Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

  Meanwhile, her mind kept running in a maddening circle. She loved Jack, loved his strength, his courage, his manliness. A tremor vibrated as she remembered the earthy ecstasy his hard soldier’s body had given hers.

  But, she hated him, too—from the bottom of her heart. Hated his deceit. Hated his lies—or, as he put it, his “avoidance of the truth.” Most of all, she hated his accursed, blind, self-satisfied Tory politics.

  And what of his arrogant English family who had sent him after her like a hound set after a deer? A wonderfully convenient match for a younger son who’d got himself in trouble—a provincial heiress! She leaned wearily against his strong back and knew herself in the middle of a tangle with no easy solution.

  The tidy wood lots and fields surrounding Newburgh stretched away on every side. People could be seen working here and there, cultivating by hand, or bent over the dark, tilled earth. On their right, the wide rope of the Hudson coiled beneath slate gray clouds. Occasionally sun and blue skies made brief, heartwarming appearances.

  “You are going to take me home, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. I want you in the safest possible place while I’m not around to take care of you.”

  “Where are you going?

  “I have to complete my mission,” he said. “I will come back to you as soon as winter shuts down the campaign. December, at the latest.” His hand was a constant presence, soothing her arm where it lay around his waist.

  “And then what?”

  “Together we will set about surviving this war.”

  “Married to a British officer? How am I to manage that? If you were telling the truth about loving me—” She’d been turning their problem ‘round and ‘round in her mind. “—you would resign your commission and become a private citizen.”

  “No, Angel.” As if to make up for this denial, his hand passed over her arm tenderly. “I am a soldier and a king’s man.”

  “And I, sir, am a patriot.”

  “You’re married to me, Angelica,” he said firmly. “In the eyes of God—not to mention Reverend Witherspoon.”

  When she was silent, raging at the box she was in, he remarked, “Putting aside that farce of a wedding and even putting aside our going to bed after, isn’t it clear we were made for each other?”

  “Why should we put anything aside?” she grumbled. “You certainly brought it in front of Major Campbell and all those redcoat idiots and made me a laughing stock—your spoils of war.”

  “It was a way to handle Campbell and get you out of there. The fact is, he’d have liked to take the daughter of a prominent rebel for a hostage.”

  “Damn you, Jack,” she muttered again.

  “I don’t think I have ever heard so many damn yous from a lady before,” he said with a chuckle.

  “You richly deserve every one and a thousand more. You could extract curses from a saint.”

  He didn’t reply, just soothed her arm. Even as angry as she was, she finally stopped pulling it away. It didn’t make sense, but there was such comfort, such reassurance, in each warm passage of his hand.

  Besides, Hal’s steady rocking was making her horribly drowsy. They went down a slope ending with a short, splashing traverse of a shallow stream. The woods on every side flaunted delicate new green leaves and bright flowers. A cheerful chorus of red-winged black birds arose from nests among the cattails.

  The crown of the next hill carried an orchard. They passed farmers with teams of red oxen and a tinker in his wagon, jangling with pots. A pair of wagons loaded with barrels passed by. A teamster’s boy rode atop the harness of the lead horse.

  At one point, just as if it were not war-time, they were overtaken by a madly careening four-in-hand. Two well-dressed young dandies, momentarily in that wild place where boys change to men, waved as they thundered by. Jack grinned and raised his hat.

  Angelica knew they would seem an unexceptional couple on this road. Jack would be taken for a gentleman down on his luck. Hal, of course, was magnificent, not the kind of horse just anyone could afford. Nevertheless, by doubling with Angelica, it looked as if he could not afford her a mount or even a shay.

  It was late afternoon when the road began to wind through a marsh. Mosquitoes and deer flies buzzed in their ears. Angelica had to rouse herself to slap at them. Hal shook his head and snorted. His tail slapped back and forth vigorously for he, too, was plagued.

  The noisy pinging of small, glittering frogs and the chatter of nesting waterfowl filled their ears. Herons stalked among the cattails. Ducks swam and dabbled, their fluffy young bobbing close by. Long-necked loons swam among the reeds, their snaky necks all that was visible.

