It occurred to Virginia, as she pulled the trigger and felt the main spring trip the hammer, that the gun might not be as accurate as she had imagined, or her aim might not be as good.
Too late…was all she had time to think. And, in the end, she need not have worried.
The ball ripped through the sleeve of Dexter’s upper right arm, and through the flesh and muscle beneath, as indicated by the spray of blood that followed in its wake. That was just where Virginia had intended to shoot him, and with only ten feet between them she was pretty much able to hit the mark. She could not tell whether she hit bone, but she guessed she would find out soon enough.
Several things happened at once in the instant after the discharge. Dexter shouted in pain and surprise and clapped a hand over the wound. Little Jack Biddlecomb shouted in anger and surprise and set it to wailing at an impressive volume. The horses shifted nervously, but, being army horses and trained to gunfire, they did no more than that.
Jack would not be put off much longer, but Virginia had other business first. She set the spent pistol down on the saddle, balanced between her legs, reached under her cloak and pulled out the second of the pair. She raised it and pointed it at Dexter’s surprised, angry, pain-filled face.
“You bitch! You bloody shot me!” he shouted.
“I bloody told you I would,” Virginia said. “Believe me when I tell you such things.”
Dexter had dropped the reins of the bay, but now with his left hand, he reached for them where they hung.
“No, no,” Virginia said. “Hands off the reins, and keep them up. The left hand, at least. And this time believe me when I tell you the next bullet goes through your heart.”
It was getting harder to talk, or think, over Jack’s insistent bawling. Caring for him would not be easy, but Virginia had played it out in her head many times, and had arranged her clothing to make it as simple as possible.
“Bind up your wound, best as you can,” Virginia said. “I can’t help you.”
“Bind it? With what?”
Virginia glared at him for a moment as she considered this. For all her preparations, she was not ready to deal with bloody wounds because she had not really believed she would have to shoot the man. In truth, shooting him might not have been entirely necessary, had not her long-festering anger got the better of her.
She had no bandages, but she did have a knife, because she had been raised around sailors and sailors were never without their knives. She pulled it out her riding boot and handed it handle-first to Dexter.
“Cut some bandages from your cloak, just do your best,” she said. He scowled at her and did not reply, but grudgingly took the knife from her hand, and with his one good arm and his one wounded, he began clumsily cutting strips of cloth from his cloak. Virginia undid the upper buttons of her jacket with her left hand, keeping the pistol more or less trained on Dexter with her right.
She adjusted her clothes and her semi-exposed breast and maneuvered Jack around. It was awkward at best, but Jack was well-used to nursing, no longer a newborn, but able to adjust himself. Soon the baby was feeding hungrily, his screaming replaced by a slurping sound, and Virginia felt the tension ease.
Dexter was just drawing the bandage tight around his arm when she looked up at him. “I hope I didn’t break the bone,” she said. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“I think not,” Dexter said. “A flesh wound, it seems, but a damned good one.” The shock of being shot had passed and Virginia could see the man’s calm was returning. “Bleeding is an issue, of course. If you can’t help me bind this wound, then I had best get back to the city where a surgeon can look at this.”
“They have surgeons at Whitemarsh,” Virginia assured him.
“You can’t honestly expect me to ride to Whitemarsh,” Dexter said, reaching for his reins once again. “I’ll return to Philadelphia directly. I wish you joy of your stolen horse.”
“Uh, uh,” Virginia said, thumbing back the hammer, the click of the weapon being cocked making her point more effectively than any verbal warning. “I said don’t touch the reins.”
Dexter paused and looked Virginia in the eye, and to her relief, he slowly drew his hand back. Since first conceiving of this plan, she had feared that she would not be able to convince the captain of her sincerity, or her genuine willingness to kill him if need be. In truth, she was not convinced herself that she could do it. But Dexter’s dismissive tone, his arrogant self-assurance, his apparent certainty that she would not be willing to pull the trigger, all on top of his betrayal, filled her with righteous fury. If ever she had felt able to put a pistol ball through a man’s chest, it was then and there. And Dexter could hear it in her voice.
