Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

  Major Armistead, hearing, held up his hand. The line halted.

  An enormous, heavily loaded hay wagon came around the bend. The chestnut horses were from the Freymuth place, though the black driver, singing with rhythmic glee at the top of his lungs was not a slave.

  Caspar Johnson was called handsome by everyone in the valley, and he was as black a man as he could be. He had, it was said, talked his way to freedom, and now lived by his considerable wits. He was a valley-famous entertainer, and the merriest dances were those at which he fiddled and sang.

  Angelica wondered if Caspar had gone to the Tory side. Was that why he was driving Freymuth’s giant plow horses and singing with such wild gusto?

  There was a notable lack of dignity about Casper today. He was not wearing his expensive dandy’s coat, but a coat of bright patches, the one he wore to play the king at the Africans’ winter festival.

  Around the wagon four other black men spun, strutted, banged tambourines and shook gourd rattles. They wore tall hats, each decorated with a crazy array of trailing, colored feathers.

  As they approached the soldiers, they chanted loudly, in a cheerful jumble of languages, a little Dutch, a little English and little of their ancestral tongue. The patched coattails of those on foot flapped and swayed in bright rooster tails. They seemed completely oblivious to the marching square.

  The soldiers were confused. The front of the line perceptibly slowed. In places, men stumbled against those in front.

  “What the hell is this?” Armistead swung around to growl at a subordinate. “Captain McDougal, get them out of the way!”

  At once, his captain reined around, calling for the men at the front to force the blacks and their wagon off the road.

  The next thing Angelica knew, a flight of arrows came humming in from the corn, striking men on either side of her. Four crumpled, falling silently, loose as scarecrows.

  From beneath the hay in the wagon, men spilled free. At her back, from either side of the road, a black powder volley exploded, causing her horse to rear. The redcoats were well trained, but the ambush had taken them completely by surprise.

  “Cousin! Look sharp!” Arent shouted.

  Next, moving faster than she’d ever seen, Arent jumped his guard. The two men tumbled, head over heels, onto the ground. Armistead spurred his horse forward and reached for the reins of Angelica’s mount, but there was a black powder roar. The major’s head jerked and then flew in pieces. As the corpse sagged and tumbled from the saddle, Angelica shrieked and kicked her horse away as hard as she could.

  A ball screamed past her, slapping her skirt. Heedless, she drove through the redcoat line. Bullets whistled from both sides as Angelica galloped straight into the corn.

  At once she was surrounded by militia, rough men in buckskin and stained Osnaburg jackets. As they rushed past her, rifles in hand, one of them shouted and pointed. “Run, woman! Run!”

  Obeying, she pushed on. The corn, here very tall, whipped and slapped her. She could not see beyond it, and quickly lost track of direction. The horse snorted and slowed.

  Suddenly, she rode from the cover of the corn into a cropped hayfield and knew she had made an unlucky turn. She was still in sight of the action.

  As she hesitated, deciding which way to go, a horseman charged out of the corn after her. For an instant, she thought he meant to gallop directly over her. Terrified, she kicked her mount furiously, but this rider, a fair-haired frontiersman with a Continental blue sash across his chest, easily paced her.

  With a sweep of his arm, he caught Angelica round the waist, crushing her body against his so tightly she thought her ribs would break. Almost as soon as he had her, his mount pulled up short. Her captor swayed, but held her fast in arms like steel bands.

  “Angel!” Jack cried.

  ***

  By a brushy break, they dismounted and embraced. Her heart thundered with joy. His mouth sent down a rain of kisses.

  “Thank God,” he panted at last, holding her face between his hands.

  “Oh, Jack! Armistead told me you were dead.”

  What Jack had imagined was apparently unspeakable. Emotion set his scar ablaze.

  “The farm,” she cried, hands tightening on his arms.

  “Secure. As soon as you and Arent rode out this morning, the militia moved in. Don’t worry,” he said to her frozen face. “Everyone at the house got through. One young fellow took a ball in the thigh, but he’ll recover.”

  “Oh! It must be Kip! Poor Kip! But the militia? How? I thought...?”

