Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  “In the name of King George, HALT.”

  A bullet zinged past them on the left.

  Shadow sped up, horse and rider moving as one, smooth and swift. They reached the trees and Shadow veered into the forest. The steed had an uncanny awareness of where to run, zigzagging among the trees. Andrew simply gave the horse its head, lying low against it. Shadow vaulted over a fallen tree and halted. The horse’s breath gusted through its flared nostrils. Andrew held his breath, listening.

  His hand encircled his throat. What would it feel like to hang? Gulping, he loosened the stock about his neck. He had seen a man hanged once, riveted by the fear in the man’s eyes, how his legs trembled. Andrew had trembled with him. Someone had thrown a rope over a sturdy branch then, low enough to reach, but high enough for a man to swing. Would they place a black cloth over his head as they had done to that man that day? Through the material, he had heard the man’s weeping mixed with gasps for the breath that would soon be choked. The crowd had been boisterous until that moment. Then, as one, the people quieted.

  Andrew had wanted to run, to look away, but he had been transfixed, rooted to the ground. The knot of the rope had been skillfully placed just at the jaw—an easier death than strangling. The ladder was kicked out from beneath the man. Snap. His legs kicked, a stain spread over his breeches, and a woman and young boy nearby wept softly. Then his legs were still, and the people who had been frozen in grotesque curiosity moved as if they’d just come alive. Some of them laughed as they drifted away, some were silent. Andrew had vomited.

  Was that what hanging would be like for him?

  No, he must banish these thoughts and see his mission through. He must reach Jenny. He shook his head to rid his mind of the gruesome scene. He would not hang. They would have to catch him first.

  The troop was on the road beyond where Shadow had left it.

  “Search the woods. Find them.” The command sliced the night.

  The soldiers dismounted, clambering into the trees. Andrew crouched as they slashed their sabers into branches and bushes, hacking through any hint of the direction Shadow had taken. He hunched against the horse, his legs moving with the rhythm as Shadow’s sides expanded and lowered, a bellows of breath, slowing as they stood, waiting. The soldiers searched either side of the road, advancing even farther along than Andrew and Shadow had traveled.

  “Find them!”

  The sounds grew fainter as the troop moved on. Finally, the sound of men mounting horses floated back to Andrew. Hoofbeats echoed then faded into the distance. Shadow snorted; Andrew chuckled.

  “Was that a comment on the efficiency of the king’s troops, Shadow?”

  The horse whinnied softly. They waited until all was silent on the road. Then, weaving into and out of the woods, they continued to the next stop.

  The sharp light of the noonday sun reflected off the window panes of the house Jenny had been searching for in Manhattan. She ran her hand across her midriff, feeling the loose cloth of her dress. Traveling for four days on foot with little to eat had taken its toll. But somewhere there was a mother cradling her thin baby. Jenny would be hungry for only a few days. Their fate was unending.

  The farmer who had sheltered them the night before had offered a hearty meal of roasted rabbit and corn, but her appetite had dwindled, and what she’d eaten lay like a lead ball in her stomach. She’d had a good night’s rest on a straw mattress that was opulence compared to the hard ground that had been her bed the previous nights.

  The same farmer brought her the final miles to this house where Mother and Father stayed. At last, she would see for herself how Father was doing. So why was she hesitating?

  Was Father in good health? Was he still ailing? Was he even alive? She held her stomach attempting to stem the fluttering that threatened to disgorge her breakfast.

  No sense standing here wondering.

  She mounted the steps and lifted the brass knocker, rapping it hard three times. A young black boy eased the door open, peeking around to see who was there.

  “Isaac? Is that you?”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Yes, Miss Jenny.”

  “Why, you’ve grown a foot since I left.”

  He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She waited, but he continued to beam at her.

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He swung the door wide just as a tall slender woman entered the hall from the parlor. Her gray eyes mirrored Jenny’s, but her hair was flaxen.

  “Isaac, who is at the—oh, my gracious.” The woman froze, her hand flying to her heart.

  “Mother, I’ve returned.”

