by Laura Frantz
“There, to your left, is the former site of Chillicothe, the principal Shawnee town,” he told her in his low lilt. “And beyond that is the Scioto River.”
The spyglass brought things sharply into focus, and she imagined it as it used to be—sapling shelters instead of burned shells, once peopled by an abundance of natives alongside a sparkling watercourse. The setting sun slanted long fingers of light over an immense river valley, and all was a shimmering explosion of color. She felt overwhelming admiration coupled with sharp regret. The country seemed open—without end—and war a desecration in so beautiful a place.
She finally found her voice. “’Tis like Eden.”
“Or Armageddon,” he answered.
They were shoulder to shoulder now and she let the spyglass down. Long, silent minutes ticked by and she sensed his heart was full as her own, that he was intent on telling her something momentous.
“Just so you know . . . I’ve made my peace with God, Roxie.”
They were looking outward over the beautiful valley, and she took the stunning words in, glad he couldn’t see the sudden welling in her eyes.
“When I was a boy, Christ made Himself known to me. I’m a believer. I’d just chosen not to believe for a season. Misfortune turned me cold, and I felt God had abandoned me. But I’ve since come to my senses. And I’m telling you this because I don’t want to leave you wondering.”
Her mouth trembled as a hundred questions flooded her head and heart. What had changed? When? Biting her lower lip, she blinked back tears and tried to fashion some response, but when she turned to him, she found she was alone. There was simply the sigh of the wind where he’d once stood—and a gaping emptiness.
The following morning, in less time than it took to load a cannon, Cass and two dozen of his men had launched a successful raid on a British supply train and netted a multitude of guns and ammunition, with no lives lost on either side. These were the tactics he was known for, not the muzzle-to-muzzle old-style fighting with men mown down like hay before a scythe. This Indian-style warfare was the strategy bringing the British army to their knees in the east.
Now, dressed in the detested scarlet uniforms, half his party were on their way with the barren supply train into the heart of Liam’s camp to tell a woeful tale. Once there, they’d discover all they could and spread exaggerated reports of Patriot numbers. Cass and his remaining men had just sent the Redcoats driving the supply wagons back from whence they came—naked and barefoot. His officers could barely contain their laughter as the enemy ran east in humiliation.
“Remember,” he cautioned from the saddle, “better a good retreat than a bad stand.”
Is fheàrr teicheadh math na droch fhuireach. He repeated the words in Gaelic to himself to make a point of remembering as Joram Herkimer maneuvered his gelding abreast of him.
“What’s next, Colonel?”
“We’re going on a reconnaissance mission. I need to study the lay of the land before moving troops forward.”
Jehu rode up on the other side of him. “Is it true what they say, sir? That one Indian equals three soldiers?”
“Aye, Redcoat soldiers, not Bluecoats,” he said, retrieving his good humor with a grin.
They chuckled as he trained his spyglass on the retreating enemy. If only sending Liam packing was as easy, he mused.
That night the firelit camp was teeming with Kentucke militia, Bluecoats, and Frenchmen in their distinct blue and white uniforms and melodious accents. Many could speak only broken English, but since they were all devoted to a common cause, it hardly mattered. Standing beside the tent she shared with Bella, Roxanna watched Cass ride into camp and greet the unexpected reinforcements. If General Washington, under Lafayette’s persuasion, hadn’t spared the extra men, what then, she wondered?
“Oh, Bella, look at them,” she marveled. “Two hundred? Three?”
“Ain’t near enough,” she muttered darkly. “But I’m glad the colonel can make sense of all them Frenchy words flyin’ round.”
Later, lying on her pallet in the darkness, Roxanna strained past Bella’s snoring to hear Cass as he laughed and talked with the French officers in his tent. Though she understood little beyond oui and non, she felt warmed by their camaraderie. ’Twas obvious he had plenty of catching up to do, being absent from the eastern conflict for so long. Though copies of the Virginia Gazette littered the camp, they were old and had been perused till the print was worn away in places.
