Her emotions in a tangle of sadness and vexation, Rowena explained about the morning’s raid, and her father’s harsh and ignoble treatment.
“I must go up to Uncle Robert. Did you really hit one of the rebels?” James’ eyes turned icy cold, which gave her a chill. He bent close, his voice low, “Do not behave so again. We don’t want any extra attention drawn upon us here.”
“I’ll do what I must to assist Father and our position.” She sensed the underlying threat in his tone. Her cousin wasn’t just concerned for her safety—but seemed greatly disturbed on his own account.
James left her and mounted the stairs.
Rowena’s thoughts whirled. Father always said she should have been born a boy, since most men insisted that girls had no capacity for reasoning. However, why would God give her intelligence if she wasn’t allowed to use it?
She tightened her lips, determined to find out exactly what her cousin was involved in.
Chapter Two
Father winced and eased into his favorite leather, wingback chair. Rowena sat near him on the settee in their rear parlor, designated the Library. Three days had passed since the ruffians had tarred and feathered him. At least the renegades hadn’t destroyed this room with its rich walnut paneling. Cook had barricaded herself in here, the settee against the door—thus preserved herself and the room.
Rowena kept glancing out the window, wary of anyone who might approach. Did they have enough gunpowder in case she needed to fire the blunderbuss? She twitched with the tension that was a constant in her life.
Father scratched at a red patch on his cheek.
“Can I get you anything? More ointment to soothe your pain?” she asked. “Aunt Elizabeth might be persuaded to…leave her bed and nurse you. Since you won’t allow me.”
“I’m your father; that would be highly inappropriate. My sister insists we shouldn’t lose all sense of propriety no matter our trials, and I must agree.” He adjusted the nightcap on his head. His periwig was too painful for his blisters. “I’m well enough, considering.”
Rowena poured tea into pewter cups. “Auntie would profit more from dealing with our difficulties, instead of ignoring them.”
Her aunt had remained in bed since yesterday, bemoaning she was ill with her megrims. She was attended by her maid, Mary, whom she’d brought with her when she moved in to ‘help’ with Rowena after her mother’s death and her own husband’s commission.
“We should forgive your aunt, my dear. She’s always had a frail constitution.” He sipped his tea. The lines on his ruddy face were carved deep. His round visage matched hers. “It’s been more difficult for her since your uncle went off to war and her home was confiscated…”
“I’ll try my best to understand her frailties.” Rowena said that to placate him. She’d little patience with flibbertigibbet women, though she loved Aunt Elizabeth for her gentle heart. “I know she means well in her limited way.”
“When we were children, she was always the timid one.” His green eyes that mirrored hers turned sad. Today, he wore no coat, his shirt frayed at the cuffs; a state of undress that no doubt embarrassed him, but necessary to ease his sores. “Elizabeth took after our mother, I daresay. Our father was very strict with her as the only girl.”
“Girls deserve better.” Rowena barely remembered her grandmother. Her grandfather had been a loud, grumpy man she’d rather forget. “Cousin James thinks the war will turn about in our favor. What are your thoughts?”
“The New York Volunteers have gone south to take Charles Town, your brothers with them. The British navy will be involved. We should hear something soon.” He picked up a book on a side table as if to distract himself. “Are you interested in continuing your Greek lessons?”
“It seems of little use now.” Her father loved the classics and Rowena had learned in a rudimentary way to read Greek. She was thankful her father treated her as an intelligent being. “Do you have a small cannon I might learn to fire?”
He smiled, though he still looked sad. “You’d assuredly master it, my dear. But a very bad idea. I wish your future weren’t so unpredictable, our existence in peril.”
Would the rebels swarm in soon to confiscate their home? The farm her father had named Mersheland; Mershe a medieval spelling of ‘Marsh.’
Rowena ran a finger around the edge of her untouched cup, picturing the smashed china. She blinked that away then stared at the cabinets filled with books, the smell of paper and leather once a comfort. Now she had to fret over her brothers storming into battle, perhaps dying. She fought a shiver.
