Chapter 14
fourteen
With regard to military discipline, it was safe to say that no such thing existed. . . . There were no regular formations, the formation of each regiment was as varied as their mode of drill dictated and which consisted only of manual exercise.
Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben
The ballroom of Arnold Tavern faced a village green fronted by several tall, south-facing windows.
General Washington occupied the second floor and often used the ballroom for meetings.
Early each morning, the general issued orders of the day in which he communicated daily passwords for sentries, troop movements, changes in policies, and commands that were the lifeblood of the army.
Rhys studied the tall, well-honed man who stood at the room’s center.
His officers were ringed around him, listening as he spoke about the most pressing needs of the army at this juncture of the war.
They were preparing for the next assault, spies watching the movements of British troops in the northeast and Canada and maintaining a close eye on what was happening in the southern campaign.
For now, Washington was most concerned about the British occupation of New York City.
Today, his jaw slightly swollen, Washington seemed even less talkative than usual. A dentist had arrived, hoping to bring relief. Washington’s frayed temper likely had more to do with his dental woes than the war. Imposing even when smiling, he wasn’t smiling today.
“We have strong reason to believe the enemy is on the point of making some push. What their objective is remains a matter of uncertainty,” the general said.
“They have lately been considerably reinforced in Jersey, and from a variety of accounts are meditating some blow. I am firmly persuaded that they mean to attempt to reach Philadelphia again, as I do not know what other object they have ultimately in view.”
The creak of a door halted his words as an aide-de-camp interrupted. “An express has just arrived, sir, with urgent dispatches from Congress.”
With a nod, Washington adjourned the meeting. The dinner hour was upon them.
“Let’s go below for a toddy,” Bohannon said hoarsely to Rhys and Sperry. He cleared his throat. “I need something warm before I ride back to Chatham.”
“You should never have left Chatham to begin with,” Sperry said, looking askance at him. “You’re ill.”
“Well, it’s not the pox,” Bohannon replied. “Simply an ague of some sort, is all.”
They sought an empty table in the congested taproom, pipe smoke swirling like spent gunpowder above their heads, the reek of ale and spirits foremost. Toddies ordered, they awaited their drinks, taking stock of who came and went.
A great many couriers, express riders, and townspeople served Arnold Tavern’s incessant needs with an army in residence, and they made sure the place was never idle.
Just now a colorful delegation appeared at the tavern’s entrance, made up of Oneida warriors and chiefs. They looked much like Rhys’s riflemen in dress, the exception being the Indians’ feathered beaver hats. No better spies or scouts existed.
Sperry followed his intent gaze. “So General Washington is hosting the Oneida?”
Rhys nodded. “They’ve recommended rebuilding Fort Stanwix in a bid to block the British invasion routes from Canada through the Mohawk Valley.”
“The New York frontier is a powder keg, in other words.” Bohannon grimaced. “And I have a feeling we’re headed straight for it once we march.”
“I can’t keep track of all the posts north of us as they change hands and names so often.” Sperry began reciting them as if testing his memory. “Fort Ontario . . . Fort Niagara . . . Crown Point . . . Ticonderoga . . . Fort Anne . . . Fort Edward. And a number of lesser garrisons.”
Bohannon rubbed his brow as if his aching head denied him his memory. “What did General Washington say about our numbers?”
Rhys looked away from the Oneida. “We’re four thousand strong, a force unequal to a successful opposition.”
Sperry frowned. “The enemy’s number before this last reinforcement was estimated from seven to eight thousand.”
Uppermost in Rhys’s mind was what the general had told him privately.
“All our movements have been made with inferior numbers, and with a mixed, motley crew who were here today, gone tomorrow, without assigning a reason, or even apprising us of it. In a word, I do not think any officer since the creation ever had such a variety of difficulties and perplexities to encounter as I have. How shall we be able to rub along till the new army is raised I know not.”
“Those of us who remain support the general fully.” Bohannon paused as a tavern maid served them toddies. “But once we do break camp again that old fear for his safety will resurface.”
