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Copyright 2019 by Diane Parkinson
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
To Katherine Pym, friend, fellow author, who assisted me with the polishing of this manuscript.
Easton, Pennsylvania, 1780
Rowena Marsh flew down the portico steps despite her father’s order to stay inside. She rounded the house. The pungent scent of resin increased when she reached the edge of their field, thirty feet away. The four men in blue rebel coats crowded Father and tore his shirt, stripping him naked to the waist. Two soldiers lifted a bucket of pitch they’d heated in the Marsh’s hearth. They held it high, taunting, “Here’s your punishment, Tory bastard!”
“You will regret this, you devil’s spawn!” Father grimaced and grappled with the two men who’d seized his arms. The others poured the thick pine tar over his head. Father clenched his eyes shut, cried in pain, and spit out the black substance as it coated his face.
Rowena shuddered. Such cruelty used to be beyond her ken, but their neighbors had suffered similar attacks. She picked up her long skirts and rushed toward them. “Stop, please! You’ll injure him mightily.”
As the tar dripped over his body, steaming on his flesh, her father’s yells seared in her brain.
One man dumped out a sack of white feathers. The rebels threw him onto the ground and rolled him in the pile of feathers while he groaned.
“Injure him, Miss? That is our intent.” The tallest man laughed. “You are traitors.”
Rowena confronted them, her breath curdling in her throat. “We’re not the traitors.” She clenched her hands into fists. “Enough, please!” she panted, “Leave us be.”
“Mayhap you’ll be next.” The shortest man lunged at her, his smile a leer. “I’ll take pleasure in tearing off your clothes.”
Rowena jerked back. Anger and terror spiked through her. She turned and ran to the house where their maid, Anne, watched from the open front door. Rowena grabbed the broom clutched in her servant’s hands.
“Don’t do it, Miss,” Anne implored, her plump face creased in distress.
“I must help him. I cannot do nothing.” Rowena wished she’d time to grab a pistol. She whipped about, stumbled back and faced the rebels once more—a rough looking group in tattered uniforms. One man kicked her father where he lay writhing in pain.
She swung the broom, smacking his attacker on the back. The man whirled toward her, his cocked hat falling off. He snatched the handle and yanked it so hard she tripped and fell. Her bottom hit the hard earth and she gasped, skirt and petticoats flipping above her ankles.
“I’ll teach you a lesson, Tory chit.” He raised the broom, his bony face sneering.
She slapped down her clothes and stifled a flinch at what might come. “You’ve already done your damage, sir. Now leave our property.”
Sam, the stable boy, rushed out as if to help her, but Rowena waved him away. He moved back reluctantly.
“Your land will be confiscated,” the soldier declared. “All of your ilk will be chased off.”
“Private, we’re done here. Drop the broom.” A husky man with a bulbous nose stared down at her father, the front corner of his black hat pulled low. The cockade fixed on one side indicated he was an officer. “You’d best leave the colony, Mister Marsh, and grovel back to your King George.”
“No, no,” Father groaned, though his voice stayed firm. “I’m American, too. This is outrageous.”
The private plopped the broom beside Rowena, barely missing her. She dug her fingers into the pebbled ground.
Bulbous-nose glared down at her. “Watch your manners, wench. I could have you shot for striking my man. But you’re young and foolish.”
The four rebels shouldered their muskets and strode off, across the field in their dusty black boots. They’d already ransacked the house for any food they could steal.
Rowena scrambled to her feet and knelt beside her father. Her brown hair escaped her white cap and she swiped the curls aside. Father was coated with the sticky tar, white feathers plastered to his body. He resembled a giant bird. She touched his hot, treacly head and blinked back tears for him. The stench of pine pitch also watered her eyes. “Father, are you in much pain? We must get you into the house. Or rather, the pump.”
He wiped a feathered arm across his mouth, his features scrunched. “Oh, my child, you should have stayed in the house. I’m sorry, blast this burn.” He moaned again, his face a blur of pain. “I regret you must endure such persecution because of me.”
“I believe in our loyalty, too.” Yet was it worth this? The rebels had grown more aggressive, more treacherous.
Anne joined them, her fat cheeks flushed. “Someone needs to scrape the tar off the master. ’Twill not be pleasant.”
“Has anything been pleasant lately?” Rowena, when Sam ran out, helped him help her father to his feet. She sent Anne to the house to fetch soap.