“Are you aware of what James does for the war effort, if anything?” She tried to sound casual as she spread her fingers over the skirt of her bronze-striped dimity gown, dingy with a stain. With few servants, she and Anne would have to do the laundry soon, an onerous task.
“He’s performing important work for the conflict, that’s all I can say.” Father stretched out his right leg, his foot encased in an unpolished buckled shoe. He winced again, eyes averted. “If I hadn’t injured my knee so severely in our war with the French and Indians, I dare swear I’d be out riding with the troops; beside your brothers.” His position as solicitor four miles distant in Easton had been disrupted as the war raged on. He might have retired as a gentleman farmer, if the rebels hadn’t stolen their stock, and raided their small dairy.
“I’m certain you would join the troops, Father.” Disappointment weighed Rowena down. Father was cognizant but wouldn’t tell her of her cousin’s ‘important’ deeds. She must find a way to uncover it herself. “We’re both at a disadvantage. However, there are women helping to serve the King.”
“Why do these so-called patriots want to desert the motherland?” Father grunted with disgust as his fingers gripped on the chair arms. “These rascals will never manage without a strong government. Yes, we’re not treated as fairly as we could be with the high taxation, the forbiddance of foreign imports, but independence, bah. That’s an insane notion.”
“Having a voice in Parliament would be good, too.” Now she sounded like a rebel, but she’d never agree with separating from Britain. They’d be adrift with no mother country. “The leaders of this sedition seemed to only demand equal rights, at first.”
He nodded slowly. “We loyalists were shocked when their intentions changed. Though several of the more radical demanded complete freedom from the beginning.”
A quick knock, then Cook, properly Mrs. Johnston, entered, two glass jars held in her hands as if they were gold. “Sorry to intrude, sir. I still have apple and raspberry preserves that I hid in the attic, but we’re out of flour, or I’d make bread. There are shortages everywhere.” Her anxious gaze swung from Father to Rowena and back again. Petite in stature, well past sixty years in age, her sagging cheeks flushed crimson. “I apologize for my lack of—”
Father held up a hand and sighed. “That’s quite all right. It’s not your fault. My nephew promised to bring us supplies; we’ll manage.”
“Aye, sir. If you say so. I feel I should do more, but what?” She bobbed her head. “My brother did bring us a catch of trout from the river for our dinner.” Mrs. Johnston departed.
“A decent meal,” Rowena said. “Cook is nothing if not diligent.” She hadn’t run off in fear like their housekeeper but might be on the verge of despair. The dependable woman had been with them for many years.
Rowena slid to the edge of the settee. “Can I help improve our cause, along the lines in what James is doing, perhaps?”
“No, no, my dear. I’ve given you too much liberty as it is.” He shook his head, gaze weary. He shifted with a grumble in his chair. “I’m regretting my lack of discipline since your sainted mother’s death. You hit an enemy soldier. You’re running too wild.”
“Father, please. You make me sound like an unbroken colt.” She pinched the material of her dress—the same as her heart pinched—forming wrinkles her aunt would scold her for. “If matters worsen, where can we go if we’
re forced to leave Pennsylvania?” She spoke as evenly as possible.
Leave her home? This house brimmed with Rowena’s memories, her mother’s laughter and caresses, her entire essence. A small walnut writing desk sat beside the bookcase. Mother had kept her household accounts there. Her throat tight, Rowena pictured her parent in the chair.
“All in good time, we’ll see what we must do to keep our home.” Father inhaled slowly. “No need to panic yet, and you’ve been stoic. I’m proud of you.” He pressed on her hand. “But your forward actions with the enemy put your life in danger. I won’t have it.”
Another tap sounded on the door. Sam, tall for his years, rushed in and handed a broadsheet to Father. The stable boy carried the smell of hay and horse into the library. “Me da brought this from town. He says you’ll like it, sir.”
Father snapped the sheet and scanned the words. He laughed, face brightened. “This is excellent news. Our navy has subdued Charles Town in the Carolinas. His Majesty’s ships bombarded their harbor. A decisive victory.”
