The Patriot and the Loyalist

by Angela K Couch

  She sat at her dressing table and withdrew a piece of stationery from a drawer. No, she would not sell her property for the little Mr. Hilliard said it would bring her. She had full intentions of living in that cottage herself. Freedom. She would do anything to have it.

  A tap at the door issued a groan from her throat. “What?”

  “Pardon, Miss Lydia.” Molly slipped into the room with a tray. “Master Selby asked me to bring up some tea and cake for you.”

  “Thank you, Molly. Set it there by the bed.” Lydia looked at the tray after the girl left, Daniel stealing into her thoughts. A warm drink was probably what his throat needed to ease that cough. If he would drink the tea. She would send it down for him later along with the cake. She might as well force that into him too, as she was in no mood for celebration.

  ~*~

  Daniel laid back and stared up at the heavy rafters above. His family would soon have the letter. And he would follow it to New York. Heaven permitting. “Lord…” He rolled to the ground beside the makeshift bed. His ankle objected, but he did his best to ignore the discomfort as his knees met the packed dirt. He clasped his hands and laid his forehead against his knuckles. “Dear Lord, I know I am a man with weaknesses aplenty, but for my family’s sake, for Mama, help me make it home.”

  Mama wanted him. He didn’t doubt that. And his sisters would be glad to see him as well. But Pa…

  “I raised you better than this, Daniel. I thought you’d grow up to be a man I could be proud of, but what you did to the Garnets makes me ashamed to call you my son. You are rash, boy. You never think things through.” Pa had looked to his bad leg and his head wagged back and forth. “Just like when you ran under that tree. You are never the one hurt. Like always, everyone pays the price but you.”

  Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose, but the burning made it as far as his eyes. He’d hoped giving up his cabin and land to Rachel and her new husband, and serving in the Continental Army would change his father’s opinion of him, and Mama wrote that Pa was pleased. But the thought of facing him again… Sometimes Daniel wondered if it would be better to die for the cause. Like young Gabe Marion. Surely that was something his father could respect.

  Emptying his lungs, Daniel swiped his wrists across his eyes. Though not finished with his prayer, he wasn’t sure what was left to say. He knew what he needed to do. He had to get out of this storehouse and on a horse. He’d head to Snow Island and report to Colonel Marion. As soon as his ankle was mended, he’d go home.

  The shuffle of feet at the door jolted Daniel upright. He glanced to the low lamp light. What if someone besides Lydia or Eli entered? If he snuffed out the flame and hid behind the larger barrels, he could avoid being seen unless the person moved toward the back. A closer proximity would give him a better chance of overpowering an intruder.

  The door swung open, and Lydia’s slave stepped in, a kettle in one hand and a plate draped with a napkin balanced on his arm.

  A slave. After three years in the army, Daniel could imagine what it would be like to do the bidding of others and never his own. But he would soon go home and be his own master, not endure a lifetime of such servitude.

  Eli set the plate and kettle on a barrel, while keeping an eye on Daniel.

  “How long have you served Miss Reynolds and her family?”

  “I have been with this family since before they came to South Carolina. Long before Miss Lydia was born.” The man said it as though something to be proud of.

  “You must care about Lydia—I mean, Miss Reynolds.”

  Eli’s midnight gaze narrowed a degree. “I have no intention of letting her be hurt. By anyone.”

  Though edged like a threat, Eli’s words eased some of the tension from Daniel’s shoulders. The Negro might be a slave, but he was also a man Daniel could respect. “Good, then we agree on one thing,” he said, peeking under the cloth at the meal beneath. And cake. When was the last time he’d eaten cake? Daniel dropped the corner of the napkin and refocused. “You know my presence here will not do her any favors.”

  Eli’s granite expression answered.

  “You know what horse she planned to lend me?”

  A nod.

  “Miss Reynolds is a generous woman, a saint really, but she puts herself in danger keeping me here.”

  “You want me to bring you the horse so you can leave tonight.”

