“Hard to conduct any sort of courtship across enemy lines.”
He said nothing more as one of his riflemen called him away to another matter. She watched him go, thinking how he carried the weight of the entire camp yet his shoulders stayed square, his outlook unwavering.
After supper, James sought her out. “Look for a black bear lying down and you’ll have Bear Mountain,” he said. “Fort Montgomery is below it. Fort Clinton is a bit to the south of Montgomery. Interestingly enough they’re commanded by brothers. General George Clinton and General James Clinton.”
“Rather confusing,” Mae mused. “Isn’t there a British officer named Sir Henry Clinton?”
“Indeed.” James grimaced. “Thatredcoat is in New York City, waiting to join forces with General Burgoyne and capture the Hudson River once he and his men push south from Canada.”
“Are we almost to the twin forts, then?”
“A few miles more, aye.”
Neither she nor Coralie wanted to meet Jon disheveled and dirty, so a well-armed James escorted them downriver where they could bathe in privacy.
“I suppose our arriving alive is Jon’s foremost concern,” Coralie jested, eyes on the bushes and trees nearest the riverbank. “But at least I’ll die clean if we don’t reach him.”
Mae gasped as she stepped into the rushing current, soap in hand. In a quarter of an hour they’d both scoured themselves head to foot, their long hair tangled about their hips. Quickly they brushed each other’s hair into submission after changing into clean garments. And Mae wondered as she took in the wilderness around them, how one could feel gloriously alive yet terrified.
Night was stealing in, only slightly less sultry than day. They returned to camp only to find their drinking water in need of replenishing. Mae went back to the river gladly, for it was much cooler there. She knelt to fill her pail, riflemen milling about with their weapons. When she stood and turned around, she came face-to-face with Lucy Hawkes. Mae hadn’t spoken to her since the march began in Morristown. Lucy kept to the rear of the column like most of the women and children and animals.
“Miss Bohannon.” She held out a hand, something purple atop her palm.
Candied violets? How on earth did she come by them?
“Please, call me Mae.” Overlooking the woman’s soiled hands, Mae set down her water pail to take her offering. “You’re so kind, Lucy.”
“The Jersey woods were bursting with violets. I came by some sugar and made these before we left.”
Mae ate one, a delicious reminder of home. “I’ve yet to thank you properly for your pincushion, the prettiest I’ve ever seen.”
Lucy looked pleased, her sunburned, befreckled face the color of her hair. Had she no hat? Only a plain linen cap covered her disheveled head. “I made it with you in mind.”
“I was in need of one. I’ve brought it with me in my sewing kit.” Mae ate another sweet, saving the rest for Coralie. “You’re not just a seamstress but an artist.”
“My mother put me to shame. She sewed for a fancy Boston woman before they both died of the pox.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Were you just a girl?”
A stoic nod. “After that, Pa and I moved to Virginia to be nearer kin. That’s how I met and married Isham, who’s General Harlow’s drummer. We don’t have our own farm yet but will once we win this war.”
Mae looked around for Lucy’s little mongrel dog, though she was more interested in Isham, whom she’d not seen since that snowy night he and Lucy visited the smokehouse. “Where’s Petey?”
“He hardly leaves Isham’s side, but that might change once we reach Fort Montgomery.” She reached for Mae’s pail and began carrying it back to the wagon where Coralie waited.
“You don’t have to do that.” Embarrassed, Mae followed, but Lucy was well ahead of her, toting the full pail without spilling a drop.
Thanking her, Mae watched her hurry off as if she was well aware of Coralie’s displeasure.
“Why are you keeping company with that tramp?” Coralie asked when Lucy was out of earshot.
Mae handed her the remaining violets before swallowing a long drink of water, hoping it would cool both her temper and her thirst. “Thattramp happens to be the wife of General Harlow’s drummer. She made that lovely pincushion you’ve admired many a time. And she kindly carried our water.”
Coralie ate the candied violets with little enthusiasm. “Why would she?”
“I did her a kindness last winter.” What would her sister’s reaction be if she knew she’d given Lucy their mother’s shawl? “She’s not forgotten.”
“Have a care, Mae.” Coralie frowned. “Your association withher will simply lead the officers’ wives to believe we aren’t any better.”
