“Oh, dear. I suppose you men in charge just can’t shake hands and be done.” She said it as a jest, to lighten her own mood, to smooth the ach inside her. Though it helped little.
“Not a chance now. You were an avid supporter, in many ways, I recall.” James’ lips twitched, and she waited for him to reveal all her scurrilous deeds. “But I trust that is done.”
Her parent flicked her a glance, as if he already knew.
She fisted her fork and stabbed the slice of Pannhaas, finally putting it in her mouth; the burnt taste and meal crunched, yet any food was welcome. “Ladies should always be aware of what is going on,” she said in her finest Aunt Joan voice, “so they may be of assistance to their families.”
Again, she wasn’t sure where her place was in the shifting scheme of life. She’d end up a spinster, nursing her father in his dotage. She loved him, but—there was an end to any excitement. Without her ‘spying’ efforts, she felt at a loss as to her purpose. She needed to find another, but that depended on who won the war. What privileges would she retain, or have taken away?
“I was informed late yesterday that General Arnold has been corresponding with General Clinton to turn over information; but Arnold demands a high price,” Father said with another glance at her.
Rowena perked up. “Then my eavesdropping at the…in Philadelphia was correct.” She caught herself just in time, then nodded toward her cousin. “And you should be aware of this.”
“I’ve heard similar reports, unsubstantiated as yet. The correspondence is usually through Major John André. Arnold claims that Washington doesn’t appreciate him and hasn’t promoted or paid him adequately.” James poured himself more tea.
Rowena decided not to gloat toward a man who just lost his father. That sadness hit her again like a douse of cold water. “I pray it’s true, and General Arnold’s efforts and information will help us win or come to a truce.”
At a noise, a throat-clearing from behind her, she looked over her shoulder.
Sam stood in the archway, his gaze troubled. He addressed her father: “Sir, there’s a group of rebel soldiers riding down your lane.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Rowena, with Father, James and Sam, hustled to the entrance hall. She peered out the narrow window beside the door. Three soldiers in blue coats, and one civilian, trotted on horseback down their lane, about to enter the yard. Her heart lurched.
“Forgive me, Uncle Robert, but I must hide due to my, ah, covert activities…” James pressed Father’s shoulder. “They could be here to arrest me.”
“Of course, hurry and secure yourself.” Father clenched his hands as he too stared out the window. “What do these rogues want? I’ll not stand for another tarring and feathering.”
“I’ll be close by if it gets too dangerous. Please, protect my mother.” James turned and slipped down the hall, to the rear of the house.
“Rowena, you should go upstairs,” Father said.
“I’m staying by you. Sam, go out the back and ride Kayfill into the woods.” Rowena turned, but the boy was already on James’ heels.
She rushed to the rear parlor, kicked aside a carpet and pulled the blunderbuss from its hiding place under the loosened floorboards.
Horse clops, snorts, the clink of bits, and men’s mumbles, sounded near their front steps.
“Don’t show any firearms yet, daughter.” Father put out his hand to stall her. “Let’s see what they’ve come for. We’ll stay calm and composed.”
“I’m the epitome of finesse.” She shoved the bulky weapon behind the front parlor door and joined him. Out the window, the one man not in uniform dismounted and approached the house with determined strides, legs fat in white stockings.
Father opened the door before the stranger had a chance to knock.
“Good morning, sirs. What brings you here today?” His tone friendly, her father nodded at the soldiers, then smiled at the man who stood on their step.
Rowena hovered beside him, her smile faked, her stomach in a knotted tangle.
“Mr. Robert Marsh?” The pudgy man’s voice nasal, his brown frock coat and breeches were much plainer than Father’s green, high-waisted garment with long coat tails. He stared her father in the eye. “My name is Jedidiah Swift. I’ve been sworn in as an agent by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to inform you,” he pulled a paper from inside his coat, “that according to the Act passed on March 6, 1778, men who are considered traitors, or a danger to the Commonwealth, will be put on trial, and if found guilty, have their property confiscated. And worse punishment if required.”
