Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  And didn’t she owe Uncle Jonathon for how she had deceived him?

  Jonathon returned the letter to his breast pocket.

  “I will do it. I will deliver the letter.” Jenny’s voice was firm.

  “Are you certain, Jenny? It’s the only thing I’ll ask you to do. I promise.”

  She took the blue silk shawl and the letter.

  Chapter 4

  Andrew had ridden for three days to reach Fredericksburg, Virginia, the first destination on his journey. Having eaten the last of his food ration at noon the day before, his hollow stomach felt stuck to his spine. Loud rumbles protesting hunger had accompanied him through the night. Twice he’d hidden in woods alongside the road as other riders approached, and once it had saved his life as a troop of British soldiers galloped past. Seeing the landmark for the Pembroke property, he urged Shadow to a faster pace.

  Andrew cantered into Cyrus Pembroke’s yard, the full moon lighting his way along the drive. Pulling up on the reins, he slowed Shadow to a trot as they neared the house. Sweat poured from horse and man as the humid summer night closed in around them. Andrew gulped the last drops of water from his leather canteen.

  Cyrus Pembroke had been a courier for Jonathon, but the British threatened him and his family when they caught wind of his sympathies. Andrew had to be careful even approaching the property lest British troops be in the area watching. Randy had instructed Andrew to arrive in dark of night, but they both agreed haste took precedence over caution if Andrew was to connect with Jonathon in the northern colonies … and get to Jenny as soon as humanly possible.

  A swath of amber light fell across the porch as the front door opened. Cyrus hurried out to greet Andrew. Snatching Shadow’s reins, he stilled the horse to standing, stroking the steed’s forehead, whispering soothing words. Andrew threw his leg over the horse’s back and dismounted. When his feet hit the ground, Andrew stumbled from exhaustion and thirst. Cyrus grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

  “Thank you, sir.” Andrew rasped, his throat raw. “I come from Brentwood.”

  “Go inside. Quickly.” Cyrus scrutinized the property, no doubt searching for prying eyes, before he looped Shadow’s reins over the porch railing then helped Andrew into the brick house.

  Aromas of beef stew and fresh biscuits floated from the back of the house when he entered the hall. Cyrus held his arm as their boots clattered along the hardwood floors. Andrew squinted against the harshness of the candlelight, so bright after his ride under the night sky. When he entered the dining room, his vision adjusted to the glow of the lantern on the table and the small flames in the fireplace. With the warm humid night air, a small flame would keep the stew cooking but not heat the room too much. Still the heat was enough to make Andrew feel his remaining strength ebb, and he stumbled. Cyrus eased him into a chair and poured a tankard of ale, setting it before him.

  A woman was ladling a hefty portion of stew onto a pewter plate. She picked up two steaming browned biscuits from a platter set on the hearth and quickly tossed them beside the meat and vegetables, shaking her hand then licking her fingers. As she set the plate before Andrew, she reached for a pitcher and poured honey over the biscuits.

  Andrew stared at the food before him for a moment, too weak to lift his arm and pick up the fork. Willing his arms to move, he placed his forearms on the table, clasped the tankard and lifted it to his lips. Though it was warm, the full-bodied liquid was sweet balm to his dry throat and he gulped half the tankard.

  “Easy, boy,” Cyrus said. He laid his hand on Andrew’s arm to slow his slaking. Nodding to the woman, he said, “This is my wife, Eleanor.”

  Andrew set the tankard down.

  “Thank you, sir. Ma’am.” He wiped his sleeve across his foamy mouth.

  Eleanor smiled.

  “I’ll tend to your horse while you eat.” Cyrus clomped out into the night.

  Andrew jabbed the fork into a chunk of beef so tender it split into strands that soaked in the gravy. Chewing the first bite, he moaned in appreciation. He didn’t pause even when Cyrus returned. Once he had eaten enough to regain some strength and sampled enough ale to allow speech, he nodded at them

  “This is a feast fit for King George.” His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. Growing up in London, this had been a common compliment paid the cook.

  Cyrus scowled; Eleanor chuckled.