The next morning they broke camp, moving north just as scouts reported the enemy was advancing south. It seemed that Roxanna prayed with every step, a mounting dread in her breast. Beneath the wide brim of her straw hat, her eyes strayed again and again to Cass at the head of his swelling army. She made sure she wasn’t conspicuous, staying shy of the big marquee tent with its distinctive scalloped edges, more than willing to let Bella and the orderlies serve the officers their meals. He had too much on his mind to think of love or lockets or stolen kisses over cribbage. But he—and his staunch avowal of his feelings for her—was all she thought about.
Now, away from the fort, she felt time slipping away from them—every precious second. Eyes down as she performed the most mundane tasks—mending men’s garments, cooking, scrubbing pots and pans—she was keenly aware of the deep feeling swelling inside her, a stubborn love that made her look up and linger on him as he checked artillery, drilled his men, and met with his officers. Once, over a flickering fire at dusk, their eyes met. ’Twas the briefest, most intense exchange, but a thousand things were in that look—and she felt as warm and befuddled as if he’d kissed her.
Even after he’d disappeared into his tent she found it impossible to dismiss the set of his shoulders, the flash of his disarming smile, the intriguing way he went from Gaelic to French to King’s English without a single stammer before five hundred admiring men. ’Twas difficult to breathe, thinking such things. He had skill, nerve, and endurance in spades, and she was overwhelmed at the thought of being without him.
“What’s come over you?” Bella murmured inside their tiny tent. “You ain’t heard a word I been sayin’ for a full five minutes.”
Drying off from a hasty washing in a near creek, Roxanna took up her brush and ran it through the wet strands of her hair. “You were saying how hard it is to cook for an army, and that Frenchmen seem hungrier than Americans.”
“Maybe that’s why I can’t keep my eyes open. Sure will be good to get back to the fort, if we ever do.”
Roxanna studied her, thinking of Hank, wondering why she never spoke of him anymore. Had she given up hope of his return? Clearly exhausted, Bella was asleep before Roxanna lay back on her own pallet. High above, the moon was full and bright, drenching the thin canvas above her head with fairy light. All around them, like spokes on a wagon wheel, lay militia sharpshooters, not in tents but in the open. She and Bella were well guarded, and the marquee tent was just a stone’s throw away.
The night sounds, so strange at first, were becoming familiar friends—the chorus of crickets, the hoot of an owl, the rasp of soldiers’ snores, muted talk from the officers’ quarters. She was, after so many nights, able to distinguish the rich cadence of Cass’s voice from a dozen or more men. But tonight all was quiet, and the silence seemed to issue an invitation.
Was he alone?
She lay still, fighting a wild desire. She wanted to see him, to break the endless monotony of days with scarcely a crumb of attention from him. Oh, Lord, I’ve completely lost my head. In a crowded camp, she’d have to step over a dozen sleeping bodies before coming to the canvas wall that separated them. Perhaps she should simply go to the necessary . . . get some fresh air.
Sitting up, breath held tight, she glanced at Bella’s bony form and then her own. Divested of her stockings, feet minus shoes, she was clad in a dress that was clean if disheveled, though she looked more like a camp follower than a lady. Careful not to wake Bella, she stole out of their tent into the humid night, feeling time was agai
nst her.
Stark white moonlight spilled onto her dress as she walked, the earth warm beneath her naked feet, the buzz of crickets humming all around. The door flap of the large tent was open to admit a night wind, and she lingered there half a minute to ascertain Cass was alone before she ducked inside, heart fluttering like a bird against her rib cage. His back was to her as he sat at a field table strewn with maps, a pool of lamplight illuminating articles of war.
For a few seconds she faltered, nearly slipping away as quickly as she’d come. In that rare window of absolute quiet and insight, she glimpsed his crushing loneliness, the immense weight of being responsible for the fate of so many, the dread of the coming day.
She didn’t move—or breathe—yet he said without turning round, “I ken you’re there, Roxie.”
