“Who is this boy, really? Tell me, is he friend or brother? Or an enemy spy?” Ashworth loomed over her. He smelled of the venison stew and sweaty horse. When she didn’t answer he went on, “Why did you run when the patriots rode after you?”
She didn’t meet his stare. “They…they were screaming, and I was afraid they’d do mischief when they found I was a girl.”
“You could have told them you were one of us. And showed yourself grateful for their military efforts.” His tone mocking, he didn’t appear the same man who’d questioned her before.
She stiffened and gripped the stool. “How would that stop renegades who acted wild and out of control?”
The Major straightened and stepped away. “I’ll grant, those two were unruly.” He moved toward a curtained camp bed where papers were strewn. Four cartridge boxes sat beside it. She’d seen one that James had, a leather pouch with a wooden box inside. Holes were drilled in the wood to hold ammunition.
He turned to her again. “Nevertheless, Mrs. McBride says you mumbled ‘sorry, father, I prayed for us but it failed,’ when you were first brought in. Why would you be sorry, or lament failing, when we were about to win? What did you pray for?”
“I…don’t remember saying that. But if I did, it could be on any matter.” She shrugged, though inside dread like knives sliced into her. What else had she mumbled while indisposed? “I’m not the most compliant of daughters. And…you cannot count on what one says in a dream.”
“Where is your father, in Easton?” Ashworth twisted at one of his yellow uniform buttons, his tone derisive. “Does he know you parade around in boy’s clothing? What is his profession?”
She took a slow breath. Her father no longer practiced as a successful barrister due to rebel harassment. “He’s a farmer. He grows grain for feed.” You rebels stole our food, cows and horses.
“And he believes in our noble cause to become our own nation? Our freedom from tyranny?” Ashworth sounded as if he lectured from a podium.
Rowena swiped perspiration from her brow, the tent stuffy after the day’s heat. “He believes in what’s right; and relies on the weather…to bring a good yield.”
“You’re hesitating.” He hovered close again. “What’s his name, Owen I suppose?”
Now she regretted bringing trouble to Sam’s family. She should have used another last name. James seemed correct, she was terrible at this spy business. “Please, sir; may I return to Chester? I’ll need my aunt—and uncle’s assistance to go home to my father.”
“Easton is closer to where we are. I’m sending men there to search for any Owens.” The Major’s scrutiny scraped over her, leaving her raw and exposed.
Poor Sam, I’ve ruined everything!
“Major, I have a report.” A soldier’s voice called from outside the tent.
Ashworth walked out, his voice low. “What is it?”
Rowena slipped to the tent flap.
“We’ve news, one of our generals is thinking of turning back to the British. General Arnold. He’s been grumbling for months and could do us much damage.”
“Damn. That is tragic. The bastard. However, tell me more in a moment.”
She rushed back to her stool, nearly knocking it over. Could she pass on this information?
Ashworth strode back in, a scowl on his face. “Young miss, I’ll keep you here under guard until I hear something from my investigation in Easton. And the whereabouts of your partner, if he’s innocent.”
Rowena dug her fingernails into her palms to steady herself. “Why waste your resources on me, sir? I’m but a humble girl, and I—”
“There are spies everywhere, missy. I can’t be too careful. I sense holes in your story. Mrs. McBride informed me that you seemed almost disappointed by a Continental victory. And cried in your sleep afterwards. If you’re lying to me, it won’t go well for you.” Ashworth whipped open the tent flap. “Private, take her back and guard her well.”
Rowena’s breath caught. Darned Mrs. McBride! “I’m only confused, and ill.” She stood, her knees spongy, like aspic. A strategy had taken shape in her mind. She must escape immediately, and risk being shot, before reports came from Easton, whatever they might be. And—she swallowed hard—before her own neck was strangled in a noose.
Chapter Twenty
The setting sun spread streaks of ochre across the sky when the private escorted Rowena away from the major’s tent. Men laughed or chatted as they walked the dirt path between tents or gathered in and out of the canvas dwellings. Aromatic pipe smoke and the cornmeal smell of Johnny cakes drifted on the air.
