Chase the Dawn

by Jane Feather

  “Ever hopeful!” Bryony leaned against a wall and lifted her foot, examining the sole of her shoe. Blood stained the leather, and the thought of what she would find beneath made her feel a little sick.

  “Stay here with Ned,” Ben instructed briskly. “Charlie and I will seek out Greene.”

  “Why can’t we come, too?” Bryony looked doubtfully down the dirt road, where groups of men wandered aimlessly.

  “Because, sweeting, I do not wish to present myself to my new commanding officer surrounded by a gaggle of women and children,” he said bluntly.

  Bryony glanced around, eyebrows raised. “Gaggle?” she inquired. “I see no gaggle. Just us.”

  Charlie chuckled but said, “Ben has the right of it, Bryony. It doesn’t look very soldierly for a colonel to report for duty with a child on his hip.”

  “Well, how are you going to manage to keep us hidden?”

  Ben spoke more sharply than he intended. “I have no intention of keeping you hidden, but until I find out what the position is here, I do not intend to parade you in front of the army’s high command.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode down the road.

  Charlie handed Ned to Bryony, offering her a hesitantly sympathetic smile, which she returned with an obvious struggle. “It’s only because he is worried about you,” Charlie said. “He has been dreadfully concerned about your foot, and now he must find lodgings and food—”

  “Yes, I know,” Bryony broke in swiftly. “It’s always the way when he is harassed.”

  “Yes,” agreed Charlie with a slight shrug. “I had best not be dilatory in presenting myself to Greene.” He went off at a trot in the wake of the rapidly disappearing Benedict, and Bryony, finding a relatively dry spot, sat down by the side of the road, holding Ned on her lap, both of them huddling into her cloak for warmth.

  “There’s but three days’ rations, General, and the country is almost laid waste. The inhabitants plunder one another with little less than savagery.” The staff officer finished his gloomy report to Nathanael Greene as Benedict Clare and Charlie Carter were shown into a square parlor that served as staff room.

  General Greene turned from his contemplation of the small fire in the hearth and looked at the new arrivals. “Who have we here?”

  Benedict spoke for them both, and the handsome, florid veteran listened attentively. “You were at Kings Mountain, you say? Then you’ll do best to join Daniel Morgan’s men. He’s gathering together groups of local militia, men who’ve been fighting as you have been. He’s in dire need of regular officers who understand the frontiersmen and their style of battle.” Greene turned to his staff officer. “Ask the brigadier general to join us, will you, Lieutenant Bates?”

  The staff officer left, and Greene frowned thoughtfully. “We’re in a mess, Clare, as I expect you’ve gathered. A few ragged, half-starving troops in the wilderness, destitute of everything. We live from hand to mouth. There’s no morale, the armory is all but bare, and we face an army three times our strength. We will make but a poor fight, I fear. It is difficult to give spirit to troops that have nothing to animate them.”

  “Do not underestimate the backcountry folk, sir,” Benedict said. “They are bold and daring above the ordinary. With leadership and a purpose, they will fight for you.”

  “Well said, sir!” Booming agreement came from the door, and Brigadier General Daniel Morgan strode in. The old Indian fighter, who had commanded riflemen in the Northern campaigns until sent with Greene to rebuild the Southern forces, regarded the tall, lean Irishman with approval. “Bates tells me you’ve both been with Sumter’s raiders.”

  “Aye, General, but when we heard news of your arrival in Charlotte, it seemed time to return to the open again.”

  “You are well come, indeed.” Morgan clapped them both on the shoulders. “We’ll be spending some time organizing ourselves before we’ll be fit to fight. The officers’ billet is not the lap of luxury, but you’re welcome enough.”

  Charlie coughed and looked at Benedict, who said carefully, “We’ll need to find a billet of our own, General. I do not travel alone.”

  “Oh?” Nathanael Greene’s bushy brows shot up, and all eyes were on Ben, who found himself unaccountably embarrassed.

  “My wife is with me, sir.” He settled for the plain, unvarnished truth. “Also a small child whom we found in one of the villages that Ferguson had passed through—the only survivor and a remarkably tenacious lad.” A slight smile touched his lips. “He does not choose to be left.”