  Daniel returned the nod. “If you can do so without detriment to yourself. You can place the blame fully on me. Today is Saturday, is it not? I’ll meet her one week from Sunday. If you tell her that much, she’ll know where.”

  The wrinkles etched in the old man’s face relaxed slightly.

  “Please. For Miss Reynolds’s sake.”

  “For her sake, I could lock that door and tell the British where to collect you.”

  Daniel searched the man’s stare. “Would that be in Miss Lydia’s best interest? Her involvement might be suspected.”

  Eli backed out of the reach of the lamp’s glow, his dark form swallowed by shadow.

  Daniel’s muscles tensed with the urge to lunge, to force his way through the single exit. If he could overpower the old man, he would assure his freedom. He could find a horse on his own or make his way on foot. With Wilsby’s crutch and new boots, he might make it as far as…the edge of the swamps.

  “Be ready for when I return,” Eli mumbled.

  The door closed in his wake, and locked.

  ~*~

  Lydia rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. If only there were a way to smother her restless thoughts without smothering herself. A moan reverberated deep in her chest. She’d sent more blankets down for Daniel, and even some tea. As much as she did not like the sound of his cough, surely he would be fine. Why did he have to become ill?

  She turned onto her back and stared up at the heavy canopy over her bed. Nothing left her feeling more powerless, more helpless, than disease. Without warning, it struck, taking even the strongest person and withering them to nothing but a corpse.

  Flickers of memory tormented. Mother trying to keep the little boys tucked in bed as their bodies burned. Baby Martin had been the first to succumb to the smallpox. Then Mother began complaining of a headache. Lydia had gotten sick that same day. David died the next afternoon, and his little body was wrapped in his blanket. Motionless. Lydia had been sure she would be next. So cold, and then so hot. Pain spiked down her back and folded her in half. Mother must have felt the same, but sat with her anyway. Gradually, Lydia began to improve. Mother did not.

  She remembered calling for Mother, wanting water. Margaret had been the one to bring the drink. Lydia shouldn’t recall it so well, she was young, but how could one forget the look of the empty shells of loved ones left behind to be buried.

  But Daniel wasn’t that sick…and even if he was, he should mean little to her.

  Lydia pushed up and stepped into her simplest gown without bothering with her stays and the like. What was the use of trying to sleep when every time she closed her eyes she saw him, pale and still, as she’d found him against the broad base of the ancient oak.

  Moonlight stretched shadows across the house. She gathered her cloak but didn’t bother with a candle. Down the back stairs and out across the yard. Lydia walked toward the harbor until the storehouse came into sight. The British guard was not. Perhaps he’d been called elsewhere.

  “Stop this.” She turned away. With the hood up to conceal her face, she journeyed across town toward the small church cemetery. Past midnight, it was now November eighteenth. One year from the day she’d rushed the physician into her sister’s room. The mewling of a new baby rang in her ears while blood drained the life from poor Margaret, the only person she’d had left.

  Amidst solid, silent stones with nothing but names and dates etched into their faces, Lydia stood alone. No smiles. No embraces. Nothing remained of her family but memories.

  16

  Eyelids heavy from little sleep, Lydia didn’t notice
Charles’s strategic positioning near the door to the dining parlor until he stepped out to intercept her.

  “Please step into my study for a moment. Breakfast will hold.”

  That was the least of her concerns. “Charles—”

  “Only for a minute, Lydia. I need to ride to Charles Town today.” He held out his arm, indicating she lead the way.

  Fine. As soon as her feet passed the threshold of the room, she pivoted to him. “Speak quickly.”

  He nodded and pushed the door closed. “I thought it only right that I inform you of my decision to withdraw my offer of marriage. I know it was premature and understandably not well received.” He began to pace the short width of the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. “I admit I had seen such an arrangement as a way to fulfill my need of a mother for Maggie, and the promises I made to your father to see to your wants.”

  Relief met a strange twinge of regret and a measure of hope. “What I want is passage to England.”

  He squared his shoulders. “But alas, that is the one thing I cannot offer you.”

