"Word is, Lieutenant Riker is saying," the boy's lower lip trembled as he forced himself to look his beloved captain in the eyes, "he's saying . . . you're a traitor . . ."
Chapter Eleven
Maggie waited in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the rustling trees and the even give and take of Zeke's breath. In her hand she carried her papa's old matchlock rifle; tucked into the waistband of Zeke's spare breeches was a pistol.
The breeches felt odd to Maggie, as if she was somehow more exposed without the billow of her skirts. But John had insisted she wear men's breeches and pin her hair up on her head so that it couldn't be seen beneath the flour-sack mask she would wear.
Maggie ground her boot into the damp leaves and Zeke rested his hand on her shoulder. "Easy, Mags," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper on the wind. "You got to learn patience."
"Where are the others? John said the timing here was vital. He said the dispatches would arrive with an evening patrol and be picked up by the eleven-thirty patrol. We've got to be in and long gone by the time the Brits realize the dispatches are missing."
In the hopes of gaining information concerning British fleet movement, General Washington had put out a request to the patriots in the Yorktown area to concentrate on obtaining information. He wanted dispatches intercepted and spies in the British encampments to be listening with both ears. With half of Rochambeau's war chest and DeGrasse and his French fleet headed for the Chesapeake, the Americans were turning toward the offensive.
It was just by dumb luck that John had overheard a conversation in Commegys' Ordinary pertaining to the dispatches being passed in a mailbag by way of a farmhouse northwest of Yorktown tonight. Because of General Washington's request, John felt it was the band's duty to try to intercept them.
Far in the distance the sound of a whippoorwill rose in the hot night air. Maggie smiled to herself. Whippoorwills didn't call after dark. She repeated the sound, signaling to the approaching men that all was safe.
Zeke grinned. "You catch on fast."
"If I'm gonna do this, I need to do it right," she answered.
A moment later she heard footsteps and the slight scrape of tree branches. The silhouettes of several men appeared in the light of the half moon.
"Mags." There was an edge to Carter's voice. "What are you doin' here?"
She grinned. "Takin' your papa's place. Didn't he tell you he's down with the gout?"
Carter frowned. "Guess he did, but he didn't say nothin' about you comin' in his place."
Maggie stepped up to him, agitated by the tone in his voice. "Why is it that all of a sudden you don't want me around, Carter? You think I can't be trusted?"
"Somebody saw you the other day comin' out of Thayer's tent. I thought you said you wasn't seein' him anymore."
"For your information, Carter," Maggie said, steppping up to him, "I was doing some bootwork for him, not that it's any of your business what I do—"
"Carter . . . Maggie," John interrupted. "That's enough. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this issue. You know better. You have concerns, you bring them up at a meeting." He turned to the other men. "Let's concentrate on the task at hand. Do you have the masks, Pete?"
The blacksmith stepped forward, dropping a pack to the ground. "Got 'em, John." He immediately began to pass out the flour-sack masks. "Be sure you give 'em back, boys. We don't want 'em hangin' out to dry on clothes-washin' day."
The men chuckled.
John squinted in the moonlight and read the face of his gold pocket watch. "Is everyone certain of his . . . or her job? Zeke?"
"I take the front door—"
"I thought I was taking the lead," Carter interrupted.
John glanced at Carter. "We discussed this. We all take turns. First man in takes the greatest risk of being shot. "You cover him going in, Carter, and then guard the front door. Les?"
"I go in through the back, and stand guard at the back door once Zeke, you, and Maggie are inside safe and sound."
John gave a nod, turning to Edwin, Les's brother. "Ed?"
"I guard the drive and keep an eye out for redcoats."
"You see, hear, or even smell anything out of the ordinary and you let us know," John instructed. "You understand?"
Edwin grinned, swinging a flintlock rifle over each shoulder. "Got it."
"All right then, let's go. We have just enough time to get in after the eleven o'clock patrol passes and get out before the eleven-thirty finds we've been there." The group split and headed for their horses hidden in the trees a quarter of a mile north.
John stopped Maggie. "You understand the operation?"
