He ambled out as quietly as he’d arrived, acting as if he didn’t care if she was male, female, or a goat.
Sam stared at her as if the physician had gouged holes in her face, or he also worried about her being unmasked. She felt her body deflate with a small reprieve.
The tent flap opened. “Captain, sir. Here’s the latest broadsheet. A messenger just delivered it.” A young soldier handed the captain a paper.
Simpson perused it and grumbled. “A rebel victory, of sorts. Already our retreat makes the press.” He slapped the broadsheet down on the barrel. “Damned Hessians. Damned rebels. Don’t the men of higher standing realize the King’s army is trying to rescue them from the rabble and back to civilized life?”
“My father believes the same.” Rowena strained to read the date: 7 June 1780. The headline: General Washington defeats Knyphausen, one of the rogues who want to deny our Liberty.
She sighed. Surely the rebels couldn’t win this war.
“Let’s get down to business, my lads. Are you spies?” Simpson’s mouth quirked at the corners as if now he was amused.
Her capability challenged, she bristled, but must grasp her equanimity “We’re merely Tories, serving the king.”
“You’re too young to be soldiers, though some your age often sneak into the ranks.” He tapped his knee, his gaze steady. “And why do you wish to serve the king?”
“I want my family to regain the respect we once enjoyed. My father and I believe in our legitimate government. This new government, and so-called liberty, will be chaos. As you just stated.” She sighed, recalling her parent’s tar and feathering. “These self-styled patriots resort to violence against those who don’t join them.”
“Ah, yes, many people wanted to remain neutral, but were forced to choose.” He nodded and stared off for a moment. “Are you boys hungry? We haven’t much, but I’ll be generous.”
“We would be most grateful.” Rowena crossed her legs to appear nonchalant. Her stockings were torn and filthy, her leather half-boots scraped. Would the captain notice her shoes were women’s? A blunder. Too late to tuck them in, it might arouse suspicion.
Private Nesbet left the tent again. He returned with forks and tin plates of beans and bread. Rowena and Sam ate slowly while the captain read more dispatches. The beans were mushy and tasteless, the bread dry, yet she savored the filling meal.
“Are you rebel spies, by any chance?” Simpson didn’t look amused now, his eyes sharp and assessing.
Rowena nearly choked. She clicked down her fork on the plate. “No, sir. I’ve just explained why I am with the loyalists.”
“One can never be too careful during a war.” Simpson touched a finger to the round silver piece he wore at his neck engraved with a royal coat of arms. A symbol of his rank.
“I suppose one cannot.” She scraped around the remaining beans on her plate, her appetite waning. “What happens to us now? Will my horse be returned?”
“We stole him from a rebel courier, sir.” Sam flicked his glance to her and back to the captain. “And Row—land deciphered the message he carried. It were in Greek.”
“So, you are very well educated, eh?” Simpson scrutinized her again.
Her stomach gurgled. “I come from a prominent family and had good tutors. I was honored to help our cause.”
“Where is your family, and who are they? People of consequence?” His gaze continued to assess her.
“I’d rather not say, sir.” She had the urge to protect her family.
“Hmmm? Then what was the message?” He splayed both hands on his wide thighs. “Can you reveal that?”
She nodded and explained the dispatch she’d deciphered. “But it appears General Knyphausen didn’t post enough scouts, even after the warning that the townspeople and rebel militia were still ready to fight.”
“Unfortunately, I must agree about the general. Or someone on his staff failed him.” The captain nodded slowly. “You young ones stopped a courier?”
“We and two others, whose names I won’t mention.” She couldn’t give away Pritchard or James, unsure of the protocol for spies. “What will the royal army do now?”
Simpson tilted his head to one side. “I’m awaiting orders. Who delivered the warning to the general?”
Rowena tensed once more. This man did not seem to trust them. The beans roiled inside her again. “A messenger…”
“He were a secret from us, sir,” Sam put in. He scooped up the rest of his food. She nearly smiled at his quick response.
“You’re involved in much secrecy, I daresay.” The captain’s voice hardened.
