"Good," Sarah said. "It's settled then, and I shall be certain to put in a good word for you with Cousin Peter."
~~~
Forest was less than pleased when Sarah related her experiences the following morning on the road.
"You told her what?" he bellowed.
"I could hardly sleep in that pigsty, could I?" Sarah pulled her muffler up around her chin and tucked her hands inside her cloak. It was cold and the overcast gray sky threatened more snow.
Forest had dark circles under his eyes, and the skin over his broad cheekbones was tightly drawn. "You told that woman your cousin is the aide to a tavern inspector? Who in the name of all that's holy is Major Rhodes?"
Sarah stifled a chuckle beneath the folds of her heavy green cloak. "Nobody. I made him up."
"You what?"
She giggled. "It worked, didn't it? I slept better than you did."
Forest stared in astonishment. "Damn me, woman," he said sarcastically. "If you were spinning such tales, why didn't you make us kin to Lord Howe? We could have had the innkeeper's bed."
An impish sparkle danced in her dark eyes. "I did sleep in the innkeeper's bed."
"Alone?"
She spread her palms and shrugged, and they laughed together.
"You're incorrigible," he declared. "But you must hold to our story. I can't be your brother one day and your servant the next."
Sarah sighed. "You couldn't very well be my brother if I was trying to convince Mistress Cratchet that I was important. You were too poorly dressed. Are you sure you aren't jealous because you had to sleep in a cold barn again, and I slept on clean sheets beside a fire?"
"Damn right I am." He grinned at her as he slapped the reins across the horses' backs as they started up a hill. As much as he admired her spunk and resourcefulness, he would never have brought her with him on this journey if he'd guessed she would take chances like that. He'd not realized how difficult it would be for a woman like her to hold her tongue. "You have to listen to me," he insisted. "Just play your part. Don't add anything to the story, and don't get cocky. We could both end up swinging from a British rope yet."
"I suppose you're right," she agreed, "but the condition of that inn was deplorable. I couldn't resist taking advantage of the old shrew."
Their eyes met and Sarah smiled at him again. "I'm glad I came. No matter what happens, I wouldn't have missed this time together."
"Aye," he replied softly. "I only hope we don't live to regret it."
Despite the natural beauty of the gently rolling hills and the thick woodland surrounding the rock-strewn Brandywine River, the farmland looked to Forest as though an invading army had passed through it. British troops had reduced stone houses and barns to empty, blackened hulks. Fences were down, and there was no sign of horses or cattle. More significantly—there was little evidence of the farmers and their families who had lived here.
"We'll cross the Brandywine at Chadds Ford," Forest explained, after a long silence. "We fought here in September. Our troops, under General Washington, faced Cornwallis and von Knyphausen across the river. It was a disaster—we lost over twelve hundred men."
"So many," Sarah replied softly. "Such a waste."
"Aye, a waste," he repeated. Pain showed clearly in his eyes. "Good men died here. It's a wonder the ground's not red with their blood."
Sarah shivered and looked away. "Strange to think that this quiet woodland echoed with the sounds of battle."
"The screams of the horses are the worst," Forest murmured, passing his hand in front of his eyes. "You'd not think so, but men—most men—die quieter."
She caught his hand in hers. "You could have been one of them."
His only answer was to stare ahead at the horses' backs.
"Were you frightened?"
"Before. Once the shooting starts there's no time to think. You just do what you have to. I ran with the others when it came to that. We ran like hell."
Sarah squeezed his hand tighter. "But you survived."
"That's what my captain said. He said that a smart man knows when to fight and when to save his skin."
They rode on beneath the bare winter branches in silence, their mood dampened by the thoughts of violent death.
As the day progressed, the road was strangely empty of travelers. They met only a few men and no women. Those who passed, on foot or riding, had little to say.
Sarah and Forest crossed the Brandywine River shortly after noon without incident. The water rose nearly to the wagon bed, but the dapple-gray plunged steadily ahead, finding his footing on the rocky riverbed and keeping his teammate going. The horses climbed the bank on the far side and continued along a narrow wooded trail barely wide enough to take the wagon.
