Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  Marion called Ford to his tent before riding out, and Ford slumped into the camp chair in front of the general’s desk. This longing for home and lack of enthusiasm for any further involvement in the fate of South Carolina made him feel like a traitor to Marion. He loved the general and believed in the cause, but he was sick … sick of the killing and constant fighting. And he was not the only officer to feel that way. Constant bickering among men who had fought side by side for near eighteen months wore on his nerves. He felt his life draining away as time passed. A wife, children, the farm, it all became a distant mirage that seem to fade farther into the distance each day.

  “You are weary, Major,” Marion said as he poured a measure of panther’s breath into a tin mug and held it out to Ford. “And you are of little use to me in your current dyspeptic disposition.”

  Ford leaned forward and took the drink. He sipped and grimaced. Liquor in any form had been a rare commodity for a long time. Straightening his back, he faced Marion.

  “We waged a lengthy and bloody struggle,” Marion said, “and the costs have been enormous with scant glory.”

  Ford allowed his attention to drift. He had no desire to listen to a rallying cry. When Marion slapped a hand on the desk, Ford jumped. He swiveled his eyes back to his commander.

  “The end is in sight, Major. We shall win. Now is not the time to fall into depression. Time after time, you stayed by my side when my militiamen deserted me. While others fought amongst themselves, you remained steadfastly clearheaded. I give thanks for your loyalty and bravery.”

  In light of his recent state of mind, the general’s praise brought a rush of heat to Ford’s cheeks. Unsure of how to respond, he sipped his drink instead.

  Marion rose from the chair and walked about the tent, making Ford turn in his seat to follow the general’s movements. “And now ‘tis your turn to leave me.”

  Ford stilled. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Marion stopped, his hands clasped behind his back, and locked eyes with Ford. “I am ordering you to take some time off. I shall leave for Jacksonboro soon. I know you have personal business you have a yen to pursue. Colonel Horry will handle what is left of the brigade for the while. Go to Virginia. See how your people and land have fared in this war. Get your affairs in order, and then come back to me. The war is not over yet, and I may still have need of your loyalty.”

  This was what Ford needed, some small respite to sort out his life. The situation in South Carolina had grown relatively quiet, but the fighting continued. The British still occupied Charles Town, and Tories raided patriot farms. Marion’s family home had recently been razed. Ford would have little time to see to the farm before Marion required him again. “Thank you, sir,” he responded. “I shall leave tomorrow.” He made a move to stand.

  Marion had one more word for him. “During this sabbatical, you may consider what you wish to do in regard to Miss Bellingham. With the death of her father, she is alone and in need of a husband.”

  Sensing the words left unsaid, Ford grinned and stood to shake Marion’s hand. “I have plans for Miss Bellingham,” he told Marion. “But first I must get my own house in order. Should I have nothing to offer her, she may not want me.”

  He saluted and walked from the tent.

  “I very much doubt that, Major,” Marion said under his breath.

  General Cornwallis had joined with the traitor, Benedict Arnold, now an officer in the British army, in bringing devastation to Virginia, yet Ford was unprepared for the havoc the British wreaked on the state. As he rode along the banks of the James River, he viewed with ever increasing despair the burned plantation houses and ravaged tobacco fields. Acres devoted to corn and vegetables reduced to mud. Orchards and woodlots naught but stumps, in some cases, the timber left rotting on the ground.

  His farm lay west of Barwell, between Lyons Creek and the Warrasqueak Bay. He grew some tobacco for a cash crop, but maintained most of his acreage in rich meadow for breeding some of the finest horseflesh in Virginia. Dancer came from his prize stud at Ford’s Folly. The farm’s name came about from the reactions of his neighbors when he eschewed the use of slave labor, relying instead on tenant farmers, and raised more horses than tobacco.

  And the neighbors were right. The first years proved backbreaking and, even later, while the nearby plantations grew rich off the sweat of slaves and tobacco crops, Ford barely managed to keep the bank from taking his land. His horses became renowned in the colonies, but the cash he reaped from his stud hardly exceeded the output.

