Rowena watched him lean back, still amazed he was home. “You crossed the ocean in a rowboat.”
“’Twasn’t easy. The water was rough. We almost capsized a few times.” Derec held up his cup, which Daphne quickly refilled with coffee. “The sharks swimming about would have devour—attacked us.”
Rowena scrunched her eyes closed, trying not to picture that scenario.
“You was braver than brave, sir.” Sam shook his head, his smile admiring.
“Wouldn’t get me in no rowboat on the ocean.” Daphne placed the tin pot on a trivet in the hearth. “And sharks…”
Rowena kissed his hand. “I could have lost you to… After I thought I’d already lost you to the Spaniards.” She released his fingers and picked at her own food, now grown cold.
Sam folded up his bedding. He’d return to his place in the barn loft. “We was all worried for you. But Mistress kept us going.”
“I must have fooled everyone.” Rowena laughed, glad she could. She relished the sound of Derec’s voice. His presence filled the space in her heart that felt bleak and jagged before. “Was the prison in Havana terrible?”
Derec took a gulp of coffee. “More disorganized than anything. Too many men, soldiers mostly. The heat as bad as here.” His dark eyes clouded to haunted for a second. “A filthy hole, with all those desperate or sick soldiers. The confusion helped in my escape. We landed far south on this peninsula, in a place called Biscayne Bay. Then a very long slog up the coast to here.”
Rowena forced herself to finish her food.
In the bedroom once more, Derec embraced her. His restless energy thrummed through him into her.
He pulled back and gazed into her eyes. “Oh, my love. I’m sorry I left ye to fend alone. How are ye doing for funds?”
“We scraped by. Sam took an afternoon job at a rich loyalist’s home, caring for his horses. That brings in money. I sell at the market. Father helps as he can.” She wouldn’t tell Derec how they scrounged to make it, and the rent was slightly overdue. But the landlord, a cousin of Mrs. Torres-Navarro, was understanding.
She’d almost sold her mother’s brooch but hated to part with that remembrance.
“Aye, yer capable, I know.” He ran his fingers along her face. “On my way to ye overland, I learned the French fleet is preparing to sail for the Chesapeake to reinforce the rebels in Virginia, against Cornwallis.”
She resisted punching him in the chest. “You intend to travel to Virginia, don’t you?”
“How can I not, love?” He kissed her lips. “I’ll stay here for a little while, to rest, and get to know my wife again.”
“I’m going with you, and don’t argue with me.” She held up a finger when he’d opened his mouth. “I’ve practiced with the long rifle.” The past excitement of being part of the war half-ignited her. Deeper down, she just wanted peace, but mainly to be with her husband. “I also need to find out if my brothers and James are there with General Cornwallis.” She squeezed him against her as if that could forestall their precarious future.
* * *
Derec and Rowena plucked the starfruit and guava, loading the fruit into baskets. The suffocating September heat was nearly as bad as August.
Sweat dampening her armpits, Rowena crouched and checked each piece of fruit for discoloration. Many times, she and Daphne had cut up a few to eat. The starfruit had an apple-pear taste; the guava a dense texture, the flavor between pear and strawberry.
“The starfruit is a unique fruit, brought from the Orient by a sea captain years ago, Mrs. Torres-Navarro told me.” She tried to interest Derec in their activities. Would they have enough produce to bring in money at the market?
She scrambled to knit more caps, and she and Daphne had decided to also sell scarves for the seamen who sailed to colder environs—if they could buy enough yarn.
“Indeed, cariad.” Derec peered through the tangle of trees and plants, his posture riddled with unease. He added to their income with sporadic carpentry jobs, but he always seemed on edge, staring out windows. At an approaching noise, his hand went to the dagger he carried, and he craned his neck.
With a squeak of wheels, the mule and cart rattled up driven by her father. “Good morn to you.” He climbed down and limped toward them. Rowena stood, and he kissed her cheek. He turned to Derec. “I’m still flabbergasted that Washington and Rochambeau slipped out of Philadelphia, heading south. And right under British noses.”
