by DiAnn Mills
The latch lifted with a squeak, and she stood before a man who in the shadows resembled a huge beast. “For all that is just and right,” he whispered. In the next moment he grabbed her arm and flung her inside. “Lass, do you not know how dangerous it is to be out and about?” His stern voice, laced with a thick Irish accent, frightened her. In the darkness, this man could do anything.
“Are you not expecting something?” she said. Oh dear, I sound like an unscrupulous woman.
He said nothing for several moments, but oh how conscious she was of this giant of a man. “Did you tell me you brought scripture?”
“Yes sir.” Her voice sounded shaky, not at all courageous. “‘Delight thyself also in the Lord—’ ”
“Aye, you’ve said enough,” he whispered. “What bring ye?”
“Mr. Taylor was seized by the soldiers today.”
“Indeed.”
“I could not deliver my message, and I saw it goes to you.”
She heard him expel a heavy breath.
“You are brave to risk the night for our cause,” he said. “I expected a man.”
She stiffened. “I am able to go undetected in most places.” Delight reached down to unlace her shoe and to retrieve the document for Mr. Sullivan.
“Thank you, lass,” he whispered and took the folded paper. “Now, let me escort you home. It is not safe for you to be unescorted.”
“I would be most obliged.”
Suddenly his hand clamped over her mouth.
Chapter 2
Terror reigned through Delight’s body along with a measure of foolishness. She knew stealing out into the night to the wharf area without an escort invited peril.
Someone pounded on the door. “Open up. We are in need of spirits.”
Mr. Sullivan moved not a muscle.
“Open up, or we will beat down the door. Our captain requests a bottle.”
Redcoats! I’ve been followed. Caught!
Mr. Sullivan released her mouth and led her backwards. Surely all of Boston could hear her heart pound. “Just a minute. Can’t a man sleep?” Mr. Sullivan called. He pushed her behind what she thought was a barrel.
“You can go back to bed once you have given us what we need.”
The door creaked open. “And what would you like?” Mr. Sullivan said.
“Rum!”
“And do you have payment?” Mr. Sullivan demanded.
A laugh rose from what must have been two, possibly three soldiers. “Talk to our captain in the morning. We were told to get a bottle of rum, that’s all.”
“Not without payment.”
Silence invaded the room. Please, give them what they want.
“Either give it to us or we will take two bottles.”
Loathsome redcoats.
“I’ll get your rum,” Mr. Sullivan shouted. Shortly thereafter the door closed. “Are you all right, lass?” He bent to help her to her feet—this man whose face she had not yet viewed.
“I am well,” she whispered.
“Come, this has been a hard night, and no doubt you seek the comforts of your home.” A candlelight’s flicker opened the darkness, and she saw his face.
Once they silently disappeared into the streets, Delight gave thanks for her escort, and she prayed Papa had not detected her absence. Enough excitement had transpired for one day.
“I daresay this is the last time I can help,” she said. Without waiting for him to question, she continued, “Papa is moving us to Chesterfield in three days. I fear I am of no service there.”
“You have done more than your duty for the cause,” he said. “We are greatly indebted.”
“I would like to continue, sir. Please let those know who might need assistance in Chesterfield.”
“I understand, and I will extend your concern.”
When she saw the outline of her two-story home, she stopped. “I am quite safe now. Thank you for the escort.”
“Good evening, and may your father’s decision to leave Boston be a prosperous one.”
Delight straightened her shoulders and moved toward the back of her home, for now she faced the ardent task of slipping inside without detection. In three days, all of this would be memories. But tonight, vivid sights and sounds raced across her heart. She longed to do so much more, but God obviously saw fit for her to cease in her work.
She held her breath and lifted the latch. Setting foot on the plank floor of her home somehow relieved the burden of the night’s dangers. Only the stillness of sleeping inhabitants greeted her. I thank Thee, Lord.
Stealing up the stairs, Delight realized she would never forget the night’s happenings. Weariness threatened to overtake her. Alas, it would take a long time before her heart slowed its incessant pounding.
For more than sixteen months, Delight tried to appreciate the small town of Chesterfield, but it lacked the excitement of Boston. She’d hoped Papa would want to move back to their home city once the British deserted Boston in March of ’76, but he elected to remain in the quieter town. News of the war trickled in, although the patriots of Chesterfield eagerly strove to fight for their beliefs. Tories disgusted her, for she felt their loyalty to Britain was out of fear. She refused to listen to their viewpoint and wished all of them would board the next ship back to England.
She listened and took note of a few patriots who held the qualities of leaders, all the while praying she could again be of assistance to the cause.
In the past, Papa had attempted to take the middle ground, as though they were Quakers who dared not take up arms. But even before they left Boston, she saw him lean heavily toward the patriot cause. The incident at Mr. Taylor’s blacksmith shop was the turning point.
In Chesterfield, Papa often left the house in the evening and didn’t return until quite late. Mama fretted constantly, and once Delight heard them arguing about the war efforts when he returned. She quickly assessed her father had joined the revolutionary cause and wanted to enlist in the Continental army. However, Mama stood her ground and insisted he remain in his trade.