“Aye, he takes little care for himself in any action. His personal bravery and leading by example make him fearless of danger.” Sperry took a sip, the spices turning the stale air pungent.
“What did the chaplain say of him last service? That ‘we shall continue to storm heaven, which has been his shield, to continue to guard so valuable a life’?”
Rhys took comfort that heaven could be stormed when all else failed. “We are none of us in control of our lives or the outcome.”
He pulled the printed sermon given to all Jersey soldiers from his pocket.
Entitled “For the Love of Our Country” and written by an army chaplain, it raised Rhys’s spirits when his doubts surfaced.
He’d begun reciting parts of the sermon around the campfires at night to his men who couldn’t read.
Along with a little fiddle playing, it seemed to bolster spirits.
Mae’s gift of her father’s instrument still surprised him, and he vowed to return it when the army broke camp.
Passing the sermon to Sperry, he said, “This reminds us of our mission. I’ve pretty much memorized it.”
“Obliged.” Sperry perused it. “What lines mean the most?”
Rhys took a long drink and weighed the question. “‘If the love of your country is indeed the governing principle of your soul, you will give up every inclination which is incompatible with it; nor will you cherish in your hearts any rivals of the favorite passion.’”
Yet another reason why pursuing Mae was so ill-timed.
Bohannon studied him over his tankard. “My sister asks about you.”
Heat climbed up Rhys’s neck. A timely remark, given he was thinking about her. But he was always thinking about her. “Is she well?”
Bohannon winked. “That would depend on you, sir.”
Sperry regarded them with wry amusement as he summoned the barmaid for another toddy.
“I leave for the saltworks tomorrow, as you know.” Rhys leaned back in his chair, wishing Mae was as near as the hovering tavern maid. “The salt meadows near Mount Pleasant, if she’s wanting details.”
Bohannon’s chuckle turned into a cough. “Women always want details.”
Rhys felt the toddy do its mellowing work, bracing him for the ride back to Lowantica Valley and another long, lonesome evening without her. “Tell her to pray we encounter no enemy scouts nor spies.”
The moon was blessedly full, their party of two dozen riflemen loaded with salt.
Even with the British blockade of imported salt and the redcoats destroying saltworks along the Jersey shore and elsewhere, salt must be had.
The newly named states needed to find ways to manufacture it with armed guards or suffer dire consequences.
At twenty-six dollars a bushel, few could afford it yet few could live without it.
Procuring it had been worth the toil and danger.
Rhys left his party at Day’s Bridge Tavern and turned toward Chatham, where candlelight flickered in myriad windows like fallen stars.
The clear night was bone-chilling, and his stomach gnawed an empty complaint after a few bites of jerked meat.
What he craved was Mae’s company and something hot to eat, though he reckoned he’d have one and not the other.
Tonight his aim was to leave a bushel of coarse salt at her back door and be away without alerting her.
The moon foretold nine o’clock. She’d likely be abed already on so bitter a night.
He turned down a back street, his plodding horse in want of feed after so many miles. Weary and hungry as he was, he rued his decision to trade the Bohannons’ for Lowantica Valley. The luxury of a bath and a feather tick taunted him.
He dismounted, untethered the salt sack with numb fingers, and slung it over his shoulder as he made his way to the back door.
Light framed the kitchen window. Nearing the back steps he slipped on an icy patch, then righted himself by grabbing hold of a porch post. The slight commotion brought a figure to the window. Mae?
Before he took another, steadier step, the kitchen door swung wide. “General Harlow?”
“Aye.” Could she tell how elated he was to see her? “With a gift.”
“Please come in. My prayers for your safe return have been answered.”
He passed her and set the sack on the worktable.
Her face radiated joy. “What have you brought?”
“Salt.”
“Praise be.” She felt the sack, her hands roaming over it like it was gold. “James said you’ve been gone for several days.”
“Salt making is a tedious process, aye.”
“Let me pay you.” She started for the mantel, where she kept a stash of coins.
“All I want is something to eat and drink.” A bald-faced lie. All he wanted was her.
