Hidden behind a copse of trees about thirty feet from the road, Rowena and Sam hunkered on a low slope of the Watchung Mountains. She peered through branches and leaves as an orange dawn rimmed the eastern sky. The landscape took on form, the sun chasing back the shadows with the creep of light. The lava-scarred and forested mountains, the gleaming rivers that converged at the Hobart Gap, presented a tranquil setting that soon could turn into pandemonium.
“I feel a coward for malingering up here.” Apprehension at what might happen twisted through her. Would Derec be with the troops? She had no right to stop him. Just as James had no right to forbid her from coming. Yet she felt compelled to be present, to cheer on the King’s troops, to look out for the man she cared too much about.
Sam stared at her, brows knitted. “What else could you do, Miss? Storm the ramparts with a sword an’ musket?”
“If only I were trained to do such.” Loamy scents filled her nose as with nervous fingers she pulled her frock coat close; but soon, the warmth arose on this late June day—the 23rd, she surmised. She scrutinized the well-trampled road below. “If I had a cannon, I could fire on the enemy when they ride out to meet General Knyphausen.”
Sam rolled his eyes, his words half-teasing. “An’ blow us both up?”
“I’d have practiced. And I’d only shoot a small one.” She nudged him, though he was right. “James and Derec said General Clinton hopes that Washington, if the ruse works, will attack our right flank. Then General Leslie will bring his thousands of men up the Hudson to prevent Washington from slipping back behind these mountains.”
“Aye, I pray we win this one.” Sam stroked Kayfill’s nose as he watched between the trees. The horse wore a new saddle purchased by Aunt Joan, after Captain Simpson’s men had removed the old one. “An’ your da don’t thrash me to death for bringing you here, again.”
“I brought myself.” In some bizarre way, she again thought her vigilance at the impending skirmish would keep Derec safe. However, after the first battle, she’d seen how limited her usefulness was. She scraped a finger along the silver maple bark. Perhaps she was in over her head, as the men warned. She settled her hat more firmly on her pomaded hair tied in a queue. If the Hessian broke the rebel ranks, she and Sam could follow, and sneak through the gap toward Washington’s camp, and join in the hoped-for victory.
“How does your family feel about the war?” she asked, anxious in the ensuing silence, though a few birds started to call: the tee-yee of a goldfinch. The air continued to warm.
“My da wants what’s best for the small farmer.” Sam shrugged. “He respects your father, so would stand with him, I’m certain.”
“And you said you want to breed horses? My father, he’ll be grateful, eventually, that you’ve stayed by me.” She wouldn’t dare say for protection. “Father could help with that. He knows breeders.”
“Aye. I’d be most obliged if Mr. Marsh did. One such as me don’t expect to rise high.” Sam gave her a quick smile. “My brother could take on for good my work in your stable.”
The clop of horses, jingle of bridles, and drumbeats sounded from below, to the far right along the road.
Pulse jumping, Rowena fisted her hand and leaned forward. “This might be General Knyphausen.” From a canvas sack, she dug out the small telescope her aunt had provided and peered through the lens.
Thousands of navy-blue coated soldiers in two columns rode into view as the night finished its retreat. Most wore black cocked hats, but several sported tall hats with brass plates. Cannon and supply wagons brought up the rear, along with more sounds of drums and fifes.
Another line of men attired in lighter blue coats with white, buff or red facings advanced from the other direction, on foot and steed.
Continentals burst out from behind an orchard in a sneak maneuver. Men shouted with threats and yelled orders. Gunfire boomed. Rowena gushed out her breath. She and Sam drew their pistols. Shades of blue and militia green crashed together in a storm of soldiers. Horses reared, grunting, with snorts and whinnies as they were slashed or felled with shot.
She cringed. This repeat fight to breach the Hobart Gap seemed too much like the other, with more death and destruction. General Knyphausen must beat down the enemy this time.
A sea of men and beasts clashed in attack after attack. Rife and musket balls flew, arms flailed, and bayonets pierced. Soldiers on both sides cursed and bellowed. Gun smoke fogged her view. She rose and squinted. Where was Derec?
