“Some are clad in rags.” She blinked back tears, her emotional state as fragile as her physical. “We must sew for them too.”
She looked down at her scarlet cape, her gloved hands fisted in her lap. A black lace veil fell from the hat she wore, obscuring her face. What would General Har—Rhys’s—response be if he saw her unveiled? Revulsion? Even now her gaze scanned the far-flung camp for him, wanting a meeting, wanting to put whatever the moment held behind them and move on with a clear conscience if not an intact heart.
James helped her down as Captain Sperry appeared with a few men she guessed were among the Rifle Corps. At James’s direction, they began unloading the wagon, all of them expressing sincere thanks.
“My Patriot sister and the Liberty Ladies do what they can in Chatham,” James replied as Mae stood by.
But not Coralie.
Mae bit her lip at the flare of resentment over her sister’s Loyalist stance—and then quickly forgot it when a flash of gold caught her eye. Mama’s shawl? She knew it by heart, if not the russet braid snaking down the wearer’s back. The woman’s brilliant hair hadn’t been so apparent that night in the smokehouse and kitchen.
Arms full of firewood, the woman looked back at Mae sharply, recognition dawning on her flushed, befreckled face. “Mercy, I almost didn’t recognize you veiled. I never expected to see you here, Miss...”
“Maebel Bohannon.”
A slight pause. “I’m Lucy Hawkes.”
James looked at them bemusedly as he helped unload blankets. Did he not recognize their mother’s favorite shawl?
Curiosity pushed Mae toward Lucy and out of hearing. “Are you the wife of a soldier?”
“Aye, the one you done met.” Humor sparked in her amber eyes, her smile showing tea-stained teeth. “Most ladies would give me the back of their hand after that.”
“If I was hungry,” Mae said quietly, “I’d head for the first smokehouse too.”
“Why are you hiding?” Lucy asked, concern etched across her features.
Mae hesitated, struck by her forthright question. Lucy was as quick as she was ragged. “I’ve been ill from smallpox ... and am scarred.” The honest admission brought no relief, only continued shame. Sometimes she wished she’d died instead.Thatwas the extent of her vanity.
“Take care, Miss Bohannon,” Lucy said with obvious sympathy as she started to walk away. “There are a great many ailing here the infirmary has no room for.”
“I’m safe from the pox, thankfully.” Mae followed Lucy and held her hem above the mud with one hand while she balanced her hat with the other in the cutting wind.
To her astonishment, ragged, dirty children ran in and out among the temporary shelters, as well as an assortment of dogs, large and small. A tent nearby was Lucy’s abode, a growling mongrel at the entrance in need of a meaty bone.
“Petey won’t hurt you none,” his mistress said. “He’s good company.”
Mae reached out a gloved hand to the little dog as a sudden boom shook the camp and turned their eyes to a smoky ridge.
“Harlow’s Riflemen,” Lucy told her. “Target practice, likely.”
Mae’s heart quickened. Rhys was right there, surely. James was heading uphill, as drawn to the commotion as she was. Mae bidLucy goodbye and began the arduous climb, petticoats catching on brush and brambles as she wound her way over dead wood and uneven ground amid stands of trees, thick and thin.
Looking back as if he’d momentarily forgotten her, James hastened downhill and put a steadying hand on her elbow beneath her cape. “Prepare to be deafened.”
“You said powder is low,” she said, already breathless and weak-kneed from the exertion. “Isn’t this a waste of ammunition?”
“Just one round each, to test supplies and keep the men sharp.”
As they crested the hill the landscape flattened, revealing a firing line. Rhys stood amid men flanking him as he fired at a three-hundred-yard target. Smoke rolled around them as the rifle cracked. Dead center. Instead of applause there was complete silence as he took off as fleet-footed as a deer, the rifle clutched in his right hand.
“What on earth...” she wondered aloud as they watched him disappear.
“The general regularly runs the men through one-mile contests of speed as well as marksmanship, demonstrating how it’s done. Reloading three times in under a minute is the goal.”
Her brows rose. An astonishing feat. “What’s the prize?”
“Extra rations and a second gill of rum.”