Many soldiers cast her sly looks, whispering. Everyone must know about the suspicious girl dressed as a boy. Her breath rasped, and a suffocation squeezed her lungs.
She slowed her pace, her mind working over details. The private carried no weapon. “Please, I’m going to be sick. I have terrible cramps.”
“Wait until we get to Mrs. McBride’s,” he grumbled.
“As if I can control my—my monthly flow.” She stopped, rubbed her stomach, and glared at the skinny young man. She glanced between canvas tents at a cluster of bushes. Bending over, she groaned. “I think I might faint. My courses are coming strong.”
The young man’s face flushed. “Let’s hurry to the healer.”
“Oh, dear. I feel blood, so sticky. Alas, it’s draining, and I can barely walk.” She jerked the kerchief from around her neck. “I need privacy.”
She limped toward the bushes. Nose tickled by the leaves, she bent and pretended to fumble with the buttons on her breeches while she bunched up the kerchief.
“Don’t do that here. Criminy, you’re a slattern.” The private strode behind her, his voice anxious. “I’ll fetch Mrs. McBride.”
“Go, but I cannot wait, you fool.” Rowena waved him away. She moaned and writhed like a wounded animal. “The blood will soon be dripping down my leg.”
The young man grimaced and stepped back, clearly unsure of what to do. Deeper shadows continued to creep over the camp.
“If you must stay, turn your back and give me a moment.” She’d scanned the terrain earlier that morning when she picked herbs with Mrs. McBride. Beyond the bushes was a slope. A picket was stationed farther down. Could she get past him?
Rowena had no choice—the time was now. She dove between the bushes, hit the ground, scraped her hands, and tumbled herself down the slope. She tried to ignore the intensified pain at each bump and pebble. At the bottom, she hopped to her feet and weaved her way along large rocks she’d previously seen. The private cursed and pebbles flew as he chased after.
She raced faster, head ducked low. The private called to the picket, “Stop the prisoner!”
Two men cursed from different directions.
Would they shoot her? Her back twitched. She slipped into another cluster of bushes, prickly across her face and neck. Two sets of footsteps scrambled, one behind, one from her right. Then three, or four. Where had the other men come from?
Grunts and curses sounded, along with scuffling feet. A gunshot. She cringed and scrambled down another slope. Any moment she expected a ball in her back. A man ran up behind her. He grabbed her and knocked her to the ground, on her side. Breath whooshed out, she screeched, her body bruised from her previous fall.
“Got you, traitor. Stay still or I’ll slit your throat.” A stranger, not the private—the picket? His heavy form pinned her down.
Desperate, she wriggled around and punched his face with her fists. “I’ll scratch out your eyes!”
“I’ll do more than that to you, whore.” His spittle hit her cheeks. He laughed and tugged at his breeches. She hit him harder, hearing the cartilage crack in his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils, splattering on her face.
He yelled and raised his fist.
A loud smack came from behind him with the flash of a rifle butt. James’ sweaty face hovered beyond the soldier. The picket groaned and fell off her. Another man, clad in black like a raven,
swooped down, snatched her up, and ran with her toward the forest.
“Wait, wait,” she protested in confusion, stumbling.
“Keep up, geneth. We must be swift.” Derec ordered, his words staccato. He gripped his arm around her waist, holding her in tune with him, legs flying.
She nearly wept in relief. He’d survived!
Night encroached, darker in the thick trees. They wended their way past ferns and moss, masses of tree trunks, the sweet scent of foliage. She strained for even breaths.
At last they stopped, both heaving to catch air. He pulled her into his arms. “We’ve been waiting for a chance to save ye, imprudent girl. I pray this be your last battle.” He kissed the top of her head. She laughed despite her turmoil and pressed against his warmth.
* * *
At a trickle of a stream, she collapsed and scooped water into her mouth. The coolness refreshed her throat. Her body ached everywhere; the steep tumble had exacerbated her earlier injuries. “Who was shot back there?” she asked, now feeling shy after their intense hug.
