by Jerri Hines
* * * *
Marcus paced. He had arrived earlier than arranged. He checked in his side pocket for the time. He had dressed with care, reminding himself of his duty, in his dress uniform, clean-shaven, immaculate. Andre had cautioned him numerous times. He understood the importance of him accepting the situation. He may have understood, but he hadn't often lost what he had set his mind on obtaining. The Patriots had made it impossible to take Hannah back with him in the position he wanted, threatening to expose secrets she had discovered, most he had suspected would at the least embarrass General Howe and open up questions of his own actions. The thought of such infuriated him. His actions, he thought. How dare they?
But Andre had been correct. They didn't have to prove, just accuse. It would be enough. Andre pointed out his own good name would forever be tarnished, not just for him, but his family.
Within him, he understood all too well what the Reverend had said held truth. Hannah would never be completely happy and without the baby to hold her. The whole of his world collapsed around him with the news came of the attack. He had come so close, but had lost.
Tom had been critically injured. At first, they hadn't expected him to survive, but he pulled through. Unfortunately, his two servants hadn't been as fortunate. The attack couldn’t have come at a worse time. They had been in the process of changing guards.
The sound of carriage wheels diverted his attention. He stood nervously as it pulled to a stop not far from him. Reverend Brown exited first and offered his hand.
Marcus stood frozen but a second. She stood there, heartbreaking lovely in a simple gown. Her hair pulled back, but some had escaped, framing her face. A cloak wrapped around her on this cool autumn morning.
“We'll be around the bend only. An hour. I'm sorry to you both, but that was what has been agreed upon. Hannah, your health, remember.” Reverend Brown withdrew back into the carriage with a look to Marcus. In which, Marcus acknowledged. He may not have agreed, but he understood the arrangement.
Even before the carriage exited from view, Marcus had her within his arms. He kissed her. Tears fell from her eyes as she returned it.
“I'm so sorry, Hannah. My God, I'm sorry,” he uttered. He found a comfortable spot for them to sit. Her eyes had changed; her face strained, pale.
She raised her hand to his face. “It wasn't your fault. I'm fine.”
“Did they hurt you? My God, Hannah, what have you had to suffer?”
“Nothing as bad as losing you,” she whispered.
He took her within his arms and held her. He took in a deep breath. This was the hardest thing he had ever to do. He stared down into her eyes. “Oh, my God, what am I going to do without you? I love you, Hannah. But I'm so sorry, so sorry. I have been so selfish.”
“Marcus, don't leave me then. I need you so. Take me with you as we planned. I feel as though a part of me has died and I can't make it without you,” Hannah pleaded. Her body trembled. Her hand gripped his tightly.
Marcus cupped her face. “Don't ever say that! You'll make it. You'll survive, because you must. I want you to. I want you to have the life you always wanted, Hannah. I want you to be happy.” He smiled down upon her tear stained face. His hands wrapped around her beneath her cloak, embracing her tightly.
His tone softened. “Don't get me wrong, my love. I'm not sorry for what we had nor will I ever be. From the day I first saw you smile until the last night we spent together, you'll always be with me. War has taken a lot from you. Don’t let it take anymore. Don’t look back.”
He had difficulty speaking the words, convincing her of a conviction he himself didn’t feel. He drew in a deep breath. “You told me once I would forget you, but how can one forget one’s heart? As long as I live you will always be there.”
He kissed her again.
“I can’t do this, Marcus,” she whispered. “I can’t bear.…”
He shook his head. He found he had lost words. He held her as if forever, but soon the carriage came within view. He took her once more and kissed her one last time. The Reverend exited the carriage. Hannah’s hand gripped Marcus’s tightly. The Reverend gently pressed against her hand to release it.
Marcus could do nothing but watch the Reverend usher her up the step to within the carriage. On her first step, she collapsed within the Reverend’s arms. Marcus instinctively ran to her side, all thoughts of the arrangement pushed aside. He didn’t notice the horse riding up.
A hand placed on his shoulder stopped his advance. “Thank you, Colonel,” the man said. “I can assure you we’ll well look after her.”