He sat straighter in the saddle, regarding her. He might consider her a genuine threat to his person, but he still did not seem terribly frightened or even concerned.
“I’ll have my knife back, if you please,” Virginia said.
“Of course,” Dexter said, and using his left hand, he pulled the knife from his belt, where he had stuck it, and handed it back, handle first. Virginia took it and slipped it back into her boot.
“Do you know how far Whitemarsh is?” Dexter asked.
“I do,” Virginia said. “A day’s ride on a fast horse.” She was fairly sure that was right—she had asked one of Mrs. Williams’s servants about the distance—but she was not entirely certain. “Luckily we have fast horses.”
Dexter glanced down at the bandage around his upper arm, which was already soaked through. The man was doing an admirable job of ignoring the pain, or at least appearing to. “I don’t know if I have the blood in me for a day’s ride,” he said. “Even on a fast horse.”
“Perhaps not,” Virginia said. “But if I send you back to Philadelphia, then you’ll send a patrol after me. I will most likely be caught, and when I am I will undoubtedly hang for shooting you.”
Dexter was silent, his face expressionless, as he considered that. “And if I promise to see that no patrol comes for you?” he asked.
At that, Virginia actually smiled. “Oh, I am quite done believing anything you say, sir. But I think you know that. Which, I suppose, is you haven’t even bothered to ask why I wish to go to Whitemarsh. Or why I shot you.”
“Very well, I’ll bite,” Dexter said. “Why do you wish to go to Whitemarsh? Why did you shoot me?”
“In part because I despise redcoats of all stripes,” Virginia said. “But mostly because you and Captain Cornwall contrived to read the letter from my husband so that you might send word to your uncle, Sir James Wallace, as to the whereabouts of him and his ship. Oh, and for plying me with drink so that you might ferret out that bit about David Weatherspoon.” She could feel her face flush with anger and humiliation at the memory of that.
Dexter fell silent again, still looking her in the eye, and Virginia braced for the denials, the protests, the excuses.
“Cousin, actually,” he said at last.
“What?”
“Sir James Wallace is my cousin, not my uncle.”
“I see,” Virginia said. The gun was growing heavy and she lowered it a bit, but the muzzle did not waver from Dexter’s chest. It was Jack Biddlecomb, all twelve pounds of him, who was dictating their movements now, and the boy was clearly not done with his mid-morning meal.
“Stand bye,” she added. “We’ll cast off in a bit.”
For some time, they sat there, silent, the only sounds the shuffling and snorting of the horses, the occasional call of a bird of the lowing of a cow, and the rhythmic sucking sound coming from Virginia’s cloak.
“This is…a most odd situation,” Dexter observed at last.
“It is that,” Virginia said. “But while we wait on Master Jack, pray, tell me, sir, was Captain Cornwell’s interest in Susan only about discovering the whereabouts of my husband, or was there more to it? In other words, are the two of you simply lying filth, or is there more to your miserable selves?”
Dexter did not reply at first, and Virginia guessed he was considering how to answer, how much to tell her. What truth he might feed her, and what lies.
“Captain Cornwall’s interest in Miss Williams had nothing to do with me or your husband,” he said at last. “I won’t say his intentions were entirely honorable or driven by the noblest of motives, but they had nothing to do with anything beyond Miss Williams herself.”
“I quite understand,” Virginia said. “Miss Williams did not exactly cover herself with honor or noble intentions either.”
“Just so,” Dexter said. “In any event, Nicolas happened to mention that Susan had a house guest who was every bit as comely as she was. Married, and with a child, mind, but Nicholas never considered that sort of thing an obstacle.”
“Charming,” Virginia said. She could feel Little Jack starting to slow in his efforts. It would be time to get underway soon. “And you didn’t consider my marital state much of an impediment either, I take it?”
