Chapter 24
twenty-four
I was more dead than alive, though not so much on account of our own danger, as for that which enveloped my husband.
Baroness Riedesel
They were pushing harder now despite the challenging terrain.
The very air seemed to bristle with tension.
Stops were briefer, talk terse. To anchor herself amid the rising heat and swirl of insects, the plunging valleys and pulse-pounding climbs, Mae kept her gaze on Rhys.
He frequently rode at the head of the column only to circle back as rear guard.
Though he claimed to be aware of her, how could he be?
His vigilance seemed obsessively single-minded, so dedicated to the slightest aberration in his surroundings that even one look at her might spell ruin.
Her own mouth was slightly agape as New York’s wonders unfolded around them. Jersey seemed rather tame with its subdued pastures and farms and wooded foothills. New York was raw, shocking wilderness, another world entirely, every mile imprinted in her head and heart in fresh ways.
On the next Sabbath, they halted in a forested area by a small river that bled into the more formidable Hudson in the Highlands region they sought.
A chaplain gave a timely message that spurred them on to look ahead—not backward like the fear-ridden, faithless Israelites—with God as their guide.
Mae sat with Rhys and listened apart from the rest, the rush of the water an unceasing song.
“Now seems the time to tell me about your sister and this British officer,” he said quietly when the sermon ended, turning his cocked hat in his hands.
She paused, not wanting to worry him. “She’s known Eben Gibbs since childhood, though his Loyalist family left Chatham for New York City some time ago. They exchange letters and plan to marry, but I wonder if that will ever happen.”
“Because of the war?”
“Because Eben is rather like a weather vane, shifting this way or that, never able to stay the course with much of anything. I do wonder what my sister sees in him.” She took a breath. “How far is Fort Washing—Knyphausen?”
“The captured British garrison? Fifty miles or so of hard marching from Fort Montgomery.”
“I ask because Lieutenant Gibbs is there—or was.”
“Hard to conduct any sort of courtship across enemy lines.”
He said nothing more as one of his riflemen called him away to another matter. She watched him go, thinking how he carried the weight of the entire camp yet his shoulders stayed square, his outlook unwavering.
After supper, James sought her out. “Look for a black bear lying down and you’ll have Bear Mountain,” he said. “Fort Montgomery is below it. Fort Clinton is a bit to the south of Montgomery. Interestingly enough they’re commanded by brothers. General George Clinton and General James Clinton.”
“Rather confusing,” Mae mused. “Isn’t there a British officer named Sir Henry Clinton?”
“Indeed.” James grimaced. “That redcoat is in New York City, waiting to join forces with General Burgoyne and capture the Hudson River once he and his men push south from Canada.”
“Are we almost to the twin forts, then?”
“A few miles more, aye.”
Neither she nor Coralie wanted to meet Jon disheveled and dirty, so a well-armed James escorted them downriver where they could bathe in privacy.
“I suppose our arriving alive is Jon’s foremost concern,” Coralie jested, eyes on the bushes and trees nearest the riverbank. “But at least I’ll die clean if we don’t reach him.”
Mae gasped as she stepped into the rushing current, soap in hand.
In a quarter of an hour they’d both scoured themselves head to foot, their long hair tangled about their hips.
Quickly they brushed each other’s hair into submission after changing into clean garments.
And Mae wondered as she took in the wilderness around them, how one could feel gloriously alive yet terrified.
Night was stealing in, only slightly less sultry than day.
They returned to camp only to find their drinking water in need of replenishing.
Mae went back to the river gladly, for it was much cooler there.
She knelt to fill her pail, riflemen milling about with their weapons.
When she stood and turned around, she came face-to-face with Lucy Hawkes.
Mae hadn’t spoken to her since the march began in Morristown.
Lucy kept to the rear of the column like most of the women and children and animals.
“Miss Bohannon.” She held out a hand, something purple atop her palm.
Candied violets? How on earth did she come by them?
“Please, call me Mae.” Overlooking the woman’s soiled hands, Mae set down her water pail to take her offering. “You’re so kind, Lucy.”
“The Jersey woods were bursting with violets. I came by some sugar and made these before we left.”
Mae ate one, a delicious reminder of home. “I’ve yet to thank you properly for your pincushion, the prettiest I’ve ever seen.”
Lucy looked pleased, her sunburned, befreckled face the color of her hair. Had she no hat? Only a plain linen cap covered her disheveled head. “I made it with you in mind.”
“I was in need of one. I’ve brought it with me in my sewing kit.” Mae ate another sweet, saving the rest for Coralie. “You’re not just a seamstress but an artist.”
“My mother put me to shame. She sewed for a fancy Boston woman before they both died of the pox.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Were you just a girl?”
A stoic nod. “After that, Pa and I moved to Virginia to be nearer kin. That’s how I met and married Isham, who’s General Harlow’s drummer. We don’t have our own farm yet but will once we win this war.”
