30

Hannah leaned against the window ledge and peered down at the street below. Albany had begun to show the first signs of autumn—farmers’ wagons loaded with corn and other vegetables, the tinges of yellow and reds in the leaves, the days growing shorter. Three months since they’d left Joseph behind. Three months of feeling ripped in two.

Footsteps sounded up the stairs of the Huntsman Inn and Hannah pushed away from the window. Samuel didn’t need to find her brooding here again. But the footsteps continued past to one of the other rooms, leaving her alone a little longer. She returned to the window and looked out in time to see Samuel duck inside the front door. Better to go downstairs and meet him for supper—save him the hike up the stairs to fetch her. The work he’d found harvesting with a local farmer usually left him exhausted.

Hannah straightened the green skirt of the gown Joseph had bought her and started down the stairs.

Samuel met her at the base. “I was on my way up to meet you.”

“I thought I’d save you the effort. Mrs. Barstow prefers when you wash up down here anyway, to save her from hauling water upstairs.” She followed him to the washbasin and pitcher waiting on a stand beside the door to the kitchen. Mrs. Barstow always kept the water fresh for their guests. “How was your day?”

“Good.” He splashed water on his face and across the back of his neck, and then washed his hands.

Hannah held out a linen towel for him to dry on. “You like farming, don’t you?” He seemed so content and pleased when he returned no matter how long the day.

“I do. It’s…” His face momentarily vanished behind the towel. When he set the towel aside, it was as though he’d wiped away any pleasure from his youthful features. “It’s peaceful.”

She squeezed his arm. He hadn’t spoken much to her about his time in the army—only places he’d been, people he’d met, and what he’d learned from some of the good men he’d served with. Never about the battles, the gore, or the death.

They sat down at their usual table, and Mr. Barstow brought their meal. Samuel remained quiet, only halfheartedly acknowledging her meager attempts at conversation.

“Are you feeling unwell?” she finally asked.

“I’m fine.” Samuel ripped off some bread and shoved it into his mouth, but didn’t look at her.

“Did something happen today?”

His gaze briefly lifted to hers. “I overheard news of Washington’s army.”

Joseph.

Her hand gave an involuntary tremble, and she set the spoon on the table beside her bowl. “What have you heard?”

Samuel glanced around at several other occupied tables before whispering, “They are marching through Virginia.”

“Virginia?” That made no sense. Up until now it was believed Washington’s army lingered just outside of New York City, preparing for an offensive.

“Seems they left a decoy for the British.”

Hannah sank against the hard back of her chair. The stew’s wonderful aroma now turned her stomach. The war was taking Joseph farther and farther from where he belonged. From his farm. And his family.

From me.

She forced the thought from her mind. Joseph’s place was not with her. Never would be. “Where is their destination?”

“From what I understand, a city along the coast. Yorktown. The British have brought their main forces up from the Carolinas.”

“How many?”

Samuel’s focus shifted to his food. “Reports are varied.”

“How many?”

He sighed and dropped the bread back to the table. “Somewhere between six and ten thousand.”

Ten thousand? She could not even imagine that number. “How many does General Washington have?”

“The General only has three thousand or so with him. But the French have a substantial army, as well. They aren’t facing the British alone.” He reached across for her hand.

“But there will be a battle.” And it would not be a small one. Men would die. Joseph might die.

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”

She picked up her spoon and started eating again despite her lack of appetite. The heavy gravy hit her stomach like a stone.

“You know, it should be me marching against Yorktown.”

“No. You should have never been in this war.”

“Hannah, all of us are in this war. It surrounds us. It doesn’t matter anymore what happened back in the valley; none of us escaped. We can’t escape it now. Least of all you.”

“I don’t understand you. We’re safe here.” At least for now.

“Your heart is somewhere between here and Yorktown. Isn’t it? Maybe four years ago you would have preferred Joseph die so Pa could survive. But what about now? You don’t want him dead.”

“Of course I don’t. But that is hardly relevant.” As was this conversation. She stood and headed for the stairs. She returned to their room and the window to wait for Samuel’s footsteps. Minutes passed before she heard them.

The door opened and then tapped shut. “Pa made his choices,” Samuel said. “Stop making yourself pay for them.”

Hannah hugged herself. The earlier hustle and bustled on the streets had begun to wane with the day. “You make no sense.”

He moved to her. “Pa left us to fight for the British. That was his choice. He died fighting for the British. His choice. Myles, Mama, little Miriam. They didn’t escape the consequences of—”

Hannah spun. “You can’t blame Papa for what happened to them.”

