“Do you think Bryne is dead?” she asked tremulously.
The question doused Sarah with the chill of a bucket of water, making her straighten up. Her chin lifted. “I pray not! Wrap up my arm. It’s not much, thank heaven!”
While Lucy obeyed, Sarah took a deep breath. There must be no more enervating fears about Bryne. That was the last thing he would want. Lucy’s disconcerted expression had reminded her that she alone was in charge, and she would take care of the little group in the house and see them through, even if the whole of York became a battlefield. As if to threaten her with what was to come, the staccato spit of rifle fire sounded in the street.
Together the two women rushed to the window. To Sarah’s amazement some of the loaded carts were returning, the owners slashing whips at their horses and looking back over their shoulders. There could be only one explanation. She gripped Lucy’s wrists.
“Those people have had their escape route cut! They’re taking another way! The Americans must be fighting our soldiers in the streets! They must have a hold on the city already!”
More shots were fired. People darted for cover, some diving under their carts, heedless of the mud, but one horse reared up and bolted, leaving a litter of goods behind him.
Sarah started to make plans as she drew Lucy away from the window. “Take that painting of Bryne’s childhood home down from the wall,” she instructed. “We’ve no idea what’s going to happen in the next few days, and I think we’ll store everything he treasures and anything else of value in Flora’s cupboard. If we have to leave this house we can be sure that nobody will discover that hiding place.”
Before following Lucy downstairs she went to the chest of drawers in the dressing room and took out the box containing the pistols. She might have to use them yet.
The fighting went on all day, punctuated by explosions and fresh bursts of rising flames as retreating Canadian forces fired public buildings to stop their falling into enemy hands. From the attic windows where she was keeping a constant watch, aided by a powerful spyglass from Bryne’s study, Sarah saw local people get caught in crossfire as they tried to make a dash into the woods, often having to crouch for long, agonizing hours by fences or some other barely adequate protection. Many were wounded and limping when they finally managed to get away, and others were carried off by their companions.
It soon became obvious that not a single other resident was left in the street. Although she scanned the rest of the spaciously set houses through her spyglass, she could see no sign of life. But after seeing the results of such panic-stricken flight she was certain that her decision to stay in the house had been the right one. She had had blankets, food, and drinking water placed in Flora’s cupboard, and as a final precaution she had disconnected the bell alarm that Bryne had fixed to the cupboard’s small window.
Throughout the night the fighting continued. Lucy and Mary Anne took turns in lookout duty, but Sarah was in the attic again when there came a particularly violent exchange of gunfire in the early morning light. With rising hope she caught the flash of British scarlet interspersed with the dull green of the Canadian militia advancing through the trees of a distant garden, but a swift counterattack drove them back, leaving blue-uniformed American soldiers firmly entrenched up and down the length of the street. Wearily she watched captured military supplies go rolling by on the way down to the wharves for shipment across the lake.
Later from the attic window she had the galling experience of seeing the horses, which she had crept out to feed and water less than an hour before, led away by a couple of American soldiers, who had obviously been detailed to take any that they could find. Rage possessed her, but she forced herself to calmness by realizing that she must be thankful that the soldiers had merely cast a cursory glance at the shuttered house, assuming that it was deserted.
It was late afternoon when the looting started. With her spyglass Sarah saw windows being broken and doors forced. Silver and linen and choice pieces of furniture were carried out and carted away. Now and again a chair or some other unwanted article was thrown out of an upstairs window, and she could only guess at the destruction that was happening inside. She was so busy looking at the other houses that the click of the gates into the drive caught her unawares. To her horror she saw about a dozen drunken American soldiers plunging up the drive, bottles sticking out of their pockets.
She flew downstairs to fling open the cellar door. “Everyone go into Flora’s cupboard! It’s a game of hide-and-seek, children. Not a sound!”
Mary Anne hustled the children into the hiding place, but Lucy came forward. “Who’s coming?” she asked in a low voice.
