The major stood from Father’s chair. “How was your morning stroll, Miss Reynolds?”
“Fine, thank you.” But she wasn’t there to mince words with him. “Your fox is hiding somewhere west of here. Not far. Either way, I’m sure they will make their way to Allston’s Plantation.”
His mouth stretched into a smile. He slid his hands into white gloves, and started past her. “Well done. I shall go a-hunting.” He walked to the front where his men waited.
Lydia stepped forward and closed the door of the library, shutting herself off from the rest of the house—the rest of the world. If the kind God her mother believed in did exist, maybe they would run the Swamp Fox to ground, Lydia would be given the credit, and a way would be prepared for her to escape this place. And the memories that pressed over her with the weight of millstones. She glanced at Father’s chair and its dark leather.
If the British had success today, perhaps she could also be done with spying, lies…and all-too-confident rebels with rich brown eyes.
8
“Sergeant, where have you been?”
Daniel reined Madam alongside Colonel Marion’s mount. Two miles north of Georgetown, they hadn’t been difficult to locate. “I’m sorry, sir. I was waiting on information.”
“And?”
“The Allston Plantation. That’s where a group of Loyalists have set up camp.”
Marion rubbed his palm over his day-old stubble and glanced around. “Do you know how many?”
If only. “I’m afraid not, sir, but it didn’t sound like a lot.”
“Good. Colonel Horry has already started toward the White Plantation with a couple companies. Word has it a large band is forming there.” He twisted in his saddle. “Captain Melton.”
A burly man nudged his mount forward to join them. “Sir?”
“Take your patrol down Sampit Road, and find out how many men the Loyalists have gathered at Will Allston’s place.”
Daniel nodded to the captain. “I can go along if you want me.”
“I’ll come too,” Gabe boomed, pushing his horse to the front of the lines. “Better than waiting around here to see if we’ll get in on the action.”
Daniel chuckled at the elder Marion’s censoring glare at his nephew.
“Permission granted.” The Colonel sighed. “Just don’t be telling your mother when you go home next week.”
The youth grinned and gave his horse a kick. Daniel did likewise, taking the place beside Gabe. The boy had an energy that made him a pleasure to be around. As the animals matched strides, Daniel couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like to have a younger brother. He loved his sisters but enjoyed the camaraderie another male provided.
He chuckled to himself. Taking into consideration his own temper and all the mischief he’d gotten into at Gabe’s age, perhaps the Lord knew what He was doing sending him sister after sister after sister. That didn’t mean Daniel couldn’t enjoy his nephew someday, as Colonel Marion seemed to.
His nephew. Joseph and Fannie’s boy. Strange to think of the child, because he’d never seen him. Little James Garnet, named for Joseph and Rachel’s father, would be almost two now, and, according to the last letter from home that had reached him—almost six months ago—Fannie was already expecting a second babe.
Men surrounded Daniel, yet loneliness spiked through him. What was he doing down here, hiding after so long? The war raged just as fiercely in New York as it did in South Carolina. He had to leave the past in the past and be open to new possibilities. Pale blue-green eyes rose in his mind along with a pretty face framed with dark hair. Lydia.
“I see you’re clean shaven again,” Gabe said with a long, sideways glance, saving him from stray thoughts.
“I believe that is civilization’s mandate.” Daniel smoothed a hand across his jaw. He’d shaved every morning he’d been in Georgetown. “Be glad you don’t have to worry about that yet.”
“I’ve shaved,” Gabe protested.
Daniel cocked a brow at the youth. “Just for the sake of it?”
He shrugged and they both laughed.
“Remember, hot water makes all the difference,” Daniel said.
“As does having someone who appreciates it?” Gabe’s grin returned. “Like a beautiful woman. Though you never said whether or not she was pretty.”
“For all you know she might be a sixty-year-old grandmother.”
“But she isn’t, is she? I’ve heard enough fire-side conversations. I can tell when a man is attracted to the subject, Sergeant.”
