September 15-24, 1777
The pattering on the cabin roof had diminished into irregular rhythms, the rain now nothing more than residual dripping from the leaves. Birdsong filled the silence, and light brightened the oilcloth window coverings.
Peter clasped her so tightly she feared she would suffocate. His heart hammered against her breast, his breath labored, his body trembling. “Please!” His voice was ragged, as if with pain. “Stay with me.”
Anne pressed her hands against his chest, struggling with her own resolve to thrust him away. “I must find him! I need to find my father.”
“I won’t let you go.” His lips brushed her cheek.
“Then come with me.”
“But you can’t go, miss,” the messenger’s voice filtered through the chaos of her thoughts.
Anne extricated herself from Peter’s arms, the letter from Major Ellerdine still clenched in her fist. How she wished she could remain wrapped in his embrace, safe and warm and protected. But he made no effort to recapture her, his mouth set in a taut, unforgiving line, his blue eyes smoldering. Hugging herself to ward off the sudden chill, she turned to the sandy haired man dressed in a linsey-woolsey hunting shirt and buckskin breeches.
Zacky shifted from foot to foot, his eyes lowered, as if embarrassed by the sight of her rain-drenched clothes clinging to her body like second skin. Standing beside him, Peter’s oldest friend, Rene LeClair regarded her with dark, knowing eyes.
“It ain’t safe to travel. For no one.” Zacky transferred his uneasiness to the floppy round hat in his hands. “Enemy soldiers and heathen Injuns…they’re all over the roads and in the woods. Just the other day a swarm of ’em passed by south of here. Heading east, they was. Foraging. No telling when they’ll be back this way.”
She retrieved the blanket from the floor at her feet and wrapped it around her shoulders. Still she shivered, but only partly from cold.
Her father was in New York City. He had braved a sea crossing to find her…his ungrateful daughter. There it was, proclaimed by the words Major Ellerdine had penned, her chance for redemption. Hope had been dangled before her like forbidden fruit, so enticing and—beyond all imagining—well within her reach. And in the very next moment, before her mind could begin to grasp its consequences, the hope was snatched away by threats of the ever approaching war.
“I have taken no side in this conflict.” Her own voice sounded strange to her, calm and steady despite the dryness in her mouth, the constricting of her throat. She opened Ellerdine’s crumpled note and considered the words once more.
Honourable Lady Anne,
Pray, overlook my Presumption in Writing unbidden if such Communication might compromise Your Ladyship’s situation in any way. It is my only wish to share in your Rejoicing over the happy Tidings revealed in the Broadside advertisement, which, no doubt, Your Ladyship has read by now.
Allow me most humbly to extend my deepest gratitude in being able to assist in so noble a cause as the happy reunion of Father and Child. I have the utmost faith that you will soon be together with His Lordship in New-York, and that your Travails will be at an end. Please convey my fondest Good Wishes to His Lordship and to Lady Sophie upon your return to England.
I am your most humble servant, Major Michael Ellerdine, 9th Regiment of Foot
“General Burgoyne is not a monster,” she said, folding the note along its original score lines. “I will appeal to him for aid if I must.”
Peter made a dismissive sound, like an animal growl. “And how do you expect to make your way back up to Fort Edward? You can’t honestly think one of us would be foolhardy enough to give you escort. We might as well just kill ourselves here and now and get it over.” He stomped to the window. There he placed a hand on either side of the frame, and leaned heavily, his back to the room. “I, for one, cannot risk it.”
“I’ll go alone if I must.”
“No one’s safe on the roads, miss.”
“Don’t try to reason with her, Zacky,” Peter said without turning. “She’s as pigheaded as the day is long.”
Perhaps she was pigheaded. Perhaps she was foolish as well to think she would make her way to New York and, once there, find her father. But those blissful days with Peter, following years of suffering and separation, had provided her with a glimpse into a future she would never have believed possible. Until now. For four years, she believed herself undeserving of happiness. Due to her own indiscretions, she had believed Peter dead, and then, against all logic and expectation, in a wild and foreign land about to explode into war, she found him again.
How cruel of Fate to issue such a directive. To force her to risk everything she had ever wanted and needed for the chance that somehow she would find forgiveness.