Rowena nearly collapsed against the door frame. They’d lived under this threat for years, and now it was slapped across their faces.
“Hold on, sir. I have done nothing treasonous.” Father raised his chin. “You have no proof, I daresay.”
“You were spoken well of, that’s why you’ve kept your land these past two years. But it’s come to the attention of the authorities that your brother-in-law, Captain Daniel Atherton, fought for the British in the recent battle of Camden. And you harbor his family on your property. You have therefore assisted the enemy.”
“Captain Atherton is now deceased. Do you deny me giving comfort to his widow, my own sister?” Her father’s voice hardened.
“You also have two sons serving in the British army. Do you deny that?” Swift leaned forward, jowls wobbling. “You’re fortunate to have been overlooked this long.”
She thought of her brothers and squirmed. What had once been an honor to serve the King in the greatest army was now considered treason.
“I have been ill-treated by marauders. What is it you expect of me now, precisely?” Father leaned forward as well, two roosters ready to peck.
“You must report to the Justice of the Peace of this county, or be taken to the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania, where your guilt will be assessed.” Swift moved back half a step in his scuffed, buckled shoes. “You’d normally have forty days to appear. In your case, since you were overlooked, we’re giving you only twenty. If you don’t show yourself, you’ll be declared guilty of high treason in absentia.”
Rowena gulped. No! This could not be happening, and so soon after Uncle Daniel’s death. It was time for extreme feminine wiles. “Oh, surely you jest, sir.” She flapped her hand against her bodice. “I’m quite overcome, and I fear I may swoon. We require months to prepare ourselves.”
She stumbled and slumped against Father. He embraced her, holding her tight.
“See what you’ve done, frightening my daughter? Have you no decency?”
The soldiers looked on, their expressions blank or uneasy, where before they’d glowered. The horses shifted.
“Sir, as I said, and forgive me, Miss, but you have twenty days from today. Less, if we detect any further treasonous occupations. I’m sure you know the price for treason?” Swift’s face impassive, he turned and descended the steps. He mounted his horse and the four of them rode off.
Father scooted her in, her body stiff with shock, and shut the door. “It looks like we’re forced to give up our farm and leave the area before any trial. Lately, I suspected this could happen.” He groaned, and she pulled away. “I had the protection of a high official I won’t name, but he recently sailed for Nova Scotia before he was discovered helping the Tories.”
Rowena smoothed down her dress and adjusted her cap in hasty movements. “But Aunt Elizabeth is in no condition to move.” She gazed about her home, a place she’d have to desert. Her mother’s one-time domain, given over to rebels. Her head pounded. When the war began, she never thought it would come to this; the British had such a powerful, well-trained military.
“We must make ready quickly, my dear.” Father squeezed her shoulders. “I refuse to leave my fate to any rebel court. A man can only take so much humiliation.”
She sucked in her breath, resolute to remain steadfast for him. “Very well.” Her voice nearly broke. “Where will we go?”
* *
*
In the shadows of the attic, a day after the agent’s threat, Rowena opened a dusty trunk. She winced at the sight of her mother’s clothing inside. The scent of stale lavender drifted out. Her nose twitched as the angled room’s trapped heat made sweat dapple her skin. “We’ll take the sturdiest clothing with us,” she said to Daphne.
Father had shown her where he’d stashed coins, Grandfather’s legacy as he called it. She and Daphne would sew them into their clothing.
“Aye. I’m not too bad with a needle, so I can alter these dresses for you.” Daphne sorted through the gowns, shifts, caps, kerchiefs, and whalebone stays.
“Are you certain you want to go with us? It will be a hazardous journey.” Rowena fingered the sleek silks, garments her mother wore in happier times—her graceful form, her smiles and laughter, and warm hugs, still alive in Rowena’s memories. The items were useless frippery now. She twisted at a bow on a sleeve. “Won’t you miss your family?”
