* * *
The following afternoon as she walked beside their cook, Rowena gripped her basket close. The town of Easton, a grid of low stone buildings, tucked at the confluence of the Delaware and Lehigh Rivers, had become a rebel stronghold. She kept her eye out for any blue-coated Continentals patrolling the streets. The stink of horse manure—and perspiration when people passed close—thickened the air.
Cook trotted closer to her, their skirts brushing, as she fidgeted with her larger basket. “I should’ve come alone, Miss.” Mrs. Johnston touched Rowena’s arm. “The soldiers oft pay no mind to the likes of me. But I stopped bringing my granddaughter since this town’s now a place of unrest and rabble-rousing.”
“I’ll be fine, I told you.” Rowena had insisted on coming; she sought details of the tavern mentioned to her cousin by the stranger. “I thought women and children were treated better than Loyalist men and I’m mostly viewed as a child.”
With her round freckled cheeks and turned-up nose, she looked younger than her years. Then she remembered, with a slight shiver, the leering rebel who’d helped tar her father. She might bump into him here on the street. The basket rustled in her hands.
“You’re a stubborn one, if you don’t mind me saying, dear,” Cook huffed, but her scold was full of affection.
“As I’m often told.” The two women passed the Great Square, the center of the town. Rowena observed Easton’s buildings that radiated out from this square. She’d scampered here in her earlier years with her brothers and cousins—when life seemed normal. The courthouse sat at the center, and the Farmer’s Market, though it looked deserted today. Rowena twitched. She’d once enjoyed visiting the market with her mother.
Wagons and carts pulled by old nags or mules rattled past them. All the best horses were commandeered by the army. Women hustled by in plain gowns and caps or straw hats, a few carrying baskets or canvas sacks. One matron, who was a former friend of her mother’s, glared at Rowena as if her presence desecrated the town.
Rowena gave her a tight smile. Had she ever felt welcome here? Mayhap when she was too young to recall. Despite this cruel scrutiny, she hid a yawn after her eventful night with little sleep. Now that the immediate danger had dissolved with the light of day, her courage returned; she rippled with exhilaration. She’d escaped the dark stranger. He appeared to be on their side, though he gave her an uneasy feeling.
“The market looks closed. Where shall we go?” Rowena’s gown and petticoats swept against her legs as she moved. She missed the freedom of breeches, the absence of the confining stays. At least her kid gloves masked the scratches on her hands.
“We’ll shop in here, Miss.” Cook directed Rowena inside the greengrocers. The shelves and baskets sat empty or sparsely stocked.
Rowena glanced about, filled with dismay. Had matters gotten this bad?
“Sadly, the soldiers take most of it,” Cook told her in a whisper. “We should have come earlier.”
The elderly owner in his stained apron scowled at them. “I once respected your father, Miss Marsh,” he said. “He’d do well to change sides.”
“Leave the child be.” Mrs. Johnstone pointed her sharpened widow’s face at the man.
“My father is being true to his original allegiance, and he continues to deserve respect, sir,” Rowena couldn’t help replying. Cook shook her head as if to shush her. They placed rhubarb, wilted lettuce, asparagus, and a jar of sauerkraut in their baskets. The kraut wasn’t her favorite food, but they must make do.
“’Tis the wrong allegiance, Miss,” the proprietor groused. “He will regret it.”
“I suppose you find his money repugnant as well?” Rowena snapped the coins on the counter. She’d hate to contemplate the further harm the rebels might inflict on her father, or any of them.
“You’re fortunate I allow you to shop here.” He quickly plopped the coins into his till. “That might change, especially after you took a broom to a soldier.”
“Many Loyalists opposed the Stamp Act and high taxes, too.” Rowena bristled at his words. Cook smiled at the man and urged her back out onto the street.
“Have a care, girl. We must be wary with what we do or talk of here.” Cook hustled her away from the grocers.
“You’re right, I daresay.” Rowena blew out her breath. She hated the town’s menacing atmosphere. “I might have ruined the shopping for you, Mrs. Johnston.”
“Just smile and nod and pay these fools no mind.” The older woman patted her arm.