“I’ll take care of it, Miss,” Sam insisted. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
At the pump, Sam set down a stool. Her father slumped onto it. “Ahhh. I knew it might come to this, my ultimate humiliation.”
Rowena gritted her teeth, heart hammering, as she darted her gaze about to make certain the rogues had left. “I’m so sorry; those horrible cowards.”
“Aye, ’tis not right, sir. A cruel act.” Sam, skinny and all of thirteen, primed the pump and filled a bucket full of water. Anne lumbered back out and handed Rowena a soap ball.
The pitch had dried. Sam started to peel the resin from Father’s flesh. Her parent flinched and moaned. Rowena winced and began to pluck out feathers. His skin was red and blistered in places. Fury suffused her.
Father stared up at her, his eyes clouded. “Please, my dear. Spare me more mortification. Return to the house. Take Anne with you.”
* * *
Rowena entered the hall, avoiding slamming the front door. She stared around the main parlor. Scattered broken china covered the maroon Turkey carpet. Before they’d dragged Father outside, the rebels had smashed her mother’s fine porcelain for no reason. A cupboard door, the glass shattered, lay on the floor. She gulped back her despair.
The house still reeked of the men’s sweat and seemed to echo with their nasty laughter. She and Anne opened the windows to let in the mild May air. They’d recently suffered through the coldest winter she’d ever experienced.
She closed her eyes, dragging her fingers through her loosened, unruly curls, her cap askew. “If his valet hadn’t deserted us to join the Continental Army,” her words were bitter, “Father would have proper attendance.”
“’Tis true, Miss.” In clinks and clacks, Anne, a maid-of-all-work with more burdens now, began to sweep up the china pieces. “So many have left us.” Their remaining footman was visiting his sick mother; hopefully, he’d return.
Footsteps on the hall stairs, and Aunt Elizabeth walked up behind her, her full skirts rustling. Her auburn hair was slicked tight under her cap. “Oh! I’m so sorry to see your mother’s dishes damaged. And Robert, how he must suffer. I could hardly stand to glimpse it out my bedroom window. However, you, my girl, should never have gone out there near those vile men.”
“I’m weary of being intimidated in my own home, my own country, just because we’re loyal British citizens.” Rowena kicked one half of a gravy boat decorated in blue flowers. The set was once her mother’s pride.
“That’s not ladylike, dear. We must maintain some decorum.” Her aunt, with her pretty, oval face, the lines faint around blue eyes, tutted. “You’ve already ruined your gown. But then you were always a hoyden. It’s time for you—”
“I care little for being ladylike, Auntie.” Her aunt’s half-oblivious attitude, her hiding in her room, frustrated Rowena; but for her father’s sake she held on to respect though it wore thin. “We’re in grave danger. Many Loyalists have fled. I heard in New Jersey the rebels hanged those they caught.” She fisted her hands, her worry deep for her father. Nevertheless, she’d experienced a sense of worth when she tried to repel the renegades.
Her aunt grimaced at the word ‘hanged.’
“Everything will calm once we’ve won the war.” Aunt Elizabeth’s sweet smile wavered. She pressed her fingers on the worn skirt of her robe à l'anglaise. “Look at my gown. We’ve had little time to visit a seamstress, and fancy material from England is banned.”
“Clothes are not important. Please, can we concentrate on what is transpiring now?” Rowena swallowed a sigh. At seventeen, this wasn’t the life she had envisioned or had been planned. Her mother’s dreams of balls and beaux for her only daughter were supplanted by apprehensions and the struggle to survive.
Five years past her country had shockingly split apart, between the Americans rebels, who called themselves Patriots, and those Americans still loyal to the British, at the battles of Lexington and Concord. The great city of Boston had been in a furor the year before that—affront at taxes and British soldiers shooting the populace.
Her father’s cries drifted in the open window. Rowena cringed.
Unfortunately, there’d been discontent her entire existence between the colonies and faraway England—and nothing was the same since her mother had died two years past.
Rowena’s stomach sank with the familiar anguish of that loss, but there was no time to lament. She crouched and picked up the larger china pieces, all cracked beyond repair.
Out a window she saw Sam helping Father toward the kitchen, a horse blanket draped over his shoulders. Father let out an angry curse.
“Fie. Robert shouldn’t use such language no matter his pain. I hope that now my brother is…cleaned off, the burdock paste soothes his burns.” Aunt Elizabeth shivered as if she was the one who’d been scrubbed down.
