Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  "Abner has many friends. I don't know you. Move along."

  "Is he at home?"

  "No."

  "You know me, Mistress Freeman," Forest answered. "Abner rebuilt my grandfather's wheel lock last year. It had a silver fox-head pattern. I came here to pick it up."

  There was silence for a moment. The door opened a few inches wider. A black woman peered through at Forest. "Abner's not here. What do you want?"

  "Is he with Washington's army?"

  The woman stared at him sullenly.

  "We mean you no harm," Forest said. "We're taking a wagonload of food and blankets to the encampment at Valley Forge. I was hoping you'd give us shelter for the night."

  "Abner's not here. Go away," she repeated.

  "They kin stay in t' barn iffen they want." Another black woman appeared, pushing open the door. She was tall and thin with tribal markings across her cheekbones. The older woman regarded Forest intently and then turned her gaze to meet Sarah's.

  "We're sorry to have disturbed you," Sarah said. "Forest? We can camp on the road."

  "No." The tattooed woman motioned toward the barn. '"They's plenty o' straw. I bring ya blankets do ya need them. It be better than t' road fer sleepin'." She walked toward Sarah with the dignity of a pagan queen. "My son Abner be wi' t' General's army. Any what takes t' him an he soldiers be friends o' mine."

  Sarah glanced at Forest. He nodded approval, and she got down out of the wagon. "Thank you, Mistress Freeman," Sarah said. "We will accept your gracious hospitality."

  The black woman's eyes gleamed with pride. "She be Mistress Freeman," she said, motioning toward the younger woman in the doorway.

  "Abner's wife. I be his mother. I be jest Izza." She took Sarah's outstretched hands between hers. "Food be short," she explained bluntly. "Milk 'n cheese I offer, 'n' African bread, do ya like it."

  Sarah clasped the woman's hands, released them and followed her toward the barn. "We will be happy to share your food," Sarah said, "if you will share ours. My cow was killed by raiders, and the milk will taste wonderful."

  Izza smiled. "My son's wife be afraid," she said. "She be good woman, but be afraid fer her young'ns." She showed Sarah a box stall filled with clean straw. "Roof don't leak," Izza said. "Be warmer here than by t' road where bad mens might find ya. Be welcome."

  "Thank you. Is your son with Washington's army at Valley Forge?"

  Izza nodded. "Dey need a good gunsmith."

  "I will search out Master Freeman when we reach Valley Forge and tell him that we saw you and that all is well," Sarah assured her.

  "Good. You tell him his boy don't die of fever. He fine. You tell my Abner, Izza hold his place 'til he come back from t' war."

  "I'll tell him."

  Izza dismissed Sarah with a regal nod and turned and walked swiftly from the barn, her striped red skirt sweeping the ground with every step.

  Forest brought the wagon and team into the barn, and together he and Sarah unhitched the horses and tied them along one wall. Forest carried a bucket of water to each animal and deposited an armful of loose hay before them. Sarah got six ears of corn for each horse from the back of the wagon.

  "I offered to pay Abner's wife for the hay, but she wouldn't take the money," Forest explained. "Be certain we leave some corn for her cow."

  Sarah arranged the blankets from the wagon in the clean stall and divided up the remainder of the food in her basket. When a young black boy came from the house carrying milk, cheese, and flat rounds of bread, she heaped his bowl with cold pork pies, apples, and a tightly wrapped packet of tea.

  "Tell your mother thank you," Sarah said. "We'll be gone by first light, but we appreciate her kindness." The child nodded solemnly and hurried away with the food.

  The night was cold, and Sarah was glad for the shelter of the snug barn. She and Forest huddled together beneath the blankets, almost too tired to talk.

  "All these nights I've dreamed of having you in a hayloft," Forest murmured sleepily, "and now that I've got you here, all I want to do is snuggle."

  Sarah tucked her feet between his legs. "Umm-humm," she agreed. Neither had undressed, except for their boots. They had used their cloaks as a cover over the straw, laid down and covered themselves with the blankets, and then pulled more straw over the top. "I always thought that rolling in the hay was overrated."

  "Hay has a way of working itself uncomfortably into the most intimate parts of one's anatomy."

