The Patriot and the Loyalist

by Angela K Couch

  She had probably lost the last of Major Layton’s trust, as well—especially since Ester’s disappearance—but he knew she was no threat to them. Lydia closed the door to her chambers and examined the splintered wood and twisted metal remaining of her lock. The bolt remained attached, but the soldiers had ripped the keeper from the wall when forcing themselves in. She frowned and moved to pick up the Bible from where it had fallen the night before.

  The guard had been taken from the house. With Charles long gone with his family, no one seemed to have illusions that he, or anyone, would come back for her. Why would they?

  She was truly alone. Lydia hugged the Bible to her chest. What was the point of faith and trust in a God who did not care? She had tried. She had allowed her heart to open, but now it would break all over again. Maggie was gone, safe with her new mother, and her neglectful aunt would quickly be forgotten. And Daniel. Who could say what would become of him? Where was her Refuge now?

  The pain of two more losses mingled with the ones of her past, unbearable. Lydia sank onto the bed and rolled onto her side, knees pulled up, and elbow tucked under her head. She lay in place, listening as life went on everywhere else. The streets hummed with townspeople going about their business like any other day, while the servants were busy about the house.

  The Bible sat only inches from her face. She stared at it and the weathered pages Mother had once treasured. In quiet moments, the book had spoken to Lydia’s soul…or God had. “Please, God.” I want for this to be real. I want faith. Help Thou my unbelief.

  Lydia opened the Bible and propped it with a pillow. She turned the pages, reading a passage here and there while letting her thoughts wander. Then a sentence focused her mind, and she pushed up on her elbow to read it again. What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? She stared at the black markings, and then read further about doing for others, service, and sacrifice. So faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone. Sitting up in bed, Lydia set the Bible aside. What had her works been?

  “Oh God, forgive me. For all the lies. All the deceit. All my wrongs.” Make me pure…and teach me what to do. She needed to be more like Ester, who had known Charles to be in the midst of committing treason against the Crown, yet she had not shrunk away from danger.

  Lydia hurried to dress by herself, a difficult task though it was. Then she dropped to her knees at her bedside. “God, my attempts to save Daniel may fail. But mustn’t I try?” Minutes later, she slipped through the front entrance and down the road. As she suspected, she was of no consequence to anyone. Though confident she would not be followed, Lydia wound her way to the opposite side of town and glanced behind her once more before turning up the short walkway to the humble cottage. She rapped a single knuckle against the solid wood and then waited.

  The door opened to an old woman with mobcap and pinched stare.

  “Is Mr. Wilsby at home?”

  ~*~

  Daniel tried to wiggle his toes but wasn’t sure of his success. He couldn’t really feel them past the pain. His boot seemed to swell along with the foot, but only so far. Hence his concern. He’d known of men who lost their toes due to lack of blood flow to them. But there was no way to get his boot off without having it cut off, and the British hadn’t seen fit to leave him with his knife. There was also the possibility that the thick leather worked as a splint if he’d broken the bone this time, and removing the boot would only make the injury worse. Not that he had a choice one way or another.

  To distract himself from the pain and his lack of options, Daniel again examined his cell. Four walls and a door—a small room identical to, if not the same as, the one Captain Hues and Charles had hidden him in. Daniel had been taken to the ship but not put in the hold with the other prisoners. Although, the lobsterbacks had given him a good look down at what his future held. Stench, hunger, dark—a slow death aboard a prison ship. That is what the Zephyr had become without a captain or crew. Only guards and their victims.

  The ship rocked, adding to the doom settling over him. Anchored in the bay, the Zephyr might as well be any of the prison barges the British had bobbing in New York’s Wallabout Bay. They were deathtraps. Daniel had heard about the bodies, dozens a day, tossed overboard or buried in shallow graves along the beach.

