He waved a hand impatiently in the air. “It is only a matter of time before independence and war are proclaimed. Virginia will set herself free before the others, I believe. Death is a fact of life, and very much one of war. If I am killed, care for my lady still, Cassidy, for I love her.”
“Always, milord,” Cassidy assured him, his dark eyes grave and misted.
Eric saluted quickly and rode away toward the fields where the troops were encamped.
He did not turn to look back at the house.
He did not dare. If he saw her face in the window, he would not be able to ride away.
XVI
During the first few days of July, Andrew Lewis took command of the troops gathered on the mainland elevation that fronted Gwynn’s Island, where Dunmore had brought his fleet. Charles Lee had reported him as living caterpillarlike off of the land, stripping it bare, taking everything.
Lewis fired the first shot himself.
It was later reported that the first cannon shot ripped into the governor’s cabin, the second killed three of his crew, and the third wounded Dunmore in the leg and brought his china crashing down upon him.
It was a complete rout. Those who could do so fled. Eric wondered briefly if either Nigel Sterling or Robert Tarryton had been killed or wounded in the fray, but there was no way of knowing. Nor did it matter, he tried to tell himself. The threat was gone.
Or was it?
By night he often lay awake, and when he slept, he kept remembering Amanda’s face and her eyes, and her whispered, desperate words of innocence. She entered into his dreams, and she tortured him. His anger had kept him from listening to her, but now, with Dunmore far from Virginia shores, he wondered if he shouldn’t have listened.
News arrived from South Carolina that was exciting and uplifting to the colonial soldiers—Admiral Sir Peter Parker’s squadron had attacked the palmetto-log fortification on Sullivan’s Island, the key to the harbor defenses at Charleston. Under Colonel William Moultrie, amazing damage was done to the British fleet. The ships limped away, with British general Sir Henry Clinton determined to rejoin Howe at New York.
With Dunmore bested, Eric was due to return to Washington’s side, but he decided to return home instead. There was a slight possibility that Amanda had not sailed as yet. And he was suddenly eager to listen to her again. Desperate. He had said horrible things to her, made horrible accusations, and many had been driven by simple fear and fury.
He rode hard, leaving Frederick in the dust. But when he reached the long drive to the house, his heart sank. Beyond the rise he could see that theGood Earthwas no longer at her berth; Amanda had indeed sailed.
He reached the house and threw open the door anyway, but only Richard and the maids were there to greet him. The house seemed cold and empty in the dead heat of July. He slowly climbed the steps to the gallery, and he felt the emptiness close around him. She had come to be so much a part of the house. The scent of her perfume remained to haunt him, almost like an echo of her voice, a sweet and feminine whisper that taunted and teased. It was best! In France she would be safe—and the colonies would be safe from her!
No words, no logic, mattered. His world was cold, his house was nothing but masonry and brick and wood without her.
“Lord Cameron!”
He swung around and looked down the stairs. Frederick had come bursting into the room. “Lord Cameron! Independence! The Congress has called for independence! A declaration was read in Philadelphia on the sixth day of July, and it’s beginning to appear in the newspapers all over the country! Lord Cameron, we’ve done it! We’ve all done it! We’re free and independent men!”
Aye, they had done it. Eric’s fingers wound around the railing of the gallery balcony as he stared down at the printer. They’d already been fighting over a year, but now it was official. They could never go back now. Never.
They were free.
A fierce trembling shook through him. He was suddenly glad that he had heard it here, in Cameron Hall. Despite the emptiness. He knew again what was so worth fighting for, worth dying for.
He hurried down the stairs. “Richard! Brandy, man, the best in the house! The Congress has acted at last! My God, get the servants, get everyone. A toast! To…freedom!”
Worth fighting for…
By the time Eric returned to New York and Washington’s side, he had come to realize just what the words meant. The British commander Howe had already landed 32,000 troops on Staten Island. Half of the Continental Army of 13,000, under General Putnam, was sent across Long Island. The remaining half remained on Manhattan.
The Battle of Long Island took place on August 27. Howe landed 20,000 of his troops on Long Island between the twenty-second and twenty-fifth of the month, then turned Putnam’s left flank.
Eric rode back and forth between the divisions with intelligence and information. He had never so admired Washington as he did when the general determined to evacuate Long Island. The brilliant operation took place between the twenty-ninth and thirtieth.
It was a bitter fall. In early September, Sergeant Ezra Lee attacked the British fleet in theAmerican Turtle—a one-man submarine created by David Bushnell. The operation was mainly unsuccessful, but theTurtlecreated tremendous alarm and gave a burst of amusement and renewed vigor to the American forces.
But from there, things became ever more grim. On September 12 the Americans decided to abandon New York. On the fifteenth, American troops fled as the British assaulted them across the East River from Brooklyn. On the sixteenth, at the Battle of Harlem Heights, although Washington managed to slow Howe, Washington’s communications were threatened, and he was forced to pull back.
Eric was in George’s tent at the end of the month poring over maps of New York and New Jersey when a message arrived. He watched the general’s face, then he saw the shoulders of his giant friend slump and his face turn ashen. “They have caught my young spy,” he said.