“We have no sons, Elijah,” Mama had whispered through a ragged breath. “If we did, then one of them could take over the cooper business.”
“Would you deny me the privilege of fighting for freedom?”
Silence permeated the house.
“My dear husband, I love you with all my heart. Is it so wrong for me to want you unharmed?” Mama’s tears stabbed at Delight’s heart. She understood her mother’s sentiments and her father’s longing.
“Freedom is always purchased with a price. I am not afraid to sacrifice my life so that our grandchildren will live without the tyranny of England.”
“And deny our unborn child a father?”
Papa did not reply. The only sound came from Mama’s muffled sobs. This baby was their eighth child, hopefully a boy for Papa.
Delight felt her own eyes sting. Frustration dug at her senses. At least in Boston she could do her part, possibly enough for Papa’s share. When the war for independence was won, she would tell him of the many times she had relayed messages to the patriots.
One of their new neighbors, Abby Rutherford, had brought a loaf of bread and a cheery welcome when they first arrived. She and her husband had two sons the ages of Mercy and Hope and seemed cordial enough until Mistress Rutherford mentioned her intense dislike of the patriots.
“We are of the mind that liberty is the utmost course for our country,” Mama had said with a smile.
Mistress Rutherford stiffened and moved toward the door. “I am dismayed at how you feel about King George. He is our established king. I certainly hope you soon come to your senses.”
Mama wiped her hands on her apron and stepped ahead of the woman to the door. “Thank you for the bread, Mrs. Rutherford. If you think a pompous, selfish man across the Atlantic cares about anything other than lacing his pockets with our money, then you have lost your senses.”
Mrs. Rutherford stomped out, red-faced. Mama whirled a
round and faced her daughters. “We women may not carry muskets and bayonets, but we can surely sear the Tories’ hearts with the truth. Remember, the truth shall set us free.”
Henry fought loyally for the British. Not once did he regret his enlistment, knowing at the end of the rebellion, he would live out his days in the colonies. He spent the winter of 1776–77 in Canada, fighting bitter cold and hunger from rationed provisions. He didn’t mind the vigorous training, for he acquired strength and a disciplined will about him. Pride and determination clothed him more securely than the white wool coat issued to keep him warm. He had made splendid friends. One in particular, Adam Bennett, had been drafted from a poverty-stricken area of London. In him, Henry found a kindred spirit.
On May 6, 1777, soon after the St. Lawrence River had thawed enough to allow passage, General John Burgoyne arrived in Quebec. Pleased with the training of his regular troops, Burgoyne set June 13 as the date to launch a massive campaign designed to free New York and the surrounding areas from the patriots.
“I heard the captain talking last night,” Adam said. He polished a black powder smudge from his musket before continuing. “Quite admirable of us, I might say. The captain said military brilliance had emerged from the Canadian forces.”
“Aye, Adam. I’m pleased. What else did he say?”
Adam leaned closer, staring down his long, pointed nose. “General Burgoyne said with the British right wing division under Major General Phillips and the German left wing division under Major General Baron von Riedesel, we are indeed an impressive and disciplined force.”
“I’m proud. This war will soon be ended, and we can all go about our business.”
On June 13, twenty-eight ships and several bateaux headed across Lake Champlain toward Fort Ticonderoga, where the hastily retreated Continental forces gave the British success. The campaign continued, and Henry’s optimism that the war would be quickly won gave way to endless fighting, following a long, grueling overland wilderness trail to Fort Edward. Henry faced fatigue and discontent in a land he had once believed was his destiny. He despised the rebel movement and vowed they all should be shot or hung for defying King George.
Just north of Albany, New York, at Stillwater, the fighting grew steadily worse. The Americans were proving to be a fighting force of their own.
Henry heard the order to advance. Gripping his musket, he charged forward amid the blinding smoke. The cries of wounded men and the blasts of gunfire spiraled terror through his body.
“Henry!” Adam shouted.
He turned to see his friend fall into bush and thorns. Dear God, no! Henry rushed to Adam’s side and pulled him into a clearing. Blood gushed from his friend’s chest and onto his uniform. Henry covered the wound with his hand, staring in horror at the crimson river flowing between his fingers.
“Let me bandage you.” He looked for help, but his compatriots were involved in heavy fire. He saw another soldier fall.
“Spare yourself,” Adam whispered. “Thank …” He breathed his last.
Henry held his friend a moment longer, not certain what he should do. The idea of abandoning Adam seemed cruel. A moment later white-hot pain seared his upper leg. He grabbed the torn flesh and viewed the flow of blood oozing between his fingers. This time it belonged to him. A moan escaped his lips, and he fell beside the lifeless figure of his friend. Conscious of the battle going on around him, he continued to fire his weapon until blackness overtook him.
August 1777
“I saw Connor Randolph staring at you after worship yesterday,” Charity said with a smile. “He is quite handsome.”
“He’s a Tory,” Delight said. “I would rather cut off my right arm than look his way.”
Charity’s eyes widened, and the conversation seized the attention of Remember, Faith, and Patience.