“This is so ugly,” she whispered. Bile burned in her throat. But what had she expected, a magical change from the last battle, a swift conquest?
“I don’t know who is beatin’ who,” Sam said. “Should we stay or…?” She could tell he asked for her sake, not his.
“Yes, I want to stay.” Her worry for the Welshman, plus her stubborn pride kept her in place. “Colonel Simcoe should be here with the Queen’s Rangers.” Unfortunately, Derec said that the Rangers also wore green, like many of the rebel militia, which would add to the confusion. Rowena fingered her pistol and held on to any hope. “I won’t force you to remain.”
“Nay, I’m here beside you, like you say.”
She adjusted the telescope but couldn’t tell if Derec was in the melee. The navy-blue swarm swept away the rebel blue from Connecticut Farms, the burned-out town from the first battle. Flags fluttered: the blue and red of the Union Jack and the Continental stars and stripes. Then the different colors of regimental banners.
The sun inched higher.
“We might be the greater force. We have to be.” She gulped down fear and crept to a trio of maple trees farther below on the slope to be closer to the road. A red-tailed hawk screeched and flew from the branches.
“Miss, you should stay up here, with me,” Sam protested.
Cannon discharged. The air shook with the roars and fogged with acrid smoke. The British looked to have six big guns. The rebels scrambled to fire their own cannon. To her shock, a man in somber clothing was handing out books in the chaos. He shouted something she couldn’t understand as he tapped the books.
The soldiers ordered the man back, but he persisted. Was he mad?
The rebels kept firing as a contingent backed northward, toward the gap; the King’s Army followed, weapons blazing. A bridge shattered from the cannon fire, its planks flung like spears into the sky. The British waded or rode in splashes through the Rahway River where the bridge had spanned and continued their attack.
A man in black rode with the Hessians. Her heart leapt. Might he be Derec?
Rowena fixed the telescope on him. She couldn’t be certain. The scope lowered, her knuckles pressed to her mouth, she wanted to run down the hill to see for herself. The man in black vanished among the soldiers. Was he still on horseback or…
So many dead littered the ground. Such a waste of lives, fathers, brothers, and sons—the Welshman might have joined those killed. She quivered and prayed for the ‘patriots’ to raise a white flag, to surrender.
A rebel militia scattered into the hills, closer to her position, firing at the British. She hunched down, pistol raised, her hand shook. If she shot another rebel, they might come after her and Sam. Yet she aimed, her finger on the trigger, just in case.
The British rode further north, pushing the rebels back. They vanished from her sight.
“We must follow, Sam.” She hopped to her feet and ran up the hill to the copse. “Hurry.”
Sam grimaced, but they mounted Kayfill and galloped down onto the road, then north. She kept her eyes averted from the dead. After about four miles, she saw that the armies had gathered in the next town of Springfield. Even with the spyglass, at this distance the troops were like toy soldiers on the field.
“Ride closer,” she urged. “We might make it through the gap this time.”
“You certain you want to put yourself in the line of fire?” He looked at her then reluctantly complied.
The Hessians fought off the rebel surge. The rebels pushed back again. Then, as if in a fit of anger, the King’s Army lit torches and touched them to the buildings. Wood sizzled, the town soon on fire. A church was eaten up by flames—more needless destruction and endangering of civilian lives.
Stray balls whizzed by her. Rowena ducked, darting her gaze about. She could be on the ground, fighting for life at any moment.
“We should pull back a bit,” Sam said, gripping the reins. Kayfill snorted and stomped his front hoof, as if he too disapproved of war—and being shot.
“I wish I could be of more help.” Again, she suffered the torment of not fitting in anywhere. Perhaps she should have remained in Philadelphia, yet if the British were victorious today... She’d be a part of their triumph. And Derec, she’d be there for him. She strained to catch a glimpse of a man in black. “It’s such a muddle, I’m not certain who is winning. Those poor soldiers.”
