He swung his rifle over his shoulder and led her back toward the redoubt. "We're going to Colonel Hastings. I want you to tell him what you told me." He looked up into the sky. "He may want to pass the information on to General Washington."
Maggie stopped short, her eyes wide. "The general?"
He gave a curt nod and started for the redoubt again, Maggie in tow. "I'd say it's our duty, wouldn't you, soldier?"
A vicious squall swept down the York River from the west sometime near midnight. The British army kept up a steady shelling in an attempt to deceive the Americans as Cornwallis tried to make a retreat across the river to temporary safety on Gloucester Point. But luck was not with King George's army tonight. Pelting rain and sweeping water set the British smallboats off course, sinking some, marooning many on the north shore.
A glimmer of hope rose among the Americans in the early-morning hours before daybreak as word swept through the trenches that two boat loads of retreating English soldiers had been captured downstream. Cornwallis had sent a thousand men across the river in a first wave, including his infantry, most of the crack brigade guards, as well as several companies of the Twenty-third Regiment.
The Americans and the French dug all night in the driving rain, pushing closer to the enemy. The British could not understand why they fired their own cannon all night, with little response from the rebel army. When dawn came, spilling light onto the battlefield, the reason was all too evident. The American army had brought a trench and fourteen cannon so close to the British hornwork that the German and British soldiers could toss stones into it.
With the coming of dawn the American and French again began to fire their guns. Sometime near midmorning, as Maggie fetched water for an injured soldier, Grayson came running to her, calling her name.
"Maggie!" he cried. "Maggie!" His clothing was covered in red dirt, his face and golden hair splattered with drying mud. But his face was lit up with the most beautiful smile.
Maggie grinned at him as he spun her around, spilling precious drinking water onto the muddy ground. "Come!" he shouted. "You have to come!"
"What? What is it?"
He tossed her waterskin to the nearest soldier and grabbed her hand, dragging her up onto a crude wooden platform so that she might be able to see the British lines.
The moment Maggie lifted her head above the earthen wall she clasped her hand over her mouth in joyous disbelief.
There, standing on a British parapet against the horizon, was a lone drummer boy beating out a steady roll on his battered drum. Fire slowly began to slacken around Maggie as she watched the small red-coated figure, wearing a bearskin cap, drum on, his haunting tune forever embedded in her mind.
Maggie clasped Grayson's hand, looking into his eyes, her own eyes filled with tears. "A parley," she whispered. "They ask for a parley?"
Grayson nodded, sweeping her into his arms and crushing his mouth against hers. "They're surrendering, Maggie mine. The war is over, my love."
Two days later General George Washington and his commander of the French troops, Rochambeau, led their fell into ranks, two files facing each other yards apart.
Maggie stood in the crowd of civilians who had come from miles around by carriage and on foot to see the surrender. Last night she had managed to make it back to John's, where she had bathed. This morning she had dressed in one of the gowns Grayson had bought her in Williamsburg. It was a simple forest-green sak gown, the bodice and sleeves edged in scalloped lace. Over her shoulders she wore a matching hooded cloak of forest-green wool, lined in apple-green watered silk. She had pulled back her chestnut brown hair in a thick green velvet ribbon so that it tumbled down her back in a rich cascade of curls.
From Maggie's position, she could see Grayson's back as he stood tall in a blue coat he had borrowed from a private in the trenches. Though the coat was a little small and lacked the insignia of his rank, it was important to him that after all these years, he wear the colors of his newfound nation.
Bands played to pass the time as the ragtag American army and their smartly dressed French counterparts waited for the British. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a roll of drums was heard and the enemy appeared, their flags furled as they marched to the melancholy tune of "The World Turned Upside Down."
As the column moved toward Surrender Field, Maggie craned her neck to catch a glance of Cornwallis, but he was not to be seen. The British were being led instead by an odd man in outdated lavish clothing and great sausage curls hanging at his temples.
"General O'Hara," Maggie heard a man behind her say with a chuckle. "Could be no other in that garb!"