  “They’ve been with you all winter?” Morgan seemed incredulous. He had little difficulty imagining the kind of living they would have had with the guerrillas in the mountains.

  “My wife has been with me since I joined General Gates before Camden. She is quite a campaigner.”

  “She must be,” muttered Greene. “Well, you know your own business best, I daresay. We do not have sufficient rations for families, I should warn you. We may be able to feed the two of you—”

  “That will be my concern, General,” Benedict interrupted, a little stiffly. “I will look to my own.”

  “Yes, well … uh, good, good. That is all settled, then.” General Greene, restored to his customary cheerfulness, rubbed his hands together over the fire. “I am sure you will be able to find lodgings in the village or nearby, for a small outlay.”

  “It will have to be very small,” murmured Charlie, only too aware of their scant resources.

  “There’s a cottage near the church,” Lieutenant Bates said suddenly. “A bit tumbledown, and deserted because the men are afeard of ghosts from the cemetery. It’s said they walk during the full moon.” He shrugged. “I’d not care for it myself, but it could be made habitable with ingenuity.”

  Ben smiled. “That is a commodity we do possess, for all that our pockets are thin. And I’m sure we’ll find only friendly specters. My thanks, gentlemen.” He saluted, beaming now that his major problem was a fair way to being solved. Charlie saluted in turn and followed Benedict from the house. “Now,” Ben said, “let us first look at this cottage, then we can surprise Bryony with a home.”

  “I think you should fetch her first,” stated Charlie. “She is sitting at the road, in all this wind. I am sure she would prefer to be doing something.”

  “I don’t want her walking unnecessarily on that foot.” Ben frowned. “But I daresay you’re right. She will be mad as fire if I leave her alone any longer than I need to. Fetch her and bring her to the church. It’s down that lane.” He gestured to where a small spire rose above the stone roofs. “I’ll reconnoiter.”

  Charlie loped off up the street to where a very impatient and disinclined to be placated Bryony remained, huddled against the wind. “We think we have found us a house,” he said, helping her up, wincing in sympathy as she flinched when her foot touched ground. “Shall I carry you?”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd!” Bryony bit back both a low moan and the tears of pain and weariness, choosing acerbity as an effective mask. “I should warn you that if Benedict is inclined to be snappish, then we shall have an uncomfortable time of it, because I am not at all in a good temper.”

  “No, I can see that.” Charlie swung Ned onto his shoulders. “But if the house will do, then Ben will be as happy as a sandboy, and you will not be able to provoke him, however hard you try.” That drew a chuckle from her as she hobbled at his side, accepting the support of his arm.

  The cottage by the church was most definitely tumbledown, the roof sagging, the windows glassless, weeds choking the tiny garden. But there was a well and, to Bryony’s unbridled joy, a necessary house at the end of the garden. Sanitary arrangements when one moved with a marauding band tended to be limited, and she was heartily sick of bushes and ditches and trees.

  “I think we are in luck.” Ben appeared in the cottage doorway, smiling happily. “I shall have a fire going in no time, and there are a few sticks of furniture that can be pressed into service. The roof needs some patching,
but it’s no great matter.”

  Bryony stepped through the door into the small, dark, one-room interior and burst out laughing. “Only you, Benedict Clare, could say that this is luck. Cattle are housed with more decency.”

  Ben’s face fell. “I will do what I can, lass, to make it habitable.”

  “Oh, you silly!” She flung her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “I was only funning. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s a veritable palace after what we have been used to. And there is a privy! Just imagine that.”

  “I don’t think you are going to want to use it until we have rid it of the spiders and other crawlers.” He laughed, his spirits restored. “But before I do anything else, I am going to look to your foot.”

  “I don’t think that that will be very easy,” Bryony said doubtfully, sitting on a rickety three-legged stool. “The shoe seems to have become stuck with blood to my sole.”

