They set off at a slower pace than when they’d arrived so Trey wouldn’t be jolted more than absolutely necessary. Josh drove while Peter gave directions. Gordon sat in back with Trey and loaded both rifles, then concealed them under the blankets. He could pull one out and shoot quickly, but hoped he wouldn’t have to.
Shortly after they turned onto the main Philadelphia Road, a squad of American soldiers led by a lieutenant stopped the cart and brusquely demanded an explanation of what they were doing so close to the battle lines.
“My wounded friend and I were in the advance guard of sharpshooters,” Peter explained. He indicated his bandaged arm. “I’m no good now, so I was told to take my friend Trey back for medical treatment.”
The young officer peered into the back of the cart, seeing the bloodied bandages. He asked Gordon, “Who are you?”
“A surgeon, George Gordon.” He showed his blistered hands and Americanized his accent. “But I’ve put in time digging fortifications this last week, too.”
The lieutenant accepted that and waved them on. “Best get out of here fast. The City Brigade is holding off the British so far, but if they break . . .”
He shook his head wordlessly, then continued with his patrol. He’d barely noticed Josh, probably considering him a slave and of no account.
As they headed west toward Baltimore, Trey said, “You tried to warn me that war isn’t glamour and glory.”
“Yes, but it’s one of those things that must usually be learned firsthand,” Gordon said. “At least you survived your baptism by fire.”
“So far.” Trey gave a crooked smile. “Were you an officer in the British Army? I heard Miss Callista call you Captain Audley once.”
“I’ve commanded a ship or two, but I’ve never been a formal soldier with a rank and uniform. Obeying orders is not my strong point,” he replied. “But I’ve had to fight for my life more than once. Surviving pirates in the South China Sea is serious combat.”
“Really?” Trey’s eyes opened wide. “That’s not just a story you’re telling to distract me?”
“Entirely true. I’ve fought on other occasions, too. Usually against bandits or pirates. Not fighting for my country, just defending myself and my friends from vicious people who wanted to kill us for whatever reason.”
Trey closed his eyes and was so silent that Gordon thought he must be asleep or unconscious. They were halfway back to the warehouse before he asked in a thin whisper, his eyes still closed, “They say General Ross was a good and honorable man, and I might have killed him. Am I a hero or a villain?”
Gordon laid his hand on Trey’s. “Both. Neither. The hell of war is killing strangers, many of whom are decent, honorable men with friends and family who love them. Ross is such a man. But the British Army has no other officers here who are his equal. With him gone, they may withdraw, or if they attack our fortifications, they may not do as good a job of it. That could save many American lives.”
After another long silence, Trey said, “I thought soldiering would be grand and honorable. Now I don’t think I like it very much.”
“Which proves you’re wise beyond your years. You’ve done your duty. You can take pride in that even if you don’t like what you did.”
“Thank you,” Trey whispered. He said no more on their trip back to the warehouse, but Gordon saw a glint of tears under his eyes.
Being yanked into adulthood wasn’t easy.
Chapter 23
Arranging their defenses was a good distraction for Callie, Molly, and Sarah. Sarah’s energy was still low, but she assured the younger women that she was quite capable of rolling a tobacco barrel into invaders.
Molly’s tanned leather was easily fashioned into a pair of thigh sheaths that would safely conceal the two smallest kitchen knives. Callie felt like a dashing lady pirate when she tied the sheath to her left thigh and practiced swiftly pulling it out from under her skirts.
Sarah dryly asked her not to kill anyone with the knife because she wouldn’t want to use it in the kitchen after that. Despite the heat, Sarah was making a beef, barley, and vegetable soup that Trey liked, saying it would be strengthening. Even more strengthening would be the grandmotherly love Sarah put into it.
It was hard to ignore the noise of artillery and gunfire sounding in the east, but Callie became somewhat used to it. People really could become accustomed to anything.
Their preparations were complete by dusk. Callie and Molly settled on opposite sides of a lamp, Molly working on her rag rug and Callie altering another secondhand gown. As Callie unpicked a seam, it occurred to her that the two of them were more like sisters than mother and daughter. Being a sister seemed to carry less responsibility than being a mother.
Molly wasn’t much younger than Callie’s smallest sister back in England. Annie had been in leading strings when Callie went to Jamaica. What would she be like now?
She felt a stab of longing for her childhood home. Her father was a bully and probably her next younger sister had betrayed Callie to their father when she’d tried to elope with Richard. But by and large, she got along well with her sisters and little brother. Had they missed her? Would they even remember her after all these years?
CRASH!A thunderous blow on the door yanked Callie from her thoughts. She leaped to her feet as fear lanced through her. Another blow smashed into the door, wrenching it halfway off its hinges. This was it, the menace she’d felt approaching!
After a paralyzed moment, she remembered the pistol. But before she could even leap from her chair, a third blow shattered the door into jagged fragments and three men surged into the sitting room.
And in the lead was her brutal stepson, Henry Newell.
