Chase the Dawn

by Jane Feather

  Was there a traitor in their midst, or was it simply that the Loyalists were getting wise to the fact that the local Patriots were a force to be reckoned with? It was high time they did, of course. In the last seven months, Ben and his band had carried off enough arms and ammunition to supply a small army, their ability to do so facilitated by the arrogant indolence of their Loyalist opponents, who neglected to take sufficient precaution against an enemy they had consistently underestimated.

  A musket ball whined, almost clipping his ear, and Benedict judged it time to make his own escape. He stepped backward into the line of trees and seemed to vanish as a separate figure distinct from the dark shapes of the nighttime forest. It would be dawn before he reached the cabin in the clearing, but he found that he preferred to sleep during the day. For some reason, the simple bedstead had become hard and unyielding, emphasizing the loneliness of the nights. Miss Paget, of course, would be luxuriating in featherbed comfort, sleeping until the sun was high in the sky, waking to a day where her every need would be attended to by those whose sole purpose in life was to ensure her comfort and minister to her pleasure. Had she forgotten what fried hominy tasted like? How to peel a potato? Wash dishes? Of course she had. Of course she had put such aberrational knowledge behind her in the last seven months, together with whatever memories she might have carried of that strange intermission in the even tenor of her privileged existence.

  He had seen her just once, in Williamsburg, during the winter season when, despite the war and differing loyalties, all the prominent families had followed established routine and moved into town from their country estates. She had been entering one of the imposing mansions, a Persian quilted cloak over a ballgown, her hair dressed fashionably high and lightly powdered. He had heard her voice with those well-remembered clear tones expressive of the effortless superiority of the elite. They were tones he knew he shared, but somehow that knowledge had not prevented a surge of irritation as the outcast had drawn back into the shadows. He had wanted to strip the finery from her, to take down that magnificent raven’s-wing hair, to see it disheveled under his twisting, twining fingers, to drown those crystal accents under the throaty murmurs, the little cries and whimpers of pleasure as she lay beneath him, above him, beside him….

  Dear God! He was haunted by her. Even in the midst of battle when his mind should be on killing, he thought of loving.

  “Those damn Patriots!” Sir Edward paced the long drawing room, twiddling his eyeglass, which was suspended from his neck on a thin silver chain. “How the devil do they dare call themselves by such a name! I’ll see them all hang, the murdering bastards!”

  “Sir Edward!” Eliza protested this virulent language with a faint bleat, which her husband ignored.

  Bryony stilled the quiver of her fingers and asked, “What has happened now, Papa?”

  “Destroyed hundreds of pounds’ worth of gunpowder,” spat her father. “At least they didn’t manage to make off with it themselves this time. Those damn British commanders have at last decided that they are not playing in a sandpit with a group of babies and are making some attempt to fight back. Got two of them last night.” This last was uttered in tones of savage satisfaction, and Bryony felt the sick dread tug at her belly again. Every time she heard of yet another Patriot raid on Loyalist property, another skirmish, heard the tally of dead and wounded, she waited to hear that the bearded leader was one of either group. With the same terror, she waited to hear that one of the captured wounded had revealed under questioning the identity and whereabouts of the mysterious man who planned and orchestrated the increasingly daring succession of raids.

  “Two dead?” she asked now, casually, as if the question was of only minor interest.

  “Yes, and not from these parts, so we can’t identify them.” Her father sighed. “If those dithering idiots would finally take Charleston, maybe we could get somewhere.”

  Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis were in the process of mounting a third attack on the seaport, two previous attempts having failed, and there was much grumbling among the Virginia Loyalists these days, who saw their own side frittering away the advantages of manpower and training while the dogged revolutionaries continued to wreak undercover havoc, proliferating like mushrooms, bouncing back seemingly undeterred by reversals.

  “If Washington and Lafayette come south of Delaware to back up Benjamin Lincoln at Charleston, the entire South could go over,” the Englishman continued, still pacing restlessly. “Those damn Patriots don’t wage war like gentlemen. They are forever stinging us with these damned hit-and-run raids.”