Maggie watched as O'Hara approached the Frenchman Rochambeau, who then directed him to General Washington across the way.
Words were exchanged as Maggie watched in fascination. Just beyond Washington and his staff was a field, where members of the light cavalry had sat their horses in a large circle. It was there that the British would surrender their arms.
Maggie stood proud as she watched the defeated army of some thirty-five hundred able-bodied soldiers pass by, some crying, others hanging their heads in shame. It seemed doubly hard for the English and Germans to surrender, knowing they, the greatest military power in the world, had been bested by farmers and shopkeepers. The American army remained solemn and respectful as the regiments marched by, though the joy of winning the Revolution at last was plain on their faces.
Out of the long column a single red-coated soldier strayed. Maggie tensed at the realization that the man leading a horse was headed straight for Grayson. Then she recognized the horse. It was Giipa! It was Grayson's horse he'd thought lost when he'd escaped the British camp. In the days before the surrender the British had slaughtered some one thousand horses and thrown them into the York River rather than letting them die of starvation. She and Grayson had thought for certain that Giipa had been one of those casualties.
But there he was, prancing across the grassy field led by Private Paul Michaels, who Maggie now recognized. An armed soldier stepped out to halt the boy, but Grayson stepped away from his regiment, waving back the soldier.
After a moment's hesitation, Maggie broke from the crowd of civilians and raced across the field through the line of Americans to Grayson accepting Giipa's reins from Paul.
"I . . . I kept him safe, sir," Michaels was saying as Maggie stepped up beside Grayson.
Grayson's gaze met Michaels. The boy's uniform was torn and soiled. He wore a bloodied bandage around one arm. A lump rose in Grayson's throat as he tried to find his voice.
"I'm sorry," he finally managed. "I'm sorry I had to deceive you, son."
Michaels squinted in the glare of the autumn sunlight. "You were good to me, sir, though I was your enemy. I want you to know how much I appreciate that," he said in a clear tenor voice that made him sound much older than his fifteen years.
Maggie watched as Michaels reached for the flintlock he wore on one shoulder. "For that kindness, I surrender to you." He laid down his weapon at Grayson's feet and straightened, standing at attention.
Grayson twisted Giipa's reins in his fingers. "Join me, son. Maggie and I are to be married. Come to Thayer's Folly and begin a new life."
Michaels bit down on his lower lip and dashed at his eyes with the back of a dirty hand. "No, sir. If I don't stick with this, I'll never stick with anything. I have to surrender with my fellow soldiers."
Grayson nodded. "I understand."
There was a moment of silence as the two regarded each other, neither wanting to say good-bye. Finally, Michaels lowered his gaze. "I understand I'll be made a prisoner and sent home to England eventually, but . . . but might I know where you live so I can look you up some day?" He offered the barest smile. "I've a mind to be a Virginian when I've seen this through."
Grayson reached out and squeezed his shoulder in a final gesture. "Come to Williamsburg and ask for me. Anyone can give you directions to my plantation."
Michaels nodded ever so
slightly. "Then it's good-bye to you, sir, and to you, too, Miss Maggie."
"Good-bye, Paul," Maggie whispered, afraid she would break into tears.
Grayson took her hand and together they watched the boy join the ranks of the defeated army and walk off Surrender Field.
When Michaels was gone from sight, Grayson turned to her, his voice still filled with emotion. "When, Maggie. When will you marry me?" he asked.
She took Giipa's reins from him and began to lead the gelding off the field. "Today," she answered. "Today looks like a good day to me to be wed."
Lanterns swung, casting bright light in the darkness outside Commegys' Ordinary as Maggie stepped out the door, the bride of Major Grayson Thayer. A cheer rose among well-wishers as one of the sergeants in Grayson's regiment began a lively tune on an old fiddle.
Grayson followed behind Maggie, reaching to take her hand as his fellow soldiers crowded around to give their congratulations.
John had offered the use of his parlor for Maggie and Grayson to be married in, and though that might have been more elegant, the tavern where they'd met seemed far more fitting. The ceremony complete, the newlyweds had served their guests confiscated English wine and roasted boars Zeke and Les had rounded up in the woods. Well after midnight, Grayson and Maggie were finally taking their leave of the party to go to John's where they would spend the night.
