“This is hardly a game,” he said, turning back to her. “Perhaps you expect payment for your services?”
He watched the color rise in her cheeks. “Liberty for my country is payment enough for me.” She raised her head a notch higher as if insulted by the insinuation.
Morgan felt a vague sense of awe, and then one of painful apprehension, as he took in her motionless figure. The acceptance of her fate radiated in her eyes, but her face was destitute of all other expression. Never was anything so frail, and yet so very determined and resolute.
“I apologize,” he said gravely under his breath, “but you could not have found a person to whom your plan is more disagreeable.” When she did not answer, nor change her vacant look, he turned to the door and hailed the guards. “She is a prisoner. You can unbind her hands. She has given her word.” The men nodded, but one paused and motioned to Morgan. “The holding cell, sir?”
“Yes, the holding cell.”
Instead of watching her leave, Morgan turned back to his desk and listened to the door latch closed behind him.
Chapter 2
Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom, must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.
— Thomas Paine
When a soldier came to take Sophia to Colonel Morgan the next day, her head pounded and she could not escape the chill coursing through her. The night had been a long one, spent in a cold, damp cellar so devoid of light, it had been impossible to tell if her eyes were open or closed. The guards had done nothing to improve her miserable conditions other than toss her an extra blanket when she’d asked for something to ward off the chill. The thin, threadbare cloth had offered little comfort and done nothing to keep out the cold.
Upon entering the room where she had met Colonel Morgan the day before, Sophia pulled back the hood of her cloak, and gave herself a moment to adjust to the light. The illumination of the sun coming through the window on one side, and the blazing fire on the other made her blink repeatedly, contrasting as it did with the darkness to which her eyes were accustomed.
The first thing she saw was Colonel Morgan sitting at his desk, bent over paperwork and appearing too busy once again to take notice of her entrance. He gave her only a cursory glance before dismissing the guard beside her with a wave of his hand and returning to his duty. The guard saluted the officer and exited through the door, leaving Sophia standing alone and shivering. Seemingly unwatched, she edged her way over to the fireplace, and allowed the heat to sink into her aching bones as she studied the man before her.
Colonel Morgan looked out of place in the neat, orderly room that apparently served as headquarters. His shirt was tucked negligently into the waistband of a pair of buckskin riding breeches, and his breeches were tucked into a pair of mud-splattered boots. Sophia’s gaze flitted from his massive form to his coat lying haphazardly on a chair beside him, appearing to have been flung there in a moment of great impatience and hurry.
Returning her attention to the colonel, she took in his relaxed manner as he sat with the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up to his elbows. Even with his informal appearance, he gave the impression of authoritative command, possessing a certain dignity in his bearing that reflected both power and strength. It had taken only one meeting for her to recognize him as a man whose merit equaled his reputation.
Sophia had often overheard the British talk of Colonel Morgan—an American officer they both despised and feared. They spoke with intense displeasure of his successes, his apparent influence over his fellow patriots, and the audacity with which he gained his victories.
His zeal for the cause, and his complete disregard of personal danger had procured him a reputation distinct from all others. By his bold offensive decisions, he had again and again arrested the British movement, making his name synonymous with victory, and attracting additional recruits from all over the south to his militia.
Yet this was a position and responsibility thrust upon him, Sophia had learned, not sought by him. Raised on a thriving plantation, he was a gentleman by birth, and a soldier because of patriotism, not chosen profession.
Sophia studied him closer as the fire spit and crackled behind her. He was, as she had pictured, a formidable and intimidating-looking man, someone you knew at once had to be taken seriously. His face reflected an aspect of firmness and resolution, while his broad shoulders and bronzed forearms proved he was a man who did not shy away from physical labor.
His eyes struck her as the most noticeable feature of all, however. Although not of a stunning hue, they were mysterious, dark magnetic orbs whose color was hard to describe. Not quite blue, nor yet gray—they instead reflected a deep blending of the two. Intense and overpowering, they revealed nothing as far as emotion—and everything as far as a restless sense of duty.
Sophia tilted her head and squinted as if that would help her scrutiny of him as he leaned intently over his work. In all of the stories she had heard of his military prowess, never had anyone mentioned how conspicuously striking he appeared. His natural dark complexion, deepened by exposure to sun and wind, made him appear quite handsome—if one were to notice such things. Sophia tore her eyes away and focused them instead out the window. No doubt, any number of women had.
A loud tap, tap, tap echoing from without diverted Sophia’s attention, as someone in an obvious hurry strode in the hallway just outside the door. Within moments, the latch clicked open, and a tidy officer stood breathing heavily on the threshold. He looked at Colonel Morgan, who raised his eyes from the work, and then to Sophia, with a perusal so thorough it made her blush. When no one said anything, he asked brusquely, “For what was the lady brought?”
Colonel Morgan’s gaze traveled over to Sophia as if just realizing she was there before returning to the man. Then he leaned back in his chair while tapping a quill pen on the desk. “You will kindly close the door, Captain Tate?”
The officer stepped in and pushed the door closed behind him.
