The endless minutes of another endless day within the four walls of this room would serve to unnerve her if she did not find something to occupy her time. Just this morning she had heard that a ship carrying the additional troops had landed, and they were preparing for their march inland. She could barely stand to sit and think about what it meant for the Americans—or the fact that she had no way to deliver the news to them.
“Sophia, whatever are you doing just staring into the fire?”
Sophia jumped when her cousin Mary spoke and wondered how long she had been standing in the room.
“I declare, you’ve not been yourself ever since you were taken by those rebels!”
Sophia took up her needlepoint with imaginary calmness, and began working again, smiling at her cousin’s comment. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m fine.”
Mary, who was more like a sister than a cousin, collapsed in the chair beside her with little ceremony. “Fine? You’ve barely talked since you got back. You sit in here and stare into space—just like you were doing when I came in just now.”
Sophia forced a laugh and tried to act nonchalantly. “I did not know that was a crime.”
Mary leaned in closer. “It’s not, but it makes me wonder.”
Sophia put her sewing down on her lap and cocked her head toward her cousin. “Wonder what?”
“What he was like.”
Sophia returned her gaze to the fireplace as she felt heat begin to rise in her cheeks. She hoped Mary would think her nearness to the blaze caused the sudden surge. “What was who like?”
“Colonel Morgan, of course.” Mary seemed unable to control her excitement. “Is it true what they say?”
“I don’t know who ‘they’ are,” Sophia said, bending over her stitches again, and pretending to concentrate. “So, I don’t know what they say.”
“Everyone, of course.” Mary’s voice seemed to rise an octave before she took a deep breath of exasperation. “What they say is that he is a master of disguise—like Proteus, able to change his shape at will.” Mary stopped and leaned toward her. “And that beneath it all he is incredibly handsome.”
Sophia laughed. “I’m surprised at you, Mary Spangler. How have you heard such things about an American officer, pray?” She tried to appear unaffected by the remark. “On my life, I’ve never heard that he is a master of disguise.”
“He is handsome then? You thought so? You did not deny it!”
Sophia squinted as she tried to concentrate on the stitches. “No, I did not deny it. I suppose one could say he is a handsome man.”
“Incredibly so?” Mary leaned toward her.
Sophia, exhaled loudly. “That is a very subjective thing. What may be handsome to you may not be to someone else.”
Mary crossed her arms and pouted. “You’re talking about Major Briggs now, aren’t you? I can’t understand why you don’t like him. He is a very handsome man.”
“Perhaps to you.”
“Well, you must admit that he is not as objectionable as some who have sought your favor.”
Sophia laughed loudly at the comment. “Not being as objectionable as others is hardly a reason to accept a man’s hand in marriage.”
“Well, I don’t know why you won’t consider it,” Mary said. “He is an officer. Rumor has it soon to be a colonel.”
Sophia grimaced. “Being an officer does not make a person worth marrying.” She laid her sewing project on her lap and tried to change the subject. “What’s this nonsense about Colonel Morgan being a master of disguise?” Although she knew her cousin had a penchant for exaggeration, she wanted to see what Mary had heard.
Mary stood and warmed her hands by the fire. “Oh, everyone talks of it. That he is able to disguise himself and walk into the British camps. That is how he knows where they are going to be, and is able to defeat them.” She paused a moment as if reflecting on something she had overheard. “He did it just last month they say.”
Sophia smiled to herself. So that is how they are explaining their loss.
Mary walked over the piano, played a few bars and then sighed. “It’s so quiet here today. I can hardly stand it.”
Sophia laughed. “It’s wonderfully quiet... and peaceful.”
Mary’s gaze darted over to her, as if she had said something irrational. “You don’t miss them?”
Sophia didn’t want to elaborate, yet didn’t want to lie, and so she changed the subject. “Let’s take a ride to Smithtown.”
Mary wrapped her arms around herself and moved back toward the fire. “It’s too cold.”
“No it’s not.” Sophia got up, walked to the window, and opened the drapes, allowing in a bountiful supply of sunbeams. “It’s a beautiful day!”
“I know the sun is shining, but that doesn’t mean it is warm outside.” Mary shivered again in an exaggerated way.
“Come on, Mary. You can’t stay penned up pining away over the departure of the British forever.”
“I’m not pining away,” Mary said, defending herself. “I just miss them.”
“Well, if you take a ride to me with Smithtown, you’ll forget all about them. I’m sure of it.”
Sophia studied her cousin’s reaction as she considered the idea. Although the two had practically grown up together and were once very close—they were now as opposite as could be. Her uncle had tried to instill in both of them the necessity of acting at all times the part of a lady, but the trait had come somewhat more easily to Mary than to Sophia. Mary relished entertaining and mingling within the circles of sophisticated society that her father’s business required, but she was neglectful of responsibility and careless about her obligations.
Sophia, on the other hand, preferred solitary meanderings as opposed to the loud gatherings that Mary so enjoyed. Being trapped in the middle of a war, there was as much of one as there was little of the other, so the two were forever at odds.