  “A poor choice of words, son,” Cyrus said.

  “Excuse me, sir. This is a feast fit for General Washington.” Despite his faux pas, he continued eating, settling into the chair, comforted in the validation of Cyrus’s sympathies.

  Cyrus grunted and left the kitchen. While he was gone, Andrew finished the stew and biscuits and a second tankard of ale. Eleanor busied herself with the fire, then settled down with her embroidery. Too tired to make conversation, Andrew rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes, listening to the soft crackling of the embers and the steady poking and pulling of her embroidery needle.

  Soon Cyrus returned with Andrew’s saddlebags.

  “You have something for me?” His rough voice signaled impatience … and fear. “I don’t want the British arriving to find a courier possessing information for the Sons of Liberty in my home.”

  “Yes.”

  Cyrus slung the saddlebags on the table, and Andrew unlaced the leather straps and reached inside, slipping out a parchment folded in thirds. A red seal impressed with a “B” secured it. He slid it across the table.

  Cyrus didn’t touch it; he simply stared at the ivory paper, bold against the deep walnut table. He looked up at Andrew.

  “The British have been here.” Cyrus’s voice was hollow against the muggy air.

  “I know.”

  A crackling broke the silence as a log collapsed into the embers. Eleanor had ceased the movement of her fingers against her linen sampler. She did not look up but sat in rigid expectation.

  Cyrus inched his hand along the table, tapping his finger on the corner of the letter. Breathing deeply, he tugged it back to sit before him. Gently, he lifted the missive, slid a knife under the seal, and unfolded the letter.

  His wife stood and left the room.

  He retrieved a piece of cowhide from a cupboard, laying it flat atop the letter. Small rectangular holes were scattered through the leather. Cyrus adjusted it, exactly matching the corners to the parchment. As he read the revealed message, he nodded. When he finished, he stared into the fire. Emotions played over his face—one minute indecision, the next fury, and finally determination. He rose and paced the room.

  “You will need to start early in the morning …”

  “No, I will leave tonight. I must get to—”

  “You will be no good to anyone if you ride yourself to death.”

  “I need to get to Jenny—she’ll arrive in New York before I can get there.”

  Cyrus turned, his face a mask of rage.

  “Do you put your trivial desire to see a girl before the cause of freedom?” He pounded the table, rattling the pewter plate. “Lad, what we are about is more important than your small heartache. Grow up, boy.” He lowered his voice and resumed his pacing. “Besides, I must compose the instructions to be delivered to your next stop.”

  “But, sir, I must …”

  “You will sleep tonight to regain your strength, and at dawn you will set off. The ride will be as long as today’s. If you don’t consider your own health, think of your horse’s. Neither of you is good to us dead. Let the girl go, lad; there’ll be plenty more in your life.”

  That’s where you are wrong. Jenny is my life.

  The Destiny lay low in the water, cannon loading her down more than when she had simply been a merchant ship. Now that the nor’easter had passed and repairs had been made, all attention was once again on General Howe’s armada sailing past them only miles away. Apprehension was heavy in the air as they pulled farther out to sea, every crewman stealing glimpses toward the west.

  Please, don’t del
ay our journey any more. How would she find Father when she arrived in New York? Would she arrive in time to help him?

  And now there was this disquiet she sensed from Jonathon and the crew. He’d explained their need to sail out into the Atlantic to avoid a confrontation with the British—a confrontation they surely would lose. She didn’t know how much more she could bear.

  She pulled herself up. She must not let these feelings defeat her. She would face whatever came in New York, help Father regain his health. She could do this. She must.

  “How are your hands healing, Miss Sutton?”

  She turned to look into the kind face of Mr. Gates. Extending her hands palms up, she smiled.

  “Your magic healing salve seems to have sped up my recovery, Mr. Gates.”

  Taking her hands, he examined them. In the days since the storm, they had healed well. While her skin was still rough and reddened from the blisters, no signs of infection were evident. “Excellent. We should arrive in a safe harbor in due time. I look forward to seeing you safely to our friends who will take you to your father.”

