Dry-eyed, she lay down. She’d cried herself to sleep more times than she could count since he’d gone, and now it seemed she had no more tears left.
?????
At three o’clock in the afternoon on October 17, as the fifes and drums struck “Yankee Doodle,” Continental troops lined both sides of the road upon which the defeated British army would pass. Shoulders back, gazes forward as if undergoing inspection, the Americans showed no emotion, their ranks still. No hatred or mockery or malicious pleasure at the enemy’s defeat marked their faces. Rhys felt a beat of pride as he stood near Burgoyne and Gates atop Bemis Heights. Having surrendered his sword to General Gates, Burgoyne stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with him to watch the grounding of arms below.
“The fortune of war, General Gates, has made me your prisoner,” Burgoyne said with the dignity befitting an officer and a gentleman.
Gates gave a sympathetic smile. “I shall always be ready to bear testimony that it has not been through any fault of Your Excellency.” Turning toward Rhys, he said, “Proceed with the grounding of arms, General Harlow.”
Rhys returned to his riflemen by the sodden field where the weapons were to be laid down. The British went first, followed by the Germans, and then their Loyalist followers. Redcoated officers surrendered their swords, and then the rest of Burgoyne’s tattered, beleaguered troops moved past the Americans to lay down their captured artillery and small arms. Rhys and his men had charge of this, though it would take days to sort through the weapons and relay what had occurred to the Continental Quartermaster Corps and Ordnance and the chief of artillery.
The mile-long procession shuffled past, and the stacked weapons swelled as the enemy began their march to Boston per surrender terms. Most looked like whipped dogs, their rain-soaked faces downcast, the wounded carried by wagons and carts.
Baroness Riedesel’s calash came through, its wheels bumping her and her children this way and that on the battle-scarred road.Her husband, the general, stood with uniformed British officers to one side, all in mourning since their revered Scots general, Fraser, had died of his wounds.
At the very end of the column came the struggling, straggling women and children, even babies, sure to soften the hardest man’s heart. Some were barefoot, so small they were tied on horses or in knapsacks on their mothers’ backs.
Mae leapt to mind again—and their child—and his gut turned to gravel. A knifelike wind sent gold and bloodred leaves to the ground as his thoughts flew across the river to the twin forts—what was left of them. They’d buried all the dead that day when they’d returned to reinforce the ghostly garrison. He was still thanking God there’d been no women among them. Mae was still out there somewhere...
He turned back to the procession, wanting it done. His gaze hung on a woman on foot and better dressed than the rest, her face half hidden by a sopping bonnet. Something about her—something like Mae—rattled. As she walked past she turned the full force of her gaze on him. Her face was set like granite, loathing in every line. When she stumbled on her dragging hemline, she snatched her skirts up in fisted hands and kept walking. For a trice she seemed as stunned to see him as he her.
Coralie Bohannon.
Somewhere near was Lieutenant Eben Gibbs, he’d wager, if he’d not been felled in battle. Did she know about James? Rather, did she even care? Did Jon, wherever he was in the throng, recognize Coralie too?
The end of the procession neared, the sound of so many shuffling steps something he’d never forget. He took a deep breath as wind gusted from the northeast and muffled the sudden crack of musket fire. Turning toward the sound, he felt something hard and sharp buckle his knees and send him to the ground. A blinding, breathless burning made him cry out as his riflemen surroundedhim. Screams erupted from the women and children still passing by, some scattering in fear of continued fire.
Sprawled upon the ground, Rhys looked down and saw the brown of his breeches redden, the mounting pain making him grind his jaw. A hubbub ensued and someone shouted for a surgeon, but it was a single winsome image that cut through his shock before his world went black.
Mae.
forty-eight
The buffalo, elk, deer, bear, panther, wildcat, wolf, fox, beaver, otter ... were abundantly plentiful.
Simon Kercheval, on the Shenandoah Valley
Breathless and disbelieving, Mae reached a rise overlooking the Shenandoah, a great bowl of a valley rimmed by mountains that were a peculiar shade of blue. She’d nearly despaired of ever seeing it, but here they stood, having come through a high gap. She literally stood on the cusp of her new home and life. New York and Jersey seemed a world away, if not their raw memories. Even the usually practical Lucy seemed overcome. Despite frequent stays at ordinaries, the both of them were weary, wrinkled, and emotional.
“Just a few miles more,” Lucy said.
“Is there an ordinary near where we could stop first?” Mae looked down at her muddy skirts and begrimed hands. “Mightn’t morning be a better time to ... um, arrive on my in-laws’ doorstep? They don’t even know I’m coming, and it will be quite a shock.”
Dusk was drawing in, not as cold and damp as in the north, but still calling for a warm hearth or a hot toddy. They’d ridden especially hard of late, finally ferrying across the south fork of the Shenandoah River. Even the horses were beleaguered.
Turning away from the view, Lucy finally said, “There’s a decent place not far from here. We’ve plenty of coin left to see it done.”
Plenty of coin.If not for Rhys’s foresight ... Mae felt stark relief as they rode past scattered farms to a two-story log structure puffing smoke. Once The King’s Arms, it now boasted “Rebel Arms” on its trade sign. They dismounted and a stable hand saw to their horses while they went inside the crowded but clean ordinary.
The rest of the day dwindled as they ate, and Mae made use of the hot water provided, ridding herself of every speck of filth and thoroughly cleaning her hair, which had been wadded into an untidy bun for weeks. She laid out a clean if wrinkled chintz gown, hoping it wasn’t too fancy. Lastly she washed her mother’s shawl and let it dry by the fire, though it was still damp the next morning when she wrapped herself up in it again.
Revived if still skittish, she and Lucy took to the trail for the last time. Fog whitened the valley floor, wrapping round flaming maples and golden oaks like a tattered coverlet that bespoke November. Following a deer path that branched off the main road into dense woods, Lucy led while Petey trotted between them.
This wasn’t the way she’d intended to meet her new family. Her dream had been to appear alongside Rhys, triumphant, the war won.
What could she possibly say?
Good morning, I’m Mrs. Harlow. Ihaven’t any idea if Rhys lived through October’s New York battles or if he’s wounded,sick, orimprisoned. When I last saw him we quarreled and never spoke again. He may not return home,but here I am,carrying his child, and feel Virginia is where Ishould be.