Foolish as it was, she had already made her choice. There could be no other way. The aching in her heart and soul told her that the glimpse of her future with Peter provided no assurance that such contentment could ever truly be hers. Her conscience would never abide it. Filled with demon dreams, not even sleep would allow it, not until she atoned for the grief she had caused. For promises not kept. For her cousin Emma’s death. For Peter’s anger. For her own stubborn willfulness. Not until she had knelt before her father and received his forgiveness…and his blessing, would she be worthy. Only then would she be absolved of the guilt that tormented her. Only then would she be free.
“There is only one sensible solution,” LeClair spoke softly, his almond-shaped eyes leveled on her as he strode past Zacky. “You must come with us to camp. Wait until this present conflict is resolved…one way or another.”
“By then it will be too late!”
“And she will bear the blame for that!” Peter pushed himself from the wall and turned to her. “Have you considered that it might already be too late? Have you not thought that he might have given up by now and gone back to England? Maybe, after all these months of searching for you, he’s concluded that you don’t want be found.”
She bristled at his patronizing tone. “That I intend to discover for myself!”
LeClair laid a hand on her shoulder. “No one will fault you for doing what must be done. You risk your life otherwise.”
“He’s right, miss.” Zacky nodded at her. “You won’t find him if you’re dead.”
“But there is a reward!” She whirled around to confront Zacky. “My father is very rich. I’m sure he will….”
“If you find him.” Peter spun her back to him, his face tense. “That is, if you succeed in making your way to New York with your scalp intact. If you aren’t raped or killed—or both—along the way.” He snatched the note from her and squashed it in his hand, then hurled it into the hearth. “It’s madness,” he said tightly under his breath as he laid his hands on her shoulders.
She tossed off his hands. “Don’t talk to me of madness! Unless you think it’s perfectly sane to risk getting yourself shot…or hanged as a spy.”
Peter grabbed her hand and pressed then kissed it. “No chance of that, my sweet.” With a wry grin, he cast a glance at LeClair. “I have been favored with a guardian angel. Besides, I’d be risking my neck as a deserter to go with you. Then you’d have that on your conscience as well.” He chucked her under the chin. “Why can’t you be reasonable?”
“Come with us,” LeClair spoke softly. “There we will make plans. We will find a way.”
The conviction in LeClair’s voice and the steady, forthright way in which he stared into her eyes calmed her racing thoughts. Patience had never been one of her virtues. At the very least, she could force herself to be sensible. Hard as it was to admit, all of them had spoken the truth. She would miss their little squatter’s cabin in the woods, where briefly she tasted a bit of happiness. She turned fully to Peter and forced a smile. “Then I will go with you, Captain Marlowe and I will stay as long as I must.”
“How very reasonable of you.” Peter smiled and took her into his arms.
She nuzzled against his shoulder and breathed a sigh. “I love you, Peter. You know I do. But you must know that I am bound to go…with or without you. Or else I will go mad.”
LeClair ushered Zacky toward the open door. “We should be on our way. Night comes early.”
* * *
Five days after their arrival at the American camp, LeClair delivered to her a note from Major McKenna, informing Anne that the farm had been spared by British and Hessian soldiers retreating from Bennington, and everyone at the homestead was safe. Caroline and Lucius were married in Albany on August 23, Seth was taken prisoner in a skirmish south of Fort Edward, and Archibald had joined up with the local militia. He also enclosed a paper releasing her from her indenture. With that out of the way, Peter approached the regimental chaplain with a request for a wedding.
The next day, the chaplain announced that, despite his schedule, he had found the time to perform an abbreviated wedding ceremony that very evening. “Be prepared with your witnesses,” he had said, “just after the drums sound retreat.”
There had been little time to prepare. She had nothing appropriate to wear, and the strain that continued to hang over the American camp in the wake of a hard-fought battle provided little opportunity to address that problem. Tension mounted daily, as two armies remained entrenched in their positions, trading insults, sporadic fire, and skirmished daily. A second battle loomed. Perhaps within a day or within the hour.
Colonel Hendrick’s wife had become an instant friend. An old veteran’s wife, she and her daughter had joined her husband from their Albany home when General Arnold’s regiment, straight from their victory at Fort Stanwix, joined the main northern forces on the heights. Anne found herself in the older woman’s company for hours on end while the men drilled and performed their soldierly duties. Lavinia—for that was the name she preferred to ‘Mrs. Hendrick’—showed her where to draw the cleanest water, and introduced her to the domestic aspects of life as a soldier’s woman. Together with her daughter, whose young husband had been killed at Quebec in ’75, they cooked, gathered wood for the fires, and washed and mended the men’s clothes. At the height of battle they helped the surgeon and his mates in the hospital. And in the hours before the chaplain’s arrival, the older woman found some old but serviceable garments in her trunk. With a few stitches here and there, she’d said, Anne would be a perfect example of the new American bride.
