“Indeed, they do.” Was the exhilaration Rowena gleaned from helping the war effort, her father and brothers, worth her killing anyone? She slumped in the chair.
James grunted and unbuckled the pouch. “Hopefully this information is useful.”
The door creaked. Sam scooted in and shut it. “He’s a well-muscled stallion, that one. Has strong legs and shoulders. Needed coolin’ off, but a shiny black coat. Must be three years of age by his teeth.”
“Glad to hear it. I think—I’ll give him to ye, Rowena. No more puny pony for you.” Mr. Pritchard swept out his hand like a king bestowing gold. “But keep him hidden from the rebels or they’ll confiscate the beast. Or recognize it.”
Here was her reward. She brightened in surprise. A horse was a treasure, though the way she’d obtained him discomfited her. “Thank you, sir.” She contemplated this unexpected gift. “What is Welsh for horse?”
Pritchard raised a brow. “’Tis pronounced ‘kayfill,’ but spelled differently.”
She forced a smile. “I’ll call him Kayfill, then.”
He smiled, too, turning his sharp face handsome in the lantern light. An odd warmth spread through her. She stared down at her fingers.
James handed the pouch’s papers to the Welshman.
Pritchard unfolded the documents with a crackle. “Damn ei. Oh, pardon, young miss.” He flipped through the pages. “’Tis written in no language I’ve ever seen.”
“A code?” James frowned over his shoulder. “We’ve deciphered codes before. That is an odd-looking script. They usually use numbers. The bastards have become trickier.”
Rowena got to her feet and joined them. She scrutinized the elegant script transcribed in Uncial, all capital letters. “It’s written in old Greek.” Excitement surged through her. Now she’d be of use after toiling through her father’s tomes. “To an extent, I can read Greek.”
Chapter Twelve
In Aunt Joan’s wide kitchen hearth, Rowena stoked the fire under the iron pan balanced on a trivet. She piled simmering coal under and around its sides; the coals blazed orange. Sam and her aunt hammered down the pewter dishes and tankards. He flattened his much faster, two pieces to Aunt Joan’s one. Clinks and clanks echoed off the brick walls. Their faces shone slick with sweat in the late morning light.
Rowena dropped pewter pieces into the searing hot pan. “Sam, where did you hide my horse? How do you know he’s safe?”
“Don’t fret, dear. The rebels shouldn’t be able to find the stallion.” Aunt Joan swiped moisture from her forehead with a handkerchief. “I directed this young man to a secure stable. Thank goodness I still have influential friends on both sides.”
“Aye, Miss, he’s safe. Wouldn’t want no one to touch Kayfill.” Sam’s brow knitted, he concentrated on smashing more of the pewter.
“Many loyalists have left the city, and I can’t blame them.” Aunt Joan rolled a shoulder then gazed at her with sympathy. “But, my, what an experience you had. How do you intend—if you do—to continue?”
“So far, I’m but a horse thief…” That part didn’t bother her as much as what happened to the horse’s rider—Rowena chased off the thought. “I need to be useful, Aunt.”
The metal melted into a liquid slivery mass. Rowena, wearing leather gloves, dipped in the mold Pritchard had given her; she caught the thick fluid, the shiny pewter in the ladle-like ends and clamped them shut. She tapped the mold against the pan’s edge to shake off the excess.
Sam scooped in a small ladle and poured the liquid into another mold Aunt Joan had found for him, with three places in a row to make balls of a smaller gage. Her mold made .68 inches diameter balls, for muskets. Sam’s created .51 for pistols.
He tapped. After a few minutes, they both dropped the balls with a splash into a bucket filled with water at the side of the hearth, where they sizzled. The completed, cooled shots twinkled in a dish like pretty silver spheres in the hearth light.
Such beauty to perform such harm.
“Whew. This melts fast, and hardens quickly, too.” Rowena sat back on her haunches, the metallic fumes stinging her eyes.
Sam’s had small pewter tails from where he poured it from the ladle. When cooled, Aunt Joan snipped off the excesses with a sprue cutter.
