Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

Rowena smiled with gratitude at being understood. Her mother had always praised her sister Joan as the strongest woman when it came to courage and sense in the family. “I am here to find James because I intend to be of service in the war. And I don’t mean nursing the wounded.”

  Her aunt scooted closer on the sofa; their skirts overlapped. “In the long stretch of times I couldn’t visit, Becky wrote me you were a spirited girl. At one with the boys, when younger, I remember.” She sounded encouraging rather than critical. “What are your exact intentions?”

  “From what I’ve overheard, James is involved in the conflict, but his motives are hazy. He speaks to rebels and loyalists alike.” Rowena selected a macaroon from the tea tray. “I will know his true allegiance and insist on being included, if it’s for our side.”

  “Brave girl. How will you go about it? Have you the skill with a pistol and horse, let alone the cunning?” Aunt Joan touched Rowena’s cheek. “I know of other women who are part of the fight in the background, yet I warn you to be prepared.”

  “I’m learning every day. I dress as a man to remain inconspicuous. I seek the same freedom and usefulness they enjoy.” Relief washed over Rowena when Aunt Joan didn’t frown but nodded. She nibbled on the sweet coconut to give herself pause in her rush of excitement. “Sam goes with me from now on. I decided I can’t do everything myself.”

  “You certainly don’t plan to join the military, I trust?” Her aunt raised her elegant brows. “I’ve heard a few women have joined the army, though I can’t see how they manage.”

  “The military might find me out too quickly. I want something I can do in the shadows, like working as a spy.” Rowena told of her recent escapades. She craved the adventure, and the danger that women were supposed to avoid.

  “I won’t deny that I worry about your scheme, dear.” Aunt Joan squeezed both her hands. “I can only advise you to be extremely careful.”

  Was she too reckless? “I will try. James is supposed to be staying at the lodgings in the Indian Queen Tavern. I’ll search him out there.”

  * * *

  Darkness increased as the sun lowered when Rowena and Sam approached the tavern. The close-in buildings further shaded Fourth Street and Chestnut Street, the corner on which the Indian Queen stood. A horse and wagon rattled by them. Each nook and cranny, every shadow, had her flitting her gaze about, hand on her muff pistol in the frock coat’s pocket. She wore a better fitting shirt and breeches she’d found in Mersheland’s attic.

  She checked behind her again, to see if anyone followed. They’d snuck out the rear door, through her aunt’s garden, praying no guard would catch them.

  “My aunt said many rebel delegates lodged at this tavern when they discussed their plans to form their own government,” she whispered. “And cut their allegiance to Great Britain.”

  Expansive and three stories high, the Indian Queen boasted an almost Dutch-shaped roof. An alley ran beside it, black as pitch. Raucous laughter drifted from the building.

  “I’ll go in and check for Mr. Atherton, say I has a verbal message,” Sam said. “To be safe.”

  “I could do that. Don’t I look manly enough?” She tried to tease, but disliked being marked as the weaker of the team.

  “Aye. Good enough, but I’ll pass easier.” He grinned. “Then we’ll know the layout of the place. Your aunt warned that a porter greets everyone who enters.”

  “Very well. I’ll wait at the alley entrance, but don’t tarry long. Bring him out to me, that’s what I need.” She slipped into the cooler shadows. Was James spying for the loyalists, or colluding with the rebels? If he was with the revolutionaries, she must stop him—in some way. What was the atmosphere in this, as her aunt informed them, largest tavern in Philadelphia? She risked much just being here.

  Rowena tugged her hat low and pressed her back against the brick wall near a shuttered window. A cat ran past her. Rats scratched in debris. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of urine. More noise and moving about came from the building. Music also sounded: a lively fiddle. A drunk sang off-key.

  Heavier noises from behind her. Footfalls? Nape prickled, she snatched out her muff pistol and whipped around about to release the trigger.

  The scent of pine rose up; a harsh breath, almost a wolf-like snarl. Her fingers clenched around the small stock, Rowena pointed her weapon at the murky presence looming over her.

  Chapter Nine

  “Have a care, bachgen.” The Welsh accent pierced through Rowena. The dark stranger! He bent closer in the Indian Queen’s alley. “Ye might be the same boy as before. ’Tis dim, and I’d like for once to see ye in the light. Now put down that gun.”

