Chapter 15
fifteen
I have not yet begun to fight.
John Paul Jones, American naval captain
The quiet, firelit kitchen turned the moment more tender.
If he died in battle in some distant place, how would she find out?
Would she? Or might it be her lot to forever wonder?
All she had left of him was the lost token in the snow, worn day and night.
She craved more of him, her unsettling need prompting her to cut a length of his hair.
She held up the silken strand, admiring its gloss, wondering if he’d recently washed it.
The question seemed too intimate to ask. A louse-ridden soldier he was not.
He held out a hand. She gave over the scissors and he stood, leaving her the chair he’d vacated.
She held her breath, his lock of hair still in hand.
More gently than his calloused hands warranted, he stood behind her and removed a pin from her hair.
A coil fell free. He paused, then pulled at another pin and then another, tumbling half her hair down her back.
Somehow this seemed as romantic as a kiss. He drew closer as if breathing in her hair’s scent, making her glad of yesterday’s rosemary wash. With a decisive snip of the scissors he gained a long strand that lay like yellow ribbon across his palm. He looked . . . captivated.
“’Tis so fine it will fall to pieces unless I braid it for you.” She took the strand from him, wove it together, and tied it off with a scrap of ribbon from her sewing kit.
He took it back and slipped it inside his coat, out of sight. But his eyes held hers as if by exchanging locks they’d exchanged some sort of vow. Hair might seem a small gesture to some, but she read meaning in his eyes, and in her heart she felt something significant had happened.
A foreshadowing of things to come, after he’d taken a step back?
He reached for his rifle. The long barrel looked menacing and shook her with all its grim implications.
He put on his cocked hat, his hair still hanging free. When she attempted to locate the leather tie, he smiled. “It’s warmer left undone.”
“Good night.” Fisting his clipped hair in the folds of her petticoats, she watched him leave without fuss.
No tears. No more touching. No questions.
She put the pearl heart and his clipped hair beneath her pillow. It seemed to sweeten her sleep, which was long in coming. What would he do with her braid? Carry it with him? Into battle and beyond?
Lord, protect him. Let him not be hurt.
Her prayers seemed small, her hazy dreams beset with shadows and loss. The crow of a rooster awakened her along with Mrs. Hurst’s movements in the kitchen below. She pushed back the warm nest of covers and dressed hurriedly, craving tea and toast.
“Morning, Miss Maebel,” Mrs. Hurst greeted her as she made breakfast. “Where on earth did we get that bushel of salt?”
“From General Harlow. He brought it by last night.”
“Thought so.” The widow gave a rare smile. “We’ll be careful and make it last as long as possible. I overheard Aaron say he’s in need of some at the apothecary.”
“We can share ours, then.”
“Or maybe you can just smile at the general and get another bushel.”
Mae laughed. “I’ll have some salt on my eggs with some brown bread and molasses, if you please.”
With a nod, Mrs. Hurst began heating a skillet while Mae made tea. When Coralie appeared, Mae pushed down the bruised feelings that lately always accompanied the sight of her.
Forcing a smile, Mae asked, “Care for herb tea or coffee?”
“Anything to warm me.” Coralie approached the table as Mae took another cup from a cupboard, glad Mrs. Hurst had moved the salt to the larder so there would be no questions. Her sister, it seemed, had no liking for the general no matter his gifts.
Soon the two of them sat in the dining room, where a robust hearth’s fire barely took the chill from the room. Toast and tea quickly grew cold as their talk turned to the coming ball.
“Though our gowns are ready, I lack suitable shoes.” Yawning, Coralie buttered more toast. “A visit to the cobbler might help.”
Would she not change her mind about going? Though she seemed a small threat, it was many like Coralie who could collectively spy and sabotage the American cause.
When Mae said nothing, Coralie prodded, “You’re awfully quiet this morning. Are you feeling well?”
“I stayed up late sewing, is all.”
“Mind your eyesight. Sewing by the fire is quite tedious.”
