Chapter 30
thirty
My Dear Son . . . remember that you are accountable to your Maker for all your words and actions.
Abigail Adams
The officers’ mess, or dining room, was just large enough for a dozen around the trestle table.
Rhys always sat at one end opposite General Clinton while the officers’ wives sat interspersed with their husbands.
Here there was an air of gravity that bespoke the precariousness of their mission, though the men seemed careful to not talk solely about the war.
Mostly listening, Mae missed the easy talk and laughter at Jon and Joanna’s table, especially their children’s.
To her surprise, Catherine Kersey invited her for tea in future, though tonight she looked unwell and pushed the chicken pie around her plate, even declining the watermelon served for dessert. Was she ill or suffering the effects of hotter weather?
“I’m a bit queasy,” she murmured, setting down her fork.
“I’ve a small tin of mint tea in my quarters, if you’d like,” Mae told her quietly as the men withdrew to the room’s opposite end to smoke near open windows.
“Thank you kindly, but nothing I’ve tried helps . . . and I may not feel relief for several more months.” Catherine turned rosy. “My husband is determined to find the best midwife along the Hudson when it’s time.”
What? Mae’s warm congratulations held concern. To birth a baby in such rustic conditions in the middle of the wilderness . . .
“I hope to be on hand should you need me.” Alice finished her watermelon and brought a napkin to her lips. “Though Colonel Wentz has said he’s taking me elsewhere should the danger be high.”
Catherine sighed. “Major Kersey has said the same, though the nearest settlement resembling a town is Albany, some distance from here. I’m not keen on my firstborn making his or her entrance anywhere near a prison for Loyalists and the like.”
“Perhaps you could stay at the Van Schaick mansion near there, owned by a Continental officer and far safer, given it’s on a small island between the Mohawk and Hudson Rivers.”
Mae listened, pondering all the possibilities. Her ongoing prayer was that Fort Montgomery would endure and remain the Hudson River’s first line of defense—along with Fort Clinton opposite Popolopen Creek, a quarter of a mile away.
“And you, Mrs. Harlow?” Alice asked. “Where will you go if the British reach us?”
“Likely to my brother’s farm in the valley, if that can be safely done.”
“Is that where your sister is now?” Catherine asked. At Mae’s nod, she exchanged a look with Alice. “She seems of a rather . . . temperamental disposition.”
“Coralie is rather high-strung,” Mae admitted, her longtime wish of an easier, more agreeable sister resurfacing.
How could she explain the rivalry that had existed between them since childhood, at least on Coralie’s part? Wanting to be more like Mae and feeling as the eldest sister she got the best—even marriage—while Coralie herself got seconds in everything.
“Perhaps she’ll find New York to her liking.” Catherine dabbed at her brow with a handkerchief. “As for me, I’ve had quite enough of this terribly close room.”
“So, ladies,” General Clinton asked as they rose from the table, “what are your impressions of Fort Montgomery now that you’ve bettered it by being here?”
“The view is unsurpassed,” Mae answered with a smile.
“My compliments to the cook and baker,” Alice replied. “The fare is quite good, far better than we had on the journey coming here.”
Catherine said nothing, just put a hand to her waist as if debating whether the delicious fare would soon reappear in the nearest chamber pot.
Rhys watched Mae rise from the table, outwardly serene though she’d been unusually quiet during the meal.
If he’d had any qualms about her adjustment to fort life, he set them aside, though it was still early.
She glanced at him as the ladies moved toward the door, her pale green gown trailing behind her on the plank floor.
Did she sense he was wanting to finish matters and join her?
Excusing himself, he exchanged the stale, smoky air of the mess for the sultry night. “The view is exceptionally fine on so clear an evening.”
It was time for the tattoo at close of day.
She slipped her arm through his as they continued across the parade ground, the faint scent of gunpowder lingering from the day’s exercises.
Night thinned the soldiers and their duties somewhat, though sentries stood at their posts and patrols and scouts entered and exited the fort at all hours, a continual reminder it was wartime.
A full moon shed ample light as they bypassed both guardhouse and powder magazine and walked up a slope to the highest point of Fort Montgomery, a giant earthworks and defensive embankment built the year before.
