“I’m not sure it was prudent to come all this way.” Sophia stood behind him, staring at the wide breadth of his shoulders.
“Nothing between us has been prudent.” He glanced over his shoulder at her with a look of impatient concern. “Why start worrying about that now?”
Sophia could never be sure if her presence provoked, perplexed, or pleased him, and tonight was no exception. One moment he seemed caring, and the next, angry or sullen. What was it that drove him at times to such preoccupation and pensiveness, making him like a stranger, indifferent and detached? He seemed to prefer being unapproachable and beyond her reach. She wondered if it was to protect her. Or torture her?
Sophia shook her head in exasperation. Although his presence felt somehow familiar and comfortable, there was something about being with him that felt both exciting and dangerous. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I have no right to speak to you this way.”
Again he looked back at her, but this time his face appeared more kindly. “If the right is mine to give, you have it.”
Sophia walked up beside him and watched the water splashing from the fountain. “It’s just that, I’m sorry I made you angry.”
“Not angry.” He paused and rested his gaze upon her thoughtfully for a moment. “Just concerned.”
“I knew of no other way to pass the information,”
Morgan turned toward her and reached for her hand. “Please, Miss Adair. No matter the circumstances, don’t ever write anything down again.” It was not a request. There was steel in the soft, rasping voice. Yet in the pressure of his hand, Sophia felt both a strength and gentleness, as if she were absorbing the soft, welcoming warmth of embers rather than those from a flaming fire.
Sophia took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the feelings that consumed her. The garden was a solemn, quiet place, yet suddenly seemed alive with meanings, hints, and whispers.
Standing there beneath the velvety sky full of stars, thoughts of war seemed to melt away as utter peacefulness enveloped her. For once she heard no crackling spit of skirmishing parties, no thumping of distant war drums, or echoes of galloping horses bringing dispatches from afar. Everything felt serene—no fear or dread, no anxiety that a hostile menace may be lurking only a breath away. The intense quietness made it feel more like a dream than reality.
It appeared Colonel Morgan sensed it too, and did not seem willing to interrupt the perfect feeling of being completely isolated from the world and its troubles. For moments that stretched into minutes he did not venture to break the silence or disturb the sanctity of the surroundings with speech.
Gazing into his eyes, Sophia noticed the strain of great responsibility, and felt a strange connection—almost an attraction— to him. How else to explain this warm, sweet weight on her heart that throbbed like raw, pulsing pain? He appeared a tower of strength to her, solid, competent, and commanding, but something in his face told of gentleness and of passionate blood, making her regret even more that she had added to the heavy responsibility of his duties.
For just a moment Sophia’s gaze drifted to the fountain as she allowed herself to ponder what it would be like if there was no weight of duties to bind or hinder the two of them. What would Colonel Morgan be like if he could detach himself from the obligations of war and stand here unrestrained?
When she returned her attention to him, she felt the color begin to rise in her cheeks. The way his eyes rested on her, she had the distinct feeling he had just read her mind.
Colonel Morgan took a long, deep breath and let it out after a long pause. “I suppose I shall have to use discretion here,” he murmured, his eyes darkly tender as he studied her face with an absorbed, thoughtful look. His expression was soothing in its power of restraint, but it seemed to take great effort for him to keep his look and his tone emotionless now.
Sophia did not know if he was talking to her or trying to convince himself of the need for discretion. She felt unable to move as he placed his hand on her cheek, staring at her with a gaze so intent that it seemed to draw her toward him with an irresistible force.
The look lasted only an instant. In the span of a heartbeat, he withdrew and turned away, terminating the moment and the conversation. His deportment changed too, from gentle and compassionate to composed and resolute—if not stubborn and distrustful. “I need to get back. I’ll trust you with your word, Miss Adair.”
There was no time to say more, nor did Sophia answer with words. But as Colonel Morgan turned to leave, his eyes spoke a language eloquent enough for once to assure her of what he was thinking.
Chapter 9
I shall not die without a hope that light and liberty are on a steady advance.
— Thomas Jefferson
As Colonel Morgan rode up to the plantation house he'd been using as headquarters, he discovered the Continentals had arrived during his brief absence. Tents were sprawled hither and yon across the fields and into the forest bordering the edges of the swampland. An impatient-looking officer stood on the porch of the house watching as he rode in.
“Colonel Morgan, I presume?”
“Yes, I am Colonel Morgan.” Morgan accepted the man’s extended hand. “I heard you were coming, General Wells. We’re much obliged for the extra help.”
“From what I’ve been told, you’ve been doing a pretty good job on your own.” The corpulent officer moved with Morgan to the doorway. “I understand the British have taken off to Duncannon.”
Morgan nodded. “They have no choice. We’ve made it impossible for them to get supplies here.”
“That’s what I understand.” The general stepped into the foyer and started to unbutton his coat. “They took the worst of the Tories with them. Couldn’t ask for a better situation.”
“Sir?” Morgan began to get an uncomfortable feeling, which Wells must have noticed.
“Don’t worry about my plans right now.” The general patted him on the shoulder. “It looks like you’ve spent half the last month in your clothes and most of those in the saddle.”
