“When will it be, by your reckoning?”
“Early spring, perhaps.”
“You’re well. Strong. You were meant to be a mother.”
A sigh. “I’m actually quite unwell at the moment.”
A commotion on the bluff above brought them to their feet. The washerwomen were coming downhill, baskets on hips, singing a familiar tune.
“Let tyrants shake their iron rod,
And Slav’ry clank her galling chains,
We fear them not, we trust in God,
New England’s God forever reigns.”
Mae was certain Coralie wasn’t singing along. How galling did she find their show of patriotism?
Rhys touched her cheek, and she looked back at him. “I have a report to give Clinton. Then I’ll head to our quarters and break my fast with you there—if you can manage it.”
“I’ll fix you a fine breakfast.”
“Have some mint tea first.”
Once all the laundresses were on the riverbank, Mae and Rhys started up the hill. Coralie raised a hand after setting her load near a washtub. Mae waved back in reply, having seen little of her in recent days. She’d seemed to settle into the humble routine better than expected, walking round the parade ground in the evening, talking and playing cribbage with other women and soldiers. She’d even ventured onto Sutler’s Row. Rarely did she come to Mae’s quarters.
Dare she hope her sister would find some measure of peace and purpose, after all?
thirty-seven
Every post is honorable in which a man can serve his country.
George Washington
Inside headquarters, General Clinton looked up from the map spread across his desk, anchored with one-pound cannon balls. Rhys entered the room and the aides scattered, leaving them alone.
“Welcome back, Harlow.” Clinton looked haggard, the half-moons beneath his eyes indicative of a commander with too much on his mind. “Good news?”
Rhys hesitated, wanting to report the British were in full retreat. “News, anyway.”
“There’s no slowing Burgoyne’s advance, in other words.”
“They remain at Fort Edward for now, organizing and preparing for the next campaign. It helped that St. Clair crippled Fraser’s troops near Ticonderoga.” Rhys approached the desk, damp hat beneath one arm. “As for us, I’ve returned with all forty of my riflemen, having harassed their patrols and scouts for two days and nights without rest, stalling supply lines and doing whatever mischief we could to those outside Edward’s walls.”
“Word is the British are having considerable trouble with Indian allies since the murder of Jane McCrea.”
Rhys nodded. “Burgoyne has issued orders to restrict their actions. He’s even alienated many Mohawk by trying to make them fight like English soldiers and abide by European military discipline.”
“A Pandora’s box.” Clinton gestured to the map. “Once Burgoyne leaves Edward, how long do you think it will take for the enemy to reach here?”
“The march will be slow and taxing even with fair weather and no opposition.” Rhys traced a finger down the black line of the Hudson. “Their progress is sure to be slowed by terrain and Orange County’s militia patrolling fifteen miles of shoreline.”
“Burgoyne’s numbers?”
“No more than eight thousand.”
“To our eleven thousand spread across the Highlands.” Clinton frowned. “Washington is weighing whether to remain here or move elsewhere.”