“Why do you have a ball mold, Aunt?” Rowena dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her kerchief.
“When the British were here, we, Charles and I, quartered a few officers for their convenience.” Her gaze clouded at her obvious worry for her husband. “One of them had his valet make ammunition, but he left his mold behind, no doubt forgotten.”
Rowena handed her aunt Pritchard’s mold-scissors. “I need to get back upstairs and decipher the Greek.” Mr. Pritchard would be anxious for the information they stole last night. She’d started early this morning, gotten a headache, and took this break. “Or at least keep trying.”
“I wish I could help with that, but ancient Greek is not something most ‘girls’ learned in school.” Aunt Joan laughed softly. “Dainty females are taught how to be useful to their husbands, or as graceful hostesses to other male relatives. A little math to keep accounts. Society doesn’t wish us to be too intelligent. I’m pleased your father has treated you differently.” Her mouth drooped. “During these troublesome events, more is expected of us all.”
Rowena stood and stretched her legs. “Father may regret his largesse now. I’m too much an independent miss.”
Sam smirked and nodded in agreement as he continued to form pistol balls.
Rowena laughed, a rare response lately, and left the basement, swiping sweat from her face with her apron. Amidst her thoughts of the mysterious Welshman—which she dismissed as mere curiosity—she felt again the pinch of regret over the courier’s death.
Mrs. Bailey stood on the upper landing as if preparing to descend the stairs. Tears welled in her eyes, her nose red.
“What is the matter?” Rowena asked in surprise as she mounted the steps and joined her.
“Oh, I just learned, me sister’s husband, who fought with the British…” The housekeeper sniffed loudly. “He were captured by the savages who slaughter for the rebels. They—scalped him. Then tossed his body in a river.”
Rowena groaned. She’d heard of such atrocities, the mutilations. At first neutral, now many Indians fought with the British, while others joined the revolution. “I’m so sorry.” She squeezed the woman’s broad shoulder. Then she hugged an arm around the stocky housekeeper. “We have to win this war. To make his death an honor for the country.”
“Aye, Miss. Too many has died. If we don’t win, my poor sister will never get her husband’s pension. And she has little ones to care for.” The housekeeper straightened her high-crowned mobcap and plodded down the stairs.
Rowena sighed; how would these war widows—Tory or rebel—survive? She hurried to her room, pulled out the documents from a small desk, and sat on the bed. Perusing the script once more, she jotted down notes, adding to previous ones.
The sentences she deciphered did not make sense. They were gibberish. Pritchard expected her to have unlocked the information tonight, but frustration consumed her. The musket ball interval hadn’t freed her jumbled thoughts.
She tapped the pencil against her bottom lip. There had to be a trick. She moved letters around in different sequences; an hour passed. Her head began to ache once more.
She set aside the papers and massaged the back of her neck. Then she snatched them up again, studying her notes, and finally, after more experimentation, switched every first and third letter in each word. The Greek words began to take shape. Her eyes widened, she gasped—she could read them.
She scribbled the choppy sentences into English. Could she change the direction of the war with this information?
* * *
Once again in the stone cottage, Rowena watched from the edge of her chair as Pritchard scanned the paper he held by lantern light. “General Knyphausen had word that General Washington’s a
rmy is much reduced by desertion and disease at Morristown. This dispatch warns Washington that the Hessian is on his way with six-thousand men to attack. And to have the New Jersey militia, and others, at the ready. It sounds their militia is strong.” He looked at Rowena with a roguish glint in his eye. “I admit I had doubts, but ye did well, geneth.”
James raised a skeptical brow, but Sam smiled in encouragement.
“Never doubt me, sir, nor you, dear cousin.” She’d suffered with her own doubts but gave them a crafty smile to hide that. “What about the part concerning William Rankin?”
“That be a confusion.” Pritchard waved the paper. “An officer named Rankin offers six thousand men to fight the rebels, but Sir Henry Clinton refuses to unleash them. Why?”
“There must be a mole in the British camp, to gather such information as this,” James said with a growl. “Good news for the rebels about Clinton’s refusal; but thankfully they won’t receive it.”