“I dearly hope Aunt Joan has long left that city,” Rowena said. Aunt Joan had told her she was traveling to New York, where General Arnold had been recalled. Now the former rebel general attacked the northern colonies for the British, burning New London in Connecticut.
“Aye, ’twas a nasty trick pulled on us.” Derec wiped his sticky hands on a cloth. “Washington and Rochambeau left September first. Sir Henry Clinton found out the following day, but too late to warn Cornwallis. A week’s passed and Cornwallis must know that the rebel leaders ride for Virginia.”
Always bad news. Rowena rubbed her knotted shoulders.
Father sighed but it roughed to a groan. “Admiral de Grasse debarked three-thousand men to add to Lafayette’s forces in Virginia. The battle in the cape—”
“Terrible,” Derec said. “The cafes are rumbling angry with Admirals Graves’ and Hood’s defeat by De Grasse’s French fleet.”
Rowena swallowed her comment: was it time to call a truce?, at seeing her father’s and husband’s miserable expressions. “I can’t fathom how the French could have beaten us.”
Father shook his head, the lines in his forehead deep. “Neither can I, my dear. But the French had the superior force. The decimated Royal Navy fled to New York.”
“Uffern Dan. That could leave Cornwallis isolated in Yorktown.” Derec slapped the cloth against his thigh.
Rowena watched her husband’s calculating visage; her own apprehensions for their future cut into her—a familiar occurrence. “Will Lord Cornwallis still fight, I wonder?” She wished for it to be over, no matter who triumphed, as long as any peace was fair.
“Of course! Such humiliation for an esteemed general…” Father said, though his bravado sounded forced. He, too, seemed tired of the constant hostilities.
“Cornwallis must attack. He has no choice.” Derec paced away, then back again. “We once thought the war headed for a quick conclusion. Now a loose lot of renegades appears to be winning. Who would have thought it possible?”
“If the damned—sorry, my dear—French hadn’t lent money, troops, ships,” Father groused. “The rough terrain, the rebels’ way of fighting, hidden in forests and mountains is dishonorable. It’s devastating to our properly trained troops.”
Derec nodded, his eyes hooded. “’Tis true. We should have adjusted. But the aristocratic officers paid no heed.”
Rowena almost asked if the British—if they must—would be too proud to surrender.
Derec would be content here no longer. She scratched at an insect bite on her arm and decided not to demand, again, that he take her with him. Not in front of her father. She would have her way, but no sense in arguing with two men at the same time.
A sound from the brush, and a snake slithered out, tongue flicking. Rowena lurched back at seeing the reddish patches of a copperhead, a venomous serpent. She snatched up a starfruit and hurled it, just as Derec whirled about and threw his dagger. They both just missed, but the snake flung itself back into the bushes. Derec moved toward her and Father reached out in concern.
“I’m fine.” Rowena bit her lip to steady herself. “That…piece of fruit was pitted anyway.”
Serpents could come from anywhere. She heaved up the full basket of fruit and toted it to put next to the house wall, beside another covered by canvas. Caring less and less about the war, she did love her husband, and was determined to keep him by her side.
Rowland must answer this call to arms.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Observed through scattered trees by R
owena and Derec, Yorktown, Virginia clustered a quarter mile away on the York River. The brick village, of mainly one-story buildings, appeared a harmless tobacco port. After another glance over her shoulder, she dismounted in a sheltering grove and patted Kayfill’s sweaty side. The stallion snorted and shook his head. At a little over three weeks of rough riding, she sympathized with her horse. She’d half-hoped the battle would be over before they arrived; but tents, cannon, and men spread out below, clustered in and around the town, where Cornwallis’ army went about their preparations.
Derec dismounted beside her. His new horse, a chestnut procured by Sam, glistened with sweat. His palomino had been stolen by the Spaniards in West Florida. “I should have talked ye out of this, but know ’tis futile, and here we are.” He gave her a quick smile. “I keep wanting to hug ye, love; but with ye dressed as a bachgen, I’d be arrested.”
