“Quite a coincidence running into reinforcements like this, eh, Colonel?”
Grant glanced back at Captain Tate who had ridden up behind him.
“Yes. And a lucky one at that.”
“We going to attack?”
Morgan nodded. “Don’t see why not. It appears the enemy is within our reach, and certainly within our power to defeat.”
“Could be more dragoons over there.” Tate nodded toward the river.
“Can’t waste my time worrying about what might be over there,” Morgan turned in his saddle and motioned for another officer. He rode a little closer, running his gaze over the road a moment, and then swiftly gave his orders. He had taken in the whole situation in one rapid glance, and, at once, made his final dispositions.
“Take your men around to the back.” He pointed to a scuff of trees. “Stick to the shadows over there.”
The sergeant nodded and saluted, then rode away.
“You can attack from the front with me,” Morgan said. “Rooney and Johns are covering the flanks.”
Tate nodded as he sat watching the column of British move slowly through the shadows of early dawn with a contemplative look upon his face.
When the signal was given, the attack came with an abruptness for which the enemy was unprepared, and with an adeptness they were not expecting. Morgan’s men struck swiftly, suddenly and remorselessly, sending the British scurrying into defensive positions. Many of the Redcoats had heard of the effectiveness of the militia’s guns and did not care to face them again, so they scrambled for their lives through the thick bramble and brush.
The ferocity with which Morgan’s men swept down upon this overwhelming force of seasoned fighters soon forced even the veteran soldiers to flee in panic. The terror in their ranks spread like wildfire, making their departure in no way a quiet and orderly retirement, but a retreat conducted in dire confusion and fright.
Although greatly outnumbered, Morgan’s men continued firing from behind the hedges and the rocks, coolly reloading their guns, moving to another spot, and firing again. The British had long ago learned that it was useless to search out these ghostly forms. Each shooter would appear for a moment, fire, and then melt away, only to be replaced by another in a different location with fatal shot. Like swift shadows, the patriots would speed through the dusky forest, reloading as they ran, and join the fight again.
In just a few minutes time, it became a matter of enraged surprise on one side, and wondering exultation on the other that the small militia could once again turn the tide and surprise and defeat the powerful and well-equipped British army with such unexpected results.
Morgan sat beneath a copse of trees and took a deep breath of relief. In addition to the prisoners, he would once again be restocked with firearms, horses, ammunition and supplies. He bowed his head and said a quick prayer of thanks before his thoughts turned to Sophia Adair. Her act of bravery may have just saved this entire region—though no one but he would ever know it.
“Pretty nice piece of work for one day, I’d say. Congratulations, Colonel.” Captain Tate leaned forward on his saddle staring at the bounty. “How’d you know about it?”
Morgan turned his head slowly and studied the soldier intently. “Know about what?”
“These reinforcements.” His laugh sounded forced. “You can’t think I’d believe you just happened upon it.”
In prior days Morgan would have perhaps shared the information with his good friend, but the concerns of Sophia Adair stopped him. He stared at the captain with a look that made the younger man flinch. “Thank you. That message was well conveyed earlier.”
Morgan squeezed his gelding’s sides and rode toward some of his men going through crates in a wagon. “Take what we need and destroy what we cannot carry,” he ordered, before turning his horse to ride to the front of the line.
Chapter 7
The Sun never shined on a cause of greater worth.
— Thomas Paine, Common Sense
Colonel Morgan sat on the wide windowsill staring out at the brilliant display created by the setting sun. His mind, however, remained focused on decisions of war rather than on the magnificent array of colors before him. The sound of footsteps, followed by the door creaking open interrupted his quiet musings. Turning to glance over his shoulder, he watched Captain Tate stomp his feet a few times on an old throw rug and toss his hat on a chair.
“I guess you heard the Redcoats are pretty bloody upset about that attack Monday last,” Tate said.
Morgan stood and shrugged his shoulders, then turned back to the view out the window with his hands on his hips. “Perhaps they will take the hint and leave America.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” Tate slumped into one of the chairs and propped his muddy boots on the edge of the desk. “I think it’s making them more spiteful and unpleasant.” He glanced over his shoulder toward Morgan. “If that’s possible, I mean.”
“Truly?” Morgan began to get an uneasy feeling about his friend’s visit. “I had hoped the schooling I’ve already provided would be enough to teach Colonel Tyndale that he has altogether mistaken the character of the men he is dealing with.” He gazed back at Tate. “If he renders another lesson necessary, you can rest assured I will be happy to enlighten him.
“Oh, I think he’s looking for something other than another fight,” Tate answered absently while rubbing a piece of dirt off the sleeve of his coat.
Morgan walked casually back to his desk, sat, and picked up a quill to begin some correspondence, as if the conversation were completely inconsequential. “How do you mean?”
“Word in Smithtown has it he’s questioning everyone at the Spangler house. He seems to think he has an informant close to him.”
Even as the calm, low-toned voice said the words, realization of what they revealed became a black abyss yawning before Morgan. His heart jerked and rolled over in his chest, then plummeted into his boots—leaving him as breathless as if he had just been kicked. He casually put the quill down, fearing Tate would see how unsteady his hand had become. A low roar commenced in his ears, making it hard to speak, or even think.