She smiled up at him. "I'm not addlepated. It's simple enough. Go in, pick up the dispatches, and get out." She slipped her arm through his and together they started through the woods. "So stop worrying about me."
"I'm concerned about this unrest between you and Carter. It could get in the way of what we're trying to accomplish here." He held back a pine bough, letting Maggie through.
"I don't understand it, John. It's like he's turned on me. I guess he can't accept a woman in the group."
"Well, I'll speak with him."
"Why not just let it simmer a while?" Maggie countered. "If I show him I can do as good a job as any man, if I show him I can be trusted, then maybe he'll back off. He's just concerned for everyone's safety, that's all it is."
John let out a sigh. "You're right. I swear, you're more level-headed than I am, Maggie. You ought to be leading these men, not me."
They both laughed at the thought. "Nah, I couldn't take your place, John. Nobody could."
He reached his horse. The others were already mounted and waiting. "I appreciate your confidence." He turned to the other men as he swung easily into his saddle. "All right, men, let's move. I need not remind you that we travel in silence."
Maggie mounted the horse Zeke had brought her this afternoon and then reined in behind the other men. When she'd asked Zeke where the horse had come from, he'd been very mysterious in his reply. "Let's just say he was 'liberated' from oppression and leave it at that, Maggie girl," he'd answered.
Maggie stroked the horse's sleek neck as the band rode out of the woods and onto a narrow path. Liberated? What had Zeke meant? Had he stolen the horse from the British encampment? She found it hard to believe he would bring her a stolen horse that could be so easily traced. Well, whatever the case, she was grateful. That old nag of Noah's had been able to pull a wagon, but she hadn't been worth two pence when it came to a hard ride. Zeke had led her away, saying he would get what coin for her he could.
Maggie rode in silence in the midst of the men, feeling important. She was afraid, but it was a good kind of fear, the kind that made you cautious. It felt so good to be doing something worthwhile. It took her mind off Grayson and the child of his she carried.
A mile from the farmhouse where the dispatches were said to be waiting, John led the patriots off the road and into a streambed. They rode a half a mile before he suddenly called them to a halt. A minute later the sound of hoofbeats hammered on the road.
The British patrol. And right on time.
The men sat astride in utter silence listening to the hoofbeats approach, pass, and then die away. Even the patriots' own horses seemed to sense the need for invisibility. When John motioned all was safe, the men and Maggie filed one by one through the trees and back onto the road.
It was only a minute before they turned off the road into a drive and Maggie spotted the bright yellow lights of a farmhouse. She immediately detected the sound of laughter and a stringed instrument.
Maggie glanced at the others. They were dismounting and pulling their masks over their heads. Sliding off her gelding, she tied him to a tree with the other horses and pulled the flour-sack mask out of the waistband of Zeke's breeches. Slowly she pulled it over her head, concealing her face. The coarse spun material was rough against her skin and the remaining powdery flour irritated her nose, but s
he could see, and that was all that mattered.
John, recognizable only by his pale-blue breeches, gave a nod and the men fanned out. Maggie fell in behind John. Edwin remained behind to guard the horses and watch for an unscheduled patrol. The laugher grew louder as Maggie approached the whitewashed, clapboard farmhouse. The windows were thrown up and the door left wide open, to battle the heat, no doubt.
"Where's the guard?" Maggie whispered.
John put a finger to the place on the flour-sack mask where his lips would be and shrugged. Twenty paces from the farmhouse he stopped her with his arm and pointed.
In the darkness Maggie could make out Zeke's limping silhouette as he neared the door. Pete walked beside him, easily spotted, despite his mask, by his immense size. The others ran toward the back to prevent any of the redcoats from utilizing the rear door.
Inside the farmhouse the Brits began to clap and whistle. Maggie could detect separate voices. One man was teasing another about something. For God's sake, they were drunk! What a stroke of luck!
Zeke flattened against the outer wall of the house and eased toward the front door.
Out of the candlelit windows rose a soft, feminine voice. A woman . . . singing. The Brits inside grew louder with each passing moment, but still Maggie heard the woman's voice, so strangely soft and delicate despite the bawdy laughter.