“I intended to wait for the others to arrive, but since you have asked, she’s a Tory.” Morgan’s tone was low and grave. “Brought here on suspicion of providing information to the British.”
“By whose authority?” the man asked.
Morgan cocked his head to one side and gazed at the captain curiously. “On my authority, of course.”
The man threw his hat carelessly onto the desk and smiled. “That is obvious, Grant. I meant to say, what is the evidence against her?”
Sophia blinked at the lack of formality on the part of the newly arrived officer. He and Colonel Morgan appeared to be good friends, yet the difference in them was quite remarkable. Captain Tate was handsome enough, with an aristocratic and well-bred deportment, but he dressed frivolously and with obvious care—making him appear a bit foppish.
Colonel Morgan on the other hand wore a uniform destitute of strap or chevron to indicate even the humblest rank. The coat, which he had finally donned from the chair and was buttoning with great impatience, appeared threadbare and mottled from heavy use.
“I’ll present the details when the other officers arrive,” Morgan responded. “Tea while we wait?”
Sophia stepped aside as he pulled the arm of the kettle away from the fire.
“Would you like some hot tea, Miss Adair?”
Colonel Morgan spoke with effortless good manners, but Sophia assumed that his formality indicated mistrust, rather than respect. She nodded in response, choosing not to answer with words because she was shivering so hard she feared she would not be able to make a reasonable response. “Just a l-little,” she said at last, trying without success to keep her teeth from chattering.
Captain Tate stepped forward and, after preparing a saucer, handed it to Sophia while bowing low. “I hope Colonel Morgan has not been overly unkind to you, Miss Adair. You must not judge us on his actions alone.”
Sophia accepted his offering with a nod, but did not trust herself to speak. The man appeared self-confident and relax
ed, yet something about him made her keep up her guard.
A quick knock was followed by the entrance of five more men, all of whom loudly clanked their muddy boots at the door. When they looked up and noticed Sophia, they removed their hats in unison, but the action seemed more of a force of habit from gentlemen than one of respect for her in particular.
“Come in, men.” Colonel Morgan talked while clasping his last coat button. “I see you received my message.”
Judging from their silent and hasty entrance, punctuality and propriety were rigidly enforced in Morgan’s command. As they filed in, some took chairs while others leaned against the wide windowsills and waited. Sophia could see these were men of good blood—not aristocrats—but farmers and businessmen, who were vigilant and self-reliant. These were men who didn’t seek trouble, yet they possessed a demeanor that told her they would know what to do if they found it.
Although a few of them looked very young, all appeared to be hardened veterans of hazardous service. Their resolve was evident in the way they carried themselves, and the unflinching expression of intrepidity upon their faces made it obvious they would not balk from performing the service asked of them.
She shifted her gaze to study each man in the ragged group and noted the desperate state of their attire. They appeared sorely in need of everything—warm coats, leggings, and shoes. But the determination stamped on their faces showed Sophia that patriotism and purpose would keep them in camp no matter the privations they were forced to endure.
This group of men had been among the first to declare their independence from British rule, and throughout the war had remained the most resolute in defending it.
After they had settled, all of their gazes rested upon Sophia—and with noticeable disfavor. The contempt in which they beheld her was palpable, making it hard not to weaken beneath their withering glares. Captain Tate alone seemed to harbor no resentment, his expression appearing somewhat sympathetic to her plight.
“Gentlemen, as I said in my message to you, Miss Adair was brought in on suspicion of passing information to the British.” Morgan stood in front of his men, holding the correspondence in his hand. “As I have no real evidence against her, I wished to seek your opinion on what should be done.”
Sophia’s gaze flitted back to Colonel Morgan, and she couldn’t help but notice that even among men of equal daring, he appeared a man apart. Armed with little more than honor and courage, he had assembled this group of countrymen, formed them into a militia, and led them against a vastly superior force with notable and distinguished success. It was apparent from the way they regarded him that the gallant young officer had won their unbounded admiration.
“You said you received a communication about her,” one of the men said. “That’s evidence, is it not?”
“It was not signed,” Morgan said as he lowered himself onto the edge of his desk. “I cannot consider that as evidence, surely.”
“And what does the lady say?” another asked.
Colonel Morgan glanced at Sophia, but continued the conversation as if she were not present. “She denies all charges, of course.”
“But she lives at the Spangler house, does she not?” A man with tattered-looking pants and noticeable holes in his shoes glared at her. “That is reason enough to assume she is a Tory!”
Another officer, a heavy man with a grizzly beard, stood and waved his hand in the air. “A line of distinction must be drawn between soldiers taken in battle and spies taken in action. The first are prisoners, but the latter, traitors. The one forfeits liberty, the other, his—or her— head.”
“Hold your tongue, Beck.” A man, somewhat older than the others, began pacing in an irritated manner. He possessed a weatherworn face, deeply lined, but his eyes showed a father’s patience. He appeared to be the type of man who spoke little, but who was listened to when he did.
“We cannot hold her just because she resides in a Tory house. We cannot sink to the level of our enemy, whose tactics we abhor.”
