Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Her Vanquished Land

  A Loyalist Woman’s Fight for Survival

  By Diane Scott Lewis

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-0-2286-0991-9

  Kindle 978-0-2286-0992-6

  Web 978-0-2286-0993-3

  Print ISBNs

  LSI Print 978-0-2286-0996-4

  B&N Print 978-0-2286-0995-7

  Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0994-0

  Copyright 2019 by Diane Parkinson

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication

  To Katherine Pym, friend, fellow author, who assisted me with the polishing of this manuscript.

  Chapter One

  Easton, Pennsylvania, 1780

  Rowena Marsh flew down the portico steps despite her father’s order to stay inside. She rounded the house. The pungent scent of resin increased when she reached the edge of their field, thirty feet away. The four men in blue rebel coats crowded Father and tore his shirt, stripping him naked to the waist. Two soldiers lifted a bucket of pitch they’d heated in the Marsh’s hearth. They held it high, taunting, “Here’s your punishment, Tory bastard!”

  “You will regret this, you devil’s spawn!” Father grimaced and grappled with the two men who’d seized his arms. The others poured the thick pine tar over his head. Father clenched his eyes shut, cried in pain, and spit out the black substance as it coated his face.

  Rowena shuddered. Such cruelty used to be beyond her ken, but their neighbors had suffered similar attacks. She picked up her long skirts and rushed toward them. “Stop, please! You’ll injure him mightily.”

  As the tar dripped over his body, steaming on his flesh, her father’s yells seared in her brain.

  One man dumped out a sack of white feathers. The rebels threw him onto the ground and rolled him in the pile of feathers while he groaned.

  “Injure him, Miss? That is our intent.” The tallest man laughed. “You are traitors.”

  Rowena confronted them, her breath curdling in her throat. “We’re not the traitors.” She clenched her hands into fists. “Enough, please!” she panted, “Leave us be.”

  “Mayhap you’ll be next.” The shortest man lunged at her, his smile a leer. “I’ll take pleasure in tearing off your clothes.”

  Rowena jerked back. Anger and terror spiked through her. She turned and ran to the house where their maid, Anne, watched from the open front door. Rowena grabbed the broom clutched in her servant’s hands.

  “Don’t do it, Miss,” Anne implored, her plump face creased in distress.

  “I must help him. I cannot do nothing.” Rowena wished she’d time to grab a pistol. She whipped about, stumbled back and faced the rebels once more—a rough looking group in tattered uniforms. One man kicked her father where he lay writhing in pain.

  She swung the broom, smacking his attacker on the back. The man whirled toward her, his cocked hat falling off. He snatched the handle and yanked it so hard she tripped and fell. Her bottom hit the hard earth and she gasped, skirt and petticoats flipping above her ankles.

  “I’ll teach you a lesson, Tory chit.” He raised the broom, his bony face sneering.

  She slapped down her clothes and stifled a flinch at what might come. “You’ve already done your damage, sir. Now leave our property.”

  Sam, the stable boy, rushed out as if to help her, but Rowena waved him away. He moved back reluctantly.

  “Your land will be confiscated,” the soldier declared. “All of your ilk will be chased off.”

  “Private, we’re done here. Drop the broom.” A husky man with a bulbous nose stared down at her father, the front corner of his black hat pulled low. The cockade fixed on one side indicated he was an officer. “You’d best leave the colony, Mister Marsh, and grovel back to your King George.”

  “No, no,” Father groaned, though his voice stayed firm. “I’m American, too. This is outrageous.”

  The private plopped the broom beside Rowena, barely missing her. She dug her fingers into the pebbled ground.

  Bulbous-nose glared down at her. “Watch your manners, wench. I could have you shot for striking my man. But you’re young and foolish.”

  The four rebels shouldered their muskets and strode off, across the field in their dusty black boots. They’d already ransacked the house for any food they could steal.