  "You sound like a man who has had vast experience in haylofts."

  He chuckled. "Not vast, but memorable."

  "Braggart."

  "Quiet, wench. If I'm to have no pleasure, at least you could let me get some sleep."

  Sarah wiggled closer and settled her head on Forest's shoulder. "I'm trying," she whispered. "You're doing all the talking."

  Exhausted as she was by the day's journey, Sarah was not distraught by their rough accommodations. Just being held like this in Forest's arms felt wonderful. The wind rustling the loose boards on the barn, the familiar sighing and shifting of the animals, the soft rhythm of Forest's breathing, all contributed to her sense of snug security.

  I'm happy, she thought in the twilight moments between consciousness and sleep. I shouldn't be . . . but I am. I'm truly happy.

  ~~~

  They were on the road before the purple shadows of night had been swept away by the bright, cold winter morning. Sarah had milked enough from the cow to give each of them a mug of warm milk to wash down the last of their apple tarts. As they were leaving the barn, Izza stepped from the house to hand them a large round of cheese and a pair of men's shoes.

  "The shoes be fer Abner," the tall woman told Sarah. "Give the cheese to the General. He know then that Abner's fam'ly be fer him." Izza stood in the yard and watched until the wagon rounded the bend.

  "Izza was born in Africa," Forest explained later. "She was captured and brought to the Chesapeake as a slave. Abner's father and grandfather were both free men. They spent all one winter building a boat and used it to buy Izza's freedom from her master."

  "I like her," Sarah said, "but I think I'm going to feel silly delivering this cheese to Washington."

  Forest's only reply was laughter.

  About noon they met a detachment of hard-eyed Delaware militia. Forest recognized one of the green-coated horsemen and was able to pass on the plight of Washington's troops.

  "We've been sleepin' in the brush," the tall young officer replied as he reined in his skittish mount. "Heard it was tough up there at Valley Forge, but we didn't know it was that bad."

  "Pass the word on," Forest said. "This one wagon load won't do a great deal. If the General doesn't get food and blankets, the war will be over long before spring."

  "Ain't too smart," another man observed, touching his hat in respect to Sarah. He was dressed in worn buckskins, his only hint of uniform a blue cocked hat with a red feather tucked into the band. "You takin' your lady through British lines, her in this condition—beggin' your pardon, ma'am."

  Sarah smiled and patted her bulging belly, playing her role with an unconcealed excitement. "This is precious cargo and that's for certain."

  "British troops are thick as lice on a chicken up ahead," the officer warned. "I wouldn't give you much of a chance of getting as far as Pennsylvania."

  Forest nodded. "If it wasn't for the wagon, we could leave the road, but without the wagon, we can't haul the food."

  "Good luck to ye," the soldiers called as they rode off the way they had come.

  "We did it," she whispered as Forest urged the team on. "They believed I'm pregnant."

  "Aye. But you'd do better to keep your eyes down, and not look like a child on Christmas morning."

  "I can be as solemn as a funeral bell," she assured him. She'd not expected the game to be so much fun. Shivers of elation made it hard to sit still. "How hard is it to deceive a band of stodgy Patriot farmers?"

  "That young officer is a minister of the gospel, or
he was before the war."

  "Dreamers, all of you," Sarah said. "Dreamers set against the best professional soldiers in the world."

  "Freedom starts with a dream," he answered.

  "But where will it all end?"

  ~~~

  They spent that night in a small inn at a crossroads. Sarah slept in a common bed with two other women, while Forest remained in the barn with the wagon. After a breakfast of overpriced, thin porridge and corn bread they continued on their way north.

  At mid-morning, they were stopped by their first British patrol.

  "State your name and business," the sergeant commanded.

  Heart pounding, Sarah stared at the two redcoats in the center of the road with muskets ready. The adventure had taken on a tone of icy reality; she wasn't so certain it was fun anymore.

  Forest whipped off his cap. "William Thompson, sir. We be takin' my sister's husband home fer t' be buried," he said. "We don't want no trouble."

  The sergeant glared at Sarah. "You, woman! Speak up! What's your name?"

  Sarah's eyes clouded with anger. How dare he address her with such contempt? A loyal Englishwoman! She forced her voice to unaccustomed meekness. "Hogg, sir."