  “They do appear to be remarkably adept at purloining your weapons,” murmured Bryony.

  “Not my weapons, daughter!” Sir Edward snapped. “Our weapons. Or do you not consider yourself to be a part of this struggle?”

  “Of course, Papa.” Bryony made haste to recover her slip. “But work with weapons is the province of men.”

  It was a deft answer and one that seemed to satisfy her father, who merely humphed and demanded to know if she intended to ride with him that morning. Bryony, deciding that the conversation had strayed dangerously close to her own forbidden boundaries, agreed with alacrity. Exercise in the soft March air would do much to restore her equilibrium. However, her father’s conversation took an even more unwelcome turn once they had attained one of the bridle paths running through the woods bordering the plantation.

  “You attain your majority at the end of May,” he began without preamble.

  Her heart sank as she recognized what was to come. She and Francis were no nearer a solution and, indeed, she had allowed the issue of their marriage to lapse from memory and thought when it seemed that her father was also prepared to let it fall into abeyance. Now she murmured an assent and waited.

  “It would please me if you were to celebrate your marriage on the same day,” Sir Edward said. “Do you see any difficulty with such a plan?”

  “I must talk with Francis,” Bryony offered hesitantly. “Perhaps he has some idea of his own.”

  Her father stared at her incredulously. “My dear child, I trust you will show your husband obedience and respect in all things, but the day of your wedding is yours alone to decide. Your bridegroom will accept whatever date you choose, so long as he is physically empowered to do so.”

  “I would still like to discuss it with him,” she replied. “I myself would prefer to wait until Christmas.”

  Sir Edward sighed. “I have been uncommonly patient with you, Bryony. Indeed, foolishly indulgent many would say, including your mother, but you cannot procrastinate further. You have had seven months to recover from the extraordinary business of last summer, and now you must resume the pattern of your life. Unless …” He looked at her sharply. “Unless you have some unassailable reason for not wishing this marriage.”

  It was worth a try, Bryony thought. “I do not wish for any marriage, Papa. Francis is aware of this and would release me willingly—”

  “That is enough!” her companion thundered, and the raking bay he rode skittered in alarm. “I have never heard such foolishness and have always thought better of you. You sound like a half-witted female with no more sense than a loon. Next, you’ll be telling me you wish to become a bride of Christ.”

  “No, I won’t,” she said. “I am not that simple-minded.” She laughed deliberately and shrugged, as if the subject were easily dismissed. “Will you not allow me until Christmas?”

  There was a short silence while Sir Edward wrestled with the familiar conflict between ensuring his daughter’s happiness and insisting that she do something she did not care to. “I will put it to Sir Francis,” he said eventually. “But if he does not like it, then I will not argue with him further. You will marry on your twenty-first birthday.”

  Bryony made no further demur. It would be up to Francis to persuade his father to agree to another postponement. Not that procrastination was any long-term solution, but she knew Francis believed that the longer
the final confrontation was delayed, the better were his chances that she would agree to the convenient marriage. And perhaps, in the end, she would, Bryony thought with a dull stab of painful recognition. As memory faded, and her knowledge of the glories that could exist between man and woman were blunted by time, maybe she would settle for a deadening mediocrity. At least marriage to Francis would hold no surprises—pleasant or otherwise.

  “What the devil’s going on!” Sir Edward’s exclamation broke the silence that had continued between them for the rest of their ride. They had just turned into the gravel drive leading to the house, only to find it much resembling a major highway. A barouche was bowling up the drive ahead of them, two horsemen could clearly be seen approaching the house, and a riding chair stood at the steps leading to the front door.

  “Mama is not receiving, is she?” Bryony asked, frowning. “She would have expected me to be at home.” The sound of hooves behind made her turn her head. Francis Cullum cantered up to them.

  “Have you heard the news, sir?” He was clearly in a state of great excitement.

