Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  A man in black rode with the Hessians. Her heart leapt. Might he be Derec?

  Rowena fixed the telescope on him. She couldn’t be certain. The scope lowered, her knuckles pressed to her mouth, she wanted to run down the hill to see for herself. The man in black vanished among the soldiers. Was he still on horseback or…

  So many dead littered the ground. Such a waste of lives, fathers, brothers, and sons—the Welshman might have joined those killed. She quivered and prayed for the ‘patriots’ to raise a white flag, to surrender.

  A rebel militia scattered into the hills, closer to her position, firing at the British. She hunched down, pistol raised, her hand shook. If she shot another rebel, they might come after her and Sam. Yet she aimed, her finger on the trigger, just in case.

  The British rode further north, pushing the rebels back. They vanished from her sight.

  “We must follow, Sam.” She hopped to her feet and ran up the hill to the copse. “Hurry.”

  Sam grimaced, but they mounted Kayfill and galloped down onto the road, then north. She kept her eyes averted from the dead. After about four miles, she saw that the armies had gathered in the next town of Springfield. Even with the spyglass, at this distance the troops were like toy soldiers on the field.

  “Ride closer,” she urged. “We might make it through the gap this time.”

  “You certain you want to put yourself in the line of fire?” He looked at her then reluctantly complied.

  The Hessians fought off the rebel surge. The rebels pushed back again. Then, as if in a fit of anger, the King’s Army lit torches and touched them to the buildings. Wood sizzled, the town soon on fire. A church was eaten up by flames—more needless destruction and endangering of civilian lives.

  Stray balls whizzed by her. Rowena ducked, darting her gaze about. She could be on the ground, fighting for life at any moment.

  “We should pull back a bit,” Sam said, gripping the reins. Kayfill snorted and stomped his front hoof, as if he too disapproved of war—and being shot.

  “I wish I could be of more help.” Again, she suffered the torment of not fitting in anywhere. Perhaps she should have remained in Philadelphia, yet if the British were victorious today... She’d be a part of their triumph. And Derec, she’d be there for him. She strained to catch a glimpse of a man in black. “It’s such a muddle, I’m not certain who is winning. Those poor soldiers.”

  “At least let us ride behind them bushes. Please, Miss.” Sam steered the horse to cover on the roadside and they dismounted to watch through the leaves.

  Her breath rapid, she said, “I do believe there’s more rebel militia than was expected, the same as last time.”

  The pungent stink of burning wood and licking flames swirled into the air. The sun rose even higher. She and Sam huddled as the battle raged on. Hours passed. Should they retreat? Her legs felt frozen. The sun lowered to the west, a wavy, yellow disk in the thickened smoke.

  She rubbed her sweaty face and drank tinny-tasting water from their tin canteen. Earlier, they’d eaten biscuits provided by her aunt. The food sat like rocks in her stomach.

  Militiamen fired constantly from the woods that fringed the road, felling British soldiers from their mounts. If she only had a rifle…but how could she change any of this without killing? Slaughter was the horrible price you paid in war. A sob erupted.

  Sam looked at her uneasily. “Are you…”

  She waved him off and strained to stifle her emotions. Then she craned her neck for another sign of the Welshman.

  Evening descended, and gunfire continued to crack. Springfield’s buildings popped with spurts of orange flames. Soldiers from both sides lay dead in patches of crimson. The coppery stench carried to Rowena. Nausea roiled her stomach. She fought the urge to vomit in the bushes.

  This carnage had to end. She felt gouged to the core and loathed the death around her—but she’d asked to be involved.

  Was James right, she only played at being a spy or soldier? She craved adventure yet hadn’t the nerve for war? She stretched her stiffening back, then massaged the sharp aches in her knees. Her shirt, damp with perspiration, stuck under her armpits.

  She glanced again at the dead bodies strewn about.

  Who was responsible for this atrocity? A stubborn, greedy king or a misguided, angry rabble backed by richer men who wanted to dominate the government? Had the king gone too far, and these people deserved freedom? A rash thought from a loyalist!