As the hour approached, Anne paced inside the colonel’s marquee tent tearing petals from her tiny bouquet of white wood asters and yellow bur marigolds while Lavinia and Martha chased her back and forth, one attempting to lace up Anne’s stays while the mother removed the last of the brass pins from the waist of her overskirt.
“Stand still!” Lavinia urged, pins protruding pointed ends out from her mouth. “You wouldn’t want to be stuck by one of these.”
“What can be keeping him?” Hard as it was to admit, all of them had spoken the truth. Anne stopped pacing and shredding and parted the tent’s door flaps to peek outside, scanning the lanes between rows and rows of soldiers’ tents. The officers in Peter’s regiment had been summoned earlier in the day to General Arnold’s headquarters. After about an hour, Colonel Hendrick and his staff returned. But without Peter. Afternoon wore on, and still there was no word from him. Throughout the day, intermittent musket fire rattled the woods surrounding Freeman’s farm. Volleys of shot had become as commonplace as bird song. She hardly flinched anymore.
“I’m certain the general won’t detain him much longer. He knows your man is to be married this night. But it seems there was much to discuss….” Lavinia retrieved the needle ball at the end of her scissors clip and stuck the pins into it. “…what with all the dissension between him and General Gates. Hendrick said all the officers were in an uproar when they heard that General Arnold requested a pass to Philadelphia. Where will that leave us?” On her knees, she examined the hem of the faded blue linen skirt and found a few more pins. “And the British so close, one can smell their latrines.”
“I saw your handsome captain walking with General Arnold and Colonel Varick. I was on my way to Mrs. Dugan’s for the fichu.” Martha tugged on the laces, nearly causing Anne to fall over. “How long ago was that, Mama?”
Anne wriggled to loosen the stays. The memory of being stifled by an over-zealous maid servant brought a bitter smile to her lips. Once she had been Lady Anne Darvey, the only child of the Marquess of Esterleigh, last in a line of an old and titled family. She had dressed in the finest French embroidered silks in the latest fashion. Her father had spared no expense to have her present herself in a manner befitting her station. And now she would be the perfect example of the ‘new American bride.’ Married in homespun linen dyed a faded blueberry blue, with a fichu of old but fine white muslin covering her shoulders and chest.
“Mrs. Dugan!” Lavinia huffed, holding up the blue and white striped jacket for Anne to slip on. “I will not be one to disparage her marital state, but as a sutler, she has more interest in flirtations with the men who drink her grog than in providing essentials. And everything else in such short supply!” She smoothed the back of the garment and moved around to the front. “One moment, dear, while I fix this.” She straightened the ruffles at the elbows. “Martha, fetch the scarf. What a surprise to find something so fine among her wares.” Lavinia arranged the bodice so that it framed Anne’s torso in its neat conical shape, and began gently fastening the ties down the front. “A few months more and you’ll need to let this out again.”
Anne chose not respond. She had told no one about the baby, but Lavinia sensed her condition right from the first. While it took some explaining as to why she had yet to tell Peter, Lavinia kept her observation to herself. When the sickness nearly incapacitated her on the morning after the battle, the good woman explained to all present that anyone would react in the selfsame way to the sight of so much blood and gore.
“There!” The older woman adjusted the fichu over Anne’s shoulders and tucked in the edges around the low-cut neck line. “You look beautiful. Isn’t she lovely, Martha?”
“It is a perfect fit.” Martha nodded as she held up a small mirror glass, but alerted by the stirring outside the tent, Anne tore past her to the door of the tent without a glance at her reflection.
Heart racing as the movement outside heightened into an all-out commotion, Anne stayed her hand. Men shouted, their words melding into a jumble of excited sound. Martha poked her head outside and when she turned back, her smile told Anne that the moment had arrived.
Anne whirled around to Lavinia, then spun again to the door. She ran her fingers through her hair, still damp from a thorough washing earlier in the day and hanging wild and loose over her shoulders. “What shall I do about this?”
