Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Aunt Joan pressed her shoulder. “While I’m proud of you, I won’t deny I’m very concerned for your welfare.”

  Mrs. Baily appeared at the top of the stairs. “Mrs. Quinton, pardon me, you have, ah, visitors. Two Rebel women I wouldn’t permit inside, but they refuse to leave the portico.”

  “Oh, la, what’s amiss now?” Aunt Joan sighed, picked up her skirts, and mounted the basement stairs. “Very well, Mrs. Bailey. I’ll handle it.”

  Curious, Rowena pushed the burning coals away from the copper, to the back of the hearth, and followed. At least it wasn’t soldiers out to arrest them.

  Aunt Joan confronted a pair of well-dressed women, thirtyish in years, on the front step. Rowena moved beside her. A soldier, maybe the burned one, stood not far off, his musket shouldered.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Quinton. My name is Mrs. Abigail Smythe, and I’m on a mission to collect money to help our suffering soldiers. I know you’re on the British side, as hard to believe as that may be, but we’re asking everyone.” She shoved a broadsheet into Aunt Joan’s hands. Rowena leaned close and read it too.

  A Mrs. Joseph Reed in “The Sentiments of an American Woman” asked the prominent women of Philadelphia to help the Patriots who were suffering in ragged clothes, damp conditions, smallpox, lack of food; and not receiving their promised pay.

  Rowena looked at her aunt; would she help the enemy to preserve her life here?

  “Mrs. Joseph Reed?” Aunt Joan addressed Rowena. “Her husband is president of the Supreme Executive Council, and he calls himself the governor of Pennsylvania.” She stared back at the two women in their homespun Sunday finery, fingers crumpling the paper. “And your fledgling government can’t pay their own soldiers?”

  Perhaps they’d mutiny, desert…flee back to the Crown and become loyalists. Rowena rubbed her knuckles along the door jamb.

  “We’re all in dire need, Mrs. Quinton. Some more than others. If the King would’ve treated us fairly, we wouldn’t be in such hardship.” Mrs. Smythe’s scrutiny traveled the length of Rowena’s dishevelment. The visitor’s nostrils flared as if she smelled the strong lye.

  “I’m her niece,” Rowena said archly, before she was mistaken for a laundress. Though wasn’t this revolution supposed to make everyone a little more equal in independence?

  Aunt Joan handed the broadsheet back. “I have scant money to spare, but I might have some used clothes to—”

  “No clothing, mistress. We need coin, gold dollars.” The second woman stuck out her fat chin, which wobbled. “We are making shirts for our brave men, at General Washington’s suggestion; and plenty of linen, it’s said, has been provided by this colony to our soldiers. Even Mr. Benjamin Franklin’s daughter is involved in our crusade.”

  As if that would impress them. Rowena sucked in a retort and flipped a damp curl from her forehead. Mr. Franklin was the one who’d gone to France to plead for help—monetary and military—for the revolution. The French intervention had infuriated her father.

  Her aunt also told her that Franklin had formed the Committee of Secret Correspondence, the rebels’ spy network. Pritchard must be aware of this.

  “As you have to appreciate, Madam,” her aunt’s voice remained serene—a trait Rowena envied, “If I’m not allowed to aid the British soldiers, as I’ve been warned, I can hardly aid yours.”

  “We won’t leave your portico until you contribute.” Mrs. Smythe thrust her snub-nosed face inches from her aunt’s. “You’ll be considered a traitor, as you already are I daresay, and perhaps forfeit the protection from your merchant that you now enjoy.”

  The guarding soldier stepped closer to the steps, as if anxious for the chance to intervene.

  “I beg your pardon? A lady should never threaten another woman of breeding,” Aunt Joan said, smooth as velvet. “It’s very unseemly. Even if we are at war, we must retain our good manners.”

  “If a lady she be,” Rowena muttered. She wondered how their own soldiers fared, then jerked a hand behind her back, longing to slap the woman. She almost clapped at her aunt’s reply but decided that would be particularly unseemly.

  The floor creaked behind her and she turned to see Sam.

  “What’s the problem, Miss?” he whispered. She explained. “Just give ‘em a pittance to get rid of the harridans.” He tugged her away from the door, his voice low. “I went to meet with the Welshman as was planned. He still tried to discourage you bein’ involved but said he could use me.”

