by Jerri Hines
Sated, she sought his side. He welcomed her in his embrace, reaching around her and drawing her closer to him. For a time neither said a word, but basked in the moment.
Languidly, she stretched against him. “Have you been relieved of your mission yet? Do you know how much longer it will be until we leave? Eliza is three months and healthy.”
His hesitation said more than words. She raised her head and probed the depths of his clear blue eyes. She inquired softly, “Has there been a delay?”
“More than a delay, I’m afraid,” Jonathan stated. He felt her body stiffen; she went still. “Do not fret. I am arranging yours and Eliza’s transport. I talked with Daniel. He is working along the docks with your uncle. He has been sailing a brigantine, the Compromise. I believe it will be the safest and quickest form of transportation and with one I trust.”
Rebekah raised her brows in silent uncertainty. “You are not coming?”
Her voice echoed hurt and betrayal. It sliced him. “It is not something I can help, Rebekah. I was refused reassignment. General Lincoln requested my presence when he was given command. But we have no choice, Rebekah. I need to get you both to a safe place. You both will be welcomed with open arms in Williamsburg. More importantly, away from this chaos.”
As if ignoring all his words, she repeated, “You are not coming with us?”
“I will follow as soon as I’m allowed. It is something that can’t be helped.” He halted as he took note of the look of rebellion that appeared in her expressive blue eyes. “Rebekah, you have no choice. You have to leave.”
“Don’t make me go without you.” Her voice was soft and pleading. Tears filled her eyes.
“You have to trust me, Rebekah. Do you think I want to be separated from you? We have to protect Eliza. I have to get you both away from the danger you will be in every moment you stay in Carolina. I can’t protect you against that monster if you stay. I will be in constant worry.”
Her lips quivered. “I was such a fool. It has been so hard to believe he wants to kill me. Are you certain he would still be after us, Jonathan?”
“Without question,” he answered her honestly, but without revealing the house burning. He took her face in his hands. “But I will not let him harm you or Eliza. Know that.” He grinned at her. “I will go over everything with you before I leave, but that’s not for a least a week. Let’s enjoy the time we have. Christmas will be here soon. Do not think I have forgotten.”
A smile returned to her face. “I don’t know how I got to be so lucky to have you. I don’t…”
Jonathan placed a finger over her lips. “Ssh…I am a different person than I once was also, Rebekah. Life changes us, but I knew when I saw you again that the semblance of the person I was I could be again, I wanted to be again—admitting to myself for the first time all the ire and hatred I held in me. You freed me to feel again.” He embraced her and his lips found hers, unleashing his desire for her and the hope of their life ahead of them.
Chapter Eleven
Aggravation strewed from Jonathan. The last few weeks had been one frustration after another. His leave cut short with word of the British movements, his thoughts lay froth with worry. Not only was the army in dire straits, Evermore sat straight in the middle of the battleground .
The goddamn British swept in to Savannah by sea. General Howe’s paltry force soon found it was no match for the elite British forces. Howe made the decision to evacuate the city, only to take heavy losses on the withdrawal. It had been a complete British victory. The British had taken Savannah.
Jonathan knew this well as he had been reassigned almost immediately on his return. During his absence, General Lincoln bowed to the pressure around him and accepted another personal physician from Charles Town. Jonathan had become a casualty of diplomatic warfare.
At first glance, Jonathan thought all worked out for the best. He would return to the North with Rebekah and the babe, but he soon learned General Lincoln had other plans for him which had nothing to do with Jonathan’s return to the North.
“Your reassignment is only temporary,” Lincoln said stoically. “My health is of little matter at the moment. You have done most of your service out in the field. It will be no different now.”
If they were up North, Lincoln’s words may have held truth, but Jonathan felt he was in the midst of a family squabble. He could trust no one, not that he had knowledge of many. Jonathan now served under General William Moultrie in the midst of the skirmishes along the Georgia-South Carolina border.
The endless effort General Lincoln made to try to reinforce Howe had all been in vain. Lincoln had some of the same frustration that plagued Howe. Governor Lowndes refused to send more militia to help defend Georgia. Something about the law didn’t demand it! What of common sense! Who did he think paid his militia! And what exactly did the men think was going to happen to South Carolina with the British implanted in Georgia?