Mae looked around for Lucy’s little mongrel dog, though she was more interested in Isham, whom she’d not seen since that snowy night he and Lucy visited the smokehouse. “Where’s Petey?”
“He hardly leaves Isham’s side, but that might change once we reach Fort Montgomery.” She reached for Mae’s pail and began carrying it back to the wagon where Coralie waited.
“You don’t have to do that.” Embarrassed, Mae followed, but Lucy was well ahead of her, toting the full pail without spilling a drop.
Thanking her, Mae watched her hurry off as if she was well aware of Coralie’s displeasure.
“Why are you keeping company with that tramp?” Coralie asked when Lucy was out of earshot.
Mae handed her the remaining violets before swallowing a long drink of water, hoping it would cool both her temper and her thirst. “That tramp happens to be the wife of General Harlow’s drummer. She made that lovely pincushion you’ve admired many a time. And she kindly carried our water.”
Coralie ate the candied violets with little enthusiasm. “Why would she?”
“I did her a kindness last winter.” What would her sister’s reaction be if she knew she’d given Lucy their mother’s shawl? “She’s not forgotten.”
“Have a care, Mae.” Coralie frowned. “Your association with her will simply lead the officers’ wives to believe we aren’t any better.”
“We are no better.” Mae took another long drink. “If you and Mrs. Kersey and Mrs. Wentz would stop turning up your noses, much can be admired in Lucy Hawkes.”
With a final grumble, Coralie began preparing their bedding in the wagon while Mae set the water pail beneath it.
Saying nothing to her sister about her intent, she threaded her way through the camp, searching for Rhys.
Tents began sprouting like mushrooms among the camp followers to keep insects at bay, though Rhys and the majority of his riflemen slept in the open once all had settled for the night.
As the moon rose and the camp quieted, she finally found him.
He stood beneath a pine tree. Was he on watch?
At her approach he turned round and she saluted.
His amused smile was a startling white in the dusk.
James, usually near at hand, was missing.
Did Rhys crave a moment of privacy, if such could be had?
“General Harlow.”
“Miss Bohannon.”
Greetings exchanged, she ached for him to take her in his arms, their first and last kiss never far from her thoughts. She moved nearer the pine, hoping it sheltered them from any gossip. What would the officers’ wives say about this tryst? Coralie?
“Have you need of anything?” he asked quietly.
“You.” The honest answer left her fisting her hands in her skirts to avoid touching him.
“Likewise,” he replied, crossing his arms as if his intent was the same.
“James said we’re almost to the Hudson River. I’ve been looking for Bear Mountain.”
“Tomorrow should see us there, barring any calamities.”
She stemmed a sigh. Every mile was fraught. Her gaze roamed his deeply tanned features, so dark against his fringed linen shirt. “You never seem to tire.”
“I hide it well. Most nights I sleep with one eye open.”
“Fort Montgomery will be a refuge for us all.”
“It will be, though I’m in no hurry to see you leave for your brother’s farm.”
Because it was less safe? Or because he’d miss her? She leaned down and picked up a small pine cone. The earthy fragrance of the forest was something she’d miss. “You must come visit.”
“Come courting, you mean?”
“Will there be time?”
“Sabbaths should be free, though once word spreads that the belle of Chatham has arrived, I’ll be hard-pressed to stand my ground as you’ll have so many suitors.”
“You flatter me.”
“Nay.” He opened a flask and took a drink. “You don’t know men.”
She dropped the pine cone. “Nor do I want to, just you.”
He sat down on a rock outcropping, rifle in one hand while he reached for her with the other.
She took a place beside him, near enough to hear the river’s rush, the silvery water shining in the moonlight.
His fingers felt rough as the bark of white oak.
Why hadn’t she saved some candied violets for him?
Together they searched the gloom, where even the slightest breeze seemed a menace as it might mimic or hide a footfall. The enemy was out there somewhere, capable of striking any second. The thought chilled her to the bone despite the sultry night.
“Tell me about the twin forts, Montgomery and Clinton,” she said quietly.
“The garrisons are new, built last year to defend the lower Hudson. The British have their eye on every American fort along the river with the intent to take it and wrest control from us. Once they combine forces this will be a battleground.”
“How long will you be at Fort Mongomery?”
“Orders could change in a heartbeat, though I imagine I’ll remain in New York for some time, mayhap move north to the upper Hudson and Ticonderoga. New York is vast, and we’re only in the southern part.”
“And Jon seems to think Chatham is more dangerous.” Suddenly Jersey seemed infinitely safer.
“This is hardly the conversation we should be having at dusk.” He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “You’ll get little sleep.”
She felt a start, realizing she’d been gone long enough that Coralie might come looking for her. “Then I bid you good night, sir.” She curtsied, their return to formality, this painful show of restraint, becoming a sort of game between them.
“Good night, Miss Bohannon.”