Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Father smiled sadly. “I only want contentment for you. Despite what some men might think, women can be a mystery. I still can’t believe Mrs. Chandler was arrested as a spy.” He rustled the paper, his drop into the past apparently over. “Proves you never know people. How are your bruised knuckles healing, however you received them?”

  So, he had noticed. “They’re improved. My fingers were tangled in a bridle, and the reins of my horse.” She tucked her hands in the folds of her skirt. “No, you never know about people. I pray they don’t hang Mrs. Chandler.” If they hadn’t already. Rowena swallowed—this could have been her fate.

  “I daresay we need to curtail your wayward tendencies, once and for all. You appeared quite roughened up when you returned home.” His gaze sharply appraised her. “Not the genteel visit in Philadelphia I’d counted on. I should never have let you go.”

  And James no doubt told him more when he’d arrived here with Sam. She stiffened but would ignore his reprimand. “Father, how are we managing, financially?” She’d sneaked a look at the account books and money was dwindling. How could she help?

  He waved her question away. “My dear girl. Don’t concern yourself. We’re getting by… Your grandfather left us a small legacy.”

  Sarah, their cook’s granddaughter, appeared at the library doorway. “Sir, your client is here.”

  Father stood. “Show him in, please.” He took on clients—those brave enough to seek out a loyalist—for legal services to keep some money coming in. He glanced at Rowena and winked. “Mr. Kauffman has a son about your age, dear. I could put in a word.”

  She rose and gave him an arch smile to soften her frustration. Women had to be cunning to sidle around men and their expectations. “What would I want with an eighteen-year-old youth? Much too green for me. And Aunt Elizabeth insists on my ‘debut’ first; though I don’t plan to ever have one.” She flipped her skirts in a dismissive manner and started to leave the room.

  “Oh, look at this article, my dear. Didn’t you mention you heard this general was defecting to our side?” Father handed her the paper.

  Rowena read, and dismay rippled through her. General Benedict Arnold had asked General Washington to be appointed commander of West Point up in New York. And it might soon be granted. Was this a ruse on Arnold’s part, or was what she overheard incorrect? “I guess I mistook what was said.”

  Once again ascending the stairs, she gripped the banister, her knuckles white instead of the fading bruised yellow where she’d struck the picket.

  * * *

  On Cook’s day off, Rowena boiled the hog’s head in a pot in their kitchen hearth. She pulled the gruesome thing out and with Sam’s sister Daphne, they removed the meat from the skull, their fingers soon greasy. They chopped the pork into fine pieces. The meaty smell engulfed them.

  “This is what I’m better at,” the girl said with a laugh. At fifteen, a year older than Sam, Daphne was a diligent worker who went about her duties with an easy air. She’d been with them three weeks. They couldn’t pay her much, but she slept in a nice bed and ate what they ate. Fine-boned like her brother, slim with straight blonde hair tucked under her cap, she grinned. “Not so good a lady’s maid, aye?”

  “You’re doing wonderfully. And I don’t need much assistance.” Rowena slid the loose meat back into the pot of broth. She added the precious cornmeal along with sage and thyme. “And since we’ve closed off much of the house, there’s less to clean.” How much longer could they hold on to their home? Rebels had confiscated other nearby properties. She and her brothers had been born here, and their beloved mother was buried here. She poked the wooden spoon into the pot and stirred.

  The sticky August heat swelled and filled the kitchen, trapping the spicy aroma. Rowena’s dress stuck like a second skin to her chest and armpits.

  “Hard work keeps you from thinkin’ ’bout the bad things that happen, the war an’ all. My older brother be near seventeen, an’ wants to go fight, but for the Patriots,” the girl whispered the last. “Mam said no in her most beggin’ voice.”

  The Owens appeared split in their loyalties. Rowena gritted her teeth. The Tory cause seemed to be shredding at the seams, like her gowns, especially since the French fleet backed the rebels, and elite French generals assisted Washington in his campaign.

  Word was that General Arnold had received a reprimand for his high living and other matters from General Washington, causing more animosity between them. Who knew what to believe. They all danced on quicksand.

