Something soft, cool, and moist wiped across Rowena’s brow, drawing her up through layers of fuzziness. Her head pounded inside and out; her body ached, deep in her skin and bones. She struggled to open her eyes.
“Finally awake, are ya?” A woman stood over her, a damp rag in her hand. “Do ya have command of your senses?”
Vision blurry, Rowena blinked. The stranger’s triangular face under a dingy mobcap came into focus.
“Here’s water, drink it slow.” The woman’s voice clipped, she held a tin cup to Rowena’s lips. No smile crossed the stranger’s visage, her mouth a stern slash.
Rowena sipped the cool liquid, soothing her parched throat. Her head felt bashed in by a hammer. She glanced about; she lay on a narrow cot in a tent.
“I’m Sally McBride. What’s your name?” Sally raised an eyebrow. She wore a drab gown and apron and looked to be about forty years. Her face bronzed from the sun, she had harsh lines etched around her eyes and mouth.
“And don’t pretend to be a boy. I already know you’re a girl, despite your clothes. Hiding from someone, are ya?”
“I can’t think.” Rowena croaked like a frog. She closed her eyes, stalling for time. Had she fallen from her horse? Where was Sam? “My head hurts terribly.” Not to mention her back, and hips.
“I’ll make you a willow bark tonic to ease the pain.”
“Where are we?” The vital question was: did the rebels or British have her? Yet she only craved sleep, to drift in a dream, and wake in a different place.
“You’re in Major-General Greene’s bivouac.” The woman unstoppered a bottle at a small table.
Rowena flattened on the hard cot and watched her through the slit of one eye. Rebels—Greene was one of Washington’s generals. She was in great trouble, but her mind remained fogged, any sharper fear muffled, lingering at a distance. She had to fight for clarity and be careful with her words. “My friend, the boy, where is he?”
Sally brought her another cup. “I heard he rode off.” She held this tin cup to her lips. “Willow bark; drink it slow, too.”
Rowena sipped the bitter beverage and prayed that Sam got away. “Thank you.”
“What’s your name, girl?” Sally cocked her head, tapping the cup.
“Hmmm.” Rowena’s thoughts twirled, the tent swayed above. Pieces of memory slid in and out of place like a scattered puzzle. What did they know about her? Probably nothing. She kneaded the cot’s threadbare blanket and turned her head to the left side since it hurt the least. Sleep, a safer oblivion, tugged at her. She’d mull through her options when clear. “It’s…it’s Elizabeth.”
* * *
The next two days, Rowena surmised, passed in a muddle, with her mostly dozing and sipping thin soups. Then a young soldier hustled her on weak legs to a larger tent, where a rebel officer waited. He wore a worn dark-blue coat with red facings and looked her over with cagy round eyes. His face plump, he had light-brown hair unpowdered and tied in a queue. “I’m Major Ashworth. And you are Elizabeth, I was informed? What’s your full name?”
Fear shot up, staring Rowena in the face. Facing a rebel officer was far more treacherous than an herbal woman. She sat on a stool opposite him, hands twisted in her lap. She winced and rubbed the right, sorest side of her scalp. The bump there had receded. She thought again of Sam. Was he safe, along with Derec and James? “My last name’s Owen.”
“And why are you dressed as a boy?” Ashworth stroked one of his line of yellow buttons, like dots of butter, his brow arched. “Is it a disguise, but from whom?”
“I…wanted to watch the battle. And be safe from any undue attention.” She chewed her lip and must flee this enemy camp, even if she had to crawl her way out. But she still felt feeble, disoriented. “I was protected—by my brother. Do you know where—”
“Are you a Patriot or a Loyalist, young woman?” He leaned an elbow on his thigh, thrusting his face closer. Lines spread like spider webs from the corners of his alert brown eyes.
She fought a shiver as ice formed on her spine. She glanced away. This was the question she’d dreaded, however expected. “I’m from Easton.” As if that would explain her sympathies. It was a rebel town. “How…did the battle end?”
“Does your family live in Easton?” The major’s tone was firm, but not cruel. “Which side do they fight for or believe in?”
Rowena gathered her splintered thoughts. She should not have used her home town. “I was staying in Chester, with my aunt and uncle…Owen.” She gave what she hoped was a demure smile to steady her nerves. “They are staunch Patriots.” Since these relatives were figments of her imagination, she could place them in Philadelphia’s port city and on any side she wished.
“That’s a far pace. In what part of the city?”
She fidgeted on the stool, trying to weave a tale. She felt crack-brained. Her head still throbbed. “Near the harbor, I forget the street. I’ll remember it…later. Do you know what happened to my brother?”
