Patriot's Heart

by Marzec, Penelope;

“Aye, that is cruel,” Margaret agreed.

  They hurried to the barn together, but before they reached it, they saw the miller driving his wagon along the lane toward them.

  “Good day to you.” He pulled at the reins when he came abreast of them and doffed his hat. “Why is the blacksmith shop not open?”

  Agnes’s heart hammered against her ribs. She usually opened the forge early in the day. “Is there something you need?”

  “Yes, four more hooks.” The miller pulled at the brake and jumped down from the wagon. He reached for a sack of flour from the back.

  “Please bring the flour when you come for the hooks later,” Agnes suggested.

  He shot her a quizzical look before he shoved the sack into place again. He stared at the folded linen, the kettle, and her basket.

  Agnes clutched at Margaret’s sleeve and prayed her sister would say nothing. “As you can see, a sick animal needs my attention right now, sir. I bid you good day.”

  His usually genial face darkened for but a moment before he shrugged and climbed back into his wagon. “This afternoon then.”

  Agnes nodded as he urged his horses to move onward. As soon as he was out of earshot, she spoke to Margaret.

  “Bar the barn door. No one must be allowed in. You helped me with Jonas, so you know what to do.”

  “A man is far different than a pig.”

  “This should be easier, for the man is senseless. If you recall, Jonas squirmed a great deal.”

  * * *

  Edwin wandered through the thick fog, for he had lost his way. Terror spiraled within him. For failing to deliver his message on time, he would be flogged, a brutal punishment he had sought to avoid.

  The acrid smell of gunpowder choked him, though he no longer heard the roar of the cannons. The searing heat on the battlefield had felled hundreds of men, but now he shivered with cold in a dark mist. Blinded by the dense atmosphere, he stumbled and fell. He did not land on hard, packed earth. He tumbled upon a body, and though the flesh held the unnatural chill of death, the corpse was not yet rigid.

  A breeze stirred, and the fog cleared. Edwin quailed in horror at the sight of flies and maggots crawling on the still figure with its ashen skin. His attempt to brush away the vermin caused them to begin climbing upon him. Panic took over, and he fought to stand, but his limbs no longer obeyed his command. He stared into the face of the dead man as the vicious insects burrowed into his own skin.

  He did not want to die like this. “No!”

  The cadaver suddenly opened his eyes, and Edwin screamed louder as he realized he had fallen upon the body of his father, the Duke.

  A cool cloth pressed firmly over Edwin’s mouth.

  “Shhh. You must keep quiet.”

  Edwin gazed up at a woman with intense hazel eyes and brown hair. Feathery tendrils, like twisted epaulets of silk, had escaped her cap. For a long moment, he believed he had been drawn up to heaven by a beneficent angel, but above the woman’s beautiful and kindly visage he saw a hayloft. There were no barns in heaven. The vicar had told him so. What had happened to the battlefield? To his father?

  Alarm shot through him. Who was this woman? He struggled to form words, but his tongue would not obey his thoughts, for he shivered uncontrollably. He remembered the fiery burn as the bullet dug into his thigh. Yet, he knew he had not let go of the reins. He had not stopped riding. In fact, he rode harder despite the weakness that overtook him as the blood poured from the wound.

  Had he become insensible and fallen off the horse? The gritty taste of dirt lingered in his mouth. His eyes burned from fetid slime.

  “What is your name?” the woman asked. She lifted the cloth from his lips.

  His mouth was as dry as parchment and though his lips moved no sound issued forth from them. His limbs continued to tremble and he could not stop them.

  Her soft arm slid beneath his head, lifting him tenderly. A tin cup was placed at his lips. “It is a tea to bring down your fever. Drink.”

  He should not trust her. She could be poisoning him. He wanted to push away the cup, but a wretched feebleness sapped all his strength. A few drops of the liquid trickled down his throat. He moved his tongue.

  Then he tried to move his leg. A great pain, as if a branding iron pressed into his skin, set his world spinning. He could not focus on anything. He fought to stay sensible.

  “What is your given name?” the woman asked.

