Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  ~~~

  The tall, handsome captain who led Sarah from Colonel Biddle's house into the frigid January night seemed a stranger. She clenched her teeth together to keep them from chattering, but there was nothing she could do to keep from trembling when he took her arm.

  "My God, Sarah," Forest whispered when they were away from the front door of the farmhouse. "You're beautiful."

  Hesitantly, she ventured a glance at him, taking in the blue wool military coat with its buff trim, the gold buttons, and the shiny black boots. Each shoulder of his coat bore a fringe of silver braid, and he wore a sword strapped to his waist. Forest's face was clean-shaven, his hair drawn back into a proper queue; on his head he wore a formal cocked hat that made him seem even taller against the torchlight.

  "Sarah." Was that a hint of amusement in his voice? "Sarah, speak to me." He stopped and caught her other arm, pulling her close. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked.

  "Captain Irons, is it?" she managed to say.

  He chuckled. "Aye, Mistress Turner, with the aid of a borrowed uniform from Tench Tilghman. Or should I call you Lady Turner tonight?" He lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. "You're a vision, little Sarah," he whispered huskily, "but I'd give my commission to take you where we could be alone, instead of to this supper."

  She leaned against him, her mind whirling. Her lips burned where his had touched them, and she wanted him to kiss her again. The frozen ground was cold beneath her thin satin slippers, but waves of heat surged through her body. "They will laugh at me," she said.

  "Never."

  "I don't belong there."

  "You belong wherever I am, Sarah. You belong with me."

  "But I can't even read," she protested. "There's something written on my garter, and I can't even read the damned thing."

  "I'll be happy to read it for you, m'lady," he teased.

  "No, thank you," she replied. "What am I to do, pull my skirts up so you can see it?"

  "An excellent idea."

  "Forest!" she admonished. "I'm just an unlettered innkeeper's daughter, and you expect me to know what to say to a general's lady—and a marquis?"

  Forest lifted a hand to touch the scarlet ribbons wound in her dark curls. "The General's lady is a most gracious woman, darling. You'd like her. But she and General Washington are entertaining far more important guests tonight in their quarters, and the Marquis de Lafayette is in bed with a toothache."

  He kissed her again . . . slowly . . . tenderly. "You're wearing my ribbons," he said. "You carried them with you from King's Landing?"

  Sarah hid her face against his coat. "In my basket," she whispered. She could hardly catch her breath, and her heart was pounding. "I'm afraid," she admitted.

  "Not you, little Sarah," he answered. "Trust me. You'll be fine. Tench will be there, and Peregrine Harris. You've already met Colonel and Mistress Biddle. Tench assures me that the ladies are dying to hear about your pig in a coffin and your meeting with the Hessian officer." He tucked her arm in his and began to lead her across a wooded area toward a stone farmhouse with candles in the windows.

  "I won't say anything," she warned. "If I speak, I'll probably end up being hung as a British sympathizer."

  "You're a heroine, Sarah. Nothing you could do or say would convince them you're not a true Patriot. The fact that your husband is a Loyalist soldier only makes you more interesting."

  "This Captain Tench Tilghman," she questioned. "He said he went to school with you?"

  "We were both very young then. It was in Chestertown."

  "The two of you look a lot alike."

  "My mother would blush to hear you say that, although you're not the first to make the observation." He laughed. "I am no highborn bastard, I assure you, sweet. Redheads are always accused of looking alike. Most people don't see past the thatch of red hair. I've no idea where Tench got his, but my mother is auburn haired, or was. Her tresses are streaked with gray now."

  "I'm sorry," Sarah apologized. "I didn't mean to—"

  "Always say what you think. It's what I like best about you."

  She gazed off into the distance. Campfires glowed between the bare trees, and she could catch the faint sound of soldiers' voices singing. Mad, she thought again. They're all mad, but what a magnificent madness.

  The snow became deeper, and Forest swept her up in his arms and carried her. Sarah slipped her arms around his neck and snuggled against him. "Let's not go to the supper," she whispered. "Let's just keep walking like this into the night."

  "Aye," he agreed. "Until we both freeze. This cloak of yours is more for being seen than keeping you warm."