  “It would appear not,” Sir Edward said dryly. “Although the world and his wife seem to have descended upon me in the two hours of my absence.”

  “Oh, what is it, Francis?” demanded Bryony as images of Benedict hanging from the gibbet in the town square blocked her vision.

  “Major Patrick Ferguson of the British army,” Francis told them. “He has come to take command of the Tory forces. He is a career soldier and will know just how to deal with this Patriot rabble.”

  “About time,” rumbled Sir Edward, nudging his bay into a canter. “Now, perhaps, we can organize ourselves and cease this hole-in-the-corner skirmishing.”

  It was come at last, Bryony thought, following at a more sedate pace. The time Ben had talked about, when men must bear arms and fight for their loyalties, was upon them. That would mean that Ben, too, would come out of hiding, would wage war in the open, probably far from here, wherever the battle took him, and she would never know what became of him.

  The house was in an uproar, servants and slaves running hither and thither with trays of refreshment, little knots of women fanning themselves and whispering their fear and excitement as they looked at their menfolk engaged in serious, ponderous conversations.

  Now that the governor had left, the Paget house was always the focal point for any local excitement, since Sir Edward was the man everyone turned to when community decisions needed to be made. It was inevitable, therefore, that when news of the imminent arrival of Major Ferguson had reached the community, the world had flocked to the Pagets’.

  Bryony ran upstairs to change out of her riding habit, then, correctly attired in a morning dress of blue-patterned chintz over a quilted silk petticoat, she descended to the drawing room to play the role of daughter of the house, assisting her mother in the reception of this unexpected influx of guests, which, it could now be anticipated, would continue throughout the day. Dinner must be provided for however many chose to join the family; later there would be tea and then supper; and even beds would be provided for those who decided to avoid the perils of returning home in the dark in various stages of sobriety. Such was Southern hospitality, and it would not occur to anyone, be they guest or host, to question the obligation of the mistress of the household to provide, or the rights of the guest to receive without stint.

  Bryony, as usual, was more interested in the men’s talk than in the wailing and flutterings of the women toying in titillated fear with images of the horrors of war, of how they would manage when their men went off to do battle.

  “We need men, arms, and money,” Sir Edward was declaring in all-encompassing fashion. “Ferguson cannot be expected to do the job without the right tools. We must set up a committee to organize a series of rallies. There are those amongst us who still sit on the fence; they must be brought down upon the right side.”

  Bryony could find it in her heart to feel a little sorry for those unfortunates who were about to be brought down by her father upon the “right” side. And the Lord have mercy upon those who chose to jump the other way, or were even slightly dilatory in offering up themselves, their worldly goods, and whatever else might be demanded of them by the zealots. Smiling, curtsying politely, she apologized for interrupting such serious talk and invited the gentlemen to repair to the dining room if they so desired.

  “Have my study prepared after dinner for a meeting, Bryony,” her father said. “You will ensure that we are to be disturbed by no one except yourself, who will answer the bell should I require anything.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Bryony said with another demure curtsy. Whatever was to be discussed was clearly not for the ears of servants. If she played her cards correctly, Bryony thought, she could contrive to remain in the room throughout the deliberations and planning. Her father would not object, so long as she was not obtrusive, and no one would be impolite enough to question their host’s decision in such a matter. She needed to know what was planned for one reason, and one reason only: so she could imagine what Ben would be doing, where he would be directing his activities; as long as she could do that, she still felt as if they were in some way connected. Just as at night she would re-create the feel of the straw mattress beneath her, see the dim light of the cabin, the shadowy shapes of the primitive furniture, and she would feel that the distance between them was not infinite, even though she knew that it was.

  “Ferguson? What do we know of him?” Benedict Clare twirled the delicate stem of his wineglass between his fingers as he posed the question to Paul Tyler.

  The planter frowned, helping himself to a dish of pickled crab on the low table between them. “A British career soldier of some repute. He was with Howe in Philadelphia and, if rumor has it right, was not backward in his criticisms of that general’s tactics.”

