But One Life

by Wyn Estelle Owens

  “Kip’s Bay, on the 15th,” he said.

  Ginny raised an eyebrow. “That was six days ago, sir, and yet you’re just arrived less than a day’s walk away.”

  He lifted both eyebrows. “You think me a deserter, miss?”

  Ginny shrugged elegantly. “I’m not sure what to think, sir.”

  “Well, I’m not a deserter. Did you hear what happened at Kip’s Bay?”

  Guinevere nodded. Her mother-in-law’s Tory friends had come the next day to crow about Washington’s ignominious defeat.

  He stared off into the orchard. “There was a dying British soldier. He stabbed me with his bayonet. Luckily, he only managed to get my leg.” He sighed and shook his head, then essayed forth with his odd half-grin. “I went down instantly. If I hadn’t managed to hide in the cornfield, I would have been dead or captured.”

  Ginny’s eyes were wide. “What did you do?”

  He grinned wider. “I dragged myself to the nearest house and hid behind some barrels deep in the cellar. It belonged to a couple of rich Tories, and the cellar was large enough I wasn’t discovered.” His grin faded to a somewhat sheepish expression. “I did borrow some of the food and quite a bit of wine during that time.”

  Ginny’s eyebrows lifted. “Why so much wine?”

  The captain grinned. “I’m not some drunk, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ma always pours whisky over wounds. Helps it to heal, she says.”

  Ginny stood up briskly. “Well, I think you have been very brave. If you’ll wait here, I will be back shortly.”

  She picked up her skirts and set off through the orchard as fast as she could. She slipped into the kitchen through the back door, and sent a beaming smile Cook’s way. “Cook, dear, can I have a little supper to eat out in the orchard? The weather is so lovely.”

  Cook smiled and bobbed. “Of course, Miss Ginny! Just sit you down there, I’ll be back in a moment.” She darted through the door into the pantry, while Ginny stepped into the hall, walked up the stairs, and slipped into her bedroom. Moving quietly and carefully, she removed a key from a drawer in her vanity and stowed it in her pocket, trying not to hold her breath as she made her way down to the kitchen to wait. Once she had seated herself at the kitchen table, she stared idly out the window, watching the sun play across the green leaves of the apple trees as she awaited the appearance of Cook.

  Cook returned a few minutes later with a small supper wrapped neatly up in a clean white linen napkin, which she pressed into Ginny’s hands with a small smile. “Well, here you go, Miss Ginny. Some bread and cheese and the leftover chicken, and some leftover cranberry scones from Mrs. Phillips’ tea.”

  Ginny leaned forward and gave Cook a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Cook, you’re a wonder. Now I’d better leave you to see to supper. Goodbye!” And with a cheery wave, Ginny stepped out into the orchard again and set off at a brisk pace to where she had left Ethan. She found Ethan leaning against a tree and held out a hand. “If you’ll allow me to help you up, sir, I will take you to someplace where you can rest.”

  The captain smiled and accepted her hand as she pulled him to his feet. “Can you walk, Captain?”

  He nodded. Ginny smiled and beckoned. “Then follow me.”

  She wound her way through the trees, stopping often to ensure the Captain didn’t fall too far behind. Finally, they reached a clearing with a small shed in the center. It was old, the wood grey-colored and the door-hinges covered in rust.

  “What is this place?” Ethan asked, leaning against a tree.

  Ginny dipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out the iron key, smiling. “When my father was a little boy, his parents and grandparents came to America. My great-grandfather built a house in the city, but his son bought land to build a farm here. The first thing he built was this shed, where he and his horse lived until the house was finished. After that, they kept goats in here, until they sold the goats and replaced them with cows—which live in the barn near the house. It hasn’t been used for anything since Papa was a boy, and the barn cats live here, so there aren’t any rats or mice.” She fitted the key into the lock and turned it, and the door swung open with a drawn-out, painful squeal of long-rusted hinges.

