38

Roxanna stood to one side of the large tent, its canvas sides rolled up so that it had become an awning. Across from her, Liam was in full dress uniform flanked by his senior officers, Millicent equally resplendent in scarlet silk. All had spyglasses, intent on the action in the valley below. The sun struck the steaming ground with such brilliance Roxanna squinted as she looked south, wondering where Cass was among men no bigger than matchsticks in the distance. Not a shot sounded as the fog rolled back—and then suddenly the air was rent with cannon fire from the British and then the Continentals.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Liam’s expression shift from smug to startled before giving way to blatant disbelief. He adjusted the spyglass as if doubting his view. “An admirable start, turning our cannons on us,” he said slowly, jaw tense. “I suppose we’ll let them have a bit of sport first before we mow them down and continue south to the settlements.”

Leaning against a tent pole, Roxanna looked to the entrance. An Indian ducked inside, so tall he seemed to block the sun, his bare skin painted a hideous black. He fixed a dark eye on Roxanna before joining Liam at the front of the tent. A second Indian followed. Shawnee allies? She turned away, a chill spilling over her as she made a quick tally of the guard posted outside. Eight British regulars surrounded the tent, ready to intervene if she so much as thought of fleeing. And oh, she’d thought of little else since coming here.

She sensed Liam and his second-in-command would soon slip away and join the battle below, perhaps take some of the guard with them. That hope kept her from dissolving completely.

Minutes passed, and she felt her composure crumbling bit by bit. She was tired . . . hungry . . . weak. She’d not had a bath in days and could feel vermin making tiny trails over her scalp, perhaps from the infested bedding she’d been given. All the prayers she’d said, poured out of a weeping, anguished heart, now seemed like ashes as evil held sway all around her.

She couldn’t stand the smug satisfaction on Liam’s face or the boredom on Millicent’s or the detached arrogance on the senior officers’. Images of war began colliding in her mind—the acrid stench of gunpowder, the scarlet shimmer of too many Redcoats, the heavy sweating and grunting of men taxed to their physical and mental limits. A line of perspiration trickled from her brow to her chin. Cocooned on this bluff, she was far from the thick of battle, but she seemed to sense Cass’s distress, wherever he was, and it seeped into her very soul, weighting her like lead.

Oh, Lord, please help him . . . help all his men.

“Feeling neglected, Miss Rowan? Here, have a look.” Liam thrust a spyglass at her, but she refused it, cowed by the sudden flash of anger in his eyes. “Your beloved is down there in case you’re wondering—”

“I’m well aware of it.” Her wavering voice strengthened and snapped. “Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I?” He regarded her with amusement, contempt scrawled in every hard line of his face. “As commander, I have countless men to fight in my stead.”

“Commander?” The venom in her voice turned every head in the tent. “You’re not a commander—you’re naught but a coward.”

Their eyes locked—his so like Abby’s yet hard as iron. She took a step back, but not before his hand shot out and struck her, his signet ring cutting her lip. Blood ran into her mouth and down her chin, and she nearly fell from the force of the blow. No man had ever hit her. The shame and shock of it started her crying, and she sank down hard atop the nearest keg, fumbling for the handkerchief she didn’t have.

She was acutely conscious of Liam looming over her, as if debating how to be rid of her, when one of the Shawnee shadowed him, returning his attention to the field. When Liam turned away, she felt a piece of cloth settle in her palm. She brought the soft square of linen to her bloodied lip, as surprised by the Indian’s gesture as Liam’s savagery.

But this, she realized, was no ordinary Indian. Her eyes clung to him, trying to make sense of his familiarity. His shaved head and paint-smeared features continued to confound her—till she caught sight of his headdress. Five Feathers? As if aware of her scrutiny, his dark eyes slid her way again, and he pulled something from his beaded belt.

Papa’s watch.

Was he mocking her? Or communicating something more? He turned away, and she shifted her attention to the valley beyond, drawn by the surprise and consternation on Millicent’s face. Liam’s expression was more veiled, betraying little but mild irritation. Fresh alarm knotted her insides. What was happening out there?

“I told Tarrington to hold the line no matter what,” Liam muttered, shifting the spyglass to his other eye.

The gunfire was steady now, occasionally punctuated by the boom of mortars and cannon. Smoke billowed above a melee of fighting men, each side taking and then giving up hard-won ground.

“There are . . . so many.” Millicent’s voice was like a whisper, but every ear heard, all eyes fastened on the Continental line and the glut of men behind it. Swells of the blue uniforms of the French and the darker indigo of the rebels seemed to ride like a wave over the scarlet and white. And then, within moments, a red tide surged back over Cass’s Continentals till the line of Patriots seemed ground to dust.

