The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale

by Regina Kammer

  “He’s also a viscount, I believe. Don’t those titled men all need heirs? If it were you, you’d want a healthy, fertile nymph in your bed putting out a bevy of little lords-in-waiting, wouldn’t you?”

  Sam laughed. “I suppose you’re right.” He shook his head. “Still, I find all of that a little disturbing.”

  “Is she pretty?” asked Pat.

  “She’s somewhat unkempt at the moment, but yes, I would say she was … rather beautiful, really.”

  Pat snorted. “And I’m sure General Strathmore married her for that quality, as well.”

  Sam saw one of his scouts approaching. “Pat, do me a favor—”

  “You mean, ‘Lieutenant Hamilton, follow my orders’,” Pat reminded him.

  “Yeah, yeah. Go to my tent and make sure the lady in question is being treated well. See if she needs anything. Food, water, whatever.”

  “The young, beautiful wife of General Strathmore is in your tent, captain?” Pat’s tone dripped with insinuation.

  “Oh, Christ! Stop! Just get out of here!” Sam poked him in the ribs in encouragement.

  Corporal Andrew Ross approached on horseback, a little winded. “Captain Taylor, sir.” The corporal’s voice held a tremor. “There’s two redcoats. Isaac—I mean Corporal Holmes, is with them. They’re dead, sir.”

  Well, this was news. “Dead? How long?”

  “I couldn’t tell you really, sir. Blood’s not too dried. Maybe a day or so.”

  Fresh blood? Sam mounted his horse. “Take me to them.”

  The corporal hesitated. “Sir, there’s something else. Their bodies … well, they’ve been mutilated in a particular way.”

  “Mutilated?”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “Their, uh, manly parts have been cut off.”

  Sam blinked. “Oh.” His men had not seen much battle action since the war began. They were fortress-bound sentries and scouts, not infantry or cavalry. Such a sight would be horrifying to a young man, a boy really, such as Corporal Ross. “Lead me until we can see Corporal Holmes. Then you turn around and go back to camp.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The two men stirred their horses to a trot and rode for an hour or more, until Corporal Ross pulled up his reins.

  “This is where I leave you, captain, sir. Isaac Holmes is over there, by that clump of bushes.”

  “Thank you, corporal,” Sam said gently.

  Andrew saluted and sped away.

  Sam approached the area slowly, until he saw Corporal Holmes standing, scratching his head, and surveying the scene before him. He looked up at the sound of Sam’s horse and saluted.

  “Hullo there, captain.”

  “Hello, corporal,” Sam said as he dismounted. “So, Isaac, what do we have here?” He approached the area Isaac was investigating behind the bushes and stopped in his tracks. Before him lay the bloody bodies of two British officers, their chests riddled with stab wounds, and their crotches indeed stained a deep red.

  Isaac pointed his foot to an object by the fatter body. “I think that’s his, uh, male part, captain.”

  Sam looked more closely. The object did indeed appear to be a penis, perhaps a little smaller than what he had seen in his life. “Have you done any investigation in the surrounding area?”

  “We found two horses, which I presume were theirs,” said the corporal. “Nothing else. No other sign of redcoats—” he paused as he gazed upon the particularly messy scene. “Er, I mean, lobsterbacks. We know of no one in the area working for us,” he continued. “Unless it was Bridgers’s men.”

  “Bridgers wouldn’t dare do something this abhorrent,” Sam said, looking around. “He’s a businessman. He has too much at stake to be linked to this sort of attack.” He glanced at the flaccid, bloody member and winced. “This looks almost like someone took revenge.”

  “Yeah,” said Isaac. “I agree. And something about the dead men doesn’t look right, like they were killed but not robbed. You know, in a time when supplies are short the dead are often robbed. Especially to just leave the horses. So it wasn’t locals either. This was revenge.”

  Sam spied a bottle under the fatter soldier and retrieved it gingerly. He cursed to himself when he recognized the label as a wine Paul had recently acquired from his French sources, then glanced at the corporal. Isaac was busy checking out the boots on the other body. It was of course possible that the British officers had somehow acquired the same wine on their own, but he did not want to risk any implication of a connection to Paul Bridgers. The taint of murder would destroy the legitimate side of his business.