Dexter raised an eyebrow. “More than an impediment,” he said. “I should never consider seducing a married woman. Nicholas and I are brothers in arms, and I like the man, but we are quite different in that regard. When Nicholas told me your name, however…”
“Just my damned luck,” Virginia said. “To encounter one of the few King’s men in all of Philadelphia who knows who my husband is.”
“You do your husband a disservice, Virginia,” Dexter said. “He’s quite well known among those of us in the military line. Sailing his ship right through the fleet as if it was a prize…that earned him quite a bit of respect. No one would say as much, mind you, but it’s true. But I’m one of the few who understood that Sir James Wallace was the man most eager to find your husband, and most able to go after him. Being his cousin, and all. That was your bad luck.”
Virginia nodded as she considered all of that. Bad luck, indeed. So Dexter tells Cornwall and they look for a chance to find out where my husband could be found. They must have been astounded at how damned easy it was, in the end.
“This is war, you understand,” Dexter said next. “It’s what we do. But please, believe me, Virginia, my respect for you…my feelings for you…that was genuine. A ruse at first, sure, but when I came to know you…our time together was a great joy to me. Truly.”
Virginia raised the pistol and aimed it right at Dexter’s heart and was rewarded with just the slightest flicker of concern on his face. “Turn your horse around and start riding, you miserable son of a bitch,” she said.
Dexter nodded, winced as he shifted his right arm, then picked up his reins with his left. He flicked them across the horse’s neck and tapped the animal’s flanks with his heels. Horse and rider began to walk north, leaving Philadelphia in their wake, Virginia following behind.
For a mile or so, they continued at that pace, as Virginia tucked Jack away in his sling and adjusted her clothing, awkwardly, with her left hand as she maintained her aim at Dexter’s back with her right. Once Dexter tried to swivel around in his saddle but Virginia told him in no uncertain terms to keep his eyes forward, and he obeyed. She did not want him to witness her various fumblings and uncertainty. It might give him unwelcome ideas.
Once Jack was tucked away and asleep once again and Virginia had the use of both hands, she carefully eased the hammer of her pistol to the half-cock position and secured the gun in the pocket of her cloak, arranging it for quick retrieval. She found the first pistol, the one with which she had wounded Dexter, and her small containers of shot and powder, and reloaded the weapon as quickly and silently as she was able.
“Captain Dexter,” she called, once that business was done. “Pray, let us pick up the pace a bit.” Once again he began to turn in the saddle, and once again Virginia corrected him. “Eyes forward, I did not say to turn around,” she called, with enough menace to convince him she meant it.
“You seem fond of galloping today,” Dexter called over his shoulder. “Shall we gallop, then?”
“A nice trot should suffice,” Virginia called back. Dexter did not respond at first, and he did not increase his pace, and Virginia was about to speak up again when the captain gave his reins a flick and started building speed.
Arrogant bastard…Virginia thought as she, too, increased her horse’s pace. She had her eyes set on Dexter’s back, waiting for him to try something clever: race off across the fields, turn on her, rein up short in hopes that she might slam into him and drop her gun: but he did none of those things, just rode on at a steady trot.
Good, good… Virginia thought. She wanted to put as much distance as she could between them and Philadelphia, but not at the price of exhausting the horses. She needed the mounts sound enough to carry the three of them all the way to Whitemarsh.
They rode on like that for half an hour or so and then Virginia called for them to walk once more, and this time Dexter did not hesitate to obey. He reined his horse back and seemed to slump down in the saddle as he did, his whole frame bouncing with the horse’s steps as if he did not have the strength to hold himself erect.
He’s losing blood, Virginia thought. Getting weak. The bandage he had wrapped around his arm was dark brown, soaked through with blood that was starting to dry, and there was blood on his cloak and even on his right hand where it had run down his sleeve.
If he collapses and can’t ride, what will I do? she thought next.
She considered the various options, and decided in the end that she would leave him on the road, ride ahead and look for help. Send someone back for him as she continued on. She would hope that he survived, but if he did not, it wouldn’t break her heart.