“What do we do now? Warn General Knyphausen,” she stumbled over the difficult name, though her aunt had told her about this Hessian who fought for the British, “about the militia? And he needs more men. Other couriers might have taken similar news to Washington.”
“Aye, ‘tis true.” Pritchard stood, folding the paper. “The New Jersey rebels are anxious to fight. Where a previous dispatch reported to us they were war-weary and would offer little resistance.”
“Then this news is vital,” she said, excited to be of such important help. “Should we leave now?”
“Nay, ye will return to yer aunt’s while James and I carry the information to Knyphausen.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
“Sir?” She glared at the Welshman, but half-expected the rejection. Attired in her breeches and frock coat, she was prepared for a rough, long journey. She patted the coat’s pocket where her muff pistol nestled. “I will not be dismissed.”
“Your returning is the only wise choice.” James slapped on his cocked hat. “You’ve done your part, Ro. Now go with Sam to—”
“The safety of Aunt Joan’s, like an obedient little girl?” She jumped to her feet, anger pulsing through her. “I dare swear that I won’t. I’m coming with you.”
Pritchard faced her, leaning too close. His black eyes sparked. “This could be a major battle. Ye’d be in grave danger. I know ye are clever, but don’t be foolish. Ye’d do better assisting in the background.”
She inched back, her chest heated, disturbed by his proximity. “I will follow you if I must.”
“Will you never listen?” James asked, his tone exasperated. He thrust both hands toward her. “Go back to the city or I’ll write Uncle Robert the truth of what you’re about here. You’re fortunate I haven’t done so sooner.”
“Does my father know how you are involved? Or your mother?” How dare her cousin threaten her.
Sam touched her arm. “You look a bit peaked, Miss. Are you sure you’re fit? Mayhap we should return to your aunt’s.”
Rowena stared at him, ready to protest. She was poised to argue with the two men as well. Sam quirked a brow, giving her a quick wink, where the others couldn’t see in the shadowed cottage.
She eased in a long breath. Tact coated in trickery was required. “Are you—referring to my indisposition earlier, Sam? I’m certain I’m well now.”
Then she clamped a hand over her mouth, opened the cottage door, and rushed to nearby bushes. The crickets stopped as she tried to make realistic retching noises.
James appeared at the cottage door with a lantern. “Sam, take her back to Philadelphia. She’s a child playing at being a soldier. And all these unwomanly activities have made her ill.”
“Aye, sir.” Sam slipped around James, untied Kayfill and brought the horse over to her. “Let us depart, Miss. You need to seek your bed,” the boy said loud enough for all to hear.
She wiped her dry mouth with her kerchief, sniveling. Kayfill sniffed her like a dog, then nudged her as if he caught her lie. She stroked his silky muzzle. “I suppose I must. But I strongly protest.” She struggled to keep from over-dramatizing her words.
Pritchard left the cottage, hands on his hips, watching her. “Are ye really sick?”
Did he think of her as a child, too? “I should not have eaten the spicy salmon my aunt’s cook prepared.”
Sam mounted the horse, and she climbed on behind him. “I will expect a full report,” she said, before fake-coughing. “My malady is all that keeps me from joining you.”
“Be careful, geneth.” Pritchard’s words sounded tinged with suspicion. “Whatever ye do, if not thought through, ye might rue the day.”
Her nape prickled and she looked forward.
“Return straight to your aunt’s, and that’s an order.” James held up the lantern, illuminating the frown in his long face. “Don’t dilly-dally.”
Rowena rubbed her stomach and groaned to distract her consternation. Were men never satisfied unless they could order women about? Or participate in wars? Furthermore, she’d never dillied or dallied in her life. She pressed on her throat. “If I didn’t feel so…bilious.”
“We’ll get you home safe, Miss.” Sam nodded to James, then urged the stallion away from the cottage, into the black night. “I do know you’ve other plans.”
“Of course. And thank you for your assistance just now.” Rowena bristled as she gripped the saddle edges. She glanced over her shoulder. No one would keep her from the action. She could at least witness a battle. Her need for adventure, to be part of the conflict, overrode the idea of more death. Or was it a need to prove herself to the others? She could hardly insist on being a part of the men unless she’d been in the middle of the conflict.
