“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It might be nothing.” He began to read aloud.
June 22, 1777
It is hereby Declar’d, by this court of His Majesty King George, held this day in Fort Wyndham, Pennsylvania, before the honorable Brigadier General Simon Fraser, that the Defendant, one Alexander MacFarland is indeed Guilty as Charged of the Crime of Treason against the Crown of Great Britain, and did knowingly and willfully allow a ship under his command, the Lady Meg, to participate in Acts of Piracy against British Cargo ships in the waters of the Hudson and Delaware Rivers.
The Defendant states that he does not recognize King George or the Crown of Great Britain as a legitimate governing body, also a Treasonous Act, and in fact taunted the Court and suggested that were the Court to sentence him to death he would welcome it proudly, stating that the alternative, i.e., swearing loyalty to the Crown, was “unthinkable.”
A Witness for the Crown, Lieutenant Wm. Clarendon, testified that the Defendant, Alexander MacFarland, was indeed a traitor to the crown and was involved in a ring of Spies and Rebels, and should be treated accordingly.
In light of the Defendant’s other treasonous activities, it was deemed prudent to sentence that he shall be hung by the neck until Dead.
One line of the letter stood out to Cam, practically leaping off the page. The alternative… was unthinkable.
And in that moment, Cam understood the letter from Lieutenant William Clarendon, and the confusion Mollie expressed in her journal about the identity of the Lady Meg’s new first mate.
She looked at Troy, dawning recognition beginning to show on her face. “It’s him,” she whispered. “Robert’s alive.”
Chapter Thirteen
She descended the attic steps, went down to the parlor, and sat on the couch, still clutching the piece of plaid, dragging the trunk behind her. I thought I was over him. I am over him.
But he was alive when I left. It’s him. It has to be.
“Troy, thank you. I hate to push you out, but don’t you have to go to work?”
He checked his watch, and nodded glumly. “Yeah. You want me to stop by later and check on you?”
Cam shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Thanks, though. I do appreciate it.”
As he opened the door to let himself out, he turned to look at her. She was staring at the scrap of wool. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Aye,” she said, without even thinking. He was sure she never heard the door close behind him.
Late in the evening, she reached the bottom of the trunk. There was a soft, oilskin pouch, and as she lifted it out, a familiar scent reached her nostrils. It was the faintest trace of patchouli.
Oh, Wanda, you wild woman, you. You left me a message after all, didn’t you?
She untied the thong slowly on the pouch, and opened it up. There was a fat pile of paper within. The ink was faded and brown, but still legible in Wanda’s loopy handwriting.
December 29, 1776 –
Dear Cameron,
It has been several months now since you left, and I told you I might keep a journal myself, didn’t I? Well, I haven’t started on it yet but I am having the time of my life. Angus and I left the Ridge so that I could find General George Washington – yes, that George Washington! I knew he would be engaging in the battle of Trenton on December 26th, defeating the Hessians, and I just wanted to see it in person. It was, unfortunately, a battle of bayonets because of the snow and rain freezing the muskets. I have never seen a sight as horrible, and I hope I never do again.
Angus and I are married now, by the way. I returned to Richmond to find him, hoping he might have gotten off the ship. He indeed had. As I said, we had an understanding (by the way, he retrieved his dad’s sword from the Captain Carter Inn). General Washington is very tall and imposing. He really does have the most awful false teeth, but I desperately want to tell him to smile more because someday he will be on the one-dollar bill, looking very serious. So far I have kept my mouth shut. It is killing me. Angus and I are working for the General collecting information. I have an inside track, of course, but I keep that to myself as well.
Ian and Mollie are married too, but I bet that doesn’t surprise you any. They hitched up on the 4th of July, the same day our country declared independence from the Crown. I suspect Mollie is pregnant even though she hasn’t told me yet – I think she either dislikes me or is a little bit afraid of me. She smiles a lot and her cheeks are glowing. Ian makes her happy, and he lets her boss him around.
Now, on to the part you’re still wondering about… Captain’s Mate of The Lady Meg, Robert Andrew MacFarlane.
Cam paused for a moment, and blinked.
Cam, you have no idea what happened in Richmond. When he and Angus reached the Lady Meg that morning, Sinclair was at the ship. They all had a friendly conversation in the cabin of Captain Thibodeaux, at the end of which Wayne decided not to be friendly anymore. He shot Rob in the leg. Do you remember the bronze sculpture of the naked lady in the Captain’s cabin? When Rob was shot, he hit his head on it and was, according to Angus, “rendered bloody unconscious.” When he awoke, he forced Thibodeaux to put Angus on a skiff back to the docks. Mollie received a letter from Captain Thibodeaux in late summer, telling her that Robert’s wound festered, and that he died. I have not heard any news to the contrary, so I believe it is possible he is dead. However, I have my doubts.
Cam dropped the letter into her lap, and sat back on the couch. Her hands were shaking.
As to W.S., I did not kill him that day in the cave, merely grazed him and dragged him back down the mountainside, where I left him. I had to allow him to remain alive a bit longer, which I have done, and now he has disappeared. I am betting we won’t be seeing him again, but I guess I could be wrong. As to why I had to let him live, it is better left alone and I won’t mention it again.