Once again in breeches, as Rowland, she reveled in the freedom in the movement of her legs. However, unlike before, she didn’t mind wearing a pretty gown since she’d become Derec’s wife.
They’d stopped a dozen miles over the Virginia border on their way north so Derec could speak with an informant. The man had just returned from New York City. The report Derec received was harrowing.
Rowena scanned the area; had she heard footsteps? Dodging rebel troops and even the roads barricaded by the British sentries, who might turn them back no matter their allegiance, she and Derec had barely reached the outskirts of Yorktown. They’d heard the rebel army was in Williamsburg, only thirteen miles to the west. The Continental troops might soon march to attack.
A guard in a scarlet tunic approached, his musket raised. “Who goes there? Identify yourselves.”
Derec slowly put up his hands. “Easy, man. I work for the secret services, for the King. Take us to yer commander. I have vital information.”
The guard grimaced; they argued over Derec’s and Rowland’s validity; the picket seized Derec’s guns. He motioned with his weapon and marched them down to the camp. Trenches had been dug and earthworks and redoubts erected. The noise of men, horses, and smells of gamey stew and sweat wrinkled Rowena’s nose.
“Could we have hay and water for our horses?” she asked the picket in a deep voice.
A young boy was ordered to attend to their mounts. The guard took them at gunpoint to a large tent where they entered.
“General Sewell, sir. I found these two lurking about. The man says he has important information,” the sentry said. He departed once dismissed.
Sewell, a small sprite of a man with a ferret face, glowered at them in distrust. His red coat with gold epaulettes was faded, well-worn. A red sash around his waist frayed at the edges. “Name yourselves. What news do you insist on relaying?”
“Derec Pritchard and Rowland Marsh. Ye must know General Washington and the Frenchie Rochambeau are soon to march from Williamsburg. They set up a fake camp near New York, to fool Clinton, before sneaking down here.” Derec took a slow breath. “My news isn’t good. Clinton won’t be sending the reinforcements Lord Cornwallis so desperately needs. Ye are outnumbered two to one.”
“How do you know this? Why should I believe you?” Sewell thrust his hands on his skinny hips, his spike of a nose poked forward.
“I’m a member of the Pumpelly Ring. We’ve long performed secret services. My contact south of Norfolk swears ’tis true. He got the report direct from New York City.”
Rowena stood stiff, hearing for the first time Derec’s spy ring’s name. Why would he give it away? Did he too have doubts about the war’s outcome and the ring’s secrecy no longer mattered?
Sewell glared at them. He went to the tent flap as if hoping for a breeze. The general’s long sword in its scabbard seemed like it might trip up the man—his legs short in scarred black boots. “The end of September and this place is nothing but a swamp; men are dying of fevers, dysentery. I cannot understand why Sir Henry Clinton would abandon us.”
“I think he misunderstands yer position. Ye must not wait for help.” Derec towered over the little man. “The rebels have thousands of soldiers and will soon close in.”
“Hell’s afire!” Sewell swung about and jammed his finger under Derec’s nose. “How do I know you’re not rebel spies, trying to trick me?”
Derec didn’t even flinch. “Is James Atherton here? He can vouch for us.”
Sewell’s face lit up for a second. “He is. And you’d best not be lying.” The little man summoned his aide to fetch James.
Rowena caught her lip. She really didn’t care to see her cousin but was glad he still lived. Mayhap he knew if her brothers were here. How would she explain her disguise to them? She hadn’t seen her siblings in three years.
Moments later, James entered the tent wearing a dirty green militia jacket. He reared back at seeing her and Derec. His long face marred by a smirk, he shook his head. “What are you doing here, Pritchard? Last I heard, you’d been captured by the Spaniards.”
“I escaped Havana.” Derec’s face impassive, he waved a hand toward her. “You remember Rowland, my aid?”
James’ gray eyes sharpened on her. He leaned closer. “Indeed, only too well. You shouldn’t be here.”