Suddenly other officers were pouring beneath the awning now—jubilant and tense and talking all at once—and Roxanna felt all the breath go out of her. The Continental line had broken . . . the Bluecoats were in retreat . . . victory was at hand. Her mind was reeling in such confusion she backed up into a tent corner, lip swollen and still bleeding, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her. Even without a spyglass, she’d seen how many men had fallen. They lay like toy soldiers knocked to the ground—British entwined with Americans in a horrific spectacle of death.

Oh, Cass, where are you?

Liam was smiling coldly, and Millicent’s fan was fluttering like a bird’s wings against the rising heat. The guard had gathered to observe the action, muskets lax. They turned their backs to her and looked in a different direction, seemingly forgetting about her altogether. She wanted to run away, but her limbs were leaden—and then a dusky hand circled her wrist. Five Feathers stood over her, his fierce face paint masking his intent. Confused, she stared up at him and waited for what would surely come next—only she didn’t care. She wanted to die. She wanted to end the burning pain in her head and heart once and for all.

Gesturing for her to be silent, Five Feathers moved her beyond the awning past a line of empty tents, where he crouched and tugged her toward a horse hidden behind a huge sycamore. There in the leafy shade, her shaking legs wouldn’t help her onto the bare back. She felt no bigger than Abby when he pushed her atop the stallion, mounting behind her and gripping the reins.

He kicked the horse’s sides and they bolted south. This close, he smelled of smoke, his encircling arms hard as iron bars. They flew through thickets and over sun-dried creek beds so swiftly her teeth chattered. Miles of wilderness began to blur, and then her senses rebelled at the thunder of cannons and the stench of black powder.

Would he drop her into the very heart of battle?

Numbness turned to disbelief as they galloped toward Bluecoat tents and the large marquee that reflected the strengthening sun. There Five Feathers dismounted and tugged her from the horse’s back, leaving her on shaking legs before riding away. Dazed, she looked back at him, but he’d slipped through the smoke. All she saw was a flash of his horse’s tail.

“Miz Roxanna!”

Bella was shouting at her, but Roxanna could hardly hear above the din of battle. Face contorted with disbelief, she grabbed Roxanna by the shoulders, tears running in rivulets down her dark face. “Law, but you look a sight! What have they done to you?”

Roxanna’s own eyes filled and nearly spilled over. Her lip was so sore it hurt to speak. “I’m . . . all right. Is Cass . . . ?”

Bella’s face seemed to close, as if hiding secrets. Pulling away, Roxanna plunged through a lingering mist of fog, stumbling along an entrenchment, senses straining. Up a hill she ran, hungry for a glimpse of him, unaware she was treading on dangerous ground at the rear of a column. Bluecoats surged just ahead of her, leaving spent cartridges and broken muskets in their wake. Overcome by the melee, she fell to her knees, trying to make sense of her surroundings, fingers digging in the warm grass and dirt, her white kerchief trailing like a flag of surrender behind her.

Bella dropped down beside her, shackling her with a hard hand. “You got to come back to camp. Now!”

From somewhere—in the midst of the fray—she could hear Cass shouting at his men to hold the line.

Her heart, so barren moments before, seemed to burst.

“You got to go back!” Bella shouted above the noise. “For Abby’s sake!”

The frantic words seemed to restore her reason. Dazed, she got to her feet and let Bella lead her, returning her to an abandoned camp depleted of all but a few scattered sentries and the sick.

“Now sit down here and stop your shakin’ and drink this,” Bella soothed, pushing her toward a crate and passing her a canteen of water. “Though what you need is some o’ my cherry bounce.”

Roxanna took a long drink, spilling water down her dress front. Bella stood so near that her skirts brushed Roxanna’s, as if she feared Roxanna might take flight again and she’d have to stop her. The sun was burning her eyes in its downward slant. Absently she guessed it to be three o’clock and wished for her hat.

“When . . . will it . . . end, Bella?” The question was so weary, so strung out, it hardly seemed a sentence.

Bella drew a deep breath. “Lord only knows. Them Redcoats don’t like fightin’ past dusk. But the colonel and his men come alive at night.” Taking back the canteen, Bella’s eyes turned searching. “Was that Indian who brung you back here the one the colonel kept locked up last winter?”

Roxanna nodded, eyes on the smoky horizon.

“McLinn was beside hisself when those Redcoats took you. I wish he could see you now. It might make all that fightin’ go easier.” She took a sip from the canteen and ran a tongue over parched lips. “I suppose you saw Hank. Only you’re too kind to tell me so.”

Before she could dash it away, a single tear spotted Roxanna’s cheek. How much did Bella know? How much should she share? Or hold back?

Bella’s eyes turned damp. Head down, she reached into the pocket of a dress blackened with soot and spotted with grease. “Right before we left on this here campaign, I was cleanin’ out some o’ Hank’s things and found this. It’s in your pa’s fine hand.”

The missing journal pages?