  Forest's hands tensed, and Sarah heard his teeth snap together.

  "What? Speak up!" the sergeant shouted.

  "Hogg, sir." She swallowed hard and stared at him with wide eyes. It wasn't hard to look frightened—she was—but she was angrier than she was afraid. "I be Sarah Hogg," she said. She motioned toward the coffin. "That be my husband, John Hogg." She lowered her head to hide the gleam of triumph in her eyes. "My poor John died of the cholera four days past and—"

  "Cholera?" The sergeant blanched. "Go on." He waved at Forest. "Move on."

  "Yes, sir," Forest answered. "Yes, sir." He slapped the reins across the dapple-gray's back, and the animal surged ahead. The redcoats leaped to safety as the wagon rumbled past.

  "Are you crazy?" Forest hissed at Sarah when they were safely out of the soldiers' hearing. "Sarah Hogg?"

  She giggled.

  "You could have gotten us both killed!"

  "Well, you didn't tell me what name to give. It was the first one I thought of." She folded her arms and gave Forest a self-satisfied grin. "I thought the cholera was a stroke of brilliance."

  "All you have to do is sit there and let me do the talking," he insisted. "You are supposed to look pregnant and stupid." He lowered his voice as a Quaker on horseback passed them.

  She chuckled again. "Does being pregnant make me stupid, or just the fact that I'm a woman?"

  "Sarah, for God's sake!" He stared at her in exasperation. "I know you're not stupid. What we're doing isn't a game—it's dangerous."

  "You think you don't look stupid with your dirty buckskins and your straw-tangled hair?" She tugged at a stray lock and pursed her lips in mock severity. "I think you should be a half-wit and let me do the talking."

  "Woman!" He took hold of her arm. "This is no joking matter. You will do as I say or I'll put you out of this wagon and let you walk home."

  She laughed. "Just try it. I'll scream rebel spy as hard as I can," she threatened. "We're in this together, Forest Irons. It's a crazy scheme, but you started it and we're going through with it together."

  Forest halted the team, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her soundly. "Now," he said, when he broke away for air, "you will listen to me, Sarah. I am responsible for your safety, and mine. You'll do as I say, when I say, or I will leave you behind. If you want to inform on me, that's your decision."

  Sarah licked her bruised lower lip with the tip of her tongue. "You want me to stay quiet," she repeated, trying not to laugh and make him angry all over again. "I'm not to speak, not even if a soldier demands it."

  "Of course you're to speak then." Forest shook his head in exasperation. "You just say what I do. If they ask, say your name is Sarah Good. Your dead husband can be John Good, and I'm your brother Will."

  "Can't you be my stupid servant?" she dared to say.

  "No." He laughed. "I can't." He took her in his arms again. "I'm your superior officer in this campaign, woman. Now . . ." He brushed her lips with his. "What will it be?"

  She ran her fingers down his neck and sighed. "I'll do as you say," she agreed. "But I won't look stupid."

  "Fine." He picked up the lines again and grinned at her. "Be bereaved, but quietly so. Pretend to be in shock from the loss of your husband. You are supposed to be far gone with child. Remember?"

  "Remember? How could I forget, with this . . . this thing bouncing in front of me?" She cut her eyes at him. "I think I have a better notion of how a pregnant woman should act than you do. How many babes have you delivered?"

  "As many as you, actually," he replied.

  "What?"

  "On Long Island, Chad and I assisted at the lying in of a lady in the camp. She took a fall, and the child decided to be born in the middle of a battle. It popped out into my hands before we could fetch her a surgeon." He grinned at her. "It's not an experience I'd care to repeat any time soon."

  Sarah stared at him in surprise. "This woman . . . this camp lady . . . " She colored a rosy pink. "Were you the . . ."

  "The father of her child?" He laughed. "No, I can honestly plead not guilty. A Virginian claimed that honor. He made an honest woman of her and took her and their daughter home to the James River."

  Sarah smiled at him with her eyes. "You are a man of many talents, Forest Irons."

  "Isn't that what I've been telling you?"