“The men who brought you here said the boy raced off on horseback. They thought you two were spies but didn’t know from which side. Mrs. McBride tells me you called the boy a friend, not a brother.” Ashworth slowly shook his head. “He deserted you, perhaps?”
She knew better. Sam must have seen he couldn’t save her from the rebels and gone for help. Please. “It’s possible. He can be a rascal.” She stared at her scratched hands and torn breeches, then faked a groan, hoping to garner pity. “I’m certain I told Mrs. McBride he was my brother, but...”
“Mrs. McBride is a sharp woman. A healer, like her surgeon husband was.” Ashworth half smiled. “Not much gets past her, Miss Owen.”
Rowena massaged her forehead and frowned. She tangled her hair in her fingers. Would they treat her better if they believed her addle-pated? “I’m so alone, and befuddled.”
“We’ll see if that’s true. Consider yourself under my protection until I find out more about you. I’ll permit you further rest.” Face impassive, the major stood and called for a soldier who waited at the tent flap. “Then you will answer my questions truthfully.”
In a daze, Rowena allowed the soldier to lead her outside. Warm air closed around her, but the icy chill inside wouldn’t leave. Her breath came out shaky. She could be hanged if they found out the truth. She stumbled even as she scanned the area for a way to break free.
* * *
Back in Sally McBride’s tent, a sentry stationed outside, the woman handed Rowena a bowl of hot stew. “We’re fortunate, fresh venison for once. Of course, only the officers will partake. Not enough to go around to the low ranks.”
Rowena sat on her cot and spooned the deer meat floating in a watery broth into her mouth. The venison was fresh, a bit stringy and tangy. A few root vegetables and herbs enriched the meal. She had to get stronger and plan her escape. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“I’d be kinder, or no, if I knew where your allegiance lay.” Sally moved over to her table of jars, bowls, and baskets. Soldiers often stopped in for remedies for their ills. On a second little table sat a bowl and ewer for washing, near the cot in the opposite corner where the woman slept.
“I told Major Ashworth that my family are patriots. The Owens. I follow their example.” She ate more stew, which warmed her stomach. But her predicament churned the food around. “How did the Springfield battle end?”
“Ha, that fool Knyphausen retreated for a second time.” Sally pulled sprigs of greenery from a basket. “We kept him from invading the Hobart Gap and stealing General Washington’s supplies.”
Rowena nodded to hide her reaction. Defeated again. Teeth clenched, she set the bowl on her thighs. “Victory, yes. I…I need to return to Ph-Chester. My aunt will be worried.” How was her real aunt, Aunt Joan? She would be worried, and she’d be harassed by the rebels if the British lost the war. “Has the King’s army surrendered?”
“They’re still fighting to the south.” The woman looked up for a moment. “But I don’t think there’s much hope for them.”
“What do you hope for, if the—we Patriots are successful?” Rowena stirred the remaining broth in her bowl, yet her appetite had fled.
“Freedom from high taxes. A government that represents us, not some faraway king.” Sally chopped the herb on her table, the scent of rosemary piquant. “And an army of our own, that protects us, not sent by England to slaughter colonials for protesting for our rights. The British already killed my husband.” She glared over at her. “Ya want freedom, too. Aye?”
“Indeed. The end of bloodshed is good. I’m sorry…about your husband.” Rowena could agree with that. But where would her family end up? She shivered in the airless tent. Her thoughts spun, the battle repeating in her memory. “Who was that man handing out books?”
“That was Mr. Caldwell, I’m told. His wife was killed by the British in that earlier battle at Connecticut Farms.” Sally continued to chop, glancing at her now and then. “He’s a reverend and was giving out hymn books.”
“I felt sorry for that poor woman’s death.” It seemed too late to negotiate any truce and remain with England. Her head drooped. Everything was sliding in the rebels’ direction. She needed to rejoin her father, to give him what support she could. She’d written him sporadically from Aunt Joan’s in the month she’d been away. The Loyalists would face repercussions she dreaded to contemplate.
“These united colonies are forever the United States now.” Sally rustled around. Her voice sounded closer. “Are ya poorly again, girl? You’re pale as milk.”
“Yes. I am poorly.” Rowena set down her bowl, slightly dizzy, and nauseated. She scratched under her arm. “I believe I’ll lie down, but could I have soap to wash with first?” She turned her head as tears of misery and fear pooled in her eyes. How would she slip away from the guard and this encampment?