  “All in time. We aren’t out of the woods yet, so we better get going,” he added.

  “But, Jack, what’s this?” Angelica exclaimed. Her hands moved with wonder along the sash of blue.

  He locked an arm around her. “Jack Church has turned his coat. Still—” He smiled ruefully. “—as a newfound brother-in-arms says, Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers not only a man’s weak reason, but all his old loyalties as well.”

  “How did you ever get here?”

  With a frown of concentration, he ran his hands over her as if feeling for injury. “Are you really all right?” he asked. Then, to himself, he muttered, “That vermin.”

  He had drawn her close again. She buried her face against the blue sash, and felt the strength of his chest beneath. Miracle of miracles, Jack had his arms around her! In the midst of the worst storm of her life, she’d found a haven.

  “Oh, Jack,” she whispered, gazing up at the clean lines of his face. “I can’t believe that you’d change.”

  “‘Tis a paradox,” he said, stroking her. “In order to win this particular battle, I’m going to have to lose.” The arms around her tightened. “I surrender to you, Mrs. Church. To you and yours,” he repeated, “Jack Church surrenders. I’ve given twenty-one years to king and country, spilled my blood, too, but the time of serving that master is over. From now on, I live for myself, and for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Firelight gleamed upon the tile of the Dutch kitchen. By the hearth lay the two dogs. Prudently high on the heaped wood box curled Calico and her newest kittens, soaking up heat together.

  In the dining room, the crowd around the table was weary but happy, with spirits buoyed by hard cider. There were militiamen, Mrs. de Keys, the M’Kinlay and Cornelius family and Kip, bandaged and sitting in a chair, as well as Pete, Derrick, Dolly and Harriet—everyone there, and everyone equal.

  Dinner had been simple, corn bread and pumpkin baked in the hearth wall oven with roast beef from one of the animals Armistead’s men had slaughtered. The swift counter attack of the patriot militia had kept the British from carrying much of their loot away.

  Arent sat across from them, his great curly blonde head bandaged from a blow it had taken during the fray. He looked unwell and beyond tired, but was unwilling to go to bed while so much company remained. Annie M’Gregor, a mixture of concern and affection in her snapping dark eyes, sat beside him.

  His oldest two, Kitty and Hendrik, were serving. Chubby Balt filled a cradle in the corner of the room, sleeping soundly in spite of the noise of the crowd and a heat-seeking young cat that had curled itself almost completely around his hot little head.

  Angelica sat beside Jack and her hand stayed continuously in his, their warm clasp resting upon her white apron. They had been making do with this. Embraces and kisses had been for the few moments alone, but holding hands had been the most of it ‘til now.

  His fingers moved against hers tenderly. When he did these loving things, safety and delight curled around each other in her heart, tight as a pair of mating corn snakes.

  Later, with a roomful of family around them, they talked in whispers, contented in the darkness with a few gentle kisses. Because of their situation, kinfolk breathing sleep on every side, it had to do. Finally, as they had in so many wild and perilous places, they folded together.

  whispered, stroking his cheek.

  “Yes, my sanity asserted itself at last
. Just in time to join the militia.” God forgive me, Jack thought. Let this be the final time I gloss the truth with her.

  He would never tell her about Fort Coil and what had happened there. It was exactly as his old Major Cummings had always said...some wounds a soldier takes don’t bleed, but they are no less real than those that do.

  There was another secret he’d never share with his wife. The moment when, hidden in the corn, he’d seen the villain who continued to endanger her, attempting to capture the reins of Angelica’s horse. Without a moment’s hesitation, he had shot the major through the head. Not face to face as one gentleman should fight another, but in an ambush, like a savage.

  No matter how much he told himself that he had given Angelica the opportunity to escape, that his sharp-shooting had deprived the British of their leader and made the Americans’ job that much easier, he couldn’t make that kill right with himself.

  They readjusted themselves in the narrow bed. Jack lay on his back and settled her golden head against his shoulder.