  Maybe they would bury him in that mud he’d almost sunk in trying to get to the river when the British had cornered him a month ago. Or maybe he’d survive this and somehow make it home. Daniel dropped his head forward and clasped his hands. “Lord, I don’t know what is in store, but whatever happens…” He pinched the bridge of his nose as his eyes watered. The little sleep he’d managed in the last two days left him on the brink of losing control, and the torturous throb of his foot did no favors. Daniel took a breath and continued. “Whatever happens, keep my family safe and help Mama not to fret too much if I…if I don’t ever make it back. Lord, forgive me the mistakes I’ve made.”

  A symphony of hard soles approached.

  Daniel quickly swiped his hands across his eyes.

  The major, wig and all, was the first to enter the room, followed by four scarlet-clad soldiers, who also wore white pants and black shoes.

  Daniel caught the hint of a smile on the major’s face before a brown sack obscured his vision and he was yanked to his feet—foot. There was no way he’d put pressure on the injured one. He hopped along as best he could, as he was part led, part hauled over the side of the ship and directed onto a boat. His stay on the Zephyr would be shorter than expected. The sack over his head concerned him the most. Why was it there? Unless they didn’t want him to know where he was going—unlikely—or they wanted him to fear. The hair bristled on his arms.

  “Stop the boat here,” the major ordered after too short a time.

  The small vessel bobbed on the waves, and Daniel braced against the edge. “What’s going on?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but he couldn’t help the slight waver.

  “I thought it would be nice to pause here and have a little chat. Miss Reynolds was not very successful at getting information out of you, and honestly, I do not believe you have much to offer. But you helped Charles Selby slip through my fingers, and that has put me in a rather foul mood. It is up to you to lighten my spirits.”

  The boat rocked as someone grabbed Daniel’s hands, binding them securely behind him. A second rope was looped around a shoulder and under the other arm before being tied tight.

  “I want names, Reid. Names and locations. Every plantation and every shack that has housed you in South Carolina. Every man or family who has purposefully aided the Swamp Fox.” He grabbed the front of Daniel’s coat, giving a jerk. “And I want to know where Charles Selby is hiding.” Major Layton released Daniel’s collar while someone else dragged him up.

  The boat pitched and swayed.

  “You have a couple of minutes to put some thought into what I want, Reid.”

  Daniel gasped for one last breath as a hard shove thrust him over the side of the boat and into the cold embrace of Winyah Bay.

  31

  The rain started falling shortly after midnight and the trail clung to the horses’ hooves. Lydia’s woolen cloak had soaked through as had her gown, right down to her shift, but she hadn’t let Mr. Wilsby stop at the last farm, either.

  Apparently, the older man knew nothing—not Marion’s location, nor what the Patriots planned—but he did know people who were better informed.

  Before too long they were headed the right direction. At least, she hoped this was the right direction.

  “We’ll spend the night at the Perry plantation up ahead.” Wilsby twisted in his saddle and gave her a pointed look. “Whether or not we find who you are looking for.”

  She nodded, though he probably didn’t see it as he shifted to look forward again.

  “No use catching your death out here. We can always ride farther tomorrow—right out to Snow Island if that’s what it takes.”

  “Is Colonel Ma
rion camped there again?”

  “I don’t know, and don’t know that I would tell you if I did.” He gave a low grumble. “I am still not sure how you convinced me to help you in the first place. Especially on such an unholy night.”

  It had indeed taken quite a bit of coaxing, but he knew Daniel and had hoped he was doing the right thing—or so he had mumbled under his breath.

  If not for Lawrence Wilsby, Lydia would have ridden right past the small homestead, no light at all in the windows. As they approached the cabin, a faint glow, probably from the fireplace, became visible in the gaps of heavy curtains. Otherwise, it appeared all had retired. Not surprising for the earliest hours of the morning.

  Wilsby dismounted and then turned to offer her a hand, but she was already on the soppy ground behind him. “Come along then, lass.”

