Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “What do you plan exactly, Miss?”

  “To watch the strategy, to see who will win here, and more.” She wanted opportunity, and the anticipation heated her blood. Could she find something, someone to spy upon? Gather information that was vital?

  Sam jerked the horse to a stop and pointed. “Look.”

  In an orchard a quarter mile ahead, a group of about sixty men, most in blue coats, rode out of the trees toward the British troops’ rear. The British wheeled about, rifles and muskets aimed. Gunshots rang out from both sides. Puffs of smoke dirtied the air as shouts and bellows followed.

  Sam galloped Kayfill into the thick of trees. Another rider burst through the brush and raced in their direction. Rowena’s heart pounded like a striking fist.

  James reined in his horse. “Egad, you addlepated little—don’t make me say a word I’ll regret!” Her cousin’s cheeks scarlet, he and his mount stank of sour sweat. “Did you think we wouldn’t discover you trailing us?”

  “Are you joining the fight, or only observing?” She kept her tone even, but gripped the saddle’s edge, elbows tight at her sides.

  Pritchard cantered up, his face in a scowl. “This is but a skirmish, and worse is certain to come. Why am I not surprised ye are here? Yer illness a ruse. Go back, now.”

  More gunfire cracked through the air. Men barked orders, and horses’ hooves scuffled.

  “Is General Knyphausen aware of the strong militia? Of his need of troops?” she asked.

  “Aye. We always need more soldiers. But he chose to move on Washington regardless. He has twice the scouts out, thanks to ye deciphering the code.” Pritchard’s black eyes cut into her like broken obsidian. “I cannot protect ye. Wish I could, but ye must—”

  She sat taller in the saddle. “I didn’t ask you, or anyone, to protect me.” His scold burned through her—but fired her resolve.

  “You are on your own, Rowena. You refuse to listen to advice. Short of tying you up somewhere, I can’t protect you either. Poor Uncle Robert. I wash my hands of you.” James gnashed his teeth, turned his horse around, and rode off.

  She was relieved to be rid of him, then remembered she wanted to be part of their team.

  “If ye must continue, do ye at least have a gun?” Pritchard’s horse danced beneath him.

  “Sam and I both have weapons.” She held his gaze. His dark eyes looked both sad and stern. The sadness unsettled her.

  “Take care. Ye are on yer own as James says—for the moment. My advice, turn back before ye reach the village, Connecticut Farms.” He shook his head then rode after James, twigs and dirt flinging from under the horse’s hooves.

  She couldn’t allow the Welshman’s disappointment to deter her. And what did he mean by for the moment? Another concern nudged to the surface again. “Sam, you can stay here if you wish. I’ll ride on, but only to observe.” She’d be devastated if a stray musket ball found the boy.

  “Nay, Miss. You be like a sister. I cannot let you go alone.” He dug his heels against the stallion’s side, and as she jolted in the saddle they rushed on crude paths through the trees. “’Tis my fight, too, to avenge the harassment of your father, and my own; the best of men they are.”

  “I agree. Thank you,” she managed, swiping a stray branch aside. The rebels had raided Sam’s father’s small farm, as well as hers.

  In clouds of dust, riders galloped along the forest edge to their left, heading south, away from the confrontation. Men in blue coats were slung over horses; amongst a coppery stench, others had bloody wounds staining their clothes—this rebel militia in retreat it appeared.

  “That’s a good sign, I grant.” Rowena held on to Sam’s waist; she quaked with eagerness, and the icy sliver of apprehension.

  * * *

  A second group of militiamen thundered out of the trees and attacked the British rear. Musket fire, and cannon blast, smoke and shouts—Rowena bit back her anxiety. Sam pulled Kayfill behind a small hill, where a broken wagon was wedged on their right and formed a bulwarked corner. He and Rowena dismounted. She pulled out her muff pistol. Sam unshouldered his powder horn and they loaded their weapons.

  “I must find a larger pistol, but this is so easy to carry and conceal.” And it had belonged to her mother. “If General Knyphausen sent out additional scouts, they’ve done a poor job. Did I decipher that message for naught?” Rowena’s anger sizzled.