“’Tis aptly named the Grand Battery,” she said as they came to stand where artillery crews, now absent, manned the great hulks of cannons above the Hudson River. “Enemy ships navigating the river, beware.”
Rhys looked to the sky instead of the moon-silvered water below, wishing he had the Almighty’s view. Only God knew where the British were on such a night.
“Is it true General Washington is on his way here?” she asked.
He nodded, his hands on the ledge of the battery’s wall. “He’s left Jersey and is expected soon. Our main concern now is General Burgoyne’s advance south from Canada. We’ve just received intelligence that British forces have captured Fort Ticonderoga.”
At her sharp intake of breath, he’d never been more glad Ticonderoga was so many miles north.
“So, Gentleman Johnny has struck a victory—though I doubt that describes Burgoyne fairly in wartime.” She frowned. “I thought Ticonderoga was indestructible.”
“Gentleman or not, Burgoyne mounted a bold advance that St. Clair wasn’t prepared for. And now St. Clair and his three thousand men have gone missing. It’s not known whether they’ve gone over to the British or been captured.”
“Which weakens the entire northern campaign.”
He couldn’t naysay her. She was right. He’d always found her well-informed, though sometimes he wished otherwise. Most officers’ wives preferred socializing to news.
“Will the British tarry at Ticonderoga or keep moving south toward us?” she asked.
“They’ll likely try to take Forts Lee and Edward next, though General Schuyler is thwarting their advance by felling timber and destroying bridges. Once Washington arrives we’ll have a better idea of what’s happening and what our task will be.”
“I heard General Clinton talking about the great chain right below us.” She stared down through the dusk as if seeing the barrier the Continental Army had erected to keep the British navy from coming upriver.
Sunk just below the Hudson’s surface, the massive chain’s iron links were forged one by one.
“The same chain is needed near West Point,” he said. Another missed opportunity. The Americans were often plagued by them. “But with Burgoyne’s advance that undertaking is now too late.”
He sensed her distress, yet she regarded him as if he was her anchor, as starry-eyed as the sky. “I don’t want to leave your side even if the danger is high.” She spoke calmly as if she’d given it considerable thought. “I’d rather be here close by no matter what.”
He looked down at her small hand lost in his large one.
She was so . . . fragile. She’d never been beyond Jersey, never seen the frontier until now.
She hadn’t any idea what it was like to stare down an assault of bayonets nor hear the cries of the wounded and dying.
He wasn’t sure she realized he and his riflemen made it their mission to target the topmost British officers and their Indian allies.
Their belief in the American cause made them ruthless.
Relentless. Nor did she know he pored over intelligence like a madman to determine the threat to her here.
“The river is beautiful but rather chilling,” she said, leaning over the wall.
“Look up rather than down, Mae.” He moved behind her so she was in the protective circle of his arms. “Anything can happen here below, but the heavens are untouched. Mayhap the Almighty wanted to create something beyond man’s destructive reach.”
Together they looked up, rewarded as a star streaked across the blackness in an arc of light before extinguishing like candle flame.
“Some say falling stars mean good luck,” he told her, though luck seemed too tame a word for what they’d just witnessed.
“Luck is simply a lesser name for Providence. God’s hand moving across the heavens.”
They were alone now on the battery, men withdrawing from their posts. His thoughts were far from here. Rarely did he let himself think of Virginia, but tonight he did.
“One day we’ll stand on our porch in the Shenandoah Valley and witness the same.”
“Our porch?” Her voice turned wistful.
“It’s south-facing with a view.” He well recalled the joists, beams, and posts, though his father had done much of the work while he was in the fields. “Since it’s built on a rise, you have a view of both sunrises and sunsets. There’s a creek running alongside.”
“Whistle Creek. You said it passes through our milk house by way of a stone trough, then circles back again to stay fresh.”
He’d not told her much, but what little he did she never forgot. “You remembered.”
“I don’t merely want to remember. I want to live it. Make it mine—ours.”
“Soon, aye.”
“Not soon enough,” she said with feeling.