say again, one last time, how sorry I am for everything. I hope someday you’ll forgive me.”

  Her gaze darted between him and her brother. Why did everybody talk as though they wouldn’t return? If they were so certain it was suicide, why would they go?

  “Are your men assembled?” Colonel Gansevoort’s voice spun her in that direction.

  Andrew stood beside him wearing a clean brown coat and a tricorn hat. He fastened a scabbard around his waist as his gaze rested on her.

  “Get Captain Wyndham a horse.”

  A horse? Rachel weaved her way around the gathering men and animals. “I don’t understand. You’re going too?”

  Andrew tightened the leather tie and straightened his coat as he stepped to her. “I am.”

  “But you just told everyone it must be one of Brant’s ruses. Why would you go?”

  He glanced past her. “For the same reason Joseph is.” His hand found hers.

  “I still don’t understand.”

  He slid the back of his forefinger along her jaw. “Yes, you do.”

  “Captain Wyndham?” A soldier approached and Andrew turned. “Your horse.”

  He took the bay’s reins. “Thank you.”

  “Please be careful.” Rachel’s chest hurt as he gave her a half smile and moved to mount. “Andrew?”

  He glanced back, his expression tender, his gaze moving from her eyes to her mouth and back again.

  “Captain Wyndham.”

  Rachel wasn’t certain who called, and it didn’t matter. How could she let him go again, not knowing if she would see him again, and with his kiss—his almost kisses—burning in her mind. “Wait.” Andrew looked down as she rushed to his side. Pushing his boot out of the stirrup, she replaced it with her own, grabbed the pommel and leaned into the horse to pull herself up. Half sitting in the saddle in front of him she touched his face. “I love you, Andrew Wyndham. Never doubt th...”

  The warmth of his lips silenced her. She closed her eyes as the horse shifted under them. His mouth drew her in, his arm strong around her. His taste, the cascade of scents, the coarse brush of whiskers on her chin—everything intoxicating.

  “I love you.” Rachel sank back to the ground.

  “And I you,” he murmured in return, his voice a low rumble.

  “Come back to me.” She released his hand.

  “God willing.” He backed the horse several steps. “We have to trust Him.” Andrew directed his horse to join the other men, an officer riding beside him.

  Joseph also made his way to them.

  Rodney Cowden rode near the front of the company, possibly leading them to their deaths.

  Help me trust, Lord.

  And yet, as the large gates of the fort closed in their wake, fear settled into Rachel’s center. What if the Lord stepped aside again as He did on the day Pa was killed? Over half of the Continental force had been massacred because they had walked into an ambush.

  ~*~

  A little over one hundred men with a half dozen of them on horses—almost twice the number Colonel Gansevoort had originally planned to send. Would it be enough?

  Cowden rode at the front of the column, the lieutenant keeping pace at his side. They definitely weren’t letting him out of sight.

  Riding four abreast as much as the trail would allow for it, Andrew was in the second to last row, with the infantry bringing up the rear. Joseph rode on his left with Daniel, while a sergeant hugged his right. They weren’t giving the British captain any room for deviance, either.

  But he could hardly fault them for that. Lord, help me prove myself. Andrew glanced to the heavens. Everything was so close to falling into place, giving him everything he wanted. Rachel. The sensation of her lips lingered on his. No matter what the future brought, that moment would always be perfect in his mind.

  “Whoa!”

  Andrew’s head snapped up at the cry. His horse sidestepped and came to a halt along with the others.

  Cowden’s mount tossed its head as it spun. One rein pulled tight as the other hung loosely in the man’s hand. Broken. Cowden maneuv
ered the animal to the side and swung from the saddle, muttering under his breath.

  The lieutenant sent a glance between Cowden and Andrew, as though questioning who to trust and what to do to expedite their mission. “Sergeant Tremain, continue on with the infantry, we’ll follow.”

  The sergeant gave a salute and a tentative nod before twisting in his saddle to call out the command. The riders moved aside as they watched the men march past.

  “What’s going on, Cowden?” the lieutenant demanded, pulling his horse alongside. “We’re only two miles or so from the settlement.”

  “This leather’s old.” Cowden grabbed for the bridle.