“Isn’t that normal during war?” Rowena took a deep breath. “We observed much during the battle. I made notes, sir.” She pulled out her notebook. “I thought if the militias could be stopped at their origin. One banner had a black square with gold stars and an anchor with the word Hope above; another had a horse’s head on a red flag, but I couldn’t make out the words.”
“The one with gold stars is the second Rhode Island Regiment. The red flag with the horse belongs to the 1st New Jersey Regiment. I have my own ‘observers’, boy.” Simpson smirked. “You put yourselves in grave danger, when experienced soldiers were present.”
Dismissed out of hand—again. She squirmed with annoyance at his failure to see her worth. Slowly, she set her plate on the ground. “Very well, sir. May we go now, retrieve my horse, and leave the camp?”
“On the contrary. I think you both should spend the night as our guests. I might have more questions. Such as, insisting you tell me who your accomplices are.” Simpson stood, with one last look, then turned to his aide. “Make the arrangements, Nesbet.”
* * *
Rowena wriggled on the bristly straw and stared up at the tent roof that ruffled in the wind. Her face still smarted, her body itched. Darkness draped around her. On occasion, men walked by outside, their lanterns a brief bob of light. Soldiers on other pallets snored or groaned in their sleep. Some farted; they must have all eaten beans. The smells ripe, she breathed through her mouth. She’d been treated as a prisoner and not a conspirator. Would worse happen tomorrow? They had to sneak out of here and find her horse.
She nudged Sam who stretched out beside her. “Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Aye. Was I wrong to talk of the courier? You readin’ Greek?” he whispered back.
“No, that should have impressed him; but it’s obvious it didn’t.” She rose up on both elbows in the darkened tent. Her feats of courage and intelligence had made the captain more suspicious. “Now I realize I must be cautious of our own side as well.”
“That captain will be more difficult tomorrow.”
She peered at Sam’s silhouette. “We must leave here, now—before I’m unmasked—and try to join the others.” She dared not speak Pritchard’s or James’ names aloud, in case any of the soldiers were rebel spies. Or would report to the captain. Deception reigned everywhere.
Flipping on her stomach, she felt along the edge of the tent wall. Gritty earth and taut canvas. “We should be small enough to squeeze under this.”
A soldier mumbled in his sleep. She waited a few seconds, then touched Sam’s arm as a signal. She left the pallet; her belly and knees scraped the earth as she slid out her hat then squirmed beneath the canvas. Her hair caught on the edge and she tugged her curls free. With a glance around she crawled out. Sam wriggled out after, scraping more dirt.
She listened for men; her own racing heart almost drowned out the hum of insects. Stars speckled the night sky. “Now to find Kayfill.”
“Them horses will have a guard.” Sam brushed dirt from his coat sleeves. “An’ pickets will be farther out, to guard the camp.”
“We must distract the horse sentry, as soon as we locate where the animals are.” She picked up a stone and shoved it into her breeches pocket. They both stood and slunk around the tent. With cautious steps, she slipped with Sam on her heels between canvas dwellings: squat outlines in
the starlight.
A sentry paced by holding a lantern, and a rifle with fixed bayonet against his shoulder. The light cut a low swath across the tents. She and Sam huddled behind a tree like furtive squirrels. She could barely swallow. When the soldier passed, she fingered the rough bark and listened. Horses snorted and whiffled to their right.
On tiptoes, and hunched over, they made their way toward the sounds.
Several horses were tied to a rope strung between trees. A soldier stood nearby, yawning.
Rowena tried not to panic. The beasts all looked similar in the dark.
“I see him; I recognize his head and he’s blacker than black.” Sam indicated the horse on the left end of the group. He probably was the last mount to be secured.
“Throw this stone near the guard.” She fished it out and pressed the rock in his hand. “I’ll untie Kayfill and head for the woods.” She gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Be very careful.”
“Aye, might work. You be careful, too, Rowland.” Sam swung back his arm and lobbed the stone toward the guard. Breath held, she bent low and scurried for the horse.
