Chapter 5
five
Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!
William Prescott, Battle of Bunker Hill
The next morning dawned clement if bitterly cold. Wearing her beloved Franklin hat, Mae ignored her sister’s chiding as she saddled Orion.
“What’s come over you?” Arms akimbo, Coralie stood in the stable’s open doorway. “Where’s Adam? He always saddles Orion for you.”
“He’s away getting wood.” Mae adjusted the girth, not wanting to make a mockery of her next words. “I’m perfectly capable of helping myself.”
Coralie took a frosted breath. “Ever since James returned with our lodgers you seem a different person.”
“I’m simply interested in the outside world and those who people it.”
“One in particular,” Coralie replied, her disapproval plain. “And something tells me your sudden urge to go riding is all about that.”
Mae stepped onto a mounting block to lift herself to the saddle. “Please hold Orion’s head still.”
Coralie did as she bade, albeit reluctantly. Once seated, Mae put a foot on the stirrup and a knee over the pommel.
“Well, I must say you cut a fine figure in Mother’s remade riding habit despite that ridiculous fur hat,” Coralie said.
“I don’t need to remind you your jaunt will be cold and dangerously slippery.
And you may well come down with a horrid cold like me.
” She shook her head in disgust. “I shan’t rest till you return. ”
“I’m quite warm and I’ll be careful,” Mae told her in the tone of an older, wiser sister. “You mustn’t fret. Life is beset with difficulties. Worrying only worsens them.”
Mae pressed Orion’s warm sides and left the stable. If she didn’t hurry she’d lose sight of James and General Harlow altogether. She took a back lane and caught up with the men at the edge of the village before they disappeared into a wall of woods.
She knew the deer trail they took, worn down over countless years, by heart. Soon they traversed the foothills where snow clung to dense stands of evergreens and barren oaks and elms. January’s end was always bleak, though today’s cannonball clouds kept the temperatures from plummeting further.
James and the general rode ahead of her a quarter mile or so, unaware of her following, or so she thought.
She slowed as Orion picked his way across a stream that burbled faintly beneath a skim of ice.
For a moment she was so focused on the forest floor she failed to look ahead, until a voice cut through the cold and brought her chin up.
“Miss Bohannon.”
Found out.
Astride his handsome horse, General Harlow faced her. “Do you often ride in the dead of winter in risky conditions?”
“I’m curious about the winter encampment,” she confessed. “And ’tis safer to follow you and James than venture out by myself.”
“Your brother has gone ahead to deliver a message to headquarters.” He motioned her forward. “I’ll show you where troops are cutting trees to build huts south of Morristown.”
“Thank you.” Relieved, she prodded Orion on.
He eyed her specially made saddle for riding aside. “You’re an able horsewoman.”
“I prefer astride, but that would be—”
“The scandal of Chatham.”
“Not fitting for a pastor’s daughter, nay.” She flushed so hotly her ears warmed. “Father always kept horses, and we learned to ride young.”
She kept pace with him, wondering his chestnut gelding’s name.
James had mentioned what an excellent horseman General Harlow was, and now she saw it firsthand.
But in truth, he would make a weathered nag look good.
She’d heard some horses were battle-trained by standing near cannon fire.
Many officers had their mounts shot from under them. A travesty she tried not to dwell on.
“Can you outrun the enemy?” he asked, his breath pluming in the bitter air.
“British patrols, you mean?”
“I’m thinking more of thieves and vagabonds. Marauding murderous soldiers and citizens like the Pine Banditti of Monmouth County.”
“An unlikely concern, given I have an officer escort.” She darted another look at him. “Though I hope I’m not keeping you from your duties.”
“Nay, but I’m about to go hunting as rations need rounding out.”
“Well, your clothing shortage is soon to ebb, at least.”
His attention was on her again, as intently as when they’d first broached the subject in the parlor. He clearly cared for his fellow soldiers and their well-being. Not all officers did.
“We’re gathering to sew at my sister-in-law’s this afternoon. Our only point of contention is what to call ourselves.” She smiled, still mulling the fanciful names suggested. “Red, White, and Sew? Needle Rebels?”
He chuckled. “You’ll be branded angels once you deliver any goods.”
He led her to the top of a ridge overlooking Lowantica Valley, an exhilarating climb that left her slightly winded if only because of his company.
She’d not been far from the village in so long it felt especially thrilling.
Up so high, the whole world seemed to lie at their feet.
To her astonishment the valley floor held hundreds of soldiers, perhaps a few thousand, moving about makeshift dwellings, both log huts and tents.
Smoke from countless fires wafted upward, hazing the view and scattering ash.
Were her midnight visitors among them? She’d not stopped thinking about them, the young woman especially. Were they here?
“A beautiful valley like this seems made for an encampment, though our New Jersey winters are bitter,” she said. She spied a parade ground for drilling and numerous sheds for horses that had hauled cannon. Even a commissary south of the huts and a makeshift hospital.
“A third here in the valley are ill or unfit for service but should be on their feet come spring,” he told her. “We’ve commandeered your church in Chatham as well as Morristown for the worst of the suffering.”
Her heart went out to them in such dire conditions, and she didn’t miss the graveyard marked with crosses in the distance. If only she was an able nurse like Hanna. The least she could do was sew.
“I won’t keep you any longer.” Her gaze traveled from the encampment to his rifle secured in a leather holder. “My sister will be wondering about me too.”