  At first, firmly behind her father, now she wavered, yet dared not tell anyone. Father might be disappointed, though she wasn’t certain of his feelings anymore. But the constant murder to gain control had to stop.

  The broth bubbled in the pot as confusion clouded her mind.

  She glanced at the lithe girl with her bright smile, and felt sorry for Sam and Daphne’s mother, who bore a child almost every year. Another reason to never marry. Her eighteenth birthday had slipped by unnoticed, and Rowena was fine with that. “How is your mother’s health?”

  “She’s strong as a mule, like me, Miss.” Daphne soaked a rag in vinegar and water, then washed off the tabletop. “Good thing your da’s clients paid him in the hog head an’ cornmeal.”

  Rowena continued to stir the mixture. “Money is scarce. Most people refuse those paper Continental dollars.” This money had no solid currency, no backing of a king, only promises. Promises the resolute Patriots counted on to shore up their struggling government.

  Rowena blew out her breath and stirred the ingredients until they formed a thick mush.

  Minutes later, Daphne picked up and held one of the oblong loaf pans close to the pot. Rowena spooned in the Pannhaas. She pressed the mixture firmly into two pans.

  Daphne pulled open a trap door in the floor, which revealed a stone-lined storage space. She placed the pans inside to cool. Tomorrow, Cook would slice up and fry the food. The girl closed the trap door with a thunk.

  “The Germans love this, but ’tis not my favorite.” Daphne stood and swiped sweat from her brow. “Tastes like something we’d feed to a hog.”

  “Pannhaas isn’t my choice either, but I’ll eat it.” Rowena fought a smile at the girl’s words. “We’re all desperate with the food shortages. However, my father enjoys this burnt-tasting meal.”

  A loud noise sounded upstairs, then the clomp of footsteps. She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried up the kitchen stairs to the hall. James stood there, a paper in hand. His hair matted with sweat, he wore a torn shirt stained dark with dampness, his body odor ripe. His eyes were wild and teary.

  “What’s happened?” Rowena rushed to him. She hadn’t seen him since the White House tavern in June.

  Father joined them, brow creased. “James, are you well? What is it?”

  “Where’s my mother?” her cousin whispered. His gaze flicked about. “I need to tell her, I must—”

  “She’s napping; tell us what’s wrong,” Rowena urged. Had they lost the war? Had something happened to—no, she could not think of him.

  James flapped the paper. “The Battle of Camden. South Carolina. Gates and Cornwallis.” He rasped a breath, his face flushed. He crumpled the paper’s edge. “My father was killed.”

  Rowena covered her mouth to stifle a cry.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  From upstairs a woman’s scream shattered the air. Rowena cringed then shuddered. She and Father clasped hands as they sat on the sofa in the library.

  “My poor, dear sister.” He sighed, his voice heavy with despair. “This is so much for Elizabeth to bear.”

  She blinked back tears. “Why was Uncle Daniel in South Carolina still? Didn’t he go to New York with General Clinton?” How would Aunt Elizabeth ever weather her husband’s death, frail as she was?

  “Apparently Clinton left a contingent with General Cornwallis, and Daniel was among them.” Father released then patted her hand. He fisted his. “Such a tragedy. This blasted war.”r />
  Uncle Daniel was a dear, affable man, always quick with a smile. He’d taken good care of his fluttery wife. Tall and lanky like James, he’d teased Rowena sweetly, tossed her onto her pony—when Father was busy in town—and sometimes had joined her, James, and her brothers in their expeditions into the forest. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  James entered the room an hour later, his hair damp and slicked back, his face looking fresh-scrubbed. However, his eyes were red-rimmed. He sat in the upholstered chair that faced the sofa, elbows on his knees, shoulders slumped. “Mary is comforting Mother as best she can. She gave her smelling salts.”

  “I’m so sorry. Your father was a good man. I considered him like a brother.” Father rose and poured James a few drams of whisky. He handed him the glass. “We heard about the battle, but not all the details. Are you…able to discuss what happened?”

  Rowena leaned forward, anxious to hear.

  James drank the whisky in one gulp. He stared at her. “Will you excuse us, Ro?”

