Chapter 37
thirty-seven
Every post is honorable in which a man can serve his country.
George Washington
Inside headquarters, General Clinton looked up from the map spread across his desk, anchored with one-pound cannon balls. Rhys entered the room and the aides scattered, leaving them alone.
“Welcome back, Harlow.” Clinton looked haggard, the half-moons beneath his eyes indicative of a commander with too much on his mind. “Good news?”
Rhys hesitated, wanting to report the British were in full retreat. “News, anyway.”
“There’s no slowing Burgoyne’s advance, in other words.”
“They remain at Fort Edward for now, organizing and preparing for the next campaign. It helped that St. Clair crippled Fraser’s troops near Ticonderoga.
” Rhys approached the desk, damp hat beneath one arm.
“As for us, I’ve returned with all forty of my riflemen, having harassed their patrols and scouts for two days and nights without rest, stalling supply lines and doing whatever mischief we could to those outside Edward’s walls. ”
“Word is the British are having considerable trouble with Indian allies since the murder of Jane McCrea.”
Rhys nodded. “Burgoyne has issued orders to restrict their actions. He’s even alienated many Mohawk by trying to make them fight like English soldiers and abide by European military discipline.”
“A Pandora’s box.” Clinton gestured to the map. “Once Burgoyne leaves Edward, how long do you think it will take for the enemy to reach here?”
“The march will be slow and taxing even with fair weather and no opposition.” Rhys traced a finger down the black line of the Hudson. “Their progress is sure to be slowed by terrain and Orange County’s militia patrolling fifteen miles of shoreline.”
“Burgoyne’s numbers?”
“No more than eight thousand.”
“To our eleven thousand spread across the Highlands.” Clinton frowned. “Washington is weighing whether to remain here or move elsewhere.”
“Benedict Arnold has been ordered to join forces with Schuyler to halt Burgoyne’s movements here, I heard.”
“True. But whether or not that occurs is another matter entirely. Washington believes the bigger battle may well be Philadelphia, and he could order our troops to counter General Howe’s advance there. If so, he’s willing to sacrifice men here along the Hudson to that end.”
Sacrifice. Rhys withheld a wince. The entire war seemed about extinguishing the biggest fires on every front while lesser conflicts were left to fend for themselves with whatever fighting force could be had. Fort Montgomery might be one of them.
Picking up a letter, Clinton said, “Washington states, ‘I consulted those best acquainted with the strength of the passes, and they all agreed that about two thousand men at Peekskill and Fort Montgomery would be sufficient to repel any force that would probably be sent against you.’”
Rhys held his tongue. He sensed the greater threat might come from the south if Sir Henry Clinton advanced from New York City. Surely Washington had considered this too. Who was he to naysay him?
Clinton continued, “He feels we have overrated enemy forces in New York, further reason to draw part of our army away from the Hudson Highlands toward Pennsylvania.”
“Has he indicated where the Rifle Corps might go next?”
“Not yet.” He continued studying the highly detailed map.
“For now, he’s issued orders that all farms, barns, and crops within a twenty-mile radius be destroyed lest they provision the enemy.
Patrols and militia have been sent out to inform those settlements.
If the settlers don’t do as ordered, we’re to confiscate or destroy what’s left standing. ”
A harsh order. Rhys’s mind swung to Jon, both soldier and settler. “Better that than the British.” Still, his mind churned along with his gut. Years of toil turned to ashes overnight. Few settlers would welcome that, even if they were on the American side.
“Enough hard news.” Clinton’s smile was thin. “Be at your ease. I would have you and your men rested and ready for the next foray.”
Rhys entered his and Mae’s quarters quietly, finding her asleep.
His breakfast was on a pewter plate atop their trestle table, the mint she’d picked on the sunny windowsill.
He set his weapons aside and tied his still-wet hair back with ribbon before eating.
His exhaustion seemed bone deep, his eyelids leaden.
Completely still, Mae slept on. He still hadn’t come to terms with her being his bride, bearing his name, even following him here to a hazardous outpost. Rather than unsettle him as she’d done when she’d been Miss Bohannon, she steadied him. Because of her he was a better man. A better soldier.
Removing his coat, he lay down beside her as quietly as he could. The room’s heat soon lulled him into the black oblivion of sleep, then wonder tugged him awake. He was a father even though he’d not yet held their child in his arms. Come spring, where would the three of them be?
He couldn’t rest long with his mind crammed full. He swung his feet to the floor, got up, and pulled on his boots, then reached for his hat before heading to Sutler’s Row.
Half an hour later he arrived, delayed by countless side conversations as soldiers and civilians came and went. Finally he found Lucy sewing by her tent. As he approached, her wee dog wagged its tail then barked, alerting her.
She started to get to her feet, but he put out a hand.
Tucking away her sewing, she gestured to a stump near her cook fire. “What brings you, sir? Mrs. Harlow’s not ailing again, is she?”
Did Lucy know the reason?
He sat, reaching out a hand to scratch the brindled dog behind its raised ears. “She’s asleep.”
“She’s been poorly lately. Sick to her stomach and sluggish.”
“Aye, so she told me.” He rested a hand on one of the pistols at his waist. “I’ve come to talk to you about what to do if this fort is besieged.”
She nodded like they were merely discussing the weather. “The redcoats are still coming, then.”
“Aye, though we’re making it as troublesome for them as possible. The question is which direction they’ll come from first.”
“’Tis like chess, this conflict.”
He nodded, somewhat amused. She played the game with Private Hawkes, who’d learned from an officer who’d carved them a set. She often won. Lucy was as smart as she was stalwart.
“Checkmate is the goal.” He cleared his throat, hating the harsh details.
“If the enemy nears, our pickets will give a warning of impending attack. At the first sign of danger, find my wife and flee in the safest direction. If you can’t get to the horses, go on foot.
Keep to the heaviest brush and out of sight as much as possible.
” He unbelted his leather money pouch and handed it to her.
Next came two pistols. “This should see you both to the Shenandoah.”
She took hold of everything, then hid the pistols in a near basket before belting the money around her waist and out of sight.
It gave him some ease but not enough. There was no guarantee they’d get away.
If any survived the first assault, a thousand other things could go wrong.
Astride horses made them a target. Afoot meant other dangers.
They could be killed, captured, or worse.
God preserve them. All three.