Morgan looked down at his dirty and disheveled attire. “Is it that obvious?”
General Wells laughed. “Go get a good night’s rest, and we’ll discuss my plan for the British in the morning. It’s bold and audacious—and you’re just the man to pull it off.”
Morgan did not argue. He couldn’t. His whole weary body hailed the approach of some much-needed repose.
Colonel Morgan awoke early the next morning, as wide awake as any man could be after five hours of dog-tired sleep. Soon after he had dressed and stirred up the fire in the main room of the house, General Wells and his staff appeared, along with a few of Morgan’s officers. One of the aides carried a bundle of maps, which he rolled out on a table.
General Wells stood over the table, looking down at the map. “Are you familiar with Duncannon, Colonel Morgan?”
“Yes, I know where it is.”
“I mean the terrain around the town. Are you familiar enough to position artillery?”
Morgan had just taken a sip of tea, and it was only with great effort that he kept from choking on it.
I am, sir,” one of Morgan’s men answered before he had a chance to catch his breath. “I’m from that section.”
“Why do you ask?” Morgan attempted to steady his hand as he put down his tea, but it still clanked noisily when it came in contact with the desk.
“Is it not obvious? We’ve got the Redcoats and all the damn Tories in the town. We’re going to hit them with everything we have.”
Morgan swallowed hard, as if trying to dislodge something stuck in his throat. “But there are families in that town. Women.”
No one, of course, understood what caused his voice to vibrate so deeply. All anyone saw was a look of pain mixed with grim determination on the face of a man who had already worked so hard and given so much.
“Tory women!” Wells exclaimed. “Worse than their husbands and twice the trouble.”
“You can say that
again,” Captain Tate said under his breath as he leaned against the wall.
“No need to worry.” Wells walked over and put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “You and your men have done such an outstanding job in setting this trap that I’m giving you the easy assignment of shelling it from the perimeter. My troops will do the dirty work of rounding up the devils.”
A sudden revulsion of feeling made Morgan dizzy and weak, and threatened to overwhelm him. Lands! He had told Sophia Adair to go to Duncannon, had ordered her to do so with all haste. Certainly by now she had fled to the safe harbor of that town, defenseless and unaware of the danger that was imminent.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as he rallied his strength. The general’s order was one that could not be questioned, and in defense of his country, he was not the type of man to refuse to respond.
Morgan watched as some of his men sat sleepily on their horses observing the chaos of the ranks falling into line as the last blue wisps of smoke from their dying campfires filled the air.
The warmth of the rising sun wrapped around his shoulders and the sound of twittering birds resounded, but Morgan didn’t notice. He was remembering their last meeting—the language, the touch, the tone. The entire scene, with all its peaceful surroundings, remained indelibly impressed upon his memory, so that even now, try as he might to stop it, her voice still resounded in his ears.
Only three days had passed since then, and now Morgan had been tasked with placing his two pieces of artillery alongside others brought by General Wells, and to fire upon the town. If he could have found a possible pretext for refusing obedience he would gladly have done so, but that was not how he was made. War was not logical, nor was it just, and being a soldier wasn’t always easy, nor was it fair.
As the men continued to gather, nothing could be heard but the creaking of the saddles, and the horses stirring restlessly. The men waited while Morgan stood gazing straight ahead, steady, composed as he tried to master himself and the situation. He did not feel despair any more, only regret—deep enough to be regarded as pain.
When General Wells ordered him to fire, Morgan promptly obeyed, launching his power upon the town in his customary fashion: like a storm-wind. It appeared as if the buildings were being hit with a mighty gale of iron hail that no one and nothing could survive, causing a reverberation of sound that mingled into one great roar, like the sweep of a tornado over a forest of giant trees.
The shells continued to fly, but Morgan did not hear them. There was shouting and yelling when the tops of buildings began to catch fire or disappear altogether, but he did not hear that either.
He stood with one foot on a rock, with no coat and no regard to temperature or danger, staring silently at the town with a remote expression upon his face. Remaining in this recklessly exposed position, he was the one officer who never cheered, but closely followed each shot as it buried itself in some building. No one knew why he stood watching each missile so anxiously, or why he only pressed his lips more tightly as if enduring a private torture when it exploded near a house.
Nor could he be persuaded to leave for food or sleep, but with careworn face and haggard eyes, he never left his place upon that rock for hours. The roar, the hiss, the crash, and the boom of shells continued to blend in one dreadful chorus whose horror cannot be expressed. Sometimes the explosion would throw fragments of what it destroyed in the air: dirt, boards, bricks, and rocks. Through stifling smoke he watched it all, a grand yet sorrowful scene that threatened to tear his heart from his soul.
As they defended the town and its inhabitants, the British and the Tories made a strong defense of their own, firing back at Morgan and his men. But the defensive stance only cost them more men, as Morgan brought his guns to bear on the parts of town he now knew were inhabited by enemy forces.
“Sir you are unnecessarily exposed here,” one of the men told him. “Won’t you step back?”