  She collapsed into Mother’s arms. All the fear and discomfort she’d felt melted into Mother’s warmth. She was home. She was safe. She slumped a bit, legs trembling, and smiled at Isaac as he moved a chair closer, but Mother would not release her.

  Isaac closed the door and slipped to the back of the house.

  Jenny clung to her, then stepped back. “I am travel-worn and dirty. I will soil your clothing.”

  “Jennifer, I told you to remain at Brentwood Manor,” she scolded, hugging her tighter.

  “I know, but I could not resist coming to see Father. How is he?”

  Mother wiped her tears with her handkerchief. Lines creased the corners of her eyes and mouth, lines that had not been there when Jenny had left the previous year.

  “Your father … is still ailing.”

  Thrilled, she hugged Mother again. Father was still alive.

  “What have you endured, child, to arrive here so quickly? I sent the letter only a month ago.”

  “Uncle Jonathon was coming to New York anyway …”

  “He cannot. They will arrest him—”

  “He did not sail into port here in the city.”

  “Then how did you arrive? Are you alone?” More lines creased her forehead.

  “No, Uncle Jonathon would never abandon me.” Jenny laughed, brushing her fingers along the furrows etched in Mother’s brow.

  “Of course he wouldn’t.” Mother smiled, erasing at least the new creases. “Forgive me for such thoughts, it’s just that times are so different now, so treacherous …” She pulled her wrap closer as she gazed toward the window. She shook herself and looked at Jenny. “I forget myself. Let me ring for tea, and then you can tell me of your adventure since departing Brentwood Manor.” She pulled a rope bell, and a slender woman with silken brown skin hurried in.

  Seeing Sarie was like a warm, soothing balm. She had served the family for years, but Jenny loved her like an older sister.

  “Miss Jenny,” she said, her voice breaking. “You’ve come.”

  Jenny drew her into an embrace. “Yes, I’ve come, Sarie.” Pulling back, she searched the servant’s eyes—striking blue eyes, brimming with tears, bright against her mocha skin.

  She wiped at her own tears.

  “This is what Mr. Sutton needs. Your presence will surely bring him ‘round,” she said, squeezing Jenny’s hand.

  Mother reached for the back of the chair where she stood.

  “I’m sure it will.” She turned to Mother. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Let me fetch tea for you ladies,” Sarie said over her shoulder, having already turned toward the back of the house.

  “How serious is Father’s injury?”

  “It is probably good that you’ve returned after all.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “After tea, you can take a nap. I’m sure you’re exhausted after your voyage.”

  “No. I want to see Father now.”

  Mother nodded slightly. “Of course, dear.” Her brows drew down. “It is good that you are here.”

  Little of the golden afternoon sunlight peeked through the partially closed shutters when Jenny entered Father’s room. Mother’s arm encircled her waist. A foul odor permeated the air, and she paused. It took all her strength not to press her handkerchief to her nose to block the stench. Swallo
wing, she continued into the room. For a moment, she couldn’t make out the figure in the bed. As her vision adjusted to the dimness of the room, she gasped at Father’s emaciated form. Edward Sutton’s face was as pallid as the pillow he lay on, his jaw set against the pain. Seeing her, his expression brightened and he attempted to smile, though it was more like a grimace.

  “Father,” she whispered as she rushed to his side, fighting her repulsion to the odor.

  He reached up to stroke her cheek, but the effort was too much. His hand fell back to the bed.

  “My Jenny.” His voice was soft and raspy.

  She took his hand, kissing it, cradling it against her face. “I’m here, Father.”

  “It gladdens me.” He stopped, the effort to speak too much.

  She looked up at Mother, standing tall, shoulders back, holding a damp linen cloth. A single tear escaped before she could wipe it away.

  Sarie entered carrying a pitcher of water. Placing it on the bedside table, she opened the shutters on the window closest to the bed. Father winced, turning away from the bright light, and Mother placed the damp cloth over his eyes.

  “You may want to leave while I tend to your father.” Mother’s voice was soft.

  “No, I will stay.”

