Chapter 45
forty-five
General Howe is certainly gone to New York, unless the whole is a scheme to amuse and surprise.
General John Cadwalader
The Continentals remained at Freeman’s Farm. Both Burgoyne and his troops and Gates and his Americans were entrenched above the Hudson River’s west bank, recovering and awaiting reinforcements ahead of their next engagement.
Though time hung heavy on his hands, Rhys was never idle, drilling his ablest men, visiting the injured, reorganizing and replenishing ammunition. He knew Burgoyne was growing desperate even before reports said the same. Outnumbered and ill-supplied, he would soon be forced to advance or retreat.
Drenching rains, frosty nights, and half rations failed to dim the American spirit.
The Continentals were camped close to the British, their merriment heard far and wide.
Their sentries soon complained about the revelry lest they fail to hear above the noise and give a warning should the British strike.
General Gates ordered an earlier curfew at once, then called for a few of his officers.
At the summons, Rhys fell into step with Jon. They’d already discussed what might happen in the coming days. Now that seemed to be at hand. Would it take him nearer to Mae?
“Come in,” the general told them, clearly in command inside the marquee-style tent.
Aides and officers came and went as he gestured for the two to be seated across from a large table burdened with maps and charts and field glasses and more.
“I trust you’ve recovered from the last action and can be sent further afield. ”
Rhys nodded while Jon uttered, “Aye.”
“We’ve received a report that the twin forts are in need of reinforcements, especially given fresh intelligence that the enemy does indeed plan to come upriver just as Burgoyne came down.
” Gates retrieved a paper and perused it for a quiet moment.
“I want you to take fifty of your ablest riflemen, Harlow, and a company of Bohannon’s militia there.
Leave as soon as you’re able and be extra vigilant, given we expect the enemy will attempt to land troops south of here ahead of a strike on both Montgomery and Clinton.
You’ll proceed by water for speed’s sake. ”
Further orders were given, including letters to both forts’ commanders, and within an hour Rhys had his riflemen at the river’s edge as Jon’s militia joined them.
The journey aboard the bateaux proved silent and somber.
Alert to Loyalist militias and Indian allies, even British blockades the farther south they traveled, Rhys prayed there’d be no storm as a damp northerly wind pushed them along, recent rains swelling the banks.
Rather than the dust and blue skies that had seen them to Fort Montgomery in spring, all was mud and damp. River travel was slow, even hazardous, in the best of conditions. They had to sleep in snatches, eat, pay heed to the banks for any sign of the enemy.
The farther south they came, the clearer the memory of Mae was.
The way they’d faced off inside their quarters—the hard looks and shouted words—had lingered and festered the time they’d been apart, his high regard of her tainted by her sister’s actions.
Coralie’s deceit seemed to undermine their marital bond and make him question everything.
He had thought Mae trustworthy. Loyal. Above reproach.
Didn’t she realize the depth of his dedication to the cause? His willingness to be branded a rebel and die for independence?
As they neared Bear Mountain, he smelled smoke.
Campfires? Something seemed different and he tensed, signaling his men to be extra vigilant.
His gaze raked the bluff where Fort Montgomery’s ramparts once impaled the sky.
For a trice his mind roared with denial even as his gut roiled.
No ramparts nor bastions. No sign of any Continentals atop the bluff or patrolling the riverbank below.
They landed at the undisturbed bridge across Popolopen Creek, then began the upward climb through familiar woods that seemed strangely empty yet heavily trod. Heart heavy, Rhys went at a half run, slipping on the mud and nearly falling backward as a gnawing need propelled him forward.
The bitter, charred smell, mingled with the overpowering stench of decay, grew stronger the closer he came.
Once he was atop the bluff, the destroyed fort was in blackened relief in front of him, a tangle of burned beams and twisted timber, the destruction total.
Countless fallen Continentals lay everywhere he looked.
Fort Clinton across Popolopen Creek was the same.
He stood inside the main gates as riflemen and militia fanned out around him, some moving toward what had been the parade ground and Grand Battery, its stone foundations visible.
Walking the fort’s perimeter, Rhys grappled with the horror of finding Mae among the fallen, which made him want to retch.
God, help us.