  The reasons tangled in her thoughts. She yearned for the war to be over. Peace to settle over her country, her father and family restored to a position of respect. But doubts of their success niggled at her. She swiped away a tear.

  “I think the Hessian is losing again. How can that be?” She gritted her teeth, pounding a fist on her thigh. She wished herself taller, more muscular. Everything seemed futile and she completely helpless.

  “Aye, miss; but I didn’t want to say such.” Sam shook his head. “We should not be here.”

  The fighting slowed. She surveyed the field. Where were Derec and James? Her chest constricted as if a rope squeezed around her. She shut her eyes and must think of Derec as a friend, a mentor—and ignore any inappropriate feelings. Either man could be one of the corpses out there. No!

  In a thunder of hoofbeats, two men in tattered blue coats galloped toward them, shouting like banshees. They appeared to be rebels. She cringed, about to hiss a warning.

  “We must flee.” Sam grabbed her shoulder, but she’d already jumped up, at the ready even as she gasped.

  The two mounted, Sam at the reins, as she clutched the canvas sack. He turned Kayfill around and raced off to their left, up a rocky slope into the woods. The blue-coated men chased after them.

  Rowena gripped the saddle as her horse galloped on. Her body juddered along with her teeth. Sam bent close to Kayfill’s flying mane and urged the horse to more speed. They rode along a trail on the slope, dashing through hickory and cedar trees and around jutting basalt rocks. Branches whipped by them, flashes of green and brown. The rebels stayed in pursuit, punctuated by shouts and the tromp of hooves. How could these men have known she and Sam were loyalists? They wore no uniforms.

  Leaves slapped her face, woodsy scents mixed with their own sweat. She hunched behind him.

  The horses at their rear sounded closer in their snorts and grunts. The men taunted, ordering her and Sam to halt.

  Muscles clenched, Rowena chanced a look over her shoulder. The soldiers aimed pistols, their faces a malicious glower. Foam dripped from the horses’ mouths.

  Could she reach her pistol and fire at them? She fumbled to find out, head bent to the side.

  A branch knocked against her skull. A jolt of pain, then sparks of light flashed in her brain; she felt herself slipping off her horse. She grasped at air and cried out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Something soft, cool, and moist wiped across Rowena’s brow, drawing her up through layers of fuzziness. Her head pounded inside and out; her body ached, deep in her skin and bones. She struggled to open her eyes.

  “Finally awake, are ya?” A woman stood over her, a damp rag in her hand. “Do ya have command of your senses?”

  Vision blurry, Rowena blinked. The stranger’s triangular face under a dingy mobcap came into focus.

  “Here’s water, drink it slow.” The woman’s voice clipped, she held a tin cup to Rowena’s lips. No smile crossed the stranger’s visage, her mouth a stern slash.

  Rowena sipped the cool liquid, soothing her parched throat. Her head felt bashed in by a hammer. She glanced about; she lay on a narrow cot in a tent.

  “I’m Sally McBride. What’s your name?” Sally raised an eyebrow. She wore a drab gown and apron and looked to be about forty years. Her face bronzed from the sun, she had harsh lines etched around her eyes and mouth.

  “And don’t pretend to be a boy. I already know you’re a girl, despite your clothes. Hiding from someone, are ya?”

  “I can’t thi
nk.” Rowena croaked like a frog. She closed her eyes, stalling for time. Had she fallen from her horse? Where was Sam? “My head hurts terribly.” Not to mention her back, and hips.

  “I’ll make you a willow bark tonic to ease the pain.”

  “Where are we?” The vital question was: did the rebels or British have her? Yet she only craved sleep, to drift in a dream, and wake in a different place.

  “You’re in Major-General Greene’s bivouac.” The woman unstoppered a bottle at a small table.

  Rowena flattened on the hard cot and watched her through the slit of one eye. Rebels—Greene was one of Washington’s generals. She was in great trouble, but her mind remained fogged, any sharper fear muffled, lingering at a distance. She had to fight for clarity and be careful with her words. “My friend, the boy, where is he?”

  Sally brought her another cup. “I heard he rode off.” She held this tin cup to her lips. “Willow bark; drink it slow, too.”