"Do we have any more rivers to cross today?" Sarah asked, her eyes on the steaming horses. "That water was liquid ice."
"Nothing as wide as that," Forest assured her.
"The animals will warm faster if they keep moving.
The woods grew thicker, until the branches overhead entwined into a twisted mat. Only the lack of leaves made it possible for light to filter through. The trail twisted and turned, running uphill.
"In September, this road was a tunnel of green," Forest said softly. "For some, it was a death trap."
They were rounding a bend when suddenly a gunshot rang out, and they heard a scream up ahead. Forest abruptly reined in the animals. There was no room to turn around, and backing down the long grade would take more time than he thought they had. "Quick, Sarah, into the woods," he urged.
Before she could react, they heard the sounds of hoofbeats coming toward them down the frozen road. "Someone's in a hurry," she said.
Forest retrieved his musket from behind the wagon seat and cradled it in his arms. "Remember what I told you," he reminded her. "Just sit there, keep your mouth shut, and look pregnant."
Sarah nodded, too frightened to speak.
Two red-and-green-uniformed Hesse-Cassel mounted Jaegers appeared around the bend and galloped toward the wagon. Hessians! Forest swore a foul oath under his breath and lowered his weapon.
Sarah gave a little gasp beside him.
"Steady," he murmured softly. The mercenary German troops were merciless. If she panicked, they could both be dead in the time it took for the Jaegers to level and fire their short, heavy rifles.
One horseman reined in while the other continued on, pulling up short just beyond the dapple-gray's head. "Move forward slowly," the Jaeger ordered in stilted English. "Hand over the musket, slow."
Forest did as he was told. "What's t' matter?" he asked in his most uneducated voice. "We thought we heard a shot."
"A rebel spy vas shot trying to escape." The soldier motioned up the road with his rifle. "Move."
Forest's pistol was strapped to his ankle, but he knew reaching for it might cost Sarah her life. He nodded and drove the team slowly up the road.
At the top of the hill a camp had been set up in a small clearing in the trees. Forest counted fourteen Jaegers, including the two who were dragging the body of a man toward the tent area. A foot soldier was leading two horses away from the road; one of the animals was heavily laden with packs.
Two Jaegers wearing green cockades in their cocked hats stood in the center of the road with rifles. "Halt!" one shouted.
Sarah's fingers clamped the edge of the wagon seat. "Be careful," she whispered.
An officer on horseback, sporting a plume in his hat, urged his mount close to the wagon. His green-and-scarlet coat fit without a wrinkle, his buff breeches were spotless, and his black leather boots had been polished to a high shine.
Damn, Forest thought, this German looks as though he belongs on a parade ground instead of here in this Pennsylvania woods. Still, there was no mistaking the erect carriage, the cold gleam in the Hessian officer's gray eyes. Forest knew instinctively that this man was a deadly foe, a professional soldier experienced in war, accustomed to giving orders and to having those orders obeyed
without question.
"You vill get down," the officer commanded curtly. "You vill make no sudden moves." He gave an order in German to one of the foot soldiers, and the soldier moved toward the back of the wagon.
"This be my sister," Forest explained, giving the names he and Sarah had agreed upon. "We're takin' her dead husband to his folks t' be buried. Ain't nothin' back there in t' wagon but John, and he's startin' to ripen."
"Hands over your head," the officer said.
Cautiously, Forest started to climb down off the wagon. Sarah sat motionless on the seat, clutching her swollen belly, her eyes lowered.
"You too, woman," the Jaeger snapped. "Get down." He glanced back at Forest. "Open the coffin."
"Cain't, sir," Forest said, stalling. "She's nailed shut. John's been dead—"
"Silence!" The German officer's eyes narrowed as he pointed at Sarah. "I told you to get down."
Sarah's eyes locked with the Hessian's. "Bitte, Kapitan," she said in passable German. "Wir sind loyal zum Konig." She waved toward the back of the wagon. "Meine Absicht ist es, meinen Mann in das Haus seiner Mutter zu nehmen. Ich mochte, um ihn dort zu begraben. Bedauern Sie mich. Erlauben Sie uns . . . weitzerzugeben." With a sigh, Sarah sank back and stared up at the officer with pleading eyes.