“At least let us ride behind them bushes. Please, Miss.” Sam steered the horse to cover on the roadside and they dismounted to watch through the leaves.
Her breath rapid, she said, “I do believe there’s more rebel militia than was expected, the same as last time.”
The pungent stink of burning wood and licking flames swirled into the air. The sun rose even higher. She and Sam huddled as the battle raged on. Hours passed. Should they retreat? Her legs felt frozen. The sun lowered to the west, a wavy, yellow disk in the thickened smoke.
She rubbed her sweaty face and drank tinny-tasting water from their tin canteen. Earlier, they’d eaten biscuits provided by her aunt. The food sat like rocks in her stomach.
Militiamen fired constantly from the woods that fringed the road, felling British soldiers from their mounts. If she only had a rifle…but how could she change any of this without killing? Slaughter was the horrible price you paid in war. A sob erupted.
Sam looked at her uneasily. “Are you…”
She waved him off and strained to stifle her emotions. Then she craned her neck for another sign of the Welshman.
Evening descended, and gunfire continued to crack. Springfield’s buildings popped with spurts of orange flames. Soldiers from both sides lay dead in patches of crimson. The coppery stench carried to Rowena. Nausea roiled her stomach. She fought the urge to vomit in the bushes.
This carnage had to end. She felt gouged to the core and loathed the death around her—but she’d asked to be involved.
Was James right, she only played at being a spy or soldier? She craved adventure yet hadn’t the nerve for war? She stretched her stiffening back, then massaged the sharp aches in her knees. Her shirt, damp with perspiration, stuck under her armpits.
She glanced again at the dead bodies strewn about.
Who was responsible for this atrocity? A stubborn, greedy king or a misguided, angry rabble backed by richer men who wanted to dominate the government? Had the king gone too far, and these people deserved freedom? A rash thought from a loyalist!
The reasons tangled in her thoughts. She yearned for the war to be over. Peace to settle over her country, her father and family restored to a position of respect. But doubts of their success niggled at her. She swiped away a tear.
“I think the Hessian is losing again. How can that be?” She gritted her teeth, pounding a fist on her thigh. She wished herself taller, more muscular. Everything seemed futile and she completely helpless.
“Aye, miss; but I didn’t want to say such.” Sam shook his head. “We should not be here.”
The fighting slowed. She surveyed the field. Where were Derec and James? Her chest constricted as if a rope squeezed around her. She shut her eyes and must think of Derec as a friend, a mentor—and ignore any inappropriate feelings. Either man could be one of the corpses out there. No!
In a thunder of hoofbeats, two men in tattered blue coats galloped toward them, shouting like banshees. They appeared to be rebels. She cringed, about to hiss a warning.
“We must flee.” Sam grabbed her shoulder, but she’d already jumped up, at the ready even as she gasped.
The two mounted, Sam at the reins, as she clutched the canvas sack. He turned Kayfill around and raced off to their left, up a rocky slope into the woods. The blue-coated men chased after them.
Rowena gripped the saddle as her horse galloped on. Her body juddered along with her teeth. Sam bent close to Kayfill’s flying mane and urged the horse to more speed. They rode along a trail on the slope, dashing through hickory and cedar trees and around jutting basalt rocks. Branches whipped by them, flashes of green and brown. The rebels stayed in pursuit, punctuated by shouts and the tromp of hooves. How could these men have known she and Sam were loyalists? They wore no uniforms.
Leaves slapped her face, woodsy scents mixed with their own sweat. She hunched behind him.
The horses at their rear sounded closer in their snorts and grunts. The men taunted, ordering her and Sam to halt.
Muscles clenched, Rowena chanced a look over her shoulder. The soldiers aimed pistols, their faces a malicious glower. Foam dripped from the horses’ mouths.
Could she reach her pistol and fire at them? She fumbled to find out, head bent to the side.
A branch knocked against her skull. A jolt of pain, then sparks of light flashed in her brain; she felt herself slipping off her horse. She grasped at air and cried out.