Mae cried harder. “How did you know?”
“You’re rarely weepy or sick to your stomach. And now you’re both.”
Mae blew her nose, a horrid sound that made her feel all the uglier. “I’ve not told anyone about the baby but the general.”
“Well, glad I am there’s that betwixt you. It’ll help mend the rift.”
“I don’t want him to forgive me because of the baby. I want him to forgive me because...” Mae couldn’t grasp the right words.Because he loves me. Trusts me. Because he believes I didn’t think to harm himor the fight.
“He’ll come round.” Lucy patted her shoulder as Petey looked on. “He just lost his head for the moment.”
“I’ve never seen him so angry.” The memory made her shudder. “In fact, I’ve never seen him angry at all.”
“Isham has.” Lucy’s full lips twitched. Whether grimace or grin, Mae didn’t know. “And ’tis not a pretty sight.”
“What’s more, he has reason to be angry with me. I fear he’ll never trust me again.”
“You meant no harm. That I know full well.”
“I should have told him back in Chatham.” Mae took a seat at the table. “I’ll regret that to the day I die.”
“There’s spies aplenty from here to Georgia, though I think it goes harder when one’s your sister.” Lucy sat down across from Mae. “But it’s wrong to judge her harshly for where her loyalties lie. She’s not a criminal. She’s a Loyalist. She feels you—all of us—are committing treason and she wants to stop it.”
Mae dried her tears. “Nor are we criminals, just people who want to live free and independent of England.”
“But in the end only one side will win.”
Mae stared at the cocked hat Rhys had left hanging from a wall peg, the colorful cockade she’d made faded by the sun. “Worst ofall is wondering if I’ll ever see him again. I might not have a chance to make amends.”
Thatwas unendurable. If he sickened or had an accident or fell in battle, would their heated row be her last memory of him?
In the September forenoon, Rhys stood with other American officers atop a wind-blasted bluff along the Hudson River behind defenses thick with artillery, twenty-two cannons extending a mile. The Continental Army’s nearly nine thousand men, including his own, ranged over a large area. Save the river, dense woods surrounded them on every side, a single rutted road all that allowed passage from north to south.
The morning’s scouting reports were clear. Burgoyne and eight thousand men were advancing to attack, sending General Benedict Arnold into a fighting frenzy.
“Burgoyne has sent out a reconnaissance to test our defenses,” Arnold told General Gates as he joined them on the bluff. “General Fraser and Baron Riedesel and his Germans are at the forefront a few miles from here. There’s no time to delay.”
Gates nodded. “They’re approaching Freeman’s Farm in three columns, according to the latest reports. The left flank is led by Riedesel along the river, the right by Fraser inland through the woods, and the middle by Burgoyne himself.”
“Then they’ll meet with General Harlow’s riflemen and the Mohicans.” Arnold looked at Rhys. “Take to the woods and cause confusion in their ranks. Don’t allow Burgoyne to advance through the farm’s clearing. His aim is to break through American lines here and proceed on to Albany.”
Rhys raised a hand and turned north. Several hundred of his riflemen followed on foot, their faces set with purpose. This would be the last he’d see of some of them, but there was no time to be wasted. No time for mawkish thoughts.
“Scour the woods.”
His terse command dispersed the elite corps and their Indian allies into dense trees, their rifles ready. He gave a last hard look at Private Hawkes. The man was hardly as wide as his snare drum, its leather strap encircling one thin shoulder, his brown woolen coat wrinkled and bloodstained. Painted on the instrument was an American rattlesnake and “Don’t Tread on Me.” The hickory sticks in Hawkes’s tanned hands began a tight cadence communicating Rhys’s commands. For now, the drummer would stay above the fray on the hillside.
Rhys led, the dry woods and uneven terrain a cauldron of color and confusion sure to slow the British’s advance guard as they approached Freeman’s Farm. They stirred the dust of the road three men abreast, their own drums sounding at the center of the formation. Their foolish line fighting did them no favors. In their flaming red coats, they made as bright a target as Virginia’s cardinals.
At the crack of his rifle a hundred more weapons followed, dropping redcoated officers from their saddles onto the hard ground. Choking smoke whitened the air as the first British column began to break under such an intense surprise attack. Some regulars bolted toward the woods for cover while wounded and dying men cried out, their orderly ranks bedlam.
Rhys reloaded again and again, moving through the underbrush at will, aiming again and again, refusing to dwell on the fact that this unknown enemy had a name, a face, a family. Heads split like melons. Chests burst with blood. He’d never know who he brought to a final, fatal end. He only knew his own dead.
Kill or be killed.
Bedeviled by a swarm of flies, he stumbled, and his moccasin caught on a tangle of mountain laurel. Nay, one of his own. A body lay face down beneath the sprawling bush, the listless hand gripping his rifle. John Skelly. Steeling himself against the regret of it, Rhys kept moving, leaping over brush and rocks and a creek, firing and reloading as he went. Finally he realized the British light infantry had nearly routed them.
“We’ve been outflanked from the west!” he shouted as his men scattered.
