Negotiations went back and forth, from Washington’s tent to Cornwallis’ cavern retreat. The next day terms were finally agreed upon, but the commissioners of the surrender continued to argue.
Rowena’s heart lifted when she saw Andrew stagger through the town. His eyes caught hers and he limped over. “I’ve been looking for you. I’m relieved you’re safe. But you must go.”
She almost hugged him, then stepped back to keep her pretense of a male. “Bless you for being unharmed. Where is William?”
“He’s around nearby; don’t worry. But we cannot find James.” Andrew sighed, wiping his mouth on his torn sleeve. His entire uniform was tattered and filthy. “Washington refuses to allow the Americans who joined the British side to not suffer punishment, as Lord Cornwallis requested.”
Rowena shuddered; they might all be hanged. “God help us.”
She glanced around. Civilians had entered the town, curious about the outcome. They muttered and mumbled. Some cheered, as if this were a play for their enjoyment.
Derec held her close. “’Tis time to leave Virginia, love.” He then quickly released her, garbed as she was. “We must wait elsewhere to see what the British plan next. What we should plan.”
“Damn Clinton. He should have given us the reinforcements.” Andrew slapped his hat on his thigh, raising a puff of dust. “This was a horribly conceived battle.”
A private who wrapped his bleeding arm snorted. “I hear Clinton’s reinforcements are on their way now. Far too late for us.”
William joined them, his face black from gunpowder, blood on his neck seeping from a gouge. He scratched at it. “Here you are, thank goodness. We should head north, to New York, to rejoin our original regiment.” He linked his arm around her neck as a man might do to a boy. “I love you, lad. You need to leave, immediately.”
“I love you both, too. I hope the war is done, even though we…failed here.” Rowena tugged free and searched the haggard faces around her. “Derec and I must return to Florida, to help Father and Aunt Elizabeth.”
“Tell Father we’re all right. At least for now. We must sneak off before the rebels take us prisoner.” William rubbed his knuckles along her head. “Take care, both of you.”
“We’ll be in New York City with the other Loyalists, little hoyden.” Andrew grabbed and shook her hand. “We’re proud of you. But try to behave from now on.”
She winced, her skin still painful. In a torrent of emotion, she longed to embrace them.
“I’m proud of you two. And behaving has never been my strong suit.” Rowena caught her lip to hold back her anguish. She watched her brothers slip away and prayed they’d be reunited some day in safer environs.
Derec grasped her arm. “Now ’tis our turn; to the south, and whatever our future holds.”
“As long as we’re together.” Rowena hurried with him through the rubble, eyes averted from the blood-soaked cobbles, hoping their horses were still in the stable. Derec had paid the stable boy well to keep a close watch on them.
She cringed at each sound as they navigated through the shadows of buildings to snatch their mounts and elude the rebel army.
Epilogue
Rowena stood at the harbor on Matanzas Bay. She and Derec held hands, his strength giving her courage. May’s mild spring air wafted over her with the briny scent of seaweed. Their trunks and portmanteaux crowded at their feet. In this spring of 1782, a precarious future awaited. But then her life had often seemed like a runaway carriage, bouncing through deep ruts.
“Are you ready for this huge change?” She touched her abdomen, which had started to swell with a new life. Warmth spread through her to have a beginning at this end.
He laughed, his thumb caressing her fingers. “Our sweet babe-to-be or the voyage north?”
“Both, I daresay.” She smiled up at him, though it wasn’t the best time for her to travel; and what would they find in Nova Scotia?
“With ye, I’m ready for anything.” He hugged her close and kissed her cheek. “My brave Lady of the Mist.”
She laughed softly, but could he be content as a farmer as the British government wished the settlers to be?
“At least we’re promised land and safety from the rampaging Americans.” She might end up as the farmer, along with the diligent Mary.
At the finish of the Yorktown siege, British officer General O’Hara had handed over the sword of surrender to the rebel, General Lincoln, on October 19th. Cornwallis didn’t attend, saying he was ill, so General Washington declined to accept the sword from a subordinate.
The British accumulated their remaining troops in New York City and Charles Town, but the fighting seemed over. Support in England had waned for the American war.
Other loyalists waited on the quay, fleeing the land they’d helped develop. Some of the women whimpered, some argued. Men grumbled. Children jostled each other, their voices loud.
A gull swooped overhead, its call mournful.
“It’s wrong we are to be exiled from our own country,” Father said as he joined them, brow furrowed. “But, I realize that the past must be discarded. It will be good to set up my law office again and not have to look over my shoulder.”
Aunt Elizabeth shuffled beside him. “Do they even have towns in Nova Scotia?” James had never been found; he could be a prisoner or dead. She wouldn’t discuss it, but she drifted through the days, often reading her Bible and saying little.