  “If this is a ploy...”

  “If you’re so upset, why don’t you find me something to fix it?” Cowden swore as he untied the short stub of leather from the bridle and tossed it aside. Then he drew a knife and began whittling away at the length of rein.

  The last of the infantry passed.

  The lieutenant cursed. “This is the last place we need to get separated. Madison,” he barked at a lower officer. “You watch things here and catch up as soon as you can. We’ll hold up on the other side of the creek if you haven’t caught up to us by then.” The lieutenant spurred his horse toward the troops as they vanished behind the thick brush.

  The creek? Andrew swallowed, his throat dry. Hadn’t he drunk enough river water today? Not sufficient to wash away the returning memories of the Continental soldiers and militia filling the bottom of a ravine with their blood as the Tories and Iroquois swarmed the ridges. It had been a successful massacre. Why wouldn’t Brant repeat?

  “Joseph, you have to stop them.”

  “Stop who?”

  “The creek bed. What kind of terrain is it? Anything like Oriskany?”

  All color drained from the Joseph’s face. “You think...?”

  “This would be the ideal place to withdraw if you knew what was coming.” They all spun to Cowden as he vanished into the dense woods.

  His horse stared after him.

  Madison swore, firing his pistol. The shot echoed just north of them, once, then again, and again, and again, a rippling affect growing in force and volume.

  It was already too late to warn the others.

  38

  A low rumble of thunder sounded in the north.

  Rachel raised her gaze to the treed horizon and the dark haze stretching into the clear sky.

  Neither were a sign of a storm—at least not a natural one. The battle had begun.

  “Lord, please protect them.” Rachel hugged herself, her head bowing. “Bring them home.” Dread choked her. It was too much to sit here and wait, trusting everything she loved to an abstract Being. How could they expect that of her? How could she expect anything from God when He obviously put little thought into her happiness? He loves us more than a moment of happiness. He is trying to build us. But it is not all trial.

  Wasn’t it? Carving a life out of this wilderness, illness stealing Mama, the British killing Pa, their neighbors and friends destroying everything they’d worked so hard for. Would she now lose Joseph too? And Andrew...again?

  The Lord gives us joy as well. Oh, the intensity and the love in his eyes as he’d said those words. And how could she argue? She had tasted joy. Moments of peace amid the storms of life. That break in reality when everything stopped for a kind word, a hearty laugh, a tender kiss...enough happiness to hold onto during the trials of faith.

  God had given her that. He had brought Andrew back, and perhaps He would again.

  She had to trust.

  And if not?

  Rachel raised her eyes to the skies, past the smoke and the fears that threatened to bury her.

  ~*~

  Madison stared at the curve in the trail where their infantry had disappeared. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he sputtered. “We must hurry. They’ll be massacred.” He encouraged his horse back onto the train, his hand fumbling with his pistol.

  Andrew kicked his own mount into action, cutting the officer off.

  “Get out of the way.” Madison jerked his reins to maneuver around him.

  “If you take this road, you will ride straight into the heaviest force of Brant’s men. The retreat is where they will swarm. But if we cut through the woods, we can open the gap where they are more spread out, and call our men through.”

  Madison hesitated, and then nodded. “All right.” He raised his pistol. “Let’s go.”

  Eleven riders remained. They crossed the road and pushed through the brush into the forest, tramping the underbrush and dodging larger branches. Maneuvering around several half rotted logs, the small band sped their horses toward the battle.

  Madison fired his weapon first, and a Mohawk warrior fell from his perch on the ridge.

  Several of the soldiers swung from their horses, charging the other Indians with their swords.

  The battle in the creek bed remained unaffected. A glimpse through the thinning foliage revealed the infantry still on the trail, standing back to back as they fought the onslaught of both ball and arrow. Uniformed bodies already littered the ground, with more falling every second. There had to be a way to slow the attack, to confuse Joseph Brant’s warriors.

  Andrew twisted and thrust his hand out to the soldier with the bugle horn fastened to his saddle. “Hurry and give that to me.” He motioned to the instrument. “Your turkey call was fine for the fort, but let us see what damage some good, old British fox hunt reveille will do.”