The conflict here was hours old. Rebel scouts and patrols were likely only now reporting it, American troops having fled. The battle looked to have been brief but intense.
“You told Lucy to leave with Mae ahead of time, at the first sign of trouble,” Jon said, coming up beside him. “I pray they’re well on their way south.”
Rhys hadn’t told Jon about Coralie or his ensuing confrontation with Mae. If James had known about Coralie, he hadn’t heard it from Rhys. His conscience was clear there. He wouldn’t add turning brothers against sisters to his tally of regrets.
He simply said, “I’m thankful Joanna and the children are out of the fray and behind fort walls further west.”
Still, the terrors of what had happened here while they’d been entrenched upriver at Bemis Heights seemed an unnecessary tragedy. Washington’s moving the bulk of the northern army away from the lower Hudson, while understandable, had reaped irreversible consequences.
Jon cleared his throat. “We’ve lost James, but I don’t sense we’ve lost Mae.”
Rhys looked at the blackened ruins, trying to hold on to hope. “She may have been taken prisoner if she didn’t get ahead of them with Lucy.”
The very thought gutted him. Swallowing hard, he resisted the urge to pound the air with his fist and rail against heaven itself as Jon lifted a cocked hat off the ground with the tip of his rifle. Oddly intact, it was a muddy mess, the cockade a reminder of those Mae had made.
Woodenly, Rhys walked alone toward the remains of the Grand Battery, where he’d stood with her on countless occasions. The view was untouched, the Hudson rising and falling with the tide, true to its Lenape name, Muhheakantuck. The river that flows two ways. Today the beauty was blunted.
Below, the great wrought-iron chain and log boom that had blocked British ships on the Hudson had been dismantled. What the enemy had done with it he didn’t know, but it seemed a further nail in the coffin of their cause.
Yet that was merely iron, not flesh and blood.
Mae, where are you?
His guilt at leaving her with so many loose ends at the last all but brought him to his knees. They might never meet again nor make amends. If he left New York to go search for her he’d be branded a deserter. For now, he was a soldier first, a husband and father, son and brother, second.
Till the war was won.
Rain smeared Mae’s view of the woods and slicked the saddle, making it harder to stay seated.
Her soaked skirts grew heavy and cold as she fought to stay upright and awake and not lose track of Lucy.
Her Franklin hat, wet and soiled beyond recognition, sat heavily atop her head.
They’d been traveling for days now, so many she’d lost count, and they’d still not come free of the green blur of woods.
Mile after mile pummeled her with the dreadful possibility that Lucy had lost her way.
The tightening knot in the pit of her stomach told her they were traveling in circles.
Even worse—what if something happened to Lucy?
Ahead of her, Lucy bent low in the saddle, trying to avoid rain-soaked branches that tore at her hair and garments, only to rake Mae next.
If Lucy died, so would she. Cosseted and softened for years in Chatham, unwise to the ways of the wilderness, she now realized beyond a shadow of a doubt she had none of Lucy’s mettle.
She was not only untrustworthy, she was weak.
Wholly unfit to be a seasoned general’s bride.
Even now Rhys was likely ruing he’d ever set eyes on her.
Her heart bled at every thought of him. Was he still alive? Had he been in a battle? Might he have been taken prisoner and put on one of the hellish prison ships in New York’s harbor? The dire possibilities were endless. Her tears mingled with the rain.
Toward dusk, they searched in vain for a dry spot to make camp, finally deciding a widespread oak meant shelter. Utterly spent, Mae slid from the saddle, her cold fingers barely able to unbuckle the girth and rest Orion for the night.
Petey stilled and gave a growl. Across from her, Lucy dismounted then froze, her eyes big as brass buttons.
Mae’s own knees buckled. Through the darkened woods came a long, silent line of Indians in single file, armed to the teeth and headed toward them. Painted black and vermilion, the tall lead warrior continued sure and steady. American allies or enemies?
Mae dropped down behind Orion while Lucy did the same with her mare. When Petey gave a throaty growl, Lucy hissed a panicked rebuke. Mae simply bent her head, rain trickling down the back of her neck, and prayed.
Heavenly Father, let Your creatures neither neigh nor nicker nor bark.