Derec crouched and drank from his cupped hands. “James shot the private, but only a wounding, I should think.”
“Where is James?” She sat, knees up, and massaged them.
“He had places to go.” Derec chuckled. “Yer a brave one; always a surprise to me. A bundle of trouble.”
She flexed her hands. Her knuckles stung from striking the picket. “I don’t know how effective I’ve been. We’ve lost both battles.”
“Aye. ’Tweren’t yer fault.” He sat beside her. “Ye deciphered the reports, we passed the information.” He removed his hat, his coal-black hair half-loose from its queue. “The rebels are hard set on winning. The militias stronger than calculated.”
“I’ve been compromised. I should return to Easton.” She spoke as casual as possible, though disappointment weighed her down. Would he care?
“Yer giving in, lady of the mists?” His black eyes probed her, a hint of mischief in them. “I’d not thought it possible. A miss who explodes like a cannon ball through shrubs? Though I agree to yer return, to keep ye safe.”
“What are the British chances now?” She tugged on a sleek blade of grass. He did seem to care. But where would that lead? He might only think of her as a friend. And that’s all she should think of him. She rubbed her face and saw blood on her fingers from the picket’s nose.
Derec dipped his handkerchief in the stream and wiped her face and hands—like she was a child. The darkness increased, stars peppering the sky as a weak light glimmered its last.
“I-I just remembered.” She pulled away, embarrassed by his ministrations, and massaged the bump on her scalp. “I overheard a report that General Arnold is thinking of defecting to the British.”
“Benedict Arnold?” Derec pursed his mouth. “He is one of Washington’s finest, though there have been quarrels. And rumors of him corresponding with General Clinton through Major John André.”
“I’ve heard of André. Isn’t he involved in espionage? So General Arnold could be a traitor to the Patriots?” She prayed this would give the Tories an advantage. Arnold had once been, briefly, military governor of Pennsylvania.
“I’ll get word to General Knyphausen’s camp. He can contact Clinton to see if ’tis true for certain…if matters have advanced.” Derec stood and held out his hand. “We must keep moving, Rowena.”
She clasped his fingers, rose, and groaned, her feet and hips protesting. Her hat was lost after the dive in the bushes; her hair sprang about her face.
They walked on, south, through woods, farmland, and a shallow valley. Deer appeared and darted away from them on spindly legs. For once, she longed for a gown, to be seen as a couple by the rebels, not an escaping conspirator. They kept off the main road. Night closed in around them, a waning moon above. Crickets started to chirp. Fireflies glistened like tiny yellow lights in the grass.
Another thought struck her, and she flushed with alarm. “Have you seen Sam? Is he safe? How terrible of me to forget him.”
“Aye, he is. He came to tell us where ye were.” Derec stopped. A breeze wafted his pine-like scent around her. “We’ve been watching the camp for a good time to rescue ye. An informant said ye were resting and needed the sleep.”
“Spies everywhere. Thank goodness you found me. Where are your horses? My horse? Not that I mind the blisters on my feet.” She tried humor to alleviate the exhaustion that dragged at her entire body. Her feet had turned numb.
“We’re separated now, as ye can see. James has the beasts. We’ll meet at the Whitehouse Tavern to the south.” He gazed about in the dark. “We must find shelter. Might be a sheep shed over there.”
“James should have left me my horse, at least,” she said.
Derec’s hand on her elbow, they crossed a field toward a square shape, darker than the sky. With planks of wood missing, the shed looked long abandoned. Inside, it faintly smelled of sheep and urine. The dirt floor was littered with hard dung and dirty fleece.
“This is our room for the night.” Derec swept out his arm. He scuffed out a clear space then removed his frock coat. He laid the garment on the floor. “Here is yer bed, m’lady.” He hesitated then rubbed his knuckles along her cheek. “I’m glad yer safe; a miss who’s far too impulsive.” He stepped back.
Goose-fleshed, she’d wanted to press her face into his hands. “Thank you for the covering, good sir.” She sighed and kneeled on his coat. Her head muzzy, she stretched out, wondering where he’d sleep. “Is Sam still with James?”