  Rowena sipped the bitter beverage and prayed that Sam got away. “Thank you.”

  “What’s your name, girl?” Sally cocked her head, tapping the cup.

  “Hmmm.” Rowena’s thoughts twirled, the tent swayed above. Pieces of memory slid in and out of place like a scattered puzzle. What did they know about her? Probably nothing. She kneaded the cot’s threadbare blanket and turned her head to the left side since it hurt the least. Sleep, a safer oblivion, tugged at her. She’d mull through her options when clear. “It’s…it’s Elizabeth.”

  * * *

  The next two days, Rowena surmised, passed in a muddle, with her mostly dozing and sipping thin soups. Then a young soldier hustled her on weak legs to a larger tent, where a rebel officer waited. He wore a worn dark-blue coat with red facings and looked her over with cagy round eyes. His face plump, he had light-brown hair unpowdered and tied in a queue. “I’m Major Ashworth. And you are Elizabeth, I was informed? What’s your full name?”

  Fear shot up, staring Rowena in the face. Facing a rebel officer was far more treacherous than an herbal woman. She sat on a stool opposite him, hands twisted in her lap. She winced and rubbed the right, sorest side of her scalp. The bump there had receded. She thought again of Sam. Was he safe, along with Derec and James? “My last name’s Owen.”

  “And why are you dressed as a boy?” Ashworth stroked one of his line of yellow buttons, like dots of butter, his brow arched. “Is it a disguise, but from whom?”

  “I…wanted to watch the battle. And be safe from any undue attention.” She chewed her lip and must flee this enemy camp, even if she had to crawl her way out. But she still felt feeble, disoriented. “I was protected—by my brother. Do you know where—”

  “Are you a Patriot or a Loyalist, young woman?” He leaned an elbow on his thigh, thrusting his face closer. Lines spread like spider webs from the corners of his alert brown eyes.

  She fought a shiver as ice formed on her spine. She glanced away. This was the question she’d dreaded, however expected. “I’m from Easton.” As if that would explain her sympathies. It was a rebel town. “How…did the battle end?”

  “Does your family live in Easton?” The major’s tone was firm, but not cruel. “Which side do they fight for or believe in?”

  Rowena gathered her splintered thoughts. She should not have used her home town. “I was staying in Chester, with my aunt and uncle…Owen.” She gave what she hoped was a demure smile to steady her nerves. “They are staunch Patriots.” Since these relatives were figments of her imagination, she could place them in Philadelphia’s port city and on any side she wished.

  “That’s a far pace. In what part of the city?”

  She fidgeted on the stool, trying to weave a tale. She felt crack-brained. Her head still throbbed. “Near the harbor, I forget the street. I’ll remember it…later. Do you know what happened to my brother?”

  “The men who brought you here said the boy raced off on horseback. They thought you two were spies but didn’t know from which side. Mrs. McBride tells me you called the boy a friend, not a brother.” Ashworth slowly shook his head. “He deserted you, perhaps?”

  She knew better. Sam must have seen he couldn’t save her from the rebels and gone for help. Please. “It’s possible. He can be a rascal.” She stared at her scratched hands and torn breeches, then faked a groan, hoping to garner pity. “I’m certain I told Mrs. McBride he was my brother, but...”

  “Mrs. McBride is a sharp woman. A healer, like her surgeon husband was.” Ashworth half smiled. “Not much gets past her, Miss Owen.”

  Rowena massaged her forehead and frowned. She tangled her hair in her fingers. Would they treat her better if they believed her addle-pated? “I’m so alone, and befuddled.”

  “We’ll see if that’s true. Consider yourself under my protection until I find out more about you. I’ll permit you further rest.” Face impassive, the major stood and called for a soldier who waited at the tent flap. “Then you will answer my questions truthfully.”

  In a daze, Rowena allowed the soldier to lead her outside. Warm air closed around her, but the icy chill inside wouldn’t leave. Her breath came out shaky. She could be hanged if they found out the truth. She stumbled even as she scanned the area for a way to break free.