“You’re right, I suppose,” Mary finally said. “I should get out for some fresh air, but I’m not sure I feel like riding that far.”
“That far?” Sophia laughed. “It’s only six miles for heaven’s sake.”
As she waited for Mary to make up her mind, Sophia walked over the window. Smithtown was not a town at all, but a few buildings clustered together—one of which was a tavern. Country folk would often stop there on their way to Charles Town to get their news—or their gossip—whatever the case might be. Mary and Sophia did not venture into the tavern, but an open field nearby provided a place to picnic and a location to meet with friends or those who were just passing through.
“I’ll have Mash saddle Donovan and Spirit right away.” Sophia decided to take Mary’s hesitation in not saying no, as a definite yes, and hurried from the room before Mary could change her mind.
It didn’t take long for their horses to be saddled, and Mary and Sophia, along with Mash as an escort, went cantering down the sandy road. Sophia found it invigorating to feel the strength of her gelding beneath her and the breeze on her face as they let the horses pick up the pace.
Although this was the bleakest time of year, it yet held much promise. The dogwoods and redbuds, still tight asleep, would soon be reborn by the sun to soften and assuage the landscape. Even without the vivid colors of spring, the scenery seemed to be spun of gold by some heavenly hands, so that not even the thought of a raging war could make the day unpleasant. With her fingers on the reins and the sun on her back, dismal thoughts disappeared, melting away like dewdrops at dawn.
At the speed they traveled, it seemed like only minutes before they were in sight of the small crossroads. As usual, the area was teeming with travelers stopping by the tavern, and others just standing around and talking. Mary soon found someone she knew and reined her horse to a stop, while Sophia rode a few steps farther taking in the sights and listening to the low hum of conversation around her.
She urged her horse toward a grassy area, and dismounted, allowing him to graze a few minutes as she spotted a
wagon full of family members greet a rider that had just appeared on the road. Everyone seemed in a gay mood, laughing, talking, catching up on the news, or just taking a rest from a long journey on a sunny winter’s day.
After a few moments, Sophia’s gaze fell upon a man selling hides, furs, and assorted trinkets from the back of his wagon. She noticed that his shirt-sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and that his brown arms appeared brawny and strong. After gazing at him a moment, her eyes traveled to his face, and the casual feeling that she may have seen him somewhere suddenly crystallized into explosive memory.
Although he wore a scraggly beard and floppy hat that denoted a lowly trader, his eyes were unmistakable. Sophia jerked her horse from his meal and began to walk toward him. “Sophia, where are you going?” Mary rode toward her, and hastily dismounted as she struggled to keep up.
“Look at these wonderful ribbons!” Sophia answered. “I must have one.”
Colonel Morgan paid no attention to her, but continued to hold up furs to display to the people who passed by.
“I’d like one of your ribbons, sir.”
His dark, stormy eyes shot her a look of impatient tolerance that almost caused her to turn away, but at last he answered. “Which one, lassy?”
“The blue one, if I may.”
Morgan turned toward the wagon and selected the ribbon. A halfpenny, miss,” he said in an irritated voice, regarding her now with cold and indifferent eyes.
Sophia reached into her pocket and pulled out the requested payment. When he held out his hand, she intentionally missed his upturned palm and the coin fell to the ground.
“Oh, dear how clumsy of me,” she said, bending down to retrieve them, while the colonel did the same.
“Three regiments arriving within a day and more within the week to Shay’s Corner,” she whispered.
He picked up the coin and stood. “No harm done, miss.” He tipped his hat, and turned his back as if he had not heard a word she’d said.
Chapter 6
All might be free if they valued freedom, and defended it as they should.
— Samuel Adams
Colonel Morgan sat in the shadows, straining his ears for any sound other than his own men and horses as they moved. He flinched at each groan and creak of the wheels, but knew he had time on his side. The British, marching in the dark, would be slow in their progress—and traveling in unfamiliar territory would subject them to delay.
At the edge of some woods that lined the road, Morgan halted his command. He told his men where to position two small guns, and watched as they moved them this way and that to get just the right angle. The field pieces were a result of the raid a month ago when the British had abandoned the town of Gladstone with the objective of annihilating Morgan and his men. He smiled at the brilliance of the plan and how smoothly it had been implemented, then frowned when he thought of Sophia Adair and the danger she had placed herself in to communicate with him.
When one of the soldiers signaled to him that the guns were in place, he began to relax. The men had marched all night to get here, and it was now almost dawn. There had been very little talking and no complaining throughout the journey—only the shuffling tramp of feet, the steady rumbling of wheels, and the creak, rattle, and clank of harness and accouterment.
Although they appeared rough and ragged and worn, this group was composed of disciplined men of unparalleled courage. This uncommon collection of local militia had resisted the British without any provisions other than what they provided themselves, and they continued their resistance even though there was little hope of reward or of payment coming.
Yet, inexperienced and unfamiliar with military tactics as they were, these men never complained about the inequalities in arms of the troops with whom they would soon be engaged. Despite being unaccustomed with the military way of shooting by word of command, there was no demoralization, no sign of wavering or retreat, even in these last hours of great anxiety and suspense.
