Chapter 2
two
Rifle Men that for their number make the most formidable light infantry in the world.
. . . Men who from their amazing hardihood, their method of living so long in the woods without carrying provisions with them, the exceeding quickness with which they can march to distant parts, and above all, the dexterity to which they have arrived in the use of the Rifle Gun. . . . Every shot is fatal.
The Virginia Gazette
Within the smoky, dimly lit Day’s Bridge Tavern along the Passaic River, General Rhys Harlow sat at a corner table.
Spread over the spacious taproom were his company of riflemen—eighty enlisted men and sixteen officers.
The slim profiles of ninety-six long rifles turned the tavern into a military garrison.
On the table before him lay a letter from General Washington, recommending him to the particular notice of Congress as a good and valuable officer.
He’d been promoted to the rank of brigadier general in the Continental Army after being a prisoner of war in Quebec till recently.
His time among the British was finally finished, at least in their custody. He’d far rather face them on the field.
“Here’s to the Canadian expedition officially coming to a close.” Major James Bohannon, his adjutant, raised his pint of ale. “I never thought we’d escape the far north, but here we are, a stone’s throw from my very home.”
Captain Casper Sperry reached for a worn copy of The New Jersey Gazette. “So, General, bets are being placed on where the American army should winter. What’s your preference?”
“The Lowantica Valley west of here seems a formidable defense with a brook for fresh water and sloping ground to ward off north winds. And near enough to keep a wary eye on Philadelphia and New York,” Rhys said as the heated toddy stole through him and took the chill from his bones.
“We’ve a fair supply of wood for covering and fuel, besides. ”
Bohannon nodded. “The enlisted men will winter in tents, God help them, though there’s talk of building log huts.
General Washington will likely headquarter at Jacob Arnold’s Tavern on Morristown Green, large enough to hold his aides-de-camp, servants, and guard.
Even Mrs. Washington, should she visit.”
“Imagine that.” Sperry grinned as a harried maidservant plopped down heaping pewter plates. “A little feminine company would be most welcome.”
Bohannon surveyed the fried eggs and bacon and toast with obvious approval after months of scant rations. “I heard tell of a promised dance or two hosted by none other than the general himself.”
“As for us officers, we’re billeting here in Chatham, aye?” Sperry asked. “Or riding on to Morristown if it proves more accommodating?”
“New Jersey declared for independence last year, so hopefully the villagers will be obliging. Chatham’s liberty pole marks them as firm Patriots,” Rhys said. “Much like Morristown.”
Nodding, Bohannon picked up a fork. “My parents, God rest them, left a large house on Chatham Green. There’s room enough for a few of us officers . . . if my sisters are willing.”
Rhys listened, hopeful. For a soldier on the run, a canvas tent seemed the best to be had, but a house? Though the winter had been mild and muddy thus far aside from a spate of snow, he sensed it would soon turn brutal, as northeast winters often were.
Bohannon continued, “My brother is a staunch Patriot and apothecary and lives in his shop. He’d be a valuable resource should there be medical needs among the troops.”
Sperry winked. “I’d rather talk about your sisters.”
Bohannon grinned. “Well, they’re not yet married, nor are they spinsters. One is known as the belle of Chatham.”
Sperry’s interest sharpened. “The belle? That bodes well.”
“But can they cook?” Rhys asked wryly.
Sperry chuckled, but Bohannon turned sheepish. “Pampered pastor’s daughters? A hired woman helps—and a lad who tends the horses and brings in wood and whatnot.”
Rhys forked another bite. Pampered? Unable to do the most basic of tasks?
He thought of his own mother and sister, the ordinary he was raised in, and the lack of the smallest luxuries at first. A few of his officers had been born and bred with a silver spoon while his was a humble wooden ladle.
Yet they all were proven marksmen, having survived conditions most snuff-snorting men couldn’t. All for the cause of liberty.
“I should like to meet these sisters of yours,” Sperry said, taking a pinch of snuff, which was, to Rhys’s reckoning, his only fault. “And billet with you Bohannons for the winter.”
Leaving the tavern, Rhys surveyed the Bohannon home from a distance.
Situated on Chatham’s village green, it was a handsome house with a red sandstone foundation, pitched roof, puffing chimneys—four, to be exact—and large, elegantly proportioned windows.
His own newly finished home in Virginia, though smaller, mirrored these sturdy Yankee dwellings.
Bohannon led them across the snow-slick green, avoiding the wagons, carts, and horses on the main streets.
Sperry seemed high-spirited, confident the Bohannons would be their host. Rhys could hardly believe their good fortune after so long and harsh a campaign.
Would they really sleep atop a bed out of the weather?
Sit down for a meal of something other than hardtack and dried peas? He craved coffee. Cake. Even chocolate.
As they came closer, he was suddenly mindful of how ragged he looked. An icy dawn plunge into the Passaic had cleansed him bodily, but his buckskins and linens could stand some mending. Did Bohannon’s sisters sew? Or did the hired help do that too?
Hat in hand, Bohannon knocked on the door of his own house.
An unfavorable sign? Rhys stood behind him with Sperry on the wide stone steps.
Soon the well-made oak door swung open and a young woman stood before them, her mouth a perfect O.
In a trice he took her in. Her indigo gown was edged with delicate lace.
Her flaxen hair seemed a shade lighter than her paleness, which heightened her piercing eyes.
“Brother, can it be you?” Her shock led to an exuberant embrace that sent Bohannon backward on the slippery steps.
Amused, Rhys looked to his boots to allow them a moment’s privacy, though Sperry continued his gawking. With good reason. Bohannon’s sister was as comely as winter was long. Surely this was Chatham’s belle. There couldn’t be a prettier sister.
