Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Should I find another place to live, Aunt?” Rowena had no idea where that might be: a rough tent in the woods? She didn’t want to return to Easton yet. “I don’t wish to bring suspicion down upon you.”

  “No, dear. We’ll figure this out, take each day as it comes. I’m certain I am plenty suspicious myself by now.” Her aunt’s smile looked brave. How much had she endured in the midst of a war that now appeared to lean toward the rebel cause?

  “If you’re certain.” Rowena gazed about again. “I pray if the soldiers are watching, they’ll think I’m waiting for a tryst.” She twisted at the parasol’s handle.

  Sam lingered nearby. To show himself as harmless in public, and to be helpful, he went on frequent errands for her aunt, to the market stalls, green grocers, and such, so as not to arouse undue notice among the guards.

  A couple strolled by, then a family, enveloped in chatter and laughter. Children walked, ran or hopped along; one chased a dog.

  A tall man in a round hat, wearing brown, homespun clothes, strode toward them.

  Rowena’s chest tightened. “I think this is him.”

  “I’ll be right over here, my dear.” Her aunt trailed off onto a patch of grass. She tore off pieces of bread to feed the birds that fast gathered with delighted chirps and flaps of wings.

  The man slowed about four feet away. His dark eyes above chiseled cheeks assessed Rowena. “If I didn’t see Sam, I’d never have recognized ye.” Pritchard tipped his hat brim. “A pretty geneth ye make, Rowland.”

  Her face burned, but she smiled. Her stomach fluttered. She wouldn’t tell him how happy she was to see him safe. “It’s good to see you do wear something other than black.” Though she preferred him in black, sleek like a panther she’d seen illustrated in a story book. More heat seared her cheeks.

  “’Tis only another disguise.” He stared about, rocking in his now polished boots. “We must be careful at all times. Even the Quakers here were recruited by Washington to spy, though many prefer the loyalist side.”

  “That shouldn’t surprise me. Were you present for the entire battle at Connecticut Farms?” she asked quietly. Sam had already informed her that James was fine, and furious with her, so she didn’t inquire.

  Pritchard moved closer. “Aye. I watched ye at the battle. Shot a rebel, did ye? Careless, no?”

  “He intended to steal my horse.” She closed her parasol and gestured to the basket. A swift breeze tugged at her straw hat with the frivolous pink ribbon. “There is bread, cheese, apples, strawberry tarts.”

  Pritchard leaned his hips against the crate, arms crossed. He stared out over the river. “Ye managed well, though I almost intervened.” He retrieved an apple from the basket and bit with a crunch into the red fruit. “I’d swear ye were a boy with such courage, until seeing ye like this.”

  His nearness and words goose-bumped her flesh. She didn’t care to feel so off-balance.

  “Don’t become used to such girlish attire. Why can’t I fight as strongly as a man, and still be a girl, or rather a young woman?” She pulled out a hunk of goat’s cheese and nibbled on the creamy texture. “That was a rhetorical question.”

  “Aye, I know. Ye could spy in the guise of a woman, but yer mind is set no doubt.”

  “Women may have the guile or sweetness to get by, but not the freedom men possess in many situations.” She forced a shrug and would work on cultivating ‘sweetness’. “I grant I can use either when needed.” This idea appealed to her more and more. Why dismiss the fact she had this choice?

  “’Tis true. And dab on the lavender ye wear now when yer being the woman.” He appraised her again.

  She suppressed a shiver, half annoyed because she couldn’t figure out if this was another ploy. “You enjoy teasing me, don’t you?”

  “Aye.” He chuckled dryly, then nodded toward the river where a few boats floated by. “Are ye aware of what’s buried in this river? ’Tis called chevaux-de-frise, logs with iron tips. The rebels put them there to tear at ship’s hulls. When the British occupied Philadelphia, the rebels wanted to prevent our supply ships from coming upriver the thirty or so miles from Delaware Bay. They’d hoped to gore and sink them, but that rarely happened. Still, now ’tis a danger to both sides. Pilot boats must guide any ships upriver.”

  Lips shut, she used her tongue to cleanse the sticky cheese from her teeth so he wouldn’t see. “Now that the rebels are back in charge, they must suffer their own…”

  A rebel soldier walked by and eyed them as if called by her words.