  "You can keep me warm."

  "How?"

  "You'll think of something," she whispered. "You always do."

  "Witch," he breathed. "Would you torment a man?" His mouth closed over hers again, and Sarah gave a tiny moan of pleasure.

  "I love you," she said. "You're mad as a hatter, but I love you."

  "And I love you, my little Tory . . . with all my heart and soul."

  "Enough to give up this crazy war? Enough to go away somewhere with me and Joshua until it's over?"

  Forest stiffened. "I can't," he said. "God help me, but I can't." Slowly, he put her down, formally offering his arm once more. "I'm in this until the end, Sarah. Make up your mind to it."

  She nodded, too full of pain to speak, and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Together they walked toward the stone farmhouse in the distance.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  True Lover of Mine

  Lady Stirling's supper was much more pleasant than Sarah had dared to hope. The officers were young and dashing, the ladies intent upon bringing some gaiety to the dismal surroundings of the winter encampment. Mistress Biddle and her husband sat across from Sarah, including her in the conversation whenever she suffered an attack of shyness. Even Nancy Brown, who had loaned Sarah the beautiful clothing, went out of her way to be gracious.

  Supper was a simple affair: potato soup, corn bread, and cheese, washed down by an ordinary claret. "We cannot dine on roast duck and flummery when the troops are in such dire need," Lady Stirling explained. "General Washington has ordered that we remember the seriousness of our situation, despite the company." She flashed a warm smile at her guests. "We do amuse ourselves with song." She waved toward the parlor. "Gentlemen, ladies, if you please."

  One after another, the ladies and officers sang. Each performance received enthusiastic clapping and cheers, regardless of the singer's talent.

  "I understand that Mistress Turner has an exceptional voice," Captain Harris said.

  "Please," Lady Stirling invited. "We would be delighted to hear you."

  Sarah shook her head. "No," she murmured. "I can't."

  "There is a song we practiced together once," Forest said, fixing Sarah with a burning gaze. "Do you remember, mistress?" It was called 'A True Lover of Mine.' " He stood and offered his hand, his eyes daring her to accept his challenge.

  "It's only fair," Captain Tilghman said with a grin. "You suffered through my offering."

  "It's been so long, I've forgotten the words," Sarah lied.

  "You'll have to go it alone, Forest," Captain Harris said. "And I know the boys in the company will be sorry to miss it."

  Forest shrugged and began the old tune alone. When he reached the first chorus, Captains Tilghman and Harris rose and joined him.

  May every rose bloom merry in time,

  And then you shall be a true lover of mine.

  One by one, deep voices rose and blended as all the men chimed in on the succeeding verses. Sarah's eyes were bright with unshed tears as the words of the sweet ballad filled the room.

  The song echoed in Sarah's ears as Forest, Captain Tilghman, and Captain Harris walked her back to Colonel Biddle's quarters. There was no chance for her to speak privately with Forest and she was glad; she was too confused to know what to say to him.

  "It has been a pleasure to make yo
ur acquaintance," Captain Tilghman said when they reached their destination.

  "Likewise," Captain Harris assured her. "I return to my company at first light, so we won't meet again. I'll arrange to have an escort meet you and Forest near Wilmington to see you get safely home to the Misakaak. I wish you well, Mistress Turner, even if you are a Tory."

  "Thank you," she answered. "I'm eager to return to the Eastern Shore. I have a young son whom I miss very much."

  "We leave the day after tomorrow," Forest informed her. "Be sure and dress as warmly as possible. We're going to leave the wagon. We can travel much faster on horseback."

  There was a final round of pleasantries, then Sarah left the gentlemen at the door and retreated to her room. Forest had promised he would take her home. She clung to that thought. They'd have a few days, no matter what happened after that.

  Quickly, she removed the gown and petticoat, struggling with the corset ties. She'd not wished to call the maid . . . not wished to see or talk to anyone else tonight. She had too much to think about. A linen night robe lay across her bed. She dropped it over her head and crawled beneath the thick quilts, grateful that someone had kept the fire going on the hearth.