Forest's mouth nearly dropped open in surprise.
For what seemed an eternity the German stared back, and then he allowed himself the trace of a smile. He gave another order to the foot soldier.
The young man bent over and brought his face close to the coffin and took a deep sniff "Ugghh," he cried, covering his mouth with his hands. He swallowed hard and backed away from the wagon.
The Hessian officer smiled broadly. "Let them pass," he said.
"Vielen Dank," Sarah cried.
Forest scrambled up into the wagon and grabbed the reins. "What about my musket?" he asked. "It ain't safe fer a man t' travel these roads without a gun. They's rebels about, so I hear."
The German gave no sign that he had heard Forest. Nodding to Sarah, the Hessian officer reined his horse in a circle and rode back toward the tents. No one hindered Sarah and Forest as they drove out of the camp.
They were a good mile away before Forest spoke. "Damn Hessians stole my musket! Mercenary pirates!" he grumbled. "And where the hell did you learn to speak German?" he demanded. "What did you say to him?"
Sarah smiled smugly. "I said just what you told me to. I said that we were loyal to the king and that I was taking my husband's body to his mother's home for burial. Should I have kept quiet and let us be arrested?"
Forest stared at her in astonishment. "You never told me you could speak fluent German."
"You never asked." The wagon jolted over the frozen ground and tilted as the left wheels slid into a deep rut. Sarah braced herself against the seat to keep from falling against him.
"Well, I'm waiting." He wanted to be angry with Sarah; common sense told him he had every right. But his arms ached to pull her against him. He'd been so damned scared back there—scared something would happen to her. Scared he couldn't protect her. Desire flared in his veins, and he fought the urge to carry her to a spot beneath the trees and make love to her there on the ground.
Sarah's pupils darkened, and she smiled as though she could read his thoughts. "You want to know how I can speak German? I'm an innkeeper's daughter," she said. "There were always German merchants passing through our inn. My father spoke six languages. Well, five maybe, but he could curse in a few more. An innkeeper has to be able to speak to customers. It's just good business."
"Hmmmph," Forest grunted. "What about that other stuff? Why did that Hessian act like he was getting a whiff of an overdead man? I know it's been too damned cold for the pig to rot."
Sarah laughed. "Of course the pig hasn't gone bad. It's probably frozen solid. What he was smelling was that bag of herbs I put on top of the pig before you nailed the lid down. A little skunk cabbage, a little of this, a little of that . . . "
"Sarah, you—" Forest broke off and grinned. God, but he wanted her! They'd not been intimate since they'd left King's Landing. "Sweet Mary, woman," he declared. "If we'd have had you on our side at Boston, we'd have driven the British into the sea."
An hour later, Sarah and Forest were ambushed by four Virginians on a foraging expedition. The soldiers confiscated Washington's cheese and divided it into quarters with a rusty bayonet. Two of them held a cursing Forest at bay with squirrel guns while the other two rummaged in the wagon for more booty.
"Just call this a contribution t' the cause," a gray-bearded veteran said as he slit a hole in one of the blankets and dropped it over his ragged hunting shirt. "Ye may be Patriots, as ye claim, or ye may be blood-suckin' Tories. But if ye are bound for Valley Forge, as ye say then we got as much right t' the cheese as any other soldier." He bit off a mouthful of cheese and began to chew noisily.
Sarah moved her feet so that her skirts covered Abner's shoes. "There is half a loaf of bread and an apple wrapped in the red blanket," she offered.
A boy dove for the bundle and rolled it out on the snow. He licked his lips as he sliced the apple four ways and handed each of his companions a share. Juice ran from the corners of his mouth as he devoured his portion, core and all. "Th-thanks, m-ma'am," he stuttered. Breaking off a bit of bread and cheese, he gobbled those down. "Y-you g-got any . . . anythin' t' d-drink?" he asked hopefully.
Sarah tossed him a small crockery jug. "Cider," she said. "Not much left, but what there is is good."
The boy pulled the cork and took a long swig. Another man nudged the boy's arm, and the young man reluctantly handed over the jug.