  Isaac looked up. “What is it, captain?”

  “Just an empty bottle of wine. The same stock the British supply to their officers. I thought it might be a clue.”

  Isaac simply nodded his acceptance of the explanation and said nothing. Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Captain, I hate to mention it, but, you know, shortages and such. Should we strip the bodies?” The corporal seemed both fascinated and somewhat sickened by the scene before him.

  Sam surveyed the dead officers. Everything covered in blood would be difficult to wash out. “Just the boots and stockings. Buttons and hats. Anything metal. Accoutrements. The cuts and blood have rendered the other articles unwearable, really. Unless you think something can be salvaged.” He looked over at Isaac. “You have the horses?”

  “Yes, captain. And their tack. Weapons, too.”

  “Good. Then, after stripping these two, corporal, why don’t you go on and return to camp? You’ve done enough work for today. I’ll have a look around and join you later.”

  “Yes, captain.”

  Still holding the wine bottle, Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Isaac swiftly and thoroughly followed orders. Certain the corporal wouldn’t notice, he placed the bottle in his saddlebag. He wasn’t sure what he would do with it, maybe try to burn the label off. He just wanted to get it away from the bloody scene. He paced the perimeter looking for any other items of value or any incriminating evidence, but found nothing.

  He continued to feign investigation as he heard Isaac mounting and riding away. He needed just a moment alone. Something very bad had happened and someone had committed murder. It wasn’t the crime so much as the need for revenge, for justice, that fascinated him.

  Sam breathed in the crisp morning air. Well, war is war. He mounted his horse and rode away, leaving the bodies for the British to find.

  * * * * *

  Clara tried to eat daintily, but she was absolutely, ravenously hungry. The officer who had inquired about her needs, Lieutenant Patrick Hamilton, had provided her with a substantial portion of food—salt pork with beans—probably the same ration the soldiers ate. He also gave her water, which she had finished long ago, and a tankard of cider. She thought briefly that the food might be poisoned, but hunger prevailed over reason. Lieutenant Hamilton sat at a mean table across from her in what she was told was the captain’s tent. He made very little small talk, mostly about the food, all the while keeping a watchful eye on her movements.

  “That cider is the very best in these parts, you won’t find any better. Our own Mrs. Scott brews it. The captain makes sure the officers have it when we’re at camp.”

  The cider was quite good. She hadn’t had much of the stuff since arriving in the colonies, having been told it was common. But since living with Paul she had learned to like it, although she still hadn’t learned to tolerate it very well and would get tipsy rather quickly, something Paul had found endearing.

  Clara regarded the lieutenant as she took another sip of the tasty brew. He was a fine-featured young man, with soft hazel eyes and curly brown hair, and appeared almost dashing in his regimental attire. His voice was matter-of-fact, but he was clearly trying to convey calm reassurance that Clara had not fallen into the hands of rapacious thugs.

  A tall, well-built man entered the tent, the same man Clara had met earlier.

  The lieutenant stood up
. “Captain,” he greeted, saluting.

  “Lieutenant, I see you have provided nourishment to our guest,” said the captain, seating himself at the head of the table. “And how do you find our simple fare, my lady?”

  The man whom everyone knew as “captain” was of the same height and build, and probably age, as Lieutenant Hamilton. He was, however, unshaven almost to the point of having a beard, with wild, unkempt hair. He was not wearing a military uniform, but instead the ragged clothing of a huntsman.

  The man was practically a savage.

  “The food is good, thank you,” Clara managed to say between bites. She truly was grateful. She needed sustenance if she was to escape later.

  “I am afraid I have failed to introduce myself properly. I am Captain Samuel Taylor of the 4th New York Regiment. We’re camped here for the duration of our mission, which is almost at an end. Our permanent garrison is Fort Revolution. You, it seems, are now our guest.”