“Since you know the area well, where would you recommend I hunt?”
She gestured north. “Follow the Passaic as it bends and you’ll find a big meadow where deer and elk flock.”
“After I return you home, aye.”
“No need.” She fisted her riding whip. “’Tis broad daylight and I can fend for myself.”
“Mayhap. But I don’t want to take any chances and have to fend for my supper.”
She laughed, reluctant to admit her kitchen skills were lacking. “Mrs. Hurst deserves any praise.”
“So I heard.” He smiled, that rare smile that eased the lines in his lean face and turned him more handsome—and she more smitten.
Mercy, what’s befallen me?
She, the sensible older sister, who rarely let a man turn her head. She refused to look at him again as they turned back, just bade him a ladylike goodbye at the edge of Chatham while counting the hours till evening.
When he’d make another impression on her soft-as-wax heart.
“Mercy, Mae!” A relieved Hanna met her at the private entrance to her home behind the apothecary shop. “Coralie said you’d gone out, and I feared you’d miss our first gathering completely.”
Clutching a stack of linen and her sewing kit, Mae joined a dozen women in the parlor already busily employed in shirt making while others knitted stockings and hats, even blankets.
“A robust beginning,” Mae exclaimed, still exhilarated from her ride.
“I’m about to make some independence tea for our ladies.” Hanna moved toward the kitchen. “And I baked your favorite jumbles too.”
Widow Watt looked up from her knitting as Mae took an empty chair beside her longtime friend Samantha Heath. “Won’t Coralie be joining us?”
Mae schooled her reaction. Coralie adamantly refused to sew for the Continental Army, but how could she communicate that? Rather, how long would she make excuses for her? Her sister seemed the only Loyalist left in Chatham. “My sister is overcoming a cold.”
“Dreadful.” The widow fixed her with an appraising eye. “You’re looking quite robust yourself.”
Robust? Were her cheeks still ruddy from her ride?
Without a word, Mae dug in her sewing basket for needle and thread, continuing the shirt she’d begun.
Outfitting men who sorely needed it filled her with renewed purpose.
She’d even begun embroidering her initials in the hem of the garments she made.
A small embellishment with much meaning, at least to her.
“Your cheeks are quite rosy,” Samantha whispered. “Mightn’t that have to do with the Continental company you’re keeping?”
Mae’s smile was sheepish. “I don’t deny it.” Word had quickly flown round the village about which officers were lodging where. Samantha and her pastor brother billeted soldiers too. “This morning I went to overlook the winter encampment. What a sight!”
“So much soldiery, many of them unwell.” Samantha’s knitting continued apace. “Half starved, even.”
“Not only the men but a large following of women. James said many are wives who cook and launder for each mess of twelve soldiers.”
“I can’t imagine living in such dire conditions, though Chatham has become a military encampment all its own.”
“I scarcely recognize our village,” another woman murmured as she finished a pair of stockings. “Fifes and drums seem our continual music. Soldiers come and go, the alarm gun is continually firing, and the beacon light is burning atop Prospect Hill.”
“I’m more afraid of smallpox than the British,” said another.
Hanna soon returned and began serving tea. “As for the pox, my husband is helping inoculate the army, given General Washington’s recent mandate.”
“Unprecedented for a commander in chief to enforce such an order, is it not?” Widow Watt seemed to wear a perpetual frown, though she was a Patriot, at least.
“’Tis for our benefit as well as his troops,” Hanna said quickly. “Winter camps are harsh places, and disease is sure to spread if not countered quickly.”
A small hubbub ensued as each woman expressed her opinion about the matter.
“I never thought I’d be glad of smallpox scars, but I am.” Samantha took out more yarn dyed a pleasing blue. “I’m quite concerned about you not having had the pox,” she said to Mae.
“Both Coralie and I need to brave the inoculation.” Mae continued stitching, a sleeve taking shape. “I recently read in the papers that Mrs. Washington was inoculated in Philadelphia not long ago. She weathered it well, and I hope and pray we do the same.”
“The sooner the better.” Samantha took a sip of tea, her knitting in her lap. She could fashion a scarf or sock faster than any other woman in the room.
Mae’s thoughts veered another direction. Had General Harlow survived the pox? She’d not detected any scars. Yet another unknown that added to his intrigue.
“I miss seeing you at Sabbath service, Mae, given the church has become an army hospital.”
“Father would have welcomed the chance to house sick and wounded soldiers in his tenure as pastor. That’s akin to preaching a daily sermon right where you are.” Mae studied her stitches in the window’s light. “Providential too, being so near the apothecary.”
“Once the weather warms, Sabbath services will be held on the village green,” Samantha said.
“Why don’t you and Coralie join us for dinner in future?
You always bring such cheer. The officers we’re billeting are often away in Morristown.
Besides”—she darted a glance at Mae—“Phineas has been asking about you.”
Had he? She’d sensed Pastor Heath’s interest, though he’d never stated his intentions. But he was a busy pastor, and never busier than now.
“Of course we’ll come,” Mae replied, trying to rein in her thoughts lest they gallop toward General Harlow again. “James and his fellow officers are headed to Morristown too. They have army chaplains they speak highly of.”
“I sometimes think my brother might become one of them.” She sighed and smiled all at once. “But perhaps he’s most needed right here.”