Rowena swallowed a retort and returned to her purpose for coming. “Isn’t the Bachmann Publick House down this direction?”
“La, Miss. Why would you need to know that?” Cook’s eyes widened under her mobcap, her small mouth pursed like a prune.
“I’m curious. My journeys into town have never included tavern visits, of course.” She tried to sound nonchalant.
“As well they shouldn’t. And you must not start now, Miss.” Cook arched her thin eyebrows. “Let’s hurry to the dry goods shop for your aunt’s embroidery thread, we’ll check the baker’s for bread, and then we’ll leave for home.”
Two soldiers in blue coats with red trim and cuffs strutted past them, their scrutiny intrusive. “They allow the Marsh chit into town?” the one with a scar on his cheek said. He spat on the ground. The men swaggered into their path. “Our captain covets Mersheland Farm. It is a fine location.”
“Good day, sirs.” Rowena bit down on her lip to quiet a sharp reply. She must learn diplomacy, as Cook said; yet struggled to quiet her tongue. “I’m certain you will permit us to pass.” These rogues hadn’t even given her the dignity of addressing her as “miss” and they’d demoted her to a chit.
“We should marry her off to a good patriot or take her innocence for ourselves.” Scar-cheek, a fairly handsome man with an ugly grimace, moved closer.
Rowena’s pulse trebled in her throat. She clutched the basket to her chest and stretched as tall as her short stature allowed. “Let us pass, and I’ll forget your insult.”
“Leave her alone; such rudeness to a young lady shows your bad breeding.” Cook spoke in a scolding-mother tone. She grabbed Rowena’s arm. “My husband gave his life at Saratoga. You have your pound of flesh.”
“Tell your cousin James we will expose him,” the pock-faced one said. He leaned close enough that Rowena felt his foul breath.
She resisted shrinking back, almost shouting if I were a man…!
“Come along, Miss.” Cook dragged Rowena around them.
The men chuckled, made mocking bows, then continued on their way.
Rowena’s blood boiled along with a spark of fear. To her chagrin, she realized men no longer viewed her as a child. She refused to be intimidated, but did they suspect James was a spy or some sort of informant? “Let us hurry to the tavern,” she whispered when well past them.
“After what just happened?” Mrs. Johnston stared at her, alarm in her eyes. “I need to get you safely home.”
“Please. I must do this. It’s down this street, isn’t it?” Rowena crossed the dusty road with Cook on her heels.
“Your father will not approve.” Mrs. Johnston glanced about as if in dread that Father might be following them. “My brother used to drink at the Bachmann, before the troubles grew worse.”
“It seems we Loyalists aren’t welcome anywhere now,” Rowena muttered to herself. “We cannot let these rebels rule us.”
From Church Street, the spire of The First United Church of Christ scraped the sky. They no longer worshiped there due to the animosity. Her mother would have been heartbroken. Rowena hurried to the corner of Fermor and Northampton Streets.
Cook raised her chin. “There it is. It’s boasted they read their Declaration of Independence in that evil establishment.”
Rowena studied the three-storied stone building, elegant in its wicked stance. Two dormer windows and two chimneys poked out from the roof. Why would the dark stranger send her cousin to a rebel tavern to meet
someone? But maybe that’s how spies operated. The soldiers’ words pricked her like pins. Steal their property? She must come back tonight to know what’s afoot, to be a part of it. She might insist that young Sam accompany her.
* * *
Sam shook his head as he inspected Rowena as they mounted their animals outside the stable after night fell. “Pardon me, Miss, but why don’t you sew up them clothes to fit?”
“I made my best effort.” She nudged Lily, named long ago by her mother, down the dark road to town. With a glance over her shoulder, she breathed easier that the house stayed quiet, then stuffed the large shirt firmer into her breeches. She also wore an old frock coat from one of the footmen no longer in their employ. Thank goodness he’d been slight. She’d tied strips of material around her small breasts. “I’m not very skilled with a needle, though I can knit somewhat. But I could hardly ask my aunt to do this alteration.”