  “I expected no less.” She frowned over the squeeze of her heart. Mr. Pritchard still didn’t believe in her, and why should he? She’d have to work twice as hard. “I trust you dissuaded him in the strongest way?”

  Sam grinned. “Aye. I said you’d scrape me to the bones. Then throw my bones to the dogs to gnaw into pieces.”

  “You are delusional, Madam, hoping the loyalists will prevail.” Mrs. Smythe’s indignant voice rang out. “Your position is doomed. We will have our freedom from tyranny. I don’t need to remind you that your husband could hang when captured.”

  Rowena stared toward her aunt’s back. “How can I not slap that woman on the step?”

  Would her aunt lose her protection? Would Uncle Charles hang? So much teetered in the balance of their lives.

  “Mrs. Bailey, fetch me a dollar. I will generously give in the name of charity,” Aunt Joan called to her housekeeper. “Especially on this, the Lord’s day. But, alas, I can offer no more.”

  Sam nudged Rowena’s attention back to him. “We meet tonight; he has a mission for us. If you’re prepared an’ ain’t afeared.” Sam winked. “Mr. Pritchard scoffed when he said the last.”

  * * *

  The sun long set, darkness draped the landscape just off the Old York Road north of Philadelphia. As James, Pritchard, Sam and Rowena rode along—she and Sam on a nag provided by Pritchard—the Welshman told her that the main road led all the way to Elizabeth Point in New Jersey. Past the flour mills, she and the others skirted the Rising Sun Tavern, a notorious rebel stronghold. In a copse of trees, the four of them dismounted.

  Mr. Pritchard lit a lantern, reached into his saddle bag and held out a plain beige gown. “I need ye to dress as a girl tonight.”

  A flush coursed through her body. “But I told you, I want to do a man’s duties. I haven’t come all this way to—”

  “Shush and listen.” He pushed the gown into her hands. “Slip it over yer boy’s clothes, take off the hat, muss up yer hair. A courier from Philadelphia will ride up this road, which follows the Delaware River north, with dispatches for General Washington in Morristown, New Jersey. He should be alone, to remain inconspicuous. Ye will play a female in distress, distract him, and James and I will take his pouch.”

  She fingered the wool gown, old and threadbare. She hated to resort back to a weak female; it seemed too much a surrender, but she must prove herself a keen participant. Perhaps she could switch from one to the other, when needed.

  “Are ye not up for it?” Mr. Pritchard asked, his black eyes challenging. “Or just insulted?”

  “We should put the dress on Sam.” James smirked at her, his tone annoyed. “She hasn’t the mettle. Let’s stop wasting time. She’ll only get hurt.”

  “You’ll be surprised by my mettle, James.” Rowena handed Sam her cocked hat. She threw the dress over her head and wriggled it on, the pins already in place on the oversize bodice. It hung on her like a wool sack and stank of perspiration and onions. “I will do what’s required.”

  “Any instructions needed? Do ye know what to say?” Mr. Pritchard bent down; his gaze measured her, or he was vexed. “Are ye sure yer able to manage?”

  “I’ll concoct something that will stop the rider.” She pinched the cloth between her fingers. “I will say I’ve been held in a root cellar and made to peel onions until I cried.”

  “Aye?” He seemed to fight a grin, then turned his face away into shadow.

  “Don’t underestimate me.” Rowena took a slow, deep
breath. “I can do this, sir.” She loosened her hair from its queue and accepted the lantern from Mr. Pritchard. She had the urge to impress him in a more personal way, then whisked such silliness from her thoughts.

  “We’ll be here, in the trees, weapons at the ready. To protect ye.” He bowed to her and slipped like a ghost deeper into the copse of beech and oaks.

  “Don’t take any unnecessary chances; behave yourself.” James entered the woods, continuing to mutter his disapproval.

  “Be careful, Miss,” Sam said before following the two men.

  She nodded, set the lantern at her feet, and pulled her fingers through her curls so they sprang in disorder about her face.

  Night birds churred; a breeze ruffled the leaves above. Nerves twitched through her, but being anxious, off-balance, was perfect for this part. Another idea struck. She crouched, scooped up a fistful of dirt and smeared it on her cheeks and bodice.