“You should not say such things,” sixteen-year-old Remember said. Known for her devotion to biblical teachings, she would most likely be reciting scripture in the next breath. “‘But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you.’ ” She lowered her lashes in reverence.
Delight fought the anger rising inside her. Crossing her arms, she stiffened to do battle with her sister using a piece of scripture from the Psalms. “‘I have pursued mine enemies, and destroyed them; and I turned not again until I consumed them. And I have consumed them, and wounded them, and that they could not arise; yea, they are fallen under my feet.’ ”
“How can you say such things when our Lord directed us to love our enemies?” Remember touched her heart.
“Watch me,” Delight said. “I shall stitch those verses onto a sampler.”
“Hush, you two.” Charity’s normally pale cheeks heightened in color.
Why did her sister even bother with peacemaking effort? After all, Charity had started the disagreement with her reference to a Tory casting his hideous glances Delight’s way.
I must calm down. Considering her position in the family, Delight fought her desire to produce more rebuttals. “Forgive me for upsetting you. I simply have decided opinions about those loyal to England.”
“I agree with her,” Patience said, a rarity, given her timid nature. “Here in Chesterfield, our lives are quiet, but do you remember the soldiers in Boston? Have you forgotten how they arrested our friends?” She smoothed her apron, then toyed with a wayward strand of hair.
Wise thinking, Patience. Delight hugged her sister’s shoulders. “Let’s not quarrel, sisters. We have seen and heard enough about the war. We all want it to cease. For me, I cannot fathom an end until we are free of the British.” When she saw the dismayed look on Remember’s face, she touched her cheek. “You have heard Papa say he wants to fight. I know your heart.”
Remember wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded.
The idea of Papa enlisting frightened them all, and Delight understood that each of her sisters responded differently.
“Quarreling will not make things better,” Charity said, her tone soft as a whisper.
“And I’m quick to argue and state how I feel,” Delight said. “I am the oldest, and I need to set a better example.”
“Is it so wrong to want everyone to live as Jesus wants?” Remember said.
“No, not at all,” Delight said. “Unfortunately, it is impossible when we are all so sinful. And what of us? We are a loving, Christian family, and we constantly quarrel with each other.” Delight glanced into each sister’s face and silently prayed. Oh Lord, please keep my family safe and help me to love them more.
“I don’t love the soldiers or the Tories,” Patience said, her attention focused on the wooden floor of their home.
Charity reached for Remember’s hand. “We will all try harder and pray more for each other and for the end of the war.”
A week later, Delight still pondered that day’s conversation with her sisters. She punched down the bread she was kneading, added more flour, and worked it into the dough. Baking bread had a way of diminishing her problems and unanswered questions—especially when she slapped the dough against the table.
Just this past Sunday, the minister at their meetinghouse had spoken against the patriots. He even held a special prayer service for those loyalist lads who had enlisted to fight with the British—the detestable Connor Randolph included. Papa, Uncle Matthew, and a few other men vehemently protested, stating the same should be done for those enlisting in the Continental army, but the minister refused.
“My household will no longer be associated with this meetinghouse,” Papa announced, his voice booming above the mild-natured minister.
“My wife and I included.” Uncle Matthew stood beside Papa.
“You are speaking against the king,” Connor Randolph’s father said. He rose to his feet and clutched the pew in front of him. “You and your patriot friends will be punished for your treason.”
“Anyone who shares in our beliefs that freedom is worth any price is welcome.” With those words, Papa nodded to Mama, a
nd all of the Butlers left the building.
As Delight considered these events, she remembered her determination to love her family more and help keep them safe. Often she reasoned God had made a mistake by not making her a boy. She prayed for God to use her for His purposes, and she could not stop entreating Him to give the patriots victory and freedom for their land.
As she divided the bread dough and shaped it into loaves, Mercy and Hope burst through the door with Bear right behind them. The two girls, ages nine and eight, were only thirteen months apart and looked very much alike, each with a splash of freckles across their noses.
“Where is Papa?” Hope said between breaths. “We have to tell him something important.”
Delight smiled into their sweet faces. No doubt they had seen a snake or a fox while they took a break from their chores and rambled over the countryside. “He is due back any moment, girls. Can I help you with something?”
They both shook their heads and gulped for air. For the first time, Delight saw alarm in their eyes and immediately feared the British had arrived in Chesterfield. “Why? What is wrong?”
Mama emerged from her chair at the spinning wheel. Delight read the silent concern in her face, too.
“British soldiers are just outside of town. They’re marching this way,” Mercy said between gasps.
Delight hid her dismay. Is Chesterfield going to be another Boston? Are we to once more cower to the redcoats’ demands?
“But some of them look hurt,” Mercy continued.
Wounded. Oh my, I didn’t want Mercy and Hope to be exposed to the ugliness of war. Wanting to reassure the girls, Delight formed her words. “I’m sure they are simply in a hurry to get somewhere. Would you like to help me with the bread?”
Before the girls had an opportunity to reply, Papa stepped inside. The two younger girls ran to each side of him.
“What goes on here, my angels?” Papa wrapped his arms around each girl.
“We saw British soldiers,” Hope said, “and we’re frightened.”
