True Lover of Mine
Lady Stirling's supper was much more pleasant than Sarah had dared to hope. The officers were young and dashing, the ladies intent upon bringing some gaiety to the dismal surroundings of the winter encampment. Mistress Biddle and her husband sat across from Sarah, including her in the conversation whenever she suffered an attack of shyness. Even Nancy Brown, who had loaned Sarah the beautiful clothing, went out of her way to be gracious.
Supper was a simple affair: potato soup, corn bread, and cheese, washed down by an ordinary claret. "We cannot dine on roast duck and flummery when the troops are in such dire need," Lady Stirling explained. "General Washington has ordered that we remember the seriousness of our situation, despite the company." She flashed a warm smile at her guests. "We do amuse ourselves with song." She waved toward the parlor. "Gentlemen, ladies, if you please."
One after another, the ladies and officers sang. Each performance received enthusiastic clapping and cheers, regardless of the singer's talent.
"I understand that Mistress Turner has an exceptional voice," Captain Harris said.
"Please," Lady Stirling invited. "We would be delighted to hear you."
Sarah shook her head. "No," she murmured. "I can't."
"There is a song we practiced together once," Forest said, fixing Sarah with a burning gaze. "Do you remember, mistress?" It was called 'A True Lover of Mine.' " He stood and offered his hand, his eyes daring her to accept his challenge.
"It's only fair," Captain Tilghman said with a grin. "You suffered through my offering."
"It's been so long, I've forgotten the words," Sarah lied.
"You'll have to go it alone, Forest," Captain Harris said. "And I know the boys in the company will be sorry to miss it."
Forest shrugged and began the old tune alone. When he reached the first chorus, Captains Tilghman and Harris rose and joined him.
May every rose bloom merry in time,
And then you shall be a true lover of mine.
One by one, deep voices rose and blended as all the men chimed in on the succeeding verses. Sarah's eyes were bright with unshed tears as the words of the sweet ballad filled the room.
The song echoed in Sarah's ears as Forest, Captain Tilghman, and Captain Harris walked her back to Colonel Biddle's quarters. There was no chance for her to speak privately with Forest and she was glad; she was too confused to know what to say to him.
"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Captain Tilghman said when they reached their destination.
"Likewise," Captain Harris assured her. "I return to my company at first light, so we won't meet again. I'll arrange to have an escort meet you and Forest near Wilmington to see you get safely home to the Misakaak. I wish you well, Mistress Turner, even if you are a Tory."
"Thank you," she answered. "I'm eager to return to the Eastern Shore. I have a young son whom I miss very much."
"We leave the day after tomorrow," Forest informed her. "Be sure and dress as warmly as possible. We're going to leave the wagon. We can travel much faster on horseback."
There was a final round of pleasantries, then Sarah left the gentlemen at the door and retreated to her room. Forest had promised he would take her home. She clung to that thought. They'd have a few days, no matter what happened after that.
Quickly, she removed the gown and petticoat, struggling with the corset ties. She'd not wished to call the maid . . . not wished to see or talk to anyone else tonight. She had too much to think about. A linen night robe lay across her bed. She dropped it over her head and crawled beneath the thick quilts, grateful that someone had kept the fire going on the hearth.
I should never have asked Forest to cast aside his duty . . . his honor . . . for me and Joshua, she thought, as she flung herself back against the piled feather pillows. And if he had said yes—if he had left the army and taken me and Joshua away—what then? Would I have thought less of him for it?
Sarah rose in the early dawn and dressed in her own clothing. Taking her basket, she went down the hall to the kitchen. Dorcus was adding salt to a kettle of oat porridge.
"Morning, mistress," the girl said, bobbing a curtsy. "You're up early. Would you like breakfast?"
"Some of that porridge will be fine," Sarah replied.
"No, you don't want this, mistress. This is coarse stuff. It's for the soldiers. Mistress Biddle has me make up some every morning to take to the sick."
Sarah's glance fell on a pair of shoes by the back door. She went over and picked them up and looked at them closely.
"Yes, they be the ones you brought," Dorcus said. "The man you sent them to, Abner Freeman, he died of the belly rot two weeks ago. The soldier asked could he have them, but I didn't want to say yes 'til I asked."
Sarah nodded. "It's all right." She put the shoes back by the door and sat down at the table.
"If you're hungry . . ." Dorcus offered. "I can—"
"No." Sarah shook her head. "Nothing, thank you."
"Lots of dead men at Valley Forge," Dorcus said. "Was this Abner a good friend of yours?"
Sarah shook her head again. "No. I didn't know him at all." She caught the maid's puzzled expression. "I knew his mother," she explained. "She—" Sarah broke off and covered her face with her hands.