  Pritchard put his arm around her and whispered, “Laugh like a giddy girl.”

  She trembled with his warm breath in her ear, his woodsy smell, the hug of his embrace. Her laugh came out brittle. She said aloud, “You are too forward, sir. My aunt will scold you.”

  “I’m watching you both, never fear.” Aunt Joan drifted closer as she continued to toss bread crumbs. Birds and ducks gathered around her as if she were a fairy queen. “Behave yourself with my innocent niece, sir.”

  Sam joined them as the soldier moved off. “I’m here to protect your virtue, Miss. Steadfast, as always.” He winked.

  “I’d rather strike a blow to both of you louts, so I’m in no need of protection.” Rowena wanted to push Pritchard away, but at the same time nestle into his warmth. Such a conundrum.

  “I dare to say, but if ye continue in this brazen manner, yer reputation will suffer if ’tis not ruined already.” He pulled back his arm, his sharp features serious. “Do ye not seek a husband some day?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was sincere or mocked her. “That is my business alone.” She swished the parasol. “You said you needed a language lesson. Is there another message in Greek, Mr. Pritchard? You might have given the dispatch to Sam.” Had the Welshman wanted to see her, too?

  “Aye, Rowena; I might’ve. I do have work for ye. And please, call me Derec.” He faced her and slipped a paper into her hand. His expression was unreadable. Why did she search his visage for something more?

  She must control her confusing attraction to this man she knew so little about.

  * * *

  In the musty stone cottage they’d gathered in before, Rowena laid the paper bearing her cipher on the rough-hewn table. It had taken her all of yesterday to unravel the mystery of the Greek words. Dressed again like a boy, she sat without having to manage with petticoats and hoops. A lantern flickered beside the note. Sam, Derec and James stared down at it.

  “This dispatch tells of rebel forces gathering again to protect Morristown in New Jersey. Their General Greene knows they’re outnumbered.” She kept her tone officious and massaged a bush scratch on her hand. She’d taken a great risk sneaking from her aunt’s home this evening. Sam had strolled boldly through the rear garden, the extra guard watching him, while she slipped off in another direction. They’d reunited at the stables to retrieve Kayfill.

  On the tip of her tongue, she decided she wouldn’t dare ask the courier’s fate from whom they’d obtained this report. The first courier’s bloody stomach flashed through her mind.

  “Aye, General Knyphausen plans a second attack after the failure of Connecticut Farms.” Derec plucked up the note. “Greene has over a thousand Continental troops, plus the hundreds in the New Jersey militia to oppose the Hessians.”

  “Connecticut Farms. Where you imprudently put yourself and Sam in grave danger.” James’ words cut through her. “But you never heed my warnings.”

  “Dear James, we must work together to prevail in this war.” She tried Aunt Joan’s soothing manner, instead of allowing him to provoke her.

  “I still think you should return to Easton, and Uncle Robert, before you’re hurt or arrested.” He averted his gaze, his shoulders hunched.

  She grinned over her irritation. “How kind of you to worry about me, dear cousin.”

  “We do worry, geneth.” Derec paced the hard-packed dirt floor, his face in and out of shadow, the note in his hands. He’d briefly smile
d at her when they’d greeted tonight and cast her a look now and then.

  She thought of his words at the river. The dare about her seeking a husband. The memory of his arm around her sent a heated tremor through her. She rubbed her nape, hard. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she couldn’t be seen as a simpering girl. The boy’s clothing sheltered her.

  “This message says more militia will join Greene’s forces at the Hobart Gap.” Derec snapped a finger on the paper. “The New Jersey Brigade, the New Jersey Militia, and the 2nd Rhode Island Regiment are to be present.”

  “There’s so many against us.” She regretted the defeated sound of her voice. To distract the men, she told them of Mrs. Chandler. “I had little notion she was a British spy, if the tale is true.”

  Derec stepped again to the table. “There is much most of us aren’t aware of. ’Tis Safer that way.” He crumpled a corner of the paper with his thumb. “I thank ye for the deciphering, Rowena.”