  Silent, long moments passed; too long, yet she stood fast. She stretched her fingers, hearing her own breath go in and out. Then distant hooves clopped up the road from the south. The sound grew closer. Muscles tense, she shut her eyes for a second. What if it wasn’t the courier? Would she be sending this person to their death?

  A horse and rider came into shadowy view, hoof beats loud. The sound beat on her brain. Rowena stepped fully into the circle of lantern light.

  She waved her arms and spewed out her most plaintive plea in a girlish voice. “Help, I need help. Please, good sir, I’ve been attacked!”

  Chapter Eleven

  The rider reined in his heaving horse at Rowena’s plea. He remained a silhouette in the dark. “Attacked? What are you doing out here, alone, Miss?” he demanded—a man in a hurry. The horse snorted and pranced in a half-circle.

  Rowena covered her face, moaning, but really to gather her story. She then clasped her hands before her. “Alas, I had a companion, but he was taken by royal brigands. I ran into the woods—”

  “With a clean skirt hem, and lantern still lit?” The man stared around. “I daresay I don’t trust this.” He reached toward his saddle holster.

  Rustling sounded behind her. “Put up your hands, rogue.” James stepped out of the woods, his pistol drawn and pointed.

  “Stand down, rebel.” Mr. Pritchard slipped out next, aiming a long-barreled Pennsylvania rifle. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  Rowena moved back two feet to give them room. Her muff pistol was in her frock coat pocket, buried beneath the ugly gown she was obliged to wear.

  Sam appeared beside her. “You did well.”

  “The great actress.” She poked him with her elbow as nerves thrummed through her.

  “Hand us your pouch, or I’ll splatter your brains,” James ordered.

  The man snatched out a pistol, slid off the other side of his horse, then squatted behind the front legs. “I will not give up my documents.” His actions proved he was the courier.

  “We’ll shoot yer horse dead, then ye could follow.” Mr. Pritchard eyed the beast, as if assessing the fine-looking stallion. “Give us the dispatch and there’ll be no trouble.”

  “I’ll kill the girl,” the man threatened. His pistol barrel slid from under the horse’s jaw. “She must be of low morals to associate with thieves.”

  Rowena silenced her objection to both and longed for a weapon easily reached.

  Mr. Pritchard lunged forward. The messenger fired a shot from around the horse. Smoke spurted out. The stallion reared, whinnied in terror. The ball whizzed by Rowena’s head. She gasped, ducked, half-stunned. Sam tried to drag her back into the trees, but she pushed away from him.

  The animal tossed his head. His hooves scuffled in the dirt.

  Pritchard cocked the rifle and fired, another loud bang in a puff of smoke. The horse reared again. The courier staggered, fell to the ground, his hand on his gut where the Welshman had met his mark.

  Rowena rushed over and grabbed the horse’s bridle so they could retrieve the pouch before the stallion bolted. The frightened animal jumped forward and strained at her fingers on the leather straps. Sam joined her and they attempted to calm the beast. Sam tugged the horse’s head down by the bit, whispering to him, and got the stallion under control.

  James dashed to the saddlebags. He dug around inside.

  Crimson blood seeped through the stranger’s fingers along with a coppery stench. Then he whipped out a smaller pistol from his waistband but fumbled and dropped it. Mr. Pritchard fast reloaded, powder horn rattling.

  The courier groped along the ground and reached his weapon again.

  Rowena snatched up her dress, pulled out the muff pistol, and pointed it at the shadowed messenger. Stomach tight, she wondered if she could she kill someone? Mr. Pritchard shoved the end of his rifle barrel into the man’s throat. His Adam’s apple wobbled up and down.

  “She’ll shoot ye, bachgen.” The Welshman smirked. His eyes shone on her briefly. “Best to drop yer weapon.”

  The courier groaned and slowly laid the second pistol on the ground. He looked barely old enough to have used a shaving brush.

  James stepped over, his pistol aimed at the fallen man. He held up a small leather pouch. “I’ve got the dispatch. Now, get up, sir. Into the woods with you to tie you up.”

  “I demand…to be taken to a surgeon, then for a prisoner exchange,” the young man said between gasps.