“So, can you vouch for these two, Atherton?” Sewell demanded. He scratched the end of his nose as if the appendage offended him.
“I can, sir.” Irritation tinged his reply. “Actually, Rowland, you might be what I need. I have a coded message just captured from an enemy courier. Our best code-breaker died two days ago of fever.”
“I’d be happy to be of service,” Rowena replied, mouth tight, though relieved she could help.
“Then off with you; I’ve much to dwell over. Deserted, how can it be? This endless war, bloodshed …’75 to ’81, and no resolution.” Sewell curtly dismissed them, and the three walked down a dusty lane to a smaller tent. Inside the canvas, stuffy and sour with perspiration, James asked his tent mate to leave; the young soldier complied.
He faced Derec, his voice a growl. “Why would you bring her here, into this danger? You must be mad.”
“I insisted. You know how contrary I am,” Rowena jumped in, hoping to avoid an altercation. “Where is the message you need deciphered?”
“She has a will of her own.” Derec raised an eyebrow. “I respect her intelligence and bravery. But she’s stubborn, as ye know.”
“Egad, and you’re reckless, as with Alice.” Her cousin’s face flushed scarlet.
The printer’s daughter from Easton, James’ supposed love, Rowena recalled. “This is not the time—”
Derec grabbed James’ shoulder. “Control yerself, man. I told ye mistakes happened. I deeply regret that her and her family were murdered.”
James jerked away. “A mistake? Regret? It’s unforgiveable.” He whirled about and glared at her, then back to Derec. “Then you have the damned nerve to marry my cousin. Your perfidy will get her killed.”
“Stop it, before we’re overheard,” Rowena hissed, glancing toward the closed tent flap.
James raised his fist at Derec. “I’ve been waiting to do this for a long time.” He swung, but Derec blocked his arm and pushed James to the ground.
James lurched up to rise, fists flailing. Derec shoved his boot on James’ chest and pinned him flat.
“Ye best gather yer wits. I don’t wish to thrash ye in front of Rowland.” Derec reached for his knife, then must have thought better of it and withdrew his hand.
Rowena felt the blood burn her cheeks. “Stop now. Both of you. Give me the message, James.”
Derec paced to the tent flap, eased it open an inch, and looked out. “Rowland’s right. We can’t be seen as at odds.”
James slowly got to his feet, breath heaving. He opened a metal box on a small table near one of the two cots. He pulled out a paper and thrust it at her. “I’m trying to protect you from your own misguided ways, cousin,” he said, his voice in earnest. “With your mother gone, I felt twice as—”
“But
your temper gets the best of you. I wish…we weren’t always at odds. And your mother is fine, in case you’re interested. She enjoys refinishing furniture.” Rowena turned from his surprised stare, sat at the table, and studied the Greek letters. She prayed she could untangle the report.
An hour passed. James left and brought back weak tea to drink. He and Derec stayed in separate corners like two pulled-apart hounds, not speaking.
Rowena scribbled notes on the paper provided and rubbed her forehead. “I think I have it. In proper English it says, after Admiral de Grasse won the second battle in the Chesapeake, over a week ago, he wanted to return to Paris. Washington and Rochambeau convinced him to stay to keep us bottled in here, and the French admiral will provide two-thousand more troops, and weapons.” She fingered the paper as a hollow pit opened up inside her. Everything seemed stacked against them.
“Two thousand? And our fleet is in New York, under repair,” James groused, hands splayed in the air.
“A pox on the French,” Derec muttered. “’Tis known they hate England more than they want to help the rebels. The frog-eaters might win this war out of ancient spite.”
Their situation looked hopeless, but she held her tongue. She blew out a long breath. “James, are my brothers here?”
“What? Yes. I’ll see where they are, after I report this news to General Sewell. We’ve come so far and lost too many to end up like this.” James slapped on his hat. “Andrew and William won’t be happy with you either, Ro.” He glared at Derec then stalked out.
Derec placed a hand on her shoulder and massaged it. She sagged in the chair.
* * *
Her Vanquished Land Page 29