Already Mae’s body ached, and it was but the first day. Her tenderest concern was how the baby fared. But she wouldn’t complain. She would hope. Pray. Some things you just had to get through. Pondering trouble overmuch spawned a hundred fresh fears.
“With Petey between us we’ll try to keep warm.” Lucy handed Mae a thin blanket, put the little dog beside her, and rolled up in her own. “At least this rock ledge will keep the dew off.”
“What do you think is happening behind us—at the twin forts?”
Lucy worried her bottom lip. “There’s no doubt the British were at hand when we fled.”
Mae wondered about the youngest drummer, Nathan Futrell. She’d seen him standing on the parade ground at the last. By now both garrisons were riven with the British. Would the Americans stand firm or would they fall?
Rather, had Coralie’s duplicity contributed to any of it?
Amid the night noises, they eventually slept, Lucy’s slight snore drowned out by the hoot of an owl and a chill night wind.
Toward dawn, Petey roused them, pulling at Lucy’s blanket like a pup. She was first on her feet, producing Rhys’s guns.
“Take this pistol. That way we’ll both have one.” Lucy examined hers like a soldier. “It’s loaded, so have a care.”
Mae took the weapon, hiding her reluctance. It lay cold and heavy in her hand, making her miss the gloves she’d mistakenly left behind at the fort.
“Good thing General Harlow gave us these pommel holsters.” Lucy showed her how to place her pistol in the leather attached tothe saddle on one side of Orion’s neck. “You can draw it quick if you have to. I’ll do the same. It’s not only the enemy we’re chary of but cougars and wolves and the like.”
And snakes, Mae thought. Like the timber rattler Coralie had seen on the trail coming here.
forty-five
General Howe is certainly gone to New York, unless the whole is a scheme to amuse and surprise.
General John Cadwalader
The Continentals remained at Freeman’s Farm. Both Burgoyne and his troops and Gates and his Americans were entrenched above the Hudson River’s west bank, recovering and awaiting reinforcements ahead of their next engagement.
Though time hung heavy on his hands, Rhys was never idle, drilling his ablest men, visiting the injured, reorganizing and replenishing ammunition. He knew Burgoyne was growing desperate even before reports said the same. Outnumbered and ill-supplied, he would soon be forced to advance or retreat.
Drenching rains, frosty nights, and half rations failed to dim the American spirit. The Continentals were camped close to the British, their merriment heard far and wide. Their sentries soon complained about the revelry lest they fail to hear above the noise and give a warning should the British strike. General Gates ordered an earlier curfew at once, then called for a few of his officers.
At the summons, Rhys fell into step with Jon. They’d already discussed what might happen in the coming days. Now that seemed to be at hand. Would it take him nearer to Mae?
“Come in,” the general told them, clearly in command inside the marquee-style tent. Aides and officers came and went as he gestured for the two to be seated across from a large table burdened with maps and charts and field glasses and more. “I trust you’ve recovered from the last action and can be sent further afield.”
Rhys nodded while Jon uttered, “Aye.”
“We’ve received a report that the twin forts are in need of reinforcements, especially given fresh intelligence that the enemy does indeed plan to come upriver just as Burgoyne came down.” Gates retrieved a paper and perused it for a quiet moment. “I want you to take fifty of your ablest riflemen, Harlow, and a company of Bohannon’s militia there. Leave as soon as you’re able and be extra vigilant, given we expect the enemy will attempt to land troops south of here ahead of a strike on both Montgomery and Clinton. You’ll proceed by water for speed’s sake.”
Further orders were given, including letters to both forts’ commanders, and within an hour Rhys had his riflemen at the river’s edge as Jon’s militia joined them. The journey aboard the bateaux proved silent and somber. Alert to Loyalist militias and Indian allies, even British blockades the farther south they traveled, Rhys prayed there’d be no storm as a damp northerly wind pushed them along, recent rains swelling the banks.
Rather than the dust and blue skies that had seen them to Fort Montgomery in spring, all was mud and damp. River travel was slow, even hazardous, in the best of conditions. They had to sleep in snatches, eat, pay heed to the banks for any sign of the enemy.
The farther south they came, the clearer the memory of Mae was. The way they’d faced off inside their quarters—the hard looks and shouted words—had lingered and festered the time they’d been apart, his high regard of her tainted by her sister’s actions. Coralie’s deceit seemed to undermine their marital bond and makehim question everything. He had thought Mae trustworthy. Loyal. Above reproach.
Didn’t she realize the depth of his dedication to the cause? His willingness to be branded a rebel and die for independence?
As they neared Bear Mountain, he smelled smoke. Campfires? Something seemed different and he tensed, signaling his men to be extra vigilant. His gaze raked the bluff where Fort Montgomery’s ramparts once impaled the sky. For a trice his mind roared with denial even as his gut roiled. No ramparts nor bastions. No sign of any Continentals atop the bluff or patrolling the riverbank below.
They landed at the undisturbed bridge across Popolopen Creek, then began the upward climb through familiar woods that seemed strangely empty yet heavily trod. Heart heavy, Rhys went at a half run, slipping on the mud and nearly falling backward as a gnawing need propelled him forward.
The bitter, charred smell, mingled with the overpowering stench of decay, grew stronger the closer he came. Once he was atop the bluff, the destroyed fort was in blackened relief in front of him, a tangle of burned beams and twisted timber, the destruction total. Countless fallen Continentals lay everywhere he looked. Fort Clinton across Popolopen Creek was the same.
He stood inside the main gates as riflemen and militia fanned out around him, some moving toward what had been the parade ground and Grand Battery, its stone foundations visible. Walking the fort’s perimeter, Rhys grappled with the horror of finding Mae among the fallen, which made him want to retch.
