Chapter 42
forty-two
The British are coming.
Paul Revere
The day began like any other. Hot as the inside of an iron skillet and just as sticky. Rhys had returned, only to go out on another foray after a few hours’ sleep, a meal, and a long meeting inside headquarters. Mae noted the activity, Lucy’s words earlier in the week an unwelcome refrain.
“Mark my word, the enemy will soon be at our door, and they will show no mercy.”
Unable to sleep, Mae got down on her knees and prayed as if it was the last prayer she would ever say, until her knees and back protested.
She pleaded for an end to the war. For Rhys’s safe return.
For all the soldiers and camp followers at the twin forts and beyond to go home peacefully and whole.
She even prayed for the British to make peace.
As the fort came awake, she breakfasted alone, just toast and tea at her own hearth. Rain was needed, and when she heard the first drops of a deluge she rejoiced. The air smelled of dampened dust that would soon become churning mud, though the heat was already easing.
Bible reading took the next half hour of her time. She pondered writing another letter to Hanna and Aaron but had received no reply. Best wait till she did.
Midmorning there came a sudden knock, and Mae opened the door to see a wet, bedraggled Lucy standing there, Petey by her side. Behind her the gray parade ground dripped with rain. “Please come in.”
Lucy entered and went to stand by the low fire burning in the hearth from breakfast. She said nothing—odd for Lucy. Petey snuck in before Mae could close the door, then sat and cocked his head.
“Would you like tea?” Mae asked her.
“Nay.” Lucy swallowed. “General Harlow isn’t here?”
“He’s gone out on another foray but should return soon. Is there something the matter?”
After some hesitation, Lucy shoved a hand into her pocket and brought out a piece of paper. Mae set down the teakettle and took what Lucy held out. A letter? The handwriting was as familiar as her own.
Coralie.
Her long, loping script was in cipher, sending Mae’s stomach somersaulting again.
“Where did you find this?”
“Up Popolopen Creek there’s a willow with a hollow in it.” Lucy stared at the letter as if it was tainted. “Your sister put it there while I hid and watched. It wasn’t long before a soldier come and took it from the tree once she’d gone.”
“A soldier?”
“Aye, dressed as a Continental. But he’s not familiar to me from either fort.”
Mae’s chill belied the room’s heat. Her thoughts tumbled one after another, trying to make sense of the matter. Restless, she sat down, only to stand up again.
“I’ve seen your sister go up the creek before, but I thought she meant to relieve herself.” Lucy’s eyes were grave. “When I followed her, I found out otherwise.”
“Then we must tell General Clinton straightaway.” Even as Mae spoke, dread pinned her to the plank floor.
Heaven help us.
They went out, Petey on their heels, all three of them trying to stay beneath the parapets to avoid the deluge. The guards had no such refuge, their garments soaked, their cocked hats waterspouts. And Rhys, out there somewhere . . .
Mae stopped midway, fearing she’d lose her breakfast.
Lucy reached out a comforting hand. “Are you all right?”
“Nay.” Mae took a breath and continued on.
She’d never been to headquarters, just watched from a distance and thought it resembled a beehive with all its comings and goings.
At Lucy’s knock, an aide-de-camp admitted them to a sizable room spread with maps and weaponry.
Dispatches lay like fallen leaves on an immense desk, leaving no doubt a war was ongoing.
Between narrow windows facing the parade ground a large flag hung, its stars and stripes a pleasing pattern.
She saw no sign of General Clinton, but his aide-de-camp soon remedied that. Had they interrupted his breakfast?
He appeared, smiling but clearly surprised when he saw them. “Mrs. Harlow and Mrs. Hawkes, what brings you through the downpour to my quarters?”
Lucy handed him the letter without speaking. Was her throat as tight as Mae’s?
“Cipher?” He examined it in the light of a hanging lantern since the room was shadowed. “Where did you get this and whose handwriting is it?”
Lucy told him how she’d found it, and Mae swallowed past her wooziness to confirm it was Coralie’s.
“Bring Miss Bohannon here,” he told a waiting lieutenant. He called for another officer to decipher the letter, though from his expression, Clinton knew well enough what it contained and wasn’t pleased. Was he merely seeking confirmation?
Time ticked on as she and Lucy took the chairs the general offered. Mae kept an eye on the open door, the eave dripping water. The laundresses wouldn’t be working in such weather. They’d wait till the rain passed before going to the river.
What would Coralie say when confronted? Moreover, what did the confiscated letter say?
Sister, Mae wanted to scream, what have you done?
Her mind whirled as her suspicions came hard and fast. Coralie had never stopped her spying.
And Mae had never stopped her sister from doing so.
Oh, there had been half-hearted attempts to intercept her letters.
But how many had Coralie posted from Chatham and then here without Mae’s knowledge? And now she knew . . .
Coralie’s supposed parting with Eben Gibbs was naught but a ruse.
By the time the lieutenant returned, her heart pulsed far too fast. She felt its frantic tick in her wrist and neck. She wanted nothing more than to flee this room and her shame and any potential blame.