Maggie accepted hand after hand and an occasional kiss on the cheek as the crowd of soldiers bade them farewell. Slowly they made their way to John's waiting carriage. Maggie laughed as she wrapped her arm around Grayson's waist and he brushed her lips against his.
"What's so funny?" he asked, still being jostled by the exuberant men.
"Nothing, I'm just happy," she answered, beaming. "Happy it's over with."
He laughed with her and pulled her against him, kissing her again, this time with such fervor that he brought a cheer from the soldiers.
"That's the way to see to it, Major!" a private shouted, raising a jack of ale.
"Just wish she'd married me instead of you," another hollered.
Maggie caught sight of Zeke, hanging back from the other men. She put out her hand and bashfully he came to her. She leaned to kiss him on his bearded cheek and he blushed.
"So where to now, Maggie girl?"
Maggie looked back to Grayson. "To Williamsburg. To Thayer's Folly."
Zeke nodded, scuffing his boot in the dirt.
"Where's Lyla?" Maggie asked.
He pointed behind him and Maggie followed with her eyes. There in the darkness of the tree was a small figure wrapped in a hooded cloak. Maggie lifted her forest-green skirts and pushed through the crowd of men, leaving Grayson behind. "Lyla?"
She stepped out from the tree. "Yes?"
Maggie offered her hands and took one of Lyla's. "You're going to marry Zeke, aren't you?"
She nodded. "He's a convincing man."
Maggie looked to Zeke and back at Lyla again. "So you'll live in Zeke's old house, I suppose. It's kind of small with just the three rooms and you with your sisters."
Zeke put his arm around Lyla's tiny waist. "We'll get by."
"Well, seein' as how I won't be needing my house anymore, I thought you two might like the farm once the wounded men have been moved out."
"Your house," Zeke breathed. "There's no need to give us your farm!"
"I want you to take it. And I want you to take my da's tools. The town will be needing a good bootmaker." She winked at Zeke. "I'd say you know enough to get by."
"Someone say something about a decent bootmaker," Grayson called in a deep voice. He came up behind Maggie and wrapped his arms around her waist, nestling his face in her sweet-smelling hair. "I'm in need of a decent bootmaker." He lifted his foot to show half of the sole of his boot sagging. "I found myself a wench who claimed to be adequate, but I've had nothing but trouble since I first let her set her hands on them!"
Maggie began to giggle. Then Lyla, and finally Zeke joined in, his rich baritone voice filling the starlit night air.
"What's so funny?" Grayson asked, looking from one to the other. "What have I missed?"
Zeke shook his head as he dropped a kiss to Lyla's head. "What did you expect, you lettin' on like you were a bloody redcoat?"
Grayson looked at Maggie. "What's he talking about? What's my pretending to be a Brit got to do with my boots?"
Maggie covered her mouth with her palm, her laughter ringing out. Everything was going to be all right, wasn't it? He truly did love her and the baby she carried. It was going to be a fine life, being the wife of Grayson Thayer.
"What?" Grayson repeated, smiling down at her. Then his brow furrowed. "You didn't!"
She bit down on her lower lip a she took a step back. "It 'twasn't my fault. You were a Brit same as the rest of them!"
"You sabotaged my French boots!"
"It was months ago," she protested with laughter.
"How many times did I ask you to fix them?" he asked in disbelief.
Maggie couldn't get out a word for her laughter.
Grayson looked to Zeke who shrugged. "Guess she wanted to make certain you didn't get away, friend."
Grayson reached out to pull Maggie into his arms, his own laughter mingling with hers. "Ah, I love you, Maggie. I love you, Maggie mine."
The End
Want more historical romance?
Here's an excerpt from Judith E. French's
RACHEL'S CHOICE
Prologue
Pea Patch Island, Delaware
April 23, 1864
"You're a dead man, Chancellor!"
A musket ball whined over Chance’s head, and he dropped to his knees in the wet sand and buried his face in his best friend’s chest.
