Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Ensigns Andrew and William Marsh entered through the tent flap just as the sun started to set. Rowena jumped to her feet, her heart in her throat.

  “What is this?” William, four years her senior, stared at her clothing. “This cannot be my sister. Did we have a third brother, Andrew?”

  Stocky like their father, William grinned mischievously. His brown hair wavy in its queue, his green eyes twinkled in a round yet leaner face.

  Andrew stepped up. He had a similar look and build at two years younger than William. However, he had their mother’s softer mouth, a match to Rowena’s. “I say, William, who is this scruffy person? Taller than I remember, but still not quite familiar.”

  “Your teasing will not signify.” Rowena laughed, her body full of warmth. She embraced first William, then Andrew. The faint, familiar smell of their colognes—bergamot and sandalwood—still clung to their uniforms, mixed with pungent horse sweat. She pressed her cheek to their red tunics. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “James said you were here in disguise, you scamp.” Andrew held her at arm’s length. “But you shouldn’t have come. This is the worst of predicaments.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” James hovered beside his cot, arms crossed. Derec stood near the table.

  William’s face turned serious. “No, you shouldn’t be here.” He ruffled her hair. “And now I doubt you can leave. What possessed you to come to Yorktown? Is Father well?”

  “Father is fine, safe in Florida.” She didn’t add ‘for now.’ Spain might soon take the spoils and push them out. “I want to introduce my husband, Derec Pritchard.”

  Derec stepped forward, hand extended, dark gaze steady. “’Tis good to finally meet ye.”

  “The mysterious Welshman James warned us about.” William smirked and shook his hand.

  “The one who has ruined our innocent sister?” Andrew grinned and did the same.

  “Aye, the very one. She keeps me on my toes,” Derec replied. “A female like no other.”

  “She did want to be the third brother as a child,” William said. “We tried to tame her. You’ll have your hands more than full, Pritchard.”

  On the verge of nervous laughter, Rowena smiled. “You two have not changed at all.” She searched her siblings’ faces. The coming battle frightened her, and her brothers and husband—and cousin—would be in the midst of it. “Incorrigible as always. So dear to me.”

  “James, fetch more chairs, or stools, crates.” William opened the tent flap as if to shoo him out. “We must sit and commune with sis and her husband whilst we have a moment.”

  James grumbled, but did their bidding. Soon they were seated around the small table, where more weak tea was served. The tin cups gave it a nasty, metallic taste. Relieved William and Andrew weren’t hostile toward Derec, she told them about the message she deciphered.

  “And I thought teaching girls Greek was a waste of time.” William winked, though little amusement shone in his eyes. He removed his three-cornered black hat and set it in his lap. “More troops for the rebels? More French ships? We are caged in.”

  “And no reinforcements from Clinton. What do they expect us to do here?” Andrew turned to Derec. “Could your information be wrong?”

  “My informant is reliable, but anything could change. ’Tis thought a double agent convinced Clinton that Washington would continue to attack New York instead.” He sat beside Rowena, his arm brushing her shoulder. “What would be the plan now?”

  “Tarleton’s legion and Simcoe’s rangers are at Gloucester Point, across the river, setting up defenses. We’ve several redoubts and batteries here. Unfortunately, appears we’ll be terribly outfoxed. Can’t tarry to visit much longer.” William leaned forward, his scrutiny pensive. “And you, Mr. Pritchard. You work the secret services with James? Fascinating. And our hoyden of a sister has bewitched you?”

  “She has indeed. Nevertheless, I should have left her in Florida…if I’d known about the lack of assistance from Clinton.” Derec eyed Rowena, one brow arched.

  The three men nodded in agreement.

  “I’m a grown woman now, despite my attire.” She trailed her fingers over her breeches-clad legs. “I’m even stronger and far from a delicate flower. And I intend to stay beside you, husband.” She gripped his hand.

  “I wouldn’t try to change ye.” Derec lifted her hand and kissed it. “Yer spirit drew me in. But I wish ye unharmed.”

  Men’s walking about and urgent voices penetrated the tent walls. Shadows came and went.

