The Officer's Desire

by Colleen French

  "I do. So what are we to do?" Anne smiled.

  "I don't have the foggiest idea." Cassie plopped herself back into the chair, dropping her hat on the smooth table.

  "What's the first thought that comes to mind?"

  Cassie smiled sadly, gazing into nothingness. "My first thought . . . my first thought is to get on that bay and ride to him. I could do it in a week if I rode hard!"

  Anne's hand flew to her mouth. "You wouldn't!" Her eyes were growing rounder by the minute.

  "He made me promise to stay put, but that was earlier . . . before I mucked things up." Cassie's voice was getting stronger. "What do you think?"

  Anne dropped into the chair. "I could never. But you, you could do it, Cassie. Go to him, say your sorries, and come back."

  "No." Cassie shook her head. "I'll not come back. This is not my place. My place is with my husband. I could cook for him, clean his wounds, load his rifle."

  "Cassie! What are you saying?" Anne was shocked, but deep inside she was envious of her friend's bravery. "Women don't go to war!"

  "My mother did. Fought every major battle with my father. Except, of course, when she was lying in with me and my brother." She pounded the pine table with her fist. "I could do it, Anne. I could help him, I could be at his side."

  Anne shook her head. "You could be killed." she whispered.

  "Could be. But I could die just the same by a British bullet on the front steps of Marshview, or by rotting right to death in that bedchamber." Suddenly Cassie felt alive again. She had a plan! All seemed clear. She'd go to Devon, she'd make her apologies, and she'd remain with him. If they both managed to live through this colonial war, they'd return to Marshview to live a life together as equal partners. If she stayed here, they wouldn't have a chance. She'd always be the barmaid Devon had married on a whim.

  "You're not going to go through with this." Anne's voice penetrated Cassie's thoughts.

  "The pox I'm not!" She jumped to her feet, grabbing her hat off the table. "Thank you for helping. Thank you for making everything so clear." Cassie threw her arms around Anne, hugging her tight. "You've been a good friend, I'll not forget it."

  Anne brushed a tear from her eye, following Cassie to the door. "Take care. I'll not say a word to where you've gone if you don't wish it."

  "I'll send a message as soon as I can." She hurried out the door. "Thanks again and give that big merchant of yours a kiss for me!" Swinging into her saddle, Cassie wheeled around and sunk her heels into her horse's flanks, sending him flying down the lane.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cassie stepped from the shadows of the lean-to, her canvas bag and water tin flung over one shoulder. In her hand she carried the flintlock she'd taken from the kitchen at Marshview. She chuckled to herself. No one would know she was a woman dressed like this. She wore a pair of Devon's heavy breeches, a clean linen shirt, and a nondescript coat she'd found hanging on a post in the barn. Devon's three-cornered work hat was perched on her head, her hair stuffed beneath it. On her feet she wore her new riding boots, the soles lined with coin.

  Walking along the St. Jones River in the dim light of the early evening, Cassie spotted a sloop tied to pilings at the end of a narrow dock. This had to be the Scotsman's sloop—the one they whispered about in The Patriot. She'd been told the captain was smuggling black powder for Washington's troops on Long Island.

  '"Evening." Cassie called out boldly, nodding to the red-bearded man who stood on the bow. "Understand this sloop is bound north." She kept her head down, staring out nonchalantly at the rippling water of the incoming tide.

  Red Rob glanced up and then returned to the lines on the deck. "And who might be sayin'?" he asked gruffly, his voice rough with a Scottish burr.

  "Matters not." she answered. "I'm lookin' for passage. Long Island. I'll be no trouble and I've coin." She tried to keep her voice low and gravelly.

  The man threw back his head laughing. "Even if'n this fine vessel was going north, which it will not be, I'd be takin' no lassie with me. Not for any price."

  Cassie swallowed hard. "Don't know what you speak of." she told the redheaded man. "I be no lass."

  Red Rob stroked his red whiskers. "No? Then what be those mounds beneath yer coat . . . melons?" He laughed again, his hearty voice echoing over the water. "It's no use, lassie, I'm no mon's fool. I ken a woman when I see her." He threw a circle of heavy line over his shoulder. "A redhead at that by her colorin'." He turned to go, calling to her over his shoulder, his voice still laced with amusement. "By the way, lassie, yer face be smudged with dirt."