Samuel held up his hands. “I loved Papa, too, Hannah. But surely you’ve asked yourself what would have happened to us if he had stayed. I’ll tell you what would have happened. Whether we left the valley or remained, we wouldn’t have been separated. As a family, we would have been stronger.” Dark locks fell across his forehead with the shake of his head. “I spent the last six years paying for being the son of a Tory. Don’t do the same.”

“I am not—”

“It is true, isn’t it, that Joseph Garnet is your husband?”

“Yes, but…” She had no argument for that.

“And you love him?”

Her heart throbbed. “I…”

“Do not let Pa take that from you, too.”

“Samuel…” Hannah turned back to the window and the world moving forward as though there wasn’t a war raging just over the southern horizon. In Virginia.

“It is not a sin to love him.”

“Not a betrayal?” How could it not be?

“Joseph didn’t kill Pa. The war killed him.” Samuel stood beside her and wrapped an arm over her shoulders. “But Joseph did give himself for my freedom—and possibly my life.”

“I know.” Another reason for how torn she felt. But loving and forgiving wasn’t her only fear. Joseph had made it clear that he hadn’t wanted to marry her—only to atone for taking Pa. He’d been kind to her, and he’d held her and kissed her as though he might actually care. But Rachel had been right about him. He didn’t like to be alone. The reason he’d married Fannie. The reason he’d held her.

“Have you thought much on what we will do once harvest is over and I have no more work here?”

Hannah had been trying hard not to think about the future. Her heart called her to return to Joseph’s precious valley, but how could she? He didn’t care for her as a wife. Only a neighbor.

Oh, how she hated that word.

But not as much as she hated not knowing what Joseph really felt for her.

~*~

To think he’d once coveted adventure.

Now he just wanted to go home.

Joseph’s feet still ached from marching over four hundred miles, though they’d reached their destination two weeks past. In the hazy morning light, Yorktown sat on the horizon, the York River and silhouettes of ships—both British and French—its backdrop. How long before they made the city theirs? How many lives would it cost?

Joseph massaged the muscles of his shoulders, stiff from digging a four-foot-deep trench in pouring rain several nights ago. At least the cover of darkness and pelting rain had shielded them from the British, one thousand yards away behind their fortifications. Safely out of musket range. Not very many casualties yet.

“Men…”

Joseph snapped his attention back to Colonel Hardy.

“I should have no need to explain to you the importance of Yorktown’s surrender, how great a blow it would be to the British. But first we must to reach beyond their fortifications. I am to select my best men to join Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton and others under his command in the advance against one of the southern redoubts.”

Joseph stiffened. The French had made an attempt on a redoubt when they’d first arrived. And failed. The British were well dug in to their remaining redoubts, with mounds of earth and tall spikes impeding any offensive.

“You are whom I have chosen. Lieutenant Abrams will accompany you to where you are to report.”

Joseph cinched his hat down a little lower as he glanced to the dozen or so men standing with him. Seasoned soldiers.

“Garnet.”

“Yes, sir?”

Colonel Hardly motioned him to follow to the door of his tent. “I have yet to see you in battle, but only half of General Herkimer’s men survived Oriskany, and I am not unaware of what Brant and his Mohawk chiefs have wrought upon your valley. I believe it is men like you who will win this war for us.”

Joseph remained silent. He wasn’t sure which was more important to him now. To win a war…or return to his family.

“If the redoubts fall to us, the city will follow, and the tide of the war will shift in our favor.” The colonel gave a slight nod. “Perhaps then we might be able to do without so many men.”

Joseph swallowed hard and returned his nod. He dared not take the colonel’s words to heart. First, he had to survive. And even then there were no promises.

Being dismissed, Joseph followed the others to Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s camp farther to the south. Again they waited as men were gathered and then given their orders. Redoubt ten was theirs—the one closest to the river—while the French provided both a diversion and attacked redoubt nine.

“You will not load your muskets,” Hamilton informed them. “Bayonets only or you risk shooting each other.”

It was explained that with the south side of the redoubt protected by a steep slope to the river, they would attack from three sides, plowing through whatever fortifications awaited them on those walls of earth while dozens of guns rained balls down on them.

A trickle of sweat maneuvered down Joseph’s spine. How many times could a man cheat death? Tonight others would commence construction of another trench only three-hundred-and-fifty yards from the fortifications surrounding Yorktown. Why could that have not been the task given him?

They positioned themselves, readied their muskets, and then watched as the sun made its slow arch over them until at long last it reached the western horizon.

“Are you ready, men?”

They nodded to their commander.