  I should never have asked Forest to cast aside his duty . . . his honor . . . for me and Joshua, she thought, as she flung herself back against the piled feather pillows. And if he had said yes—if he had left the army and taken me and Joshua away—what then? Would I have thought less of him for it?

  ~~~

  Sarah rose in the early dawn and dressed in her own clothing. Taking her basket, she went down the hall to the kitchen. Dorcus was adding salt to a kettle of oat porridge.

  "Morning, mistress," the girl said, bobbing a curtsy. "You're up early. Would you like breakfast?"

  "Some of that porridge will be fine," Sarah replied.

  "No, you don't want this, mistress. This is coarse stuff. It's for the soldiers. Mistress Biddle has me make up some every morning to take to the sick."

  Sarah's glance fell on a pair of shoes by the back door. She went over and picked them up and looked at them closely.

  "Yes, they be the ones you brought," Dorcus said. "The man you sent them to, Abner Freeman, he died of the belly rot two weeks ago. The soldier asked could he have them, but I didn't want to say yes 'til I asked."

  Sarah nodded. "It's all right." She put the shoes back by the door and sat down at the table.

  "If you're hungry . . ." Dorcus offered. "I can—"

  "No." Sarah shook her head. "Nothing, thank you."

  "Lots of dead men at Valley Forge," Dorcus said. "Was this Abner a good friend of yours?"

  Sarah shook her head again. "No. I didn't know him at all." She caught the maid's puzzled expression. "I knew his mother," she explained. "She—" Sarah broke off and covered her face with her hands.

  "Lots of mothers without sons," Dorcus mumbled. "I just carry food and blankets to the live ones and don't think about the dead."

  A tap sounded at the door, and Dorcus went to answer it. The maid stepped back, and a middle-aged man came into the kitchen.

  "Sarah Turner?" he asked. "Is that you?"

  She looked up in astonishment. "Will Green?"

  Martha's husband pulled off his cap. "Is my farm still standin'? What about the old woman and the boy?"

  "Right as rain," Sarah declared, giving him a hug.

  Will's forehead creased in a frown as he stepped back awkwardly. "You a prisoner, Sarah? If you are, I can speak to my—"

  "No. No. I'm not a prisoner. You look good, Will. Martha's been awfully worried about you and the boys. Are they all right?"

  "So far as I know. Three is here at Valley Forge, and two is down in Wilmington with Smallwood." Will scratched his head. "You sure you ain't a prisoner, Sarah?"

  "No, indeedy," Dorcus put in. "Mistress Turner is a guest of the colonel and his lady. Mistress Turner is a real Patriot. She brought a whole wagon load of meat and grain from her tavern down south."

  "Is Abner Freeman really dead?" Sarah asked.

  "How do you know Abner?" Will sighed. "He's gone, died in my arms." The grizzled farmer reddened. "I come back t' see if I could get his shoes." He looked down at his patched moccasins. "Damned Pennsylvania troops got so many shoes they're using 'm fer target practice and Maryland boys goes barefoot." Will cleared his throat. "Abner don't have much use fer new shoes now."

  "Take them and welcome," Sarah said. "You were his friend. Abner's mother would want you to have them."

  "Much obliged."

  "Will," Sarah said. "I would be much obliged to you if you'd take me to where the sick men are. I have some medicines here in my basket. If the surgeons have no objection, I would like to be of help."

  "Aye, I could do thet," Will agreed. He glanced toward the bubbling pot of porridge. "I could help to carry those vittles, too."

  Sarah smiled at the maid. "Dorcus and I were just about to have a bowl of that porridge. Would you join us?"

  "I already et."

  "I mighta put too much salt or honey in," Dorcus said. " 'Twould be a favor if you'd give us your opinion."

  "Since ye put it thet way," Will said, "I maybe could have a little bit." He laid aside his hat and took a seat on the bench. "I'd not want to take from the sick," he warned them.

  "No need to worry," Dorcus assured him. "I made a double batch this mornin'."

  Later, when Will Green had finished his third bowl of oat porridge and wiped the bowl clean with a slab of bread, the women followed him out into the rain.

  "Nasty weather," he said, as he led the way toward the sick tents. "Serve old devil Howe right if he was freezin' his arse off out here in these Pennsylvania woods and we was toastin' our toes in Philadelphia."

  Sarah pulled the hood of her cloak up to shield her face from the blowing rain. Will had asked about Obediah. "Haven't heard a thing," she'd answered, which wasn't really a lie. Sooner or later, the truth would come out, but how it would come out was still a puzzle to her. Roman Clough still had to be reckoned with, and short of shooting him and his woman, she hadn't thought of any way to keep them quiet.

  One thing at a time, she decided, as she picked her way through the frozen slush. Today, she'd try to do what she could for these poor men. Rebels or not, they were all Americans and deserving of more than a wet grave at Valley Forge. She had a good remedy for the belly rot in her basket. She only wished they'd come in time to do something for Abner Freeman.