  Jenny’s stomach tightened. She didn’t know what to expect, and that made her more uneasy than anything. She liked order and control, and she had neither right now. She nodded.

  Mr. Gates smiled at her, still holding her hands. Could he feel her trembling? Squeezing her hands, he winked. “All will be well.”

  Another promise made. Could it be kept?

  Rough hands shook Andrew awake.

  “C’mon, son.”

  Andrew lurched up, pawing his bed for his pistol. Looking around, he didn’t recognize the room he’d slept in, then he spotted Cyrus. The man shook his shoulder, urgency in his expression.

  “You must leave now—before dawn.”

  Andrew nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Yawning, he stood and recovered his breeches and boots, donning them quickly. He tucked in his shirt as he followed Cyrus downstairs. Cyrus continued out the door and Andrew entered the dining room, its door open to the kitchen house out back. He rubbed his head trying to clear his sleep-muddled mind.

  Eleanor packed biscuits and fruit into a burlap sack. When she finished, she handed it to him with a mug. Andrew blew across the steaming black coffee, its smell bringing him to full awareness. As he sat down, he nodded his thanks, then tucked the sack into his saddlebag. She handed him a warm biscuit drizzled with honey. The bun was soft and warm in his mouth, the honey sweet on his tongue, dripping, so he licked his fingers after he gobbled it down. Chuckling, Eleanor wiped his hands with a damp linen cloth.

  “Take care, Andrew. Godspeed.”

  He nodded. He could have used another four hours of sleep. Stiffness claimed his back and shoulders, and his legs were still rubbery from yesterday’s ride. Yawning, he stretched his arms above his head then scratched his belly. Even another two hours of sleep would have helped.

  Cyrus returned, urgency in every movement. Handing a letter to Andrew, he patted the younger man’s arm. His eyes were bloodshot; he’d probably been up all night preparing this document. On another sheet was a map showing the location of Andrew’s next stop. It would be another hard day’s ride. Andrew massaged his lower back and buttocks, dreading another day in the saddle—until he thought of Jenny. He focused, listening carefully to the instructions Cyrus gave him.

  Shadow snorted a greeting, groomed and fresh for another day’s ride. Mounting, Andrew leaned down to shake Cyrus’s hand, but he stiffened at the sound of hoofbeats growing closer.

  “Ride, Andrew.” He pointed toward the woods. “That way. You will not be able to make it back along the drive. Hurry.”

  “But, sir …” How could he leave Cyrus and Eleanor to face down British soldiers alone?

  “Hurry, son.”

  Pounding hooves sounded just around the curve of the drive. Cyrus slapped Shadow’s flanks and Andrew sped toward the trees. Small branches stung as they slapped his face. He crouched low in the saddle, trusting Shadow to find a path through the woods. Suddenly, a musket blast … and Eleanor’s shrill keening.

  Chapter 5

  Jenny would have welcomed the cramped quarters of the Destiny. She huddled beneath her blue shawl, a woolen blanket stretched across two tree limbs in a vain attempt to keep her dry. Mr. Gates and two other crew members sat beneath the leafy canopy, their coats drenched, hats pulled down to shelter their eyes. The rain intensified until thick drops ricocheted off the ground and bit into her legs. This downpour seemed eternal.

  Sleep had been useless, and they had missed a good night’s sleep the night before, trying as quickly as possible to get inland from the cove where the Destiny sheltered. Like New York, New Jersey was rife with British troops. Perth Amboy might have been a safe harbor, but travel up Sandy Hook Bay would have been too close to British-held Staten Island. Their only choice was to land farther south and make the rest of the trip on foot.

  As a gray ribbon of dawn lightened the eastern sky, the rain eased. Mr. Gates handed out strips of dried beef and hard tack. She had gotten used to this fare aboard the Destiny. If she paid no attention as she ate it, the food was easier to consume.

  “Eat hearty—we have a long trek today. I’d like to reach our first stop by sundown.” He shook out his jacket, took off his cap, and wiped his drenched hair with his handkerchief.