With a force of less than twenty Continental soldiers, Moultrie’s unit set to meet Charles Town’s militia group at Port Royal Ferry. When the orders came down, Jonathan’s unit departed Purysburg with the sunrise with the utmost urgency. The British were rumored to be on the move toward Beaufort. General Lincoln sent the hero of the Battle of Sullivan's Island to lead his men against the onslaught.
A good half mile up the road from their destination, Jonathan let out a heavy sigh when he rode up and heard a long string of oaths yelled and retorts boldly answered. What a mess of a command Moultrie had been handed.
“I'm telling you I'm not going! Damn you!”
"Bloody yellow-belly!"
Jonathan reined in his horse when he entered the Patriot camp. He rode his poor sorrel so hard the horse’s flanks lathered, but wondered why he had done so when he glanced at the men. Disgust swept through him. He rode his mount into the ground for this? Jonathan watched the sight before him with alarm, but not surprise.
Jonathan held tightly to his mount, but refused to dismount. The scene did little to inspire confidence in the heart of Jonathan. The reputation of this militia was small comfort in this engagement, but it wasn’t his safety he worried about. It was Rebekah's. It was why he was here. He had no doubt of where she was, unless Cutler carried out their plan. But he doubted she had left, not after reading her last letter.
Stubborn woman! Oh, the quandary he lived in since he left Rebekah. If only she would listen to reason. All his plans, all the letters sent, would be for naught unless he could convince Rebekah the necessity of it all. For some reason in her mind, she convinced herself she and Eliza were safe. If the truth be told, he had no desire to see her leave. He wanted her near, but as much as he desired his bride, he realized the danger she lived under whether she did or not.
Heart drenched, Jonathan worked with Cutler to correlate the move. Now, he had only to persuade Rebekah to leave for her own safety. One moment she seemed receptive; the next steadfastly refusing to leave before she saw him again. He wanted that, too. Her memory haunted him: her pleading eyes, the smell of her skin, the feel of warmth of her body against him. Against all he had claimed, he had done what he sworn he would never do again.
No matter what he felt, he needed to persuade her quickly to leave, he thought, as he listened to the bickering surrounding him. In the near darkness, Jonathan rubbed his chin with disdain. General Moultrie rode up to the commanding officer.
"What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?"
Jonathan recognized the man when he stepped out of the crowd, Lieutenant Ernest Sherman. He couldn't see his face clearly while he walked toward Moultrie, but his voice was enough to suggest their plight.
“Sir, a spirited debate. A discussion of sorts."
"About what?" Moultrie's voice iced.
"A few of the men...perhaps more," Lieutenant Sherman paused before he added, "Sir, they don't want to cross the river."
"Don't want to do what!" General Moultrie barked. "How the hell do ya think we can engage the enemy?"
> The officer's tone brought Sherman up short. Sherman lowered his head. His utterance barely carried over the rumblings of the men behind him. "I believe that issue is what is weighing on their minds. They have families...they don't want to get hurt."
In the midst of the debate, Jonathan laughed, a laugh that echoed in the surrounding woods. All eyes turned to him. Beyond caring whom he offended, he shot back, "Holy Jehoshaphat! Where do you think you are at? At a social?"
"Who do ya thin' ya are, tellin' us what to do?" a voice cried in the mass.
All at once, Jonathan realized the little band had congregated around the unit…around him. Rumblings, disgruntle remarks reiterated. Jonathan pulled his reins tight as his horse nervously shifted. Jonathan wasn’t amused. It seemed bitterly clear he was among contentious men eager to start a fight with anyone other than the British.
Abruptly, he heard hoofbeats down the road. A dozen riders emerged around the bend. In the dim light of dusk, Jonathan noticed immediately the leader of the band: young, tall, and muscular. He rode a fine mount, looking huge and formidable in the saddle. His long dark hair drawn back in a queue, his face was sculptured in impudence. The horses reined in next to the general.