Sarah shot a last look over her shoulder. The front door was being shaken, and someone was starting to prize open the shutters. “Some Yankee soldiers—and they’re drunk! We daren’t take any chances.”
Lucy understood full well what Sarah meant, and she shuddered. “Don’t delay any longer. They’ll be in the house any second by the sound of it.”
As Sarah descended the cellar steps the splintering of the shutters was followed by the smashing of glass. The thud of feet landing on the hall floor told them that one man had entered ahead of the others to unbolt the door. Swiftly she ran across the cellar and darted after Lucy into the cupboard. The panels slid into place behind her.
It was crowded for six of them with all the valuables that had been moved in there, but they settled themselves down as comfortably as possible on the blankets. Mary Anne opened a storybook, which she proceeded to read softly to the children with the aid of a candle, for little enough light penetrated the shrubbery-shaded window. Occasionally she paused in her reading, exchanging a wide-eyed look with Sarah whenever an extra loud crash resounded from upstairs.
Lucy was taking a turn at reading when they heard the soldiers come thumping down into the cellar, and her voice trailed away. Robbie had fallen asleep in Mary Anne’s arms and did not stir, but Sarah put a finger to her lips as a warning signal to Jenny and Flora, and extinguished the candle flame.
The soldiers clumped about, raucous and noisy. Sarah guessed that they had drunk up all that they had been able to find upstairs and were intent on finding fresh supplies. It would not be long before they discovered the wine racks against the far wall. She listened intently and felt her stomach knot with fear as footsteps clacked toward the cupboard.
The panels creaked from the air suction as the cupboard door was jerked open. Mary Anne gave an involuntary little gasp of terror. The stored brooms and tools were rattled, some clattering against the panels as they fell.
“Ain’t nuthin’ here,” drawled a thick voice, drawing away.
Then Jenny sneezed.
Sarah clapped her hand over the child’s mouth, seeing a tearful apology was about to be uttered, and hugged her close. She herself was holding her breath, and she sensed that the others were doing the same. On the other side of the panels the voice spoke again, coming closer, its tone slightly puzzled.
“Did you hear somethin’ too, Brady?”
Some other footsteps clacked forward. “Hear what?”
“I ain’t sure.” A fallen broom was kicked and it knocked a panel slightly aside, letting in a cool thread of a draft. But in the same instant there came a triumphant shout from the other end of the cellar. The wine had been found. With a yowl of pleasure the investigator of the cupboard let the door swing shut, and he and his companion darted off to share the spoils.
It took the soldiers quite a while to empty the racks and carry all the bottles upstairs, but eventually silence fell in the cellar, broken only when someone walked overhead.
In the cupboard the little group relaxed. Sarah smoothed the tousled hair away from Jenny’s anxious face. “Sorry I had to cover your mouth, angel, but I was afraid that you were going to speak, and that would have given the game away.”
The incident had made Sarah decide that they must move from the house as soon as it was dark. She could not risk the soldier re
turning to investigate the sound he had heard when he sobered up or the wine ran out. She confided her plan to Lucy and Mary Anne.
“I’ll get out of the window first and see if it’s safe. We can creep under the cover of the shrubbery until we make a dash into the orchard. From there we’ll get over the fence into the woods beyond. Nobody will find us there. With a supply of food we can hold out until we reach our own troops.”
The April night smelled smoky with the fires that were still burning in the city. Sarah, having lifted the window soundlessly, climbed out into the shelter of the shrubbery. The evergreens rustled about her as she crept forward. She lifted her head cautiously, thankful for the noisy carousing in the house which would cover any small sounds outside. The coast was clear. She turned back to catch hold of the children and lift them out as Lucy and Mary Anne helped from inside, scrambling out themselves afterward, and bringing the satchel of food with them. Sarah slung it across her shoulder, and took a pistol in each hand. Mary Anne picked up Robbie to carry him.
“Now!” Sarah whispered the order. She hurried them across the path and into the orchard. “Run!”
They ran as fast as they could, the dewy grass clinging to their long skirts and making their shoes damp. They reached the fence. Sarah helped each one over. “Keep running!” she instructed. “I’ll catch you up.”