  “Hmmm, yes, thanks, Cousin. You’ve done all that’s needed.” James shrugged then snickered. “I remember the Chandlers. That is a shock.”

  “Mrs. Chandler’s doltish manner could be faked, sirs an’ miss.” Sam looked at each of them in turn.

  “The woman acted that way every time I saw her, even before the war. What if the rebels made a mistake? I pray she isn’t hanged no matter which it is.” She darted her gaze to Derec. Had she imagined his warmth at the picnic? Perhaps she’d only wished for it. “Do you take this information to General Knyphausen? Though he seems to have ignored our previous warning of the enemy’s strength.”

  “Nay, he did not. The General sent out extra scouts, but the farmers who sided with the rebels captured them. One scout was killed, sad to say.” Derec brushed a fingertip over her shoulder.

  A spark pinged through her. She swallowed a sigh. She’d rather face musket balls than try to understand her emotions.

  “We’ll get the message to the Hessian.” Derec stuffed the paper into his frock coat pocket. “He has many regiments to fight with him as well. The battle could start by next week as the troops accumulate. Sir Henry Clinton demands a second attempt on the rebels. And our forces under Clinton will try to lure General Washington and his troops up the Hudson, far from the Hobart Gap.”

  “I hope General Clinton prevails.” Rowena felt a surge of excitement at the upcoming fight. Lt. General Clinton was British Commander-in-Chief of North America—though some of his actions, such as holding back troops in the previous battle, confused her.

  James met her gaze, his eyes like gray stones. “I would appreciate it, dear cousin, if you and Sam returned to Philadelphia, and did not follow us to the Hobart Gap.”

  “I thank you for your concern, James. I’ll let you know what I decide for myself.” She stood after that saccharine reply, sour on her tongue. The truth she could be hanged dug deep into her thoughts. She touched her throat.

  “I strongly suggest ye stay away, Rowena. It does concern me, but I know ye have yer own mind.” Derec scrutinized her, his black eyes lingering, as if he wanted to say more. She had to look away.

  James snorted. “Wild and harebrained is my cousin.”

  “You don’t know me at all.” She kept her tone light, though her lips firmed.

  “She’s far from harebrained, James. Have a care.” Derec’s words scolding, he leaned on the old stone mantel. “I might officially join the battle. Need practice serving in a regiment.” He spoke this quietly, as if airing his thoughts out loud.

  Rowena almost choked; her deep reaction stunned her. She must follow now, to make certain he wasn’t killed—as if her presence might prevent his death.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hidden behind a copse of trees about thirty feet from the road, Rowena and Sam hunkered on a low slope of the Watchung Mountains. She peered through branches and leaves as an orange dawn rimmed the eastern sky. The landscape took on form, the sun chasing back the shadows with the creep of light. The lava-scarred and forested mountains, the gleaming rivers that converged at the Hobart Gap, presented a tranquil setting that soon could turn into pandemonium.

  “I feel a coward for malingering up here.” Apprehension at what might happen twisted through her. Would Derec be with the troops? She had no right to stop him. Just as James had no right to forbid her from coming. Yet she felt compelled to be present, to cheer on the King’s troops, to look out for the man she cared too much about.

  Sam stared at her, brows knitted. “What else could you do, Miss? Storm the ramparts with a sword an’ musket?”

  “If only I were trained to do such.” Loamy scents filled her nose as with nervous fingers she pulled her frock coat close; but soon, the warmth arose on this late June day—the 23rd, she surmised. She scrutinized the well-trampled road below. “If I had a cannon, I could fire on the enemy when they ride out to meet General Knyphausen.”

  Sam rolled his eyes, his words half-teasing. “An’ blow us both up?”

  “I’d have practiced. And I’d only shoot a small one.” She nudged him, though he was right. “James and Derec said General Clinton hopes that Washington, if the ruse works, will attack our right flank. Then General Leslie will bring his thousands of men up the Hudson to prevent Washington from slipping back behind these mountains.”

  “Aye, I pray we win this one.” Sam stroked Kayfill’s nose as he watched between the trees. The horse wore a new saddle purchased by Aunt Joan, after Captain Simpson’s men had removed the old one. “An’ your da don’t thrash me to death for bringing you here, again.”