  “No one comes here, and I have the only key, so you should be safe. Here, take this. There’s some bread, cheese, leftover chicken, a couple apples and some cranberry scones.” Ginny handed him the bundle of food and stepped aside. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s plenty of straw, and I’ll be back soon with a blanket.” With that, she turned and began to walk away.0

  “Wait!” the Captain called out.

  Ginny looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Yes, Captain?”

  He smiled his half-grin, giving her a low bow. “I would like to know the name of my kind benefactor.”

  Ginny turned to face him and dipped into a curtsey. “Miss Guinevere Phillips, at your service. Now, I really must be going.” She smiled, waved, and walked away through the trees.

  In the deep dark of the hours before dawn Ginny sneaked quietly down the stairs and slipped into the kitchen. She fumbled in a drawer for the strikers, withdrew them, and held them close to a paper spill. She clacked the strikers together and sparks leapt onto the paper, setting it alight. Ginny then held the burning spill next to the candle in her glass lantern, which caught quickly and burned merrily, casting weird dancing shadows around the empty kitchen. Holding the lantern aloft, Ginny ventured to the pantry, taking out the kitchen keys from their hiding place and unlocking the door. She stepped inside and rummaged around for what foods she thought would stay edible longest—a few small loaves of black bread, a wheel of cheese, and a sausage. She wrapped these in cloth and tucked them in a small satchel. She exited the pantry, closed and locked it, and returned the keys to their proper place. She crept to the kitchen door, grabbed her cloak off the hook where she had placed it earlier, and eased the door open. She held up her lantern, peering back and forth. Seeing no one, she left the house, closing the door softly behind her.

  She crept slowly and carefully through the orchard, holding her lantern high. Once or twice she stopped to pluck ripe, red apples from the trees above and stuff them in her satchel. A few minutes later, she arrived at the shed. Withdrawing the iron key from her pocket and unlocking the door, she eased it open as gently as possible. As it was, the hinges still made faint, protesting squeaks, but at least it wasn’t the ear-piercing squeals they had emitted earlier. Ginny stuck her head in and held up the lantern. “Captain Armstrong?”

  The Captain stepped out from the shadows deep in the back of the shed. “Here.”

  Ginny quickly stepped into the shed, shutting the door behind her, and hung the lantern on a hook. She pulled the satchel strap over her shoulder and handed it to him. “I put in some food for you here, enough to last you the journey to where the Continental army is encamped.”

  “And where is that?” the captain asked quietly, taking the satchel and slipping it over his shoulder.

  “Harlem Heights—I put a map in the satchel so you’ll be able to find your way. There’s also a letter of introduction to a nearby doctor that was a friend of my father’s. He’s a patriot, so he’ll gladly help you. The letter also requests that he lend you a horse for the rest of your journey.”

  Ethan opened his mouth, but Ginny shook her head quickly. “Don’t worry, I will pay whatever bill he sets. I have money of my own. He lives three miles north along the road, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find him. His name is Dr. Bartholomew Everly. Do you have that?”

  Ethan nodded, and Ginny took the lantern off its hook. “Then follow me!”

  She poked her head out of the shed, glanced back and forth quickly, then beckoned to the captain. “All is clear. Hurry!”

  She darted out and set off at a brisk trot towards the road, Ethan following behind her as quickly as he could. In a few minutes they had reached the road. Guinevere pointed north. “There lies your way, Captain Armstrong. With my map and Dr. Everly�
�s aid, you should arrive at Harlem Heights before sunset tomorrow. Godspeed to you, sir!”

  She turned to go, but Ethan said, “Wait, Miss Phillips.”

  Ginny turned back, an eyebrow raised. “Yes, Captain Armstrong?”

  “Why are you doing so much to help me?”

  Guinevere smiled and gave him a small curtsey. “I would do much more in the service of my country. I am glad I am able to help in so small a part at least. Farewell and Godspeed!”