“Oh, Father, I hope that it is.” Her heart lifted; dare she hope? She rose to read the words herself. Energy shot through her. She turned to the lad, who presided over the nags left to them. “Go into the kitchen and cook will give you a piece of the toffee I know she stashes.”
“Aye, Miss. Your servant.” Sam bowed then hurried off, his dark blond hair swinging.
Father leaned carefully back in his chair, holding the sheet high. “England does have the most powerful navy in the world.” He smiled broadly, something she was relieved to see. “After the second battle at Savannah last year, when we crushed the French and Revolutionaries, we should be optimistic. The Loyalists chased from the south into East Florida came up to aid in this battle.”
“I do pray we’ll remain victorious.” Perhaps they would defeat the rebels, but she took nothing for granted. She needed a plan, a direction. James was asleep upstairs after a long night out. The next time he left, she’d follow him. She intended to be part of the warfare and not lurk on the perimeter.
* * *
Rowena urged her lumbering pony to quicken its pace along the winding path through the forest, a half mile from their farm. The air cooled as the sun vanished. Was she foolish to do this as night spread over the landscape? A two quarter-moon weakly illuminated the maple branches she ducked to avoid. Loamy scents filled her nose, though did not ease her agitation.
James’ horse could be heard ahead on the path. For several nights, she’d waited until he’d sneaked from the house as the case clock struck midnight; then she’d headed for the stable. But she had it planned beforehand. After he rode off, she hustled for her pony’s stall.
She rode bareback, refusing her side-saddle. She’d borrowed a shirt and breeches from clothing left behind by her youngest brother, Andrew. Both garments hung baggy on her smaller figure—and she had to wear her own leather half-boots. Her springy hair was tied in a queue, doubled over because of the length.
Rowena had promised Sam a shilling to keep her actions with the pony, Lily, a secret.
An owl hooted, and Rowena sucked in her breath. She’d played in these woods as a child, and knew her way, but never in complete darkness. Shapes loomed out of the murk, like fingers reaching for her. She swallowed hard.
Finally, ahead, a flickering light broke the dark. Men’s low voices. She slowed her old pony, a mount left behind as useless by the rebels, and even her short legs dangled too long on Lily’s sides.
She dismounted and crept closer to the light, her pulse hammering, trying not to make any noise. Her brothers had taught her how to navigate in the woods as they played hide and go seek, along with their cousins. Including James, the one who could get rough and always had to win.
However, now she was alone and the thick forest closed in around her. Insects hummed, the crickets chirped; their clamor helped to disguise her footfalls.
From behind bushes, in a small clearing, she observed James talking with another man as tall as her cousin, but with a stronger build—broader shoulders in a black frock coat. A lantern sat on the ground between them, shedding light on their scuffed boots.
“Yer certain you weren’t followed? I thought I heard something.” The stranger’s hushed voice was clipped and deep with a hint of an accent. He glanced in her direction, his face in shadow under his cocked hat.
She hunkered down and shivered, as if she could feel his eyes boring into her.
“As well as I can be certain. I heard sounds, too. Spies and informants are everywhere,” James replied in an impatient whisper. “What is my next task?”
Envy rushed over her. She’d been right about her cousin. His ‘activities’ were clandestine. She yearned to be involved, to be of consequence. The idea excited her far more than dull ladies’ chat and sewing. She held her breath and concentrated on their exchange.
“…part of the campaign moves farther southwest,” the stranger said. “The British wish to wipe out the Spanish and colonial resistance.”
“Yes, I hear Captain Bird will ride into what’s called Kentucky. With Indian troops.” Shoulders stiff, words curt, James rarely looked the stranger in the face, as if he didn’t trust him.
“More will attack to the south. We must wrest control of New Orleans from Spain; that port’s important.” The foreign-sounding man crossed his arms. “And the New York Volunteers along with our navy are in the middle colonies. General Clinton believes we can control the south from Charles Town.”