He chuckled, riding beside her on an old donkey her brother William had named Trent, after a stubborn tutor he disliked. “Aye. But I thought all girls was skilled at stitchin’. You don’t act like no girl, hardly ever, Miss.”
She stifled a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment, whelp.” She liked Sam, even as he grew bolder with age. He’d been their stable boy for three years and was a hard worker. His father shoveled manure on the streets of Easton and his mother took in laundry to support their six children. Sam had said his mum was breeding again. Baby after baby. Rowena wasn’t sure she cared for that sort of future.
She adjusted her cocked hat, lined with extra material to fit and most of her hair stuffed inside. So far, the only sounds were insects in the pasture, night birds and the slow clopping gait of their animals on the road. The breeze blew cool, carrying the rich scents of the fields.
“Your da will have me hide if he finds out,” Sam said, a frown now on his pale, triangular face, lit up by the lantern he held. However, mischief glinted in his eyes.
“He won’t, if we’re careful. I made certain he and my aunt were asleep.” She gripped Lily’s reins, straining to sound confident. “I’m a young man, with my servant, out for a drink.”
“You could sneak about as a woman; I’ve heard of some who have.”
“Not at this hour. I want the freedom of…riding at night like we are. No one would question two young men together. Or if I entered a tavern I would not be under scrutiny, the stares a woman must suffer.” She enjoyed the daring of being other than who she was, the ease of movement in clothing and manner.
“We’ll be up to our ar—knees in rebels. This idea’s risky.” Sam held the lantern closer to her. He didn’t sound afraid, only honest. “I pray you do pass for a ‘young man,’ Miss. And people might know me.”
“It doesn’t mean you weren’t promoted, or serving another house as well.”
Rowena was having second thoughts the nearer they came to the dim lights of Easton. This was a risky endeavor, but her pride kept pushing down her anxieties. The treatment by the soldiers that afternoon made her more determined to assist her country, avenge her father—and serve her king.
Though she agreed that the king should treat these colonies with less oppression, why couldn’t they come to a rational agreement and stay together as a country?
When they entered the town, the streets were fairly quiet yet the hair on Rowena’s nape prickled as if someone watched. Laughter and voices filtered out from the tavern as they reined in beside the place. Lanterns were lit on the portico and the side wall. She touched the pocket of her frock coat where the small protection of her mother’s muff pistol was tucked.
Sam dismounted, and she hopped off before he could help her. “What does you hope to do here?” he asked.
Her chin itched, and she almost scratched where she’d rubbed coal dust to give herself a faint hint of a beard. “I want to hear the latest gossip, to see who James meets with. I should be a part of our fight.”
“Your brothers made you too much like ’em, Miss. Too brash, if you pardon me again.” Sam shrugged then tied the pony and donkey at the far end of the hitching post, which was draped in shadow. Six horses and two carts were hitched nearer the tavern.
“So I’ve been told. Now call me Master Rowland, like we agreed.” She tugged her hat low, took a deep breath and ascended the stairs on the building’s left side. When Sam joined her, she prayed for courage—turn back, her common sense cried. Still, the thrill of these actions appealed. She lifted the heavy door latch.
A low hearth fire crackled directly in front of her. Tables with benches were scattered on the wide pine plank floor. Men sat at a few of the tables, the place half crowded. They puffed on clay pipes and drank from pewter tankards or sipped glasses of wine. Candles flickered from sconces, casting a weak light in the room.
Smoke burned Rowena’s eyes and body odor wrinkled her nose. Some of the conversation stopped. Many of the patrons stared over at her. Three rebel soldiers at another table scrutinized them.
A shiver crept up her spine. She had no idea how to behave in such an establishment.
“Care to sit here, Master…Rowland?” Sam indicated a corner table.
Perfect. She took a bench near the wall, her back against the mahogany paneling and scanned the room for James.
A woman in a frilly cap and apron walked over. She had fleshy lips and a receding chin. The owner’s wife? “What is your pleasure, young sir?” She raised a brow as if she suspected Rowena was too young to be there without a grown man.
