Chapter 6
six
I luckily escap’d with’t a wound, tho’ I had four Bullets through my Coat, and two Horses shot under me.
George Washington, after the Battle of Monongahela
Rhys walked away from the Day’s Bridge Tavern once he’d checked the post. Exhaling a frosty breath, he looked toward the frozen Passaic. Children and adults hugged the river’s edges on both sides, undeterred by the cold, their happy chatter and laughter welcome after so many military matters.
“Afternoon, sir,” an elderly gentleman said in passing, touching the brim of his hat.
Belatedly, Rhys raised a hand to his own hat in return. He’d never been so . . . distracted. Miss Mae Bohannon had a great many charms—and they’d never been so apparent as on ice.
Unaware of him, she cut a comely figure in her fluttering crimson cape as she circled midriver and made figure eights.
Her mittened hands were outstretched as if to maintain her balance, and she wore the Franklin fur hat.
He slowed to a complete stop along the ice-encrusted bank.
Not too near as to draw attention to his gawking at her but near enough to admire her more closely.
She was as adept a skater as she was a rider.
A young girl skated after her in mimicry.
When she fell down, Mae hurried to her side and helped her stand again before flying away farther downriver.
He’d never tried ice-skating, but she made him want to.
A few other villagers had strapped blades to their boots, but none of them had her grace or speed.
She skated out of rifle range and he chafed.
Which would never do.
Now February, he’d been with the Bohannons a month.
His adjutant’s sister was making inroads into his heart like he and his Rifle Corps made inroads into the backcountry.
But there was simply no place for a woman in his life, wedded to war as he was.
His head accepted the fact even as all the rest of him craved more.
And it seemed she felt that same irresistible pull.
He sensed it every time she looked at him or spoke to him.
When she’d touched his arm he felt lightning-struck.
She’d earned the distinction of being the first to have that sort of hold on him.
Did she not understand all that was at stake?
He was the worst sort of suitor. The British hated his kind.
Feared them for fighting like Indians with an utter disregard for military conduct.
As an officer, he was a sought-after target, not just a marksman but a marked man.
A man who might well not return once the fighting was done.
Some women, looking for a short-lived affair, wouldn’t care.
But Maebel Bohannon wasn’t that sort of woman.
He climbed the steps to the Bohannon home, and his knock brought Mrs. Hurst. She led him to the parlor, where a robust fire chased the chill from the room. Unlike some who billeted soldiers, she showed no displeasure at his presence.
“I’ll bring you a toddy, General.” She smiled, her spiderweb of wrinkles softening. “Surely that will warm you better than the hearth.”
He thanked her heartily. Patriot to the bone, he’d wager.
Steaming toddy brought, she returned to the kitchen while he prowled the parlor, wondering when Mae would return. Coralie he rarely wondered about. She was mostly inward and absent. When he came round, she seemed inclined to go elsewhere.
He traded the window for a wall, drawn to a black-cut shadow portrait.
Encased in an oval gilt frame, it bore a startling likeness to the woman who rarely left his head.
He was still standing there when the front door opened and shut, Mae’s voice carrying across the hall.
Feeling he’d won some sort of victory, he waited for her to join him.
Did his pleasure at seeing her show? He tamped it down as hard as the ball in his rifle’s barrel when reloading.
Her lively eyes danced. “General Harlow, are you all alone?”
“Not anymore.”
She smiled, removed her wraps, and hung them on a peg in the hall. The sharpness of wind and weather called out her lovely features, her cheeks apple red. He felt quite undone as she came nearer, only the two of them in the room.
She eyed his mug as she held her hands out to the fire. “I’m glad Mrs. Hurst gave you something warm to drink.”
“You’re more in need of it than I am, being on the ice.”
Surprise shone in her eyes. “You saw me on the river.”
“I did.”
“Have you ever skated?”
“Virginia’s waters rarely freeze.”
“I sometimes forget where you’re from. A brighter, milder place. I’ve heard the southern colonies are beautiful.”
“The Shenandoah especially.”