“General Moultrie,” the rider acknowledged his commander.
“Major Meador,” General Moultrie said. “We seem to have a problem. We need to get these men and those cannons,” Moultrie pointed to the ferry, “across the river by morning with a bunch of boys who seem to have gotten cold feet!”
There seemed to be a distinct difference in the air with the two officers on horseback in front of their men. The gathering slowly backed away, shuffling their feet as if they hadn’t moved forward.
“And the problem?” Major Meador turned to the men, his eyes smoldering. “The water seems high enough for the ferry to begin loading?”
“Believe you’re right, sir,” Lieutenant Sherman agreed. Behind him, Jonathan instantly saw men beginning to scurry to collect their belongings. There wasn’t a whisper in the ranks.
Jonathan dismounted and stood next to Sherman. “Blast! What do these men expect?”
Sherman looked over at Jonathan and shrugged. “To be honest, half the men fight only because they feel they haf to. Got no heart in ’em, ’specially with the talk of the bayonets of the British. Got ’em half scared out of their heads.”
“What got into them now?”
“They like old Moultrie. There’s no doubt about that, but Meador’s appearance. That’s what did it.”
“A war hero I haven’t heard of?”
“Sumner Meador? Don’t reckon. No more than most around here fighting. More likely, someone these boys are more scared of than the Brits.”
“The British have landed! Heading for Beaufort!”
Jonathan listened and prepared for this moment…for the assault. It was coming. Without doubt it was coming. Throughout the ranks, the call went out. The British were advancing from the water. After the massive exertion crossing the river, the unit seemed to be on a jaunt going from one point to another on the word of the scout. First checking out the abandoned fort at Port Royal, the group marched to Beaufort.
“The Brits have moved toward camp!”
Jonathan lingered in the back of the columns. He would have jumped to readiness if he hadn’t heard the words before…no, three times, the unit leaped into action. Three times—nothing. The calls varied as the wind that blew. One moment General Moultrie sent out Lieutenant Sherman racing ahead to alert the troops to the impending battle; the next announced the Brits were upon them. All may have held truth, but it wasn’t until he saw Meador ride up to the general, Jonathan realized a move had been made.
A cloudless February sky gave way to perfect conditions to do battle. Jonathan wondered for the first time whether he shouldn’t have stayed at camp as Moultrie requested. Although Jonathan knew well in his position he would do better to wait for the wounded, a thought plagued him. The God’s honest truth was these men weren’t readied to fight a well-trained British company. He had done battle.
Jonathan leaned back on his mount and took a sip of water out of his canteen. He tethered back his horse as the men suddenly scrambled to form a semblance of a defense. Jonathan scoured the field. Suddenly, a peculiar sense of familiarity swept through him; whether ready or not, this small band was about to do battle.
His heart rapidly beat as the blood flowed quickly through his veins. Moultrie’s desire to make a stand from the swamp was squelched quickly. The British foot soldiers already positioned themselves. To Jonathan’s dismay, he glanced around the area…the whole of the unit was out in the open. In all his fighting experience, he had done so in the cover of woods, never in the open.
No more than two hundred yards in front of him, Jonathan watched General Moultrie circle. The commander cried out, “Form a line! Hold, men!”
Jonathan turned in another direction to see the two fieldpieces secured, aiming at the Redcoats. Movement caught his eyes, with the understanding of what it meant. The British regulars readied their guns. Bayonet blades gleamed in the sunlight; the scarlet coats…
Along the line of men, rumblings began. The men reacted. From his view, Jonathan watched as if God had slowed time to a snail’s pace. His hand slowly reached to feel his pistol at his waist. From the corner of his eye, a militia man lit hold of one of the six-pounders. A moment later a sound resonated; a large boom with a flare followed. It had begun.
Jonathan heard chaotic orders fly past him. He peered through the sweat pouring off his brow, blurring his eyes. He didn’t remember when he dismounted, only bending over a bloodstained soldier. A ball struck the man in his shoulder. Blood sopped the man’s coat. Jonathan, through the crackling shots and smoke, used his fingers to feel the wound. The bullet had gone through. Hurriedly, he made a bandage to cut off the bleeding.