“’Tis only me,” she said.
“’Tis enough.”
Slowly he stood and turned toward her. Though he blocked the lamplight, every line of his deeply tanned face was suffused with surprise as his gem-blue eyes swept over her. Despite the sultriness of the night, he wore his uniform coat, and his vibrant hair was a deeper red where it lay damp against his temples. And she was reminded once again of how unkempt she was, her hair undone.
His expression turned tense. “Are you . . . all right?”
Her breath was coming in shallow little bursts like she’d run a hard mile. “No,” she finally said. Reaching inside her chemise where the locket rested warm against her skin, she withdrew it and held it out to him. For a moment he didn’t move, and she felt as mute as Abby had been.
“’Tis yours . . . I want you to have it,” she said finally.
She saw the confusion leave his face and understanding take its place. He took a step nearer, extending a hand. She took a step, releasing the locket into his calloused palm. A breath of wind nearly snuffed the lamp then sent the flame leaping bright as daylight. There was no hiding in the shadows now.
He placed the locket on his desk and turned back to her, face full of questions. Her heart plummeted. Would he not put it in his waistcoat like before?
She glanced around the tent, then back to him. Why was it such agony to speak?
“I—I wanted to say goodbye . . . alone . . .”
“Not before five hundred men, you mean,” he finished for her.
She nodded, fighting tears.
He swallowed, his voice a bit ragged. “You know we’re to move into position tomorrow—for battle.”
She nodded again, and the wind gusted, sending several unanchored papers fluttering from his desk. He snatched at the air and retrieved them, then set the lamp atop them, nearly snuffing it out. The shadows hid her sudden trembling, and she took a step back, bumping his metal camp bed, which was still folded, the linens untouched. He’d been sleeping on the ground among his men in the open air, and she wondered why he wasn’t there now. ’Twas nearly midnight . . .
He was still in uniform—that striking rebel uniform that had come to mean something terrible and irreversible to her, with all its dreadful implications. He came nearer, as if waiting for her to explain why she’d come. But the pain pooling in her heart wouldn’t let her speak. She simply put out a hand to him instead, fingertips brushing a polished button. Through the layers of wool and linen, she felt the steady pulsing of his heart.
He didn’t move a muscle as her shaking hands began pushing his coat off his shoulders. She couldn’t bear to have it come between them, nor could she explain her relief as it slipped free and collapsed on the tent floor. Fumbling a bit in the near darkness, she took the locket off his desk and tucked it in the breast pocket of his waistcoat.
His voice grew strained as he looked down at her. “Roxie . . . I . . .”
She shivered as his hands cupped her shoulders, then fell away like she was fire. In that moment she sensed his hesitation toward her and realized how much she’d hurt him. All her angry words and protestations of the past returned to her a hundredfold, cutting her as they’d surely done him. Though she’d forgiven him, could he forgive her?
“Cass . . .”
She placed her hands flat against his chest, then moved upward, tracing the finely tailored lines of his waistcoat as it leveled out onto the sturdy planes of his shoulders. In the deep darkness, her fingers brushed his finely wrought Gaelic jaw, the day’s shadow of beard, the queue ribbon holding back his hair. An undeniable yearning swept through her.
Did she . . . dare?
Standing on tiptoe, she brought his head down and pressed her mouth to his. Surprise rippled through him—she could feel it—and in answer his hands spanned her waist—warm, supple hands that held muskets and sabers and lethal things but now touched her so tenderly. When he drew back a bit as if measuring his response, she cast aside restraint and began covering him with kisses—sweet, sustained kisses on his mouth and bristled cheeks and chin—till he sat down atop his desk and wrapped her more fully in his arms and kissed her back.
For long moments she didn’t know where he ended and she began. He fanned his fingers through her hair, his rough palms catching on its damp strands, murmuring endearments in Gaelic she’d once heard when she was so ill and he’d prayed for her. His kiss deepened and she responded in kind, awash in the wonder that he wanted her. At last she laid her cheek against his chest, feeling the swell of the locket beneath.