  He stared at her, but a hundred horrid scenes of battle sped through his mind. He needed to escape!

  “You are in my barn in Leedsville, near the inn.” The woman’s voice held tranquility. “Please, tell me your name.”

  He closed his eyes and struggled to remember what had happened, but he recalled only disjointed scenes. The sound of the artillery, the order to march, the command to shoot, the wild charge against the enemy and the glint of the sunlight on steel bayonets. The paper. His instructions. The general’s pointed stare.

  He clenched his jaw as chills racked him even while the searing blaze of his wound threatened to send him into oblivion again. He opened his eyes and forced out the word. “Lederer.”

  A beatific smile graced her lips. “Well, Mr. Lederer, it is a very long walk from Monmouth Courthouse to here, especially after losing a great deal of blood from a deep gash in your thigh. How did you get here?”

  He groped about but his hands clutched at straw. Rebels would kill him! “My musket.”

  “Shhh.” The cool cloth smothered his lips once more. “Do not shout. You will be safe if you listen to me. You must tell everyone you are my mother’s cousin.”

  “No…”

  “Yes. You must say you came looking for my mother.”

  With his last ounce of strength, he grabbed the wrist of the woman and squeezed. “Give me the musket!”

  Fierce pounding sounded nearby and he dropped her hand. “The drums! They attack!” He struggled, but could not rise.

  “Do not move.” The woman’s voice became low and urgent. “You will bleed again.”

  “Bayonets fixed!” Pain seared through him and he sank into nothingness once more.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Open this door! Open it now!”

  Agnes’s nerves tensed as her Aunt Sally demanded entrance in a strident voice and pounded on the barn door.

  Margaret shot a fearful glance at Agnes. She gave a nod and Margaret lifted the bar and allowed their aunt to enter.

  “Did you milk the cow?” The imperious Aunt Sally bulged with child. She stomped in as her three-year old twins scooted right behind her. Ryan and Lewis immediately headed for the hayloft. “No, you don’t!” Their mother froze them with the steel in her voice. She pinched their ears and they howled in unison. She ordered them to sit on the small milking stool. They huddled together in misery.

  Turning back to Margaret and Agnes, she demanded to know what they had been doing.

  “Agnes said this would be easier than taking the musket ball out of the pig,” Margaret stated.

  “Musket ball?” Aunt Sally paled slightly.

  “A piece of iron,” Agnes blurted out. “I was working in the forge when a small slice flew off and cut into the flesh above his knee.”

  “Who are you talking about? The calf?” Aunt Sally asked.

  Agnes shook her head as she rubbed her reddened wrist while tears stung at the backs of her eyes. She had not been surprised by the Redcoat’s strong grip, but his shouts unnerved her. He had collapsed again into a land of terrible dreams, as he continued to fight the battle that had been fought yesterday. “My mother’s cousin came looking for her. He found me in the forge and I…I…the hammer hit the wrong way. It was a most unfortunate accident.” Agnes hated the lie, but she had no alternative.

  “Cousin?” The color returned to Aunt Sally’s cheeks. “Where is he?”

  “In the last stall.” Together they walked to the back of the barn.

  “What is his name?” Aunt Sally stared down at the unconscious man
.

  Agnes swallowed hard. “His surname, of course, is Lederer.” Her aunt knew little about her mother. If she insisted his name was Washington, her aunt would not be the wiser. She twisted her hands. Agnes feared for him. He was far too handsome to die.

  Aunt Sally’s eyebrows lifted. “Why have you put him in the barn?”

  “Margaret and I were unable to move him further than this when he became insensible…” She watched his chest rise and fall. If only he would open his eyes again.

  “Is he a Tory?”

  “He is British, as my mother was.”

  “Hmmph.” Aunt Sally sniffed. “They are dogs. All of them. I heard they left their dead and dying on the field this morning. They burned houses as they marched along the road, too.”

  Agnes’s throat tightened. Had his fellow soldiers abandoned him? Compassion welled from deep within her.

  “You know it is most unseemly for you to be with a young man.” Her aunt glared at her.