  * * *

  Back in Sally McBride’s tent, a sentry stationed outside, the woman handed Rowena a bowl of hot stew. “We’re fortunate, fresh venison for once. Of course, only the officers will partake. Not enough to go around to the low ranks.”

  Rowena sat on her cot and spooned the deer meat floating in a watery broth into her mouth. The venison was fresh, a bit stringy and tangy. A few root vegetables and herbs enriched the meal. She had to get stronger and plan her escape. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  “I’d be kinder, or no, if I knew where your allegiance lay.” Sally moved over to her table of jars, bowls, and baskets. Soldiers often stopped in for remedies for their ills. On a second little table sat a bowl and ewer for washing, near the cot in the opposite corner where the woman slept.

  “I told Major Ashworth that my family are patriots. The Owens. I follow their example.” She ate more stew, which warmed her stomach. But her predicament churned the food around. “How did the Springfield battle end?”

  “Ha, that fool Knyphausen retreated for a second time.” Sally pulled sprigs of greenery from a basket. “We kept him from invading the Hobart Gap and stealing General Washington’s supplies.”

  Rowena nodded to hide her reaction. Defeated again. Teeth clenched, she set the bowl on her thighs. “Victory, yes. I…I need to return to Ph-Chester. My aunt will be worried.” How was her real aunt, Aunt Joan? She would be worried, and she’d be harassed by the rebels if the British lost the war. “Has the King’s army surrendered?”

  “They’re still fighting to the south.” The woman looked up for a moment. “But I don’t think there’s much hope for them.”

  “What do you hope for, if the—we Patriots are successful?” Rowena stirred the remaining broth in her bowl, yet her appetite had fled.

  “Freedom from high taxes. A government that represents us, not some faraway king.” Sally chopped the herb on her table, the scent of rosemary piquant. “And an army of our own, that protects us, not sent by England to slaughter colonials for protesting for our rights. The British already killed my husband.” She glared over at her. “Ya want freedom, too. Aye?”

  “Indeed. The end of bloodshed is good. I’m sorry…about your husband.” Rowena could agree with that. But where would her family end up? She shivered in the airless tent. Her thoughts spun, the battle repeating in her memory. “Who was that man handing out books?”

  “That was Mr. Caldwell, I’m told. His wife was killed by the British in that earlier battle at Connecticut Farms.” Sally continued to chop, glancing at her now and then. “He’s a reverend and was giving out hymn books.”

  “I felt sorry for that poor woman’s death.” It seemed too late to negotiate any truce and remain with England. Her head
drooped. Everything was sliding in the rebels’ direction. She needed to rejoin her father, to give him what support she could. She’d written him sporadically from Aunt Joan’s in the month she’d been away. The Loyalists would face repercussions she dreaded to contemplate.

  “These united colonies are forever the United States now.” Sally rustled around. Her voice sounded closer. “Are ya poorly again, girl? You’re pale as milk.”

  “Yes. I am poorly.” Rowena set down her bowl, slightly dizzy, and nauseated. She scratched under her arm. “I believe I’ll lie down, but could I have soap to wash with first?” She turned her head as tears of misery and fear pooled in her eyes. How would she slip away from the guard and this encampment?

  * * *

  The following evening after another supper of venison stew, she was herded to the major’s tent once again. Major Ashworth had her sit then slammed his hand down on his small scarred folding table, rattling a pistol that was in pieces as if he’d been cleaning it. “You say you’re a patriot, but you don’t act overjoyed by our victory at Springfield, plus your questions are odd.”

  Rowena jumped and nearly tumbled from the stool. “Sorry, sir. I’m not feeling myself after my fall.” Though the extra sleep most of the day had reinvigorated her. On her walk to the Major’s tent she’d taken note of the camp’s layout, the approximate number of tents and soldiers. A way to flee.

  “I detect something else in your manner.” He pointed a finger, his plump face flushed. “And why doesn’t your brother come to see how you are? Even if a rascal, he does care for you, does he not?”

  “He does. But he might have been injured or delayed in some way.” She had prayed for Sam’s safety every night since her capture. Had he gone for help?