Roxanna took the papers, left edges tattered where they’d been torn from the book’s binding, and her eyes fell on one telling line.

I fear—I know without a doubt—who the enemy is. Hank.

“Don’t know why Hank didn’t burn them pages. Mebbe he thought it didn’t matter. Mebbe he forgot where he hid ’em—or didn’t reckon on me findin’ ’em.”

“I’m sorry, Bella.” The apology, though heartfelt, was woefully inadequate.

Bella swallowed hard and passed a hand over her eyes. “I know you is sorry. You sure look it. It’s Hank who should be sorry . . .”

Roxanna looked north, to fighting she couldn’t see, and felt tension tighten like a coil inside her. ’Twas absolute torment to sit here while men fought and fell just beyond that hill, Cass among them. But even as she thought it, found the waiting unbearable, a thundering commotion to their right drew their attention. The wounded were beginning to come in, and her heart wrenched anew at the sight.

Following Bella’s lead, she began doing what she could—carrying water, binding wounds, whispering words of comfort and snatches of Scripture, praying for those who were beyond all hope of survival. The sun dipped lower, but the gun and cannon fire never ceased, and in time she no longer started at its thunder.

Lord, how long must the carnage go on?

She was so weary she seemed to have slipped into a sort of trance, senses dull, her every movement slack. She hardly heard a new ruckus behind her, nor saw Bella’s frantic features as she turned toward the sound.

A few bedraggled officers and Frenchmen were coming into camp, emerging from the smoke into fading sunlight, some so powder burned she scarcely recognized them. Despite the dust, she saw Cass plainly and found her feet. He was on his back atop the litter used to transport the wounded, and she caught but a glimpse of him as he was lowered to the ground.

She had no recollection of how she closed the gap between them, pushing past soldiers and horses to reach him, but in moments she was on her knees, her salty tears spotting his face. Flecks of powder blackened his tanned skin, and his eyes were closed. A silent cry erupted inside her as her hands hovered over him, desperate to ease his hurt.

Joram Herkimer knelt beside her, his generous shadow offering a sort of shade for the tumult of her emotions. “His horse was shot out from under him and then fell on his leg. I’m afraid it’s badly broken. But it’s the lead that grieves me.”

The lead?

The bullet’s path was plain before her eyes. Breathless and shaking, she lowered her head to Cass’s chest and recognized a startling absence of blood. Beneath her ear was the torn-up cloth of his uniform coat where the ball had nested—and a dull heartbeat. Frantic, her fingers plucked at the fabric of his waistcoat, fumbling till she pulled the locket free. A ball was imbedded in its face, destroying its silver beauty, blackening her portrait within. It glinted in the sun and made her wince at its reflection. But her heart was strengthening, rejoicing.

Oh, Lord, You spared his life!

His eyes swept open but were marred with pain. “Roxie, go . . . now.”

Did he think he was still on the field—in the thick of the fighting? “Cass, ’tis all right. You’re back at camp. But we have to get you moved—your leg . . .”

His features relaxed, and he squinted at the sky as if trying to get his bearings. “Listen to the drums. They’re in retreat.”

Truly, the battle sounds, so distinct minutes before, now seemed a distant echo. The grassy hill kept them from seeing what was going on just beyond. Could it be they’d beaten the Redcoats back?

His hand brushed her cheek. “How did you get here?”

“Five Feathers—he brought me back.”

His look was searching, disbelieving.

“You know—the Shawnee with Papa’s pocket watch.”

She saw his confusion clear and understanding dawn. Looking about, he made a move toward his sword. It lay near him in the grass and she reached for it, then saw the blood marring the tip. Stomach lurching, she left it alone.

Jehu appeared, so winded he could barely speak, his queue undone, his tricorn missing. “They’re in full retreat,” he panted, eyeing the hill in wild-eyed disbelief. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but they are.”

White-faced with pain, Cass attempted to sit up. “Get me off the ground.” Together the Herkimers managed to bring him to his feet.

“Find me a mount,” he said.

Joram turned to do his bidding while Roxanna stared openmouthed at Cass’s left leg, now bent at an impossible angle.

“You can’t possibly—”

“Watch me,” he answered.

They had to help him into the saddle, and Jehu passed him his sword. Returning it to its sheath, he was the commander again, his eye on the hill, scattered pockets of firing just beyond.

He looked down at her, features taut with pain. “Stay here at camp, Roxie.”

“Nay,” she said, reaching for his horse’s bridle.

But he was already turning away, just beyond her reach, his thoughts on the field. She watched him go, still wild with worry, the Herkimers alongside him, Bella shadowing her.

Oh, Lord, please bring him back to me.

The big bay sidestepped and then lunged forward at the touch of a single spur. Cass rode cautiously, cresting the hill till the valley lay before him like a swath of green silk. There he nearly forgot his throbbing leg and intense thirst and Roxie’s entreating look as he’d left her.