  She stared after Charles as he strode from the room, distancing himself from her in more than one way. Was it because of his suspicions concerning her “arrangement” with Major Layton, or because he realized she couldn’t be controlled?

  Collecting herself, Lydia moved to the dining room and took her seat while breakfast was served. She kept her focus on the egg as she cracked the edge of her spoon against it and peeled away the pale brown shell, the murmur of Major Layton and Charles’s voices background to her muddled thoughts. The men probably discussed shipments, or politics, or the dangers of shipping between the continents now that the French had armed their navy against the British. She’d heard their talk before.

  The morning sun brightened the room, but did nothing to dissipate the shadows laying over her. Despite the earliness of the hour, with how little she’d slept last night, the day already seemed to drag on.

  A movement at the door made her look up. Eli stepped to Charles, inclining toward him, voice lowered.

  Charles jolted from his seat and rushed the door.

  “What is it?” Major Layton questioned.

  “The Americus.” The words were scarcely out of Charles’s mouth before he was gone, Eli in his wake. A moment later the front door slammed.

  Lydia looked to the major. “Perhaps the ship has finally come into port. The Americus is overdue, is she not?”

  “Yes.” He stood and straightened his coat. “There has been no word of her.” He trailed the others.

  Lydia stared after them. A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She lifted her spoon to the egg then set it aside and pushed away from the table. A wave of nausea removed what meager appetite she’d had before. It should matter little to her if anything happened to the Americus, but anxiety pricked her skin as it had when news first arrived concerning her father. She’d sat in that very spot, Margaret beside her. Charles was called away and hadn’t returned for hours. Finally, he’d summoned them into the parlor with the news that the Magellan had gone down, sunk by two of the new Continental Navy’s frigates—the Hancock and Boston. Only a handful of the crew had survived. Father had not.

  Lydia pushed up from the table and called for her cloak. She wouldn’t wait here reliving that moment. She burst from the house and made her way toward the harbor. The ships’ masts stood tall above the buildings, but what if the Americus’s were not among them? Were two ships now forfeit, all of Father’s hard work, his dreams, sinking away?

  She detoured. Daniel needed to be convinced leaving today would be foolhardy. His cough was likely no better, and she was no closer to finding Colonel Marion’s location.

  The hinges moaned from the weight of the door but did not seem to disturb the inhabitant. The lamp had gone out, and all lay in silence. Lydia shoved the door wide and the light speared across the floor and over the pile of grain sacks.

  “Daniel?” She hardly realized she had spoken his Christian name as she rushed across the dirt floor. The air clung to her lungs, heavy with humidity and dust. Everything had been rearranged, leaving no sign that he had ever been there. She returned back outside. The scarlet-clad guard was still missing. Had the British taken Daniel? Was this Major Layton’s fault? Or Lieutenant Mathews’s deed? She would find the latter. She trusted him more than Layton, and he wouldn’t cloud the truth.

  A cool breeze rose from the bay and drew her attention back to the stately masts. None seemed as tall as those on the Americus, but the ship might be anchored farther from the docks. Lydia hastened her steps in the opposite direction. The day was still new, perhaps she could find the lieutenant near the garrison.

  More than an hour of crisscrossing town brought Lydia no answers except that Lieutenant Mathews had already ridden out of town with a patrol. Soles of her shoes dragging, she returned home, arriving to the sound of hooves approaching along the road from the harbor. She leaned against the wall near the door to wait.

  Charles swung from his horse in front of the house and handed off the reins to the stable boy, who collected Major Layton’s, as well. Both men mounted the stairs.

  “What news?” Lydia met them halfway. “Is the Americus in port?”

  Charles shook his head, the muscles in his jaw strung tight. “No. She is lost. The Continental Navy sunk her out from Norfolk, Virginia. Only three men escaped with their lives.”

  “Goodness.” Lydia’s knees threatened to buckle. She raised a trembling hand to her chest. But why should news of the Americus affect her so? The shipping company was Charles’s, and he still had one ship, enough to provide sufficiently for little Margaret.