  Cassie cursed hotly beneath her breath. "Please, sir." she called out in her own voice. "I've got to get north. What do you care who I am, I said I'll pay."

  The Scotsman shook his head. "They're fightin' up there! British warships in the harbor. 'Tis no place for a lass."

  "You don't understand." Cassie whipped the hat off her head, her bright hair tumbling from beneath it. "I've got to get up there. To Colonel Haslet's regiment." She stepped up to the sloop, resting a booted foot on its bow. Her flintlock rested in the crook of her arm.

  "I told ye no. I'm not going anywhere. But if I were, I'd not be taking a woman. What makes you so anxious to be captured by the redcoats? A jilted lover?" He grinned. "Ye change yer mind, now that the poor man's in the face of death?"

  "What difference does it make to you?" she snapped. "Now look here. I know this sloop is sailing with black powder in her holds, and I'm going to be on her when she does. I have got to get to Long Island." Her eyes darkened with anger and her cheeks grew bright. "It's my husband."

  "Sure he is." Red Rob threw up a hand. "I'm not interested in yer sad tales, lassie. I said no and my word is final. Now go home to yer warm cottage and take off yer brother's clothes. Ye not be sailin' with me!" With that, the Scotsman disappeared into the hold of his sloop.

  "Hell's bells!" Cassie murmured indignantly. If the bastard wouldn't let her on, she'd stow away. And he'd not be gettin' his coin now!

  Cassie rested her head on the deck of the sloop, trying to keep her mind off the swaying of the vessel as it sailed north at a startling speed.

  "Feelin' sick are ye, lass?" Red Rob grinned, taking a swig of water from a keg. "Good. I hope you puke your guts out."

  Cassie pushed herself up into a sitting position. "I'll not give you the pleasure." she retorted, plaiting her unruly hair with her fingers.

  He nodded. "I have to admit, ye be a smart one. Hidin' beneath them tarps for near two days. How'd ye know we would be too far gone to put ye ashore?"

  "Didn't know for sure, but if I'd spent another hour beneath that canvas, I'd have gone crazy. Just like a rat livin' in a hole it was . . ." Cassie leaned against a keg of powder, drawing up her knees to wrap her arms around them.

  "Well, don't you be getting any ideas about going ashore once we reach the troops. Just because I haven't the time to mess with ye, puttin' you ashore or takin' you back to Dover, doesn't mean you've gotten away with this. When this sloop turns around and heads south again, you'll be on it." He scratched his red whiskers, taking notice of what a striking lass his stowaway was. If he'd been a few years younger, his salty crust a little thinner, he might have taken her for his own. No, this was no ordinary wench, this one. His eyes narrowed as he poked the stem of his pipe into his mouth. "Yer not goin'. I'll tie ye to the mast if I have to."

  "The bloody stinkin' hell you will!" Cassie spit.

  Rob chuckled deep in his throat. "The bloody stinkin' hell I won't!"

  With the coming of the first rays of morning light, Cassie found herself in quite the predicament. Sometime during the night, the bastard Scot and his mate had wrestled her out of her sleep to strap her to the main mast of the smuggler's sloop. Mooring lines held her none too comfortably to the mast, her hands tied tightly in front of her.

  She had tried everything to get one of the sailors to release her. She'd called them every foul name she had ever heard; she tried to bribe them, even t
o blackmail them. Nothing worked. When she asked what would happen to her if they went aground and sunk, the Scot had just laughed. Better to drown in the sea than to be raped and killed by a brigade of Hessians, he told her.

  Now she sat hour after hour, twisting the bonds on her hands every time the two men took their eyes off her. The desperately needed black powder was to be delivered tonight under the cover of darkness, and she had to be ready when the sloop stopped to unload its cargo.

  By evening Cassie had loosened the ties enough to slip her hands through. She untied the ropes that ran around her waist and then retied them so they looked secure. As darkness fell upon the sloop, Cassie sat watching the firelight of camps on the far shores. There on Staten Island the English and their mighty troops sat waiting for word from their commander in chief, General Howe. On Manhattan and Long Island the bulk of the Continental Army sat, twenty thousand unseasoned troops waiting for the English to make their move.