  Even so, he was content, certain his gamble would be worth the effort he expended. His horses thrived on sweet, virgin meadow with abundant water and a clement climate. His stock grew strong, sleek and clean of limb, faster than any other animals on four feet, and racing supplemented his income. At times it was the only factor preventing him from falling into ruin.

  As he wandered along the river track, winter cold settling on his shoulders and leaching into his bones, his thoughts turned to England. For the first time, he grasped what his inheritance truly meant. Had his brother and the crooked solicitor not run through the assets, he could have access to wealth that would help transform his stud into a paying venture. And Mr. Brooke had given him no reason to believe the estate was destitute.

  Ford had pushed the implications of his inheritance from his mind during the months following his meeting with Hiram L. Brooke, Esquire. At the time, he had wanted nothing to do with England or the title. Now he pondered how he could use what his father left him—import horses and improve his line, raise the standard of living for his tenants, purchase more land … marry in good conscience.

  Marriage. Marriage and Willa. He laughed. She haunted him like a graveyard ghost. He had looked at no other women since they crossed paths, though in a wartime countryside, he received a goodly number of offers. Lusty widows who celebrated rather than mourned the loss of their husbands. Debutants who saw all the young beaus dying and despaired of ever marrying. And town girls who pounced on the relaxed morals the war engendered, using it as an opportunity to explore their sexuality without condemnation.

  He bypassed them all, wanting only Willa, his stubborn, reckless little wildcat. With Willa’s vision before him, Ford’s mood lifted, the depredations of the ruined countryside no longer quelling his spirits. He could reap all he ever yearned for if he were to claim his inheritance. As he forded Lyons Creek and turned Dancer toward home, he determined to do just that.

  January days were short, and dusk soon overran the afternoon sunshine. Ford’s earlier feeling of hope and salvation for his budding enterprise waned as he drew nearer his land and saw destruction more devastating with hardly a structure left standing. “We are nearly home,” he said to Dancer. He could have saved his words. The horse had developed an eagerness in his gait miles back.

  Ford peered through the gloaming and finally caught a glimpse of the chimneys at Ford’s Folly, and his heart sank to his stomach when he topped a rise and looked out over his home.

  Ford’s Folly was gone, the house and stables no more than piles of charred timbers, the chimneys the only objects standing above ground level. He subdued Dancer’s impatience to gallop down the slope and halted the horse at the crest of the hill. Acid bitterness rose in his throat. All was destroyed. No horses frolicked in the fields, and even the fences were torn down, piled in pyres and burned.

  In the waning light, a lone figure walked through the rubble. Leaning forward, Ford gave the horse its head, and they flew down the hill. The person looked up at the pounding of hooves and, spinning about, took off, running hard.

  A skirt swirled and dark braids bobbed on the fugitive’s shoulders. “Juliet!” Ford shouted. “Don’t run; ‘tis Ford.”

  The girl stopped and turned. She dropped the basket hooked over one arm, and when he halted beside her, she clutched his booted foot.

  “Mister Ford,” she gasped. “You gave me such a start. I thought you were a redcoat.” Juliet, a pretty
girl of fourteen with a big heart and a generous disposition, was the daughter of one of his tenant farmers. A wide smile softened her features. “You’ve come back. I can hardly believe it, after all this time. Now everything will be fine. Wait until I tell Pa.”

  Juliet’s naïve belief in his ability to make everything “fine” produced a hollow feeling in Ford’s gut. He pointed to her basket. “I see you discovered the gold and silver I hid from the redcoats,” he teased.

  Juliet blushed and looked down at her feet. “I was gathering charcoal for the fire. They cut all the woodlots, and we have nothing for winter.” When she looked back up, a stricken expression suffused her face. “I pray you don’t mind. I mean, the charcoal belongs to you, not us. I can put it back.”

  Ford felt sick with the misery the British inflicted on his farmers. “Nonsense, Juliet. Don’t be a bacon-brain. You are welcome to all the charcoal you can find. Now pick up your basket, and I shall give you a ride home. You should not be out this close to dark.”