“Aye, he is.” Derec sat in the corner against the back wall, arms crossed, legs out straight.
“Good night to ye. Try to sleep. We have a long walk tomorrow.” He tipped his hat over his face.
The shed had no door and the wind teased through the opening. “Good night.” She winced at the hard ground, pulled his frock coat close, and took comfort in his scent and nearness—but not her yearning to be nearer. Suddenly, she longed for him to think of her as a woman, not a mere friend, or one with the men. She stifled a groan and struggled to relax. Sleep came quickly.
* * *
On their walk south the next morning, Rowena struggled not to complain about her body aches. Fragrant scents of spring flowers, bushes and leaves and the twitter of birds surrounded them through the forest’s twisting trails. Derec showed her how to look for edible plants, pea greens and parsley. Yet her stomach growled with hunger, though her headache subsided.
“I suppose I’ve always been too brash for a female.” She glanced at the man beside her. “But it might be time to change my ways.”
“Back to frippery and beaux, aye? The lady of the house?” He ate one of the pea greens, his eyes amused. “Ye’ve been an asset, but time to return to yer farm.”
“My aunt and father will be pleased.” She tried not to preen that he’d called her an asset—no matter her impending banishment—and chewed on a sprig of bitter parsley. “And I’ve never had a beau.”
Derec remained silent for a moment. “They will come. Yer young still.”
“I’m old beyond my years. You’ve probably had many female attachments.” Surveying her grimy clothing and hands, she was hardly an attraction.
“Not so many.” He didn’t elaborate.
Her jealously faded, but she fished for a different topic. “Why do you spy for the English, when you’re Welsh?” She tossed the distasteful parsley into the bushes.
He stopped, pulled out his knife and scraped a slice of bark from a pine tree. He cut out the yellow inner bark and handed it to her. She bit into the resinous substance, fibrous and chewy. “’Tis better cooked, but we must make do.” Their walk continued.
“The Welsh have been under English rule for centuries. We complain, but I adapt.” He then spoke of his hardscrabble youth in Wales, that his father worked the mines, but made Derec learn carpentry from an uncle. And the fact he was four and twenty. “Mayhap I like secret services for the thrill of it, and the chance to
come to this wild land.”
“That sounds like me, searching for excitement. I dislike that women are expected to be compliant and timid.” Did that search fill something inside her, inside both of them, that was missing? “I had an easier upbringing, though it didn’t keep me from imitating my brothers. I wanted to race horses, fire muskets, and so on. Now Andrew and William fight in the army to the south and I’m terrified for them.” The usual feeling of loss and apprehension pricked her.
They trod on through the brush and trees, in and out of shadows.
“Did you ever discover the mole in your den of spies? You said there had to be one after I deciphered one of the dispatches.”
“Aye, he was part of the Culper Ring. A very clever group of rebels, along with the Sons of Liberty.” Derec’s voice touched on admiration. “We did a prisoner exchange with him.”
“So much I don’t know about the network of spies.” She stifled a moan as the blisters on her feet stung. “How did you meet my cousin James?”
He stopped and plucked blueberries from a bush; he handed her several of the plump, dark fruit. “Now James, that’s a tale.”
Derec popped a berry in his mouth and stared out through the trees. They strode on over uneven ground, always on the lookout for rebel soldiers. “We met through our service. Still, we don’t have an easy alliance.”
The sweet berries filled her mouth with welcome flavor. A squirrel darted out in front of them and she stopped. The creature scurried into the trees opposite. She thought of how they might catch and cook it. “I did notice a mistrust between you.”
Derec chuckled dryly. “Has he said nothing of my wicked ways, then?”
“He should know I make my own choices. What is this uneasy alliance?” She watched his expression while suppressing the urge to find a place to sit and jerk off her boots.
“It’s an incident from the past I’d rather not discuss right at this moment.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. His sharp profile and roman nose reminded her of an ancient coin. “I know yer bruised and exhausted, but we must keep walking.”
Her Vanquished Land Page 15