  Trapped they are, Cassie thought as the sloop eased closer to shore. Trapped like a rabbit in a hole. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the tangy salt air. The Scot had just given strict orders. If she made a sound, they'd be dead on the water. One blast from the guns of one warship and they'd go under. They had to be near their destination. . . . Cassie squinted in the darkness, searching the horizon for the shadow of another vessel. Someone had to be coming out to meet them. The Scot wouldn't dare run a vessel of this size onto shore.

  Just then, Cassie heard a low whistle, a sound barely audible, then she saw a tiny skiff coming from just ahead. The sloop came to a halt and lay silently in wait.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she loosened the lines that held her to the mast. The Scot and his mate were on the bow of the sloop moving kegs of powder. She had hoped they would move in closer to shore, but this was it. If she was going overboard, this was the time.

  Without a sound, Cassie came to her feet and crept along the deck, slipping down into the hold. Grabbing her rifle, bag, and water can, she moved back on deck. She hated to get the flintlock and the French pistol she carried in her bag wet, but there was no other way. Sitting down, she tugged off her riding boots and dropped them into the bag she'd slung over her shoulder and neck. Then, in one motion, she slipped from the stern's deck into the bay, the cool water closing over her head.

  Surfacing, Cassie started out with even strokes, passing the Scotman's skiff and heading for the shores of Long Island. Behind her she heard the call of a man only once, but she ignored him, moving on stroke after stroke. She knew she had nothing to fear from the Scotsman now; he'd not risk his life to bring his sloop in any closer to shore, not with the British frigates so near.

  Tiring, Cassie rolled onto her back and floated for a minute or two. It was farther to shore than she'd guessed, and it was hard swimming with the bag and rifle on her back. Still, she'd not give them up. What was a soldier without his flintlock and boots? She'd not last more than a few weeks without them.

  Rested, Cassie started toward the shore again, taking care to keep her bearings straight. The campfires on the horizon kept her company as she swam, reminding her that Devon was out there among those men. "I've swum farther than this." she told herself, kicking a little faster. "And in water none too calm." Still, the eerie shadow of the moon played on the dark water, making her wish it weren't so far.

  Closer and closer the firelight moved until finally, Cassie spotted the shoreline, its beach long and distinct. Treading water, she breathed deeply, trying to calm her pounding heart. There was nothing to be afraid of. Still, she squinted, watching the figure on the horizon moving. Night sentries. Better not to come ashore right under his nose, she thought. I might be taken for a spy. Heading to the right a little, she swam the last few strokes easily, her strength rejuvenated by thoughts of her husband so near.

  When Cassie's feet hit the sandy bottom, she grinned broadly, swinging her bag on her back again. Moving quietly, she waded ashore and fell onto her knees in the sand. After a moment of rest, she pulled herself to her feet. Exhausted or not, she knew it wasn't safe to be out here on the beach unprotected and unfamiliar with the area. Dragging her weak-kneed legs, she moved into the reeds before dropping to the ground again. Pulling the rifle and bag from her shoulders, she yanked the burdensome wet coat from her back. Peeling the wet shirt and breeches off, she hung them in the tall reeds. By morning the warm August wind would have dried them. Lastly, she emptied her bag, dumping the boots into the sand. Scattering her belongings so they would dry, Cassie stretched out nude in the sand and fell fast asleep.

  After a restless night's sleep, she was up just before dawn, donning her nearly dry clothes. Her plan was simple. She would scout out the area, and once she had deemed it safe, she would start across the country for Devon's outfit. A man in The Patriot tavern had shown her a map. The Delaware Regiment was under Brigadier General Lord Stirling's command somewhere on the western shores of Long Island.

  With her bag and gun slung over one shoulder and Devon's hat stuffed on her head, Cassie started north through the cattails. She moved silently, keeping her eyes and ears peeled. The moment she heard a human voice she threw herself onto the ground and listened. Sentries . . . they had to be. When she had left Dover, the colonials had still held all of Brooklyn; still, she knew she couldn't take chances. Slowly she came to her feet and crept in the direction of the two male voices. She'd have to get a look at them to be sure.