  Ben’s mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “One could hardly have praised Howe, could one?”

  Tyler laughed. “No, indeed not. An extended rest period in the city of Philadelphia and dalliance with the wife of a fellow officer were hardly aggressive tactics. But I think we must avoid underestimating Patrick Ferguson. He commands the respect of the most zealous Tories, and is not averse to the use of plunder, burning, and murder if they will serve his purpose better than a gentlemanly pitched battle.”

  Ben nodded, pursing his lips. Then he rose and went to the window, where the curtains were drawn tight against the night and any prying eyes. He drew the drapes aside, gazing out into the midnight blackness. The plan took shape, the lines solidifying, and the tremor of excitement flared, sending a surge of energy to the very tips of his fingers. It was outrageous, reckless, but to carry the battle into the enemy camp, to perpetrate a monumental deception on that arrogant breed … oh, it was irresistible! And he would see her again. She would not betray him any more than he would betray her. No harm would come to Bryony Paget through his plotting, except in as far as his attack was aimed at her castle.

  Did Benedict Clare have the right to satisfy his own passionate need to see her again at the expense of whatever peace and resignation she had gained in the seven months of her return? It was not a question he wished to ponder. He had a job to do and that came first. Whether he wished to see Bryony Paget again or not, the battle whose victory would bring him sweet revenge was paramount. The fact that it might also satisfy a secondary, personal need was basically extraneous. Quibbling conscience thus dismissed, Benedict turned back to his host, who had been watching him in interested silence.

  “What are you brewing, Benedict?”

  “Oh, a most powerful potion, my friend; one of wormwood and gall, fire and brimstone.” Ben chuckled and rubbed his hands. “I shall require a little help, however.”

  Tyler refilled their glasses. “I am at your service. Whatever I am able to do, I will.”

  “I need to turn some articles into hard currency,” Ben said directly. “For obvious reasons, I do not wish to be identified with the transactions,
so I need a broker. Will you act for me in this?”

  Tyler nodded. “Am I to be a party to your plans?”

  “But of course.” Ben sat down on a velvet-covered chair and picked up his glass. “Listen well, Paul….”

  Half an hour later, Paul Tyler, momentarily rendered speechless, stared at his companion. “You are run mad, Ben! It will put your head in a noose.”

  “Only if I am discovered prematurely,” Ben replied calmly. “There is no reason why that should happen.” Tyler knew nothing of Bryony Paget’s sojourn with the Patriots, and Ben deemed it unnecessary to tell him of it at this late stage. It would only add to his concerns. “You must admit it is a sound plan. Dangerous, I grant you, but one does not achieve much by risking little.”

  “And it is time you came out of the woods,” Tyler mused, almost to himself. “I had not imagined quite such a dramatic reentry, but perhaps, knowing you as I do, my friend, I should not be surprised.”

  “And you will help?”

  “Without question.”

  The two shook hands and Ben slipped out of the house by the side door, making his way, just another shadow in the gloom, down to the river, where his canoe was tied. Paul Tyler was the only person living who knew that Benedict Clare, scion of one of Ireland’s oldest families, was also a runaway bondsman from Georgia. And it was to Paul Tyler that Benedict owed his life and his continued freedom. The filthy, emaciated, fever-ridden man, his back a mess of infected sores, whom Paul Tyler had stumbled upon on the riverbank nearly three years earlier, bore but superficial resemblance to the man now paddling his canoe through the network of creeks that would take him back to his own run without venturing onto the main river highway.

  He owed Paul Tyler his sanity, too, Ben reflected. The planter had taken him in, healed his body, asked no questions until the day Benedict, his strength regained but the soul’s agony still as raw and infected with bitter hatred as ever, had attempted to take leave of his benefactor. Ben had shouldered the chest that contained all his worldly goods and his history, to which he had clung throughout his flight with all the desperation of a limpet. He had had no plans beyond the conflicting needs to keep running and to exact vengeance. Tyler, with quiet resolution, had called in his debt, demanding to know Benedict’s full history.