  Clara coughed and grabbed her cup to take a sip of water. She almost coughed again when she realized it was the cider instead. This was the man Paul had wanted her to contact? He had not actually told her what Samuel Taylor might look like. She decided to proceed cautiously. It could be a trick. When Paul arrived, and it was indeed proved to be the very same Samuel Taylor, surely they would all understand her initial reticence?

  “My lady,” Captain Taylor continued, “word of your kidnapping has reached us, although we were of the understanding it took place closer to Manhattan Island, so you can see we are a bit dubious as to your identity. Plus, and I mean absolutely no disrespect, you seem a bit young to be the wife of General Strathmore.”

  “And you seem a bit young for all these rebels to be calling you ‘Captain’,” she said boldly.

  “Touché, my lady, touché.” A smile played upon his lips. “Your accent, at least, would lend credence to your claim of nobility.” He studied her, his gaze flickering from her head to her feet. “Although the lack of a wedding band is suspect—”

  Perspicacious pettifogger. She had left the damned thing on the table next to the bed.

  “—yet your dress is of exquisite fabric and workmanship.”

  Her husband’s damned officers had dismissed her finery too quickly. But this young captain stared at the quilted petticoat peeking out at the opening of her cloak with such an intensity it felt like he was boring right through to her stocking-covered legs. She shifted in her seat.

  His gaze returned to her face, his eyes sparkling with apprehension of something. Perhaps it was that her dress almost matched the blue-gray of his irises.

  She flushed. Why on earth had that just crossed her mind? She hid behind her cup of cider.

  “How is it that you came to be wandering in the woods, Lady Strathmore?” the captain asked with a touch of gentleness. “How did you elude your captors?”

  “I ran away.” Clara was surprised by the abruptness in her voice.

  “Your husband has not attempted to find you? Our intelligence has told us that your husband would do anything to get you back.”

  “The general did come for me,” she blurted before she could stop herself. She drew in a deep breath and found she was a little dizzy. Maybe more than just a little.

  There was an uncomfortable silence as the tent started spinning.

  “And…?” The captain raised his brows.

  “That’s when I ran away.”

  “Hmmm.” His lips thinned, which was most likely an exertion on his part since they were rather luscious. “So, why were you kidnapped? Who kidnapped you?”

  “My husband owed money to a man. It was he who kidnapped me.”

  “Ah!” He looked expectantly at her.

  She returned his gaze but found it difficult to focus as the tent was still off-kilter. She concentrated on a delicate curl poised by his ear.

  He blinked.

  He really had lovely eyes.

  “Lady Strathmore, please, go on,” he encouraged with a wave of his hand.

  “Then my husband’s troops went after the man. I ran away at that point.”

  “And General Strathmore’s men did not try to follow you? We understand that his men are rather loyal, to the point of brutality.”

  “They did look for me.” This captain fellow was asking far too many questions.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers on his temples. “Did they find you?”

  “Yes,” she said sullenly, remembering what had happened only that morning. Clara looked away as emotion welled inside her. “They did not realize who I was.”

  He leaned in. “Why would they not realize who you were when they were looking for you?”

  “They thought I was a … one of the local women. They … they abused me,” she said quietly. “Then I escaped.”

  The captain stared at her, stunned. He blinked his lovely eyes in wonder. A moment later his countenance softened. “Who was the man your husband owed money to?” The gentleness had returned.

  “I cannot tell you,” she murmured.

  “You cannot tell because you don’t know him, or you will not tell?”

  Clara remained silent. She didn’t have complete confidence in her ability to lie at the moment.

  The captain drew in a deep breath. His luscious lips thinned again. “Your husband’s soldiers, the ones who found you, where are they now? Could they have followed you? Might they know you are here?”

  “No,” she said succinctly.

  “Lady Strathmore, are you certain? Please, how do you know?”

  “Because they are dead.”

  He started, his expression akin to amazement with perhaps a touch of admiration. “Thank you, Lady Strathmore.” He motioned to his subordinate. “Come. The lady has had an eventful day, lieutenant. Let us leave her in peace for a moment.”

