“I’m missing home, yet it’s ceased to be that for me.” She looked at him entreatingly, near tears. “I’m missing you too, even though you’ve not left yet.”
Her emotional words dwindled as James approached, ready to return to the fort. Bidding them goodbye, she stood and watched them ride out, the entire valley at their back. Wooded hills to the west pressed close, teeming with bears and wildcats and snakes—and capable of hiding the enemy. The river to the east hemmed them in, a formidable crossing. All the frontier raids she’d heard of or read about in newspapers returned in a bloody rush.
What did tomorrow hold?
twenty-six
I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.
Nathan Hale
“Sister, it’s time you learned to fire a gun.”
Mae looked at Jon across the vegetable garden where she’d been gathering, her apron full of herbs. If he’d asked her to jump into the well she’d have been more willing. “Your flintlock?”
“Aye. I have two. One is with me at all times and the other is kept inside.”
“Let me take these herbs to Joanna first.” She hurried to the house and stepped into welcome shade as the early morning promised more heat. By the time she rejoined Jon, he was waiting in the open doorway to the barn, Alexander beside him with his own gun. Her thoughts flew to Rhys, who seemed so at home with his rifle that seeing him without it gave her pause.
Wary, she took the weapon from her brother, wincing at its weight. “I doubt I’m a fair shot.”
Jon chuckled as Alex handed his father a powder horn. “We’ll soon find out.”
“You’ve never handled a gun, Aunt Mae?” Alex asked.
She paused, thrust back to a frigid night and smokehouse thieveswho were now friends. “James showed me how to use Father’s pistol before he left home. But a rifle is another challenge.”
“Welcome to the wilds of New York.”
She tried to smile back at him. “A far cry from Jersey.”
“Ever heard of Margaret Corbin?” Her nephew’s face wore respect. “When her husband fell at Fort Washington last November—I refuse to call it Knyphausen—she took his place at the cannon, loading and firing it against those redcoats till the very last.”
Mae tried to imagine it. “Was she hurt?”
“Badly, aye. But she kept at it even wounded.”
Margaret Corbin’s mettle reminded her of Lucy Hawkes. She sensed that same underlying strength, the ability to withstand whatever life handed her. No doubt Lucy could fire a rifleandman a cannon.
“Mind the weight of the gun,” Jon said, taking it back from her and tipping the muzzle upward. “Hold it like this. I’ll measure out the powder this round, then you’ll do the same next.”
She watched as he poured a small amount of priceless black powder.
“Now, take the lead ball and patch and ram it down the barrel’s length with this ramrod.”
Her clumsy attempts led to her heated cheeks and Alex’s half-hidden grin as he scratched his jaw.
“The flint strikes the steel frizzen and lights the powder,” Jon instructed patiently. “Now cock the hammer.”
She pulled back the hammer as Alex corrected her stance. “Stand with your feet as far apart as your squared shoulders.”
Clearly enjoying the process, Jon gestured to a distant post. “When the gun is firmly in hand, aim at that target over there. Take a breath, then lightly squeeze the trigger.”
She tried to keep the weapon steady as the sun beat upon her head and back and turned her sweaty. One, two, three,pull. The ensuing crack stole her breath as the rifle kicked like a mule andsent her back a step. Jon reached out to steady her as white smoke curled around them with a sharp, sulfurous smell.
“You nearly hit the target, Aunt Mae!” Alex’s pleasure eased her awkwardness somewhat.
“Reload and try again,” Jon told her.