  Rowena scrambled to her feet and knelt beside her father. Her brown hair escaped her white cap and she swiped the curls aside. Father was coated with the sticky tar, white feathers plastered to his body. He resembled a giant bird. She touched his hot, treacly head and blinked back tears for him. The stench of pine pitch also watered her eyes. “Father, are you in much pain? We must get you into the house. Or rather, the pump.”

  He wiped a feathered arm across his mouth, his features scrunched. “Oh, my child, you should have stayed in the house. I’m sorry, blast this burn.” He moaned again, his face a blur of pain. “I regret you must endure such persecution because of me.”

  “I believe in our loyalty, too.” Yet was it worth this? The rebels had grown more aggressive, more treacherous.

  Anne joined them, her fat cheeks flushed. “Someone needs to scrape the tar off the master. ’Twill not be pleasant.”

  “Has anything been pleasant lately?” Rowena, when Sam ran out, helped him help her father to his feet. She sent Anne to the house to fetch soap.

  “I’ll take care of it, Miss,” Sam insisted. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

  At the pump, Sam set down a stool. Her father slumped onto it. “Ahhh. I knew it might come to this, my ultimate humiliation.”

  Rowena gritted her teeth, heart hammering, as she darted her gaze about to make certain the rogues had left. “I’m so sorry; those horrible cowards.”

  “Aye, ’tis not right, sir. A cruel act.” Sam, skinny and all of thirteen, primed the pump and filled a bucket full of water. Anne lumbered back out and handed Rowena a soap ball.

  The pitch had dried. Sam started to peel the resin from Father’s flesh. Her parent flinched and moaned. Rowena winced and began to pluck out feathers. His skin was red and blistered in places. Fury suffused her.

  Father stared up at her, his eyes clouded. “Please, my dear. Spare me more mortification. Return to the house. Take Anne with you.”

  * * *

  Rowena entered the hall, avoiding slamming the front door. She stared around the main parlor. Scattered broken china covered the maroon Turkey carpet. Before they’d dragged Father outside, the rebels had smashed her mother’s fine porcelain for no reason. A cupboard door, the glass shattered, lay on the floor. She gulped back her despair.

  The house still reeked of the men’s sweat and seemed to echo with their nasty laughter. She and Anne opened the windows to let in the mild May air. They’d recently suffered through the coldest winter she’d ever experienced.

  She closed her eyes, dragging her fingers through her loosened, unruly curls, her cap askew. “If his valet hadn’t deserted us to join the Continental Army,” her words were bitter, “Father would have proper attendance.”

  “’Tis true, Miss.” In clinks and clacks, Anne, a maid-of-all-work with more burdens now, began to sweep up the china pieces. “So many have left us.” Their remaining footman was visiting his sick mother; hopefully, he’d return.

  Footsteps on the hall stairs, and Aunt Elizabeth walked up behind her, her full skirts rust
ling. Her auburn hair was slicked tight under her cap. “Oh! I’m so sorry to see your mother’s dishes damaged. And Robert, how he must suffer. I could hardly stand to glimpse it out my bedroom window. However, you, my girl, should never have gone out there near those vile men.”

  “I’m weary of being intimidated in my own home, my own country, just because we’re loyal British citizens.” Rowena kicked one half of a gravy boat decorated in blue flowers. The set was once her mother’s pride.

  “That’s not ladylike, dear. We must maintain some decorum.” Her aunt, with her pretty, oval face, the lines faint around blue eyes, tutted. “You’ve already ruined your gown. But then you were always a hoyden. It’s time for you—”

  “I care little for being ladylike, Auntie.” Her aunt’s half-oblivious attitude, her hiding in her room, frustrated Rowena; but for her father’s sake she held on to respect though it wore thin. “We’re in grave danger. Many Loyalists have fled. I heard in New Jersey the rebels hanged those they caught.” She fisted her hands, her worry deep for her father. Nevertheless, she’d experienced a sense of worth when she tried to repel the renegades.

  Her aunt grimaced at the word ‘hanged.’