  Their knock was answered by the cracking open of the door enough to wedge the barrel of a musket through. “Speak your name and business here,” a man demanded. “Is that a woman with you?” His voice lost some of its strength. “What are you doing out in this weather in the middle of the night?”

  Lydia pushed in front of Wilsby. “I am looking for my sister’s husband, Charles Selby. Or Colonel Marion. Or anyone who can help us.”

  The man eased the door open. “All right, get yourselves out of the rain.” He lowered the musket but kept it in hand. “General Marion won’t be here until morning, but I reckon there are a few people here you might know. Including your sister.”

  As Lydia stepped into the large room with its crackling fire, she could see Ester up on one elbow, Maggie asleep beside her on a thick quilt by the fireplace. Lydia would not correct the man’s assumption. She would leave that for Charles if he saw fit. He stood in nothing more than his linen shirt and breeches, the shock on his face merging with anger.

  “What are you doing here, Lydia?” His voice held more panic than rage. “How did you find us? Are they with you? Did you bring the whole army down on us?”

  “No, Charles, I would never—I was not the one who told the major about the ships. It was one of your crew.”

  He opened his mouth to say something more, but Lydia overrode him. “I overheard the man at the house speaking with Major Layton. The major would have arrested you that day had I not bought you time and sent Eli to warn you. Please believe me. Even last night, I did not give you away. When Daniel—”

  “What happened to him?”

  Lydia’s shivering steadied.

  Wilsby pulled at her cloak. “Best get your wet clothes off and set yourself by the fire.”

  Though the least of her concern at the moment, Lydia did as directed. She draped her cloak over the back of a chair. “Daniel is the reason I am here. He hurt his ankle again trying to escape. Badly, I think. He could not walk on it. The major had him taken to the Zephyr. There has to be a way to help him.”

  Charles considered her for a moment before looking to Wilsby. “And who are you?”

  “A friend. A friend of Marion’s.” He pulled his boots off and sat at the long table. “When did they finally get around to promoting him?”

  Shoulders slumping, Charles moved to one of the other chairs. There were nine of them, suggesting a large family. “First of the year, he received the commission from Governor Rutledge making him a Brigadier General.” Charles raked his fingers through his already disheveled hair and pivoted back to Lydia. “Swear to me the redcoats do not follow you.”

  She hugged herself, the cold of the long ride still holding her. “I swear, Charles. I was wrong to deceive Daniel and help the British, but he is the only reason I am here now. I want to right my wrongs.” She pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. Not that it did any good with her whole body shivering and her strength gone. And her thoughts on Daniel’s arms holding her fast. His last kiss. “I want him safe.”

  ~*~

  The Swamp Fox didn’t arrive until halfway through the morning with four companies and a carriage for transporting the small family the rest of the way out of South Carolina.

  As Ester prepared Maggie for the journey, Charles took Lydia aside. “I promised both your father and your sister I would take care of you,” he said. “Come with us.”

  “Charles, I…” Lydia looked at Maggie. The little cherub stood beside a chair and patted the seat with her chubby hands. When Ester handed her some bread, the child pinched the fragment with two fingers and studied it for a moment before shoving it in her mouth.

  Lydia wanted to be near her niece, but there was something she wanted more. “Perhaps soon I shall come.” If Daniel did not forgive her, she would have nowhere else to go. Except that ridiculous cottage across the ocean. “But not until I see Daniel safe. I must stay and assist in every way I can.”

  Charles shook his head, casting a glance to where Francis Marion stood with Lawrence Wilsby and the planter. “You may as well come now. I already spoke to the general and he does not want your help.” A different truth lowered his gaze from hers.

  “You told him I could not be trusted.”

  Even under the beard that had appeared on his jaw, she could see the muscles tighten. “Can you fault me for that?”

  “No.” Not in the slightest.

  “Why should we believe you have changed your allegiances so fully that you would now risk yourself for a man you are barely acquainted with, one you as good as handed over to the British?”

