Love Thine Enemy

by Louise M. Gouge

  Again Rachel shuddered. But then she squared her shoulders and faced the officer. “May we see where they’re being held?”

  The lieutenant winced. “I’m not certain that’s wise, miss.”

  “But we must know who they are.” She looked at Frederick. “In case they manage to escape and come our way.”

  Frederick swiped his hand across his forehead. He wanted to please her, but this certainly was an unusual request. Still, it could do no harm. “Lieutenant Cobb, Miss Folger wishes to see the prisoners. Please take us there.”

  The lieutenant straightened. “As you wish, sir. This way, please.”

  Frederick offered Rachel his arm and squeezed her hand. “Your compassion for the prisoners is admirable, but please do not be overly concerned. I shall inquire of the governor regarding their treatment. You may trust me in this regard.”

  As they descended the broad stairway and crossed the courtyard, Rachel wondered how her trembling legs managed to carry her. She clutched Frederick’s arm, but his encouraging words and agreement to her request revealed his misunderstanding of what had distressed her.

  Spying was a hanging offense. She had never considered such a cost. And surely they would regard it as treason if she tried to help the imprisoned patriots to escape. Yet she must try to help them, must try to get information to help the revolution—somehow.

  Lieutenant Cobb led them to the guardroom just inside the fort’s entrance. They passed through a chamber where a raised platform held beds for off-duty guards. One of the two sleeping guards snored loudly.

  In a second room—a dank, smelly chamber—Papa stood before a wooden door chatting with a prisoner on the other side. Chatting, as if talking with Frederick or Jamie, as if communing with an old friend. Only a tiny window in the door made their conversation possible.

  At the same time, a quick survey of the room revealed she would not be able to likewise speak with the patriots, for she could hear from their murmuring that they were imprisoned in the windowless black room beyond the door.

  In the dim candlelight, Rachel could barely make out the features of the man with whom Papa spoke. His complexion appeared swarthy, and the collar of his once-white linen shirt bore stains of sweat and dirt. She could not determine how tall he was. Yet, in spite of his imprisonment, he spoke in jovial tones thick with an accent Rachel did not know.

  “I will take your advice, my friend.” He stuck one hand through the small opening. “You have my promise.”

  Papa grasped it in both of his. “A good plan, sir. And ye may be certain I shall keep my end of the bargain.” He chortled in his good-humored way.

  Nearby, guards with muskets watched the exchange. But rather than appearing concerned, they seemed amused. Rachel wondered what Papa could have said to entertain them.

  Frederick bent to whisper in her ear. “Your father makes friends wherever he goes. Perhaps he has extracted a promise from this Greek to mend his ways.”

  “Greek?” Rachel quizzed him with a look. “Do you know that from his speech?”

  “Yes. No doubt he’s from New Smyrna south of here. Dr. Turnbull brought Greeks and Minorcans to settle the area, but they’ve always complained about broken promises and ill treatment. In fact, I resolved to avoid Turnbull’s mistakes in managing St. Johns Settlement.”

  From his whimsical look, Rachel guessed he wished for her approval. “You’ve certainly succeeded. Your diligence in your duties is one of your many admirable traits.”

  Playfulness lit his handsome face. “Shall I list all I admire about you?”

  “Perhaps another time.” She tilted her head toward the nearby guards.

  “Yes, of course.” Frederick looked toward the inner door. “Lieutenant, that room is black as night. How many men are in there?”

  “Twenty-seven at present, sir.”

  “So many in such a small, dark space.” Rachel shuddered at the thought of being thus locked away from friends and sunshine.

  “Would it ease your mind,” Frederick asked her, “if I inquired about sending oranges and other provisions for them?”

  “Oh, how good of you.” Even as gratitude flooded her, Rachel’s heart twisted at the thought of her failure to explain matters to him. Why, it was nothing short of deception. As for the Greek whom Papa had befriended, he could hardly be interested in the revolution. But if Frederick sent the patriots some nourishing food, her ploy had a useful purpose, after all.