Smiling, she pulled a chair closer to the hearth. “Mrs. Hurst has made a delicious fish chowder that’s still warm. And there’s bread, butter, and applesauce if you want to wash before you sit down.”
A feast. He leaned his rifle into a corner and set his hat atop it before washing, watching as she stirred a kettle.
She poured him some cider and then disappeared out the back door into the night.
He wanted to follow but decided he’d only slow her.
A nicker from his horse and the opening of a stable door told him she’d seen to Copper too.
In minutes she’d served him enough for three hungry riflemen, including a refilled salt box.
He bent his head and said grace, savoring the abundance of the moment.
When she sat near him on a stool, her arms about her petticoated knees, he nearly forgot to eat, she made such a comely silhouette in the firelight.
“I’d planned to leave the bushel by the back door,” he said apologetically.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I thought you’d be abed, the night’s so cold.”
“I’m a night owl, since you didn’t know.” She looked to the mantel clock as he ate. “Lately I’ve been sewing late by the kitchen hearth. It’s warmer here than the parlor.”
He saw a stack of garments piled high in a chair, their pale folds indicative of a great deal of dedicated stitchery. Soldiers’ shirts? “I haven’t thanked you proper for mine. Your name sewn in the hem makes it as meaningful as it is practical.”
“Sometimes it’s the simplest things that mean the most.”
“Like this meal.” He took a drink of cider. “I miss many things about lodging with you Bohannons.”
“I feared you’d forget about us, being so busy with drills and meetings and such.”
“There’s no forgetting you.” He held her gaze. “Let that be clear.”
Again her face softened into a smile, one that seemed to light up a dark room. It took the resolve right out of him. He fought the urge to set down his spoon and take her in his arms. But he kept to his meal, savoring the fire’s warmth and her gracious presence, a world away from the war.
Her voice held a sudden sadness. “I’ve heard the army is about to break camp.”
“Don’t think beyond this night,” he told her. He’d trained himself to do the same. “This very moment is what matters.”
“‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’” She voiced the Scripture seamlessly.
“And right now there’s no trouble, at least in this kitchen. You even kindly saw to my horse.”
“Copper brought you back to me. ’Tis the least I can do.” She got up and went to the hearth. “I don’t suppose you’ll stay the night.”
“Nay. I drill early and the moon’s full. Plenty of light to return by . . . even if I don’t want to.”
She took the hissing kettle off the fire. “James isn’t here but in Morristown. Something about helping Tench Tilghman compose correspondence for Congress.”
“Aye, Tilghman is General Washington’s most valuable scribe. There’s a frightful amount of paperwork and reporting that’s ongoing.”
“I don’t know where Captain Sperry is.”
“Probably at Arnold Tavern too.” He looked toward the closed kitchen door that led to the hall. “And your sister?”
Mae pointed upstairs. “Writing letters or abed.”
The kitchen grew quiet. Too quiet. He finished his meal, wondering if she still had the pearl heart he’d given her.
“Have you any inkling of your orders?” she asked as she cleared away his dishes.
“The general is keeping a close eye on enemy troop movements and plans. Spies and couriers fly back and forth daily. Everything could change in a trice.”
“You’ll tell me—before you go?” She turned round, and he saw the blue ribbon about her throat, the heart hidden beneath her bodice.
“Aye.” His own throat knotted. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”
“Will you humor me for a moment?” Taking up her scissors resting atop the stack of finished shirts, she added, “I need a lock of your hair.”
“The pearl heart won’t suffice?” he teased, though he felt anything but lighthearted.
“Nay. And given I’m armed with newly sharpened scissors, I doubt you’ll deny me.” She came behind him and tugged at the leather tie that held his queued hair so it spilled free about his shoulders.
“Don’t scalp me,” he murmured, steeling himself for other reasons.
Her fingers combed about his head in the most maddening way possible. Her gentle touch seemed to reach from his scalp to his booted feet. Wooing him. Beguiling him. He nearly stayed her hand. And then the expert snip of scissors ended his momentary torment.