Mrs. Hurst appeared with another toddy. Taking hers with thanks, Mae seemed not to mind when the housekeeper closed the parlor door. To keep in the heat? These northerners constantly battled the cold.
He stood to one side of the hearth while his whole being urged him otherwise. Flee, man. But if he made no promises, formed no attachments, what would a little tarrying hurt?
She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. “I suppose I should ask you where James and the captain are.”
“Your brother is in Morristown recording new regulations and general orders as Washington reorganizes the army.” He glanced at the window. “Sperry is in Lowantica Valley overseeing the barracks building.”
“Are you absent without leave, sir?” Her playful banter didn’t help matters. Nor did her nearness, close enough for him to catch her herbal scent.
For a trice he forgot where he’d been. “I spent the forenoon at a tavern meeting and the church hospital, visiting my ailing riflemen.”
“My heart goes out to your men. Being ill and far from home is hard enough. James said General Washington has been sick for a fortnight himself.”
He took another drink of the spicy toddy. “He’s recovering well.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. What on earth would we do if he succumbed?” Her barely masked horror echoed his own.
All would be lost and we’d all be hung.
He settled on a less treasonous answer. “General Washington is remarkable for many reasons, one of them being he stays alive. More than a few horses have been shot out from under him, his uniform torn by bullets. In battle he’s utterly fearless.”
“A lion among men, James said.”
“There’s none like him.”
“Is it true about the Indian prophecy?” She studied him for confirmation. “That a great chief foretold Washington has special protection and will live to lead a great nation?”
“So a sachem said along the Monongahela years back after Braddock’s defeat.”
She looked down pensively at her toddy. “I suppose should he fall, the next in rank would take his place. General Charles Lee?”
“Aye, Lee.” He reined in his disgust. “Boiling Water, the Mohawk call him.”
“On account of his temper, I suppose. Is it true he was recently captured by the British at Widow White’s Tavern some twelve miles from here? If so, I can only hope they hold on to him.”
He chuckled, but it was no laughing matter. Lee was another nettle in a whole field of them. Did Mae realize the continuation of the entire Continental Army was in question, weakened and poorly supplied as they were? He didn’t let himself think too far into the future lest he lose heart altogether.
“I’m sorry if I’m carrying on about the very things you need to forget about, if only momentarily.
” She smoothed a wrinkle in her petticoat with a pale hand.
“My brother Jon is particularly concerned we may come to harm in Chatham should the British strike here. He’s not near enough to help us since he’s serving in New York. ”
He nodded and set aside his empty mug. “Washington’s made mention of his defense of the Hudson Valley. He distinguished himself at the battle of Long Island last August. As far as enemies here in Chatham, smallpox is more a threat than the British.”
She looked so dismayed he was half sorry he’d said it. But her brother had told him she wasn’t inoculated, and that concerned him more than redcoats. “I had the pox in Quebec while a prisoner there last year. A brutal experience. I’d spare you the same.”
“Your marks are few.” She looked at him searchingly, the toddy cupped in her hands. “I’ve almost convinced my sister to take the inoculation. Aaron won’t rest till we do.”
“Wise.”
“Is it true Washington is recruiting women who’ve been inoculated as nurses to tend the sick in private homes and makeshift hospitals?”
“For eight dollars a month, aye.” He added another log to the dwindling fire. “But sewing seems good enough.”
“I would make a poor nurse, though I might visit the sick at the church.”
“Your father was pastor there?”
“For almost thirty years. ’Tis odd to find the pews removed after a lifetime of sitting in them and hearing my father preach.
A year ago he took a fever.” Her face grew shadowed.
“My mother nursed him, fell ill herself, and then they died within a day of each other. Coralie is still wearing mourning, but I felt the need for brighter colors.”
He tried to picture her in black. A stark contrast given her flaxen hair and fair skin. Her unusual eyes could stop a man mid-sentence. He’d been trying to place their hue. All he came up with was wild chicory blue.
A sudden knock ended his musings. Coralie appeared after pushing the door open, a scolding in her expression. Sensing a confrontation brewing, Rhys excused himself and went upstairs to his bedchamber, certain that didn’t please her either.