  When a small creek cut across their way, instead of riding into the shallow ford, Jack pulled up. As Hal took advantage of the stop to extend his ruddy neck to sip, his rider took a paper from his pocket and consulted it.

  “A willow thicket north,” he said, nodding at the quivering, trailing leaves. “This is it.”

  After Hal was done, they went toward the willows, following a cart track that wound away from the main road.

  “Where now?” Angelica raised her aching head.

  “To a farm belonging to one Killian van Driessen, a loyalist.”

  The track followed an easy incline. After they had gained some height, a welcome breeze sprang up and the last of their insect tormenters blew away.

  There were yellow stumps, muddy gouges in the trail, and broken saplings where wood had been cut. Next was a herd of red cattle, quietly ruminating.

  Then came cornfields and a garden. In the middle stood a low Dutch farmhouse with a tidy barn and outbuildings. Dogs set up a yelping chorus.

  Jack slowed Hal, and they approached at a walk. What appeared to be several families at work with hoes in the garden looked up. The men went at once to the fence, picked up firearms—in this case, muskets and a long birding gun—before coming out to meet the strangers.

  “Is this Killian van Driessen’s place?”

  “Who wants to know?” said the foremost man, not lowering his musket. The guttural accent proved English was not his first language.

  “I am Jack Church, sir, just come from England to tend my family’s place above Kingston on Esopus Kill. This lady is my wife. Captain Willem Casparus, who lives on the Wall Kill, told me this would be a place where we could safely shelter.”

  Jack presented a folded paper. Everyone stood around, firearms ready, while the speaker, a blocky fellow with ruddy cheeks and fair hair, looked it over.

  Not all eyes were on Jack and Angelica. Some swept the area around as if expecting an ambush.

  When he’d finished reading, the man nodded and put out his hand. “God save the king!” he said.

  Jack echoed him.

  “I am Balt van Driessen,” the sturdy young man said. “And this is my father’s place. These are my brothers, Gerrit and Cornelius, and my brother-in-law, Dirk VanderKemp. We’ve come from our farms to stay with the old folks and keep safe together, but we’ll find a bed for you.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there is plenty of trouble just west of here across the Shawanagunk. The Indians, sir, have their own way of seeing this war, and some of our neighbors, too.”

  Throwing a leg over Hal’s neck, Jack dismounted. “I’m glad you will take us in,” he said. “My wife and I had a fall this morning and she took the worst of it.”

  The women expressed concern.

  “Sorry about the welcome,” said Balt, patting his musket, “but these days you can’t be too careful.”

  Jack nodded. “I understand. As a matter of fact, we were the guests of a certain John M’Bain for a couple of days in the Clove. Then the militia—among them, your neighbor, Mr. Casparus—got us out of there.”

  “God bless you!” Balt exclaimed, shaking his head. “You don’t say!”

  “And what happened to M’Bain?” asked one of the younger men. “I was with a party that chased his gang over the Wall Kill. We saw his lea
vings: burned out farms, rustled stock, men tortured, women abused. He’s worse than the devil.”

  “A true disciple,” Jack agreed. “You’ll be glad to hear that he’s in hell with his master now.”

  “Well, by God!” shouted Balt. “That’s the best news we’ve had for many a week!”

  The family was welcoming and eager for news, but the house proved to be utterly full, spilling over with the entire van Driessen clan. With the threat of rival armies, Indians and brigands, they had come together. The barn, too, where they took Hal to get him fed and stalled, was overflowing with livestock as well as servants.

  Supper was set out. As soon as Angelica appeared, greeting the women in Dutch, smiles bloomed around her. They seemed particularly gratified their guests had been sent by Willem Casparus, whose wife was yet another van Driessen daughter. Everyone came crowding around to ask questions and meet the pretty, weary stranger.

  After washing her hands and face, Angelica was invited to the table. She was thrilled by what she saw.

  There were cheeses, both hard and soft, fresh bread, milk, and plates of cold sliced ham and pork. A deep pot of steaming greens, fragrant with bacon, also graced the table.