  The soldier had the ties barely loosened when Andrew snatched the instrument and spun his horse deeper into the woods. The landscape sloped toward a gargling stream. He sucked air into his lungs. Now charging away from the gap forming in Brant’s lines, he sounded the most triumphant tune that came to mind. It had been played more than once after the British had trounced the Continental Army, and likely Brant and his men had heard it, as well.

  As soon as he had reached the other side of the stream, Andrew switched tunes to one often used to signal retreat. Hopefully, they were familiar with that one. And also with the fact that the Continental Army disliked the call of the bugle horn. It was the British’s instrument, and at the fort was the first time Andrew had heard the Americans employing it. Any hesitation on the part of the Mohawks could save lives.

  Aware of motion to his left, Andrew directed his horse farther from the ongoing battle, never halting the call of mournful retreat. As the road came into view, he nudged the animal with his heels, racing it over the open length. A branch tore at his sleeve as he plunged back into the cover of the forest. Halfway to the other side of the stream, Andrew slowed his gait and withdrew the bugle horn from his numb lips.

  The battle seemed to be shifting toward the south where the Continental soldiers had breached the lines.

  The sound of the assault was still heard, but strangely detached from the calmness enveloping the immediate area. Perhaps the attack was failing after all, the Mohawk’s’ upper hand crumbling like the walls of Jericho to the sound of a trumpet.

  Andrew glanced to the fragments of darkening blue showing through the spread of branches. The sun slipped toward the western hills. Dusk was upon them. “Lord...” The deep rumble of his voice echoed in his ears. He was alone. And yet...not alone.

  An army of Mohawk Indians were hidden in this forest. They had once been his allies, but today had changed everything. He had followed his instinct—his heart—and dove into the river. What would tomorrow bring? Would it even come? It hardly seemed to matter. God was with him. Surrounding him and filling him.

  A shot rang out.

  He glanced to the road but saw nothing. Encouraging his horse to quicken its pace, he again began to work his way down the steep slope. The hair prickled on the back of his neck as the animal leapt through the stream. He gripped the bugle horn. If only he had a pistol instead. Was someone watching? He searched the foliage surrounding him. Nothing. Searing pain tore through his body, flinging him from the saddle. His chest seemed to
explode as he struck the uneven ground and a moss covered log.

  The horse bolted away and Andrew stared after it, his brain only now registering the crack of a discharging pistol. Fire ignited in his shoulder as wet warmth spread out, leaking down his chest and arm. God, no! Not again. I have to return to Rachel. Please...do not let me die here. He clutched the wound, trying to dam the blood stealing away with his strength.

  “Why won’t you just die?” Cowden stepped from behind two embracing aspens. His pistol, smoke wafting from the barrel, dropped as he drew his sword. “I knew you would ruin everything. I knew it.” He circled nearer.

  Andrew grabbed for his own sword, his fingers soaked in his own blood as they gripped the hilt and drew the weapon. He scrambled to stand.

  Cowden lunged at him with a yell.

  He blocked the first strike, but stumbled back on the log. His hand shook, the pain almost disarming him. His skill with the sword greatly exceeded the other man’s, but what use was years of training and instruction when there was no strength to even hold it?

  One more maneuver and Cowden flung the sword from his hand. Cowden tipped his blade, his stained teeth showing as he leered. “Now to finish off what that rope failed to accomplish.”

  Andrew sank to the soft ground. It was strangely warm and inviting, wrapping itself around him. Peace spread through his chest, countering the agony. Maybe death was not such a horrible thing. To return to his God. His vision blurred and darkened. A musket firing mingled with the rush of blood in his ears. A moment later someone grabbed him.

  “No, God.”

  He knew that voice. Andrew tried to focus on the man bracing him up. Daniel Reid? What was he doing here? Where was Cowden?

  “Sit still.” Daniel pressed something over the wound. “We have to get you to the Fort.”

  Andrew tried to nod. He had to make it back for Rachel’s sake. Instead his head flopped forward, his vision fleeing with the pain.

  39

  The shadows lengthened across the valley and embraced the fort. Darkness.

  “Miss Garnet, why don’t you come inside?” Gansevoort made his way to her. “They might not make it back until tomorrow. You can’t stand out here all night.”