“Put me down,” Travis whispered hoarsely. “It’s no use. I’m done for.”
Chance could hear the baying of the dogs above the guards’ shouting. Another few minutes and the starless night and the waist-high tangle of brush and driftwood wouldn’t hide them from the bullets or the cold steel of a guard’s bayonet. Travis was hurt bad; he’d taken a hit to the side and another through his thigh. Chance could hear the grate of bone against bone as he cradled him in his arms.
“Leave me!” Travis rasped.
Chance’s mouth tasted of ashes; he could feel the strength draining out of Travis’s body. “Can’t do it, buddy. I owe you one. Remember? It’s my turn to play hero.”
“This is . . . different.” A shuddering groan escaped Travis’s throat. “No need . . . for both of us to die.”
Fear twisted in Chance’s gut. He couldn’t see the Delaware River through the swirling fog, but he could smell the salt wind and hear the slap of waves against the beach.
He wanted to live.
Death had come for him at the Second Manassas and later in the reeking mud of a farm lane at Fredericksburg. He’d been afraid of dying before; hell, any soldier who said he wasn’t scared was either a liar or a madman. But in three years of war, he’d never felt the brush of the dark angel’s wings as he did at that instant.
Another musket boomed, lighting tha night with a flash of fire.
“Over here!” a man shouted. “Footprints. They ran through here!”
A lantern bobbed, and Chance caught a glimpse of a barrel-chested man in a blue Union cap. The hounds sprinted closer by the second. The lead dog’s bellow rang out through the clinging mist.
“Leave me, damn it!” Travis insisted. “You can still make it.”
Tears streamed down Chance’s face. “What do I tell Mary?”
“Tell her to name the baby after you.”
“No! It’s both or neither of us.” Chance staggered to his feet with Travis still in his arms and dashed toward the water’s edge. Travis had lost two stone of weight since they were captured at Gettysburg, but he was still almost more than Chance could carry.
“There!” a Yankee screamed.
A volley of musket fire exploded behind Chance. Something slammed
into him with the force of a sledgehammer. There was no pain, but he suddenly found himself sprawled on the sand, losing his hold on his wounded friend.
“Travis! Travis!” Chance’s voice croaked like an old man’s, and he felt curiously weak as he tried to rise.
Hot on their scent, the dog pack spilled across the narrow beach. Chance could scarcely make out the guards’ curses for the frenzied barking of the animals.
Chance had trouble telling up from down. Spinning stars whirled in his head, and his legs felt heavy, his muscles too weak to carry him.
“Don’t let him get away! Four days’ pass for any man vat blows his head off!”
That guttural Pennsylvania Dutch accent pierced Chance’s stupor. Sergeant Daniel Coblentz.
The venom in Coblentz’s words did what Chance’s will couldn’t. Rising on hands and knees, Chance began to crawl toward the smell of water.
Another bullet struck the sand beside him, driving needles of grit into his face and arms. And then an incoming wave washed over his hands.
“Stop him!”
“Swim, damn you!” Travis yelled. “Swim for—”
A dull thud cut off his friend’s shouts, and then Chance was on his feet and plunging knee-deep into the bay. “I’ll come back for you, Travis!” he swore. “I promise you—I’ll come back!”
When the water reached his waist, Chance took a deep breath and dived under. The frigid tide enveloped him, blunting the force of the spinning musket ball that tore a furrow of fire along his hip.
Chance swam until his lungs screamed for air, then surfaced long enough to gulp a breath and hear the clamor of his pursuers from a patrol boat a dozen yards away.
“Rebel bastard. Hope he freezes to death.”
“ . . . not goin’ anywhere. He left a trail of blood on the beach.”
“Futterin’ waste of our time. Current don’t get him, the sharks will.”
A searchlight skimmed the tops of the choppy waves. As the beam neared Chance’s head, he let himself sink into the black water until his fingers touched the bottom before he began to swim again.
The Bootmaker's Daughter: Revolution (Destiny's Daughters Book 2) Page 33