“Your Patriot brother, at long last, aye,” Bohannon finally said. “I’ve returned from Canada to winter over with General Washington and troops. Me and my two, um, compatriots.”
“Welcome, gentlemen.” Her eyes widened again as she took in all three of them. “Do come in out of the cold.”
“Gentlemen” was a stretch, but they all removed their cocked hats just the same.
“This is my oldest sister, Maebel—we call her Mae. Miss Bohannon to you,” Bohannon half jested, darting a look at Sperry. “And this is Captain Sperry and my commanding officer, General Harlow, of Harlow’s Rifle Corps.”
“Honored.” She smiled at Sperry and then Rhys, a wide, dimpled smile as beguiling as her lively eyes.
They stood in the hall of the house now, midday light streaming through the open door behind them.
“And this is Coralie, the youngest of the clan.” Bohannon gestured toward the staircase another young woman was descending.
She was as plain as Maebel Bohannon was pretty. Or mayhap the stark black she wore made her seem so. Seemingly flustered by so many men, she uttered nothing in reply. Or did she simply rely on her sister to speak for her? Flushing, she gave Bohannon a quick peck on his cheek.
“Your timing is excellent.” Again, Mae smiled and gestured to the dining room, where a dozen different dishes sat upon the table. “Perhaps you can even guess what we’re having for dinner.”
Rhys held her gaze in question, hardly believing his good fortune. There was no mistaking that distinct scent. “Virginia ham?”
“You have a discerning palate, General Harlow.” Pleasure lit her pale features. “There’s also corn chowder, codfish, and gravy. Potatoes, bread, pickles, and preserves. Even molasses dumplings.”
His mouth watered as it hadn’t done for months.
“We don’t normally feast like this.” The younger Miss Bohannon’s hoarse voice bespoke a cold. “’Tis our brother Aaron’s birthday.”
“If you’d like to wash up first, James can show you the way.” With that, Mae disappeared into what Rhys guessed was the kitchen to likely tell the hired help there’d be more guests at table. When she reappeared she said, “You’ll stay the night, of course, all three of you.”
“Nay, all the winter,” Bohannon corrected with a smile.
“Oh my, a billet of invitation, then.” Coralie Bohannon’s brow tightened. For a fleeting moment, Rhys detected resistance in her gaze. Then she pursed her lips and looked upstairs as if trying to parcel out bedchambers.
Mae took charge again. “We’ve unused beds that shall do nicely.”
“I’ll take my old attic room,” Bohannon told her. “The guest rooms should suit the general and captain.”
For now, his rifle stowed in the hall, Rhys became acquainted with the washbowl and linen towels in a small room adjoining the kitchen while Mae held court in the dining room.
She signaled him and her brother to take the table’s ends.
The sisters sat opposite Sperry, who seemed none too troubled by the view.
Coralie placed a napkin in her lap. “Despite it being his birthday, our apothecary brother has been called away on an emergency.”
Aaron Bohannon. Rhys tried to track the names. An elderly woman appeared, her white mobcap covering silvered hair, more dishes in each hand. The housekeeper?
“Good to see you again, Major James,” she said briskly. “For a moment I mistook you for your brother, Colonel Jon.”
“Understandable, Mrs. Hurst,” Bohannon replied. “I may encounter him and the Albany County Militia in future should we move into New York.”
“Then you must tell him he’s missed here in Chatham.” Eyes down, Mrs. Hurst poured them all cider, commencing the meal.
Nearly speechless at the bounty in wartime, Rhys counted eleven temptations adorning the linen tablecloth, serving spoons at the ready.
Folding her hands, Mae looked at Rhys. “Will you do us the honor of a mealtime prayer, General Harlow, given you’re the foremost officer here?”
With a nod, Rhys obliged. “Grant, O God, Your protection, strength, understanding, knowledge, justice, our very existence, but foremost the love of God and all goodness.”
At his “amen,” not a person moved. Coralie looked perplexed while Mae regarded him with something he couldn’t name. Were they Anglican? He thought Bohannon had told him Presbyterian.
“A Welsh prayer,” Rhys said.
“General Harlow is from Virginia,” Bohannon said by way of explanation. “His father is an English Quaker, his mother Welsh.”
“I’ve read of the Welsh revivals, General Harlow.” Mae sent Rhys a look of appreciation. “My late father kept abreast of spiritual matters in Britain and often exchanged letters with ministers there.”
“I’m sorry to hear of your parents,” Rhys said, serving himself bread.
“Do you have family, General?” Coralie asked, helping pass dishes.
“My father and sister are in the Shenandoah Valley. My mother’s been buried three years now.”
Murmured condolences went round the table.
“I’ve never been further than Chatham,” Coralie said. “You’re a long ways from home, General.”
“And you, Captain Sperry?” Mae asked. “Where are you from?”
“Eastern Virginia. But I have my eye on New York’s Champlain Valley or even further southwest at Cherry Valley.”
“Indian lands,” Mae said. “Those in league with the British.”
Surprised, Rhys kept his eyes on his plate and continued eating. Miss Bohannon obviously kept abreast of the conflict. Not all women did.
“If we win the war, we’ll receive land grants for our service from the new American government,” Sperry told her. “Two hundred acres or more per man.”
“Our oldest brother, Colonel Jon, lives in New York,” Mae said. “After our parents passed last year he asked us to visit him along the Hudson River, where he’s farmed for almost a decade. But now with the war on . . .”
“As soon as peace is restored, perhaps.” Coralie smiled for the first time all evening. “I’m sure order will soon reign in all thirteen of His Majesty’s colonies.”