Marcus stared straight into the stranger’s eyes. Taking all within him to restrain himself, Marcus stepped aside. The Reverend allowed the man to sweep Hannah back into the carriage. The Reverend tied the man’s horse to the back of the carriage.
Reverend Brown glanced over at Marcus. “At the moment it may not seem so, but Colonel it’ll be for the better. Give it time.”
Marcus watched the carriage disappear from view. Anger built within him, they had well lied to him, all of them including Andre. For a moment the recognition of why Andre insisted she stay on British soil dawned upon him and they had agreed. He knew when he held her. She was still with child…his child.
Chapter Eleven
SARATOGA
The air on this September morning in upper state New York was foggy and cold. British soldiers were advancing over woody and hilly terrain. The sunlit vapor fumed up between the trees. Jonathan could feel it within the air what was to come.
American scouts had been coming in steadily reporting British positions to General Gates, where his army had grown to seven thousand men. The weather cleared. Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the distance. Colonel Morgan and Major Dearborn emerged from General Gates intent upon a mission.
Morgan, tall and broad shoulder, emitted the air of authority as he commanded his rifle corps.
His voice dominated the morning air. “Move out, men!”
No hesitation, and within minutes the men prepared to shadow the British advance.
Morgan turned to Jonathan. “Doc, what are ya doin’ up front with us?”
Jonathan shrugged, “When I was assigned to you, I figured I might as well tag along with you instead of behind. I'm sure to be in the thick of battle. Being a fellow Virginian, you'll need me if someone goes down. I've been known to handle a rifle.”
Morgan smiled a bravado grin like he was taken with a doc, who seemed virtually unconcerned about his personal safety. “Ain’t gonna argue with ya. Can’t take ‘em peacocks in the back of the line neither. Then let's go.”
No words were necessary as they moved. Hand gestures and looks were all they needed. Shortly after noon, the riflemen engaged the pickets of the British center column in a clearing of the fifteen acres owned by one Isaac Freeman. As the riflemen positioned themselves, Jonathan stood back and watched the riflemen circled around the column.
A call arose, “Hold for a signal!”
Jonathan held his breath. The order rang out.
“Fire!”
The aim of the riflemen, accurate and sure, made short work of the picket. Not long after, the sounds of the rifles diminished. The advancing column was devastated. Morgan's riflemen had delivered a volley that had wounded or killed every officer within the column. No one was left standing in the bloody mess. Intoxicated with victory, the riflemen enthusiastically pursed the pickets retreating. Jonathan followed close behind. Running through the New York field, Jonathan's eyes caught sight of movement ahead. A detachment of British infantry.
The infantry charged into the pursuing rifleman. Across a front of twenty or so yards the British followed a charge of their own.. Screams and cries echoed as the riflemen were driven back and scattered. Then they melted into the woods. Jonathan, confused as the rest, ran madly backwards, stumbling across a fallen rifleman. He stopped and bent down to the man, no more than a boy. His eyes stared open wide. He had been shot in the back trying t
o retreat.
Jonathan quickly closed the dead child’s eyes. There wasn't anything he could do for him. He grabbed his musket, flintlock and powder. Jonathan caught the savagery around him as a British soldier charged toward him.
The bayonet of steel flashed in Jonathan's eyes. He sidestepped his attacker. The soldier missed his target. Not giving the man another chance, Jonathan swung round and kicked the soldier in the back, knocking him downward. The soldier pulled himself up readying to make another attack.
Tramping over the underbrush, Jonathan found Colonel Morgan. Bruised and blooded, Morgan stood alone. Anger shone within his eyes. His face reddened; his eyes bulged. Morgan yelled. “God damn soldiers! Stand and fight like men!”
Jonathan dashed to his side. Upon recognizing Jonathan, he cried, “I ain't hurt, Doc!”
“Didn't say you were. Let's regroup down below these hills. I haven't even started to fight. Have you?” Jonathan countered. His heart raced rapidly.
“Say one thing about you, you got balls, Doc!” Morgan clasped his back and ran with Jonathan.
Withdrawing within a wooded area, Morgan let loose a turkey call, the kind used to decoy wild gobblers, calling his men. Little by little his men reappeared. Morgan rallied his troops with Dearborn's.