Joseph touched his hand to the bayonet attached to his musket, making certain it was secure.

“Hard and fast, men,” Hamilton continued. “And I remind you, cold steel only. We must take this redoubt. The French depend on us as greatly as we do on them. If we fail…” His gaze swept over them. “We cannot fail, men.”

Joseph glanced at the glow in the west where the sun had last resided. Darkness was soon upon them. No more waiting.

Continue Your care over my family, Lord. And Hannah. Though he doubted he would ever see her again. Even if by some miracle he survived the night.

A miracle.

Joseph closed his eyes. If he could ask for one miracle, what would it be?

To see my children again.

And my wife.

But God knew what was best. Joseph saw that now. He would trust in the Lord’s plan for him.

My life is Thine.

Joseph watched as Hamilton continued to organize his troops, placing the men with axes, nicknamed miners, at the front. They would need to hack a path through the abatis, sharpened stakes buried into the face of the earth and pointed outwards, making the redoubt resemble a ridiculously large porcupine.

The world eclipsed into darkness.

“All right, men. Let’s go.”

They rose silently from the trenches and followed their commander over the open terrain, but only a short ways before the signal was given to lay down.

Joseph flattened himself to the ground with the others. Spiny grass prickled his face. It was already halfway through October—five months since he’d ridden away from his family to find Hannah. Were they finished with harvest at home? Was there enough food? How difficult would the winter be?

All sat silent in the lines behind them as the first of the stars appeared on the horizon. The world and every man lay braced for the signal to charge. Too much time for introspection, something he’d done with each mile he’d marched. If he did survive this, he needed to go home and be a better father to his children—more like his own pa—spend more time with them. He should spend more time in the Bible, too. He’d probably never know it as well as his Scripture-spouting brother-in-law, but he could pick the book up more than once a week. Maybe he’d…

A cannon boomed behind them. Then a second in quick succession. And a third.

“Rochambeau.” The word muffled along the line, sounding more like “rush ‘em boy” than a French name.

The signal to go.

Joseph lurched to his feet with the other soldiers and sprinted across the open distance to the British and their guns, the only sound the rush of their feet on the ground. Yard over yard they raced against the time they had before the British noticed them.

Then the pop of musket fire began. Men began to drop.

Joseph kept his focus steadfast on the wall of earth and the spikes rising from it. A little farther and they would be there. He pushed harder. Until his feet dropped out from under him. He slammed against rutted dirt out of sight of the redoubt. A fist sized stone dug into his shoulder. Joseph groaned and rolled to his knees, musket still in hand. Pain radiated down his arm. No wonder men were vanishing from sight. Holes big enough to bury an ox littered the area—a gift from their own artillery’s large shells.

Not giving himself time to catch his breath to consider what he raced toward, Joseph scrambled up over the edge and rejoined the attack. The leading wave of miners had just reached the first of the abatis.

The men with axes made quick work of the wood spikes obstructing their path, and the infantry pressed forward. Joseph followed the flow of men through the low trench, over the mound of dirt and into the hornet’s nest of redcoats.

Beside him a man cried out and grabbed his face.

“God, save us.” If not their earthly tabernacles, then their spirits as they returned to Him.

A blur of red spun Joseph back to the battle, and he sliced his bayonet toward a British soldier, catching him in the arm. The man screamed out as he dropped to his knees. Joseph cracked the back of his musket against the side of the redcoat’s head. The man sagged to the ground and another lunged to take his place.

The popping of muskets barely registered above the fray—and the pain searing the side of Joseph’s torso.

A flash of light registered in his brain, and it was difficult to refocus on the scarlet clad soldier yanking his musket from his hands.

His own bayonet slashed towards his head, more like a memory than the reality he faced. Joseph ducked and thrust his shoulder into the man’s gut. Together they fell. Fire tore at the wound in his side, but he seemed detached from even that. They rolled, the air pressed from his lungs. Hate darkened the eyes above him, but this this time Joseph didn’t feel that either. He didn’t hate this British soldier. He wanted only his life. And his freedom. And his family.

Joseph grabbed for his musket and wrested it from the man, shoving him back. They regained their footing about the same time, but now Joseph held the weapon. He could only see terror now in the eyes of the redcoat as he staggered back.

“Please.”

For a moment the world seemed to sigh. The firing had stopped in the immediate area. The redoubt was theirs.

Joseph glanced down at the torn fabric of his coat, soaking up the blood.

A graze.

Keeping his bayonet and empty musket trained on his prisoner, Joseph pressed his hand over the gash in his side and forced his lungs to expand. Perhaps the Lord was not finished with him, after all.