“Don’t ride far,” she whispered. “We’ll hide and wait for them to leave, then follow. I need the experience and want them to take me seriously. And mayhap I’ll find information to report to the British.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rowena brushed leaves from her clothes and hair, then scratched her side. She didn’t dare sound dainty and complain about two nights sleeping in the open. Thank goodness the June nights were mild, and the mosquitoes hadn’t yet stirred from their winter sleep. With a snap, she shook out then folded the blanket she shared with Sam.
“Mornin’, Miss…Mister.” He stood a few feet away, straightened his clothes and gave her a sheepish smile.
“I appear intent on breaking all of society’s rules.” She forced a light laugh. Her reputation was beyond sullied—as she’d slept beside her stable hand. Though she now considered him a dear friend, he was still a male. The first night she was discomfited, and he also protested; nonetheless, they only had the one cover.
Her stomach grumbled. Yesterday—long after they’d taken the ferry across the Delaware River, pretending to be farmhands returning a horse—they had bought bread and cheese at a dairy farm, but that food was consumed. Her fingertips were stained red from the wild strawberries they’d picked to eat; however, the radishes they’d foraged upset her digestion. She stifled a burp.
Sam led Kayfill down to a stream to drink. She hurried and did her business behind tall elderberry bushes, then joined him. The sun was barely on the horizon, the sky a strip of yellowish-pink. Above them, birds chirped in the sycamore and silver maple branches.
Rowena stretched her back. “Sam, do you think me muddleheaded to follow James? Am I putting you in danger that I shouldn’t?” She crouched, cupped her hands and sipped from the stream, cold and clear. She looked up at the lean, blond-haired boy. “You are only thirteen. I feel responsible.”
“Nay. I be much older since the war started, it do seem.” He chuckled and ran his hand along Kayfill’s black mane. “I’ll be fourteen soon. An’ I don’t mind the excitement of this journey.”
A journey that could lead to injury or death if she were honest with herself.
“Do you wish to turn back?” he asked. “I do worry for you, an’ your da will—”
“No turning back. We are both reckl
ess, obviously.” She splashed the stream’s chilly water on her face with a shiver and longed for warm water and soap to wash.
“Mr. Pritchard an’ Mr. Atherton are probably leavin’ the inn.” Sam settled the saddle blanket and hefted the saddle onto the horse’s back. He cinched the strap around Kayfill’s belly.
The two men had stayed in the nearby village last night. And they no doubt enjoyed a hot breakfast.
She and Sam mounted and rode close to the village. James and Pritchard departed the inn minutes later on horseback. Riding the back roads, past fields and farms, over hills and through pine-scented woods, they followed her cousin and the Welshman, keeping far enough away to remain inconspicuous.
Rowena’s thighs, buttocks, and back ached, sore from the previous day.
She strained to peer in the distance, over Sam’s shoulder. “Do you still see them?” The warming dawn air caressed her cheeks as she again pondered her decision. If there was a nasty battle, what help could she be to the British?
“Aye, that should be them, the two moving dots on the fringe of the trees.”
Pritchard and James followed Knyphausen’s troops as they rode northeast toward Morristown. From what she observed, Pritchard had spoken with the Hessian or his subordinates in the largest tent, and hopefully relayed the information she’d deciphered.
“Let’s close in on my cousin if we can.” She knew they were near their destination. She’d overheard from James that the Hessian general planned to take Hobart Gap, the pass through the Watchung Mountains, to reach the rebel encampment.
The mountains loomed on the horizon, three long ridges of basalt and forest. The taller Appalachian range lay to the west. Pritchard said that General Washington was camped beyond the gap with his Continental soldiers.
The sun rose a little higher, emphasizing the greens and browns of the landscape. Beyond the two men they followed, an army of dark-blue and red-coated troops moved on horseback—a just discernable red and blue caterpillar that undulated toward the pass. She and Sam closed the distance between them and their quarry.
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