Zeke stepped forward, his rifle on his shoulder as if he were about to burst in, and then suddenly he halted.
"What is it?" John whispered in a hushed voice. "Does he see something?"
Maggie's heart rose in her throat. The woman . . . it had to be Lyla.
Then suddenly from behind Maggie there was a gunshot. She and John whirled around into a crouch, rifles aimed. To their horror they saw Carter standing, his flintlock limp in his hands.
"It just went off," he swore desperately.
John had an instant to make a decision. Surely the men inside the farmhouse had heard the gunshot. Did he and his men hightail it out of there and hope they could outrun the English soldiers or did they proceed hoping the warning wouldn't prove fatal?
Zeke faced John, waiting for the order to proceed or run.
John gave a wave of his fist. Go, he signaled. Go!
Zeke leaped into action. He threw himself through the open doorway to the farmhouse with Pete directly behind him. John sprinted across the grass and Maggie followed.
An instant after Zeke stepped through the door, the remaining patriots broke in through the back. By the time Maggie slipped inside, there were redcoats all over the floor, their face pressed into the plank floorboards. Even from the back of their heads, she could recognize several officers. She thanked God she was wearing the flour-sack mask.
In spite of Carter's bungle, the patriots had managed to take the British officers utterly by surprise. They had been so occupied with their merrymaking that they'd never heard Carter's misfire. Maggie imagined there'd be hell to pay tomorrow over the Brits not posting a watch outside.
The main room of the simple farmhouse was littered with ale and wine bottles and scraps of food. The furniture had been pushed aside to make a dance floor. Off to one side was a table heaped with trays of sweets. They were celebrating some officer's birthday!
Maggie heard a whimper and looked up to see the town whore, Lyla, standing half naked in the shadows of the fireplace. Maggie was ashamed by her presence, and frightened for her at the same time. Maggie glanced at Zeke, but he seemed not to have noticed Lyla. He was shouting orders to the British officers lying on the floor, swearing he would kill them all if they moved an inch.
"The dispatches," zeke ordered in a gruff voice. "Where are they?"
Already John was searching the room. On impulse Maggie snatched up a scarlet uniform coat and tossed it to Lyla so that the thin woman could cover her nakedness.
Zeke pressed the barrel of his rifle to the nearest redcoat's head. "I asked where the dispatches were," he repeated threateningly.
The officer shook his head. "No dispatches."
"Liar!"
Maggie began to search the room, digging into cupboards and overturning furniture.
"I . . . I swear," the officer repeated with a hiccup.
"That's not what I heard," Zeke said through clenched teeth. "Now tell me where the blasted messages are and we'll be on our way. We got no taste for blood, only information."
The drunken officer Zeke had singled out trembled with fear as the man above him cocked his flintlock. "Please don't shoot," the redcoat pleaded. "I swear on my mother's grave there were no dispatches tonight. We were taken off the mail route."
"When?"
"To-today."
"Who got the dispatches? Where are they?"
"I . . . I don't know, I swear I don't know. They don't tell us. No one tells us anything."
Maggie kept an eye on Zeke as she continued her hunt for the mailbag. In the kitchen and upstairs she could hear the other patriots ransacking the house. Minutes later they all returned to the main room.
"Nothing," Les declared.
"Nothing," John echoed, disguising his voice.
Pete shook his head.
Zeke cursed beneath his breath.
Maggie couldn't believe their ill luck. They'd gotten in so easily, with not a shot fired, only to find that it had been a waste of time. They've got to be here somewhere, she said to herself. Think! Where would you hide something precious? She thought of her da's mother back in Ireland. He'd said she had a secret hiding place. Where?
The fireplace, of course! The only object left standing after a fire. There'd been a hollowed-out place behind a brick in the little cottage, her da had said. It was where Grandma Maggie Anne had hidden her golden crucifix. Maggie dropped to her knees and began to push one brick and then another looking for one that was loose.
Pete and Les had tied up the British officers and prepared to go. Zeke waved to her to come, seeming to look straight through Lyla's quivering form. One of the men had led Lyla to a chair and made her sit, but no one had tied her up. They all knew her. They all knew she was no threat.
