She took a bite of cake. “If I’m to ride Orion I’ve packed what’s needed in saddlebags. My trunk can come later by wagon.”
“I want you to be comfortable, as comfortable as possible. Living at a garrison, even a new one, is sure to come as a shock.”
“I want to be of use, of service.”
“Keep sewing, then. There’s always a lack of the most basic of garments.”
“Is there enough linen and supplies?”
“Hard to come by, though I’ve asked the quartermaster to save some cloth, even needles and thread, with you in mind.”
Were the Liberty Ladies still plying their needles now that the army had left? Mae’s attention returned to the rumpled bed and all its implications. Perhaps she’d soon be sewing more than soldiers’ shirts. She felt both a thrill and a chill at whatever lay before them.
At their leaving, she promised to visit Joanna and the children as much as she could. Coralie turned tearful, though Mae felt nothing but relief that she’d remain behind at the farm.
“Please send word when you receive a post from Lieutenant Gibbs,” she said in parting.
But Coralie just crossed her arms and said nothing in reply, her expression a strange mix of ire and sorrow.
Huzzahs erupted as the newlyweds passed through Fort Montgomery’s open gates. General Clinton himself left his headquarters and crossed the expansive parade ground to greet them as Rhys helped Mae dismount. The sense she’d stepped into another world deepened as the tattoo sounded, the drum that signaled the end of the day. Roll call ensued and sentinels were posted. Scouts were sent out and lanterns lit.
Rhys’s newly finished barracks still smelled of sawdust, the room holding few furnishings, making the dower house seem almost luxurious in comparison. Mae was glad she’d brought little with her from Chatham, her wedding gown stored away at the farm for another occasion. She did carry the books, presenting them to Rhys as a sort of wedding gift, and was pleased when he placed them on the mantel.
After evening devotions, they lay down and Rhys slept, but the novelty of the hour kept her awake as she adjusted to a narrower bed and the man beside her. Chatham had had its own distinct night sounds. The bark of a dog. Laughter from the tavern. The passing of a cart or horse. But here, where hundreds of soldiers were garrisoned, the expansive fort never seemed to rest. Doors opened and closed. Voices murmured. A distant wolf howled, followed by the deep-bodied hoot of an owl. She fancied she heard the river’s rush far below.
Reveille woke them. Heat filled the one-windowed room like a woolen blanket, so she chose her lightest linen dress. Breakfast wasa hasty affair of toast and tea at their spark of a fire, which had no business being lit given the weather. Already the yeasty aroma of the fort’s beehive ovens competed with the roasting of coffee beans. Fort Montgomery was wide awake.
As Rhys resumed his duties, Mae tried to be as useful yet as unobtrusive as possible. Walking discreetly around the hive of a garrison amid all manner of soldiery proved a challenge as she familiarized herself. Barracks, officers’ quarters, storage buildings, and magazines for ammunition spread across acres. A blacksmith made continual noise, but the stables were kept well away from the din of his hammering and forging, the officers’ horses corralled at the opposite end. Orion was hobbled and left to graze in the near woods, awaiting Jon to return him to the farm.
As Mae rounded a corner of the fort one afternoon, she spied Lucy by the well. Mae approached her as she wound the creaking handle and brought the full bucket to the top, its wet sides shimmering in the summery light.
Lucy looked up, startled, then smiled. “Miss Bohan—Mrs. Harlow.”
Mae smiled back at her. Would the delight of her married name ever fade? “Just Mae, please.”
“All right. Where you headed?”
“I don’t rightly know. I’m just trying to get my bearings. How about you?”
They fell into step together, walking toward the fort’s open postern gates.
“Me and Isham and Petey live outside fort walls on what’s called Sutler’s Row,” Lucy explained. “We only come inside these pickets if the danger’s high.”
They continued through the trees toward tents and makeshift shelters stretched in long rows beneath oaks and elms and maples. Crowded and industrious and colorful.
“You can get whatever you’re lacking out here,” Lucy said.“We’ve sutlers and tinkers, trappers and traders, a cobbler and tailor, carpenters, and farm folk selling garden sass, even an old woman to tell your fortune.”
Children and dogs ran about, even a squealing piglet and squawking chickens. Mae’s attention turned to a break in the trees. Half a dozen Indians approached the fort, their garments a medley of buckskin and Continental linen and wool. One wore a black cocked hat dripping with vibrant beads and feathers. A chief?
“American allies?” she asked Lucy, who nodded.
“Oneida—or, as they say, Onyota’aka.”
Mae repeated the unfamiliar word beneath her breath, finding it hard to look away till she stopped to admire handkerchiefs both plain and patterned strung on a line. She settled on one with embroidered indigo stars for Rhys. Lucy’s workmanship? Mae plucked coins from her pocket.
“Thank you kindly.” Lucy gestured to the flagpole inside the fort’s pickets, clearly the inspiration for the design. The faded flag bore red and white stripes with thirteen white-pointed stars in a circle. “General Clinton’s flying the American colors outside his quarters.” They’d reached the end of a long row where a lone tent stood. “This here’s mine and Isham’s. Only he’s fevered and in the field hospital.”
Mae looked at her in concern. “How sick is he?”