  Sarie picked up the pitcher and held it for a moment, as if deciding what she must do next. Her gaze shifted from Mother to Jenny.

  “Miss Jenny, I don’t mean to tell you what’s best, but it would pain Mr. Sutton to have you see him in distress.”

  Jenny wavered for a moment; the stench signaled a gruesome wound. She could be here to lend emotional support and leave the repugnant task of dealing with the wound to Mother and Sarie. Did she have the fortitude to face this task? Did she have a deep enough love? She tightened her hand around his. “I will stay.”

  Mother nodded.

  Sarie poured water into the basin and handed Mother the towel. Dipping the towel in the basin, she wrung it out and carefully drew back the blanket covering Father’s leg.

  The putrid odor surged up. Jenny reeled, letting go of Father’s hand to cover her nose. The stench intensified when Mother slowly pulled back the compress that covered the wound.

  “Oh my God.” Jenny jerked back.

  An ugly gash stretched from Father’s knee up his thigh. Yellow pus oozed out even as Mother wiped it clean. One area was an ugly blackish-green.

  Jenny’s stomach lurched. The smell invaded her nose and throat. She gulped down bile, willing herself not to be sick.

  Though Mother worked slowly, taking great care not to hurt him, Father moaned in pain, gritting his teeth.

  Jenny reached out and took his hands in hers, trying to comfort him. “Shhh, Father. I am here with you.” Her words rang hollow. What could she do to help him? She laid her head beside his on the pillow. “I am here, Father. I am here.” Tears burned as her hollow words became a hollow pit in her stomach.

  You will not do your father any good by feeling sorry for yourself.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  Mother wrung out the cloth.

  “Pray, Jennifer. You can pray.”

  Reaching into her apron pocket, Sarie took out a fresh linen, fragrant with comfrey, thyme, and lavender. She gave it to Mother, who applied the compress to the wound, securing it with strips of cloth tied around Father’s leg. Finally, she pulled the blanket up, covering his legs and dulling the odor. Picking up a vial from the bedside table, she gently propped him up with one arm and placed the bottle to his lips. She tipped it to allow him to swallow a small dose of the elixir. She replaced the vial but continued to hold him in her arms. She kissed his forehead.

  Sarie closed the shutters, casting the room into twilight. She picked up the basin, pitcher, and old compress. Her usually brilliant blue eyes were slate with sadness when she glanced at Jenny as she left.

  Jenny studied Father. Her arms were leaden; her mind muddled. Memories of him played in her head: Father swinging her and Kathryn into the air, making them laugh with glee. She and Father riding horses, galloping over fields, him laughing as she vaulted over fences and hedges. The authority he exuded when he strode across a room, strong and commanding. Now he shrank into the bedclothes, his eyes as pained as when he had carried Kathryn to the house. When her eyes were lifeless.

  How could this have happened to him? When Jenny boarded the ship for Williamsburg, he had cautioned her to be safe and sensible. Had he not listened to his own words?

  Mother still held him in her arms. Her face was drawn and pale, and she stared ahead as if she, too, had been remembering her lively, robust husband.

  “We must pray for him, Jennifer. We must have courage.”

  “Tell her.”

  Mother jolted at her husband’s voice. Whispering gently, she eased his head back to the pillow, but he tried to rise.

  “Tell her.” His voice was strong, then it faded to a whisper. “You must.” He searched Mother’s face.

  She nodded in understanding. “I shall tell her if you rest.”

  He nodded, Jenny thought more in exhaustion than compliance. He drew in a deep breath and sighed. His chest stilled. Mother’s face paled, and she leaned toward him, her body tense. But her shoulders relaxed upon hearing his slow, even breathing, and her panicked expression returned to sorrow. She stared at Jenny as if she were not there, almost transfixed. Then, as if waking, she nodded at her.

  “He is resting. Now I must keep my part of the bargain.” Pulling the blanket up on his chest, she kissed his cheek and patted his hand. “Come, Jennifer. There is much to tell you.”

  Chapter 6

  “What you are telling me is that Father has been spying? For General Washington?” Jenny whispered, glancing toward the door to the back of the house.