The graybeard scratched his chin and motioned for the others to lower their rifles. "Ye claim yer a soldier, but ye ain't in uniform," he said. His accent was so thick it was hard for Sarah to follow what he was saying.
"I'm a lieutenant," Forest insisted, repeating his story for the second time. "My superior is Captain Peregrine Harris."
"Marylander, eh?" A soldier with rags tied around his moccasins stroked the dapple-gray's neck. "Nice horse." He glanced meaningfully at the older man.
"The cheese is one thing." Forest's voice took on an edge of burnished steel. "Stealing our horse is another."
"Escort us to the General's camp," Sarah urged. "If we're Tories, we'll be found out soon enough, but . . ." She fixed her gaze on the boy's face. "But if we're working for the cause and you rob us or do us harm, you'll be punished." Her tone sharpened. "Unless you mean to murder us."
"N-no," the boy protested. "W-we w-w-was hu-hungry is a-all. A-in't h-had n-nuttin' t' eat in d-days."
"You're wasting time," Forest reminded the Virginians. "There's a Hessian camp back there about three miles or so. A mounted patrol could show up at any minute."
"Reckon he's right," the graybeard said. "We could git ourselves killed standin' here." The man scratched furiously under his round hat. "Damned lice," he swore, then reddened. "Sorry, ma'am, but they do worry a man fierce."
The man who had not said anything tapped Forest's knee with his rifle. "You ain't said why y'all's takin' a dead man t' Valley Forge. Got plenty of them there already." His prominent Adam's apple bobbed vigorously as he spoke.
Sarah studied the soldier's thin, serious face. His hunting coat had been carefully patched, his rifle was polished until the metal gleamed, and a bucktail had been stitched to the back of his hat. "I'm sorry, I haven't given you my name," Sarah said. "I'm Mistress Sarah Turner."
"Her husband's a soldier too," Forest said hastily.
"I've heard nothing from my husband for some time," Sarah continued, ignoring the heel of Forest's boot grinding on her toe.
"That don't explain the body, ma'am," the thin man said. "You sure you got a dead man in there?"
"No, we don't," Sarah answered smoothly. "We've got guns in there."
Forest exhaled sharply.
"We're taking guns to General Washington," she said. "If the Hessians catch us, we'll be as
dead as you will."
"And if you lose this shipment of guns for the General, you'll wish the Hessians had you," Forest added, reinforcing Sarah's lie.
"G-guns?" the boy cried. "Y-you g-got g-guns in th-thet c-c-coffin? I'll b-be a c-cross-eyed h-hog snake!"
The older man snorted. "Guns. Why the hell didn't ye say so in t' first place?" He grinned broadly, exposing wide gaps in his blackened teeth. "We'll be more'n glad to take ye int' Valley Forge, Lieutenant. Ye an' t' lady." He threw back his head and laughed. "Guns in a coffin! If thet don't beat all!"
Sarah gave Forest her sweetest smile. "You see, brother. I told you it was better to just tell the truth. These men are Virginians. We're as safe with them as if we were—"
"Sittin' at the right hand of the Almighty," the man with the bucktail said.
"Amen t' thet, Mistress Turner," the gray-beard chimed in. "If the Hessians get ye, it 'ill be over our dead bodies."
"That will be a consolation," Forest muttered under his breath.
Sarah wiggled her foot out from under Forest's and smiled at the thin man. "How far to the camp?" she asked.
"A fair piece," the soldier admitted. "Can't go straight in. Got to circle round and come in by the back door. British patrols watch the main roads."
"Can we get in?" Forest asked. "We've brought this load this far. I don't want to hand it over to the British now."
"We'll get ye to t' General," the old man promised. "Safe 'n sound. Ye jest leave it to Judas MacFee."
Judas? Sarah thought. She choked back a nervous giggle and crossed her fingers.
Two of the Virginians climbed up on the horses' backs. Judas and the thin man, who gave his name as Will Dorset, scrambled up into the back of the wagon and sat on the coffin. Forest shot Sarah a pained look and called to the team. "Get up, there." The wagon lurched and began to roll north along the narrow, wooded road.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Valley Forge
Scarlet RIbbons Page 24