Would she live to laugh at the ludicrous prayer?
The procession of men clad in linen and buckskin seemed unending, their identity unknown. Their hair was dressed with eagle feathers, two up and one down. Oneida?
Mae’s heart beat loud as a drum, and still they came on, an entire war party from the look of them. Her own pistol was still in the pommel holster. She’d not used it—didn’t want to use it.
Hide us, please.
Orion stepped back abruptly, snapping a twig.
The sound seemed to echo in the dripping forest. Hunkered down, she and Lucy watched as the party suddenly swiveled away from them.
A bend in the trail? They now stared at the Indians’ retreating backs.
At the rear of the column, the last warrior paused.
When his steady gaze pivoted in their direction, Mae’s head grew so light she grabbed Orion’s stirrup to stay upright.
And then the warrior moved on, catching up with his companions as they continued their silent journey.
The drip of the forest resumed and a few bursts of birdsong pierced the gloom, but neither Lucy nor Mae moved.
Long minutes ticked past till Mae’s shaky legs would support her no longer.
She sank down into the mud and leaf litter, so cold she couldn’t feel her toes or fingertips.
“We daren’t kindle a fire,” Lucy murmured, thereby shooting down their hope they’d go to sleep warm if not dry.
Wrapping her arms around her stomach, Mae simply nodded, empty of all strength yet filled to the brim with fear.
How could she take another step? It would be one thing to push toward something certain, but she was heading toward a home she didn’t know would be welcoming and a possible reunion with a man she was unsure of.
If either of them lived to see it.
“Here,” Lucy said, looking as bedraggled as Mae felt. “I’ll see to the horses. Let’s get you in dry garments and tucked in a dry blanket with Petey.”
As quietly as she could, Lucy settled Mae before unsaddling both horses and hauling their saddlebags beneath the sheltering branches. Next came their rations, the jerked meat and corn dwindling but their canteens full of water.
“I pray the Indians are gone for good.” Mae’s whisper held profound relief. “I don’t know if they’re friend or foe.”
Lucy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I heard tell the Seneca wear one feather, the Onondaga two, and the Mohawk and Oneida three.” She looked perplexed, still scanning the woods. “How we hid in plain sight with two horses and a growling dog befuddles me still.”
“I’ve never prayed so hard.”
“Well, the Almighty answered. ‘In the time of trouble He shall hide me.’”
“How far do you think we’ve come?” Mae swallowed a bite of jerky. “Perhaps the better question is, how far do we have to go?”
“I’ve lost track.” Lucy pushed back a limp strand of fiery hair. “We’ll just continue south till we finally come to a farm or village, then we’ll rest a bit before moving on.”
“I don’t know south from north nor east from west.” Mae ate with filthy hands, the prospect of a bath ever before her. The thought of vermin crawling atop her scalp made her squirm. “A tavern of any sort would be welcome.”
“Hmm.” Lucy was looking at her as intently as an owl in the near dark. “Where’s your wedding ring?”
“Strung on a ribbon around my neck.” Feeling chastised, Mae looked down at her bare finger. How in the midst of the jumble had Lucy noticed so small a detail? “I don’t feel worthy to wear it.”
“Worthy? Well, as hard as we’ve been traveling, I’d feel a sight better with it around your finger than around your neck.”
“All right.” Mae unknotted the ribbon and slipped the ring back on her finger. She didn’t want Lucy worried. Her concern suggested she feared Rhys would hold her responsible for its loss. “Do we have funds enough to get to Virginia?”
Nodding, Lucy patted the money belt at her waist. “General Harlow is more than generous. But he said to stay out of Jersey. They’re still fighting there.”
Mae reluctantly abandoned the thought they might pass through Chatham. At the moment she wanted to lie down right here and die, not weather another mile. If it was only her, she might. But for her baby—and Lucy—she’d fight her way forward to a better, safer place.
Praise be she wasn’t in the back of beyond with Coralie.
As the last of daylight gave way to full dark, a distant wolf howled. Petey settled against Mae’s side, warming her in one spot, at least. She fell asleep praying for Rhys. She’d still not brought herself to pray for her sister. Coralie seemed nothing more than a distant stranger.