  “Rowena, I only want you to stay safe, for Uncle Robert, for yourself.” James sounded weary, half-resigned, as he moved near the tent flap. “Egad, you refuse to allow me to be the protective cousin.”

  “I’ve realized that, but we’re both too obstinate. Thank you for trying.” She flashed him a smile, hearing a rare remorse in his tone; then she rejoiced at being in the middle of her brothers and Derec, even her irascible cousin. If she could cradle them and fly away like a mother hawk, to a place of peace—if such a place existed on earth—she would.

  “Is Uncle Charles, Aunt Joan’s husband, here with Lord Cornwallis?” She prayed he still lived.

  “He’s still on staff. We’ve spoken a few times,” Andrew replied. “Aunt Joan made it safely to New York City.”

  “Thank goodness,” she said with a contented sigh.

  James stepped out, then returned minutes later. “No word yet if Washington has left Williamsburg, but there’s increased activity near his encampment.”

  William and Andrew exchanged glances. “We haven’t much time,” William said, lips tight. His tunic was stained, threadbare, a look of defeat about it already.

  Rowena rippled with dread. She hated to think about the coming onslaught. “Do you have a weapon I could use? A rifle or musket?”

  “I think not. I should turn you over my knee, sis.” William’s gaze wavered from stern to sad. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if the enemy had arrived. “Can we beg you to stay hidden once the battle begins?”

  “I would ask the same, useless as that would be. Nevertheless, I will insist for propriety’s sake, cariad.” Derec caught her with his stare, though a deep worry softened his black eyes.

  She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be all right, just defend the best you’re able to, all of you. But…keep safe.” She then addressed both her brothers, straining to draw them close in this brief moment. “Before you must go, there’s so much to catch up on. Have you been well, any wounds, any—”

  “We’re making ready even more. Won’t be long now.” James opened the flap wider.

  Soldiers rushed by, carrying rifles and cartridge boxes. Men dragged a small cannon across the dirt. Her brothers stood, posture rigid. Derec strode to the tent flap, hands clenched at his sides.

  “God be with you.” Rowena stood as well, swaying on her feet. Are we all to be massacred here together?

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Cannons boomed, a sound that shook the earth—and seemed to shake the very air. Rowena rushed to the flap of James’ tent, where she and Derec had slept: she in the second cot, he on the ground beside it, wrapped in his coat. Though he and James had been gone for hours.

  The day before, on the 28th of September, the rebel army marched into distant view. The lookouts had cried out the warning— the impending attack—from Cornwallis’ chain of redoubts around Yorktown. These defenses, built by British infantry, were linked by a ridge of earthworks.

  They both warned her to stay inside, but her mien sparking like a flintlock at the noise, she jerked on her boy’s attire and hurried out anyway.

  Breath rapid, she climbed up to a redoubt, which were linked by the earthworks. On the high, piled-up banks of dirt, the King’s men scrambled to man their cannon. Cornwallis had pulled his army in tight formation to protect the city.

  Her heart pinched. During the night, the rebels and French had crept closer, surrounding the town in this exposed, tidewater area. They dug trenches
where possible, as British cannon fired down on them. Smoke dirtied the sky, burned her eyes, while men shouted.

  Rowena crouched, her hands fisted. Soldiers raced about, loading cannons, lighting hemp with long forked sticks, and firing the charge on command. The acrid stink of gunpowder hung like a cloud over everything. The fortress was built of tree trunks sharpened at one end, pointing at the enemy like snarling lion’s teeth. Her head spun in the turmoil of blasts, smoke, and chaos. Did they stand a chance?

  She swept her gaze about. Derec and James were here somewhere. They’d armed themselves and joined the soldiers—her brothers—to fight. She’d been left no weapon, yet that wouldn’t deter her.

  An officer confronted her. “You there, boy. I’ll put you to work. Make sure the buckets here are filled with water for the spongers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Anxious to be useful, she hopped up and accepted a bucket, then scurried off the earthwork. Through the village of tents toward the river, she stumbled down a steep bank, dipped the bucket in, and heaved it back. Other soldiers carried water for cannon farther down the line.