  Charles took her arm. “Are you all right?”

  She drew back. “Fine. I am fine.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer, nodded, and then pushed into the house.

  Layton moved to follow.

  “Major.”

  He paused. “Yes, Miss Reynolds?”

  “About the rebel, I—”

  The corners of Layton’s mouth dove. “Yes, Lieutenant Mathews already told me you let our pigeon fly.”

  Lydia opened her mouth, but her tongue remained paralyzed. How had Daniel gotten the horse? The only other person who even knew about the arrangement was Eli, and he wouldn’t have done anything without her knowledge. At least, she had thought that to be true before this moment.

  “I have noted Mr. Selby’s ignorance of our arrangement, and doubt he would be pleased to know all of what his sister-in-law has been involved in. So very scandalous for a young lady.” His tone held a threat.

  “I would prefer he not be enlightened, Major.” She was still too dependent on Charles to completely alienate him.

  “Of course not, Miss Reynolds, but do not think of trying to back out of our agreement. Now that I have a horse invested, if I do not get my information, or my spy, not only will your brother-in-law be informed of your actions, but…” He eyed her up and down, his upper lips curling. “I shall likely come up with something more I want.”

  ~*~

  Daniel’s jaw ached from being clamped against the pain pulsating through his ankle. With every mile he rode from Georgetown, he wondered if maybe he had been too hasty in his departure. And not just because of his foot.

  As he waded the sorrel gelding through the swamps, he kept his gaze on the rippling surface and the reeds. So far he’d sighted two alligators, their eyes and nostrils clearly visible. He braced for his horse to unsuspectingly step on one of the scaly beasts, maybe stumble over a tail, but he did not wish to contemplate the outcome.

  “Who goes there?”

  Daniel raised his hands so they could be seen. “Sergeant Reid. Continental Army. I’m looking for Colonel Marion.”

  “Come on through.”

  Daniel nudged the gelding forward, out of the marsh onto Snow Island. A man stepped out from behind one of the thick cypress trunks and waved him over.

  “The Colonel’s not much farther up
ahead. Turn right after that fallen tree and continue past.”

  “Thanks.” Ahead of him, a couple of campfires appeared through the veil of bare branches. Though not more than a week, it seemed much longer since he’d left camp to ride into Georgetown. With dusk settling into the woods, he was glad he’d arrived.

  The area appeared mostly abandoned, and Daniel reined his horse to where several others had been tied. A couple dozen men milled around—a fraction of the hundreds camped here before. Colonel Marion and three others approached, and Daniel slipped to the ground. A jolt of pain nearly dropped him to his knees, but he gripped the saddle.

  “What happened to you, Sergeant?” Marion asked coming beside him. “You don’t look good, but a sight better than the corpse I believed you to be when you never returned with the others.”

  “My horse caught a musket ball, and I didn’t get my leg out of the way.” Daniel gained his balance but hesitated to put any weight on the foot.

  “And lost your cane, I see. Now that you actually need it.”

  He hadn’t given the cane more than a second thought. “Hardly the worst loss that day. I’m sorry about your nephew.”

  Any mirth fell from the colonel’s face. “You saw?”

  Daniel nodded. “It was wrong what they did.” But he didn’t want to rehearse it to Marion. Not now. “I wish there was something I could have done.”

  Marion’s lips pressed thin, and he momentarily glanced away, nostrils flaring with the emotion he struggled to contain. He clapped his hand to Daniel’s shoulder and squeezed. “At least he gave his life for what he believed in, and with honor. But…it is regrettable to think of what he could have become.” Marion filled his lungs and stepped back. “Come sit yourself down before you hurt your leg any more. Is it the ankle?”

  “It is.”

  “Broke mine shortly before Charles Town was taken this spring. Better to let it heal well, before you use it too much.” He stepped out of the way. “Johnson, help Sergeant Reid find a place to rest his foot.”

  They made their way to the main fire, and Daniel propped up his leg on a large stone in time to be handed a warm sweet potato. “Thanks.”