  An imperceptible nod.

  She tried to sort through the questions that tumbled through her brain. How had she not known this before? She tried to find her voice, but words would not form. Leaning back against the winged chair, she stared at the ceiling. Heaviness closed in around her. Finally, she spoke.

  “And that is why he was attacked by a British soldier?”

  “Not a soldier. A Ranger. One of Rogers’s men.”

  Jenny frowned. “Roger who?”

  “Robert Rogers. He earned his reputation during the war against the French, who were aided by the Indians. Their tactics were … unusual. When the colonies decided to break from the crown, he tried to join the Continental Army, but General Washington did not trust him. As suspected, he had British sympathies and is now an officer in the Queen’s Rangers, though everyone calls them Rogers’s Rangers, for he is the undisputed leader.”

  “How did Father encounter him?”

  “He was on a mission from Boston to Manhattan. At a stop at an inn, he encountered this Ranger, disguised as a minister, who engaged him in conversation. The ‘minister’ expressed views in support of the Patriot cause, and they talked until late into the evening. When all other patrons had retired, this man removed his robe, revealing his green uniform and allegiance to the king. Brandishing a hatchet, he attacked your father.” Swallowing, she paused.

  Jenny waited for her to continue. Outside, silence was cloaked in darkness. Only one candle, glowing on the table before them, lit the room, its flame still in the summer air.

  Mother stirred in her chair.

  “Your father had sensed something amiss, and the attack was not a complete surprise. He was able to fend off the first blows, but the Ranger hacked at his leg and then delivered a blow to his temple. Your father did not lose consciousness.” Her voice dropped. “He was aware enough to feel the Ranger pull his hair back … he was about to scalp him …” Mother was shivering despite the warm evening temperature.

  Jenny ran to her side. Kneeling beside her, she took Mother’s hands in hers. “Hush. You do not have to relive this.”

  “You must understand the importance of this cause to your father, Jennifer. And the peril.” She took a deep breath.
“The innkeeper heard the commotion and came into the room. He fired a shot toward the Ranger but did not hit him. He told him to leave, and the Ranger ran out. The innkeeper saved your father’s life. He tended to his wounds and sent word back to me in Boston. When I arrived …” She shuddered. “I thought he was dead.

  “When he could be moved, we brought him here. Your father often stayed here when he traveled to Manhattan. The house belongs to his friend in Boston who comes here when he has business on Wall Street.”

  “Is this what Father wanted you to tell me?”

  Mother stroked her ebony curls. “No, Jennifer. He wanted me to tell you that there is work that must be done. I cannot leave him, and I believe he wants you to complete it.”

  Jenny stifled a shiver as a chill snaked down her back, the same sensation as when Jonathon handed her the blue shawl. The blue shawl that was tucked in her wardrobe upstairs. Just as with Jonathon, she knew there was no turning back once she complied.

  Timothy Morley brought Andrew a slab of rye bread and a tankard of ale. With seven children, the Pennsylvania farmer had little food and no room to shelter Andrew in the house, so he would sleep in the barn. Andrew was grateful for the bread and ale and whatever shelter Timothy could afford.

  He didn’t mind the solitude of the barn, for he sorely missed Jenny tonight and would rather think of her than make conversation. How he longed to hold her. Perhaps he would very soon. With luck, he would reach New York in a few days.

  He lay back, hands tucked beneath his head. Through a window high in the loft, stars dotted the pitch-black sky. Jenny loved lying in the grass, gazing at the stars. He would lay on his side to drink in her face, lit in the moon’s glow as she pointed out constellations. All the time she spoke, he had one thought: to kiss her soft, full lips. The dimple that faded then showed itself as she spoke drove him to madness. Finally, he would cover her mouth with his, tasting her sweetness, hearing her laugh.

  These thoughts aroused him rather than bringing the rest he desperately needed. Lying on his side, he wished Jenny were beside him. He must have drifted off, but suddenly his senses were alert. Something or someone was moving along the exterior wall of the barn.