  Sam studied her. “Are you certain you wish to watch so near? Mayhap we should stay farther back.”

  “Don’t sound like the others.” She carefully screwed the short muzzle of her gun back on. “I hope I can discover something to report. How strong are the rebel forces and such?”

  Keen to help, she was aware she could be quickly killed. She had no training as a soldier—yet how else would she learn? How else to serve for her father, herself, and be counted as brave as the men? She scanned the area. Were Pritchard and James hanging back or in the thick of the action?

  The British easily swept this second attack away; the rebels fled back into farmland and woods. Knyphausen’s massive army rode on toward Hobart Gap, the sloped entrance through the mountains. Many of the Hessian troops in their dark blue coats wore tall black gaiters over their legs.

  Two branches of the Rahway River, according to the map Rowena had consulted, gleamed like silver in the sunlight in their flow through the gap.

  More militia sprang from a village of wooden buildings and farm homes huddled beside the road and among fields near the woods. Was this Connecticut Farms? The rebels fired from behind trees; the enemy ran from the cover of trees to duck behind structures. These rough soldiers didn’t stand in straight lines to fire to beats of a drum like the British.

  Some of the rebels threw long-handled tomahawks. One gouged a horse in the chest, blood spurting. Rowena tasted bile in her throat.

  She clung to a half-buried stone on the surface of the hill with its stubbly grass; the loamy scent couldn’t mask the acrid stench of gunpowder. Sweat matted her hair as the air temperature rose. The action was a swirling mass. Hours of constant fighting dragged by.

  She peered over the wagon. A shot flew past her and she lurched backwards, her breath gasped and sputtered. Another shot struck the wagon’s side, and splinters flung in her face. Sam pushed on her shoulder and forced her to hunker down.

  “I’m fine.” She swiped the gritty wood chips from near her now watery eyes. Her hand shook. Then she peeked around, through the wagon’s broken in half front wheel.

  “I know you like to show as bold, but we might move back to a saf—”

  “No, Sam. I’ll stay here.” She couldn’t back down now; pride and determination wouldn’t allow it. Besides, if they broke cover, they’d be easy targets. She suppressed the fear that threatened. “The rebel militia are surprisingly strong. We should remember the different banners.” She stooped low and pulled a notebook and pencil from the saddlebag.

  “Aye, an’ report to Mr. Atherton an’ Mr. Pritchard.”

  “They’re watching as well. Information could be passed to British generals to snuff out these militias wherever they’re stationed.” She jotted down descriptions of the fluttering banners: a horse’s head, an anchor.

  More shouted orders. The village was on fire; orange flames crackled, the smell of burning wood rife. A church was consumed; its steeple appeared to wave in the smoke and intense heat from the fire. Civilians rushed from their flaming homes. The men shot muskets while their wives and children darted into the fields.

  Rebel-blue, dark-blue, a few green, and red-coated men swarmed at one another like multi-colored bees. Horses screamed and fell to the ground, bloody and kicking. Soldiers grabbed their chests or guts and tumbled to the earth as well. Some staggered to their feet, while others lay still. She shivered as if doused with freezing water, then prayed for their souls.

  Kayfill whinnied, perhaps in sympathy for his fellow equines. At each shot, her horse shuffled uneasily. The hill’s height hid him from most
of the commotion.

  Rowena clenched her teeth. She couldn’t tell who was winning. The day streamed by with charge after charge of soldiers a hundred yards or more from their rampart. She leaned against the hill, weak from hunger. The splinters embedded in her face stung. Her first battle, and she hated it; the blood and death were horrible. She flinched every time a man fell—it didn’t matter if they were British or rebel. She swallowed down her revulsion. What intelligence could she gather in this chaos?

  “I think that’s General Washington.” Sam stretched his neck as he peered over the wagon. Rowena pushed next to him.

  A towering man with white-powdered hair rode from the pass accompanied by a contingent of soldiers. She cringed that the rebels had reinforcements, yet was curious to see him, even though he was the enemy. The action seemed to hesitate at his appearance.