"Lots of mothers without sons," Dorcus mumbled. "I just carry food and blankets to the live ones and don't think about the dead."
A tap sounded at the door, and Dorcus went to answer it. The maid stepped back, and a middle-aged man came into the kitchen.
"Sarah Turner?" he asked. "Is that you?"
She looked up in astonishment. "Will Green?"
Martha's husband pulled off his cap. "Is my farm still standin'? What about the old woman and the boy?"
"Right as rain," Sarah declared, giving him a hug.
Will's forehead creased in a frown as he stepped back awkwardly. "You a prisoner, Sarah? If you are, I can speak to my—"
"No. No. I'm not a prisoner. You look good, Will. Martha's been awfully worried about you and the boys. Are they all right?"
"So far as I know. Three is here at Valley Forge, and two is down in Wilmington with Smallwood." Will scratched his head. "You sure you ain't a prisoner, Sarah?"
"No, indeedy," Dorcus put in. "Mistress Turner is a guest of the colonel and his lady. Mistress Turner is a real Patriot. She brought a whole wagon load of meat and grain from her tavern down south."
"Is Abner Freeman really dead?" Sarah asked.
"How do you know Abner?" Will sighed. "He's gone, died in my arms." The grizzled farmer reddened. "I come back t' see if I could get his shoes." He looked down at his patched moccasins. "Damned Pennsylvania troops got so many shoes they're using 'm fer target practice and Maryland boys goes barefoot." Will cleared his throat. "Abner don't have much use fer new shoes now."
"Take them and welcome," Sarah said. "You were his friend. Abner's mother would want you to have them."
"Much obliged."
"Will," Sarah said. "I would be much obliged to you if you'd take me to where the sick men are. I have some medicines here in my basket. If the surgeons have no objection, I would like to be of help."
"Aye, I could do thet," Will agreed. He glanced toward the bubbling pot of porridge. "I could help to carry those vittles, too."
Sarah smiled at the maid. "Dorcus and I were just about to have a bowl of that porridge. Would you join us?"
"I already et."
"I mighta put too much salt or honey in," Dorcus said. " 'Twould be a favor if you'd give us your opinion."
"Since ye put it thet way," Will said, "I maybe could have a little bit." He laid aside his hat and took a seat on the bench. "I'd not want to take from the sick," he warned them.
"No need to worry," Dorcus assured him. "I made a double batch this mornin'."
Later, when Will Green had finished his third bowl of oat porridge and wiped the bowl clean with a slab of bread, the women followed him out into the rain.
"Nasty weather," he said, as he led the way toward the sick tents. "Serve old devil Howe right if he was freezin' his arse off out here in these Pennsylvania woods and we was toastin' our toes in Philadelphia."
Sarah pulled the hood of her cloak up to shield her face from the blowing rain. Will had asked about Obediah. "Haven't heard a thing," she'd answered, which wasn't really a lie. Sooner or later, the truth would come out, but how it would come out was still a puzzle to her. Roman Clough still had to be reckoned with, and short of shooting him and his woman, she hadn't thought of any way to keep them quiet.
One thing at a time, she decided, as she picked her way through the frozen slush. Today, she'd try to do what she could for these poor men. Rebels or not, they were all Americans and deserving of more than a wet grave at Valley Forge. She had a good remedy for the belly rot in her basket. She only wished they'd come in time to do something for Abner Freeman.
A dozen mounted men rode out of Washington's winter encampment with Sarah and Forest, heading southwest to circle around the Hessian patrols. Mistress Biddle had provided Sarah with a sidesaddle for the roan mare and enough provisions to last until they reached Smallwood's camp. Forest had traded his captain's uniform for a buckskin shirt and breeches, retaining only the black wool cocked hat with its jaunty red cockade.
They pushed the horses hard, riding through hilly woodland, keeping far from the roads. At noon, they stopped long enough to water the animals at a fast-running, icy stream and then they mounted again and continued on.
By mid-afternoon Sarah's muscles ached, and she reeled with weariness. Noticing her pallor, Forest reined the dapple-gray close and lifted her up before him.
"No," she protested. "There's no need. I can keep up."
"Shhh," he said soothingly. "The dapple-gray can carry two. He's not even sweating. If you fall from the mare and hurt yourself, you'll be of no use to any of us." He looped the roan's reins around a ring in his saddle and urged the horses into a hard trot.
Sarah forced herself to sit upright, but gradually she leaned against him. Her eyes closed of their own accord and she slept.
When she awoke again, the moon was high. Her legs and feet were so cold she couldn't feel them. "Where are—" she began, but her words were cut off as Forest clamped a hand over her mouth.
"Hush," he whispered into her ear. "The road below." He took his hand away.