“The Spangler house you say? Whatever for?”
Tate snickered and stood. “Come on, Grant. We both know—and I suppose the Brits do too—that it’s not just luck that puts them right under your nose time and again.”
Morgan laughed and hoped it didn’t sound too forced. “Of course, it’s not just luck. It’s good soldiering.”
Tate frowned and then grew silent and meditative for a moment. “I wonder if it somehow has something to do with that woman.”
Morgan walked back to the window and leaned his shoulder into the wooden frame, searching his mind and wondering if ever by word, conduct, or deed he had hinted that Sophia Adair was his informant in front of this man. “What woman is that?” he asked as if he had forgotten the whole affair.
“The one you brought here. The supposed spy. Remember?”
“Surely you jest.” Morgan looked at Tate over his shoulder. “I got the distinct impression she didn’t like us very much.”
Tate laughed. “Well, if you want a bad opinion of yourself, ask a woman for it. That’s for sure.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “She seemed a bit hostile to me too, but one can never tell with beauties such as that.” He looked back up at Morgan and studied him. “No doubt you would tell me if she were on our side.”
“As far as beauty, I remember nothing of her looks.” Although he could feel his temple pulsing with the suppression of emotion, Morgan stared into his friend’s eyes with unwavering resolve. “I saw a Tory and nothing more.” He walked to the fireplace and put his hands down to warm them. “Anyway, I should think questioning those in the Spangler house would be a waste of time for them. Everyone knows the residents there are devoted to the Crown.”
“So it is assumed, but they’ve been soundly licked twice. I presume they believe the third time is proverbial and the odds must turn.�
� He glanced toward Morgan, but did not linger on him. “If it’s not someone there, then it would have to be one of their own,” he said musingly.
“Yes, well such things do occur.” Morgan turned and crossed his arms, staring accusingly at his captain.
Tate didn’t notice—or at least pretended not to notice—the accusation. He slid his feet off the desk and stood to leave. “Anyway, I came to report that the men are going to drill with the new arms this afternoon in the lower meadow.”
“Very well.”
Morgan listened to the door close, and let out his breath. Had he deceived her somehow? Had he acted too interested in the Spangler house? Too unconcerned? Perhaps a female’s intuition had indeed been better than his own.
His concern soon turned to anger and he pounded the mantel with his fist. Lands, he knew they’d start retracing their steps. They’d been licked cleanly twice in a month’s time by a small contingency of militia. Of course, they knew someone was helping him! And yet he’d allowed her to fight alone, unaided and unsupported in one great silent, never-ending conflict of wit and will and cunning.
Colonel Morgan decided he had to act and do so without delay. He had already allowed this to go too far, and regretted permitting it at all. Her dangerous conduct had to stop, and he was the only one with the knowledge and authority to compel her to do so.
Days passed fleetingly with alternating sentiments of exaltation and despair as news from the field revealed a great victory one day and a terrible defeat the next. Sophia took solace in the fact that whatever the British gained in ground from the patriots, they paid for so dearly in numbers that their victories, what ones there were, amounted to defeats.
As for Colonel Morgan and his militia, she had heard they were constantly on the move, offering battle one day and eluding one the next. Colonel Tyndale’s desperation to destroy this homegrown army grew more evident each day.
Sophia had arisen at an early hour, when the dew was still wet and the sun barely a hint on the horizon, but had not yet brought herself to leave her room. The house was once again full of British officers and she dreaded the thought of getting through another day pretending she enjoyed their company.
Over the last few weeks, she had become restless and impatient, wanting more than anything for the war to end, even as the turmoil seemed to escalate around her. Agitated this morning that she couldn't do more to bring about her desired result, she tried without success to think of something pleasant. After giving up on that endeavor, she concentrated instead on getting her unruly locks to cooperate.
When that task was finally completed, Sophia rested her chin on her hands, and stared musingly into the mirror. She had aged since this war had begun. She could see it in the small lines and creases that now edged her mouth and eyes. Concern, worry, and the weight of responsibility—all commingled in her serious stare. She tried to smile, to lighten the look, but it appeared more like a grimace to her, so she turned away and stood.
Just as she did so, the sound of voices floated in to her, along with playful barking of the Spanglers’s young dog. Although not exceptionally loud, something about the tone made her go to the window. Scanning the landscape for a moment and seeing nothing, she was just about to turn around when she noticed some movement near the gate.
Her heart leaped into her throat as she watched Colonel Morgan stride into view, calm and unruffled, gesturing with his hands as he talked to two British soldiers. Although dressed again as a lowly trader, he appeared the very picture of a soldier.
Sophia grabbed the windowsill for support when she noticed two more British officers walk toward him. Morgan appeared relaxed and smiling as he nodded his head in reply to their questions, but his answers apparently did not satisfy them. They pointed toward the house and he obediently followed.
Even though Sophia could not quite make out the words, she guessed the import of the situation. She knew Colonel Tyndale was in the library, and feared Morgan was being taken to him for further questioning—perhaps had been officially summoned to appear before him. They had already questioned her and everyone in the household, making it obvious that they suspected—or knew—something.