  “Sam, do you want to be a soldier?” she asked as she observed the elegant rebel leader—hardly the barbarian she’d pictured. She swept loose, damp curls from her forehead.

  “Nay, Miss. I’d like to breed horses someday, if I can.” An ambition above his station—but stations might not matter soon.

  One of the rebel officers with Washington called a charge, and they rode toward a Hessian unit. More gunfire, blood and slaughter followed. Rowena closed her eyes for a second. Can I admit this was a mistake?

  A horse reared near them, terrified by the cracks of muskets and puffs of smoke. A rebel soldier fell, swearing, to the hard earth. The beast ran off. The man struggled to his feet and stared directly at her.

  He stomped across the few feet toward them, his blue coat torn and stained, breeches ripped. The wagon sat like a fence between the three. “Give me your horse, boy!”

  Heart in her throat, Rowena snatched her pistol out and aimed. “No! Stop where you are.”

  “Stay back, I warn you.” Sam pointed his weapon.

  The skinny man loomed close, his eyes wild with fury, body odor pungent. She jerked the lever that released the hidden trigger; her finger hovered—could she shoot someone?

  The soldier whipped out a sword and sliced the blade toward her throat. Sam extended his pistol. Rowena reared back, tightened her jaw and fired. The bang hurt her ears as smoke burned her eyes. The man dropped the sword, grabbed his arm and growled like an animal. A louder shot exploded from behind him. The rebel, eyes wide in shock, pitched forward, hit the wagon’s side, then crumpled down with a thud.

  She shuddered, her little gun hot in her hand.

  Sam dragged her back, farther behind the hill. “You should’ve let me shoot him.”

  “I needed to… Fie, I didn’t kill him,” she sputtered. The soldier looked dead.

  “Me neither, Miss. But you was brave.” He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t call me ‘miss’…please.” She clung to her façade, crouched, her knees about to buckle, and pressed her head and back against the lumpy hill. Removing her cocked hat, she fanned herself, to try and calm her breathing.

  The sun started to set. The whole day she and Sam had huddled behind this hill and wagon. Her stomach growled, her mouth tasted dry as dust, even after sips of water from a tin canteen. Her skin reeked of acrid smoke and perspiration—and she’d shot a rebel. She glanced at his body from beneath the wreck, as if he might rise up and attack.

  A rebel officer rode up to the hill. He pointed his pistol. “Whose side are you two on?”

  “Why, the rebels, of course, sir.” Sam spoke the lie without hesitation. “My father fights for General Washington.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on these damned lobster-backs and vile Germans.” He rode off, dodged musket fire, his manner agitated.

  “At least he didn’t commandeer my horse.” Rowena stroked the animal’s neck. They could pretend to change sides at will, but how long would that work? “We should have hidden him in the trees, but…” She picked at a splinter on her cheek; the pain steadied her.

  Deeper shadows crept over the landscape and the burnt village that simmered with smoke. Knyphausen, an older still handsome man in his proper wig, raised a hand to halt the advance. The rebels held fast to the Hobart Gap. His army, much reduced, turned and headed back the way they’d come, slowly, as if weighted in despair. Soldiers grumbled and argued. Bodies lay strewn on the ground like discarded haunches of beef in uniforms from both sides.

  “The general is giving in, he’s retreating?” She was tired of the killing. A small relief the battle was over wriggled inside her. “Does this mean the rebels won the day? We could have used the six thousand troops from Rankin.”

  Had Pritchard and James survived the battle if they’d joined in? Should she search among the dead once the soldiers departed? Her eyes damped with sudden tears at the carnage.

  Sam drooped and sighed. “The people here weren’t so war weary, like the dispatch said.”

  “Our troops should have been better prepared then.” It was time to sneak off, leave the battlefield—and think what to do next. Would her knowledge of the different militias and their strength be of help? She climbed to her feet and stuffed her canteen into the saddlebag.

  A man rounded the hill from their left in a scuff of boots and grabbed her horse’s reins. He wore a filthy red coat that heaved with panting breath, his bony face and stringy hair dripping with sweat. Kayfill snorted and jerked his head in resistance.