  Once inside the house, conversation shifted into Dutch. Angelica watched as Jack, who had come in after his own wash up, performed outside at the pump, began to talk in flawed but fluent Dutch. When he lacked a word, he borrowed from German. She could see that everyone, particularly the white haired grandparents, Killian and his wife, approved of his effort to join in.

  In spite of the dull ache in her head and the sharper ache in her heart, Angelica discovered she was ravenously hungry. Such familiar and mouth-watering food was a delight.

  After grace was said, Angelica plunged in, pausing only to compliment. Jack heaped food on her plate and smiled, remarking that her good appetite proved her brains hadn’t been addled by the fall.

  “Just plain food, Mrs. Church,” said the old lady.

  “Nothing to eat but cornpone and dirt among those reivers, Vrouw van Driessen,” Jack explained.

  “Yes,” Angelica agreed, “and bloody beef.” The round Dutch faces surrounding her soured in uniform distaste.

  Jack began to spin one of his tales. Angelica listened, observing his glibness with bitter detachment.

  She could, of course, have told a counter story, but why? He had maneuvered them into a safe and comfortable berth. He had pledged to take her home.

  She was so confused, so angry. At the same time, she was so infuriatingly in love with him, trembling like a girl every time he touched her. Maybe, she thought wearily, after I get home, after he is gone, I will be able to think, to sort this out.

  “We were married in New York City and were going to my mother’s farm when we were taken on the Newburgh road and carried away to the Clove,” Jack said. “We had a wagon with furniture and some money, but M’Bain got it all. I promised him a huge ransom, and he must’ve believed me because he didn’t harm us.” As he spoke, he passed his arm around Angelica’s slim waist.

  “But what happened to your wagon after you were set free?” Balt asked.

  “Well, M’Bain had thrown everything on the road, and when we were freed, three days later, it wasn’t there any more. The militia needed the wagon and our horses. I can’t complain, for they rescued us. I just thank God we got out unmolested and with my good saddle horse.”

  “And who is your family, Mrs. Church?” old Mrs. van Driessen asked.

  Angelica noted that Jack—abominable, cool Jack—was so sure of her that he didn’t even bother to send so much as a flicker of a cautionary glance her way.

  “I am, or rather I was before marriage, a Gansevoort from Taghanic,” she demurely replied. She was somewhat surprised at the ease with which she supplied a plausible tale of her own.

  “Ah, then you’re used to rough and tumble, Mrs. Church, with those damned Connecticut Yankees raising hell over the border all the time,” old Killian observed.

  Angelica nodded, rather pleased to have hit upon a dangerous and out-of-the-way place to claim as her own. She was too aware of the peril they were in to muddy the waters with anything contrary to the tall tale Jack had spun.

  He had indeed found them a safe haven in this solid, old-fashioned Dutch family. Of course, she didn’t like their politics, but it was a lesson to sit with these people, so exactly like her own, who were staunchly for the king. Kind, hard-working, decent, prosperous folk, they were now threatened by their neighbors who believed as her own family did!

  It was coming home hard, not only the ugliness, but the flat stupidity of civil war. It seemed horrible, crazy, to be on the other side of people like these.

  How could parliament have acted in such an ignorant, wicked way? Their folly had forced a cruel division upon the entire hard working, pious, American family!

  “And how did a gentleman from England come to take a fair Dutchwoman from Taghanic to wife?” Balt asked.

  “Balthazer,” scolded his silver-haired mother. “Don’t be so nosy.”

  “Oh, it was arranged,” Jack said casually. “You see my mother was an American who married an English gentleman and settled across the sea. She had several sons, but her brother’s marriage brought him only one child—the lady who is now my bride.”

  Graciously, he turned, lifted Angelica’s hand, and kissed it. Embarrassed both by his lie and the look in his eyes, she obligingly began a blush.

  The youngest van Driessen wife, a moon-faced baby of fifteen, couldn’t suppress herself for an instant longer. “Imagine!” she bubbled.

  Mrs. van Driessen admonished her. “Hush, Jenneke. Don’t be impertinent.”