Chapter Fifteen
The stone Sam threw landed with a plop behind the sentry. A glowing lantern hanging from a nearby tree illuminated the soldier. He snatched his rifle from his shoulder and whipped around, his back to the horses. “Who goes there? Identify yourself.”
Rowena rushed to Kayfill, who whinnied in recognition. She prayed this wouldn’t draw the sentry’s attention. She untied the stallion, her fingers clumsy with trepidation. The other horses snorted and shuffled their hooves.
A second stone thumped beside the sentry. “Halt! Show yourself.”
Sam was still in action.
The guard distracted, she led the horse away, pulling at the reins. Her breath heaved, her boots scuffled over the ground as she hurried for the darker shadows of the forest.
“Halt, you!” a raspier voice cried. A picket lurked in the gloom farther out.
Gunfire! But not in her direction. Had the horse-guard shot Sam? She gulped down her terror and ran faster, Kayfill pacing beside her.
In the cooler woods, she leaned against a tree and gasped. Kayfill moved close and rubbed his head along her body. “Oh, pray for Sam, my friend,” she whispered.
Heavy footsteps swept the brush in her direction. “Stop thief, or I’ll shoot.” The picket chased her.
She moved on, tripped over a fallen log, then used it to mount Kayfill, bareback—of course the saddle had been removed.
Her legs gripping the horse’s sides, she steered him deeper into the trees. Should she wait or flee? Her body felt torn in two. Shouts came from the camp.
The crack of more gunfire, closer this time. She hunched over on the horse.
A light patter veered among the trees, disturbing plants. Then a scrabble of foot thuds. Sam or an animal? Or the soldiers?
Footsteps closer, then hands suddenly grabbed her ankle. She flinched. A man snarled, fingers digging in. “I’ve got you, boy.” The damn picket!
She jerked her leg to get free. “Let me go; you’ve made a mistake!” Her heart felt stuffed into her throat.
Musket raised, the picket snatched Kayfill’s bridle. Everything was outlines in the deep shadows. “You’re coming back to camp.”
Another rustle from behind the soldier. The picket turned his head. An arm whipped up and slammed a pistol into his skull. The man stumbled and dropped his musket.
Kayfill tossed his head and crabbed sideways. Rowena gripped the reins as she strained to get the horse under control while trying not to lose her seat.
“’Tis me.” Sam huffed. He kicked the musket aside and scrambled on behind her. “Let’s go.”
The picket had fallen to one knee, rubbing his scalp. “Wait! Stop!”
She urged the horse along a dim path and took comfort from the boy’s warm presence at her back.
Continued cracks of gunfire resounded in the distance; she swore musket balls whizzed too close to her head as branch leaves snapped.
They zigzagged through the forest, the tangy scents of budded trees, a spot of freshness as she inhaled deep to steady herself. The path wended past brush and maples, barely discernable in the moonlight.
She slowed the horse. If she could, she’d have hugged the boy. “I’m so relieved you’re safe.”
“Aye, an’ you.”
“We need to find Mr. Pritchard.” She wanted to know if he was safe—as well as James.
“Keep goin’, away from that camp,” Sam insisted. “We’ll save ourselves first.”
Additional gunfire and shouts came from behind them. Would soldiers pursue them on horseback? She bent low, her horse’s mane swept across her nose as she urged Kayfill on. Sam clung to her waist, pressed against her back. Several minutes later, the hoofbeats and musket shots faded, as if the soldiers had given up. She blew out her breath.
Kayfill carried them through the gloom and shadow of the woods, the moon a dim lamp in the sky. The forest opened up, and they rode into a field of high grass that brushed her legs. Rowena’s thighs started to ache from their grip on the horse’s sides.
They rode on, leaving the camp far behind, through a copse of trees and into a second field.
A farmhouse loomed, a barn not far off. She slowed Kayfill again and glanced back. No sounds of horses or men. Her body sagged with exhaustion. “Let’s sneak into that barn, to spend the night. We need the sleep.”
“Aye.” Sam slid off the horse. “I’ll scout inside an’ make sure ’tis safe.”