  Ben looked a little grim. “Ned, go outside and collect sticks for the fire. Little ones for the kindling. Can you do that?” The child nodded importantly and disappeared at a run. “Charlie, we are going to need water. There is a bucket by the well. It’s to be hoped it doesn’t have a hole in it.”

  Charlie followed the instruction as cheerfully as Ned had done. One did not object to receiving orders from Benedict Clare. He knew too well what he was doing, and without his skills, they would none of them have survived the past few months.

  “Now, let me see.” Ben knelt down and lifted Bryony’s foot, subjecting the mess to a frowning examination. “I am going to have to cut the shoe off, lass, and then try to soak off the patch. But I’ll need hot water.”

  “I got some sticks.” Ned, with a gap-toothed grin of satisfaction, stood in the doorway, his arms full of twigs.

  “Good lad.” Ben took them from him. “We’ll get the fire going first.” He knelt before the chimney and peered up it. “Of course, if there’s a bird’s nest up there, or some such, we’ll be smoked out. Ned, see if you can find a long stick that I can poke up the chimney.”

  Bryony smiled to herself, feeling the relaxation seep into her despite her raw, bloody foot. Benedict Clare, with a job to do, was a joy to watch, and it did not occur to her for one minute that he would fail to turn this abandoned hovel into a haven of warmth and comfort. Such doubts did not occur to Ned or to Charlie, either, and their trust was not misplaced. The chimney was poked and pronounced free of obstruction, kindling laid, flint struck, and fire created. The lug pole over the fire was intact, and a kettle of water was hung over the blaze. A straw broom made an appearance in a gloomy corner, and Charlie was set to sweeping while Ben, at Bryony’s insistence, went to render the privy usable.

  “I am going to the officers’ billet to scrounge a lamp,” Charlie announced, replacing the broom in its corner. “I am certain they will be able to spare one. Shall I ask for anything else, Ben?”

  “How about a couple of chickens, some milk, and some coffee?” Bryony suggested, only half joking.

  “Bring what rations they will allow us, Charlie,” Ben said quietly. “They will at least form a base, and we’ll see what we can buy to augment them.”

  Bryony examined her fingernails with a concentration that their cracked and dirty condition did not encourage. Ben could be remarkably sensitive sometimes, when his ability to provide was hampered by conditions outside his control; at such times, she and Charlie needed to be especially careful with their teasing complaints. She exchanged a rueful look with Charlie as Benedict turned away to test the temperature of the water heating in the kettle.

  “I come, too, Charlie.” Ned jumped to his feet, holding out his hand imperatively.

  “No,” Ben stated in the soft voice they all knew. “We’ll not play on sympathy.”

  “What’s that?” demanded the child, although he resumed his seat at Bryony’s feet without argument.

  “What Ben means is that after one look at your big brown eyes, Ned love, the soldiers will give us all the milk and food we need,” Bryony said, stroking his hair.

  “They don’t have sufficient for their own needs.” Ben hoisted the kettle off the fire. “This is ready now.”

  “I’ll be about my business, then.” Charlie disappeared, and Bryony gritted her teeth, facing the upcoming ordeal.

  The silence in the room was disturbed only by the sound of water being wrung from the cloth that Ben was using to soak the leather glued to the wound, and the occasional shuffle of his knees on the earthen floor as he shifted position. Ned sat watching, the tip of his thumb between his teeth. Bryony’s eyes were closed. It seemed easier that way to separate herself from the excruciating pain as Ben tried to ease away the leather that was embedded in her flesh. She spoke only once, in a tiny voice. “I do not think I want you to do this anymore, Ben.”

  “I must, sweeting,” was the only reply, uttered in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone that did more to bolster her courage than all the sympathy in the world. The task was done at last, and the torn, soggy mess of her foot could be washed and bound. Ben wiped her tears with his grubby handkerchief and kissed her. “You are a grand campaigner, my sweet, but you’ll not walk on that foot for a few days. We must fashion you a crutch.”

  For the next three days, Bryony hobbled around the cottage doing what she could to make it more comfortable. They now had straw palliasses, which were a great improvement over the bare earth. Ben and Charlie patched the roof and tightened the shutters, so they were warm, at last. There was no shortage of firewood, but there was a shortage of food. That problem, and trying to induce Ned to use the necessary house rather than a bush as he was accustomed, became Bryony’s main concerns during the long hours that Benedict and Charlie were about the business of pulling together this weak and disparate force.

