Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Crossing Swords
When Clara awoke the next morning, it was to the shrill, unpleasant crow of a rooster. She yanked her pillow over her head and pushed downward, attempting to block out the horrid noise.
“Rebel scum,” she muttered. Even their animals were a nuisance.
Unfortunately, the bothersome bird did not let up in its crowing, so Clara ripped the pillow from her head and grudgingly rose.
Despite the comfortable bed, she’d barely slept a wink.
In between acclimating to her new surroundings, fearing for her sisters in New York City—surely, Charlotte was home by now?
—and stewing over her latest encounter with Benjamin, she’d had more than enough to occupy her mind.
Grumbling to herself, Clara fetched her clothes. She didn’t have Benjamin’s help this time, a thought that both distressed and guilted her, and deflating, she set to work on laying out her garments.
A few failed attempts and one success later, Clara emerged in search of her host. She hadn’t noticed any servants the day prior, so she imagined Josiah would be making breakfast. The thought was…
perplexing, if she was being honest. She’d never known a man who could cook before, not beyond one’s servants.
After a bit of searching, she found him in the outdoor kitchen, tending to a fire in the stone hearth.
“Ah! Good morning!” he crowed. “How did you sleep?”
“Very well, thank you,” Clara lied. “Are you…?” She gestured, and he chuckled.
“I am making breakfast, yes. Why don’t you give me a hand?”
“Me?” Clara squeaked, horrified. “But sir, I don’t—”
“Please,” Josiah entreated. “I’d very much enjoy the company.”
Oh, tar and sugar.
Clara forced a smile and agreed, “I’d be delighted, sir. Thank you.”
“What’s with all the formalities?” he asked. “Please! I’ve told you before, call me Josiah, not sir. My father, a regular ol’ blaggard, if you want the truth, made me call him sir. I don’t much care for it.”
“Your son calls you sir,” Clara pointed out.
“Yes, well…Benjamin’s rather fond of the conventional.”
Unable to help herself, she grinned. “He does seem a bit stiff…begging your pardon, sir—ah…Josiah.”
He mirrored her grin, though it never quite reached his eyes. “You are a camp follower then?” he asked, straightening from the hearth. “Is that how you met my Benjamin?”
Smile fading, Clara shifted in place. “Er…yes. I did his laundry. Many of the soldiers’ laundry, in fact.” Falling silent again, she watched Josiah rake a bunch of coals toward the front of the hearth. “What are you making?”
“We are making buttered eggs,” Josiah corrected. “Why don’t you hand me that skillet?”
“The, um…skillet?” Glancing around, she only relaxed when he gestured at a cast iron pan with three legs.
Lifting it in bemusement, she brought the skillet over and extended it in offering, watching Josiah set it over the raked coals.
In front of the hearth, there was a cast iron rack already toasting bread.
Josiah rotated it with a handle, then removed the bread to inspect both browned sides before placing them onto a trencher.
“Benjamin likes two,” he explained. “Buttered eggs are his favorite.”
“I didn’t know,” Clara murmured, idly fiddling with the lacing on her red, quilted jumps. “I don’t know much about him at all, truth be told… We’ve only been acquainted for a short while.”
“Yes, well…” Josiah rose with a grunt, his joints popping. “My Benjamin’s a bit on the quiet side. He’s friendly and fond of conversation, whenever the situation calls for it, but it takes a bit of coaxing to get him to be forthright.”
“So I’m starting to learn,” Clara muttered.
Josiah headed to the kitchen table. “Might you grate some nutmeg for me?”
Oh, botheration… What did nutmeg even look like?
Agape, Clara looked from one item on the table to the next, her head spinning. “Forgive me, Josiah, but I do not see it…”
With a helpful tap, Josiah indicated a bowl filled with nutmeg seeds.
Good gracious, how was she supposed to grate them? Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Clara retrieved a knife, which seemed far too dull for grating. She laid out one of the seeds. Josiah was busy cracking eggs into a bowl, so he wasn’t aware of her distress.
Dear God, she prayed, I know I haven’t asked anything of You in quite a while, haven’t even spoken, for that matter, but please do not make me look like a fool!