God, I’m a cold one, she thought, but then she recalled how charming Dexter had been, how thoughtful and courteous, while his friend Cornwall rummaged through her things. She thought of their plying her with drink before Dexter had oh-so-subtly inquired after the whereabouts of David Weatherspoon, and she did not feel so cold or callous anymore.
They rode on that way for some time—an hour, two hours, Virginia really had no sense. The sun was lost behind a thick blanket of cloud and gave no hint as to how much time had passed. Ahead, Dexter kept his saddle though his body swayed more and more with each step and his head lolled as he rode.
He’ll pass out soon, Virginia thought. He’ll fall right out of the saddle. She had thought through this possibility, decided what she would do, but now, with the chance of Dexter’s fainting seeming more likely than it had, she was not so certain. Could she just leave him where he fell and hope for the best?
What would Isaac do? she wondered. What would he think of me if I did just leave him, if I couldn’t find help and he died on the road?
And then another thought came to her. What if he’s play-acting? What if this is a ruse? Fall off the horse and when I dismount to check on him, snatch my gun?
And if he got her gun, what then? What if he managed to get her back to Philadelphia? With the crimes she had committed—horse theft, kidnapping, shooting an officer, spying—she would hang for certain, and they would likely capture Isaac as well. That thought made her angry, and erased her earlier worries.
But then she recalled that Dexter’s condition might well be genuine. She had, after all, put a pistol ball through a good bit of his flesh. He had clearly lost a lot of blood.
“Oh, what the hell am I to do?” she said out loud, speaking in a whisper so Dexter would not hear.
It was Jack who decided what they would do next, Jack who had been sleeping and waking and sleeping since just after Virginia had shot Captain Dexter. His occasional quiet cooing and giggling had begun to escalate into yelps of irritation, which likely meant a soiled diaper and certainly meant an empty belly. The diaper would have to wait, but Virginia knew that the little one’s hunger would not be put off.
“Hold up there, Captain,” Virginia called and she and Dexter reined their horses to a stop.
“Might I turn around?” Dexter called over his shoulder. “Or are you still not to be looked upon?” His voice sounded smaller and weaker.
“One moment,” Virginia said. She wanted to get a look at him, to see if he appeared to be in as bad shape as he sounded, but she did not want him to watch her fumbling with getting Jack on the breast. She tucked her pistol into a pocket and loosened off her jacket as Jack’s fussing continued to escalate, rising quickly from a whimper to a full-throated cry. Finally, she maneuvered the baby around until he was able to latch on and his cries were replaced with his eager gulping.
Virginia covered up as best she could, pulled the pistol free and aimed it at Dexter. “Very well, you may turn around,” she said. With a flick of the reins, Dexter turned his horse until he was facing her, ten feet away.
“How do you fare, sir?” she asked, with little sympathy, or any other emotion, in her voice.
“Well enough, thank you,” he said, but she could see right off that that was not true. He was very pale and his eyes seemed to lack focus. The bandage and the fabric of the sleeve around it was soaked with blood, and there was blood on his right hand and on the horse and saddle where it had dripped off his fingers.
“We’ll be in Whitemarsh directly,” Virginia said. Dexter gave a weak smile and looked side to side.
“You know that for a fact?” he asked. “Do you know where we are?”
“You had best hope I do,” Virginia snapped. “It’s not me who’ll bleed to death on the road if I don’t.”
Dexter nodded by way of answer. He did not seem to have the strength for more.
For some time, they sat their horses in silence, and Jack’s efforts at nursing were the only sound they could hear in the frozen countryside on that winter afternoon. Virginia looked up at the sky, hoping for some sense of the sun’s position, how much daylight they had left. If they could not reach Whitemarsh by nightfall, she did not know what she would do, and she added that thought to her long list of worries.
As Jack nursed, she kept the pistol pointed vaguely at Dexter and stared off in the distance, her mind racing. Then, slowly, she became aware of a new sound, a familiar sound, soft under the gulping from Jack’s throat. She looked up, looked side to side.