It is cold here in the northeast and my ink is nearly frozen. So are my feet, but we are getting ready to celebrate the New Year here in the camp. The men are joyous, and I intend to advise Washington that he should lay a trap for General Cornwallis. We are camped along the Assumpink Creek just south of Trenton, and if we leave a skeleton crew here digging trenches, Cornwallis will assume that Washington’s troops will be here when his own are refreshed and ready. Then Washington can move the rest of his men out in the night, and rather than attack Pennsylvania, as Cornwallis is expecting, he can attack Princeton. I shall go along behind the troops to provide medical attention, but I can’t bear to watch any more carnage first hand.
Do you remember when we went back to Fairy Stone, and the tall tale I spun for Wayne, about there being multiple sites? Do you recall the name of the town I mentioned in New Jersey? I will be there some time in the spring, if all works as planned – late May or early June… and then on to Philadelphia… but no more on that. You don’t need to know, or maybe you don’t want to.
Cam stared at the fireplace for a while, and then set the letter aside. She tossed in some fat logs and a handful of kindling. She pulled the lighter from its spot on the mantle, and went to click the button. On second thought, she paused and put the butane lighter back. She squatted down in front of the fireplace and pulled out two sticks, each about as thick as her finger. She began to twirl them together in her palms, rubbing them back and forth as Mollie had shown her. She could feel them getting warm, and she concentrated harder. The heat in her hands was almost too much, and then there was finally a small spark, then another, and another after that. She touched them to the wads of newspaper in the fireplace, and the edge turned orange and red. Cam sat back, pleased with herself. She could still do it.
She picked up the letter again. She was on the last page.
In addition to this letter, I plan to accumulate a variety of stuff for you over the next few years of my life. Virginia won’t really become too involved in the War for a couple of years (remember your American History 101!), so I should have lots of time to put together a little collection for
you. I will try to make sure it stays in reasonably good condition. You can do what you like with all this stuff, sell it in your shop, dress up as Betsy Ross for Halloween, whatever. Or just maybe… well, never mind.
By the time you get this, if you get it, you are probably happily married to Troy (if he’s not dead, of course) and I bet you guys have about seven kids. Troy is nice and you could certainly do worse. He is stable and secure and predictable, isn’t he? Just the kind of guy that everyone wants to end up with in the long run.
Then again, maybe stable and secure and predictable isn’t what you need. Maybe you need spontaneity and passion and mystery. Just rambling with my thoughts here… anyway, enjoy the goodies in this collection, hopefully they haven’t ended up locked in some awful museum vault.
I left you a letter once before, remember? Even though nothing made sense to you at the time, you followed your instinct and you were right. Just in case you’re ever feeling really adventurous and you’re not too old and feeble, there’s a map on the back of this page.
Peace, love and light,
Wanda.
It was getting dark outside. Cam stoked the fire a bit and put a few more logs on. The rest of the items in the boxes were things that would have been of interest to any collector or history buff. There was a small pouch of coins, all minted in Virginia prior to 1775. There were dress patterns, and even a pair of cracked leather boots. There was a faded copy of Common Sense, and a sheet with the words to a song on it, The Pausing American Loyalist.
Cam turned the last page of the letter over gently. There was indeed a map there. On the left there was a sketch of a cave, with a cross above it. A fairy stone, she thought. There was a trail, meandering through the mountains past various landmarks, even the Wagner farm. And on the right side of the page was a drawing of a crude house with a group of little stick figure people, hands raised, waving at her. She could just barely make out the smiley faces. She grinned. Good old Wanda. She sure tells it like it is, doesn’t she?
Cam sat for a long time, staring into the blazing fire until she finally dozed off.
The next morning, when she came downstairs after her shower, Troy was sitting amongst the cartons. He was holding Wanda’s letter, and staring at the map. He looked at her, his round face pale.
“You’re going back.” It was not a question.
She glanced at the letter. “You shouldn’t have read that.”
“But you are going, aren’t you? That’s why she left you the money, and the map, and even the boots, although you sure can’t wear them.” Troy paused. “You know, I thought maybe both of you were crazy.”
“That’s comforting.”
He shrugged. “I guess truth really is stranger than fiction. It’s all real, isn’t it? And she left you the option of going back there.”
“It’s March now. If I leave in the next few weeks, that gives me a couple of months to get to Morristown, find Wanda, and then get to Philadelphia from New Jersey.”
He frowned. “Wait a second, Cam. Let’s think about this for a few minutes, okay? Remember you told me what Wanda said about interfering with things, and changing the course of history?”
Cam paused. “I remember. But it’s not changing the course of history on a grand scale. It’s just affecting the lives of one or two people.”
“Okay, well, keeping that in mind, and assuming that this all works, let’s say you get through the Faerie’s Gate, or the gate in New Jersey, wherever the hell it is. Let’s assume you get to Fort Wyndham. You need to consider a few things.” He peered over his glasses at her. “First of all, what makes you think you can stop him – if it is him -- from being hanged? Second, how do you know he wants you to?”