* * *
Rowena crawled from the loft and picked hay from her hair and clothes. What she would give for a soft, feather mattress. Sam already stood at the barn door where light seeped in through gaps in the boards. Had they slept too long?
She searched the tack room, found a horse blanket, then left a coin on the top of a stall enclosure to pay for it. Folded up, the wool would provide a cushion for her to sit on Kayfill’s back. “We need a saddle, but I haven’t enough money to ‘procure’ one, and I’d hate to steal from these people.” Her stomach growled, and she massaged her bruised inner-thigh muscles.
“What if they’re rebels, these farmers?” Sam eased open and peered out the barn door. She joined him. Dawn started to brighten the sky over the mountains in the distance.
She led Kayfill from the barn, the warm scent of hay and animals replaced by a clear breeze. Clucks followed her out. A rooster crowed. “We could ask the chickens whose side they favor.” Her attempt at humor didn’t cheer her.
“What are you about?” a young girl carrying a bucket rushed toward them; her knees flapped her long skirt and apron. “Did you do thievery in our barn?”
With a tip of her hat, and Sam’s assistance, Rowena quickly mounted Kayfill; the blanket rumpled beneath her. “We are but two travelers. I have left recompense inside.”
“All is well, Miss.” Sam also tipped his hat to the girl. He hopped on behind Rowena. “We give you good morn, pretty maid.”
The girl set down her bucket, turned and rushed toward her house.
Rowena dug her heels into Kayfill’s side and they cantered across a field before the girl reported intruders to her family. Nowhere was safe, everyone a suspect. Both sides might be after the two of them since their escape from Captain Simpson’s camp.
Unless told differently, she’d keep her ‘associates’ a secret.
They kept riding, out of view of the farm. “You’re becoming quite debonair,” she teased to soften her racing heart, slowing the horse to a trot. “‘Pretty maid’.”
“Aye? I hope that word means you approved.”
The indigo sky changed to cerulean blue as the sun inched up. The spring air began to heat.
Riding on, Rowena slumped on the horse, her muscles in protest again. She wasn’t certain what to do next. Should she continue with her scheme to spy, to delay couriers…who then might die? Or stay with decoding and leave the danger to the men?
She
prayed the war would end soon. So much waste. She might be in over her head; she’d nearly been captured—but she hated to give in; or suffer her cousin’s taunt for being right about her weakness as a mere woman.
“Thank you for aiding me last night,” she said.
Sam gave a loud exhale. “I hated to strike our own soldier but had no choice.”
Would the British pull back, as General Knyphausen did, or fight on? From what Pritchard said, most of the conflict had moved south through the middle colonies, as far as South Carolina and Georgia.
“Where should we go from here?” Sam asked. “To General Washington’s camp an’ destroy the Continental army?”
“If only I had that power. I dearly pray that Pennsylvania isn’t about to fall completely to the rebels.” A shiver wriggled through her. “For now, we’ll head for the Delaware River. And if we’re not stopped, back to my aunt’s home to—to reorganize.” With constant looks around, they rode through meadows that bloomed with fragrant wildflowers and scatterings of trees toward the great river that separated the colony of New Jersey from Pennsylvania.
A beautiful land ripped apart by two factions who wanted to possess it, to install their own form of government. After witnessing a battle, she surmised that wars should be avoided. Intelligent compromise should rule the day.
She scratched at her itchy scalp just below her hat. How could she locate Pritchard and James, if they were still alive? Banish that thought. She needed to discover what the British planned to do after the failure at Connecticut Farms. She also wouldn’t mind hearing the Welshman’s burr of a voice… Fie, she was growing daft.
* * *
In her rear parlor, Aunt Joan handed Rowena a brass-barreled pistol. Four days had passed since the battle, and yesterday she and Sam had arrived, bedraggled and exhausted, in Philadelphia.
Her aunt traced a finger over the walnut stock. “We loyalists were supposed to turn in our weapons. But I hid this where no one could find it.”
Her Vanquished Land Page 11