  Reaching the edge of the reeds that camouflaged her, Cassie leaned slowly to peer out. She exhaled sharply, jerking back. "Hell's bells." she breathed. Their uniforms were blue, but not the blue of any patriot regiment. They were Hessians. . . . The English troops had landed!

  Moving slowly so as not to draw their attention, Cassie disappeared into the marsh. Good God, she thought. When had they landed? They had to have come since she'd left Delaware several days ago. The question was, how far had they moved? Did Devon's regiment still hold the west banks of Brooklyn? Had there been battle yet? Her throat grew tight and she reached for her water tin. He couldn't be dead. They hadn't made their peace. Her heart thumped beneath her breast until she could hear it pounding in her ears. I've got to get over there, and get there fast, she thought determinedly, taking a sip of water.

  Locking the cap on the water can, Cassie squinted into the sun, marked her position, and started walking. She'd have to find a horse; that's all there was to it.

  Not more than two hours later, Cassie lay flat on the ground in a grove of trees. Ahead in a clearing was a white frame house with a freshly painted fence in front. From a pole near the door an English flag flew, a scarlet banner, rippling in the breeze.

  I'm in luck, Cassie thought with a smile. Here's a good citizen willing to donate a horse. She craned her neck to get a look at the barn beyond the house. From its size, she could see she'd have her pick of horses. She wasn't a horse thief; she'd not steal a biscuit from a good honest citizen. But this was war, and they were the enemy.

  Suddenly a back door swung open and Cassie shrank back into the shadows. A young girl with a mob cap came out on the lawn, a basket of clothes balanced on her hip. Moving to a clothes line, she pulled out a sheet and threw it over the line. Smoothing the sheet with her hands, she turned to speak to someone coming from around the back of the house. It was a soldier in a bright red uniform . . . a British soldier.

  Cassie lay motionless for several moments watching. The soldier leaned against the clothes pole, talking in a low rumble. Cassie couldn't make out what they said, but she got the gist of the conversation from the bursts of giggles from the mob-capped house maid.

  If that soldier doesn't have company in his bed this even', I'm a long-faced dairy goat, Cassie thought wryly, skirting the grove of trees. This was her chance. With the two of them playing patsy, she'd have time to get to the barn and take a horse.

  Moving through the trees, Cassie lay down on her belly and began crawling through a patch of waist-high wheat. Better to get into the
barn through the back, she thought. No telling how many soldiers were near by. Pulling herself on her elbows, Cassie dragged her rifle behind her. Sure hope I don't run into any trouble, she thought. It'll be another day before this flintlock's dried out enough to fire.

  Spotting the back of the barn over the wheat, Cassie inched along, just a few more feet, and she'd be home free.

  At the sound of the cocking hammer, Cassie froze. The cold metal of a barrel pressed into her temple and she exhaled sharply. "Lordly, let me live to kill him." she prayed, staring at the scuffed boots of a soldier.

  "Don't say a word." the man ordered. "Move and I'll blow your head off." It wasn't a threat; it was a promise.

  Cassie nodded her head slowly, trying to catch her breath. Slowly she tilted her head to squint in the sun. The soldier was dressed in buff breeches and a brown smock. He was one of theirs!

  "Good God, you scared me half to death!" Cassie rolled onto her back and sat up. "I'm Cassie O'Flynn. . . Marsh." She bobbed to her head. "And your name, sir?"

  The soldier's eyes narrowed and he reached to grab her shoulder, keeping his rifle on her all the while. "Silence. Lay down your musket."

  She did as she was told. "It's all right. I'm on your side. I'm from Dover. Aren't you one of Colonel Smallwood's men?" She gestured to the brown tunic. Only Smallwood's Marylanders wore them over their red and buff uniforms.

  "Silence, woman, before you get us killed." He motioned to her to get up and pointed into the woods. "Walk just ahead of me." Snatching up her flintlock, he ushered her through the woods. When they were well out of earshot of the farmhouse, he ordered her to stop. "Now give me your story and give it to me quick. What were you doing sneaking around that farmhouse. Bringing information or taking it?"