Mae lapsed into silence again, though Coralie was clearly in a chatty mood.
“What are your plans for today? Staying home or sewing with the Liberty Ladies?”
“The latter.” Mae took a sip of lukewarm tea, glad when Mrs. Hurst refilled the pot with hot water. “And you?”
“Hanna needs my help at the apothecary filling orders for villagers.” Finished with breakfast, Coralie stood as the hall’s case clock tolled eight. “I’d best be early. There’s been so much business of late.”
She went out, and Mae sat for several long minutes after her sister had left the house before going upstairs to her room.
Finding Eben’s letters was easy enough. Coralie had them tied neatly with the embroidered ribbon from Madame Jaquett in her desk.
They were even arranged chronologically, the latest on top.
Disregarding any guilt at trespassing, Mae pored over the letter and hung on one telling line.
Beloved, the war is all but won. The Continental Army, from every report, is a shambles.
Mae refolded the paper, slipped it inside the ribbon’s confines, and returned it to the desk as anguish twisted inside her.
Would her prayers come to naught? Rhys hadn’t mentioned the state of the army’s affairs last night.
Because they’d been too busy being entranced yet distant with each other, a fact that hardly soothed her troubled heart.
She tried to lose herself in her tasks, finding some relief that afternoon amid the likeminded Liberty Ladies.
She even accompanied Samantha on her rounds at the church hospital, though seeing the suffering firsthand rocked her hard-won composure.
Together they dispensed handkerchiefs and tobacco among the ailing yet grateful men.
The pox had taken a frightful toll, blinding some and disfiguring others, while the inoculation had saved many a great deal of misery.
Mae gave thanks her own vision was spared. She’d made peace with her scarring.
They tarried in the church vestibule and studied a posted list of needs.
Wanted for the sick at Chatham. Sugar one barrel. Tea six pounds. Chocolate twelve pounds. Wine fifteen gallons. Butter one firkin. Hogs lard. Port, if to be had, if not, Madeira.
Samantha sighed. “I’m beginning to forget what life was like before 1776.”
“I’ll be glad when the church becomes fit for a sermon again,” Pastor Heath—Phineas—said. Having returned from a burial, he removed his hat at the entrance. “Now that spring is almost here, the worst of winter is behind us.”
“The days are getting longer, thankfully. More daylight is welcome.” Samantha turned to Mae. “How is that brother of yours?”
James. Should she mention the Morristown ball? “He’s so occupied I rarely see him.”
Nor I, Samantha’s doleful expression implied.
“Thank you both for your time here today,” her brother said. “Your presence helps immensely.”
“I still need to speak with the nurses,” Samantha told him. She gave Mae a hasty peck on the cheek before excusing herself.
Phineas looked to Mae, who shivered despite her heavy wraps. “Let me walk you home since it’s almost dusk.”
Mae thanked him, sensing that something other than her safety prompted him.
They trod the slippery church steps that fronted the village green, his steadying hand on her elbow.
The sunset behind Chatham’s liberty pole glowered a vivid British red.
Soldiers milled about the bridge and Day’s Bridge Tavern along with townspeople bent on the warmth of their homes.
“So have you quite recovered from your illness?” Phineas asked.
“I’m still rather weak but much better, thank you.”
“Odd how the variolation affects us individually. I scarcely felt it.”
“Glad I am of that. You’re too needed to be off your feet,” she told him. “You’d make a fine army chaplain.”
“I’m not soldierly material, I’m afraid. Hardy in soul, perhaps, but not body. I couldn’t withstand the rigors of a campaign.” He grimaced. “And the war, I believe, is almost done.”
Again, panic pinched her. The newspapers were declaring the same. She opened her mouth to question him when he said, “I hesitate to broach a delicate subject, but you know how congregants talk . . .”
“Oh, I do indeed, being a pastor’s daughter.”
He kept his eyes on the path they walked. “I need to let you know you’re being watched.”