Rowena had practiced a deeper voice, but Sam jumped in: “Two ales, Mistress.”
The woman left, and Rowena gestured for Sam to sit across from her. “James isn’t here yet,” she whispered. She might have made a huge mistake, though her first time in this males’ domain tugged at her curiosity even as her entire body remained on alert.
The other customers went back to their prattling, grumbling about Charles Town, the many patriots taken prisoner, and the damned red coats. A few toasts to their mantra: “Join or die.” With men crying, “Huzzah!”
Join or die, that’s what she and her father hated; they were given no choices. She huffed out her breath. The ale was served, and she tasted the fruity yet bitter malt flavor. The brew warmed her insides and she tried to relax. Sam indulged in his tankard, his gaze flitting to hers every so often.
“Colonel Buford’s moving south with the Virginia detachment,” a man at the next table said before being shushed.
The tavern door opened and James strode in. She stiffened on the bench, head lowered, and fingered the cravat tied around her neck. Sam stared into his brew. The soldiers observed her cousin, mumbling to one another.
James crossed to the opposite side of the taproom and sat at a small table beneath a window. Soon, a short, pudgy man joined him, seemingly from out of the shadows. The two bent their heads together and spoke low. The serving woman lumbered over and took their order.
“We can’t hear them very well, Miss…Master,” Sam whispered.
“I think I know that chubby fellow. A solicitor, a past friend of Father’s. I thought he sided with the rebels.” Rowena sipped more ale as she and Sam leaned close to one another. Her stomach churned. “A Mr.—let me think.” Why would her cousin be meeting such a man? Was the solicitor a secret loyalist, or was James…? No, that was impossible.
One of the rebel soldiers rose and stepped over to James’ table. The chubby man spoke in friendly tones to him.
“And you’re associating with Mr. James Atherton, are you?” The soldier slurred his louder words, legs spread, arms crossed.
Rowena tensed.
“Just a friendly business arrangement. To do with his family’s estate.” The chubby man grinned up at the intruder. His name came to her, Mr. Long.
“It best be to the Patriot’s advantage.” The soldier didn’t hide his warning. He turned to James. “I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Good eve to you, Sergeant.” James gave the enemy soldier a half-smile and slight dip
of his head.
Rowena gripped a hand around her tankard. Was her cousin betraying them, or something else?
James and Mr. Long bent close again, still whispering, yet their casual gestures and laughter seemed forced, like in a play.
Suddenly, the same soldier ambled over and paused at their table. He loomed over them, stinking of beer. “Two young ones here. Have you joined the militia, my boys?”
She squirmed on the bench at his challenging tone. He blocked James’ view and she prayed her cousin wouldn’t attempt to look around and see her. Sweat formed under her cravat. “We…we are not quite old enough, sir.”
“See that you do when you are.” The man finally staggered away, back to his cohorts.
“We should leave,” Sam hissed. He gulped down his ale.
Her thoughts switched back to her cousin’s actions, but she was anxious to leave. “James will hear about this meeting from me.” She stood, anger sizzling over her upset, dug in her pocket and clicked a few coins on the table.
“Not here, I warrant. Please.” Sam swept his hand for her to go before him, his shoulder almost even with hers.
“I’m not that heedless.” She headed for the door. Out in the cool air, she hurried down the steps. Her thoughts in a muddle, she approached her pony. Was James double-dealing, untrustworthy to both sides? She wanted to shout at her cousin, demand answers.
“Oh, James, how could you do this?” she muttered. Or was Mr. Long the deceitful one?
“I cannot believe Mr. Atherton would snitch,” Sam said.
The darkness appeared deeper. One of the lanterns that hung on this side of the tavern had blown out. Her nerves rattled, she reached to untie Lily. An arm wrapped around her shoulders. Gulping in shock, she was dragged into the blacker shadows of the adjacent building. She jerked and thrashed. Sam gasped in protest.
“What are ye doin’, speakin’ of Mr. Atherton, Bachgen?” an accented male voice asked. “Why are ye listening in on him?” The cold tip of a blade prodded her throat.
Her Vanquished Land Page 3