From somewhere not far off she heard the rumble of hoofbeats. There were shots, and the mare snorted and reared against the reins. The dapple-gray stood like a rock as silence descended over the thick woods.
"Come on!" called a voice Sarah recognized as belonging to one of the Patriots. "We got the both of them."
Cautiously, Forest guided the horses down a wooded slope to a road where two figures lay sprawled on the frozen ground, dark splotches staining their coats.
Sarah gasped and turned her head away.
"British dispatch riders," a horseman said from the darkness.
Men dismounted and began to drag the bodies into the woods. A few minutes later and they were back, their arms full. "We took their boots and their clothes," a soldier explained. "They've not much need of them in hell."
The stars in the night sky were as bright as diamonds; by moonlight you could see the horses' breath. Sarah shivered.
"Are you cold?" Forest asked. His arm was around her, holding her securely against him, as he had held her these many hours.
"This place smells of death," she whispered. "I don't—" She started, barely holding back a cry of fear, as a great horned owl spread his wings and flapped silently over their heads.
Suddenly, there were flashes of light and the roar of muskets from the woods across the road. The roan mare screamed and fell backward. The reins cut into Sarah's leg and then snapped as the dapple-gray set his legs to keep from falling.
Men were tumbling around them. Rifles fired and people cried out. Forest dug his heels into the dapple-gray, and immediately he and Sarah began to gallop headlong down the frost-covered road.
Someone was in pursuit, but she couldn't tell if it was friend or foe. Branches slashed her face as Forest reined the dapple-gray off the road and downhill into a stand of cedars.
"Quiet," he warned. He swung down from the saddle and took the horse's head, leading him through the trees.
Sarah leaned low over the animal's neck, shutting her eyes and pressing her face against his thick mane. Behind them came the telltale snap of branches that confirmed her suspicion that they were being followed.
The cedars thinned, and she could make out an open meadow in the moonlight, and in the distance, a great stone barn.
Forest cursed beneath his breath. His hands closed around her waist, and he lifted her down from the saddle. "Shhh," he cautioned again. "Crouch down behind that tree."
Sarah caught the glint of metal as Forest braced the musket across the saddle. Something in the way he was moving wasn't right. "Are you hurt?" she whispered. Had he been hit by a bullet?
"No."
"What's wrong?"
"Be still, woman."
A horse snorted nearby, and the dapple-gray pricked up his ears. Forest tensed.
The sharp nasal cry of a nighthawk cut the air. "Peeent! Peeent!"
Forest lowered the musket and repeated the same call.
"Captain Irons?"
"Thompson?"
"Aye, sir, it's me." Branches rustled. "Where are you?"
"Here," Forest answered. He turned toward Sarah. "It's all right. He's one of ours."
The silhouette of a man and a horse appeared through the trees. "Don't blow my head off, Captain. Damn, but yer a hard one to follow, and thet horse o' yers carryin' double." He led his horse closer. "Is the lady all right?"
"The lady's fine," Sarah replied, "but those nighthawks are going to freeze their feathers off. Since when do you find them in Pennsylvania in the winter?"
There was a low chuckle from the soldier.
"Didn't figure the British would know that," he said. "Yer bird did sound a little sickly, Captain. Maybe the lady could do a better imitation."
They mounted again and crossed the meadow, circling beyond the barn and into the woods. Sometime in the night, Sarah slept once more, cradled in Forest's arms, lulled by the hoofbeats of the big dapple-gray.
The next three days blurred into a pattern of riding, walking, and sleeping. Hunger and thirst haunted Sarah, every muscle in her body screamed with pain, but still they kept moving. South . . . west . . . east . . . she lost all sense of direction. Somewhere along the way, she wasn't sure just when, the man Thompson was gone and three men in hunting shirts had taken his place.
She thought she remembered a campfire and someone shoving a bowl of hot soup into her hands, but that all blurred together with the dream of Forest carrying her in his arms . . . a real bed . . . and being warm . . . really warm.
"I love you, Forest," she murmured sleepily. "I'll never leave you."
He laughed and kissed her . . . or did he? Sarah didn't care. She burrowed into the dream feather tick of her dream bed and slept for twenty-six hours without stirring.
Sarah opened her eyes to the sound of singing. She blinked and tried to gather her wits. Someone . . . no, not someone, a group of people were singing a hymn. She sat bolt upright and stared into Forest's face. "Have I died and gone to heaven?" she asked.
"I'm here, so there's not much chance of that, is there?" he answered with a straight face.
She rubbed her eyes and looked around the room. The steep roof overhead, the plaster walls, and the low ceiling told her she was upstairs in a house. The room was small, containing the narrow bed, a chest, and a single chair. There was no fireplace, but a brick chimney nearly filled one wall. "Where are we?"