  “I became distracted,” she explained as she retrieved the basket. He bent over, took the basket, and offered her his hand. With her small palm grasped in his larger one, he pulled her up behind him. “A fox with kits made a den in the side of the bluff,” she said and gestured to the high ground overlooking the river. “I stopped to watch them and lost track of time.”

  Ford smiled. Juliet had an affinity with animals. Some called her fey or even a witch. She talked to creatures, and a few locals vowed the beasts understood the girl. Those who truly knew her saw Juliet’s connection with nature as stemming from a deep empathy and keen curiosity. She was unique and deserved a better, more secure life. But how could he give any of his people a better life, or even the life they enjoyed before the war, now that the British had destroyed everything he owned? He again brought to mind the barony, doubting even that illusive wealth could replace what he had lost.

  Darkness descended by the time they reached Juliet’s small farm. Ford drew a grateful breath to see it still standing. Juliet’s father, Cecil Crawford, strode through the yard toward the barn with a lantern swinging in one hand and a musket clutched at his side in the other.

  Cecil turned his head at the horse emerging from the darkness, placed the lantern on the ground, and lifted the musket to his shoulder. Ford dropped the reins and raised his hands.

  “Pa,” Juliet yelled. She slipped from Dancer’s back and ran to her father. “Don’t shoot Mister Ford. He was only bringing me home.”

  “Ford?” Cecil said softly. He lowered the gun and caught his daughter about the waist, hugging her to his side. After setting her aside, he hurried over and vigorously shook Ford’s hand. “Brendan, God’s truth but ‘tis splendid to see you.”

  Relief that a friend and not a stranger had found his daughter filled Cecil’s voice. Ford dismounted and handed Dancer’s reins to Juliet. “Give him what you can spare,” he called after her as she led the horse toward the barn. “We rode a long way this past week and traveled at a hard pace.”

  Juliet gave him an exasperated look. “Don’t worry. I shall take exceptionally good care of him,” she said, then whispered in Dancer’s ear, and the horse nodded back. Ford knew she would. Juliet would offer Dancer the corn off her own plate, were her family to allow it.

  With a frown settling on his mouth, Ford faced Cecil. “How has it been?”

  Cecil rested an arm on Ford’s shoulders and steered him toward the house. “Come inside and bide with us awhile first,” he said. “Miriam will be delighted to see you. We were sitting down to supper when we realized Juliet hadn’t returned. With all that’s happened in the past year, I was going out to track her down.” Cecil angled his head toward the barn. “Juliet! Hurry up now, or you’ll miss supper and your mother will be vexed.”

  Her voice drifted faintly from the barn door. “I’m coming, Pa, as soon as Dancer is settled in.”

  “That girl and her animals.” Cecil shook his head. “I should leave her be, I suppose. She’ll not eat a bite until your horse is comfortable.”

  Ford ducked his head to enter the low lintel of the log house. The inside was warm and light. The smell of rabbit stew and baking cornbread made his mouth water. Miriam was bent over the hearth stirring a large pot on the fire. She straightened her plump, womanly body and came about when they entered. “Did you find—” Her spoon clattered to the wood floor. “Brendan!” She ran across the room. Her hair, as red as a sunset, flew behind her, and joy suffused her round face as she enveloped Ford in a fierce hug. As she pulled back, she looked into his eyes. “We worried so for you, out there fighting the redcoats. Thank God you’re whole and returned to us.”

  He gave her a broad smile.

  Miriam’s button nose wrinkled when she laughed as she ushered him to a seat at the hand-hewn table. “I can scarcely believe it,” she went on. Whisking a coarse cotton napkin from the table, she smoothed it across his lap.

  “Miriam,” Cecil said in a chiding voice. “Brendan is as old as you. Stop treating him like a child.”

  She threw her husband an affronted look and a huff. “Then I shall let you men talk. But later I’ll expect to hear all about Brendan’s adventures.” After a peck on Ford’s cheek, she made her way back to the stew and resumed her preparations.