“Halifax is a major city, Auntie.” Rowena had told her aunt this before, yet she harbored her own doubts. She wondered if Aunt Joan was still in New York City, or would they reunite in Nova Scotia where so many loyalists were forced to settle? Had her husband, Uncle Charles, survived Yorktown?
She prayed her brothers were safe in New York. Their commander, Sir Henry Clinton, had returned to England, replaced by Sir Guy Carleton. How soon would the “enemy” soldiers have to evacuate the new United States?
“I heard this Nova place is wild and full of wicked savages,” Mary said in a whisper, as if the savages might be listening. She grimaced her lips over her beaver teeth.
Daphne shrugged, loose tendrils of blonde air waving in the breeze from under her straw hat. “Florida were pretty wild, with them alligators and snakes. Still, I don’t look forward to snow again.”
Sam walked close to the group. “Terrible blizzards, they say, sister.” He led Kayfill and the chestnut, now called Easton. Both horses snorted and swished their black and russet tails. “I’ll be snug in the ship’s hold with these two, to keep them steady on the voyage. Mayhap I can finally breed horses in this new land.”
“Hmmm. I will help you with contacts, Sam.” Father nodded, his eyes brighter. “Must be some horse breeders among our fellow exiles. Perhaps we’ll both get involved in the process.”
“Don’t get trampled on the ship.” Daphne laughed and poked her brother. “I’ll hold my nose to bring you victuals among the horse dung.”
Mrs. Torres-Navarro bustled up and shoved a basket into Father’s hands. “I’m so sorry you must go, Señor Marsh. And your lovely family.” She sniffed into a lace handkerchief, her bright red and orange skirt rustling. “These are my Turrón, an almond sweet for you to enjoy.”
“Uh…yes, thank you, madam.” Father’s cheeks pinked. “I’m forever honored by your hospitality.”
Rowena hid a smile and hugged the woman, who always smelled of spices. “Thank you for being so kind to us, Señora.”
“It was my pleasure.” The widow eyed her father as if she might tempt him to stay. “Often events do not turn out as we wish.”
“Indeed, that’s true. You’ve been very kind.” Father met her gaze briefly. The basket crackled in his grasp.
Rowena turned back to the bay in case she laughed. Would her father ever accept another woman in his life? She hoped he would. He deserved happiness.
At a movement behind the Spanish woman, Rowena saw Sergio, her father’s former stable hand. The ugly man gawped at Daphne. She not
iced, too, and rolled her eyes. He’d tried to court the girl but had been soundly rebuffed.
“Oh, I see ship’s sails at last.” Chest tightening, Rowena stood on tiptoe. The ship was hours late. Soon they would embark.
She didn’t care much about leaving Florida. Pennsylvania had been her home, and she’d probably never see it again. Her mother’s grave might go untended, as well as Mersheland. She hissed out her breath.
“Don’t worry. We’ll stay busy, cariad. Ye will have babes. And they need many homes built in Nova Scotia for the surge in population,” Derec said. “My skills are required.”
“They’ll need furniture, too. We must keep Aunt Elizabeth occupied with sanding and painting,” Rowena whispered. “I pray a quieter life will be enough for you, husband.” She studied his sharp features, his black hair tied in a queue. Her love for him ran deeper than she ever imagined. “No more marching off to battles for either of us, pray?”
“We’ll see, love.” He gave her an enigmatic smile. “No one knows the future. There’s still fighting on the frontier and at sea.”
“We must be done with it. And I’m good for more than producing babies.” She leaned into him. Together they must make their life work, no matter the continued hardships and uncertainties.
She wouldn’t admit her apprehensions. Her father and husband would be shocked that she no longer cared that the rebels won. If they wanted their independence so desperately, perhaps they should have it. Maybe she’d been on the wrong side all along.
“Daphne and I will knit sweaters and caps for the loyalists to keep warm,” Rowena continued. “Also, I’m accurate with a rifle, and can still throw a hefty kettle, my dearest.”
Derec chuckled and kissed her. She kissed him harder, tasting warmth, security, and the thrill of their love. A wild adventure awaited.
The End
Also published by Books We Love
Escape the Revolution
Ladies and Their Lovers (Miss Grey’s Shady Lover/ The Defiant Lady Pencavel)
Rose’s Precarious Quest
The Apothecary’s Widow
A Savage Exile – Vampires with Napoleon on St. Helena
Hostage to the Revolution
On a Stormy Primeval Shore
Diane Parkinson (Diane Scott Lewis) wrote book reviews for the Historical Novel Reviews magazine and worked at The Wild Rose Press from 2007 to 2010 as a historical editor. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society and the Napoleonic Historical Society. Most of her novels are set in late eighteenth-century England. She lives is western Pennsylvania with her husband.
For further information about the author, visit her
Website—http://www.dianescottlewis.org
Her Vanquished Land Page 31