  And, perhaps, the episode had one additional benefit. Despite her shaking knees, despite being frightened for her life, she had walked into this prison filled with determination. Now she knew beyond any doubt she would willingly die for the patriot cause. And now that Frederick’s sympathies had been stirred, she would do all in her power to complete the work of turning his opinions toward freedom for the colonies.

  Standing beside Frederick, Rachel took in the sights and smells of the large ballroom in the government house, an exquisite leftover from the days when Spain owned East Florida. The roses in her hair held secure, thanks to the skill of Mrs. Winthrop’s maid.

  Garlands of flowers vied with guests’ perfumes for sensory preeminence. Some ladies wore tall powdered wigs like Lady Augusta’s, but even she did not apply that horrid ceruse face covering she had worn at Frederick’s dinner party. The ladies’ low-cut gowns had wide panniers and a beautiful array of colors, from pink to green to blue, some with a lovely mixture of tones. Rachel decided she must be a little bolder in her color schemes. As for the gentlemen, most were dressed in embroidered coats and breeches, but none were as handsome as Frederick in his red brocade waistcoat and white satin breeches.

  At the end of the large ballroom, a string ensemble sat on a raised platform and played music, and guests danced in the center of the room. At the other end, punch and cakes provided sustenance to last until dinner was announced.

  Rachel glanced up at Frederick. He seemed somewhat distracted and kept looking about the room as if searching for someone.

  “The music is lovely,” she said. “I could listen to it for hours.”

  Frederick looked toward the musicians as if surprised to see them. “Yes, very nice. Forgive me, Rachel. Would you care to dance another set?”

  “No. Two country dances are enough for me.” She looked across the room at the musicians, trying to memorize the tunes so that she could play them on Frederick’s pianoforte, soon to be her pianoforte. She exhaled a happy sigh in anticipation of that day.

  Frederick took her hand. “The governor is approaching. Are you prepared for our announcement?”

  A nervous flutter teased her stomach, but she nodded.

  “Ah, there you are, Moberly.” Governor Tonyn joined them, his wife on his arm. “As you requested, we will make the announcement at the end of this set.”

  “My dear, I wish you much happiness.” Mrs. Tonyn squeezed Rachel’s hands and took her place beside them.

  “Thank you, madam.”

  As the music played on, Rachel located Papa and Mrs. Winthrop across the room. Papa was having a grand time, as he always did. After this evening, he would be able to remember the name and occupation of every person he met. Rachel had seen some guests snub him, but he forged on as if oblivious to the slights. One time she noticed Lady Augusta looking at Papa and whispering behind her fan to another lady, and both laughed. If Papa cared for their opinions, Rachel might have felt bad for him. But nothing ever seemed to hurt him. The joy in his face soothed away her anxieties on his behalf.

  Deeper still, she admitted his bringing her to East Florida had been God’s will for both of them. Loving Frederick and being loved by him was the fulfillment of her dreams. Papa’s business was a success, and his feelings for Mrs. Winthrop made life in the wilderness even sweeter. And after Rachel and Frederick married, she could continue to look for ways to help the revolution among the few sympathizers who lived in the colony. With those happy thoughts, Rachel opened her heart to embrace her new life at last.

 
Papa and Mrs. Winthrop wended their way around the edge of the room to join Rachel and the others just as the music ended. The director bowed toward the governor, who straightened his gold waistcoat and cleared his throat.

  “Good friends, it is always a privilege to announce happy tidings, and this evening is no exception. Please permit me to present to you Mr. Frederick Moberly and his betrothed, Miss Rachel Folger.”

  Silence followed. Then several people gasped. Some ladies murmured behind fans. The deep tones of several men carried across the room, filled with anything but approval. Rachel looked at Frederick, and he gave her a smile no doubt meant to reassure her. But chagrin pinched his cheeks and darkened his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  How long the room buzzed with shock and censure, Rachel could not guess. Then Mrs. Pilot, a plump, merry and influential matron whose husband was a regimental officer, hurried from the crowd to Rachel and embraced her. “Oh, my dear, how wonderful. I wish you much, much happiness.” Her high voice rang across the room like a call to an assembly.