The young officer looked distressed. “Miss Bohannon is gone, sir. Her quarters are empty, her belongings missing. No one has seen her since late yesterday. The laundresses didn’t wonder as she usually spends her evenings with the soldiers on the common, retires late, and is awake early.”
Mae felt the burn of shame. Coralie had been gathering information from first one soldier and then another. Making the rounds till she had enough to pass on. Talking, flirting, deceiving. Was that it?
Lucy looked at her in sympathy as the general said, “I commend you both for coming to me. I suspect this has been going on since Miss Bohannon first arrived in the Highlands.”
Lucy spoke, but Mae barely heard her. The nausea she’d tried to tamp down bubbled up in the back of her throat till she tasted bile. Murmuring an apology, she bolted toward the open door and barely made it outside.
“May I be of help, Mrs. Harlow?” a concerned soldier asked as he stood to one side of the door.
Mae dug for a handkerchief to wipe her mouth, fearful she’d be sick a second time. “I need to lie down.”
“Here, let me escort you.” He took her by the elbow and slowly guided her back toward her quarters, which seemed as far as Jersey.
Stomach still swimming, she murmured her thanks, wondering why Lucy remained at headquarters.
Betrayed. By her own sister.
Though she needed to lie down, anxiety kept her moving. How would Jon and James react?
She stopped her pacing to look out the sole window to the parade ground. Thunder boomed like cannon fire, one volley after another, raking her nerves. Rain still slashed down, nearly obscuring her view of Rhys as he crossed from headquarters to their barracks.
Finished with his latest foray? Her usual joy fled. When he pushed open the door she realized he knew. Unsmiling, he looked at her, then leaned his rifle against the wall, removing his powder horn and belt. His hatchet and shot pouch and knife were next.
Never had he looked so worn. Or so wet. His hair, blackened by rain, fit his scalp like a snug hat. Water puddled beneath his moccasins. His clothes clung to him, but he didn’t undress. He came farther into the room and stopped at the table.
“Where is your sister?”
The question turned her to ice. She lifted her shoulders in reply.
“How much do you know, Mae?”
Feeling she might be sick again, she pressed her hands to her stomach. “What do you mean?”
“What do you know of your sister’s spying?”
“Very little . . .” She swallowed hard. “I suspected, is all.”
“You suspected.” His tone was flat. Leaden.
Another round of thunder shook the room, and she heard horses whinnying outside in distress. It mirrored her own inner turmoil. The ire in his expression terrified her.
His gaze was sword-sharp. “Since when did you suspect?”
“Since . . .” She fisted her hands in her skirts, her voice a whisper. “Chatham.”
“Chatham?” he roared, striking the table with both fists as he leaned forward. The teapot perched precariously at one end fell to the floor and shattered.
She jumped back, colliding with the windowsill as pieces flew. “Please, let me explain. I never thought her posting letters from Chatham was any kind of threat.”
“How many letters?”
“I don’t know.” Tears stung her eyes. “I destroyed those I could.”
“Destroyed them.” He hadn’t moved, his hands splayed atop the table, leaning in like he might lunge at her. How she longed to see understanding in his eyes. A speck of sympathy.
“One of them was in cipher like Lucy found today. The kind that’s made visible by candlelight.
” She winced as all the implicating details rushed back.
“I caught Coralie listening in on your and James and Captain Sperry’s after-dinner conversations in Chatham—she hid behind a wall in a small room once used in times of Indian attack—”
“Yet you told me nothing.” His face hardened further.
“There are numerous Loyalists and spies all over, so I’ve heard.” Her voice shook. “I thought one woman mattered little.”
“It matters!” he fired back. “Every deceitful action and word matters!”
She bent her head, trying to dry her tears with her apron hem.
“You chose your sister over me. By saying nothing, you made your choice.”
“Nay. You were always my choice, then and now.”
“Yet your actions say otherwise.”
She looked up, tears still streaming. “I thought coming here would mean an end to the matter.”
Disbelief scored his features. “You never realized the ruse of her failed engagement was just that. A means to get inside the walls of this fort and wring what she could from flattered soldiers who drink and talk too much.”
“I truly believed Eben Gibbs had abandoned her. She seemed heartbroken—”
“She’s a skilled deceiver bent on destroying all here, and that includes you and your brothers. No doubt she’s run off to this Gibbs now that she’s been found out.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it makes sense. Are you blinded by your family bond? If not for Lucy and her hawklike eye, your sister would still be carrying on her sham.”
The blame in his voice made her want to hide her face in her hands. He was looking at her as if he didn’t know her, as if she was a stranger—as if he hated her. The realization almost buckled her knees.
He pushed away from the table. “I should turn you out of this fort.”
“I didn’t betray you, Rhys. I’ve always been faithful to you—loyal.” She was crying so hard her words came out in breathless snatches. “I never—ever—meant you harm.”
“I trusted you once.” He turned his back on her. “And I can trust you no longer.”