Chapter 41
forty-one
I desire you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors.
Abigail Adams
Sleepless, Rhys turned over atop the bedsheets, cursing the heat beneath his breath.
His ire faded as he saw Mae undisturbed beside him, the faint whistle of her breath reassuring.
Dawn broke through the window, outlining her flushed features and the faint shadows beneath her closed eyes as she lay on her back.
Gently, not wanting to wake her, he placed a hand on the thin linen of her nightgown where the slight rise in her middle showed. He’d memorized every curve of her, and the change was noticeable, at least to his discerning eye. Her child. Their child.
He’d still not written to his father and Bronwyn to tell them the news.
He could only imagine their joy. His mother’s death had cast a long shadow, and then the war had brought another when Micah died.
A Scripture he’d recently memorized rolled through his mind with the realization the timing of their child’s birth was no accident.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.
Now was the time to be born. Lord, let me live to see it. His full heart felt close to bursting in part anguish, part joy.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, his hand still on her middle.
Mae needed to be free of this place. He could no longer send her to Jon’s.
Though the renegades roaming the Highlands had been hung, there were a hundred more dangers.
Even the safety of this fort was in continual question.
Nothing was a refuge along the Hudson any longer.
Not with Washington withdrawing most of the army from the region, leaving only a few hundred men.
Mae stirred, and her soft fingers covered his own. “Soon you’ll be able to feel the baby move.”
He swallowed down the words he wanted to say. I hope I’m here for it.
“We’ve not talked about names.”
He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “Names . . .”
“If a daughter I’d like to call her Mahala.”
“Mahala Harlow.” He liked that it echoed Maebel. “And if a son?”
Her sleepy smile brightened. “You decide.”
“Gerard after your father, mayhap. Or Charles after mine.”
“I’m unsure.” She looked thoughtful, even sad. “I’d rather something fresh as befits a new life.”
He pondered that. “Rhion.”
Her brows arched. “I’ve never heard the like.”
“Wyn . . . Madoc. Welsh names, all.”
“But none so fetching as Rhys.”
He kissed her brow, overcome by the sweet herbal scent of her. “Mahala for certain.”
“You wouldn’t mind a daughter first? So many want sons.”
“I want whatever God gives us.”
She kissed him as if seconding his answer. Outside, reveille sounded, turning his thoughts from any intimacy. He was to ride out this morning on reconnaissance upriver and didn’t know when he’d return.
“If you sew with Lucy today, bring her inside our quarters instead of going to Sutler’s Row,” he said. “I don’t want you outside fort walls any longer.”
“All right. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He sat upright, running both hands through his untethered hair. “Mayhap.”
She sat up too. “Wouldn’t it unburden you to tell me?”
“Nay, it would double my burden, burdening you.” He left the bed, went to a basin on a table, and all but dunked his head into the tepid water. A clean shirt hung from a nearby peg. He began dressing as she plumped their pillows and smoothed out the coverlet.
“I should return by nightfall.”
“And if you don’t?” Her quiet question hung between them, begging for a reassuring reply.
“Think nothing of it. Sometimes I’m waylaid.”
She reached for her stays. “Is this foray today especially dangerous?”
“All of New York is dangerous, Mae.” He expelled a breath.
“The latest intelligence says much of New York is on fire. Fort Ticonderoga fell first, then Fort Edward, and now Fort Ann. Fort Stanwix to the west is under siege as we speak. Burgoyne seems to be delayed, mayhap at Fort Edward or some unknown point upriver, so we’re waiting, gathering more intelligence, all the while suspecting a strike from the British below us. ”
He’d confided in her at last, but it made him all the more knotted.
“Might the British leave us alone? Take the fight elsewhere?”
“Not when they want complete control of the Hudson River. Their aim is to cut off rebellious New England from the rest of the states and thereby stamp out all treason.”
England, once the mother country, wanted to crush the American spirit that had birthed Bunker Hill and the ferocious battles of Lexington and Concord.
Other battles, too many to name—including White Plains and Lake Champlain and Trenton and Fort Lee—had brought a frightful loss of life and further irreversible division.
He knew Mae had read about past engagements in newspapers, every last detail. But here, newspapers and broadsides new and old were kept at headquarters and not as widely circulated. Not all soldiers could read. Drill books and military manuals ruled the day instead.
Once dressed, they sat down together as was their custom before beginning the day and breaking their fast. He opened their Bible, the family Bible she’d brought from Chatham, and read aloud from the Song of Solomon.
He hoped his low, steady voice assuaged her despite the present turmoil.
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.”
While the afternoon wore away, Lucy worked her intricate stitches on General George Clinton’s coat.
As Fort Clinton’s commander across Popolopen Creek, he’d admired his brother’s new garment and wanted one for himself.
The highest compliment, Mae thought. She stopped her own stitching to marvel at the decorative work Lucy had wrought on the cuffs and lapels in silver thread.
“He promised to keep us in pewter buttons henceforth. I do prefer pewter to brass against all that indigo blue.” Lucy never seemed more content than when her needle was in hand. “We’re about out of cloth, though. A sorry thought.”
“Perhaps another supply train is coming.”
“The last was ambushed by the King’s Men.”
“Oh?” Lucy was a fount of information, but whether it was fiction or fact Mae didn’t know. Rumors were thick as flies in a fort.
Lucy stopped sewing long enough to heave a sigh. “And Petey’s been mighty restless.”
Petey? Mae bit her lip lest she laugh. The faithful cur lay in the half-open door as if guarding his mistress, giving a throaty growl on occasion.
“You might have heard of General Howe’s fox terrier?” Lucy said. “Follows him everywhere, Lila does. Word is she delivers messages between enemy outposts. Even has a collar marked with Howe’s name.”
Mae stared at her in disbelief.
“General Washington has his own hounds at home if not in the field. Sweet Lips, True Love, and Venus are said to be his favorites.”
Mae burst into unladylike laughter. “You jest!”
“God’s truth,” Lucy said reverently, looking heavenward. “What’s more, General Lee has his Spado. He even ordered the hound onto a chair to present his paw to Mrs. Abigail Adams last spring.”
Clutching her sides, Mae grew sore and slightly nauseous from amusement. “Petey is in good company, then.”
“I pay attention when he gets tetchy.”
“I don’t blame you,” Mae said, suddenly serious.
“Dogs don’t lie. Even the horses on Sutler’s Row are acting a bit fey and off their feed.” Lucy returned to her stitching with a frown. “Mark my word, the enemy will soon be at our door, and they will show no mercy.”