"A little south of New Castle, not far from the Delaware River."
"What's that singing?"
"This is a rectory. The church is just next door."
"How did I get here?"
"The clergyman is a friend of the cause. You were worn to the bone. I thought it best we stop here until you regained your strength."
"Oh." Sarah smoothed her tangled hair. "I don't suppose there's anything to eat?"
He grinned. "I think we can find something. Did you mean what you said when I carried you up here?"
"What I said about what?"
"That you'd never leave me."
She looked down shyly at the embroidered spread. "I said that?"
He nodded.
"I must have been delirious."
"That's no excuse, woman. I have a witness— the good father."
She blushed. "I said that in front of a priest?"
"And his housekeeper." Forest leaned down and kissed her gently. "I've waited long enough to hear those words. I'm not likely to let you off now." His breath was warm and sweet on her face.
Sarah brushed his fresh-shaven cheek with the tip of her finger. "You're pale . . . " she began. "You weren't shot, were you? When we—"
"No." He shook his head. " 'Twas the old knife wound. The riding aggravated it."
"Did you bleed?"
"A little." He stood up. "It's healing." A shadow crossed his face. "I'm a soldier, Sarah. I can't always put you first, no matter how I want to."
"I know that," she murmured.
"I made promises long before I met you."
It was her turn to nod. "I see that now, but if I cannot turn you from this rebellion, I can join you."
His voice turned to gravel. "You mean that, Sarah?"
"I've said it, haven't I?" She swallowed and stared wide-eyed up into his face. "It wasn't any big decision for me, Forest. There wasn't any bolt of lightning. I didn't wake up one morning and decide I was going to become a rebel." She broke off hesitantly, trying to find the right words to explain. "It just happened . . . a little at a time. I don't think I realized it until this minute . . . but it feels right inside. This struggle for freedom is part of you, and I want to share it."
"Just for me?"
She shook her head. "For me and Joshua as well."
He knelt beside her on the bed and took her into his arms. "Sarah," he whispered. "Sarah."
Their lips met, and the intensity of his kiss set her head to spinning. At last she broke away, breathless. "No more," she begged. "No more, or we shall commit a grievous sin in the rector's bed."
"Aye, my little rebel," he agreed. "For you're mighty fetching lying there with your hair all around your shoulders." He bent and brushed a feather-light kiss against her throat.
"Stop," she cried, drawing the coverlet up around her neck. "You take unfair advantage."
Forest grinned. "I take the advantage wherever I can get it with you, Sarah, lest I lose every battle." He turned toward the door. "We'll be off for home in the morning if you feel up to it. The dapple-gray is rested, and I imagine that boy of yours is lonesome for the sight of you."
"Give me something to eat, and I'll be ready to ride in an hour," she promised. "My heart aches for the sight and touch of him. Joshua and I have never been so long apart."
"Good enough," he agreed. "We'll ride first to the inn and see what mischief Isaac's been up to, if any. I learned why he never followed us that day."
She raised her eyebrows questioningly.
"He tangled with the Kent County militia. They killed eight of his men. Like as not, he thought they got the other two as well."
"That's why he never came for us then," Sarah said. "I worried myself half out of my mind for nothing."
"Not for nothing, sweet," Forest replied. "We've not seen the last of Isaac, or he of us. I've orders to find his camp and lead the Delaware boys there to destroy it." He fixed her with a hard gaze. "He is your husband's brother, be he devil or not. I'll not ask you to be part of this."
But I am a part of it, Sarah thought, as Forest closed the door behind him. Whether I like it or not, I am very much a part of what happens to Isaac.
Sarah saw the smoke of White Oaks when they were still several miles away. "It's Martha's farm!" she cried. "There! See it?"
Black columns billowed into the sky, evidence of a fire too hot to be the burning of a clearing. "Are you certain of the direction?" Forest asked.
"It's White Oaks, I know it is!"
"There's no one there but your friend and her son? God help them." Forest urged the dapple-gray into a gallop.
Sarah clung to the horse's mane, her heart pounding. A question rose to her lips, but it was too terrible to utter. If the raiders had struck White Oaks in broad daylight, had they left anyone alive to tell the tale?
As they rounded the last bend, Sarah's hopes fell. The house and barn were smoking ashes. The carcasses of Johnny's pups lay still in the yard. Nothing else moved.
Forest reined in the horse, and Sarah scrambled off. The thick, acrid smoke brought tears to her eyes and made it hard to breathe. "Martha!" she shouted. "Martha! Johnny!"
"Take care!" Forest cautioned as she ran toward the smoldering remains of the house.
"Martha!" Sarah cried again. But the only movement was the shadow of a circling buzzard in the sky.