  In spite of the rebuke, the girl’s round green eyes swept admiringly over the visitors, saying as loudly as if she’d been shouting it, What luck! Think of the odds against getting such a handsome man in an arranged marriage!

  “Well, ‘tis apparent you are cousins,” murmured one of the other young wives.

  In her lap, she dandled a blonde baby who gnawed on a bone he’d been handed to occupy him. His mother gazed with great interest at the strangers. A magisterial glance from the mother-in-law, however, was sufficient to end this conversation.

  “Where on earth shall we put Mr. and Mrs. Church?” A senior wife spoke into the following silence.

  “Why in the corner room, I suppose,” replied Mrs. van Driessen. “And upon what shall they sleep?”

  “There is a mattress, a few blankets that can be spared, and Gerrit’s bedstead,” said the old lady.

  Eyes met eyes across the table. A giggle, instantly suppressed, came from somewhere.

  “You haven’t been married long, have you, sir?” Gerrit asked. The notion seemed, for some reason, to tickle him, as well as all the young folk at the table.

  “Hush!” Jenneke hissed. She blushed and caught his arm.

  She had a quick, merry face. Although she was so young, her stays were loose and her apron bulged with baby.

  Angelica had come to understand during the bustle of preparations for dinner that old Mrs. van Driessen considered this daughter-in-law a feckless creature, much in need of keeping in order.

  “Mrs. Church looks fair worn out,” a young wife ventured.

  “I am very tired,” Angelica agreed. “Twelve hours ago I was awake, hiding in a hollow tree, listening to a fight and wondering if I would live to see noon.”

  “Well, my dear,” said Mrs. van Driessen, “now that you’ve had dinner, you should go straight to bed. Swantie, you get the others started on clearing up,” she continued, turning. “Jenneke and I will get Mrs. Church settled.”

  “I shouldn’t sleep on your clean things,” Angelica said, looking down unhappily at her smudged and dusty dress. All during dinner in this tidy house, she’d been smelling herself—a combination of fear, possum, and the smoke of burned cabins. “I’m filthy.”

  “A clean gown can be found,” said the old lady. “We’ll bring up a basin and some hot
water. And don’t you get up until you want tomorrow. I have plenty of help in the kitchen.”

  “Will you be pushing on again soon, Mr. Church?” the patriarch asked.

  He had been leaning back and listening, chewing on the cold stump of his long, white clay pipe. Allowing his sons to question the strangers, he had watched and listened.

  “I hope we can trouble you for two days,” Jack replied. His gaze, full of concern, traveled to Angelica. “I believe it would be good for Mrs. Church if we could rest here tomorrow. Then we will go to the ferry and trouble you no more.”

  There was a long, considering pause in which all the grown Van Driessen children studied their plates.

  “No trouble at all, sir,” the patriarch said slowly, nodding his gray head. “Will it, Mrs. van Driessen?”

  “No, husband,” she replied. “As you say, Mr. and Mrs. Church are welcome.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Weary as she was, Angelica followed custom and offered to help the women clean up, but old Mrs. van Driessen insisted that she go straight to bed.

  “You look exhausted, Mrs. Church.”

  Angelica had to agree with the assessment. Shortly after, she accompanied the spry, old lady upstairs to a room under the eaves.

  Boxes and furniture were arranged by a couple of servants who had been summoned to the task after their dinner in the cook shed. The pegged bedstead was erected, and a cornhusk mattress was set on the slats.

  Woven Indian baskets took up one side of the room. The sweet smell lingering in the air suggested that these contained corn meal.

  “Leave the door open tonight, Mrs. Church. A little heat will come up and the cats won’t wake you by scratching at the door. Mice do come to get the corn meal and, of course, it’s best if the kitties come after them.”

  A shift, worn but clean, had been provided. After the ladies had gone, Angelica shucked off her clothes. She took a complete basin bath in the deliciously warm water, ending with her feet.

  Just as she finished drying and dropping the shift over her head there came a knock. It was Jenneke with a cup of medicinal tea.