The frantic sounds of battle surrounded him. Jonathan scurried from one man to another the best he could. Fortunately, most seemed minor injuries. By God, he was in the middle of the battle when a dreaded cry resounded. “No more cartridges!”
Jonathan heard a resounding boom. Bullets seemed to be whizzing past. He leaned down as far as he could manage and treat the injured soldier. In the midst of the smoke and fire, an order resounded, “Retreat formation, goddamn you!”
Drudgingly, Jonathan glanced up to the sound of order to fall back. Retreat? A fear emerged that the militia would run, leaving the rest defenseless. In the center of battle, a figure emerged amongst explosions and cries: a tall, dark figure. He had lost his hat and his shirt ripped down the side, but Major Meador leaped over fallen bodies and fired straight away. A shadowy figure, not far away, fell. Meador wasn’t retreating.
Jonathan spun around to watch Meador fumble with powder and ball to reload, not quickly enough. A British officer charged at Meador, bayonet aimed directly at the body in front of him. Instinctually, Jonathan leaned over the wounded soldier and aimed his pistol. He fired, sparking flame and flash. The enemy flopped backwards, dead on the ground. Meador finished thrusting his powder into his barrel and gave Jonathan a sly smile.
Moments later Jonathan stood back to back with the Major. Bent low, the two took turns firing. A ball whizzed past Jonathan’s head. He ducked automatically. He heard Meador chuckle. “You’re a doc?”
“I’m a Virginian,” Jonathan said clearly. His temples hurt; his hands ached. He stopped long enough to suddenly realize the firing had ceased. Jonathan and Meador stared at each other. A new sound emerged. The shouts altered, becoming whoops and hollers. Only minutes before Jonathan was certain he was witnessing a sound defeat. The smoke cleared and the only ones standing on the battlefield were the Americans.
Exhausted, Jonathan’s job had only just begun when the firing stopped. The wounded he counted around twenty, with eight dead. Tending to the wounded as best he could in these conditions, Jonathan sent them by wagon into Beaufort. Turning his attention to the British wounded, he was surprised the Brits
seemed to have gotten the worst of it.
A British officer, an older man, had fallen near a wounded infantry man. Wearily, Jonathan leaned over to turn the motionless soldier over to assess his wounds. He needed water himself, he thought. He had no energy. He blinked. When his vision cleared, he found himself at the end of a barrel of a pistol. The seemingly wounded man made a miraculous recovery.
The perimeter of the field was a miasma in Jonathan’s eyes as his only focus was the barrel pointed straight between his eyes. Thoughts raced through him. His son…would he even remember his father? Hannah…how he wished he had seen her again! Rebekah…
“What the fuck?” A hard blow descended on the British officer, knocking the musket cleanly out of his hand. Pinning him in one swift motion, Meador held a knife against his throat. “What the hell do ya’ think ya’ doing? He’s a damn doctor!”
Stupefied, Jonathan gaped at Meador and back at his assailant. In all his years of wartime medicine, he had never been attacked by a wounded soldier.
“He’s no doctor. I saw him. Gun in hand, firing away,” he growled.
“Maybe not your yellow-belly doctors, but Dr. Corbett over there is a Virginian.” Meador dug his knees in deeper into the man’s shoulders. A cocky smile emerged on his face, asking, “Name and rank, soldier. Believe you’re what we call a prisoner of war.”
“Colonel Reginald Woodland of His Majesty’s 37th Regiment Infantry.”
Meador kneed the prisoner in the chest as he stood. In one swift motion, he jerked the Brit up on his feet. Jonathan watched in silence while Meador winked at him, pushing the prisoner in front of him. The Brit glared back over his shoulder as he limped away. The rage in his eyes wasn’t lost on Jonathan. Jonathan shrugged and continued to the next wounded.
Jonathan worked endlessly throughout the night alongside his counterpart, Dr. Tyler Jones. Jonathan gave rum to numb the pain, assessed one injured man after the other, all while other injured soldiers waited for their wounds to be treated.