Trying to appear calm, Sophia started down the stairs, though she had to hold onto the handrail to steady her shaking legs. What could he possibly be doing so near? Could there be trouble he is trying to warn me about?
“Is something wrong, Miss Adair?”
Major Briggs stood at the bottom of the stairs, his brows drawn close as he studied her with slit-eyed intensity.
“No, nothing is wrong.” She laughed. “But I believe someone came in that I must talk to.”
“Talk to, Miss Adair?”
Pushing passed him without another word, Sophia proceeded to the library, where she heard the low murmuring of voices. Opening the door without knocking, she stepped in with a boldness that surprised even her. All heads turned expectantly to the door as it opened and she found herself the object of five sets of probing eyes.
“Oh,” she said meekly. “I fear I’ve interrupted.”
Colonel Tyndale, sitting on the edge of a desk, waved his hand graciously. “A welcome distraction I assure you.” His voice sounded smooth and friendly, and he possessed a smile of imperial casualness, but she knew all were masks for his evil intentions. It mattered little if he appeared angry or joyful, if he spoke kindly or harsh. He was the ruler here. He reigned by force with little regard for who or what he destroyed in the process.
The air in the room was thick with tobacco smoke and smelled faintly of spirits, making Sophia instantly nauseous and light-headed. Yet knowing that the slightest mistake in look or tone could unmask her, she pushed away her fear and gazed around the room with a casual air.
In addition to Colonel Tyndale, she saw a soldier sitting at a desk, apparently taking notes about what was being said. Two other men, the sentries, she supposed, seemed to be conversing in low tones by the fireplace, and in front of the window stood Colonel Morgan.
She allowed her eyes to rest on him for only a moment, long enough to see that his expression was one of unconcern, at least an enemy might suppose. Yet beneath the half-lowered lids she noticed hidden signs of apprehension—though she had a feeling it was her safety that concerned him, not his own.
“Do you recognize this man, Miss Adair?” Tyndale’s voice broke through the silence and Sophia’s nerves.
“Why, of course.” She turned to face Tyndale and looked at him with an unwavering gaze. “When you are finished with your business with him, I would like to have a word as well.” She curtsied politely. “But please don’t let me interrupt. I apologize for the intrusion.”
She turned to leave, but Tyndale stepped in front of her.
“What do you mean you’d like to have a word with him, pray? This is not a man I would think a niece of Charles Spangler would be familiar.” His tone had changed from gentle and jovial to harsh and testy.
The other men in the room stopped talking and seemed to pause, waiting for her reply.
Sophia stared up at Tyndale as if completely taken aback, although she tried to remain gracefully relaxed and poised. “Why, whatever do you mean? Why should I not be familiar with him?” She began to tap her foot on the floor as if impatient, but inside her courage began to falter.
The plan, she had so hurriedly devised, no longer appeared achievable or easily attained. Sophia feared that her eyes or her voice, or both, would deceive her, yet she drew deep from within to appear unaffected. “Has he done something wrong?” She removed her gaze from Tyndale and scanned the faces of the other men, searching for answers.
All the men seemed confused and looked from Sophia to the stranger, while Colonel Morgan stood quietly with hat in hand by the window. She watched his eyes wander around the room, apprising each man, and saw the raw confidence on his face intensify. Seeing the calm features and penetrating eyes of a man who knew no fear gave her some faith and reassurance.
“He is here co
ncerning military matters, which you would not understand,” Tyndale said in response to her question. “It is only for questioning.”
Sophia laughed loudly and gleefully at that. “Military matters? But he is simply a trader who sold me a piece of ribbon. What would he know of military matters?” Even as she said the words, a low roar commenced in her ears and Sophia began to have an overwhelming sense of doom.
She did not even know if Colonel Morgan was playing the part of a trader today. He could be pretending to be a completely different character for all she knew. Why, just a few weeks ago Mary had told her he was a master of disguise.
“Is that true?” Colonel Tyndale turned to Morgan.
“The evidence is in her hair,” Morgan answered calmly. “I was just getting ready to explain all that to you.”
Tyndale’s eyes returned to Sophia. “Is that the ribbon?” He nodded toward the one she wore in her hair.
Sophia reached up and touched the thin slice of fabric, the color rising in her cheeks when she realized it adorned her hair. She wondered if Morgan would think her bold—or perhaps patently childish—for wearing it. All she could think of to say was, “It is one of my favorites.”
She glanced again at Colonel Morgan, and tried to read what he was thinking—a useless endeavor. His eyes appeared to be a means to search other people’s thoughts, not reveal his own.
“I don’t understand why you are questioning this man.” She turned back to Colonel Tyndale. “Has he done something wrong?”
“No one recognized him, and he’s been lurking in the area,” Tyndale said coldly. “You can vouch for his character?”
Sophia laughed lightly. “I did not say I can vouch for his character, sir. I can only say he is a trader with whom I’ve done honest business.” She turned her attention back to Morgan. “And I was hoping I could purchase another ribbon. To match the one I have.”
Liberty and Destiny Page 6