She put the pistols in the satchel and lowered it carefully to the other side of the fence. Setting her toe in a foothold, she heaved herself up to climb over. But an icy-cold hand grabbed the back of her neck. A strangled cry escaped her.
“Where the devil do you think you’re going?” snarled a slurred American voice. His powerful hold jerked her backward.
He must have been posted as a sentry somewhere, but had come into the orchard to drink whatever he had looted. His sour breath puffed into her face as she struggled to get free. But his grip was viselike, and his hands were on her breasts as he sought to bring her down. His knee in the back of hers sent her tumbling, and with a savage laugh he flung himself on her. She fought frantically, her breath sobbing.
The pistol shot came at point-blank range, the thunderous sound splitting the night air. The soldier howled out like a wounded animal, hurtling onto his back, clutching at his shoulder from which the blood gushed, spouting out between his fingers. Lucy, the smoking pistol in her hand, rushed to help Sarah to her feet.
“Hurry!” she urged frantically. Together the two women hurled themselves over the fence. From the house soldiers had appeared, attracted by the noise, and there was shouting somewhere in the street. Lucy snatched up the satchel, giving Sarah a thrust as she turned toward it. “Don’t stop! I have it!”
Twigs snapped under their running feet as they raced into the woods. Catching up with Mary Anne, Sarah seized hold of Jenny and swung her up for a piggyback. “Keep running!” she cried. Lucy grabbed Flora’s hand, and they all ran closely together along the path that they knew well from so many walks, not easing their pace. The woods swallowed them up.
They had slowed at last, breathless and panting, Mary Anne with a stitch in her side, when a shadowy figure moved from under the trees. “Halt! Who goes there?” demanded a stout, unmistakably English voice.
“Friend!” cried Sarah between laughter and tears. “All six of us!”
An officer detailed two soldiers to escort them to St. James’s Church in a part of the city still being held. All the pews had been removed to accommodate the wounded, who covered the floor on cots and improvised beds. A number of ladies were tending the groaning men, and Philip, in his shirt-sleeves, turned from dealing with a patient as Sarah and Lucy hurried toward him.
“Thank God you’re safe!” he exclaimed fervently, embracing them both.
“Have you seen Bryne?” Sarah asked him frantically.
He shook his head. “But there’s someone else here that you’ll be pleased to see. He’s helping to bring in the wounded.” He took her by the hand and led her to where two stretcher-bearers were lifting an unconscious man onto a cot. Philip tapped one of them on the shoulder. “Now you can meet the lady I’ve been telling you about, Will Nightingale, and she is not alone.”
“Will!” Sarah exclaimed. The slight, towheaded man had swung about, his face torn with an anguished joy.
“Mrs. Garrett!” His voice was choked. “The children are with you? I came to York to look for my dear Hannah. Dr. Manning has told me what happened. Where are the little ones? Oh!”
Jenny had broken away from Mary Anne’s restraining clasp and came running, intent on reaching Sarah’s side, but at the sight of the man crouching down to hold his arms out to her she slowed her pace uncertainly. Suddenly a radiant smile burst upon her little face.
“Dadda!” she screamed.
He caught her up in his arms, hugging and kissing her, the tears running from his screwed-up eyes. Sarah, deeply moved, beckoned Mary Anne to bring Robbie forward. Will gathered his son to him with a cry of joy. The little reunion was complete, but it had to be cut short. The other stretcher-bearer touched Will’s arm.
“There’s that poor devil still outside in the cart,” he said.
Will nodded, kissed the children again, and wiped his eyes on his kerchief as he hurried after his companion. Sarah left them in Mary Anne’s care again and rolled up her sleeves, looking around to see where she should make a start in giving a hand.
But Will was helping to bring in a wounded officer, whose uniform was the same as that which Bryne had worn. She rushed across, and the man rolled his head round to look at her as she spoke to him.
“Do you know Bryne Garrett?” She kept pace with the stretcher. “Have you seen him?”
