God, help us.
The conflict here was hours old. Rebel scouts and patrols were likely only now reporting it, American troops having fled. The battle looked to have been brief but intense.
“You told Lucy to leave with Mae ahead of time, at the first sign of trouble,” Jon said, coming up beside him. “I pray they’re well on their way south.”
Rhys hadn’t told Jon about Coralie or his ensuing confrontationwith Mae. If James had known about Coralie, he hadn’t heard it from Rhys. His conscience was clear there. He wouldn’t add turning brothers against sisters to his tally of regrets.
He simply said, “I’m thankful Joanna and the children are out of the fray and behind fort walls further west.”
Still, the terrors of what had happened here while they’d been entrenched upriver at Bemis Heights seemed an unnecessary tragedy. Washington’s moving the bulk of the northern army away from the lower Hudson, while understandable, had reaped irreversible consequences.
Jon cleared his throat. “We’ve lost James, but I don’t sense we’ve lost Mae.”
Rhys looked at the blackened ruins, trying to hold on to hope. “She may have been taken prisoner if she didn’t get ahead of them with Lucy.”
The very thought gutted him. Swallowing hard, he resisted the urge to pound the air with his fist and rail against heaven itself as Jon lifted a cocked hat off the ground with the tip of his rifle. Oddly intact, it was a muddy mess, the cockade a reminder of those Mae had made.
Woodenly, Rhys walked alone toward the remains of the Grand Battery, where he’d stood with her on countless occasions. The view was untouched, the Hudson rising and falling with the tide, true to its Lenape name, Muhheakantuck. The river that flows two ways. Today the beauty was blunted.
Below, the great wrought-iron chain and log boom that had blocked British ships on the Hudson had been dismantled. What the enemy had done with it he didn’t know, but it seemed a further nail in the coffin of their cause.
Yet that was merely iron, not flesh and blood.
Mae, where are you?
His guilt at leaving her with so many loose ends at the last all but brought him to his knees. They might never meet again nor make amends. If he left New York to go search for her he’d be brandeda deserter. For now, he was a soldier first, a husband and father, son and brother, second.
Till the war was won.
Rain smeared Mae’s view of the woods and slicked the saddle, making it harder to stay seated. Her soaked skirts grew heavy and cold as she fought to stay upright and awake and not lose track of Lucy. Her Franklin hat, wet and soiled beyond recognition, sat heavily atop her head. They’d been traveling for days now, so many she’d lost count, and they’d still not come free of the green blur of woods.
Mile after mile pummeled her with the dreadful possibility that Lucy had lost her way. The tightening knot in the pit of her stomach told her they were traveling in circles. Even worse—what if something happened to Lucy? Ahead of her, Lucy bent low in the saddle, trying to avoid rain-soaked branches that tore at her hair and garments, only to rake Mae next.
If Lucy died, so would she. Cosseted and softened for years in Chatham, unwise to the ways of the wilderness, she now realized beyond a shadow of a doubt she had none of Lucy’s mettle. She was not only untrustworthy, she was weak. Wholly unfit to be a seasoned general’s bride. Even now Rhys was likely ruing he’d ever set eyes on her.
Her heart bled at every thought of him. Was he still alive? Had he been in a battle? Might he have been taken prisoner and put on one of the hellish prison ships in New York’s harbor? The dire possibilities were endless. Her tears mingled with the rain.
Toward dusk, they searched in vain for a dry spot to make camp, finally deciding a widespread oak meant shelter. Utterly spent, Mae slid from the saddle, her cold fingers barely able to unbuckle the girth and rest Orion for the night.
Petey stilled and gave a growl. Across from her, Lucy dismounted then froze, her eyes big as brass buttons.
Mae’s own knees buckled. Through the darkened woods came a long, silent line of Indians in single file, armed to the teeth and headed toward them. Painted black and vermilion, the tall lead warrior continued sure and steady. American allies or enemies?
Mae dropped down behind Orion while Lucy did the same with her mare. When Petey gave a throaty growl, Lucy hissed a panicked rebuke. Mae simply bent her head, rain trickling down the back of her neck, and prayed.
Heavenly Father, let Your creaturesneither neigh nor nicker nor bark.
Would she live to laugh at the ludicrous prayer?
The procession of men clad in linen and buckskin seemed unending, their identity unknown. Their hair was dressed with eagle feathers, two up and one down. Oneida?
Mae’s heart beat loud as a drum, and still they came on, an entire war party from the look of them. Her own pistol was still in the pommel holster. She’d not used it—didn’t want to use it.
Hide us, please.
Orion stepped back abruptly, snapping a twig. The sound seemed to echo in the dripping forest. Hunkered down, she and Lucy watched as the party suddenly swiveled away from them. A bend in the trail? They now stared at the Indians’ retreating backs. At the rear of the column, the last warrior paused. When his steady gaze pivoted in their direction, Mae’s head grew so light she grabbed Orion’s stirrup to stay upright.
And then the warrior moved on, catching up with his companions as they continued their silent journey. The drip of the forest resumed and a few bursts of birdsong pierced the gloom, but neither Lucy nor Mae moved. Long minutes ticked past till Mae’s shaky legs would support her no longer. She sank down into the mud and leaf litter, so cold she couldn’t feel her toes or fingertips.