  The wooden pail banged against her knees. Rowena bit her lip against the pain. She dashed back and forth, splashing water into the nearest buckets. The spongers poked in their sheepskin-covered sponges on long poles, then slid them into the cannon barrel to wipe out any live embers and excess powder after each discharge.

  Hair loosening with her efforts, her grunts too feminine, would the soldiers discover her masquerade and order her away? Yet they hardly noticed her.

  Men rammed in the powder and charge, primed a vent hole with a quill, then yelled, “Primed!”

  The officer in charge roared, “Give fire!”

  The cannon blasted, the dirt trembling beneath her feet. Rowena, breath rasping, continued to run to the river. Her arms ached with the strain, her ears from the noise. Sweat soaked her shirt. When caught up, she crouched again to observe the battle, her heart thundering like the cannon shots. Where were Derec, her brothers and her cousin? She mumbled a quick prayer.

  The rebels and French resembled a sea of blues and greens, undulating ever closer. An enemy horde. Their cannons were advanced into place as soldiers fired from trenches.

  Cornwallis—a man she barely glimpsed in the distance—tightened his forces even further around Yorktown. More fear gripped her. They’d be pushed into the river before long. The conniving French and rebels took over the abandoned British defenses. Hours passed, and sunset descended, the dark pushing down hard on her. Rowena dragged herself to the tent, hoping to see Derec. She huddled alone that night, shaking with trepidation at each crack of gunfire. Her husband and family could be already blown apart, soaked in blood, abandoned on the field. Tears drenched her shirt sleeve. How would she survive?

  Up early at dawn, still exhausted, stomach growling with hunger, she resumed her duties, hauling water from the river. Her shoulder muscles ached; her hands bled from burst blisters. She must blot out the horror and keep busy.

  A rebel cannon ball hit their battery, scattering earth and rocks. She ducked yet caught a rock on her cheek. Skin stinging, she felt blood drip as she hurried for more water to replenish the buckets.

  Her hair stuck to her sweaty face and dirt stung her eyes. She splashed river water on her face and hauled the full bucket back. The rope handle grated worse against her flesh.

  A few British soldiers, obviously giving up, deserted and ran to the rebel camp, their red coats joining with the blue. She sighed in despair, a surge of anger.

  The next few days went much the same. Rain poured down one day, and she slogged through mud to keep the spongers going. The Continental Army built small forts and dug trenches ever closer, dragging more cannon into place nearer to the British. The bombardment of Yorktown became a firestorm, burning like Hell around her. Cannon balls thudding, gunshots fired, flames, smoke, and soldiers rushing about, desperation on their faces—a vortex of anarchy before her darting eyes.

  Rowena gleaned information from anyone who’d stop long enough to answer her questions. “What’s General Cornwallis’ next move?”

  A soldier wiped blood from his face. “His lordship left the governor’s residence; the rebels struck that house with cannon.” The man’s chest heaved. “He and his staff are burrowed into a cave in the cliffs below Yorktown.” The man loped off.

  Was this cowardice on the general’s part? Shouldn’t a commander stay with his troops? She quaked with conflicting thoughts, the rip of misery she kept at bay.

  Cannon were moved in further on the British side, and she followed, still filling buckets. She’d wrapped her raw hands with cloth scraps and grimaced in pain.

  A loud explosion and flames burst from British ships anchored in the river, most of their cannon already removed for the army’s use.

  “Are we doomed?” she whispered. The rebels had prevented any escape by sea. French ships bobbed in the river with their fleur-de-lis flags defiant.

  She lost track of how many days had passed. She ate with the troops, hard biscuits that sat like stones in her stomach. Filthy and wet, she attempted to sleep near the cannons, in a ball like a dog. She constantly searched for a glimpse of her husband or brothers.

  One night the gunfire from the enemy never ceased, preventing the British from making repairs to their redoubts. Several rebels invaded the town, guns blasting. Hundreds of men were shot. The stench of blood and the screams crowded Rowena’s nose and ears as she dodged the fire, slipping in and out of buildings and ruins. With a gasp, she salvaged a rifle, cartridges, and powder horn off a dead British soldier. Her emotions started to numb, only survival mattered. Her breath grated like broken glass in her throat and chest.