  “It’s good to be here with you,” he murmured, “but this is hardly the end of our troubles. You Americans are in a bad spot. As for me, well...I’ve crossed the line so far that if any of my old comrades catch me, they’ll stretch my neck without a trial.”

  “You’re no traitor, Jack,” Angelica declared, getting up on one elbow. “You’re one of us. And now that you have met my kinsman and neighbors, now that you have fought beside them, you know you’re in honorable company.”

  She bent her head, letting her golden braid trail upon his chest while they shared a warm, sweet kiss.

  “Well, even if Major General Schuyler’s people have out-foxed St. Leger in the west, there is still Burgoyne,” he said glumly. “When Gentlemanly Johnny comes out of the forest and attacks Albany that’ll be a great test of America’s resolve. I will have to fight, Angel. I won’t be an Anthony who fails his Cleopatra.”

  “For shame, Jack,” she whispered. “You’ll not lose a world for a woman. You’ll gain one.”

  ***

  Jack sighed, but didn’t answer. Angelica rested her head against his shoulder again, and listened to the steady thud of his heart. She knew he was worried, even melancholy, but there was a deep peace to be found in the circle of his arm.

  She knew the Indians were still rampaging loose in the west, and that General John Burgoyne was on his way to Albany. Only a few days past, Lord Howe’s raiders had brought fire and sword to her Hudson Valley homeplace.

  Instead of fear, she felt strangely calm, as if the crisis had passed. It was illogical, but lying in bed with her man, she was certain that the coming storm would roar and bluster, and end by harmlessly blowing past.

  “What do you suppose your family will make of your change of heart?”

  Jack chuckled ruefully. “If my father were alive, it would definitely kill him. Mother will be angry. However, on the other hand, my older brother, Richard, might be accommodating. Particularly if the American side wins and they stand to lose their property here. Richard is a Whig in politics, rather sympathetic to you—ah—patriots.”

  Angelica hugged him, while noting how some words still stuck in his throat.

  Jack had already talked for about an age longer than any healthy man gone to bed with his wife likes to do. If there was to be no lovemaking, then sleep and his soldier’s ability to go straight to it was the next rule.

  “To think,” Angelica said, “Aunt Livingston was telling me last spring that, with my attitude, I was never going to be married.”

  “Settle down, Mrs. Church.” Jack firmly wrapped an arm around her. “I didn’t get into this bed to chat all night.”

  “Oh, Jack,” she whispered, “don’t go to sleep yet. I still have something important to tell you.”

  “Why does getting into bed make women so talkative?” “Why does getting into bed send you straight off to sleep?”

  “It doesn’t always,” he retorted, smiling at her in the guttering candlelight. “It’s been a while, of course, but I’m sure you remember.” Smiling, Angelica leaned close and whispered her news. When she was done, she settled back against his shoulder.

  For a moment Jack was quiet, then he said, “Didn’t waste any time, did you, Mrs. Church?”

  “Nor did you, Mr. Church.”

  “So we shall have an American lamb in the spring!”

  “Yes. God willing.”

  ran in the muddy ruts of the road and gushed from the roofs of the houses. Icicles fell with a noisy clatter.

  The parlor of the house was crowded, full of gathered TenBroeck family and friends. After the regular church service—all faiths of Kingston still shared the only standing church—two more important rites were to be celebrated. As was Dutch traditional, these must be performed at home, in front of the hearth.

  Arent was marrying Annie M’Gregor. Respect had been theirs for years, but love had blossomed over the winter as she, with patience and good humor, had nursed her employer, a terrible patient, back to health.

  After the wedding service, Jack and Angelica stepped forward. Jack was resplendent in a fine blue-and-buff Continental Army officer’s uniform.

  As always, Angelica thought proudly, he is the finest looking man in the room. And, better, his great and good heart matches his shining exterior.

  Though one arm was fully engaged, she used the hand of the other to fold back the brightly colored quilt now wrapped around the bundle she carried. This morning, before church, she had laid out the quilt and studied it.