“Why wouldn’t he want me to? It’s him, Troy, I know it,” she interrupted.
“—the defendant, Alexander, not Robert, stated he would be, let’s see, hm, here it is. Were the Court to sentence him to death he would welcome it proudly. So maybe if you go in and somehow figure out a way to save him, you’ll be changing history in some way. Maybe he’s supposed to hang.”
“But why? What good would it do anyone? How can it have any effect on anything in the future if he lives, rather than being hanged at Fort Wyndham?” Cam argued.
“Beats me. Something else to think about -- why didn’t he die of a festering wound like Thibodeaux said in his letter? Are you saying he faked his own death?”
Cam threw her hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know, Troy! I don’t have the answers! The only one who seemed to know was Wanda, or Winnie, or whatever the hell she’s calling herself now, and she’s roaming around in the snow in New Jersey some place!”
“Was.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“Was,” he repeated. “She was running around in the snow in New Jersey. You keep saying is, like all this is going on in the present tense. Just like whoever Alexander McFarland is, he died two hundred years ago.”
Cam sat down abruptly.
“And something else, Cam,” Troy said gently. “You may not be able to save him. You know that, right? It may happen whether you get there and interfere or not, you know? Remember? Wanda said maybe it’s all predestined to happen, and you might not have any control over any of it at all.”
Cam sat beside him on the floor, and took his hand. “What would you do? If it was you, and there was someone who loved you that much? Someone you thought about with every breath you took, even when you tried so hard to forget? What would you do, Troy?”
Troy had a funny look on his face. “Cam, what wouldn’t I do?”
She smiled sadly. “Exactly.”
“Are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know what’s going to happen.” She took a deep breath. “I wish Wanda was here.”
“Well, she kind of is. She did leave you her little tour guide packet.”
She looked around Granny Emily’s parlor. “What do I do with this place?”
Troy shrugged. “I’d hate to see you sell it. If you’re planning on coming back, that is.”
Cam brightened. “You could stay here, couldn’t you? And run the shop for me? For a while?”
“I have a job, remember?”
She snorted. “But you don’t like it, Troy. You told me once that being a deputy in Haver Springs was boring.”
“True.” He looked around doubtfully. “I suppose I could get help from Alice or Hal if I needed it once in a while.”
“There you go,” she beamed.
Troy poured himself another cup of coffee and thought for a long time. Cam didn’t press him. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he said simply, “You win.”
She leaped up and hugged him. “You are the best, Troy. You know something?”
“What?”
“I’ll miss you,” she said quietly. “You’re a good man.”
“Do you think --- never mind.”
“Do I think what?” she grinned.
He sat beside her and held her hand. “Do you think that if you hadn’t met him, I might have had a chance with you? Ever?”
Cam blinked. “Oh, Troy,” she sighed. “I think,” she began, “if I had never met him…” She paused. “I think maybe I was waiting all along to meet him. Maybe that’s what Wanda meant, when she was talking about fate and predestination. Does that make sense?”
Troy nodded. “Yeah, actually it does.” He thought for a moment. “How will you find him? Assuming it’s him?”
“Wanda,” she said. “Wanda is the key. If I can find her, she can lead me to Robert.”
“New Jersey is a big place,” he said doubtfully. “And there aren’t any freeways in 1777.”
“We know that she was at the Battle of Trenton, right? And she’s following Washington and his men, and soon she’ll be in Philadelphia. How hard can it be to find a six-foot-tall redheaded woman among the Continental Army?”
Troy shook his head. “You’re nuts, you know.”
She
smiled wistfully. “Troy, I’ve never felt saner in my life.”
March 30, 1777
I am miserable. If this child does not arrive soon I shall probably drive Ian away with my short temper and constant tiredness. I sleep all the time and it is hard to do even the simplest of tasks. Yesterday it took me all morning to walk down to Sally Kerr’s house and back. We tried to hang a Ring on a piece of twine over my belly to see what the baby will be. If it swings clockwise, it shall be a boy, and counterclockwise indicates that the babe shall be female. Well, oddly enough, first it swung one way and then another! I do not know what to think anymore, and just wish this Baby would come.
Sally’s grandson – although I suppose he is to be raised as her son now and I shall have to start calling him that – is doing well. Despite Betsy’s hard pregnancy and her awful death after the boy’s birth, the baby is thriving. Sally has named him Thomas Jefferson Kerr. Her husband is beginning to show some affection towards the boy but I believe he will Grieve for Betsy for a long time to come. She was the first of his children to die, and he is taking it hard.
I received yet another letter from Lt. Wm. Clarendon, the British officer who wrote to me about the sinking of the Lady Meg. He claims that he is somewhat acquainted with Winnie, and has asked me to give her his regards should I see her. I have no idea how she would be associated with a member of the Royal Dragoon Corps, and quite frankly it makes me more than a little uneasy. Angus knew little about her when they married, and I am worried that she may not be as loyal to the Patriotic Cause as my brother is.
This child is so large, I cannot even see my feet.
April 17, 1777
Oh, blessed and most joyful day of days!!!!
I am exhausted and ready to sleep for a week, but I am compelled to write down what has happened.
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