  “Everything will calm once we’ve won the war.” Aunt Elizabeth’s sweet smile wavered. She pressed her fingers on the worn skirt of her robe à l'anglaise. “Look at my gown. We’ve had little time to visit a seamstress, and fancy material from England is banned.”

  “Clothes are not important. Please, can we concentrate on what is transpiring now?” Rowena swallowed a sigh. At seventeen, this wasn’t the life she had envisioned or had been planned. Her mother’s dreams of balls and beaux for her only daughter were supplanted by apprehensions and the struggle to survive.

  Five years past her country had shockingly split apart, between the Americans rebels, who called themselves Patriots, and those Americans still loyal to the British, at the battles of Lexington and Concord. The great city of Boston had been in a furor the year before that—affront at taxes and British soldiers shooting the populace.

  Her father’s cries drifted in the open window. Rowena cringed.

  Unfortunately, there’d been discontent her entire existence between the colonies and faraway England—and nothing was the same since her mother had died two years past.

  Rowena’s stomach sank with the familiar anguish of that loss, but there was no time to lament. She crouched and picked up the larger china pieces, all cracked beyond repair.

  Out a window she saw Sam helping Father toward the kitchen, a horse blanket draped over his shoulders. Father let out an angry curse.

  “Fie. Robert shouldn’t use such language no matter his pain. I hope that now my brother is…cleaned off, the burdock paste soothes his burns.” Aunt Elizabeth shivered as if she was the one who’d been scrubbed down.

  “I pray Father isn’t as injured as I fear. Except for his pride.” Rowena went to the window that faced the road and peered around the curtain. Their farm was too quiet, the majority of the livestock stolen on previous raids. How would they manage? She resented that she could not march off to fight like her brothers.

  * * *

  A half hour later a horse galloped up to the farm house. Rowena hurried from the kitchen where she and Anne had collected the last loose feather tracked in on Father’s and Sam’s shoes. “Not again, no more rebels,” she grumbled. In the rear parlor, she flipped aside the carpet, pulled up a loose floorboard and dragged out Father’s heavy blunderbuss.

  The front door opened the moment she skidded into the hall. A man in a soiled frock coat and breeches stood there, wiping sweat from his face. His gaze went to the musket. “Don’t shoot me, cousin. I surrender.”

  Rowena lowered the weapon with a huff. “You’re fortunate I did not, you lout.”

  James Atherton, Aunt Elizabeth’s son, raised a brow. Tall and lean, with a long face split by a mocking grin, he scrutinized Rowena. “I doubt you know how to use that gun. You should leave firearms to the men. Is everything all right here?”

  “It is not. Father was tarred and feathered, and the rebels stole our food and broke my mother’s china.” She pressed the gun’s stock onto the floor.

  “I’m most sorry to hear that.” James shook his head. “Egad, that’s terrible about Uncle Robert.”

  She fingered the gun’s smooth barrel. “Indeed. And for your information, I know how to fire this blunderbuss quite well.”

  With her brothers east, in the army in New York, she figured it was a needed skill. After she’d begged, Father had agreed and instructed her.

  James removed his hat as he shut the door. Smelling of hard-ridden horse, he poked a knuckle to Rowena’s cheek. “Is Uncle badly hurt? Is my mother all right?”

  “Father is resting in his room. The removal of the sticky pitch hurt as much as the malicious action. As for Aunt Elizabeth, she’s as fine as can be.” Rowena replaced the gun in its hiding place. She returned to the hall. “I hope you brought victuals.”

  “I’ll find us food, somewhere. Did they empty the root cellar as well?” He stepped into the parlor, which had been put back in some order. The gaping mahogany china cabinet, the one door propped up beside it, looked forlorn.

  “There are wrinkled apples and turnips left. Cook might be able to prepare some sort of meal from them. We’ve stashed away a few supplies.” Luscious meals were a thing of the past. Rowena touched her ribs, which felt more pronounced, even through her stomacher. Short and stocky like her father, she wouldn’t have to worry about growing chubby now. “If you can obtain seeds, I’ll replant the garden.”