Daniel shook his head, suppressing the urge to smile at the lad’s use of his rank. It was easy to forget that the boy was indeed his superior. With the young Marion it seemed to give them leveler footing. “Then I guess there is no denying it to you, Lieutenant.”
A chortle broke from Gabe’s chest. “Maybe you should consider settling here once the redcoats have gone home. How do you like South Carolina so far?”
“It’s warm.”
Gabe looked at him, his puzzled expression making Daniel want to chuckle.
“Honestly, I’m used to a good dump of snow by now and below freezing temperatures. If this is the best your winter has…” His thoughts faded as Captain Melton waved the troop off the main road.
Trees loomed around them but the way lay open enough to pass unhindered. Moss draped across the branches above made up for the leaves that now padded the path. The noonday sun glimmered, and long strands glowed with tones of gray-blue. After a while the ground sloped. Mud clung to the horses’ hooves. Marshes stretched out before them.
“Can you ride anywhere in this area without swimming?” Daniel had to ask.
Gabe’s throat rumbled with a laugh much like his uncle’s, though adolescent. “Hardly swimming. Your boots aren’t even getting wet.”
“Not yet. I’m just waiting for one of those alligators I’m sure is lurking below the surface to grab hold of my boot and take me for a swim.”
“Don’t worry.” Gabe clapped him on the back. “If one does, I’ll shoot him before he can take off your whole leg.”
Not very comforting. “Thanks.”
“Besides, in the winter they’re less active.”
“But possibly more hungry.” Cold weather had that effect on most creatures Daniel knew.
As they rose from the swamp, a rustle drew his gaze from the murky water to the men and horses becoming visible through the trees up ahead. Scarlet coats stood out among the earth tones worn by the Tories. A shout rose from both sides at the same time, and men grabbed for their guns.
Daniel snatched his pistol from his side and fired at the nearest enemy. The air erupted around him, cracking with the discharge of muskets and clouding with smoke. Daniel didn’t watch to see whether or not his target fell as he scrambled for another ball and his power horn.
Madam jerked her head and pawed backwards as the British rushed them. As he brought his pistol back up, she lurched sideways, and then dropped out from under him. Her body pinned his leg, crushing his ankle into the ground as she spasmed. Thick blood poured from her neck.
A musket ball dug the earth a foot from Daniel’s head. He jerked his pistol toward the charging Tory on horseback and fired. A miss. Daniel pressed himself to the dirt and covered his head with his elbows as the animal leaped over him. The sharp edge of a hoof scored his sleeve. He dropped his pistol and clutched his thigh. He had to get free.
A bolt of agony ripped up Daniel’s leg as he writhed his foot out of his boot and from under Madam. Her body still trembled with life, but he could do nothing for her now. He rolled out of the way of the battle and into the embrace of the marsh. The slimy, cool water swallowed him as he slid toward a cluster of dead reeds. No one seemed aware of his departure, but he took his knife to hand, the only weapon remaining to him. His pulse filled his ears as he watched the Patriots attempt a retreat. The scarlet-clad soldiers and their allies swarmed them with at least three times the men.
Daniel sun
k into the reeds and grass rising from the shore, submerging all but his head below the surface. His chest compressed as numbness set into his body, stealing some of the pain. He was helpless to do anything but sit silent as one of the British officers rode past and put a ball into Madam’s head. And the heart of one of Captain Melton’s wounded men.
Daniel wiped a wet hand over his face and glanced heavenward. Would there ever be an end to such brutality? Already a cry of triumph wafted from the main group of Brits. They had given up chase and were returning. Daniel hunkered down lower, depriving his lungs to keep their motion slow. If he were killed, how long before Mama and the rest of his family knew…or would they ever? Would they be left to wonder why he hadn’t ever returned? There’d be no record of him after he left his regiment in New York, and only a handful of officers knew of his mission to South Carolina. If he survived this, he needed to write his family.
They deserved to know where he was. Mama deserved a lot more than that.