  “Release my horse at once. We’re on your side, sir.” She fought a recoil and aimed her empty pistol. In the confusion, she’d forgotten to reload. “We’re loyalists.”

  “Loyal as can be.” Sam thrust forward his primed weapon.

  The soldier laughed in derision. “Ha, you’re more two nosy children I warrant. Are you spies?” He shoved his musket into her face. “Drop your weapons. I’m dragging you pair of mites to my commander.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After miles of riding, Rowena and Sam were ushered into a tent that reeked of hot canvas and unwashed men. The soldier who’d snatched them from the battle site shoved the two before an officer wearing a scarlet coat with tarnished epaulettes. The hulk of a man, who sat on an upturned barrel, stared up with a frown. His hand slipped to his saber scabbard secured to his leather belt. A square tin camp lantern flickered nearby, struggling to illuminate the shadowed space, and keep the twilight at bay.

  Soldiers milled about outside, casting their shadows over the tent’s walls. Boot steps crunched along the ground as men passed by.

  “I captured two little spies, Cap’n.” The bony-faced man snorted. “They insist they’re on our side. Got a fine horse, too.”

  “That horse is mine,” Rowena protested, though they’d stolen the animal in the first place, “and we are on the British side, sir.” She stiffened to hide her tremble and tugged her hat low to diminish her being caught out.

  “Scrappy lad, aren’t you?” The captain scrutinized her like a slice of fresh meat. He had a full, handsome face, but his eyes looked weary, his voice sluggish. “How do I know you speak the truth?”

  At a noise, she jerked her head to the right. A young soldier lingered in the background, probably the officer’s aide. He set a small, portable writing desk down on a camp bed in the tent’s corner. His eyes appraised her. She edged her frock coat close over her bound breasts.

  “My Aunt Joan’s husband, Lieutenant Charles Quinton, is on Lord Cornwallis’s staff.” She strained to keep her timbre deep.

  “He-his father is a barrister, and a staunch Loyalist, sir,” Sam added, his chin high.

  The officer studied Sam. “How old are you, boy?” He ran a large hand through badly powdered brown hair that grayed at the temples.

  “Nearly fourteen, sir.” He bowed. “Sam Owen, your servant.”

  The officer nodded to Rowena. “And you, what’s your name and age?”

  “Rowland Marsh, and I’m sixteen.” She shaved off a year to pass easier as a boy.

  “Private Nesbet, bring over my trunk.” The captain gestured to the young man
who then dragged over a large, battered chest. “Be seated.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Relief to rest her hunger-weakened body flowed through her. She and Sam sat. The trunk creaked beneath them.

  “You may go, Sergeant.” The captain waved their captor from his tent. “Feed and water that horse, then hitch it with the other animals.” He turned to her again. “I’m Captain Simpson. You sound educated.”

  “I…have some education, sir.” Hopefully she didn’t sound female. She glared after the sergeant who dared to confiscate her horse. She scratched at her itchy face.

  Simpson leaned closer, raising the lantern. “You have splinters in your skin.” He rubbed his thumb along his lower lip. “What happened?”

  “Gunfire hit a wagon we used as cover, breaking it apart.” She said it as though it was nothing, a badge of courage. At first, she feared he’d say, ‘you look too soft, too girlish.’

  “I’ll have my physician attend you.” Simpson gestured and sent his aid out the tent flap.

  Thoughts reeling, she struggled to hide her disturbance over the idea of that invasive inspection. Could she refuse?

  Minutes later, a morose-faced older man with bushy eyebrows returned with the aide. The doctor crouched and plucked the splinters from her cheeks and forehead with tweezers, his gaze indifferent. She felt a dapple of warm blood from some, winced at the sting, and bit hard on her lip to keep from crying out.

  Then he swiped a pungent vinegar mixture over her skin with a none-too-clean cloth. It burned, and she had to count inside her head to distract the pain. Rowena hoped he didn’t try to examine her anywhere else; she kept her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set firm. Would he notice she had no facial hair?

  The older man sat back when finished. Her heart knocked around her chest. The doctor shook his head and stood but made no eye contact.