Maggie shook her head wildly, not daring to speak, when Zeke waved again, beckoning her. They're here. They've got to be here, she told herself. She pounded on the brick with one hand, steadying herself with her rifle with the other. Nothing moved, not a brick.
In frustration she scooted across the wide hearth and thrust her free hand up into the chimney. She smiled behind her flour-sack mask when her fingers touched something hard dangling inside. She heard one of the British officers swear as she crawled into the cold fireplace. This was no mailbag! Too heavy. Far too heavy! She ran her fingers along the inner brick wall of the fireplace trying to unhook the bag from the rusty nail it hung from. Suddenly the strap broke and the bag came crashing down, some of its contents spilling onto the hearth.
Les gave a hoot of delight.
Maggie could do nothing but stare at the shimmering gold coins. There was more money lying at her feet than she'd ever seen in her lifetime!
A payroll. It had to be payroll money. What it was doing here, she didn't know.
Zeke hustled to Maggie's side, a small wooden crate he'd found on the floor in his hands. Stooping beside her, he carefully lifted the torn canvas bag of gold coins into the crate and helped Maggie to pick up what had spilled. Then, handing Maggie his rifle, he lifted the crate into his arms and hurried for the door. He brushed past Lyla, giving no indication he knew her.
Outside, the patriots ran toward their horses hooting and hollering in glee. Zeke handed the crate up to Les who was already astride, and then Zeke turned back to Maggie. He gave her a boost into her saddle. "Go home," he told her sharply. "Go home and go to bed."
"It's gold coin. Did you see it all?" she bubbled with excitement. "What are we going to do with all of that money?"
John slipped handed Maggie the reins to her horse. "Meeting two nights from now, Les and Ed's duck blind. "We'll talk then."
With that,
Zeke slapped Maggie's horse on the rump and the horse bolted. Maggie rode off into the moonlit night still wearing her mask.
"Captain? Captain . . . " Private Michaels shook Grayson gently. "Captain, wake up."
Grayson rolled in his cot and attempted to pull the light cotton sheet that covered his nude body up over his head.
Michaels carefully swept back the sheet. "Sir, you have to wake up."
With a groan Grayson rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, shielding them from the lanternlight with a cupped palm. "Michaels?"
"Yes, sir." The boy eyed the empty claret bottle lying beside Grayson's bed. "Major Lawrence wants you."
"Now?"
"Now." Michaels picked up the claret bottle and set it on a clothing trunk.
Grayson swung his feet over the side of the bed and cradled his head in his hands. His skull was pounding, his tongue thick and cottony. "What's happened?"
"I don't know exactly, but it has something to do with payroll for one of the Hessian regiments."
"Payroll? Why are were concerned with payroll in the middle of the night and what the hell do I care if the Hessians get paid?"
"Sir . . . " Michaels began to lay out Grayson's pressed uniform. "I think the rebels stole the payroll."
Grayson swore foully beneath his breath and then glanced up, trying to focus. "Tell me something, Michaels, how the hell is it that you say you don't know what's going on, but you always know exactly what's going on and before I do?"
The young private shrugged. "I don't know, sir."
Grayson laughed without humor, wishing he hadn't brought home that last bottle of claret from Commegys' Ordinary last night. He'd sat there all evening waiting, watching, as he had so many nights in the last weeks, hoping to catch just a glimpse of Maggie. It felt good to just see her even if they didn't speak. But last night the tavern had been unusually quiet. Maggie had never appeared.
"Captain . . ." Michaels urged gently. "The major's waiting. Riker, too."
Sweeping back the hair that fell across his forehead, Grayson pushed up off his cot and reached for the creased breeches Michaels offered.
An hour later Grayson headed back toward his own tent, but instead of going inside, he circumnavigated it and headed for the stabling area where the horses for his company were kept. The British encampment, shrouded in that half darkness of dawn, was quiet. The only men visible were those standing watch.
The Bootmaker's Daughter: Revolution (Destiny's Daughters Book 2) Page 13