“He was with me.” The officer spoke slowly and with difficulty. “They picked me up, but left him. He’s still there.” His eyes closed, his face wrenched by pain.
“Where was this man?” Sarah asked Will urgently.
“There’s been fighting around the Parliament buildings. We picked him up there.” Will looked distressed. “Not many were left alive.”
“I’m going back there with you!”
The other stretcher-bearer shook his head. “It was only a pocket of resistance, and the Yankees have closed in. All chance of getting through again has gone.”
Without a word she turned away and ran out of the church. The handcart that had been used for picking up the wounded stood resting on its handles. She seized hold of it and started trundling it off at a run. She was going to find Bryne and bring him back. Nothing should stop her.
Thankful that she was so familiar with the woods, she turned into a path that would lead eventually to the rear of the Parliament buildings. She had no thought in her head of being stopped or molested by soldiers of either side. All thought of danger to herself had vanished. Love lent speed to her feet and strength to her arms, and the handcart bounced and leaped ahead of her along the winding path.
She had to come out into the open when she reached the stretch of ground that surrounded the Parliament buildings. Shooting was taking place, bullets zinging in all directions, but she paid no heed, except to crouch forward instinctively over the handles as she trundled the handcart across the lawns. From vantage points behind trees and walls, American soldiers held their fire at the sight of her extraordinary courage as she made a beeline past their sights to reach those who lay sprawled motionless on the grass.
She was sobbing as she went from one fallen man to another. Not one was alive. The stretcher-bearers must have snatched away all those they had thought had a chance of survival. Did that mean she was too late to save Bryne?
“Over here, honey!” His voice was faint, but she heard it.
Exultantly she spun about, but could not see him. “Where? Oh, where?” she cried, her fingers pressing in her cheeks. He called to her again, and this time she saw him. He was lying in a flowerbed hard against the wall of the main Parliament building, where he must have dragged himself for some protection.
She threw herself down o
n her knees beside him, and put her arm under his head. “You’re safe with me, darling!” She kissed him, and rested her cheek for an instant against his. “I’ve come for you!”
He was hollow-eyed and white-lipped with pain and loss of blood, but a grin slipped across his mouth at the way she was ignoring the danger around them. “I can’t walk. A bullet smashed up my knee.”
“I’ve a handcart with me. I’ll push you.”
A dry little laugh escaped him. “You’ll never be able to get me on it,” he whispered, his eyelids closing.
“I will! I will!” She sprang up to reach for the handcart and bring it level with him. But when she tried to move him his head lolled and she saw that he was unconscious. Heaving hard, she found she was only able to drag him a few inches. He was so heavy. She had not realized what a dead weight he would be. How on earth was she to get him leaning against the cart as she had planned, and then tilt it? But she would not be beaten! She would not!
A sudden roar of flame made her head jerk upward. Her horrified eyes saw that the building had been set ablaze, the flames leaping greedily out of the window directly above their heads. She must get him away!
She heaved again, sobbing and panting, digging in her heels, slipping, falling, and heaving again. Slowly she was moving him, but sparks were showering over them. She screamed as a piece of burning wood fell across him, and she struck it away.
Abruptly Will Nightingale’s voice spoke at her side. “I’ll lift him. You take his legs.”
“Oh, Will!” she sobbed thankfully. “You followed me!”
They lifted Bryne onto the handcart. At a run they started back across the grounds. Behind them the burning building glowed like a great torch, roaring and crackling, turning the sky golden-red above the city.
*
The United States forces withdrew from York after a week of occupation, taking with them shiploads of captured weapons and supplies, but the air of the city was free again, and the maple trees spread their new green shade across the streets. Sarah and Beth soon put the house to rights between them, and took out again the paintings, silver, and other valuables that had remained undiscovered in the cellar cupboard. In the bedchamber Bryne was a restless invalid, fuming to be up and about again. But his leg took a long time to heal, in spite of Philip’s solicitous care, and he was destined to walk with a stick for the rest of his life.
Fair Wind of Love Page 15