  “I will not.” She roughed up her voice to sound mannish, her hand shaking on her muff pistol. She resisted backing away. In the alley’s gloom she saw the outline of his pistol, although he didn’t aim directly at her. Her galloping heart ached in her chest. “Why are you here, sir?”

  “Aye, ’tis ye, then. I let ye go once, but not sure of such generosity now. Rowland, was it? Don’t make me shoot.” His shadow shifted and he leaned one shoulder against the tavern wall, as if they were having a casual conversation; however, his voice remained stern. “Spying on Atherton again? Dangerous business, that.”

  “I know not who’s loyal to whom. Are you Atherton’s watchdog?” She lowered her pistol a fraction, but more to show she wasn’t intimidated—though she was.

  “If he’s a cousin, like ye said, ye should know his beliefs.”

  She almost resented the Welshman’s astute point. “People lie.”

  A rat scurried near her feet; she tried not to wince. A lad would ignore it.

  “Aye, they do. And what about ye, Rowland? Are ye lying in some manner?” His question taunted. “What’s yer interest here?”

  She lowered the pistol further, yet the tension rippling through her kept her on alert. He might grab the weapon. She moved the gun’s stock toward her belly, her fingers still tight. Again, did he suspect her ruse? “As you must recall from the Bachman, I’m a loyalist. I want to make certain James is, too.”

  “Why do ye doubt him, bachgen?” His softer speech unnerved her, as though he prepared to spring upon her. Yet he intrigued her at the same time: a confusing muddle.

  “He seemed too easy with that rebel, Mr. Long.”

  A low chuckle. “How do ye know he was not gathering information? Long may be a man who works in his own interests, and cares not which side.”

  “I care which side my cousin favors.” She raised the pistol an inch. “And who are you to him? You give James orders, but do you trust him? I heard you both talking in the woods.” She caught her lip—had she revealed too much?

  “The sneezer, are ye? The hider in the brush.” He laughed sharply and leaned even nearer, his hot breath on her cheeks. Her pulse skittered. “Was that wise?”

  Footsteps sounded from around the corner. Rowena stiffened. The Welshman straightened.

  “I’m not going into that alley.” James’ voice in protest burst from the alley’s entrance. “What are you up to, Sam? This is outrageous. Why are you in the city?”

  “I told you inside, sir,” Sam said. “Someone wants to speak to—”

  The Welshman slipped past her, his whisper brusque. “Quiet, man. Both of ye.

  Sam stood with James in the spill of lantern light that shone from above the tavern portico to their left. The dark stranger’s back was to her. Sam looked stoic, his face a mask, while James grimaced, hands fisted.

  “It seems we have two spies here, James,” the Welshman said low. “One scamp in hiding behind me.”

  A shiver shot up her spine. He’d given her away, sadly as she expected. She’d be exposed to her cousin, and then by James as a fraud to the man called the Black Devil. Rowena shoved the pistol into her frock coat pocket. Should she run the opposite direction, deeper into the alley? No. She refused to desert Sam.

  In a quick step back, the Welshman snatched her arm, pulling her toward the
light. Suddenly, she was deposited in front of James. The stranger gripped her shoulders, her back pressed against his body. Alarm sliced through her.

  “Do ye recognize yer cousin, James?” His fingers clamped down harder.

  Sam’s eyes flashed in concern. James’ mouth gaped like a trout.

  She stood tall and met her cousin’s glare, trying to appear defiant in the midst of fighting a shudder of embarrassment.

  “What the deuce?” James stomped forward in the short distance, his glower assessing. “Who is— Rowena, is that you?” He snatched off her hat, bouncing her curls about. “I don’t believe it. What are you doing here? You must be mad.”

  “Rowena, is it? Yer a girl. Oh fy duw, I should have known.” The Welshman steered her away from the tavern entrance, and the others followed. “We must go elsewhere, so as not to bring attention.”

  She jerked out of his grasp and grabbed her hat from her cousin. “I can walk on my own, thank you.” Found out, she’d face the consequences. Since the man had revealed her to James, he must trust her cousin. But could she trust this Welshman? Her stomach clenched.