  Cecil walked over to the wall and squatted down to lift a loose floorboard and extract a bottle of homemade corn liquor. He returned to the table, settled in a chair at Ford’s elbow, and poured the clear liquid into two mugs, offering one to Ford.

  Ford accepted the drink with thanks and tossed back a hefty swallow. “Tell me what happened to the Folly,” he requested after clearing his throat.

  Cecil’s amiable features hardened. He imbibed a long drink from his mug and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “The British came through back in the fall as Cornwallis and Arnold marched to the coast. We’d seen plenty of them before then. As you know, most of the planters are Tories. They depend on exports of tobacco to England.”

  Ford nodded and took another swallow, which went down smoother this time.

  “Until Cornwallis ambled by,” Cecil said, “the redcoats pretty well left us alone in the county because of the Loyalist leanings. Course, they confiscated the horses for their cavalry, those at the Folly, too, and all the food they could find in the fields and houses, but they stopped short of burning us out. This time was different.”

  As the level of liquid in Ford’s mug lowered, Cecil reached over and topped it off. Then he hefted his own mug and leaned back to balance the chair on its back legs. “The war was going poorly, especially in the south where Francis Marion kept Cornwallis in a froth. I figure his lordship had a premonition the end was near. For all his bluster and lordly ways, he secretly feared Washington would win regardless of what actions the British took. You see, he underestimated the Americans, saw them as rabble and a disorderly mob he could whip into order in a short time. He soon realized his assessment was naïve. He failed to take into account the Americans’ determination and downright stubbornness. Instead of giving up like obedient little colonists, the militias and the Continental army kept on fighting, even when overwhelmed by the odds. And Cornwallis never understood the strategy of men like the Swamp Fox. Considered Marion’s fighting methods ungentlemanly.” Cecil laughed. “Ungentlemanly! Can you imagine? As if burning homes and raping women are acts of gentlemen.”

  Miriam set a bowl of stew in front of each man and a plate of cornbread in the center of the table. She wiped her hands on her apron and went outside to look for Juliet.

  “Don’t wait.” Cecil gestured to Ford’s bowl. “Tuck in. I know you’re hungry. Miriam would want you to eat while ‘tis hot.”

  Ford complied, dipping into the pungent stew.

  “When Cornwallis came through this time, he seemed bent on devastating all he could before he lost the war,” Cecil related between bites of stew. “He burned every plantation between here and Norfolk, even those of his Tory friends. Guess he r
easoned even the Tories were Americans and deserved his wrath for preferring Virginia to England. He bypassed the smaller homesteads. Sent out patrols to take as much as they could carry off but left us our houses and enough livestock to get by.”

  Cecil laid down his spoon and looked into Ford’s face. His expression reflected his anguish. “Sorry about the stud, Brendan. I know how hard you worked for it. Once the war is over, all the tenants will help you rebuild. You’ve always been good to us, fair and generous, and ‘tis the least we can do. No one wants to see you lose everything.”

  Ford knew then that he’d not lost everything. He still had the goodwill of his friends … he might even have a fortune waiting. According to Hiram Brooke, he had only to sail to England to claim it. With hope in his words, he told Cecil about Baron Montford.

  The farmer expressed astonishment while he listened. Ford had never had reason to reveal his background as the bastard of an English baron; therefore, he’d not spoken of it.

  By the time Ford finished, Miriam and Juliet also hung on his words. “So then you will come back here and start over?” Cecil asked.

  Ford hesitated a moment before speaking. Would Willa agree to leave her beloved South Carolina and put down roots in Virginia? “I’m not certain, yet,” he replied as he rubbed his chin. “First, I must find a way to England.”

  Cecil guffawed and slapped his knee. “You shouldn’t find that a problem. I hear the Brits are taking to the sea daily and scurrying back to the Mother Country like rats leaving a sinking ship.”

  Chapter 37

  Christmas and the New Year heralded in celebrations at Willowbend. The twins grew apace and became dreadfully spoiled from all the attention they received. Guinevere began small but soon caught up to Lancelot, in length if not in girth. Everyone remarked that she would develop into a tall, young woman.