  The kindest word Mrs. de Keys had found so far for Angelica’s journey quilt was “novel,” but Harriet, Annie M’Gregor and Kitty had all declared it wonderful. Angelica herself thought this quilt her best work; she believed it had a harmony and music all its own.

  There had been plenty of time, stuck indoors during the deep snow, to do the hours of fine needlework, attaching the bright top to the fine muslin back. She had finally finished! .

  She’d run her fingers meditatively across the soft and various textures: pink cotton banyan, fine smooth broadcloths, a row in silk, a row in cotton, scarlet brocade, crinkly ginghams and bright calicos, calimancos, satins, coarse osnaburg and fine, pale linens. The final rows she’d made of blue barleycorn remnants from the checked dress she’d worn to tatters on that long journey home.

  The quilt had grown steadily from the bluebird center, surrounded by a wreath of contrasting blues and rich creams from Aunt Laetitia’s. Here a bit of polished cotton, there an oddly shaped triangle of silk like the summer sky. Light and dark, both fine and rough-woven, ebbing and flowing waves of color and texture. Every piece had its own history, its own beginning, yet added to the context of the whole, until the quilt had a life of its own.

  Well, maybe not quite its own life, Angelica mused, her eyes taking in the creation before her. Not its own life, but my life! This is who I J am.

  Someday, she would tell the story of this quilt, about all the joy and pain and love and loss and adventure and...yes, death.

  Because that is what life is about. And, this child—and all my children—should know.

  ***

  A hymn was in progress, the spare and moving anthem, Kingsbridge. Angelica listened, gazing down raptly at the lovely dreaming face of her infant son.

  Rejoice, ye shining worlds on high Behold the King of Glory nigh. Arise my soul, and thou my voice, In songs of praise early rejoice, O Great Creator, Heavenly King, Thy praises let me ever sing.

  Sunlight streamed into the room, reflected off the wet bare trees and snow banks outside. As she sang, Angelica felt her heart soar on wings of joy. There was so much for which to be thankful.

  Her son stirred, delicate lilac eyelids fluttering, a warm weight close against her bosom. Another miracle. She gazed down at him with tears gathering in her eyes. The greatest of all!

  It would soon be time to feed him again. Little Jacob had been nursed when she’d first got to church, but he was a very hungry baby. Jac
k, who often walked him at night when he cried, boasted that his son had gained plenty of weight since he’d been born, just two months ago at the beginning of February.

  Today, Old Dominie Vandervoort sprinkled water on Jacob’s pink and fuzzy head, christening him Jacob Richard. The first name was for Angelica’s uncle, and the second for Jack’s father. This did not follow custom, but, under the circumstances, these names, for the dead of both families, were appropriate.

  The baby whimpered as the cold drops fell on his brow, but quickly grew quiet again.

  Later, after the service was over, they sat in the still room, away from the wedding party in the parlor and the kitchen bustle. Angelica nursed her son while Jack drank sassafras tea and sampled a fried, sugared oleykoek. He’d commandeered a plateful before joining her.

  “The lack of screaming at the moment of baptism is not a good sign,” he finally remarked. “‘Tis a fearful omen when the child of Jack Church is quiet.”

  “Why?” Angelica asked. Adjusting the baby, she got a hand free for one of the melt-in-your-mouth oleykoeks.

  “Yes, why?” Kitty chimed in. She had followed them, and now stood close by, licking sugar off her fingers and watching with interest while Angelica nursed. “Jacob was a good baby all day, better than Balt ever was when they christened him. Balt bellowed like a bull.”

  “Quiet, yes. But does that always mean good?” Jack put the question. “I fear the devil he has undoubtedly inherited from his father hasn’t been properly driven out.”

  “Don’t be so silly, Uncle Jack,” said Kitty, pertly seating herself on his knee. She had a crush on him, developed over the winter when her father and Annie M’Gregor had been so warmly taken up with each other.

  Angelica laid Jacob over her shoulder and began to gently pat to bring up the bubble. Nowhere near done with his supper, young Master Church began a fretful drone. Within a fine flannel sacque, the string pulled tight against the cold, tiny feet thumped a protest against her bosom.