  “I need to hear about Uncle Daniel, too.” She kneaded the sofa cushion. “You know I’ve seen…” Her cheeks heated; she couldn’t let her father discover her presence at the battles in New Jersey. Or perhaps her cousin had already told him.

  “Let her stay, James.” Father sounded weary, worn out by his predicament, and now death had splintered their family.

  James darted his gaze between her and Father. “If you insist, Uncle. That battle, the deuced battle—it was a victory for us. A victory.” He shook his head. “From what I was told, that rebel, General Gates, he attacked a British supply convoy; he intended to push Lord Rawdon’s battalion out of Camden.

  “General Cornwallis marched from Charles Town to aid our troops there. Father was with him.” His long hands turned the glass around on his thigh. “Gates attacked our army with his regiments and militia.” He stopped and stared at his knees.

  Rowena shivered. “My Aunt Joan’s husband is with Cornwallis.” Had that uncle survived the battle? Could her brothers have been there? Though inevitable, she was stunned that the war had taken one of her family. An uncle’s rich laugh she’d never hear again.

  James raked a hand through his loose hair. “The British attacked on three sides, Tarleton charging the rear. The rebels were outnumbered. The rebel militia fled. They didn’t even know how to use bayonets. We confiscated their artillery. But…officers on both sides were killed, along with many troops.” His shoulders shook. “I-I got the list of dead officers…”

  “Were you at the battle?” Rowena asked, masking the chills that consumed her; other family members could be dead. “Were William and Andrew—?”

  “Did you see William’s and Andrew’s regiment? Them?” Father jumped in, half off his chair.

  “I wasn’t there, but I should have been.” James raised the glass as if he might throw it against the wall. “I was in Charles Town, hunting down a rebel spy.”

  Father reached across and pressed his nephew’s arm. “We’re glad you’re safe.” He took the glass from James. “I think we’ve heard enough for now. We’ll talk more later.”

  A victory? Would the war turn for the loyalists? But to lose Uncle Daniel. Rowena flexed her fingers as if to reach out. She filled with sympathy for James. She’d never seen him vulnerable. If he’d allow it, she would hug him.

  “You should rest now.” Father stood. “I’ll have the new maid make your room ready.”

  James got slowly to his feet, his long arms dangling.

  “I’m so sorry about your father.” Rowena rose, heart heavy. How would they handle Aunt Elizabeth? Her aunt’s grief would be overwhelming. She rubbed her forehead, then had to ask. “Was Der—Mr. Pritchard with you in Charles Town?”

  James plodded toward the door. He stopped, one hand on the doorframe. “He’s up in New York. He wanted to check out the report you overheard and other rumors about General Arnold; the latest is his possible turning over of the fort at West Point to our forces.” Her cousin scrutinized her. “You may hope the Welshman won’t be captured if the information is misleading. But I warn you, he’s not a man you want to be close to.”

  * * *

  At sunset, the shadows creeping through the house, Rowena hesitated outside Aunt Elizabeth’s bedchamber door. Her maid Mary had given her aunt an opiate tincture to allow her to sleep. That was four hours past. Rowena knocked.

  Her aunt’s personal maid opened the door. Mary, an older, scrawny woman looked starved with her bony shoulders and spindly arms; yet this spinster sister of a bootmaker ate hardily. “Aye, Miss Rowena?”

  “Is Aunt Elizabeth awake?” She half-hoped she wasn’t, then chastised herself. The woman deserved comfort, no matter her histrionics. And this was a bitter blow.

  “She’s a bit groggy, but I’m sure she’d see you.” Mary opened the door wider. She smiled with a show of her big yellow teeth, then turned to look inside the chamber. “Your niece, Ma’am.”

  Rowena stepped in. The air smelled of lavender in the flower-papered bedroom. Three candles were lit providing a weak glow. The big bed in the center had the curtains open on one side. Aunt Elizabeth leaned against a bolster; her auburn hair down on her shoulders, she looked like a young girl lost in the pillows.

  “Come, join me, Rowena.” Her aunt’s voice faint, she reached out her hand.