  Lydia swallowed back the hurt. “If you believe I am not to be trusted, why would you ask me to come with you?”

  Charles stiffened. “I told you already. I promised Margaret. Besides, you are friends with Ester, and we will be out of reach of the British.” He really didn’t trust her.

  Lydia picked up her cloak from where it draped over the back of the chair. It still held some moisture. Much like her eyes. She’d cried more in the past weeks than the whole year preceding. “I tried not to care, Charles.” She whispered the words, not sure she wanted him to hear them. “After Margaret died. I did not want to hurt like that again. I was not strong enough to face losing someone else. But I do care. I care about you, about Ester. Maggie has wrapped herself around my heart without even trying. And Daniel Reid…” She raised her gaze to her brother-in-law’s though her vision remained flooded. “I love him.”

  “Lydia—”

  “I refuse to be the one left behind this time, Charles. My parents, my little brothers, my sister—everyone left me behind. Not again. Never again.” Her voice rose with her conviction, her need. “I do not care what the cost. I will save Daniel.” Or she would die trying. “I will not be left behind.”

  ~*~

  Lydia kept her head low, hood up despite the warmth of the day as the red-clad troop strode past her. She fought a yawn and lost, but she refused to return home until she’d been apprised of Daniel’s wellbeing. Mr. Hilliard had seen her message delivered. Now she could do nothing but wait. And pray.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Startling at the voice behind her, Lydia spun to Lieutenant Mathews. “Yes.”

  He motioned her to step farther behind the hedge, and then folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. “Perhaps you have news of your brother-in-law for us? Your absence the past day has not gone unnoticed.”

  “I am not here to talk about my family.”

  “Then why are you here?” The corners of his eyes pulled down. “The rebel?”

  “We can discuss him forthwith, but first tell me about your family.”

  The lieutenant cocked his head at her. “My family?”

  “Yes. Your wife. Your five children. Tell me of your home.”

  ~*~

  Daniel tugged the single, threadbare blanket snugger around his throat, hoping the extra warmth would ease the pain each swallow evoked. Either he was becoming ill again, or coughing and gasping on muddy water had scratched his throat raw. He crossed his arms over his good knee and lowered his head onto his forearms. At least the agony of his foot had again subside
d to a deep throb that matched the rhythm of his heart. Most likely that was a result of the cold water numbing it. Or the fact that his head hurt a hundred times worse.

  The door creaked open, but he didn’t bother looking.

  It felt too good to have his eyes closed.

  “Mr. Reid?”

  Daniel’s head snapped up at the sound of Lydia’s voice. “What…” He turned his head aside to clear his throat. Speaking felt as good as gargling sand. “What are you doing here?”

  Lydia stepped in and pressed the door closed behind her, blocking his view of the stocky British officer behind her. She crouched low and whispered, “I came to help you.”

  He would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. “You mean, help them, don’t you?”

  “No, Daniel.” Her face screwed up as the tips of her fingers brushed over a hole in the blanket where his damp coat showed through. Even a full day hadn’t dried it. “What did they do to you?”

  “Tried to drown me.” Even saying the words sped his pulse with the memory of struggling in vain against the water, only to be brought up with the wet sack clinging to his face, making it feel as though he hadn’t really come above the surface. Gasping. Suffocating.

  Someone gripped his shoulder. “Daniel?”

  He blinked, focusing on her momentarily before dropping his head forward again. “Did they send you to interrogate me further? It’s no good. I know nothing.” It didn’t matter what he’d told them, nothing would keep them from killing him in the end, and he wouldn’t die with innocent lives on his conscience. Especially those families who had sheltered them and given them food. He wouldn’t send the British to burn their homes and barns or slaughter their livestock.

  “Daniel, I swear.” Lydia’s voice lowered to a whisper as she leaned in close. Her breath tickled his ear. “I swear I am here to save you. Please forgive me.” She touched her head into his temple, and it was hard not to lean into the warmth.