She’d stewed this day over her brothers being in the perilous south—and no one had told her until her father’s admission in the library. But then, men joined to fight.
“I cheer our recent victory,” James said with little mirth. “Yet, I’d rather stay fairly near to this region. I have a mother to look after.”
Rowena leaned closer, the tangy bush leaves tickling her nose. His concern for her aunt gave her a brief warmth.
“Don’t be a lackwit,” the other man hissed as he kept scanning their surroundings. She couldn’t clearly see his face, only the movement of his hat. But his features appeared sharp in the feeble outline of lantern light. “Everyone has a mother. Family drags on a man’s duty.”
“Ah, you have reason to criticize me about duty?” James’ question burst out more like a challenge. “Family is important. My father and cousins fight for His Majesty.”
Rowena scraped a nail along a bush leaf. There was animosity between them.
“As they should, but the rebels could snatch yer uncle’s property if we don’t push them back. Yer family might have to flee or suffer worse repercussions.” The man thrust his hands on his hips. “Ye are needed in Philadelphia, not too far. To work as a courier, when required, and intercept enemy couriers.”
James grunted. “I’ll be there, if I must. I’m dedicated to the cause.”
“We’ll continue to scour the countryside for men to bring to our side,” the stranger said. “’Tisn’t easy anymore.”
“Many have given in and left. I attend the Refugee Club, where we dare to gather.” James shifted. “Did you bring what I requested?”
The stranger stepped to the side, to a thicket, bent down and returned with a canvas sack. “Here’s the flour and seeds I promised, but focus on our mission, bachgen. Meet with our contact at the Bachmann Publick House in Easton, tomorrow night. At eight of the clock. He has more details.”
“I’ll be at the Bachmann.” James shouldered the sack. He strode off, into the trees to the left, toward his horse.
Rowena grimaced again at the idea she and Father could lose their farm. And why had this stranger called James a ‘bachgen’? A word unknown to her. Her nose started to itch from the leaves. She rubbed, then covered her face with both hands. She wanted the man to depart before she crept back to her pony. Her nose tickled again. A sneeze was coming. She turned and crawled away, one hand squeezing her nostrils; but the sneeze broke through, too loud even muffled with her sleeve.
“Damn ei,” the stranger cursed with his foreign inflection. “Who is there?”
Should she run, hide? Rowena’s thoughts splintered. Footsteps started in her direction. Crouched low like an animal, she scratched her hands as she crawled farther through the brush. She slithered down into a ravine. Her heart drummed in her ears. The borrowed breeches nearly slipped from her waist. Among dirt and plants, she balled her body up behind a thicket of bushes, her forehead on her knees for a moment. She should have brought her father’s pistol.
The man’s footsteps crunched above her. Dirt sprinkled down. The lantern swung over the area in circles of light. Her skin goose-bumped. She heard his angry breaths. Rowena held her own as tightly as she could. The adventure she’d sought carried the real risk of her being killed.
Chapter Three
Twenty minutes seemed to pass as Rowena hid from her cousin’s mysterious contact, though it couldn’t have been much more than five. Her face pressed on her breeches, she dug her elbows into her hunched up thighs, her quiet breaths seeping between them. At last, the man with the burr of an accent walked away in long strides, boots whipping through the brush.
Head raised, she waited, a shaking hand pressed to her chest. In a jangle of bridle, she heard the man ride off, his horse’s hoof beats fading away. She heaved in relief. Slowly, she rose from her cramped position and swept dirt from her bottom. Her knees ached, and her mouth tasted as dry as old leather. A common nighthawk called a lonely auk, auk, auk. Crickets joined in with chirps; a night symphony.
Rowena rubbed her temples. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to be out in the field, fighting for the Tories. However, she refused to be discouraged. More experience was needed—and a pistol.
With careful steps, ears alert, her eyes probing the darkness, she retraced her way to her pony, praying that the stranger hadn’t found Lily and snatched the little beast.
Her Vanquished Land Page 2