“Don’t worry none, Miss. Ma has enough mouths to feed. My family be safe, after finally lettin’ my brother join the local Patriot militia. Da admits it will protect them.” The girl pulled out gowns, a few very outdated in garish patterns, or bright colors, with too much lace and ribbons. She inspected each one and laid them in a pile. “An’ Sam’s comin’ with you.”
“Sam seeks adventure, I’m sure.” As Rowena had and might again. Now she’d flee like a fugitive, but her father’s life was in jeopardy. She pulled out a paisley satin shawl and blinked, remembering her mother wearing it like a soft froth around her throat. “I hear Florida is very hot for most of the year.”
“I overheard your cousin say they have strange plants an’ animals there, someone had told him.” Daphne laughed. “One with a long jaw an’ huge teeth called an allugator.”
They’d chosen to go south at James’ insistence. Rowena suspected he wanted to ascertain the situation in the Carolinas. It seemed to her a dangerous route, but she, too, was curious, since her brothers might be there. Would the Loyalists and the British army keep fighting? Their victory at Camden had produced no resolution.
She’d half-wanted to travel north to New York, where many Loyalists had accumulated—not to mention a certain Welshman. She shook her head at her misplaced fancies.
“That will be something to watch out for, the allugators.” Rowena held the shawl to her nose as if she could breathe in her childhood’s essence. She clung to it then folded the soft material and put the garment aside, as she’d put aside so many things. She smiled at Daphne, appreciating the girl’s good humor. “You must be like Sam, ready for the perilous expedition.”
“Expe… Aye. Girls can seek such. An’ he says you’re a brave one, too.”
“A reckless hoyden who is trying to change her ways.” However, if she had another chance… Rowena looked down at the clothing, meant for her eventually—though she hadn’t had the heart to wear them. “Leave the silks, we’ll take the lighter wools, and especially any linen and cotton.” She hoped Mary had packed up her aunt, who’d wailed over their impending departure. Would the overwrought woman survive the long trek?
“I do hope your father gets them mules from his friend who hid ’em from the rebels.” Daphne held up a linen shift with delicate lace at the sleeves. Her eyes sparkled.
Rowena gestured that the girl could keep the garment.
“We’ll have an even more difficult time if he doesn’t buy the beasts.” He’d spend good money on purchasing the mule team. James and Sam were busy repairing their old wagons, previously rejected by raiders. Rowena stretched her neck and swallowed her misgivings. “Look for black material and we’ll fashion arm bands to wear in respect for my dear Uncle Daniel.”
* * *
A week later, in the middle of the night, the Marsh’s two packed wagons slowly creaked down a path, through the rear of their property and into the woods. Sam drove one, James the other, each vehicle pulled by a mule. Kayfill was tied behind Sam’s wagon. Rowena sat beside him. She’d given Lily, her pony, to Sam’s little sisters, along with all their hay. The Marsh’s old donkey had died the previous month.
Father, clutching the blunderbuss, rode with James. At her own request, Aunt Elizabeth, huddled beside her trunk in the wagon bed where she wept softly. Her maid, Mary, sat beside her. Daphne was in Sam’s wagon bed. Mrs. Johnston, their cook, and her granddaughter left the day before to live with relatives north of Easton.
Rowena had watched her father give or sell their furniture to close friends, cringing over the pain when her mother’s escritoire was sold. She touched her fingertips to the simple agate, heart-shaped brooch she wore. An item that had belonged to her mother.
She swatted away mosquitoes and glanced over her shoulder at their farmhouse; Mersheland sat like a ghost in the weak starlight and crescent moon. She pressed a fist on her chest as if to hold her heart still at the despair over all she left behind, then scanned the area for rebels who might be watching. But the darkness remained quiet apart from the soft buzz of insects.
Mouth dry, she turned, stared forward, and struggled to shut the door on this part of her life. The wagons rattled down the trail.
The sound of footsteps with a crackle of twigs came from the trees. Someone stepped into their path. “Hold on there. Mr. Marsh, you cannot leave. Turn back.”