  Rowena sat on the mattress edge and took her aunt’s soft hand. “I’m deeply sorry about Uncle Daniel. We all loved him.”

  Her aunt’s blood-shot eyes met hers. “I cannot believe…it’s all a bad dream, isn’t it?” The candlelight from the night table flickered over her pale face.

  “If only it were.” Rowena choked up, fighting her own tears. How much longer could the war continue? Her stomach flipped. Was the Welshman wasting his time with General Arnold? And James challenged what she’d overheard. It would be a boon if Arnold turned over the West Point fort to England.

  She leaned close and slipped her arms around her aunt, who felt slight as a sparrow in her linen night dress.

  “We knew one another a long time, since children, Daniel and I,” her aunt murmured.

  “I’ve heard the stories…so sweet.” Rowena stroked her aunt’s hair. “I’ll help you write letters to your daughters in Boston.” Rowena hadn’t seen those married cousins in four or five years. And Boston was a hotbed of rebel activity, dangerous for any loyalists.

  “Thank you. I wish I was strong like you, my dear. You’re like your mother, a brave woman.” Aunt Elizabeth whimpered, her face damp against Rowena’s neck. “I’m quite lost. How will I go on without him?”

  “Mother’s bravery…” Had cost her her life, tending to the sick when she did. “We must dig deeper and find our own strength.” Rowena sighed. Derec had said something similar. “In time you will find yours, I’m certain.” She wasn’t sure Aunt Elizabeth had the courage, though prayed for a miracle. Rowena might have to be brave for her. Tears filled her eyes as she gently rocked her aunt.

  * * *

  Cook’s granddaughter, Sarah, served the fried Pannhaas and beans for breakfast when they met in the dining room the next morning. A rare formal meal, she, James, and Father were foggy with disbelief, their movements lethargic. Aunt Elizabeth had a tray sent up to her room.

  Daphne was in the kitchen, dying a dress black for the new widow. Rowena would need to rummage in the attic for material to make black armbands for the rest of them.

  She nudged the slab of pork and cornmeal around with her fork. “What are your plans now, James? Will you spend time with us, especially your mother?”

  “I don’t know yet. I should stay for a while, but I’m anxious to get back to the south to…offer my services.” Words dull, he forked a chunk of Pannhaas into his mouth.

  She wanted to ask for further details about Derec in West Point, about James’ warning, but forced herself not to.

  “Do you think we’ll triumph now, perhaps the rebels scared off?” Father asked, only a small hope in his tone. He s
ipped from his cup of twice-steeped tea. “Do we have a chance of resurgence after so many losses?”

  “I can only guess, things change so quickly.” James shoveled beans into his mouth. “The rebels are persistent. Many loyalists in that region have fled down to East Florida, which is still held by the British. Those men formed Tory regiments, which helped us take Charles Town, and Camden.”

  “Indeed, I’ve kept up. We won that Florida territory from Spain when I fought in the French and Indian war.” Father gave a brief smile as if remembering that victory. He cut into his meal, chewing thoughtfully.

  Rowena sliced a chunk off her slab of Pannhaas. Then she took a forkful of beans instead, flavorful with the herbs she’d gathered. “What are the loyalists in New York City planning, do you know?”

  James stared at her as if he saw her weakness, her secret attachment to an unsuitable man. She quickly looked away.

  “They intend to keep control of that city.” James took another bite of food. “Rowena, I hope you plan to stay here and help my mother, and of course your father. Don’t be swayed by people you know nothing about.”

  In other words, stay out of the war business and forget the Welshman. She bristled. “I take each day as it comes. Why do you judge?”

  “What are you two intimating?” Father asked, green eyes sharp. “Is there something I should be apprised of?”

  “It’s nothing, sir. Pardon me.” James continued to eat in quick swipes of his fork.

  “The rebels could surrender, with this British victory.” She scrambled to divert the conversation. Or would the conflict be dragged out even longer, with more chances of death—William, Andrew, or Derec?

  “They scattered for the hills, but I believe they’re regrouping,” James said. “The French are in full force with their fleet. The rebel John Paul Jones wanted to sail and attack England.”