Lifting the knife into the air, Clara brought down the handle with a dull thwack. Her blow shot the seed straight across the room, making it skitter along the stone floor and spin to a stop. Dismayed, she lifted her wall-eyed stare to Josiah, who regarded her curiously.
He broke into a grin and laughed, his eyes twinkling in perplexed fascination. “Where do you hail from, Miss Boyd?”
“Uh…New York City.”
“And do city folk smash their nutmeg?” he asked, chuckling. “Good heavens, what a pointless method! Here…” Lifting a grater from alongside the mixing bowl, he placed it in front of her. “Try this. Drag the seeds across the grates and scrape everything into this bowl.”
Pink-cheeked, Clara accepted the grater and did as instructed.
She wasn’t stupid, but she was assuredly spoiled, and she felt awkward and clumsy while dragging a seed across the grooves.
To her delight, the grating soon yielded a powder.
A warm, pleasant smell filled the air, reminiscent of the jumble cookies prepared by the Boyds’ cook.
With a pleased smile, she dusted the spice inside the bowl.
“Perfect!” Josiah commended. “Now grab the cream and butter.”
This time, he was sure to point out the ingredients, and Clara lifted both the creamer and blob of butter before following him to the hearth. While Josiah poured his egg mixture into the skillet, she fidgeted with discomfort.
“Josiah?”
He hummed, gesturing for her to pour in the cream.
As she did so, Clara asked, “With all due respect, how did Captain Hoskin take up a musket? Given your faith, I would’ve thought you’d both believe in turning the other cheek.”
A slight shadow overcame Josiah’s eyes. “Normally we do, yes,” he allowed, “but not when our very God-given liberties are at stake.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” she pressed. “The other side believes they have a God-given right to the colonies as well, and they are far stronger.”
Josiah inclined his head. “True, but the strong and plentiful are not necessarily victorious. Were it not for David’s unshakable faith, his story with Goliath might’ve turned out far differently.
” He gestured for her to put the butter into the pan.
“I, myself, took up a musket in the French and Indian War, but have since sworn to never again take a life. Not all things done for survival are beautiful, you know.”
“I suppose I don’t know,” Clara replied. “Though I appreciate the sacrifices made in war, this all affects me so very little. This is the only time I’ve known someone hurt during battle. And given the captain’s pain and anger, his sacrifice hardly seems worth it.”
“That is not for us to decide,” Josiah countered. “There is a plan for all of us in this life, and I’m confident Benjamin will find his path.”
“I wish I could share in that sentiment,” Clara muttered. “God can be vengeful…perhaps Captain Hoskin is being punished, rather than rewarded.”
Josiah didn’t respond right away. He scraped at the egg mixture with his wrought iron spatula, the furrow between his brows deepening. “Do you believe my son a bad man?”
Clara blinked. “W-well, no, but he’s…” A spy. A blackguard! The very lowest of the low. Shaking her head, she amended, “Of course not, Josiah. Benjamin may be stubborn, but he’s a good man.”
“Then you have your answer,” Josiah replied. “Being human is filled with pain and suffering and grief…if mankind were truly being punished, would we also have been gifted the joys of love and friendship, and the support of those who care?”
A flash of skepticism lit up Clara’s features, but she bowed her head by way of answer.
Here, he gently squeezed her arm before scraping the cooked eggs onto each piece of toast. “These are done,” he said. “Why don’t you bring them to Benjamin?”
“I…” A shiver of unease formed between her ribs, recalling how poorly he’d reacted to her yesterday. “Of course, Josiah. I’d be delighted.”
She lifted the trencher, then left the kitchen with dread curdling inside her stomach.
When Benjamin awoke, it took him a moment to remember where he was.
The planked ceiling overhead was familiar, home, yet he blinked around him in confusion.
In the distance, he could hear a cow lowing.
Squinting through the sunlight pouring in through his window, he realized he needed to relieve himself.
Thank God Clara hadn’t volunteered for that task too.
Nettled, he tried to rise and his back seized up, a sharp cry catching in his throat before he collapsed onto the bedding.
Oh.
Panic settled over him in waves, and suppressing a whimper, Benjamin reached over the side of his bed. His upper body movement wasn’t too affected, not beyond where he’d been shot, yet his legs remained heavy and numb as he fumbled in search of his chamber pot.