  She turned and walked back the to the shed, gathering any remaining evidence of the Captain’s stay, and locked it tight. Returning to the house, she slipped inside as stealthily as she could manage and locked the door behind her. She hung up her cloak, blew out the candle in her lantern, and carried her small bundle upstairs. Inside her closet Ginny knelt and felt along the floor until she found a small knothole. She promptly stuck her finger inside it and pulled, lifting up a floorboard. Beneath was a small, hidden space, where Ginny kept her greatest treasures. Here she stuffed the small bundle of evidence and replaced the lid with a sigh. She would find a better time than the middle of the night to replace or return or permanently remove the things later—for now it was over and she could sleep. Ginny swiftly undressed, pulled on her nightshirt, and slipped under the covers. But a moment later she stood up again and tiptoed to the window that faced towards the road and peered out. All was dark and silent—the captain had gone.

  Ginny smiled to herself and climbed back into bed and fell asleep with a smile on her face.

  Chapter The Second

  Saturday, August 29th, 1778

  Ginny stood in the stables, patting the nose of her horse Aristotle. “The first of the apples, sir,” she said with a smile, offering a red, ripe one whose sweet smell wafted up towards her nose as soon as she brought it out of her pocket. “The very best, as you only deserve.”

  Aristotle accepted the offering graciously and munched it happily, apple foam coating his mouth. When he finished, he thumped her chest with his nose enthusiastically in search of more tell-tale, applely bumps.

  Ginny laughed and pushed his questing, eager nose away. “That is all you shall get today, good sir Aristotle. Wait until tomorrow. Hasn’t your philosophy taught you the value of patience?”

  Aristotle snorted, indicating he thought that philosophy had very little to do with ensuring one got the proper amount of apples. Ginny laughed again, gave her horse what he considered a rather condescending pat on the nose, and walked off down the aisle of the barn. The bright August sunlight shone down on her as she stepped out of the barn, and she grinned at it. Despite what her Mother-in-Law would say about keeping an unblemished complexion, the warmth of the golden sunlight called out to her, so she tipped her head back. Her straw hat slid obligingly off her hair, dangling down her back by its pink ribbons, exposing her face to the warm brightness. She closed her eyes in ecstasy and allowed her nose to fill with the smell of August—warm sunlight on ripening apples, clean straw from the stables, the green smell of grass and leaf, the faint scent of dust from the summer-dried road, and sweat. Copious amounts of sweat.

  Ginny frowned, thinking she had hardly done enough exercise to be smelling like that. She wrinkled her nose, opened her eyes, and found herself staring at someone she hadn’t seen for two years.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Captain Armstrong?”

  He swept off his tricorn and bowed. “At your service, Miss Phillips.”

  Miss Phillips realized three things in that moment:

  One: he shouldn’t be here, for the war had moved away and the British now reigned supreme in New York City.

  Two: He was clad in civilian clothes. And if British officers (such as the ones that were having tea in her mother-in-law’s sitting room this very moment) caught him, he would be hanged as a spy.

  Three: She was very happy to see him again.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed. “There are British officers in my house!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him after her, not stopping until they stood in front of the shed. She dropped her death-grip on him and dug furiously in her pocket. She had taken to carrying the key around for over a year—she never knew when it might be needed to help others fleeing British-occupied New York City, and she had used it for such a purpose several times already.

  She finally grabbed it and shoved it into the lock, twisting it violently. She pushed the door open to the groaning of the hinges and pulled him inside, slamming the door and shutting the deadbolt before spinning to face him with slitted eyes.

  The Captain wisely took a step back.

  “Now,” Ginny said, her voice low and dangerous. “I have enough on my plate helping people escaping the British to have addlepated officers in civilian clothing dancing on the lawn like it’s Mayday! Explain yourself, sir!”

  There was a long, tense silence. Then Ethan reached into his coat and withdrew a letter. “I brought this for you.”

  Ginny’s eyebrows shot up and her lips parted in surprise. “For me?”

  Ethan proffered it to her, his face serious. “For you.”

  A sudden finger of foreboding touched her, like a cold draft brushing across the back of her neck, and she shivered.

  She took it without a word, cracking the seal and opening it.