Her voice wavered and became a whisper. “I should never have taken it away from you.”
His mouth was warm against her ear. “The locket hardly matters. ’Tis you and only you I need.”
Yes, but the truth of it had dawned all too late.
Only a man in love would make provision for her as he’d done, for Abby, even sanctioning her marriage to one of his men, a soldier he could have used in the field but he’d kept at Fort Endeavor, all for her future. He’d even humbled himself enough to tell her he’d made his peace with God so she’d not be left ignorant and grieving.
Her voice broke. “You’ve told me—shown me—you love me at every turn, but I’ve flung it back in your face.”
“You’ve never known what it’s like to be loved . . . truly loved . . . till now.” Gathering her closer, he stroked her hair. “I’ve been thinking of something your father said—that the true measure of love is what one is willing to give up for it. He was talking about freedom—fighting for liberty. But I believe ’tis the same for love as war.”
“What do you mean?”
“When all of this is over, I want you and Abby to be happy—and safe. To have a home. Graham Greer is a good man, more farmer than soldier—”
“Nay, Cass . . . please.” Putting her fingers to his lips, she shook her head as vehemently as Abby might have done.
“He’ll be a decent husband to you.”
“’Tis you and only you I need,” she echoed.
Gently he took her face between his hands. “Should I return to Kentucke, I’m going to resign my commission. I want nothing more than to live out my days in the stone house with you and Abby, our future children . . .” His voice thickened and nearly faltered. “But those hopes are in God’s hands now.”
“Have you asked Him for such a thing?”
“Aye, a thousand times over.”
“As I have,” she whispered. “Perhaps together . . .”
The lines in his face deepened. Had he given up hope? Did he still believe he would die on the morrow? Her heart, sore for so long, seemed about to burst.
Oh, Lord, I cannot bear another loss . . .
He enfolded her hands between his own. “What does Scripture say? ‘If one prevail against him, two shall withstand him . . .’ ”
“ ‘And a threefold cord is not quickly broken,’ ” she finished softly.
It was a verse her father had oft repeated. A threefold cord. Cass. She herself. Providence. And the one prevailing against them? Liam—and too many Redcoats and Indians to count.
37
They moved at dawn, trading the expansiveness of ridge and riv
er valley for dense wilderness broken only by a narrow ribbon of crystal water. Here the woods were suffocatingly close, a green wool blanket of feverish proportions pressing down and turning all to sweat and insect stings and abject misery. This, Roxanna understood, was where they’d wait till they sighted the enemy. Outright battle was imminent. No one had to tell her so. She felt it in the intense vigilance paid to their surroundings, the preoccupation with artillery and orders, the terse murmurs among knots of men.
Desperate to take their minds off what was to come, she and Bella scoured the surrounding woods for berries—rich, ripe berries that stained their fingers purple and would be made into crusty cobblers to fortify the men. Sweat streaming down, Roxanna filled one bucket and then two and soon lost sight of Bella. But her thoughts were so full of Cass she hardly noticed. Their whisperings and stolen kisses of the night before returned to her with such sweet intensity she put a hand to her lips, still able to taste his kiss.
Setting down her bucket, she knelt at a slip of creek, cupping her stained palm for a drink. She couldn’t hear the distant camp sounds above the gurgling rush of water and was aware far too late of the sudden shadow that fell over her.
“Miz Roxanna?”
Her head jerked up. Hank? Sweat stung her eyes and she blinked. But the man whose moccasins were planted firmly on the creek bed opposite was a half blood—his unnerving features a mix of Indian and white. A British scout?
“Yep, that’s her, all right.” Hank’s voice rang out of the woods a second time.
In confirmation, the man’s hands shot out and grabbed her. She went limp, her mouth cotton, before realizing what was afoot. He was half-dragging, half-carrying her toward the familiar voice that was now ominous, his dirty hand clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming.