Prologue
January 1777
Chatham, New Jersey
Her four-poster bed seemed made for winter. With the curtains drawn, Mae felt snug as a she-bear in its den, far removed from the turmoil of their colonial world. But sleep of late was often elusive. It took time to disentangle oneself from the day’s moods and happenings. Tonight, once she did drift away, she dreamed of a dance—and a violet silk gown in the French polonaise style. The sheen of the silk struck her. They’d not had such sumptuous fabric since 1774.
The candlelit ballroom of her dream smelled of wax ... and war. War had a distinct smell and sound. She knew that all too well, caught in the thick of it these last months. Tonight, war had woken her up.
The tread on the wooden bridge across the Passaic River nearby, the crunch of ice and creak of harnesses, the shuffling steps of soldiers and the officers’ more sure-footed horses, and the thunder of the baggage wagons violated the usually hushed night. Mae sat up, drawing her knees to her chest beneath the blankets. Which army could it be?
The Americans or the British?
Was Coralie awake? Her sister was a light sleeper, though no sound issued from the open door adjoining their rooms. Coralie’s bedchamber faced Chatham’s village green while hers overlooked the dependencies at the back.
Mae stifled a yawn, roused further by a sound just beyond her frigid windowpane. The creak of the smokehouse door? Pushing aside the bed linens, she lowered her bare feet to the floor. Her icy soles sent a shiver to her spine as she hurried to Coralie’s room and stared out the front-facing window. Snow spun down, obscuring her view. Dark silhouettes moved in rapid succession over river and bridge in the scant moonlight. A menacing presence whether friend or foe.
She returned to her room and looked out her rear window onto the fenced area below. Kitchen garden and well, stable and necessary were snow-drifted and undisturbed. Shadows moved toward the smokehouse. Thieves? They hadn’t an abundance of meat to steal.
Wrapping herself in a shawl, Mae crept downstairs, clutching the banister with one hand and a lantern in the other. She pulled on her father’s boots, retrieved his pistol, and tugged open the back door. A blast of wind nearly snuffed the lantern she hung from a hook beneath the porch’s eave. Eyes on the smokehouse, she gathered her courage and bypassed the winter-bitten kitchen garden, no longer seeing shadows but sensing a distinct presence.
Snow spat at her, and the distant sound of an army on the march almost muffled the sounds within the smokehouse as she pointed her pistol at the door left ajar.
“Show yourselves and stop your thieving.” Her voice rose above the wind. “If it’s victuals you want, I’ll supply them honestly, but leave our meat alone.”
The smokehouse door groaned open and turned Mae more skittish. Two figures appeared, a rasher of filched bacon in hand. They seemed little more than children—waifs—their clothes in tatters, their scarecrow figures startling. The snow’s brightness and thelantern light illuminated more than she cared to see. Was that a drum the lad had slung about his neck? His bare feet, slashed by ice, left bloody footprints in the snow.
“We’re sorry, miss.” A woman’s voice, trembling with contrition and the cold, reached her. “We mean no harm. We’re half starved—worn down.”
“Are you rebels?” Mae pocketed her pistol. “Or redcoats?”
“Rebels,” the man said, his deep voice dispelling the notion he was a mere lad. “But General Washington don’t hold with stealing, so we might as well desert.”
Mae’s simmering turned to sympathy. Coralie had always chided her for being soft. The gift of mercy, others said. “Come inside,” she told them breathlessly, leading the way.
The pair followed somewhat reluctantly as ifshewere the enemy and they feared ambush. Once inside the low-beamed kitchen, where the hearth’s fire crackled in welcome, they sat on a settle facing the flames while Mae served them warm stew and coffee left over from supper. As they ate, she hurriedly shoved bread and cheese and bacon into a knapsack, fearful that if they tarried by the fire, they might miss the army’s route altogether. But given the numbers she’d spied coming over the river and bridge, the march was miles long.
Where was General Washington headed?
Once they’d eaten and more victuals were packed, Mae said, “Take these stockings and boots of my father’s—and here’s my mother’s warmest woolen shawl.” She draped the butter-colored wool around the young woman’s bent shoulders while the boyish-faced man pulled on the woolen stockings and shoes.
Now far more moved than nettled, Mae watched her unexpected guests depart. The snow was whirling harder now. The bloody footprints would soon be naught but a harsh memory. Would these two beleaguered souls rejoin the army or run?
She’d forgotten to ask them their names.
one
We marched from Morristown at 3. PM, and arrived at Chatham at dark, in the suburbs of which we got very agreeable quarters. The young ladies here are very fond of the soldiers, but much more so of officers.
LieutenantJames McMichael’s journal,January12,1777
Drifted with snow, the village of Chatham was decidedly quaint. Tidy. Or once had been. Now it was infused with Patriots. Infested, some said. Countless rebel soldiers milled about, some of them almost leisurely, others purposefully. Since the Continental Army had no standardized uniform aside from the topmost officers, most of these Patriots were a ragtag, homespun sort, some even barefoot, reminding Mae of the couple she’d caught in the smokehouse.
Had it only been a fortnight ago she’d ushered them into the kitchen and supplied them? She’d told no one, not even Coralie. Try as she might, she couldn’t scrub her mind clean of the bloody footprints in the snow. And she continued to wonder ... Had the sad pair returned to the army? Or deserted?
Basket on one arm, Mae crossed the village green, her progress as slow as it was slippery, her scarlet cape furling and unfurling likea flag in the wintry wind. Few would guess British-occupied New York City with its hordes of redcoated soldiers was only twenty-five miles away.
“Morning, miss.” One tattered soldier doffed his cocked hat to her in the middle of the green.