  In her wake, dozens of other ladies and gentlemen surged forward to offer congratulations. Rachel noticed Papa’s eyes had narrowed, as they did when he felt some strong emotion. How she wished she could discover his true feelings toward her betrothal. But he was a closed book, her only bit of sorrow in the midst of her joy.

  Here she stood among all these Loyalists, who no doubt assumed she and Frederick could be counted in their ranks. While trading pleasantries with them, she thought of her loved ones in Boston who bore the revolution’s weight. And, encouraged by Frederick’s behavior as they toured the fort earlier in the day, she decided tonight would be her only chance to tell Mrs. Middlebrook of where her true loyalties lay.

  Yet later, after Frederick had returned her to the Baldwins’ drawing room and she had whispered her thoughts to Mrs. Middlebrook, the other woman lifted her chin haughtily.

  “I have no idea of what you are saying, Miss Folger.” The woman’s smile was tight, and her gaze did not meet Rachel’s. “You must have had a dream. And of course, you were filled with romantic thoughts concerning your betrothal.” She fanned herself with an ornate red-and-black fan. “Gracious, this heat.”

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder to make certain Mrs. Winthrop was still talking with their hostess on the other side of the room. The Middlebrook girls had already retired to the guest bedchamber.

  “No, madam, I was not dreaming. I heard—”

  “You heard nothing.” Mrs. Middlebrook snapped her fan shut. “You are a silly girl. And, as if it were not enough that you, the daughter of a mere shopkeeper, have managed to ensnare a gentleman, the son of an earl, now you wish to stir up trouble in our peaceful colony. How dare you accuse me of…why, it is nothing less than treason.”

  Rachel’s face flamed, just as it had earlier that evening when the governor’s announcement had shocked the ballroom into silence. Never in her life had anyone spoken to her in this manner.

  Mrs. Middlebrook leaned over her with a glare. “Your sort is reason enough not to mix the classes. Many of us will never forgive Mrs. Pilot for coming to your rescue this evening. To think that the wife of a noted regimental officer would rush to your side and countenance your betrothal, forcing us all to offer felicitations to Mr. Moberly, when all we felt for him was pity. Poor Mr. Moberly. To be shackled to a silly little gossip.” She spun away and sauntered toward the other ladies, fanning herself once again. “Dearest Ida,” she said to Mrs. Baldwin. “I am utterly wilted. Will you forgive me if I retire?”

  Gulping back a sob of mortification, Rachel waved her own fan furiously to cool her blazing face. What a foolish mistake she had made. Of course Mrs. Middlebrook didn’t trust her. A true patriot would not marry a loyal British subject. And Rachel could not, would not betray Frederick’s sympathies for the cause. In truth, he had not yet voiced those sympathies to her. But his solicitous demeanor could mean nothing less than an agreement with her. They simply had not found the chance to talk about it.

  Walking toward the tall, slatted veranda doors, she moved on legs rendered wooden by embarrassment. How could she redeem this situation? Never mind the shame of Mrs. Middlebrook’s scathing rejection. If no one trusted her, she couldn’t pass on information. Perhaps she wouldn’t even be able to learn anything useful.

  Outside, deep in the shadows of palm trees and fragrant geraniums, Rachel sat on a cast-iron bench and gazed up at the starlit sky through stinging tears. This should be the happiest night of her life, but her failure to find a contact spoiled it. Tomorrow morning after an early church service, their party would be returning to St. Johns Settlement. But what would she do at home? Nothing, simply nothing ever happened there that could help the revolution.

  “Lord,” she whispered, “please show me a way to serve the cause I hold dear.” Conviction filled her. She must amend her prayer. “Please give me a way to serve Your righteous cause.”

  She leaned against the bench back and let the night breeze cool her face and soothe her bruised soul. After uncounted minutes, she grew drowsy and started to go inside, although she hated to think of facing Mrs. Middlebrook in the bedchamber. Before she could stand, something rustled among the palmetto bushes nearby. Fear clogged her throat. She never should have come out here alone.

  “Did Odysseus give you the cylinder?” The hushed tones of a man’s voice met her ears.