  Sam rushed beside her, one hand steadying his hat. “Are you unharmed, Miss?”

  “So far, but a quarrel is to come.” She thrust on her cocked hat, then clasped his hand for a moment as they walked. Her mind buzzed with ideas of how to turn this incident to her favor.

  “Are you senseless, brat?” James’ boots clipped over the cobbles. “Uncle Robert will skin your hide. You risk being arrested. Why are you in Philadelphia?”

  The Welshman shushed him. They strode on, away from the two taverns and shops, though most were closed, into quieter streets. A lit lantern hung over the door of what appeared a private residence. The group slowed then stopped.

  She stared up at the dark stranger. His features were sharp, a roman nose, high cheekbones, and the blackest of eyes. He wore all black and looked sinister in the shades of light. The hair beneath his cocked hat, tied in a queue, was the color of coal. He was a Black Devil.

  “I’m visiting my aunt,” she replied through tight lips to James. “Her husband fights with Lord Cornwallis.”

  “I’m aware of that. But why are you following me? And dressed as a boy?” James swung his arms out, like a hawk about to take flight.

  “A hellion of a girl, aye? Ah, interesting.” The Welshman nodded slowly, hands on his hips. He might’ve been in his mid to late twenties. A smile tugged at his mouth, which made him a touch handsome. “Is she yer cousin, James?”

  “She is, and she’s a hoyden of the worst order. You’ve put us all in danger, Ro.” James rubbed his face, then flapped a hand toward her. “Look at you, attired as you are. And parading around with our stable boy. You should be ashamed.”

  “I’m in disguise, testing your allegiance, since you never admitted whose side you work for.” She thrust out her chin and crossed her arms, desperate to ignore the flips in her stomach.

  They fell silent as two men walked by, heads together in conversation. The noise of the tavern, plus the smaller Indian King tavern across from it, hummed in the distance.

  “And you, sir.” She turned to the dark stranger. “Should I call you Mr. Black, or Mr. Devil?”

  He laughed then waved their group further on, through the shadows, close to another square of light from a lantern over a townhouse door. Moths fluttered around the candle flame, slapping against the glass. “My name is Pritchard, girl.”

  “I’d never betray Uncle Robert,” James hissed to her. “I honor my family.”

  She prayed that was true. “I will hold you to honoring my father and the loyalist cause.”

  Mr. Pritchard chuckled. “She’s courageous, daring. Must be part Welsh. Rowena. A melodic name from the mists. That name could be Welsh.”

  “She was a Saxon princess, so my mother said.” She shrugged, surprised by his poetic description, yet anxious to get past the minutia. James had flushed ruddy, his body heaving as if ready to explode.

  “What will we do with ye, wild, misty girl? Or ‘geneth’ in Welsh.” Pritchard teased. Even in the murk, she felt his eyes prod over her. For some reason, she didn’t take deep offence at his taunt. “How old are ye?”

  She shouldn’t, but found she liked listening to his accented, educated voice—then she shook off that thought.

  “I’ll be eighteen in two months.” Of course, mentioning that watershed age—where she might own property or make decisions—didn’t thrust her any taller or add to her brawn.

  She spread her feet to anchor herself as everyone’s faces moved in and out of the shadows and weak lantern light. Their conversation flew back and forth in heated whispers, like spitting snakes.

  Rowena glanced at the brick houses crammed side by side, but everything remained quiet. No shutters swung open. They were only two blocks from her aunt’s house.

  “I’ll send her home to the farm immediately. My uncle will have to lock her up until the war is won.” James jabbed a finger under her nose. “Then find her an iron-handed husband to discipline her wayward behavior. I’m only protecting you, Ro.”

  “Father would never lock me up. He doesn’t treat me as chattel.” She strained to keep from shouting at her cousin. I’ll never marry you—that was for certain. She must hold fast to control her temper. “Besides, I have my own desires, opinions, and will act upon them as I wish. I seek no man to bully me.”

  Sam seemed to fight a smile. He watched them steadily, shifting his feet, hands behind his back. A sudden gust of wind tousled his light hair.