Horses…she thought. There was no mistaking it: a dozen horses at least, coming over the ground at a trot. She looked at Dexter. His eyes were closed and he seemed not to have heard, but if he was just pretending she could not tell. She turned farther side to side, looking out over the open ground, but she still could see nothing.
Who the hell could this be? she wondered. Soldiers, certainly. A dozen riders, moving fast over countryside that separated Washington’s army from Howes’, they could only be soldiers. But whose? The answer to that would mean, for her, the difference between salvation and a noose.
She saw them at last, off to her right and about half a mile away. They came up over a small hill riding in a tight formation heading vaguely north.
“Now, who is this?” Dexter asked. Virginia looked over at him, surprised by his voice. His eyes were open and he seemed to be sitting a little straighter in the saddle, looking in the same direction that Virginia was looking.
“I don’t know,” Virginia said. “But we’ll find out directly, I suspect.” The horsemen would have to be very poor scouts indeed to not notice and investigate the two riders standing motionless on the road.
Dexter did not reply, but Virginia had no doubt his thoughts were moving along the same course as hers: the identity of these unknown riders would have an outsized impact on both of their immediate futures, and quite possibly beyond. With both armies sending mounted troops out to keep an eye on the other, there was no way to know who the riders were until they were on top of them.
The horsemen spotted her and Dexter a moment later, the rider at the head of the column turning to his left, the rest falling in behind like a flock of geese. A quarter mile away Virginia could make out the white plumes on the riders’ leather helmets, the short jackets that looked black in the dull light but which she suspected were dark green or blue, the light-colored breeches showing about the top of black boots.
Dragoons, Virginia thought, but there was still no way to tell whose dragoons they were. She eased the hammer of her pistol to half-cock and tucked the weapon into a pocket. The gun would be unnecessary if they were American, of no use if they were British, and likely to get her shot either way. She looked over at Dexter. His face, as usual, showed little expression as he watched the riders approach.
He knows who they are, she thought. Dexter would certainly be more adept than her at recognizing troops in the field. And he did not look particularly happy or relieved.
Well, that’s a hopeful sign.
And then the dragoons were on them, coming up over the last hill and down onto the road. A dozen, as Virginia had guessed, mounted on strong, fast horses. They spread out and formed a circle around her and Dexter. Their jackets were blue with white facings. Some wore leather helmets, some brass, but each had a blue cloth tied around it. A few of the men had long horse pistols in hand, a few had sabers.
While the others encircled them, their officer approached, a young man, early twenties, perhaps, a quizzical look on his face. He glanced at Dexter, looked him up and down, and then turned to Virginia.
“Ma’am,” he said, nodding his greeting. “I’m Major Benjamin Tallmadge, 2nd Regiment Light Dragoons,” he said. His accent was American, but that was no assurance of anything. There were plenty of Loyalist regiments formed in the United States.
“Continental Light Dragoons?” Virginia asked, and at that Tallmadge smiled.
“Yes, ma’am. Continental. I hope that’s your preference.”
“Very much so, Major, yes,” Virginia said, and she could feel the relief wash over her, like slipping into a warm bath. “I’m Virginia Biddlecomb…Mrs. Isaac Biddlecomb, late of Philadelphia. This gentleman is Captain Richard Dexter of His Majesty’s 17th Regiment of Foot.”
At that, Tallmadge frowned. He turned his horse, took a few steps closer to Dexter and peered at his face while Dexter met his gaze.
“Dear Lord, so it is!” Tallmadge said, and he sounded delighted.
“You know the captain?” Virginia asked.
“We’re acquainted,” Tallmadge said. “We’re in the same line of work, you might say.” He turned back to Virginia, gesturing toward her and Dexter. “I suspect there’s a fairly complex story behind all this.”
“There is,” Virginia said.
“Well, we must get to headquarters directly. The general will wish to hear all. And to speak with Captain Dexter, I should think.”
“Very well,” Virginia said. “But I can’t tarry long. I’ll need a fresh horse. And an escort.”
“Escort? To where, Mrs. Biddlecomb?”
“Great Egg Harbor,” Virginia said. “Do you know it?”