  “I brought myself.” In some bizarre way, she again thought her vigilance at the impending skirmish would keep Derec safe. However, after the first battle, she’d seen how limited her usefulness was. She scraped a finger along the silver maple bark. Perhaps she was in over her head, as the men warned. She settled her hat more firmly on her pomaded hair tied in a queue. If the Hessian broke the rebel ranks, she and Sam could follow, and sneak through the gap toward Washington’s camp, and join in the hoped-for victory.

  “How does your family feel about the war?” she asked, anxious in the ensuing silence, though a few birds started to call: the tee-yee of a goldfinch. The air continued to warm.

  “My da wants what’s best for the small farmer.” Sam shrugged. “He respects your father, so would stand with him, I’m certain.”

  “And you said you want to breed horses? My father, he’ll be grateful, eventually, that you’ve stayed by me.” She wouldn’t dare say for protection. “Father could help with that. He knows breeders.”

  “Aye. I’d be most obliged if Mr. Marsh did. One such as me don’t expect to rise high.” Sam gave her a quick smile. “My brother could take on for good my work in your stable.”

  The clop of horses, jingle of bridles, and drumbeats sounded from below, to the far right along the road.

  Pulse jumping, Rowena fisted her hand and leaned forward. “This might be General Knyphausen.” From a canvas sack, she dug out the small telescope her aunt had provided and peered through the lens.

  Thousands of navy-blue coated soldiers in two columns rode into view as the night finished its retreat. Most wore black cocked hats, but several sported tall hats with brass plates. Cannon and supply wagons brought up the rear, along with more sounds of drums and fifes.

  Another line of men attired in lighter blue coats with white, buff or red facings advanced from the other direction, on foot and steed.

  Continentals burst out from behind an orchard in a sneak maneuver. Men shouted with threats and yelled orders. Gunfire boomed. Rowena gushed out her breath. She and Sam drew their pistols. Shades of blue and militia green crashed together in a storm of soldiers. Horses reared, grunting, with snorts and whinnies as they were slashed or felled with shot.

  She cringed. This repeat fight to breach the Hobart Gap seemed too much like the other, with more death and destruction. General Knyphausen must beat down the enemy this time.

  A sea of men and beasts clashed i
n attack after attack. Rife and musket balls flew, arms flailed, and bayonets pierced. Soldiers on both sides cursed and bellowed. Gun smoke fogged her view. She rose and squinted. Where was Derec?

  “This is so ugly,” she whispered. Bile burned in her throat. But what had she expected, a magical change from the last battle, a swift conquest?

  “I don’t know who is beatin’ who,” Sam said. “Should we stay or…?” She could tell he asked for her sake, not his.

  “Yes, I want to stay.” Her worry for the Welshman, plus her stubborn pride kept her in place. “Colonel Simcoe should be here with the Queen’s Rangers.” Unfortunately, Derec said that the Rangers also wore green, like many of the rebel militia, which would add to the confusion. Rowena fingered her pistol and held on to any hope. “I won’t force you to remain.”

  “Nay, I’m here beside you, like you say.”

  She adjusted the telescope but couldn’t tell if Derec was in the melee. The navy-blue swarm swept away the rebel blue from Connecticut Farms, the burned-out town from the first battle. Flags fluttered: the blue and red of the Union Jack and the Continental stars and stripes. Then the different colors of regimental banners.

  The sun inched higher.

  “We might be the greater force. We have to be.” She gulped down fear and crept to a trio of maple trees farther below on the slope to be closer to the road. A red-tailed hawk screeched and flew from the branches.

  “Miss, you should stay up here, with me,” Sam protested.

  Cannon discharged. The air shook with the roars and fogged with acrid smoke. The British looked to have six big guns. The rebels scrambled to fire their own cannon. To her shock, a man in somber clothing was handing out books in the chaos. He shouted something she couldn’t understand as he tapped the books.

  The soldiers ordered the man back, but he persisted. Was he mad?

  The rebels kept firing as a contingent backed northward, toward the gap; the King’s Army followed, weapons blazing. A bridge shattered from the cannon fire, its planks flung like spears into the sky. The British waded or rode in splashes through the Rahway River where the bridge had spanned and continued their attack.