* * *
The following evening after another supper of venison stew, she was herded to the major’s tent once again. Major Ashworth had her sit then slammed his hand down on his small scarred folding table, rattling a pistol that was in pieces as if he’d been cleaning it. “You say you’re a patriot, but you don’t act overjoyed by our victory at Springfield, plus your questions are odd.”
Rowena jumped and nearly tumbled from the stool. “Sorry, sir. I’m not feeling myself after my fall.” Though the extra sleep most of the day had reinvigorated her. On her walk to the Major’s tent she’d taken note of the camp’s layout, the approximate number of tents and soldiers. A way to flee.
“I detect something else in your manner.” He pointed a finger, his plump face flushed. “And why doesn’t your brother come to see how you are? Even if a rascal, he does care for you, does he not?”
“He does. But he might have been injured or delayed in some way.” She had prayed for Sam’s safety every night since her capture. Had he gone for help?
“Who is this boy, really? Tell me, is he friend or brother? Or an enemy spy?” Ashworth loomed over her. He smelled of the venison stew and sweaty horse. When she didn’t answer he went on, “Why did you run when the patriots rode after you?”
She didn’t meet his stare. “They…they were screaming, and I was afraid they’d do mischief when they found I was a girl.”
“You could have told them you were one of us. And showed yourself grateful for their military efforts.” His tone mocking, he didn’t appear the same man who’d questioned her before.
She stiffened and gripped the stool. “How would that stop renegades who acted wild and out of control?”
The Major straightened and stepped away. “I’ll grant, those two were unruly.” He moved toward a curtained camp bed where papers were strewn. Four cartridge boxes sat beside it. She’d seen one that James had, a leather pouch with a wooden box inside. Holes were drilled in the wood to hold ammunition.
He turned to her again. “Nevertheless, Mrs. McBride says you mumbled ‘sorry, father, I prayed for us but it failed,’ when you were first brought in. Why would you be sorry, or lament failing, when we were about to win? What did you pray for?”
“I…don’t remember saying that. But if I did, it could be on any matter.” She shrugged, though inside dread like knives sliced into her. What else had she mumbled while indisposed? “I’m not the most compliant of daughters. And…you cannot count on what one says in a dream.”
“Where is your father, in Easton?” Ashworth twisted at one of his yellow uniform buttons, his tone derisive. “Does he know you parade around in boy’s clothing? What is his profession?”
She took a slow breath. Her father no longer practiced as a successful barrister due to rebel harassment. “He’s a farmer. He grows grain for feed.” You rebels stole our food, cows and horses.
“And he believes in our noble cause to become our own nation? Our freedom from tyranny?” Ashworth sounded as if he lectured from a podium.
Rowena swiped perspiration from her brow, the tent stuffy after the day’s heat. “He believes in what’s right; and relies on the weather…to bring a good yield.”
“You’re hesitating.” He hovered close again. “What’s his name, Owen I suppose?”
Now she regretted bringing trouble to Sam’s family. She should have used another last name. James seemed correct, she was terrible at this spy business. “Please, sir; may I return to Chester? I’ll need my aunt—and uncle’s assistance to go home to my father.”
“Easton is closer to where we are. I’m sending men there to search for any Owens.” The Major’s scrutiny scraped over her, leaving her raw and exposed.
Poor Sam, I’ve ruined everything!
“Major, I have a report.” A soldier’s voice called from outside the tent.
Ashworth walked out, his voice low. “What is it?”
Rowena slipped to the tent flap.
“We’ve news, one of our generals is thinking of turning back to the British. General Arnold. He’s been grumbling for months and could do us much damage.”
“Damn. That is tragic. The bastard. However, tell me more in a moment.”
She rushed back to her stool, nearly knocking it over. Could she pass on this information?
Ashworth strode back in, a scowl on his face. “Young miss, I’ll keep you here under guard until I hear something from my investigation in Easton. And the whereabouts of your partner, if he’s innocent.”
Rowena dug her fingernails into her palms to steady herself. “Why waste your resources on me, sir? I’m but a humble girl, and I—”
“There are spies everywhere, missy. I can’t be too careful. I sense holes in your story. Mrs. McBride informed me that you seemed almost disappointed by a Continental victory. And cried in your sleep afterwards. If you’re lying to me, it won’t go well for you.” Ashworth whipped open the tent flap. “Private, take her back and guard her well.”
Rowena’s breath caught. Darned Mrs. McBride! “I’m only confused, and ill.” She stood, her knees spongy, like aspic. A strategy had taken shape in her mind. She must escape immediately, and risk being shot, before reports came from Easton, whatever they might be. And—she swallowed hard—before her own neck was strangled in a noose.