A cry of pain and a pleading voice pulled Daniel’s focus back to the enemy and a prisoner. Daniel squinted through the reeds, blinking the droplets of muddy water from his eyelashes. A group of Tories thrust the young man forward, beating him down with the butts of their muskets.
Homespun breeches and light blue shirt, light brown hair falling over his face…Gabe.
No!
Daniel’s fingers ached from his grip on the knife. He couldn’t sit here while that boy—
“He’s one of Marion’s own kin.”
The cry rose loud and multiplied. Before anyone else could react, a man stepped forward and laid the barrel of his musket to Gabe’s chest. The boom reverberated through Daniel’s core and he sagged back, burying his face with his hands. “Oh, God, no.” Not that boy, Lord. Not Gabe.
~*~
A soft glow of moonlight stretched across the room and the quilt covering her legs. Lydia set the lamp aside and slid the Bible onto the stand. Smothering a yawn, she laid back and sank into the pillow. Her gaze remained on the book. Its words seemed both foreign and familiar—rhetoric she had heard on occasion—and were accompanied by the strangest feeling of belonging.
The rush of heavy footsteps to the front door was followed by rumble voices. Then the slam of the door. Her mind followed the voices through the house and back, to the bottom of the stairs.
Major Layton. He’d returned. But what had happened today?
Pushing the blankets aside, Lydia rose and wrapped in a robe. Feet bare, her steps were silent as she crept to the head of the stairs. She froze.
Major Layton peered up at her, Lieutenant Mathews at his side. The lieutenant averted his eyes while the major smiled her way.
She slunk back a step to conceal her feet.
“You did very well, Miss Reynolds. But our arrangement might have to be adjusted.” He raised his hand, his fist wrapped around a cane. The brass handle glinted in the lamp light. “If my suspicions are correct, your rebel informant may no longer be of use to you.”
“What is this?” Charles joined her at the top of the stair though his hands still worked to fasten the ties of his midnight-blue robe. His eyes glowed almost as dark. “What arrangement did you have? A rebel informant? Tell me the meaning of this, Lydia.”
His words bombarded her, but she couldn’t look away from the cane. Did that mean Daniel Reid was dead? The thought screamed so loud as to drown out whatever else was said. She hadn’t meant to be the cause of his death. Or anyone’s death. She just wanted a way to leave this place. She tried not to think about it—about him. Every day battles raged throughout the colonies, and every day men died. Even her father had. The rebels were responsible for that.
“I’m going to bed,” Lydia mumbled and turned back to her chamber. There would be enough to deal with in the morning and her head already spun.
“Not before you tell me what this is all about, Lydia.”
She glanced at Charles and shook her head. “My private affairs are none of your business. Nor are my dealings with Major Layton.” There. She’d said it, the words liberating. Charles was Margaret’s husband. Lydia would not let him dictate what she did. He’d already refused to help her, so she had little reason to reside under his thumb.
“Lydia.”
“Goodnight, Charles.” She wanted to be alone and find a way to forget Daniel Reid. She had to believe that was possible. If he was dead, it should mean little to her. The war was at fault, and the rebels who had started it. Daniel had not even belonged in South Carolina. He should have stayed in the North. Then she wouldn’t have met him, or had this awful, and so familiar, pain creeping through her center.
Lydia climbed into bed before realizing she had not removed her robe. A wave of nausea kept her from getting back up. She pressed a hand to her stomach and clamped her eyes closed against the weight crushing her. With the understanding that if Daniel was dead, she had likely killed him.
9
Shivers vibrated through Daniel’s body, making each halted step all the more difficult. Whether a result of his wet clothes and the frosty bite to the night air, or the throbbing agony of his ankle, he couldn’t be sure. The makeshift crutch he’d whittled out of a branch made walking possible, but barely. It was the first time he actually needed the cane he’d been toting for the past month, and the British removed that option.