“Go on,” she said, tamping down her impatience. Phineas never seemed to come directly to the point. It hadn’t used to bother her. Had Rhys’s candor influenced her?
“Two members said they saw a man leaving your house late last night.”
So she was being spied upon? “We do billet soldiers, as do you.”
“Indeed. But of late there have been none at your house, the concerned party said.”
“A soldier brought us salt. At twenty-six dollars a bushel I wasn’t about to deny him.”
“Generous of him. Is that all?”
She looked at him in dismay. “What do you mean?”
“He is said to have tarried awhile before leaving.”
“Well, he’s a Continental officer, not a British one, if that helps,” Mae said with more patience than she was feeling. “I fed him supper as he was cold and hungry. Would these gossips not do the same?”
His smile was wry. “Perhaps not. This teller of tales is not known for being hospitable but is concerned for your reputation as their former pastor’s daughter.”
“Nothing untoward has taken place, nor will it.”
“I believe you, Miss Bohannon. I’m merely cautioning you about the eyes and ears of the community, which are especially watchful and wary given it’s wartime.”
Truly, everyone in Chatham seemed to be on the highest alert, when once it had simply been a sleepy hamlet of homes, sawmills, gristmills, a market, outlying farms, and little else.
Her attention fixed on the river. “Why are so many sentries at Chatham Bridge?” she asked.
“A British general sent word to Washington that he’ll be dining with him in Morristown by tomorrow night, only to be told by Washington he’ll be in Hades after.”
“Oh my.” She took her eyes off the sentries as they reached her residence.
“A bluff by the British, I sense.” He looked west where the forest stretched black and thick. “These mountains surrounding Washington and his army are hard to breach.”
Mae put a mittened hand to the door handle and didn’t let her bruised feelings stop her from being gracious. “Thank you for escorting me—and reminding me Chatham has eyes and ears, wartime or not.”
She slipped inside, shut the front door soundly, and bolted it with such force that it brought Coralie from the parlor. Her sister’s relief was palpable.
“Thank heavens you’re back safely! There’s been an uncommon number of soldiers moving about today.
Aaron saw me home from the apothecary. He and Hanna want to have supper with us tonight.
I may tell them about Eben—but only if James isn’t present.
He’s never cared for Eben, though Aaron seems more understanding. ”
Removing her wraps, Mae sought the parlor’s hearth. “What about Lieutenant Gibbs, exactly?”
“He’s unwilling to return to Chatham as we’d planned. He blames the village’s Patriot leanings and feels he might be endangered. I might journey to New York instead, where we’ll wed.”
Mae listened, feeling a little tug that Rhys didn’t care for her enough to make such a bold commitment. “Then that is where you should be. With your beloved.”
“I can tell from your expression you think it a horrid idea.”
Mae sighed. “’Tis a dangerous time to travel anywhere, is it not?”
Coralie’s jaw firmed. “’Tis daunting, yes, but worth the effort. As you know, Eben believes there will be no more war, that the Continental forces are too weak and enfeebled to continue fighting. He’s certain his land grant will enable us to settle somewhere in New York very soon.”
“He told you this in his latest letter?” Mae asked, thinking of Coralie’s fury if she knew Mae had read it.
Coralie nodded. “’Tis our new plan.”
Horrid, indeed. Mae sat upon the sofa, her sewing basket near, and tried to think of better things. If the weather stayed clement, she’d take the wagon to Lowantica Valley and deliver another load with James once he returned home. Their shared trips had become treasured and made her feel useful.
Thoughts adrift, she hardly heard Coralie talk about a cousin’s coming wedding in Perth Amboy.
Instead her kitchen meeting with Rhys came to mind with sweet clarity despite Phineas’s secondhand scolding.
She kept the beloved memory close. It helped offset the shattering moment in the Lowantica Valley cabin when she’d seen his mutilated back.
Bittersweet—that was what their relationship was.
A path of peaks and valleys.