  A flash of lightning lit up the street for an instant. Thunder like a cannon shot shook the night sky. Rowena flinched. Pritchard scanned the area. Sam pulled his frock coat close. The air grew heavy with moisture and she massaged her arms. A storm was upon them, in more ways than one.

  “She is a firebrand, Atherton. Ye see insolence where I see valor that needs tending and direction.” Mr. Pritchard made a slow bow with an exaggerated hand gesture, then his dark eyes bored into her. “What are yer desires, geneth? Do enlighten us.”

  She took a deep breath. “To join the loyalists fight, to work for the king.” To put her world back the way it was—her father and family respected, their home safe—if possible. And her own need for the excitement, the blood that pumped through her veins. “Not as a woman, but performing a man’s duties, and I’d share the same risks.”

  A drop of rain fell on her face as she met those penetrating black eyes; she lifted her chin and dared him to laugh at her.

  Chapter Ten

  Rowena stirred clothes in boiling water and lye in her aunt’s large tub. She wore a voluminous apron over an old stained and snagged silk gown—a material that seemed but a frippery now. Flames licked around the copper in the basement’s wide kitchen hearth. The caustic fumes watered her eyes. She swirled the linen with the washing bat as her thoughts from the previous evening churned. Mr. Pritchard hadn’t laughed at her, but would he be true to his word? Or dismiss her as a silly girl to be flattered and forgotten? Her hands tightened on the oak handle.

  “You don’t have to do this, dear.” Aunt Joan entered, still in her Sunday closed-robe gown of lavender-colored muslin. They’d attended the early service. “I don’t know why my laundry girl didn’t show herself yesterday. But we’re supposed to rest today.”

  “I don’t mind, Aunt, and dislike being idle. I helped at home.” Rowena wiped sweat from her upper lip with her arm. Her gown sleeve was also moist. The vapors curled her hair even worse, and the tendrils squirmed out from under the edges of her white cap. “We lost many servants as well.”

  “General Howe’s abandoning us caused much frenzy two years ago. He’d hoped to disrupt the rebel capital, but the scoundrels moved it to Baltimore—and now they command my Philadelphia once more.” Aunt Joan stepped onto the greenish-gray kitchen flagstones. Through the high window, early June sunlight painted a narrow rectangle on the floor.

  “My staff said they feared repercussions
for being loyalists, though I suspect a few joined the revolutionary cause.” Her aunt shook her head. “I suppose I can’t blame the poorer people for wanting change. And many prominent men are involved in what they insist is Independence. But will we Tories be safe or flounder?”

  Pulling out the paddle, Rowena flexed her fingers to ease a cramp. “That’s the confusing and frightening part.” She hesitated, then dared to voice what few loyalists would admit. “What if England doesn’t win the war? The rebels could march us to prisons, or worse.”

  “Though I live under constant threat, we must stay optimistic.” Her aunt’s smile wavered. “Sadly, the revolutionaries have gained much ground this year.”

  “Why do you stay, instead of moving to New York with the majority of loyalists?” Rowena’s shoulders drooped. It seemed to her that the people who served the king were cornered like rats up in that city.

  “This is my home. I raised my daughters here. Charles and I shared our love here. I refuse to be scared away. I’ll assist you with the rinsing and wringing through the mangle when you’re ready.” Her aunt opened a cupboard and began to count jars of preserves. “The long winter, so much colder than usual, has cut deep into my supplies. I pray my garden produces well.”

  “I can help you with the garden,” Rowena said. How long did she intend to stay in Philadelphia? Always, she had to depend on men to decide her actions. Would Pritchard allow her to join them? “If I’m not otherwise occupied.”

  Her aunt closed the cupboard door. “How will you proceed after your contentious meeting with James and his Welsh friend? Never leave your back unprotected as you did in the alley.”

  Pritchard wouldn’t dare condemn her since she was James’ cousin—and they fought for the same side. However, he could easily agree with James about sending her home.

  Rowena considered her aunt’s other observation about not guarding her back. She could have been killed if it had been the enemy. She speared the paddle back in the tub with a splash. She had much to learn. “You’re right, I was careless. I’m waiting to hear from Mr. Pritchard, but if I don’t—”