  The rebels wielded axes, cutting at the fort, slicing through. The thwacks echoed in her brain.

  She listened in on men’s anxious talk. “That damned elite squad sent to spike rebel cannons. They was bayonetted to death!”

  “What the hell? We got no chance,” another replied.

  Rowena scrubbed at her face, fighting tears. By now, she wished only for the safety of her loved ones. She ran through the town, the alleys, searching for familiar faces, tripping over the dead.

  Eyes blurry with damp, her desolation on the verge of turning her insides to mush, she helped the soldiers who made time drag dead bodies from the streets. Young men who would never return to their families. Bile gurgled up her throat.

  The British were pushed closer in from the town’s walls, and with many cannons destroyed, no one needed her bucket hauling. She huddled in the ruins of buildings and loaded the rifle, determined to be ready for anything. Brick dust flew around her as shots hit the structure where she hid. She coughed, groaned, and prayed. Had the great lion of England been eviscerated in America?

  Hours passed, gunfire reverberating like a death knell. The sun dipped low, dark shadows creeping in. A voice called her name—or rather Rowland’s. She crawled out to a partial wall. A tall man in black emerged from the smoke. Derec! She rose, her hand raised to signal him.

  A rebel soldier appeared out of nowhere, aiming his rifle at her husband’s back. Rowena gulped her terror, leaned on the brick wall, pointed her rifle and pulled the trigger. Bam! The rebel jerked, then fell to the ground. He lay still. Blood spread out on the side of his belly.

  Derec swung around and bent over the dead soldier, pistol raised.

  Rowena blinked in the smoke. Her emotions slammed back. She just killed a man. A scream threatened to choke her. “Derec,” she called in a thready voice.

  He rushed beside her. His arms held her firm in the darkness, murmuring in Welsh, as she quivered. They hastened to another, more intact house nearby.

  “Oh fy duw. Ye are courageous, and a crack shot.” He kissed her mouth.

  “Thank God for you.” She wrapped her arms firmer around him, her face nuzzled in his sweaty neck. The horror of it all pressed down on her. “This murder must be done, finished, so many dead. Are my brothers still alive? Is
James?”

  “I know not, love.” He kissed her hair, his hand under her chin. “But I think we lost, my brave soldier. Now we must prepare for the worst.”

  * * *

  Sleeping in fits on a ripped the mattress they’d found in the partially ruined house, Rowena opened her eyes. Strong morning light shone through a smashed window. The tap-tap of a solitary drum reached her.

  Derec stirred. She was thankful for his warmth, his being beside her. He half-rose, stared at her hands then touched her cheek. “Ye have wounds.”

  “It’s nothing. They’ll heal.” They got to their feet and peered out the window frame.

  Gunshots and cannon boomed. A boy balanced on the town wall, beating his drum. A British officer stood close, and the child jumped down and joined him. They marched off, toward the enemy. The gunfire fell silent. An eerie sound of nothing.

  “I wonder what’s happening.” Her mouth felt parched even as chills engulfed her.

  “The end, I fear.” Derec stroked her face then brushed himself off. “We tried our best.”

  She stuffed her shirt into her breeches, now shredded at the knees.

  The King’s soldiers milled about inside the town’s walls. Everyone waited, debating what would happen next.

  “Cornwallis is negotiating terms of surrender,” a British sergeant said, shaking his head.

  Rowena wasn’t surprised, they’d been overrun. She swayed with the ramifications. Would this end the war, the rebels in charge? That left her and her family on the losing side.

  In the evening, soldiers roasted a few squirrels over a campfire. Rowena scrounged potatoes from a root cellar. They greedily ate the sparse meat, a taste between pork and lamb, and half-cooked potatoes.

  Derec had searched for her brothers and cousin to no avail. They might have been taken prisoner or dead out in the field. She crushed down her fears, her body aching. Her eyes stung with debris and tears.

  Foreign voices sang in the night; the Hessians were drunk? She gritted her teeth. This was never their war.