  Agnes stiffened. “He is a close relative and senseless at the moment. Besides, I am not alone. Margaret is here.”

  “I helped her.” Margaret nodded. “Colleen made a special tea with boneset, too. She’s going to show me where to find it.”

  Aunt Sally’s eyes became narrow slits. “This situation is most unusual. Did your father never inform your mother’s family of her death?”

  Agnes shook her head. “No, he never did.” She had always wondered why.

  “If he is a Tory, there will be trouble.” Aunt Sally warned.

  Agnes glanced at the ashen face of her patient. Emotion welled up inside her. How could anyone cast aside the life of such a promising young man?

  Aunt Sally’s fingers drummed on a wooden railing. “He cannot stay here.”

  Agnes’s lip quivered. “He has come so far! He is feverish and blood still springs from the wound.”

  “You should not be working at the forge in the first place.” Aunt Sally put her hands on her hips. “You are well past the proper age for a woman to marry. You should have a husband by now, but men see the black smudges on your skin and turn away.”

  “This is honest work and with father in the Continental Army, I am the only blacksmith between here and Shrewsbury Towne.” Agnes stated the fact quietly.

  “Even your father will want you to marry when he returns,” Aunt Sally continued. “You must guard your virtue. Never be alone with him.” She pointed to the senseless man in the hay.

  Agnes bit back her anger. “He is harmless.”

  “Your reputation is a precious possession and of great importance to any man interested in marriage. A prudent woman must never allow her character to come into question.”

  Agnes cared not a whit about marriage. “Father taught me how to be a blacksmith, and I intend to continue in the trade.”

  “All women should marry.”

  “I will not.”

  “That is nonsense.” Aunt Sally’s lips became a thin line of displeasure.

  Agnes had learned years ago that arguing with her aunt proved a fruitless endeavor. “The milk is waiting for you on our table, as it always is.”

  Aunt Sally’s hands fluttered in the air. “Well, I did see it there, but Colleen was nowhere about and what with the British marching past and stealing our chickens…and Hobart off helping our neighbor put up a shed…I was all alone…except for the boys.” She sniffed, turned around, and left, dragging her twins along.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Margaret said, “She is afraid the baby will come when no one is there to help her.”

  “Yes, I know.” Agnes sighed. “Thanks for keeping our secret.”

  “Surely, he is a cousin. He comes from England.” Margaret smiled.

  “The twins are our cousins. There are many people in England. We cannot be related to all of them.”

  “You said Mother had black hair and so does he.”

  “Yes, yes he does.” Until now, Agnes never lied, but there did not seem to be any other way to deal with the situation. However, Margaret appeared quite willing to go along with the deception, treating it as a merry game. Though her skill in baking was remarkable, she still behaved much like a child. Perhaps the fault lay in the way Agnes treated her sister. She tended to be overly solicitous with her, guarding and protecting her as if she might break.

  Margaret skipped away, carrying her basket of sweet buns to the Newton’s at the inn.

  Agnes knelt at the side of the soldier. Lightly, she touched his forehead. The heat of his fever frightened her. She did not want him to suffer any more than he already had, but other than using the proper herbs to tend his wounds and keeping him as comfortable as possible, she must rely on time and prayer for healing.

  Jonas had recovered from his grievous wound, but she knew that despite her diligent care it was the Lord who sanctioned the pig’s return to health. None of her efforts would work unless God intended to save the life of the handsome soldier she had found in her barn.

  So she offered up her petitions to the Lord. She asked Him to grant His blessings and mercy to the young man and begged that he would live. She asked forgiveness for herself, too. She did not want to lie, but she could think of no other way to guarantee the safety of the wounded soldier who had sought shelter in her barn.

  * * *

  By the time Agnes opened the forge and set to making more hooks for the miller, the sun had slipped well past its zenith. She hammered the edge of the red hot metal as sweat dripped from her brow. Engrossed in her work, she did not glance up when she heard Margaret’s shout.

  “Victory for the Patriots!” Her sister whistled a bright marching tune as she strolled along the path.

