“Amanda, Patrick Henry has been branded a rebel.” He hesitated briefly. “And so have I,” he continued very quietly. “I suspect that within a number of days there might well be an arrest warrant out for me.”
“Oh, no!” Amanda gasped. She stared at him, her husband, tall, dark, striking and ever commanding, and in that moment she didn’t care about the world. England could rot, and Virginia could melt into the sea, she did not care. “Oh, Eric!” she cried his name, and flew across the room, hurtling herself against him. He caught her in his arms and held her tight.
There were no more words between them. He carried her upstairs, and he made love to her gently and with tenderness. With that same tenderness he held her against the night, brushing a kiss against her forehead as the dawn broke.
His eyes were dark and serious as they searched hers. He lay half atop her, smoothing her hair from her forehead.
“Men are already beginning to return to England. Loyalists who believe that this breech cannot possibly be closed again. I ask you, Amanda, do you stay with me of your own accord?”
“Yes! Yes!” she told him, burying her face against his throat. “Yes, I will stay with you.”
He held her in silence. “Do you stay for me, or for England?”
“What?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. I am a man labeled rebel for a moment, not that I think that Dunmore has the power to do anything about it. There are very long days ahead of us.” He was silent again. “Long years,” he whispered. “Come, love. A rebel dare not lie about too long. I’ve much I would get done about here in case—”
“In case?” she demanded anxiously.
His eyes found hers again. “In case I should have to leave quickly.”
XIII
By the end of the week, Eric and Amanda stood on the dock and waved good-bye as some of their friends and neighbors—some of them bearing the Cameron name—set sail for England. Amanda cried softly, but though Eric said nothing, he felt the sense of loss keenly himself.
He did not have to worry about Governor Dunmore’s branding of him as a rebel. Dunmore had fled the governor’s palace and was trying to administer the government of Virginia from the decks of the naval shipFowey, out in the James River.
Lord Tarryton, Anne, and their newborn daughter went with him. Amanda heard nothing from her father, and so she assumed that he, too, had fled.
Amanda worried endlessly, because Eric discovered that Damien was in Massachusetts, and he had been there at Concord and at Lexington. The Massachusetts men had played a cunning game with the British. In Boston, they had arranged a signal to warn the people when the British tried to come inland to seize their arms. Lanterns were hung in the Old North Church:—“one if by land, two if by sea.” The printer Paul Revere had ridden hard into the night to give the warning. Midway through the journey, he had been stopped by soldiers, but the cry was taken up by a friend and the men were forewarned. Shots were fired on April 19, 1775, and many felt the revolution was thus engaged.
In the days that followed, Eric was seldom with Amanda. He had been asked to raise militia troops, and he was doing so. News trickled back to the colonials from Philadelphia where the Continental Congress sat. George Washington had been appointed general of the Continental forces, and he had been sent to Massachusetts to take charge of the American troops surrounding the city of Boston. It was rumored that British troops were about to march on New York City. Most members of Congress had been escorted by large parties of armed men—to protect them from the possibility of arrest. Ethan Allen, commissioned by Connecticut, and Benedict Arnold, authorized by Massachusetts, had marched on Fort Ticonderoga. The British garrison, caught by surprise, had capitulated immediately. Congress had been elated to hear tales that the Brits had been so surprised that they had not had time to don their breeches.
The fort was very important, Eric explained to Amanda, because it commanded the gateway from Canada. It was vital to the control of Lake Champlain and Lake George, principal routes to the thirteen colonies.
In June a battle was fought at Bunker Hill. The people were vastly cheered, it was rumored, because the colonial forces had met the British—and they had held their own. Defeated only because they had run out of ammunition, they had fought bravely and gallantly, even if they were rough and ragtag.
On July 3, on Cambridge Common, George Washington took command of the forces, and the Continental Army was born.
By the end of August Virginia’s leaders had returned from Philadelphia. Patrick Henry appeared at Cameron Hall, and when Amanda saw him, she knew that things had really come to a head. Henry had been commissioned the colonel of the of the first Virginia regiment, and as such, he was commander-in-chief of the colony’s forces.
He met with Eric alone in the parlor. When Amanda saw him leave the house, she tore down the stairs. She found Eric standing before the fire, his hands folded behind his back, his expression grave as he watched the flames.
He did not turn around, but he knew that she was there. “George has asked that I come to Boston. Congress has offered me a commission, and I am afraid that I must go.”
No…
The word formed in her heart but did not come to Amanda’s lips. He was going to accept the commission and go, and she knew it.
She turned around and fled up the stairway, then threw herself on the bed. She didn’t want him to go. She was afraid as she had never been afraid before.
She had not realized that he had followed her until she felt his hands upon her shoulders, turning her to him. He touched the dampness that lay upon her cheek, and he rubbed his finger and thumb together, as if awed by the feel of her tears.
“Can this be for me?” he asked her.
“Oh, stop it, Eric! Please, for the love of God!” she begged him.
He smiled, handsomely, ruefully, and he lay beside her, wrapping her within his arms.