  ~~~

  A dozen mounted men rode out of Washington's winter encampment with Sarah and Forest, heading southwest to circle around the Hessian patrols. Mistress Biddle had provided Sarah with a sidesaddle for the roan mare and enough provisions to last until they reached Smallwood's camp. Forest had traded his captain's uniform for a buckskin shirt and breeches, retaining only the black wool cocked hat with its jaunty red cockade.

  They pushed the horses hard, riding through hilly woodland, keeping far from the roads. At noon, they stopped long enough to water the animals at a fast-running, icy stream and then they mounted again and continued on.

  By mid-afternoon Sarah's muscles ached, and she reeled with weariness. Noticing her pallor, Forest reined the dapple-gray close and lifted her up before him.

  "No," she protested. "There's no need. I can keep up."

  "Shhh," he said soothingly. "The dapple-gray can carry two. He's not even sweating. If you fall from the mare and hurt yourself, you'll be of no use to any of us." He looped the roan's reins around a ring in his saddle and urged the horses into a hard trot.

  Sarah forced herself to sit upright, but gradually she leaned against him. Her eyes closed of their own accord and she slept.

  When she awoke again, the moon was high. Her legs and feet were so cold she couldn't feel them. "Where are—" she began, but her words were cut off as Forest clamped a hand over her mouth.

  "Hush," he whispered into her ear. "The road below." He took his hand away.

  From somewhere not far off she h
eard the rumble of hoofbeats. There were shots, and the mare snorted and reared against the reins. The dapple-gray stood like a rock as silence descended over the thick woods.

  "Come on!" called a voice Sarah recognized as belonging to one of the Patriots. "We got the both of them."

  Cautiously, Forest guided the horses down a wooded slope to a road where two figures lay sprawled on the frozen ground, dark splotches staining their coats.

  Sarah gasped and turned her head away.

  "British dispatch riders," a horseman said from the darkness.

  Men dismounted and began to drag the bodies into the woods. A few minutes later and they were back, their arms full. "We took their boots and their clothes," a soldier explained. "They've not much need of them in hell."

  The stars in the night sky were as bright as diamonds; by moonlight you could see the horses' breath. Sarah shivered.

  "Are you cold?" Forest asked. His arm was around her, holding her securely against him, as he had held her these many hours.

  "This place smells of death," she whispered. "I don't—" She started, barely holding back a cry of fear, as a great horned owl spread his wings and flapped silently over their heads.

  Suddenly, there were flashes of light and the roar of muskets from the woods across the road. The roan mare screamed and fell backward. The reins cut into Sarah's leg and then snapped as the dapple-gray set his legs to keep from falling.

  Men were tumbling around them. Rifles fired and people cried out. Forest dug his heels into the dapple-gray, and immediately he and Sarah began to gallop headlong down the frost-covered road.

  Someone was in pursuit, but she couldn't tell if it was friend or foe. Branches slashed her face as Forest reined the dapple-gray off the road and downhill into a stand of cedars.

  "Quiet," he warned. He swung down from the saddle and took the horse's head, leading him through the trees.

  Sarah leaned low over the animal's neck, shutting her eyes and pressing her face against his thick mane. Behind them came the telltale snap of branches that confirmed her suspicion that they were being followed.