Lavinia pursed her lips as if to consider a quick and simple solution. “There’s no time. Here….” She rifled through her trunk, and emerged waving a white linen cap with a ribbon embroidered with forget-me-nots around the edges. “The blue is not a perfect match, but it will do.” As she arranged the cap on Anne’s head, the clamor from without rose in pitch and fervor.
“They’re calling for the bride.” Martha’s smile brought a glow to her plain face. “And he’s brought horses!”
“Horses?” Lavinia spread Anne’s hair over her shoulders and back.
Anne hardly made sense of the two women’s exchange. Her heart raced in anticipation of a long awaited moment, as Martha threw open the door.
The knot of men standing in the clearing around the campfire all turned and the silence buzzed in her ears. Flanked by Lavinia and Martha, Anne stepped out of the tent. But she saw nothing, heard nothing. Nothing existed except Peter. Standing with the chaplain, he looked up at her, his neatly queued hair sparkling like spun gold in the glow of the setting sun, his eyes as clear and blue as the autumn sky. How handsome he was in his blue coat and buff breeches. How her heart strained at the sight of him—his eyes, his mouth, his hand extended toward her. His smile touched her heart with its warmth, with the awe and wonder that transformed his features, as if he beheld her for the first time. Could it be possible, she wondered, that his joy could eclipse hers?
For eight years—from the time she was sixteen—Anne dreamed of this moment. How odd that she’d be married to Peter in an army encampment with the open sky as their chapel, the sounds of guns and drums in the distance, and the sulfurous smell of black powder smoke drifting over the fields.
* * *
The ceremony was short and without fanfare. With men from the regiment as witnesses, they exchanged vows. As if in a waking dream, she swore to have and to hold him, to love and obey him in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, till parted by death. Conscious of nothing but Peter’s adoring gaze, transfixed by his closeness, she repeated the chaplain’s words. Then Peter slipped the thin gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand—the ring he had fashioned at the forge from a Spanish half escudo. And when he kissed her, she reveled in the feel of his lips, so soft, so tenderly brushing hers, so sweet. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to his mouth and his arms pressing her close, and the feel of him. The men cried their huzzahs and applauded, but they seemed far away. Peter’s kisses beguiled her senses. The feel of him rendered her oblivious to all but him.
* * *
Night fell without warning, bringing a damp chill to the air. In the light and warmth of the fire burning high and hot, men and women of Colonel Hendrick’s regiment continued their subdued revelry, some sitting on stumps and rocks, others standing around the circle. Some danced. As they finished the last of their allotted rum, the fiddler segued from rousing songs, such as “Ballynamonyhe” and “The Liberty Song,” into a ballad of sweet sadness. Martha lent her dulcet alto to the tune and a somber silence descended over the gathering.
O fare thee well, my little turtle dove,
And fare thee well for a-while;
But though I go I'll surely come again,
If I go ten thousand mile, my dear,
If I go ten thousand mile.
Sitting between Peter’s drawn up knees, Anne nestled against his chest. He planted a lingering kiss on the top of her head, his arms draped around her shoulders.
The hills shall fly, my little turtle dove,
The roaring billows burn,
Before my heart shall suffer me to fail,
Or I a traitor turn, my dear,
Or I a traitor turn.
“Come inside,” he whispered into her hair. “I have something to tell you.”
* * *
Accompanied by whistling and huzzahs, Peter carried his bride through the open door flaps of his tent. Just before entering, he kissed her—a long, hungry, searching kiss—eliciting another round of cheers from the men. As she responded just as urgently, his mouth curved into a smile. “Wait, my love…my wife.”
He set her down in the dappled light of the hanging pierced lantern, and raised a hand to the men before securing the closure. Then he turned and gazed at her with wonder and longing, a mischievous half-smile on his lips. She slipped her arms around his waist and aligned herself along his tall frame.
“Well, husband.” Her voice, a husky whisper, barely competed with the resumption of the song outside. “How much longer must I wait?”
He lowered his head and brushed her mouth with his. “I assumed you’d be bursting with questions.”
“I have but one….” She found his mouth with hers.
“Why so impatient?” Taking a step back, he tipped up her chin with his forefinger.
She blinked at him in confusion. “It is our wedding night!”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious about the horses?”
“Horses…?” Surely he was out of his mind to talk of horses at that particular moment.