  Jenny rose and wrung out her shawl and the wool blanket. Though her back ached and her stomach still longed for food, she hurried along. The faster they made this trip, the sooner she’d be with Father.

  The sky cleared to brilliant blue with a scattering of clouds that billowed along from the west. The humidity clung to them like a cape, inviting flies and mosquitoes to feast all day. By the time they reached the farm that was their goal, she had scratched her arms and legs to bleeding.

  The farmhouse door opened upon their approach, the barrel of a rifle all that emerged.

  “State your business.” The voice carried across the small pond in front of the house.

  “We seek shelter on our journey to Perth Amboy.”

  The rifle lowered a bit.

  “We seek liberty from our suffering along the road.”

  The rifle disappeared. A short man with hair like straw and pale blue eyes emerged, a toddler girl with matching features clinging to his leg. He beckoned them, scanning the yard as they approached. Even though they stood before him, he moved closer.

  “We quarter two lobsterbacks here. They’ve ridden to town for the day but will be returning before long. You’d best be on your way.”

  Mr. Gates’s shoulders sank. He glanced at Jenny.

  “Could you spare some victuals? We’ve nothing left to eat.” Mr. Gates looked at her again.

  A slender woman with a gaunt face joined them. She held an infant who stared at them but made no noise.

  Jenny wanted to take the baby—the woman looked too weak to hold the child.

  “I got nothin’ to give you. The soldiers have taken over our home. They’ve confined us to a small room at the back, and they’ve eaten all our stores. I can’t even feed my wife and babes.”

  Mr. Gates laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “God be with you, sir. I will try to send help.”

  The man blinked back tears and pulled back his shoulders. “In all times, I’ve always been able to take care of my own …”

  “But these are different times.” He patted the man’s shoulder. “Come. Let’s depart before the soldiers return. We don’t want to bring this family any more suffering.”

  They trudged through the woods, avoiding the road lest they meet up with the soldiers. Jenny’s legs trembled, and she wobbled along the path. The image of a baby too weak to cry filled her mind. How could soldiers take the home and food away from a family? From babies? Father had been fighting against exactly such injustice. What if he was too weak to recover? Her body ached, and the urge to drop to the ground and simply surrender overwhelmed her. She gritted her teeth. I must go on. Please, give me the courage to go on.


  Heading for his next stop, a farm north of Annapolis, Andrew skirted a small town. Though he’d been able to stay on the main road most of the time, he thought it prudent to duck into the forest whenever riders approached. The British were thick in some areas, and a few close calls urged him to greater caution. Shadow sensed when it was imperative to be silent, standing motionless among the trees.

  Every mile he traveled took him closer to British occupation and possible capture. No matter how many times he shook his head, the sound of Eleanor’s scream reverberated in his ears. And his mind’s eye imagined the scene: Cyrus lying dead at his wife’s feet. Eleanor collapsing beside him. Cyrus had paid the ultimate price in the fight for freedom, and Eleanor probably would as well. Every time he acknowledged that Cyrus had sacrificed his life for him, Andrew shivered, though the August night was hot and muggy. Randy and Cyrus were right. This was bigger than he and Jenny being parted. Oh, God, how he missed her, but he had a mission to complete before he could give in to his own desires.

  He nudged Shadow to a quicker pace.

  Now windows flickering with lanterns and candlelight lit his path around the perimeter of the town. The door to a public house burst open, spewing a drunken man who swore oaths at the innkeeper. Something to do with the owner’s daughter. Andrew dipped into the trees, giving wider berth to the buildings on the outskirts.

  As he headed out of town, the woods fell away to farmland. Corn planted on either side of the road rustled in the breeze, but was too short to allow concealment should he need it. Nudging Shadow with his heels, he cantered down the road, hurrying toward the spot ahead where the forest resumed.

  Behind him, hoofbeats thundered. As if on cue, Shadow broke into a gallop, and Andrew hunched forward, leaning against the horse’s mane. The hoofbeats grew nearer. Had they spotted him?

  “Halt.” A voice rang out against the midnight air.

  Andrew urged Shadow on, and the horse complied. They flew toward the wooded stretch of road.