“I concur,” another said with a thoughtful expression. “Yet what if she is a spy? A traitor? Woman or not, she should be punished.”
“I move that we send her back across the lines at the first opportunity.”
All eyes turned to Captain Tate, who had spoken the words. “We have no means of holding a woman,” he said in a self-confident voice. “Look at her. She spent a single night in our unhealthy accommodations. How many more could she even endure?”
Though she knew she was the center of attention, Sophia tried to appear indifferent and unaffected by staring straight ahead.
The man named Beck responded with an angry wave of his hand. “I’ve no doubt she wouldn’t last long, her life being softened by the comfort provided by the enemy—at the cost of liberty!”
“Are we to live with the blood of an innocent on our hands?” Tate shot back. “She is not a spy.”
Sophia felt her cheeks grow warm as all of the men studied her. Lowering her gaze, she noticed that her cloak was streaked with dirt, probably her face as well. Her hair, which had been neatly styled before her journey, was now hanging in clumps upon her shoulders. She cast her eyes toward the window across the room and sighed deeply, wishing herself away from this place.
“And just how did you draw such a conclusion?” the man named Beck growled.
“I draw no conclusions, sir,” Tate answered lazily, “but rely on known and visible facts. Look at her, and tell me I am in error.”
Sophia continued listening to the men while trying to appear unconscious of the fact that she was the sole topic of the conversation and the object of so much scrutiny.
“Can the lady speak?”
Startled, Sophia turned to the man who addressed her. “Of course I can speak, and thank you for the kindness of acknowledging my presence.”
“No need to get your hackles up, Miss Adair. This is serious business, and needs to be—”
“Serious business indeed when a woman is kidnapped in broad daylight,” she replied with a tilt of her head, playing her part by radiating angry defiance.
“Not kidnapped,” Colonel Morgan said. “Brought in for questioning. And you were riding near our outpost.”
Sophia put her face in her hands and began to sob. “But I’ve done nothing wrong, save live among English gentlemen.” She raised her head and pretended to blink back tears. “And they do not make war on English gentlewomen.”
“Now, now Miss Adair.” Captain Tate stepped forward. “Colonel Morgan had to bring you in. I’m sure you understand.”
“But he has no evidence,” Sophia cried. “Ask him if it is so.”
The room fell quiet for a moment. “It is so,” he finally said without being asked.
“Please, you can’t allow them to put me back in that dreadful cell.” She took a step toward Captain Tate, as he seemed to be the most lenient, and appeared to possess some authority over the other men. “Have mercy on me.”
Tate turned to the others. “What say you, men? Are your hearts so cold that you will allow an innocent woman to suffer?”
Sophia’s eyes, seemingly of their own accord, fell upon Colonel Morgan, who stood contemplating her with an expression of empathy and suspicion. It appeared he did not completely believe her and would rely on the will of his men to decide her fate.
“No one said she is innocent,” he said at last in a grave tone. “We possess no evidence one way or the other.”
“I say we send her back and good riddance,” the heavy-set man said. “We got no place to hold her except for that old root cellar, and she’d be nothin’ but trouble if we kept her.”
“Agreed,” another mumbled, as others nodded their assent. “Though there is plenty of room for doubt.”
“Yes.” Morgan studied her intently. “And I am full of it.”
“If you let her go, you’re going to regret it,” the man with the holes in his shoes said. “Mark my words.”
Morgan sat and tapped his fingers
on the desk impatiently. “Consider them marked.”
Sophia studied him a moment, trying to determine whether he was acting the part or truly had regrets. Reading nothing from his inscrutable expression, she turned her attention back to the view out the window and waited for his next move.
“Very well,” Morgan said at last. “There are a few more questions I’d like to ask Miss Adair, but I’ll allow you gentlemen to get back to your duties.”
“I’d be glad to stay,” Captain Tate offered, looking up at Colonel Morgan and smiling.
“That won’t be necessary,” Morgan said tersely. “You are dismissed.”
Seeming to ignore the order, Captain Tate walked over to Sophia and bowed. “Allow me to express my regrets that mere suspicions have put you in such material discomfort.”
When Sophia started to speak he silenced her with his hand. “But however greatly I mourn the error for your sake, it is somewhat balanced by the pleasure you have afforded us by your presence.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I pray you will not judge all patriots by the actions of a few.” He paused and gave a scornful glance toward Colonel Morgan.
Sophia batted her eyelashes as she had seen her cousin do in front of the British soldiers. “The captain is over-kind. I’m sure the memory of my imprisonment will be greatly improved by your kind and gracious words.”
Sophia could feel Colonel Morgan’s eyes burning into her with an intensity that was palpable. When Captain Tate finally disappeared out the door, she turned her back on Morgan, and warmed her hands by the fire in an effort to escape his withering gaze.
Chapter 3
The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.
— Patrick Henry, speech at the Virginia Convention, 1775
After Captain Tate had disappeared through the door, Colonel Morgan took Sophia’s saucer of tea and refilled it with sophisticated grace.
“I trust the night passed not too disagreeably,” he said handing it back to her. “I apologize for the accommodations.”
Liberty and Destiny Page 2