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Confronting the Hessians

  They spent another night in a cramped inn beside the road. This time, when a surly servant girl showed Sarah to a pallet in a damp, smelly room over the kitchen, that was already occupied by three women and what seemed like a dozen wailing children, Sarah declined.

  "This will not do," she said firmly.

  The nearest woman scowled, and another muttered something about Sarah being a high-nosed bitch, too good to share honest folks' lodging.

  The maid shrugged. "This or nothin'. Tavern's full t' the seams."

  "With guests or rats?" Sarah asked sarcastically.

  The girl wiped her nose with the back of a dirty sleeve. "Both."

  "I am near my time." Sarah stroked her protruding stomach. "I cannot sleep here, and I must have a warm bed. Take me to your mistress."

  With another shrug, the maidservant led Sarah back down the winding steps and into the tavern kitchen.

  The low-ceilinged room was dominated by a huge stone fireplace filled with spits and hanging kettles. A male cook, stripped to the waist and perspiring heavily, was pulling a tray of bread from the bake oven. A girl peeled potatoes at a long table, while another woman rolled dough a few feet away. A boy, not more than four years old, crouched before the hearth turning a browning chicken on a spit.

  Sarah's gaze swept the none-too-clean room, and her nose wrinkled at the smell of a pail of sour slops sitting beside the door.

  "Miz Cratchet," the maid whined. "Miz Cratchet, this woman says her room won't do."

  The older woman looked up from her dough and frowned. Wiping her flour-coated hands on her apron, she crossed the room and glared at Sarah. "What's wrong with the room?"

  "Are you the mistress here?" Sarah asked coolly.

  "I am."

  "Then I suggest we discuss our business in private. What I have to say is not for the ears of the likes of her." Sarah glanced pointedly at the maid.

  Grumbling, Mistress Cratchet let the way through a low door into her private parlor. "Now," she demanded impatiently, "what is so important that you must take me from my duties?"

  "This inn is a disgrace," Sarah replied. "The food is poor, the wine watered, and your beds lousy with vermin. There are strict regulations for running a public house, and you have broken most of them."

  The woman's face turned a virulent shade of puce. "How dare you," she sputtered. "You can take your big belly and—
"

  "Calm yourself, Mistress Cratchet. There's no need to give yourself a fit." Sarah produced a coin and tossed it. Mistress Cratchet caught it in mid-air.

  "I am not accustomed to such accommodations," Sarah continued. "My servant and I are taking my brother's body to Philadelphia for burial in the family churchyard. My cousin, Peter Simpson, is an aide to Major Charles Rhodes of the thirty-fifth Regiment of Foot." Sarah tapped the woman pointedly with her index finger. "Major Rhodes is responsible for maintaining order in the public houses in the occupied area. It would be a pity if Cousin Peter were to complain about your inn. You could lose your license. Major Rhodes has already removed operating licenses from a dishonest innkeep at Chester and another at Head of Elk."

  "Lies," the woman protested. "No wine or ale is watered here! Any what says so is a liar! There's a war. It's hard to get decent food." She bobbed her lead as she spoke. "We run an honest inn."

  "Honest?" Sarah sniffed. "I'm not certain this place isn't a hotbed of rebels." The instant flash of fear in the woman's eyes told Sarah her exploratory barb had struck home.

  "No rebels here," Mistress Cratchet insisted, her arrogant demeanor wilted to patronizing civility. "No indeed, madam, none of that nonsense here. We're good subjects of King George, God bless him." She twisted her fingers in her patched apron. "I'd be happy to do whatever I can for you, madam, but you can see the inn is full."

  Sarah glanced around the parlor. "This will do. You may have the girl bring a clean pallet and bedding. I'll sleep here."

  "Here?" Mistress Cratchet's eyes bulged. "But this is our private quarters."

  "So much the better. I am near the time of my delivery and in mourning for my poor brother. I will require little—hot food for me and my servant in the barn, and quiet."

  "I'll have to speak with my husband," the woman hedged. "We never allow—"

  "There are exceptions to all rules," Sarah said airily. "I'm certain your husband will see the reason in breaking this one. Simply tell him that my cousin—"

  "All right, all right," Mistress Cratchet agreed. "I'll fix it with Tom. I'd not want you to think poorly of us, seeing as how you're already bowed down with sorrow."