“Is there an understanding between you?”
“If you mean, do we hope to wed once the war is won, yes,” Mae told her with far more joy than certainty.
“I only wish your dear parents were here to witness it, God rest them. Your general must be rather extraordinary to have captured your attention.”
Mae kissed her parchment-paper cheek. “I shall tell you more in the morning.”
The next morning, General Washington showed no sign of having danced half the night. Rhys resisted a yawn as he stood in the commander’s office awaiting orders. A number of other bloodshot-eyed officers filled the chamber, where maps covered tables along with troop rosters, military correspondence, and an abundance of paper, quill pens, and inkwells. A cheerful fire burned in the hearth, occasionally sending a puff of smoke into the room when the spring wind gusted.
Rhys had spent what little remained of the night after the ball reliving the linen closet. What had been said. Proposed. Weighing the past with the present. Did Bronwyn regret her and Micah’s decision to postpone their wedding? He recalled they’d considered marrying before Micah enlisted.
What had Mae said?“Why not make the most of the hour given us?”
“...If any man in action shall presume to skulk, hide himself, or retreat from the enemy, without the orders of his commanding officer, he will be instantly shot down as an example of cowardice.”
Rhys yanked his thoughts back from Mae to the present. Washington was looking straight at him, his gaze ironclad, his legendary temper taut. Fortunately, his riflemen were not among the cowards Washington railed against.
“Harlow, if we hear of the enemy’s advance, you and your men will go out and continue scouting, flanking, and harassing their rear guards.”
Rhys nodded, knowing they must be able to march at a moment’s notice. Everything depended on the enemy’s movements and the intelligence arriving more than hourly of late. Spies were thick as gnats, and Washington placed great stock in intelligence. His own spy web was sticky and extensive.
Washington continued, “Keep the enemy’s fear of you alive even as you and your men continue to be fearless. British officers taking ship for America are being warned to put their affairs in order lest they encounter American riflemen. Your unerring ability to hit an object incites terror among the Hessians especially.”
Yet many British called their methods dishonorable—this skirmishing with and targeting British officers and their Indian guides. Though the enemy had their own rifle corps, they lacked the rebel’s deadly accurate long rifles.
“I’m awaiting word of troop movements in Jersey as well as enemy activity in New York,” Washington said. “The latest dispatches will determine our next campaign.”
“I would propose, sir,” Colonel Finley said, “that if we’re to go north, the Rifle Corps would best serve by leading the advance.”
Washington looked about the room. “What say the rest of you?”
Rhys had grown used to Washington’s tactics during councils of war. He was adept at presenting ideas and inviting argumentand opinion among his foremost officers, thereby arriving on the best course of action. He was decisive yet willing to consider all viewpoints till he issued an order. He lived by the Scripture “Where no counsel is, the people fall: but in the multitude of counsellors there is safety.”
Rhys gave his own opinion about the matter as the clock ticked toward noon. At last the meeting ended with the arrival of the Frenchman de Rayneval. Leaving Arnold Tavern, Rhys set his sights on the silversmith down the street.
The sign of the crown and three pearls on Market Street was easily seen. Once Rhys was inside, the jeweler’s shop made a muddle of a determined man. Medals, buckles, buttons, thimbles, broaches, and chains shone about the shadowed interior. Plenty of pinchbeck—faux jewelry—abounded but failed to impress. Mourning rings beckoned, adding a melancholy note to an otherwise joyously decisive moment.
“What do you buy, sir?” the jeweler asked, spectacles perched on the end of his thin nose.
Rhys continued to peruse all the wares inside a glass case. “A wedding ring.”
“Ah. Over here by the watches.”
Along a far wall was an astonishing selection for so small a village. Smuggled goods? Rhys’s attention caught on a plain gold band with a small but glittering rose-cut diamond.
“You have a discerning eye, sir. This piece makes paupers of the rest.” The jeweler reached into the case and took out the ring. “Imported in the last vessel from London before ports closed.” As Rhys examined it, he added, “I’m also taking bespoke orders if nothing in stock suits, but ’twill likely be contraband, understand.”
“The rose-cut band will do.” Rhys didn’t flinch at the price. He could afford it but didn’t dare lose such a treasure.
Now, would Mae like it?
A warm April wind blew through Lowantica Valley’s woods. Rhys sat in a pool of sunlight, cleaning his rifle outside his cabin, the ring in his pocket.
Opposite him sat Sperry whittling a pipe, wood shavings at his feet. “Seems like we’ve been shut up here four score and ten years. I’m more than ready to march even if it means battle.”
“May, to my reckoning,” Rhys replied.
“A month from now?” Sperry held the knife aloft. “For certain?”