Jonathan, no longer trailing and waiting for causalities, walked alongside the riflemen as one of them.
By the end of the day the Battle of First Freeman's Farm had been fought. Casualties on both sides were heavy, but the British lost twice as many men as that of the Americans. A long time had passed since Jonathan had fired a rifle, but his instinct was still intact. He held tight to the rifle during the battle. His hand at first slippery, he wiped it once upon his pants.
Jonathan lowered his rifle to reload. He smelled the stench of powder and smoke. Surrounding him were cries of the wounded and dying that he could do nothing to help. His hands unconsciously packed the powder to fire again.
Shots fired all around him.
Progressing forward, bodies littered his way. Men lay dead where they had fallen. Half blown off faces, blood-gouting stumps, dead men’s eyes stared back at him. Blasted all! Catherine!
Anguished, he picked back up his rifle.
He listened carefully, and with precision, squinted, aimed, and fired. He fired again and again. The orders stood: fire at British officers, distinctive targets in their bright uniforms. In the end the Americans had halted the advance of one of the best armies that Britain had ever sent to America.
Jonathan worked endlessly into the night and into the next day doing the job he had been assigned to do—the wounded, a good two hundred. He worked alongside the other surgeons within the hospital tent. The tent, as most battlefield tents, reeked of the malodor of urine, excrement, sweat and flesh.
Jonathan, as he had pledged when he chose to become a physician, gave the best treatment to each patient he saw. But he had learned quickly the ones that had the better chance of surviving when time was of the essence.
Outside of the tent, Jonathan took a deep breath. He had long passed the point of exhaustion. He might well find sleep this night.
Jonathan ignored all around. His only concern now was his cot. He had no knowledge if or when a counter attack or battle would ensue. When he rounded the tent, he encountered a bright cheerful face.
Colonel Morgan looked as though he hadn't changed clothes since the battle hence. “Doc! Wondered where ya' went to!”
“I'm afraid I had to attend to the job I had been assigned to do, Colonel,” Jonathan answered the man.
“I forgot, with the way ya handled a rifle. Y’know I figure we’ve been fighting together in this war for awhile and haven’t even been properly introduced and all. I know ya when I see ya, but I figure we need to have a drink together. I was on my way back to my tent,” Morgan gestured to the direction he was taking.
Jonathan couldn’t come up with a reason to excuse himself and found he had no desire to either.
“What time is it, Colonel?” Jonathan asked, entering the tent behind the Colonel.
“I believe around five.”
“That late. I had no idea. I have seemed to have lost my sense of time,” Jonathan said and took a seat. His body ached with fatigue. He yawned.
“I have to send for me a meal. I'll get ya' one to,” Morgan stated. “Tired, eh, Doc. It won't take long.”
Jonathan looked up at Morgan with his weary eyes. He nodded. He didn't even notice when the Colonel returned. He must have closed his eyes. The next thing he knew Morgan took a seat beside Jonathan. He stabbed a hand through his disheveled hair.
“I like ya', Doc. Tell ya' a Virginian. A fearless, driven man. Knows woods fightin’. But ya a little too driven maybe, at the moment,” Morgan eyed Jonathan carefully.
Jonathan shrugged. “I believe we need to have a firm stance if we are to be victorious. Bold advances.”
“Heck, got no doubt about that. But ‘tween us, I had an interest where you’re concern,” Morgan acknowledged. “A friend of yours of late had a conversation about you. Wanted me to speak a few words. Been dealt a few blows, eh, Doc.”
Agitated, Jonathan shook his head. “I'm fine. Who would be concerned about such?”
Morgan raised his eyebrows slightly and shrugged. “A guy named Glover. It seems your behavior has caused him some worry. Glover said you're too valuable to be risking your life like ya are. Worried you might be intent on not coming back.”
“It's not a worry,” Jonathan said simply. He had not the energy to argue.
Morgan rolled his tongue over his teeth. “Wait just a minute, Doc. Maybe I should tell you what I said to Glover, was it wasn't your fault you weren't killed in the last battle. Now was it? Now I ain't saying it to ruffle your feathers. Glover, ain't told me nothin' about ya', except how you just lost your wife. Mentioned you father and brother died for the cause.”