  As they left, Clara spied the chamber pot under the captain’s bed. She really had to pee.

  * * * * *

  There was very little peace to be had at the camp, for which Clara was almost grateful. She needed distraction from the anxiety that had begun to build. The captain’s questioning had brought to the fore all the awfulness that had transpired that morning.

  A steady stream of cadets entered the tent throughout the afternoon to mumble over maps laid out on the captain’s cot, shooting her surprised glances as they wandered in and suspicious ones as they marched out. Outside, soldiers ran about shouting orders peppered with profanities. As evening descended, one regaled a sniggering colleague with an obscenity-laced story, his excited tenor easily filtering through the canvas wall. Such things were precisely why her husband forbade her to ever go near the barracks by their farmhouse. Clara paced the length of the tent, observing it all with amusement and apprehension.

  Night fell quickly, bringing with it new activity. Soldiers called out sentry duties, or—quite unbelievably—protested said orders. If such flagrant disregard for authority was typical in the colonies, how did the Americans expect to win their war?

  Captain Taylor came in carrying a lantern and flashed her a tired smile. “Good evening, my lady. I hope you have not been too bored in your captivity?” He set the lantern on the table.

  “Oh, no, captain. There was plenty to keep me entertained.”

  He grunted, and went to a narrow side table with a pitcher and basin. He grabbed the pitcher, then hesitated. “I apologize for my discourtesy, Lady Strathmore. Would you like to wash up?”

  The dirt and sweat had crusted on her face. She was also in desperate need of a hairbrush, but that was possibly going a bit too far. “Yes, thank you, captain. I would like that.”

  He called for another basin to be brought to his tent. He poured water in one and, when the other arrived, filled that up as well. Then Clara watched in utter shock as he stripped off his tunic and shirt and plunged his hands into the water. He proceeded to splash his face and upper body, wash with a well-used cake of brown soap, then splash some more.

  “This is for you,” he said
pointing to the other basin, his face and hair dripping wet. He grabbed a dingy towel and vigorously dried himself.

  She could not take her eyes off him. Lamplight played off the contours of his muscled arms, his chiseled chest, his rippled abdomen, shadows made all the more prominent by the highlights of dampened skin. A trail of dark hair teased her as it disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. His body was perfection, like that of an ancient sculpture her brother once allowed her to see at a museum.

  Confusion and anxiety dizzied her brain. A very attractive man was half-dressed before her, wanting her to join him in a rather intimate activity. She hadn’t really recovered from the heady experience of the cider. Was this how they planned to assault her? Get her drunk, then make her take off half her clothes under the pretense of bathing? Up until now the Americans had kept a respectful distance and she was beginning to trust them, to accept they were the ones Paul had said would offer her safe haven. Now, suddenly, she was not so sure.

  She stood unmoving, staring at the captain. He put the towel down and regarded her quizzically. He spied the soap, picked it up, walked toward her, and held it out.

  Clara jumped back. He was too close to her, much too close. She gaped at his nakedness in horror.

  He returned her gaze, his forehead crinkling in puzzlement for only a moment before he colored from his hairline down as far as she felt comfortable looking. He sucked in his lips and calmly placed the soap on the side table, then slowly turned his back to her and shuffled into a clean linen shirt and deerskin tunic.

  He said nothing as he strode out of the tent.

  * * * * *

  Sam found Pat waiting for him on the dark side of a tree trunk, out of earshot from his tent. “Christ, Pat, she’s really skittish.” He kicked the ground and raked his fingers though his still-damp hair.

  “Of course she’s skittish. She’s being held prisoner.”

  “Yeah, I know, but, well, I mean—” Sam stopped, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Look, you heard about those redcoats Andrew and Isaac found today—”

  “Yeah? … Oh, God,” Pat groaned in realization, slumping against the brittle bark.

  “Exactly! They assaulted her in some way, she didn’t specify how, possibly raped her. And then she somehow turned the tables and castrated them. God only knows what she did to her initial captor, the man her husband owed money to.”