As far as he could see, Redcoats and Indians were fleeing, leaving their dead behind, their cannon in the field, a trail of clothes and shoes and broken equipment in their wake. He leaned forward in the saddle, sensing the shock of those around him. In the distance, French officers were riding toward them, leaping over the snaking Bluecoat trench.

They saluted, Gallic faces brimming, and burst into French. He listened, trying to make sense of it all, his officers’ faces a puzzle beside him. The French captain withdrew something small from his breast pocket, leaned forward in his saddle, and passed it to Cass. Sunlight struck gold, and he felt a nauseating familiarity. Liam’s signet ring.

“Your brother, mon colonel, is dead.”

Cass shifted in the saddle, the ring between thumb and forefinger, and kept his expression inscrutable.

“The vile British commander is—how do you Americans say it—suicide?” When Cass didn’t respond, he continued on, exuberance high. “Your brother was not in his right mind. He was seeing things—seeing more Bluecoats and Frenchmen than Redcoats and Indians. His officers—they became confused and began to flee the field. Watching it, he put this gun to his head.”

He produced a silver-plated pistol. Liam’s own. Cass regarded it with a sinking feeling deep in his spirit. What of Millicent? Hank? A bit light-headed, he tightened his hold on the reins. His men were surrounding him now, a great cheering mass of militia and Bluecoats, slapping backs and tossing tricorns into the air. He smiled despite himself, caught up in their jubilance, acutely aware of their bleeding limbs and powder-burned faces.

“Come on, boys,” he finally said with a lavish grin. “Reload your pieces and we’ll give them a proper send-off.”

Hours later, the shock had worn off and the reality of grave pain set in. Night had fallen, and fireflies winged about the marquee tent, mosquitoes buzzing against the netting of Cass’s bed. But he was hardly conscious of anything beyond his throbbing left leg and the hole in his heart. He hadn’t believed Liam dead till the French officers had shown him. And then, seized with an unbearable mix of relief and regret, he’d leaned over the pommel of his saddle and retched.

“Another sip, please.”

The alluring voice brought him round, and he turned his head. “There you go again, trying to make me tipsy.”

Underneath the netting Roxanna sat, trying to slip him sips of rum to quench the hurt of a broken leg and a lost brother. Though she hadn’t been present when he’d identified Liam, the poignancy in her face told him she knew all about it.

“They’ve set your leg,” she said. “Ben Simmons is an able doctor when he has to be.”

“Where’s my locket?”

She gave him a wan smile and looked over at his uniform coat lying across a trunk. “’Tis in your waistcoat pocket, where it belongs.”

“All mangled, I’ll wager.”

“Better that than your heart.”

“’Tis glad I am of that.” His eyes held hers and didn’t let go. Though hours had passed and the smoke had cleared and the din of battle was done, he was still striving to make sense of all that had transpired, still a bit disbelieving. “Roxie, what do you think happened with Liam?”

“His confusion, you mean?”

“His seeing things, aye.”

Her face assumed such wistfulness it reminded him of Abby. She was privy to something he was not, he thought. He could tell just by looking at her.

“I think Liam saw things as they truly were—a heavenly army,” she said softly. “How else can it be explained?”

“You were praying.”

“Yes. But more importantly, you were praying.”

“Aye . . . but what were you praying?”

Tears came to her eyes. “Elisha’s prayer in 2 Kings . . . ‘Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes, that he may see. And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man; and he saw: and, behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire.’ ”

He regarded her with a sort of wonder. She looked down at her lap and he saw her mouth tremble. “I didn’t want to lose you . . . to face life without you . . . to have to tell Abby you weren’t coming back. So I prayed like I’ve never prayed before—and fasted—and begged for an Old Testament miracle.”

She set the cup down, trying to wipe away the wetness streaming down her face. He reached out to her, her brokenness mirroring his own, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and running into his hairline. Lying on his back, he couldn’t comfort her like he wanted but had to be content with her head upon his chest, his fingers stroking her disheveled hair till hairpins lay like wingless insects on his shirt.

Even on his back with a badly fractured leg, he was acutely conscious of the sweet, womanly essence of her, her winsome vulnerability and strength. He wanted to ask about her cut lip but sensed she had shut that part of her captivity away and would share it with no one, not even him.

Slowly she lifted her head and took up the cup again. He drank slowly as she cradled his head with her other arm.

“Marry me, Roxie.” He spoke the intimate words into her ear.

She responded with a smile as color crept into her cheeks. “Best wait till your leg is mended—”

“Wait? If I wait, you just might change your mind.”

“No, Colonel McLinn. You have my promise as a good soldier’s daughter. Though I don’t have any idea who’ll marry us.”

“I do.” He grinned, a roguish twinkle in his eye. “Graham Greer.”