Perspiration formed along his brow, and clenching his teeth, he groped at the vessel before lifting it off the floor.
Unfortunately, he lost his grip, and the empty chamber pot overturned and rolled a short distance across the floor.
It was now out of reach, taunting him, and with a frustrated growl, Benjamin tensed his jaw.
You must fetch it, he thought. You cannot become anyone’s burden!
Ever determined, he pushed himself up with his arms while keeping his back straight, his muscles straining until he was in a sitting position.
Huffing and puffing, Benjamin drew back his covers and used his upper body strength to turn the dead weight of his legs over the side of the bed.
Still trying to keep his back straight, Benjamin slowly lowered himself down with his arms. Once he was nearly upon the floor, his muscles gave out and he dropped onto his side.
“Rot it all,” he snarled.
Attempting to crawl—he would never cry for help—Benjamin put all his weight onto his forearms and dragged himself belly-down across the wooden flooring, much like a floundering snake.
With each drag, an intense stinging sensation whipped up his spine.
It was painful, debilitating, and with a furious sob, he collapsed facedown and screamed into the wooden planks.
Rot this injury. God rot his ineptitude! How could he ever hope to function if he couldn’t even relieve himself?
Alit with frustration, Benjamin struck his nearby washstand and overturned it, sending the washbowl and pitcher on top hurtling to the floor before they shattered.
With his breath burning like fire through his lungs, he grabbed whatever was within reach and chucked the items as far as he could throw them.
That was when Clara entered the room.
Nearly dropping her tray, she fumblingly set aside Benjamin’s breakfast and rushed over to his prostrate form. “Oh! Oh goodness, are you all right?” she asked. “What on earth happened?”
When her hand curled beneath his elbow, Benjamin shook her off. “Leave me be,” he growled. “I can take care of myself!”
Eyes sparking like flint, Clara snapped, “Ah yes, clearly! Thank you for reminding me that normal people wallow about on the floor!”
“I am not normal,” Benjamin seethed. “Not anymore.” Attempting to roll over onto his back, he gave a pained hiss, and tears of anger and exertion leaked from his eyes. “Just go,” he pleaded. “Leave me here.”
“I will not.”
Careful in her movements, Clara assisted Benjamin in lying flat on his back. “There now,” she soothed. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
“Not so bad?” Benjamin echoed, incredulous. “I just needed help rolling over like an infant. How in God’s name can that not be ‘so bad?’”
“You have all your limbs and your health,” Clara coolly said. “In your line of work, I don’t think I need to remind you how lucky you are.” Chin tensing, she picked up stray pieces of ceramic. “Although it may be unconventional, men have functioned with far less than their legs.”
“And what would you know of it?” Benjamin spat. “From that very little time spent in camp, what could you have possibly learned about injury and self-efficiency?”
Clara scowled at him. “I don’t need to see in order to understand,” she retorted. “Why, isn’t that the very basis of your religion? Having faith in the unseen? Ben, God—”
“Is laughing at me! He gave me all these ideas, yet I am powerless to enact them! While Washington and his men are out there fighting for our freedom, I am stuck here licking my wounds like some sniveling dog!” Quivering, Benjamin’s throat seized up.
“You don’t understand,” he choked. “If I can’t fight, I am nothing. ”
“That’s not true,” Clara argued. “Ben, as loath as I am to admit it, you are smart. Cunning, too.”
He scoffed. “That’s high praise, coming from some Tory doll.”
“Now see here!” Clara snarled. “You’re not the only one to have a hard life, you miserable lobcock!
I hurt, too. I bleed, too. But you don’t see me falling apart and taking it out on those offering a helping hand!
” She jabbed a finger against her chest. “Who even says I want to be here? There’s nothing I’d rather do less than aid a traitor to the Crown! ”
“Then leave,” Benjamin hissed, his chin quivering. “Go! Since I didn’t ask for this, and you clearly despise it, do us both a favor and return to your precious city!”
“With pleasure!” Making a show of dropping the gathered shards onto the floor, she dusted off her hands, lifted up her skirts, and tearfully tore from the room.