  “Ye are badly wounded. Not my intention.” Pritchard shook his head. “I doubt ye will make it to a surgeon.”

  “We must help him,” Rowena said. She stared down at the victim, who clutched his bloody abdomen again, face in a grimace. More blood soaked his belly and down his breeches. His situation looked hopeless. “I can use this old dress for bandages.”

  “I knew it. You’re too soft for this,” James growled. “Don’t move.”

  Ignoring him, she bent toward the man. The courier took a long, rattling breath, twitched, then went limp.

  Pritchard crouched and felt for a pulse. “He’s gone.” He studied her for an instant as if to gage her reaction. “Come, Atherton, we’ll drag him into the trees.”

  Rowena turned away, feeling sick. Yet she had to act steadier, even ruthless. These rebels had tarred and feathered her father, burning his skin.

  Mr. Pritchard and James dragged the body into the woods.

  Pritchard grabbed the horse’s reins when they emerged. “We’ll take the animal.”

  Rowena eased out a breath and bit on her knuckle. Her eyes moistened, yet she swallowed her pity for some woman’s son or brother.

  * * *

  In a mad gallop through the trees seconds later, branches whipped past Rowena’s face. She clung to the stallion’s reins as she jostled in the saddle. Sam rode behind on the borrowed nag. James and Pritchard rode ahead on the dark path. Deep in the woods, the group halted before a small stone cottage about a half-hour’s ride southwest of Philadelphia, Pritchard had said. She dismounted, slapped down her skirt, breath in anxious huffs. Sam took control of the horses as she entered with her cousin and the Welshman. The place smelled of male sweat and burnt food.

  Rowena struck a flint from Mr. Pritchard’s travel tinder box and lit the blown-out lantern to brighten the dark corners. Her hand shook after the altercation. The courier’s suffering face flashed through her mind. “So, this is where you two make your devious plans.”

  James slapped the leather pouch on a rough-hewn table. “I see you’re upset, Ro. The man’s death was unfortunate. But he nearly shot you, Miss Tried-to-be-Soft-hearted. A woman’s weakness.”

  “Women younger than I have made a brave show in this war—on both sides. A few have shot cannon. I was being human, dear James.” Or was she too weak for this sort of occupation? She swiped sticky cobwebs from a chair back. “I’ll admit, it’s a shame he died.”

  “We couldn’t have saved him, Miss Marsh.” Pritchard looked from James to Rowena. “And if he’d survived, he’d have been happy to send us all to the gallows.” He crouched
and brushed ashes from the hearth. Then he tugged out a brick on the left side. “Does yer aunt have any pewter dishes to spare, geneth?”

  No compliments for her performance, she noted. Well, men hardly did such things—and she strived to be one of them. She wiped her hands on the sides of the gown and wished for a dark corner to rip off the sloppy garment. “Why do you need pewter dishes?” She suspected why.

  “To melt and make musket balls. Ammunition is in short supply. A shame we cannot produce gunpowder.” Mr. Pritchard stood and stretched. He held out a metal, scissor-like object with small, ladle-shaped ends. “Here be the mold.”

  “I’m certain my aunt would be honored to donate any pewter. We could make balls in her kitchen.” Rowena sat in the chair, her knees in a slight wobble. She pictured again the young man, the blood seeping from his body. Why hadn’t she taken into account that they’d have to shoot people in this spy misadventure? She shivered and wouldn’t ask what they’d done to other couriers. War was heartless. A deadly argument over rights and land. Was it a woman’s soft-heartedness to object?

  Yet Mr. Pritchard had saved her with the shot.

  “Don’t get caught making the musket balls, Ro; or you’ll both be sent to prison—or hanged.” James’ voice held a tinge of concern. “No matter what you might think of me, I want you protected. That’s why I didn’t want you involved.” He glared at Pritchard, too, that distrust she’d noticed resurfacing. Her cousin’s gray eyes turned back to her.

  She glanced away. “I learned in Philadelphia of a teacher there, Ann Bates, who posed as a peddler. She sold to the rebel camps, listened to their talk, gathered information and passed it to General Clinton. Women’s contributions are important.”

  “She faced a hanging if caught. A brave woman, one of many.” Mr. Pritchard nodded. He tapped the mold on the fireplace mantel. “Most folk have their own sort of courage.”