Daniel paused against the hewn rails of a fence and dropped his head forward to catch his breath. The dim outline of a small house, not much bigger than his parents’ cabin, beckoned him forward. But what good would it do him? The home wasn’t his—that was hundreds of miles from here—and he couldn’t risk pounding on the door of a Tory. Not in his condition. Not here. They would easily guess where he’d gotten his injuries, and he wasn’t about to press that gun to his head. He’d keep walking.
Marion’s band had probably retreated back toward Snow Island or Indiantown, and Daniel was in no state to follow. Georgetown was closer. If he could get to Wilsbys’, surely they would give him a place to rest and help him secure a new horse.
Just a little farther. The crutch dug into the tender flesh under his arm as he hitched it into place and maneuvered his weight. One step at a time. He’d already come a couple of miles. He could make it the last few yards. Daniel was almost grateful for the physical pain. The greater it became, the less potent the image of Gabe’s murder. He almost felt responsible. He’d pointed them toward Alliston’s plantation.
The Wilsby cottage sat silent and still, not a light in the windows. No wonder, though, being well past midnight. Dawn probably sat on the horizon’s doorstep.
Daniel leaned into the doorframe and tapped a knuckle to the wood. And waited. He knocked a little harder. “Please.” He pressed his forehead into the door.
It cracked open to the flicker of a candle and the old man in his nightshirt.
Thank you, Lord.
“Reid? What’s happened to you?”
“There was a skirmish. I need a place to hide for a few days.”
Wilsby gaped for a moment, and then shook his head. “I can’t keep you here. Much too dangerous.” He stepped out and closed the door behind him. “My daughter is staying here with her husband. He’s a Tory.”
Daniel shifted the crutch. “Where am I to go?”
The breeze snuffed out the candle’s tiny flame. The older man looked down. “Maybe…” He shook his head. “I wish I could do something for you, but tonight—”
“A message.” Daniel had no other choice. “That’s what you can do. Send a message to Lydia Reynolds. No name. Just write meet me. She’ll understand.” God willing.
Wilsby nodded. “I can do that. But are you sure about Miss Reynolds? Her family has always been stringently loyal to the Crown.”
Daniel pushed away from the wall. “I’m sure.” He clamped his jaw against a surge of anger and the pain spiking through his ankle as he attempted a shuffled step.
“What happened to your foot?”
“Don’t let it
concern you. Go back to your Tory family,” Daniel growled. How could this man think to judge Lydia for her family when the loyalties of his own were equally contemptible?
“Wait here.”
Daniel paused and let his eyes close. They burned.
Behind him the door opened and closed, the man going inside. The action repeated as he returned moments later.
“Take this.” Wilsby handed over a crutch. “I’ve had trouble with gout in my foot from time to time.”
The smooth sway of the armrest fit comfortably under Daniel’s arm as he traded his branch.
“Why don’t you spend the night in the smoke house? There’s nothing in it but what’s already been cured. You can rest and we’ll think of something in the morning.”
Oh, to lie down and prop up his foot, but frustration at Wilsby’s lack of welcome spurred him on. Which was probably for the best. Once Daniel stopped, he’d likely not be able to move again. Not anytime soon. “I’d best get where I’m going before dawn.”
The man voiced no real argument but mumbled under his breath as Daniel started away.
One step at a time. One more step. Daniel’s good leg threatened to buckle with each movement, the muscles almost useless after coming so far, but he was determined to make it the remaining distance. The first light of day glowed through the trees as he leaned against the base of the huge oak and let himself sink to the ground.
~*~
Lydia stepped from her bedchamber and halted at the sight of little Margaret. She gripped her father’s fingers, walking with him down the short hall to the nursery where the nursemaid waited at the door.
Charles looked up at Lydia and frowned. “I wish to speak with you. Meet me in my study after breakfast.”
She nodded and hurried to the stairwell, only glancing back once at the full-cheeked cherub, her dark hair beginning to form a crown of ringlets...as her mother’s had. A family trait. Even little David and Martin had dark curls, though Martin’s hair had been so fine. At eighteen months he’d still been such a baby when he’d died.
The Patriot and the Loyalist Page 6