  The store rations allowed two soldiers were scant and could not begin to feed four, even when one of them was a mere five-year-old. Ben and Charlie had pooled their resources, and Bryony, once her foot healed, went out on daily foraging expeditions armed with a few pennies, to see what could be bought. She discovered soon enough that those who had were not prepared to share, except for an extortionate sum. There were chickens, cows, and goats in the hamlets outside the town, producing eggs, milk, butter, and cheese. There were smokehouses, where bacon and hams hung. But the possessors of these riches wanted more than Bryony’s pennies. She was by no means the only one in search of scarce provisions, and the atmosphere in the countryside was sullen, fear and mistrust on every face.

  The first time she stole, she found herself flooded with an amazing conflict of emotions—primarily, incredulity at how easy it had been, followed by a strange excitement, then sheer joyous satisfaction at the thought of the four eggs at the bottom of her basket. Guilt, when it came, was not powerful, and Bryony decided that hunger and privation were excellent tutors when it came to replacing the moral values of a lifetime.

  She glanced down at Ned, who was trotting along beside her. He had seen her take the eggs from the bowl on the shelf in the dairy when the farmer’s wife had grudgingly gone off to fetch a cup of milk for Bryony’s proffered penny. He had said nothing, however, and she was unsure whether she should mention it. She did not want him blurting her new profession to Benedict, but neither did she want to involve such a child in a conspiracy of silence. In the end, Bryony decided to leave well enough alone. If it came out, then so be it.

  As it happened, either Ned had not found anything strange in Bryony’s behavior, or he forgot what he had seen. There were delighted exclamations when Bryony placed a dish of scrambled eggs upon the table that evening, and her airy explanation that a kind farmer’s wife had found Ned irresistible went unchallenged. After that, Bryony turned thief with careful deliberation. She took only enough for the four of them and only from places where her coin met grudging acceptance and bought little. Bacon and cheese began to make regular appearances on the table in the little cottage, ham bones enriched pots of broth. Only on one occasion did she overreach h
erself.

  A cold chicken stood on a kitchen table, inviting possession. An old woman, grumbling about beggars who could not provide for themselves or their children, took six pennies in exchange for a cup of flour and a jug of milk. She had tottered off to fill the jug when Bryony whipped the chicken into her basket, grabbed Ned’s hand, and flew out of the kitchen and across the yard. A loud yell came from behind, and she looked over her shoulder to see the woman making remarkable speed in pursuit. Ned’s little legs were going like pistons, but he could not keep up with Bryony, who was obliged to swing him up onto her hip. Sobbing for breath, she rounded a corner in the lane and dived behind a bramble bush, burying them both and their ill-gotten gains in a muddy ditch. The woman came round the corner, swearing vigorously, but the lane was empty and she was clearly at the end of her strength. After what seemed an eternity to the cowering fugitives, she turned and went muttering back home.

  Bryony began to laugh as relief not unmixed with satisfaction at her audacious coup swept over her. Ned started to dance, singing gleefully, and they made their way back to Charlotte, laughing and singing, the prospect of cold chicken for supper adding piquancy to the excitement of the aftermath.

  “Where the devil did this come from?” Ben walked into the cottage at dusk, Charlie on his heels, and stared at the bird sitting proudly on the table.

  “Sit down,” Bryony instructed. “I am going to demonstrate my carving skills. I spent many hours with the carving master in my other life and am determined to show how well spent they were.”

  “Where did it come from?” Benedict repeated. “Chickens cost a great deal more than six pennies.”

  “I worked very hard for it,” said Bryony. “Do not question gift horses, Benedict. Sit down, or you will not have any.”

  “Well, I don’t care where it came from,” Charlie stated fervently. “I think this is an occasion to broach the ale.” He filled three beakers from the keg that formed part of their rations and sat down, rubbing his hands together in hungry anticipation.