“Two of them…of the six we took the other day from those Hessian defectors.” His smile nearly brightened the room. “They nickered through the best parts of the ceremony. How could you not notice? ”
She shrugged. “I was aware of no horses.”
“I had Martin Robichaud take them down to the creek for the night. He’s to have them saddled and ready in the morning.”
No, she could not have heard him correctly. “Where are you going?”
“LeClair has already gone ahead. He’ll be waiting tomorrow night at the Little Black Dog on the Albany Road.”
“What are you saying?”
“We are going to New York.”
“We’re going to New York?”
“Yes, Mrs. Marlowe. I am accompanying you to New York.”
A moment passed before she dared speak. “To find my father?” Surely she had misunderstood him. Had he not said he would see her dead before he’d have dealings with Lord Esterleigh?
“If that is what you must do….” He turned from her and strode to the small folding table against the far wall of the tent.
“But what about…?”
“I’m finished here.”
“You’ve resigned your commission?”
He glanced up with smile. “Crowley’s been promoted to lieutenant.”
The table was strewn with documents, writing implements and maps. He plucked a small packet of papers tied in a black ribbon from the clutter and withdrew a folded document, which he offered to her. “This letter ensures safe passage to New York for Mrs. Peter Marlowe. Signed by Granny Gates, himself.”
She took it from him, her fingers trembling with agitation. She didn’t read it, her incredulous stare fixed on his face.
“And this one….” He flipped a second document through his fingers like one about to perform a feat of sleight of hand. “…is for me.” He snatched the paper from her and refolded his and hers together with the others.
“I don’t understand.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am, but it’s so unexpected. I don’t know what to say or—”
“Consider it a wedding gift.”
“Oh, Peter….” She hurled herself into his arms and kissed him, then turned her face away. “But your commission isn’t up until spring.”
“A lot has changed these last few days.”
Never did she question Peter’s resolve. He was a soldier. Of that, he constantly reminded her. He believed passionately in ‘the Cause.’ He had put his life on the line for his cause. That much had not changed. In spite of the discord between Generals Gates and Arnold, and the tension that had descended over the camp causing the men to grumble, Peter maintained his patriotic fervor. The Americans now outnumbered their British counterparts nearly three to one, he had told her. Deserters found their way to the American side on a daily basis. Rumor had it that the British general Burgoyne had grown desperate for reinforcements and supplies, neither of which appeared to be forthcoming. The only change was in the tide of war. A British defeat would do much to bolster morale. Hardly the sort of change that would send an ardent patriot running to British-held New York.
“What happened to all that talk of yours about freedom from tyranny and oppression?” She fought to control her mounting incredulity. “Those are your men out there. They depend on you. What of those who bled and died?”
“I said I’m done here, and that’s the truth. My men understand. I received a letter from General Schuyler today…through General Arnold. He has a friend in New York. In the shipping trade. He’s arranged a meeting between us.”
He barely made sense. Why would General Schuyler have a friend in New York when all patriots in that British-occupied town were either in hiding or in prison? Everyone knew this. “What do you know of the shipping trade?” A hint of suspicion crept into her voice. His so-called ‘scouting’ expeditions had taught her to be wary of half-truths.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” he smiled the bright, honest smile that never failed to make her heart flutter, “but I’m willing to learn. It could prove to be an opportunity for us.”
Anne studied the earnestness in his expression and grazed his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “What happened to your plans for the Ohio Territory?”
“I haven’t forgotten.” He took her hand in his two. “But wouldn’t you prefer city life, in a civilized town like New York? I’ve been thinking about this for some time. Imagine…you’ll wear fine clothes and live in a brick house with a parlor and upstairs bedrooms. We’ll have it painted yellow with green shutters, and you’ll have someone to cook and clean and mend for you…and hot water for a bath whenever you want.”
A part of her melted at the suggestion. The mere thought of a solid roof over her head and real floors under foot was far too tempting. The Ohio Territory was said to be a wild and hostile place, where even the rustic comforts she had enjoyed on the McKenna farm would seem extravagant in comparison.
“It matters to me not where we go. Wherever you are, that is my home.”
He raised her hand to his lips. “Then it’s decided.” He peered over her hand, his blue eyes dancing with mystery and mischief. “New York it will be, but I must warn you. It will be a long and dangerous journey.”