  Miss Guinevere Phillips, daughter of Lieutenant Colonel George Adam Phillips, Esq.—

  It is my deepest sorrow to inform you that on the 28th of June, in the year of our Lord 1778, your father fell on the field of battle in the service of his country.

  The letter fluttered to the floor.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Phillips,” Ethan said gently. His hand began to reach out, as if to comfort her, but he withdrew it and stepped back. He took off his tricorn hat in respect before turning away to give her privacy in her grief.

  Ginny sank to the ground and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if the pressure would erase or change the words she’d seen. “Papa…”

  She made a strange, gasping sob, her hands flying to cover her mouth to keep the sobs in. But then the tears escaped and streamed down her cheeks, no matter how hard she fought them. In the end she gave up and let the tears fall.

  Ethan peeked over his shoulder, and his heart burned at the sight of the girl kneeling in the straw, her shoulders and hands shaking like leaves. He dropped his hat and removed his coat, draping it gently over her shoulders. She clutched at it and drew it about herself fiercely. Her head fell forward onto her knees, and all but her trembling shoulders was still.

  Ethan gathered his courage and sat down next to her. After a minute, he slowly placed an arm across her shoulders, tugging her gently against his side. She didn’t’ resist, but limply allowed him to tuck her against him. Her head turned slightly and rested on his chest, and the dampness from her tear-streaked cheeks soaked into his waistcoat.

  There was one more shivering sob, and then everything was silent. Ethan bided his time, but finally pulled a handkerchief from his breeches pocket that was somewhat in need of a wash. He stuck it under her nose and wiggled it.

  “Here you go, miss. I expect you’ll be needing this.”

  Guinevere lifted her reddened eyes, staring in confusion at the scrap of white cloth he dangled in front of her. Then the girl smiled faintly and reached out to take it.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice was raw. She feebly wiped at her eyes and cheeks until the dampness disappeared, but Ethan could see how her eyes gleamed red and her lashes stuck damply together.

  “Is that better?” he asked solicitously.

  She nodded, attempted another feeble smile, and pressed the piece of white linen back into his hand. He stuffed it in his pocket. “Here, miss, wash the stains off your face.”

  He unhooked the canteen from his belt and handed it to her. He watched quietly as she uncorked it and splashed water on her face, before drying herself with the handkerchief. In a whisper so quiet that he barely heard, she asked. “How did my father die?”

>   “The Battle of Monmouth was a military mess. General Lee called for retreat against General Washington’s orders.”

  “Were you there?” Guinevere asked quietly. He shook his head.

  “No. I’m stationed in New York and Southern Connecticut as a member of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons,” he said. “I heard your father rallied his men in the face of defeat at the Battle of Monmouth and led them back into battle.” He glanced at her. “He was the only one of his company to die that day.”

  She didn’t move, and he continued. “One of your father’s majors thought you should know and managed to have the letter delivered to my superior along with messages from Washington. When Major Tallmadge found out I knew you, he gave it to me.”

  He glanced over at Guinevere. She was clutching his coat about her, staring silently across the room. Finally, she nodded. “Thank you for bringing me the news. I am grateful.”

  He bowed his head. “I’m glad to be of service, though this is a service I’d have preferred not to perform.”

  She turned to look at him. “I must return before Mother-in-law’s guests depart. Stay here for now.” She rose, but Ethan jumped up and stepped in front of her, one arm outstretched to bar her way.

  “You said before there are British soldiers here—why?”

  Guinevere looked away. “My mother-in-law is a Loyalist. She invites them to tea and hosts parties for them at Grandfather’s house in town.”

  Ethan’s eyebrows shot up. “And your father married her because—”

  “She lied,” Guinevere said shortly.

  “Ah,” said Ethan gently. “I’m sorry.”

  She huffed out a breath, then sighed. “It’s all right. I have gone through much already—I can handle a mother-in-law.”

  Ethan nodded, then cleared his throat nervously. Guinevere looked up at him curiously. “Captain Armstrong?”

  He glanced at the door, then pulled Guinevere away from the walls. “There was one more reason I came to talk to you.”