Rowena jerked their lantern’s hinged door higher to shed more light. A boy she recognized attired in militia green pointed a musket at them.
Father raised the blunderbuss. “Is that you, young Corbin? Please allow us to pass. I once helped your father in legal matters when he could pay little.”
The boy’s eyes darted from her to her father; his hands appeared to shake slightly. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Then don’t, please.” Rowena smiled to hide her trepidation, desperate to convince the youth. “Have a care for former neighbors. Are you alone?”
Aunt Elizabeth and Mary moaned and clung to one another. Daphne hunkered down. James grimaced, and Sam stilled, hands tight on the reins.
Father cleared his throat. “I went out of my way to assist your father. My wife died helping your brother’s family with their sick children.”
Rowena held her breath, throat thick at the idea of her mother’s suffering. Then the miserable idea this boy could ruin everything.
Corbin slowly lowered the musket, his thin frame swamped in the bulky jacket. “Aye, you did, sir. And bless your lady wife. I’m so sorry. But how can I?”
“You never saw us, son.” Father’s voice held steady. “It’s as simple as that. Isn’t it tragic enough we must be banished from our home?”
Minutes passed. Rowena’s fingers groped for the pistol tucked beneath her skirt. Sweat dampened her neck; could she shoot him if she had to?
“I saw nothing.” Corbin dropped his chin and stepped back into the shadows.
Sam and James urged the mules onward. Fireflies, like sparks, shot up into the trees.
Rowena exhaled in relief, then pulled her shawl close, even in the sticky air. Her skin prickled. She kept alert as she prayed for their security, for East Florida to be a haven, and her father and cousin, and any others she might hold dear, safe from the hangman’s noose.
Chapter Twenty-five
Rowena followed Aunt Elizabeth out the tavern’s front door, Daphne and Mary behind them. They waited while Father paid their bill.
A blue heron sailed overhead, showing near gray against the overly bright azure sky. Even though near the end of September, the sultry South Carolina heat hit them like steam in the face.
“Will this humidity ever subside?” Aunt Elizabeth, dour in her black gown and hat, fanned herself. “I’m afraid Florida will be much worse. I wish my son hadn’t insisted we travel so far south. A month already; it’s been too much.” Her brittle words softened. “Though I was able to view my dearest husband’s...final place of rest.”
They were just below where the Battle of Camden had taken place. Yesterday they�
�d visited the grave of her Uncle Daniel—in this climate people had to be buried quickly and were rarely transported elsewhere. Aunt Elizabeth had fainted from despair.
Rowena plucked at her gown. The heat was oppressive in this swamp and marsh-filled part of the country. “I’d hoped we could find my brothers with their regiment.” But the New York Volunteers had moved on; to where she didn’t know.
When Andrew and William finally discharged from the army—she kept at bay the thought if they survived—what sort of men would they be? Soured in defeat, missing a limb, or relieved in victory, able to pursue other occupations?
Father finally emerged, waving a broadsheet. “More bad news. Major John André was captured by the rebels. He had plans of West Point on his person, given to him by General Arnold.” He slapped the paper. “Arnold escaped on the HMS Vulture to New York.”
Rowena joined him to read the sheet. Now General Washington knew of Benedict Arnold’s treason. His efforts seemed for naught. Was Derec safe? Her spirits sank. She needed to stop caring. “What will happen to Major André?”
Aunt Joan had met the major in Philadelphia; she’d called him a charming and talented young man, once aid-de-camp to General Clinton, and deep in espionage for the British. Derec had spoken of him with admiration. Would the rebels torture André for information, further destroying the loyalist cause? Rowena fought a shiver for the major, and—against her will—Derec, who might still be with Arnold.
“A prisoner exchange, I should hope.” Father folded the sheet. “General Arnold weakened the fort at West Point, supplies and troops sent elsewhere, but that’s about all.” He looked down at her, his eyes sad. “I feel I failed you, my dear; my allegiance has put us in this devastating situation.”
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