***
Bethie heard the blast of another cannon being fired, wished for the thousandth time she knew what was happening. The battle had raged all night—artillery blasts, gunfire, drums, and shouting punctuated by silence. Somehow Isabelle had slept through it, unaware in her innocence that their lives were in danger. But Bethie had paced the room all night, praying that Nicholas would be safe, that no lives would be lost, that the Indians would give up and leave them in peace.
But it was well past noon, and judging from the gun and cannon fire, the fighting was growing fiercer. She’d opened the door twice, hoping to be able to see Nicholas on the ramparts, to know for certain he was unhurt, but the sight of spent arrows, their darts buried in the soil only footsteps away, had convinced her not to step outside. So she had stood in the open doorway, breathed air heavy with the smell of sulfur and smoke, watched British regulars hurrying across the parade ground on some unknown errand.
Her only word of the battle had come from Private Fitchie, who had come by once just before noon to check on her, his young face covered with sweat and lined with fatigue. “Sergeant Harmon got shot through the lungs, and one of the grenadiers was shot through the leg, but none of ours have been killed today, mistress. One of theirs got blown in two by a cannon ball.”
“Have you seen Nicholas?”
“Aye, mistress. He’s up there in the thick of it.” Private Fitchie had pointed over the rooftop to the ramparts directly behind her.
In the thick of it?Bethie hadn’t liked the sound of that at all. “How goes the battle?”
“The enemy are hidin’ along the riverbank, close enough to get their arrows over the wall. But Master Kenleigh and Paddy are flushin’ them out.”
“Paddy?”
“Aye, Paddy. He’s our man of straw. The soldiers pass him up and down the curtain wall, hold him up on a pole where the Indians can see him. When the Indians break cover to shoot at poor Paddy, Nicholas and the other marksmen pick them off. It’s my job to keep the men supplied with powder and balls.”
He’d looked so young in that moment, both afraid and proud. Bethie had leaned out of the doorway, given him a kiss on the cheek. “Be safe, Private Fitchie.”
He’d flushed scarlet, but she’d seen a smile on his face as he’d hurried away.
Afternoon stretched into evening, and still the fighting did not lessen. Bethie sang to Belle, paced the floor with her, played with her on the bed, and had just finished nursing her to sleep when she smelled it: smoke. At first, she’d thought it was just the scent of the battle carried on a breeze. But then it grew stronger. She was about to open the door to see what was burning, when the door flew open and Nicholas stepped inside.
His face was wet with sweat and streaked with the black of gunpowder. She could tell he hadn’t slept.
“Nicholas!” She ran to him, threw her arms around him.
He kissed the top of her head, gave her a squeeze. “There isn’t time, Bethie. Be ready to flee the building.”
“Wh-what?”
Outside the door, several flaming arrows landed with a hiss and a thud in the dirt.
“They’re firing lit arrows over the wall, and both this barracks and the captain’s house have been hit several times. So far we’ve been able to douse the fires from the ramparts, but I want you to be ready to flee should the need arise. We’ve evacuated the upper floor, but I think you’re safer for the moment where you are.”
Outside the door, Bethie saw women hurrying to the wells with buckets. “I could help to carry water.”
Nicholas understood her need to help, used the best argument he had to dissuade her. “No, love. Isabelle needs you. What would happen to her if you were hurt or killed?”
What would happen to me?
He thought the words, but he didn’t say them.
“If I can help in no other way, then let me at least give you something to eat and drink.” She pulled away from him, hurried to the table, where she saw one of his leather pouches near the water bucket. Quickly she dipped his cup into the water and pulled a chunk of pemmican from the pouch. “Drink, and take this with you.”
Suddenly the hours of fighting began to tell. Nicholas stood beside the table, drank his fill, took several bites of pemmican, gave a groan of pleasure when Bethie touched a cold, wet cloth to his face and throat. “You know how to make a man feel almost grateful to have been in battle, Bethie, love.”
She smiled, a fragile smile that did not hide her worry. “If you can stay awhile, I have ways of makin’ you feel even more grateful.”
He could tell from the purple shadows beneath her eyes that she hadn’t slept well, if at all. He bent down, tilted her chin up toward him, kissed her. “I bet you do, and I can’t tell you how much I’d love to see what you have in mind. But I need to get back. I just came to warn you in case you need to flee. Be ready.”
In truth, anyone could have warned her of the fire danger. But he’d wanted to see her, needed to see her. Now that they’d had to put out fires on the rooftops several times, Écuyer understood the danger of allowing the Indians to remain in the cover of the Monongahela bank. At the captain’s request, a dozen militiamen had volunteered to make one quick grenade strike from the west ravelin. As soon as it was dark, Nicholas would lead them out.
“I’d best return to my post.” He kissed her nose, forced himself to let her go.
As he turned away, she called after him. “Nicholas, please be safe!”