Jonathan rubbed the side of his head. He was so tired. “I do appreciate your concern, but it's misdirected. I feel strongly about the cause. Shouldn't we all? Isn’t that what we all are doing? Don’t you go out every battle, unafraid of the consequences?”
Morgan laughed. “Hell, no. Can't say that I do, Doc. Scares me like hell every time. Rathe’ be back home huntin’, but ya' right that I do it 'cause I believe in what we're doing. Enjoy kickin’ that royal ass, but I want to come out of it alive. I want to enjoy the product of what we have fought so hard for. I would fight like the devil to get out of anything alive.”
“Ah, then you have nothing to redeem yourself for, Colonel. And able to sleep at night without your conscience gnawing within you.”
“I can assure ya', Doc, I've made my share for sure,” Morgan shot back. “Pray, Doc, what could ya' haft done?”
“The list is too long, Colonel,” Jonathan melancholy responded, but continued, not knowing if everything he had kept inside was coming out. Maybe because he wanted to expel his soul or his fatigue had worn upon him. “The people I held most dear, my family, had faith in me and because of that faith....”
Jonathan stuttered. He took a deep breath. “I was betrayed by one I trusted more than life itself. My family suffered because of that betrayal. I have no control over how my life has gone.”
“I don't know many that does, Doc. And I 'specially don't know anyone that hasn't made mistakes,” Morgan tilted his head back. “We are at war, and my mistake can cost soldiers their lives. I ask ‘em to follow me and some won't come back. But I look at things as I done the best I could. I n'ver ask anyone to do something I wouldn't do. You got no control over other people, Doc. Nobody does. We need men like ya'. It's a lot to lose your wife. I know how I'd feel.”
Jonathan laughed. “No, I don't think you do. I have lost much and my heart has broken, but not concerning my wife. If she wasn't dead already, I could suck the life right out of her. I gave her everything. I loved her and she betrayed me. You don't understand. You couldn't.” Jonathan paused. The whole of his body shook. “I hate her
memory and try to drive it out of my mind. If you want to know what drives me, when I fought the other day, I didn't remember.” He wanted to add he couldn't see her lovely face so clearly; hear her voice; feel her touch and realize she betrayed all he loved.
Morgan leaned back over and poured Jonathan the cup of rum he had promised him. He handed it over methodically. “Doc, then I don't see a problem. She is dead, get on with it. We have enough problems facing us within our own camp that you won't have time to think of anything else. We got the New Englanders and the Yorkers going at each other for credit of the battle. Gates is fixin' to relieve Arnold of his command if he don’t keep his damn mouth shut. H'lf our troops ain't even trained properly and I wouldn't even consider what they have on uniforms. Now would you?”
Morgan shrugged. “But see the only thing I’m concerned with is winning this damn thing. I ain’t much good in politics. I call it the way I see it. But I believe in my men, Doc. I got a knack for reading people. Whate’er it is ya’ are fighting within ya’, we can’t afford for ya’ to let it effect ya’. We don’t have time for ya’ to feel sorry for yourself.”
Jonathan spit his drink out of his mouth. Coughing, he denied, “I don’t”
“What would ya’ call it? Got a boy, don’t ya? He’s going to need his Pa. Maybe you’ve forgotten whatcha fighin’ for,” Morgan’s tone changed. “It’s up to ya’. Drink down your rum. Tomorrow’s a new day and I want ya’on my line of command. Not bad having a doctor that can fight as well as ya’ and doctor at the same time.”
Jonathan exhausted having spent the last bit of his energy. He drank down his rum. Morgan toasted to him and finished off his own, but when the sentry brought in his supper, Morgan turned to Jonathan who had within the hardback chair found sleep.
* * * *
For the next three weeks the only fighting occurred within the Americans own ranks while waiting for the British to make a move. Jonathan watched with annoyance the commanding officers fighting among themselves. Instead of taking satisfaction that their military strategy had placed Burgoyne in dire straits, the commanders volleyed for accolade from Congress. With each exertion, the door was rapidly closing upon Burgoyne’s chance for victory