Morgan never turned around to address the man, but spoke as if in a trance, his eyes lit with an unearthly glow of conviction. “If you are afraid, you are at liberty to step back.”
At night, the sky appeared red from the great conflagration of the town, and at dawn, Morgan stood again at his post, searching the horizon, his eyes suffused with private anguish.
Never did a man gaze on a more dismal, ghastly scene than was revealed by those first gray gleams showing in the east. Wherever one looked, the vista was the same, an endless stretch of utter desolation and devastation. The town appeared inhabitable and unpeopled. As for visible motion, there was none—not one bird, beast, or living creature in sight.
Morgan stared at the destruction in silence, though his heart throbbed with restless urgency as the sun drew higher in the sky. If he could just know she was safe.
This torturous uncertainty would surely kill him.
Sophia knelt upon the bench near the railing, and looked out at the moon half hidden by a fast-moving bank of clouds. Except for a faraway whinny of a horse, the night was quiet, with a hush so heavy that she felt nothing could disturb her peaceful thoughts.
Her mind drifted to the last time she had seen Colonel Morgan, and then to the engagement and resulting destruction of Duncannon. Had he worried she might be there? Or had he gone on with his business accepting her as a necessary casualty of war?
Her heart skipped a beat as she thought of the one other possibility she had heretofore blocked from her mind. Had he sent her there intentionally, knowing the Americans would be attacking and turning the town to rubble? He had seemed so adamant about her immediate departure. She shuddered at the prospect he might have welcomed the opportunity to be completely relieved of her.
If that were the case, then she was glad she had discovered that her uncle had already been making preparations to abandon the Spangler home and move his family to Duncannon with no encouragement from her. At the last moment however, he had changed his plans and moved into an unoccupied plantation near the town instead.
Surprisingly enough, Colonel Tyndale and his troops, including Major Briggs, had vacated Duncannon ahead of the bombardment as well, as if they had been forewarned. She was once again surrounded by a sea of Redcoats encamped on the grounds and fields of Kensington Hall, where she now resided.
With all of the upheaval, Sophia had considered giving up the facade and heading to the nearest patriot camp. But now that the British were this close again, duty made her stay. She could do little from an American camp. Here is where she could inflict the most damage.
“Daydreaming again, Sophia?” Sophia jumped and looked behind her. She had not even heard the footsteps of Major Briggs behind her.
She forced a laugh and turned back toward the velvety darkness. She did not wish to speak to this man whose eyes took such liberties. “Just enjoying the night sky. It’s—”
“All you do these days is daydream,” Briggs said. “May I indulge myself and believe it is with thoughts of me?”
Startled, Sophia turned her head, raised her eyes to his darkening gaze, then stood and moved away from him. She had started to fear the looks he gave her, and his attentions were so bold of late that she no longer tried to hide her dislike of him. She knew that her aunt and uncle thought him a suitable match, but she did not wish to give him any incentive or offer the impression she agreed with the arrangement.
Briggs must have read her expression of disgust and loathing. “Perhaps you like a certain American officer better?” His tone was cold and threatening.
Sophia tried to catch her breath as she whirled around to face him. “What are you talking about?”
“The American officer. Colonel Morgan. Perhaps he is the one you’re dreaming about.”
“Major Briggs, I do believe you’re trying to insult me.” Sophia could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and hoped he would assume it was from anger.
“Yes, that would be an insult, wouldn’t it? You, a girl of standing, thinking about a low-down, dirty rebel. It is almost too diffi
cult to fathom.”
Sophia tried to act undisturbed, but his slur against the Americans was too much. “A man with an evil smell takes offence at every wrinkled nose,” she said. “Perhaps you have cause to be sensitive.” She started to walk away, back into the house, but he grabbed her arm and whirled her around.
“Mary told me, so there’s no use denying it.”
Sophia laughed. “Mary told you what? That I like to daydream?”
“She told me that ever since you returned from the American camp you’ve been in a trance.”
“Mary talks too much.” Sophia stared at him with slanted, angry eyes. “We both know she exaggerates everything.”
“She knows you better than anyone,” he sneered. “Look how you tremble.”
“I’m trembling because you’re hurting me. And scaring me. Let me go!”
Briggs only brought her closer and whispered in her ear. “I am not without sentiment.”
“Yes, it’s principles you lack,” Sophia said, as she struggled free from his grasp and ran to the door. Pausing with her hand on the latch, she tried to catch her breath and compose herself. “I’m very disappointed in you, Major Briggs,” she said, hoping to end any future advances by him. “That was highly inappropriate.”
He merely smiled. “Highly inappropriate perhaps to you, but quite enjoyable to me.”
Sophia turned and shot him look of disgust. “I believe you have lost what little honor, if any, that you once possessed.”
“I’ve lost nothing,” she heard him say in a low, sinister voice as she proceeded into the house. The rest of his words were muffled when she slammed the door behind her, yet she heard them nonetheless. “Mark my words, one of these days you will treat me with the regard that I deserve.”
Chapter 10
Doing what good we can; when we cannot do all we would wish.
— Thomas Jefferson, 1803
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