  “Yes, I have it here.” A second man answered in a low, gravelly voice. “All is well. They will put everything into place. We have only to get the cylinder to Perseus.”

  “You can do this?”

  “Zeus will deliver it to Hermes. He will take it to Perseus on his next voyage.”

  A third man grunted his agreement.

  The men continued to talk, but their voices grew softer as they moved away.

  Rachel smothered a laugh. Now that surely was an interesting bit of information, but not a whit more useful than what she’d heard from the Middlebrook ladies that morning. What cylinder? What ship? And who were Perseus, Odysseus, Hermes and Zeus?

  Too weary and disappointed to consider it further, Rachel returned to the upstairs guest room, changed into her night rail, and surrendered to sleep.

  In the morning service, the bishop’s homily did nothing to encourage Rachel regarding the revolution. He spoke of obedience, affirming that God’s will could be found only in submission to His chosen authority, King George. Seated between Papa and Frederick, Rachel resisted the temptation to yawn.

  That afternoon, the Mingo reached Mayport by dark, where they would spend the night on shipboard and continue by flatboat to the settlement in the morning.

  Once again, Rachel had to sit in the cramped cabin while the other ladies hovered around Lady Augusta and chatted about frivolous matters. Rachel had given up trying to be a part of their society, but found solace in the warmth of Mrs. Winthrop’s kind glances.

  On Monday morning, her group parted company from the Amelia Island travelers, much to Rachel’s relief. The two flatboats moved westward with ease due to the strong ocean tide flowing inland against the outflow of the wide, shallow St. Johns River.

  In the early afternoon, everyone except the rowers had fallen into a lazy, heat-induced stupor. Rachel watched the passing scenery through half-closed eyes until she noticed Lady Augusta’s arm hanging over the boat’s side, her white dress’s wide sleeve flapping like the wing of a wounded crane. A second later, movement in the water sent Rachel scrambling to her feet the instant an alligator rose from the river and clamped its massive jaws on the sleeve. The grunting beast twisted its scaly body as it dropped back, dragging Lady Augusta halfway over the side. She screamed and gripped the gunwale with her free hand.

  “Help! Help us!” Rachel knelt and slammed her folded parasol on the beast’s snout again and again. The wooden handle broke, and she stabbed at its eyes with the sharp splintered end. Numb to everything but the battle, she struck so hard that her broad-brimmed straw hat fl
ew off.

  Behind her, she heard scrambling and cries. Someone shoved her out of the way.

  “Augusta!” Major Brigham grasped his wife’s waist and tried to pull her into the boat.

  “Shoot it. Shoot it,” one soldier yelled.

  A musket fired. The flatboat dipped dangerously.

  “Balance the boat,” Papa boomed out. “Moberly, over here, or we’ll be swamped.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frederick shouted. “Mrs. Winthrop, over here.”

  Rachel scrambled to join them.

  “Shoot. Shoot.” Major Brigham set his feet against the boat side, clutching and clawing to keep a grip on his wife’s clothes.

  The other two soldiers fired their muskets, then reloaded, a maddeningly slow process.

  The battle seemed endless, but neither side surrendered. The five-foot alligator rolled again, and the sleeve became more entangled in its teeth and snout. Rachel could not believe the fabric had not torn loose.

  At last the sleeve ripped from the dress. Major Brigham and Lady Augusta flew backward, landing in a heap. The soldiers fired again, and the beast disappeared beneath the murky surface. The boat continued to rock, and the rowers used their poles to steady it.

  To her credit, Lady Augusta did not become hysterical. But her eyes were wide, and she shook violently as Major Brigham settled back into the seat and grasped her.

  “Oh, my dear, my darling.” The major seemed unaware of anyone but his wife. “Thank our merciful God that you are safe.” He kissed her temple. “Let me see your arm.”

  Lady Augusta held out the scraped limb and gave him a trembling smile. “Only a little blood. There, I am the one wounded in battle, not you, my prince.” Her expression was filled with sweetness such as Rachel had not imagined her capable of, and their endearments almost moved her to tears. Or perhaps it was her own hysteria, for a sob broke from her unbidden.