  Agnes studied the glowing curve of metal on the anvil though anxiety swirled through her. She knew that even if the Continental army won the battle, they did not win the war. Her Redcoat’s fate remained in the balance. She hated leaving him alone, but she had work to do. Colleen had promised to check on him whenever she had a chance, though she would be busy with laundry, her garden, and preparing dinner.

  Margaret flopped down on the grass beneath the willow just outside the door and wiggled her dusty bare feet. “At the inn, there were two farmers who had watched the battle. They sat on the tombstones at Tennent church and said the Patriots sent the Redcoats running.”

  “The British were headed for New York.”

  “Mr. Newton claimed they camped north of here along the King’s Highway. ’Tis thought boats will ferry them over the water to New York.”

  “The King’s Highway harbors a hotbed of Tories. The British should take all of those loyal to the king with them when they go.” Agnes had no doubt that it had been a Loyalist who shot the pig last month. “The disaffected should leave, too.” Many of their neighbors refused to support the Patriots. Some even traded with the British, for it was a profitable business.

  Margaret’s eyes glowed brightly. She paid no attention to the bitter note in Agnes’s tone.

  “The farmers saw General Washington himself urge the men onto victory.” Margaret proceeded to recount all she had heard. “He rides a white charger as pure as snow. If Francis becomes a general, he will sit astride a white charger, too.” A wistful look came into her sister’s face.

  “Francis is far too young to be an officer.” Not a single breeze stirred and the heat from the forge shimmered in waves. Drops of perspiration trickled from Agnes’s brow.

  “He will move up in the ranks when gets older. He told me so.”

  Agnes put her hand to the small of her back as she tried to straighten. “Is your basket empty?”

  “Nay, Mistress Newton gave me a fine pound of raisins and Mr. Newton offered a bottle of porter.” Margaret drew out the liquor. “’Tis worth much more than molasses, he says.”

  “Perhaps to Mr. Newton, but not to you and me. You cannot make sweet buns with it.”

  “Then I shall bake raisin cakes. Everyone enjoys those. Mr. Newton said father would be glad of the porter
when he returns.”

  Anxiety squeezed Agnes’s heart. If their father discovered the Redcoat in the barn, Mr. Lederer would be carted off to a prison. If he survived his wound. She offered up another silent prayer for him.

  Margaret held a clutch of daisies in her hand and began to weave them into a circlet. The bleak pain of sorrow stabbed at Agnes. She had taught Margaret how to make a crown with the flowers. Her mother had guided Agnes’s small fingers in the craft a few days before she died.

  The cherished memories of her mother had faded over the years, and left the yawning emptiness of loss. She longed to know more about her mother’s history, but her father refused to talk of her. Other than Margaret, Agnes’s single memento was a cameo, which her mother had handed to her before she fell, or walked, into the river. Lifting her hand, Agnes touched the ornament where it lay pinned to her bodice. Unlike most cameos, it did not depict the delicate features of a beautiful woman. Instead, the intricately carved image of a castle in miniature graced the gem.

  “Mr. Newton warned me to be careful.” Margaret chatted as her nimble fingers worked with the flower stems. “The Loyalists are becoming more desperate.”

  “There are dangerous times ahead for all of us.” Agnes shuddered as she remembered how one local man threatened to tar and feather another. Her British patient might receive the same treatment or worse. The Patriots might hang him. She barely breathed at the thought of a rope tightening around his neck.

  She paused in her work to assess the shape of the hook and added a few more taps before she cooled the hot iron in the bucket of water.

  Margaret set the flower crown on her head and smiled. “Perhaps I can trade my raisin cakes for some new linen. Then I shall sew a fine gown.”

  “As a Patriot, you should be happy with your homespun.” Agnes pumped the bellows until the charcoal glowed.

  Margaret ignored her admonition. “A celebration requires a fitting gown. When Francis returns after the war, we will be married.” A beatific smile set her face aglow.

  “He is fourteen and you are twelve!” Agnes exclaimed.

  “I shall be thirteen in January.”

  “That is not old enough for the responsibilities of marriage.” Agnes could not bear to think of her young sister leaving her.