  “James, my darling!” Aunt Elizabeth bustled down the stairs, her beige dress brushing the treads, and embraced him. Her panniers swung with her movement. “Oh, you need soap and a damp cloth. Have you any news of your…” She couldn’t even say it. Her husband, Uncle Daniel, was an officer with General Clinton’s army. Currently in New York, these troops raided American outposts hoping to weaken the enemy. Rumor had it they might head south—if they hadn’t left already—to attack cities like Savannah and Charles Town.

  “Can you tell us anything that’s promising?” her aunt asked. Some women ignored what was happening around them, or smoothed it over, as if that would make the threat disappear. Aunt Elizabeth had raised this practice to an art form.

  “How is Uncle Daniel? Busily engaged, I trust.” Rowena gripped her arms as helplessness washed over her. She had so little control of what went on around her. But she couldn’t allow such weakness, or the convenience of swooning with the vapors. She craved details, and solutions.

  “I haven’t any particular news; none about Father. And the military doesn’t wish their movements known. I do apologize, Mother.” James smiled down at his mother’s pout, then his eyes sharpened. “I’d only heard the ‘revolutionaries’ were combing this region, causing trouble.”

  “You see that they have. Especially for dear Robert. And you never tell me anything about your own activities.” Her aunt turned from him as if afraid he might. “It’s all a mystery.”

  “What about Andrew and William?” Rowena asked. Her brothers had jumped at the chance to join the King’s army. She wondered, not for the first time, why James at age twenty hadn’t joined the military; but he always seemed busy, occupied away for days.

  “Again, dear cousin, I have…nothing I can divulge.” James shrugged then patted his mother’s shoulder. “Tell me what you require here, Mother, and I’ll try to find it for you.”

  Exhausted, Rowena slumped into a chair—or as best she could slump, laced up in her whalebone stays. Her shoulders ached from all the responsibilities she carried on them, her fingernails jagged from labor. Since Mother’s death from the putrid throat, she managed the house, her auntie too ‘delicate’ and distracted. It was difficult to understand such people. She rubbed her temples. She’d been forced to mature.

  “Don’t slouch like a peasant. We must remain above reproach.” Aunt Elizabeth stepped from James, picke
d up her embroidery hoop, then set it back down. Her aunt embroidered dainty flowers and sometimes read the Bible. Obviously, her way of coping, yet not very useful in these circumstances.

  “Do you think we can still win this war? I heard there’s much skirmishing to the south, especially in the Carolinas.” Rowena stuffed her hair under her cap. The tide had turned in the revolutionaries’ favor after Saratoga in ‘77 and subsequent battles these last three years.

  “Of course we can win. We haven’t given up, freckle-faced scamp.” He reached down and chucked her under her chin; yet his display of humor didn’t soften his eyes, and his tenor sounded brusque, laced with doubt.

  “Stop it. I’m too old for that.” She slapped his hand away and fought her aggravation. “I’m no longer a child, and I wish…” She kept the rest to herself, to avoid his taunts. He’d grown worse since the war began. They’d all changed. At first the avenging leaders, now the loyalists had turned into prey.

  “When we’re at peace again, I trust you’ll bring some nice young men around for Rowena to meet.” Aunt Elizabeth fluffed the kerchief around her neck. “She needs to be settled and safe, with the protection of a husband.”

  Rowena resisted rolling her eyes. “That’s the last concern on my mind. I’d rather don breeches and ride into battle.” She’d voiced her wishes aloud. This idea cheered her more than it should have.

  “Never say such things, dear. Don’t let these events alter who we are, proper landed gentry.” Aunt Elizabeth wrung her hands. Her eyes grew sad as if she was on the verge of wrestling with the reality of their predicament. “Cook can make tea; that will nourish us.” She hustled toward the kitchen. They had managed to hide the tea caddy from the invaders.

  “Mother is in her usual fluster, poor dear. She’s lost without my father.” James turned to her, his mouth in a thin line. “Tell me what happened, Ro.”