Although the hands that held the musket sometimes appeared awkward, they were steady. The men might not be able to maneuver in the open as the British did, but they could fight. When one of them fell, there could be no doubt another would step promptly forward to take his place and his gun if necessary. These men were dauntless, but not reckless; they were confident, but not careless. No one knew what the day would bring forth, but none appeared overly concerned about the outcome.
The foe Morgan and his men faced in this section of the country was twofold—the British regulars who had to be dealt with head on, and the insidious, malicious Loyalists who often lurked in the shadows, inflicting misery and anguish at every turn.
When united, these two forces occupied all the strong positions in South Carolina and were well-supplied with arms, ammunition and military equipment of every kind. The patriots, on the other hand, had no place to resort for safety except the swamps, and no supplies of any kind except what was taken from their own scanty stock.
As the war lingered on, the patriots’ own homes had become the most dangerous place to be, as their Loyalist neighbors, wishing to benefit from the wealth flowing from the Crown, would inform the British of their locations. Morgan had therefore adopted a tactic that combined secrecy and stealth, speed and surprise, and he knew how and when to use all four better than any other officer in the field. Seldom lingering in one spot, he changed ground with Indian-like policy, baffling the British efforts to rein him in.
With preparations complete, Morgan relaxed a little in his saddle, but he remained keenly aware they needed a victory today. Distress and disease were now reaping from him a far richer death harvest than the British had been capable of bestowing. The supplies of war and sustenance for his men would go a long way to improving health and morale, and intensifying their trust and confidence.
With a signal from Morgan, the soldiers dropped where they stood and were instantly asleep without so much as unrolling a blanket. Worn out by fatigue, these men would still be ready to fight after some much-needed repose. Despite their deficiencies in arms, they were capable of suffering more, daring more, and achieving more than just about any other group similarly organized.
Morgan dismounted and sat down beneath a tree, using its strong trunk to rest his weary back. He was tired, but did not feel inclined to sleep. Instead, he gazed at the men resting peacefully around him and tried to envision the best way to face the approaching enemy. Only by surprise could he hope to be successful and he made his plans accordingly.
Just as he had done with the last mission, Morgan had kept the destination of this operation quiet from all of his men, not providing the vaguest notion concerning his purpose. He had even detailed a small party to another area to divert the attention of the enemy—or any informant.
Even those closest to him were following blindly, not sure of his intent or his final objective. He didn’t want to take any chances that someone from his own quarters could interfere or warn the British that he knew Tyndale was being reinforced.
But a whisper of unease bothered him. If he attacked now, would he be putting Sophia Adair in danger? Certainly the arrival of fresh troops was known only to a few. It would not be hard for the British to look around and discover who had tipped him off. The thought had made him restless from the beginning and still kept him so.
As his body started to relax, he drifted off to a fretful sleep, and was brought back to consciousness by the low, distant sound of creaking leather and clattering chains. As he began to wake his men, the steady hum turned into the distinct sound of hooves hitting stones and rocks, of wheels turning. He looked toward the horizon and saw the first slight glimmerings of dawn. Even with the benefit of light, the British would be tired from their journey, and the low haze clinging to the ground would help to hide the number of men attacking.
Morgan motioned for his men to fan out, and watched them skirt the main highway, keeping to the deep shadows. The first wave of the attack would involve some of his best shar
pshooters, who needed no instruction from him. They would form behind every tree, bush, and rock, find a target, and fire. If the enemy made a rush toward the spot, there would be no one there, but there would be another nearby to take his place. Although the patriots were attacking at least three times their number, they would be assisted by the surprise of the operation and the ability to deceive.
Knowing that his men had not eaten for more than twelve hours, Morgan tried to provide strength and vitality through his confidence and poised bearing. While getting into position, he was everywhere at once, dashing up and down, imbuing them with enthusiasm and courage. The thought of procuring sustenance for his men and horses while inflicting deadly force upon the enemy, now controlled his entire mind.
The men seemed to have great faith in their leader, and followed his commands with no reluctance or doubt. Isolated as they were, any indecision on his part, any mischance, any wavering or hesitancy—and the entire command would be lost. Morgan’s confident attitude and the magnetism of his manner secured their faith in the enterprise and infused their hearts to deeds of valor.
It seemed like only minutes later that the enemy came lumbering into view, looking gigantic as they filled the road and the space on each side. With his eyes on the target and all his senses alert and vigilant, Morgan counted and calculated their strength. Three regiments she had said, yet they seemed to keep coming. He hesitated for a moment, fearing a trap. Could he trust her? Should he trust her? It would be just like the British to send a beautiful woman across the lines to entrap the Americans. Had he fallen for it too easily?
Pondering his dilemma, he allowed his eyes to roam down the road and his spirits started to rise. Trick or not, these troops and horses appeared tired from their journey, their bodies slumped and sagging—and they seemed to have no escort. Was it foolishness or arrogance that led them to march without preparation into a land occupied by the enemy? Morgan smiled grimly. Whichever the case, it was an attack impossible to pass by.
Liberty and Destiny Page 5