“I pray Father isn’t as injured as I fear. Except for his pride.” Rowena went to the window that faced the road and peered around the curtain. Their farm was too quiet, the majority of the livestock stolen on previous raids. How would they manage? She resented that she could not march off to fight like her brothers.
* * *
A half hour later a horse galloped up to the farm house. Rowena hurried from the kitchen where she and Anne had collected the last loose feather tracked in on Father’s and Sam’s shoes. “Not again, no more rebels,” she grumbled. In the rear parlor, she flipped aside the carpet, pulled up a loose floorboard and dragged out Father’s heavy blunderbuss.
The front door opened the moment she skidded into the hall. A man in a soiled frock coat and breeches stood there, wiping sweat from his face. His gaze went to the musket. “Don’t shoot me, cousin. I surrender.”
Rowena lowered the weapon with a huff. “You’re fortunate I did not, you lout.”
James Atherton, Aunt Elizabeth’s son, raised a brow. Tall and lean, with a long face split by a mocking grin, he scrutinized Rowena. “I doubt you know how to use that gun. You should leave firearms to the men. Is everything all right here?”
“It is not. Father was tarred and feathered, and the rebels stole our food and broke my mother’s china.” She pressed the gun’s stock onto the floor.
“I’m most sorry to hear that.” James shook his head. “Egad, that’s terrible about Uncle Robert.”
She fingered the gun’s smooth barrel. “Indeed. And for your information, I know how to fire this blunderbuss quite well.”
With her brothers east, in the army in New York, she figured it was a needed skill. After she’d begged, Father had agreed and instructed her.
James removed his hat as he shut the door. Smelling of hard-ridden horse, he poked a knuckle to Rowena’s cheek. “Is Uncle badly hurt? Is my mother all right?”
“Father is resting in his room. The removal of the sticky pitch hurt as much as the malicious action. As for Aunt Elizabeth, she’s as fine as can be.” Rowena replaced the gun in its hiding place. She returned to the hall. “I hope you brought victuals.”
“I’ll find us food, somewhere. Did they empty the root cellar as well?” He stepped into the parlor, which had been put back in some order. The gaping mahogany china cabinet, the one door propped up beside it, looked forlorn.
“There are wrinkled apples and turnips left. Cook might be able to prepare some sort of meal from them. We’ve stashed away a few supplies.” Luscious meals were a thing of the past. Rowena touched her ribs, which felt more pronounced, even through her stomacher. Short and stocky like her father, she wouldn’t have to worry about growing chubby now. “If you can obtain seeds, I’ll replant the garden.”
“James, my darling!” Aunt Elizabeth bustled down the stairs, her beige dress brushing the treads, and embraced him. Her panniers swung with her movement. “Oh, you need soap and a damp cloth. Have you any news of your…” She couldn’t even say it. Her husband, Uncle Daniel, was an officer with General Clinton’s army. Currently in New York, these troops raided American outposts hoping to weaken the enemy. Rumor had it they might head south—if they hadn’t left already—to attack cities like Savannah and Charles Town.
“Can you tell us anything that’s promising?” her aunt asked. Some women ignored what was happening around them, or smoothed it over, as if that would make the threat disappear. Aunt Elizabeth had raised this practice to an art form.
“How is Uncle Daniel? Busily engaged, I trust.” Rowena gripped her arms as helplessness washed over her. She had so little control of what went on around her. But she couldn’t allow such weakness, or the convenience of swooning with the vapors. She craved details, and solutions.
“I haven’t any particular news; none about Father. And the military doesn’t wish their movements known. I do apologize, Mother.” James smiled down at his mother’s pout, then his eyes sharpened. “I’d only heard the ‘revolutionaries’ were combing this region, causing trouble.”
“You see that they have. Especially for dear Robert. And you never tell me anything about your own activities.” Her aunt turned from him as if afraid he might. “It’s all a mystery.”
“What about Andrew and William?” Rowena asked. Her brothers had jumped at the chance to join the King’s army. She wondered, not for the first time, why James at age twenty hadn’t joined the military; but he always seemed busy, occupied away for days.
“Again, dear cousin, I have…nothing I can divulge.” James shrugged then patted his mother’s shoulder. “Tell me what you require here, Mother, and I’ll try to find it for you.”
Exhausted, Rowena slumped into a chair—or as best she could slump, laced up in her whalebone stays. Her shoulders ached from all the responsibilities she carried on them, her fingernails jagged from labor. Since Mother’s death from the putrid throat, she managed the house, her auntie too ‘delicate’ and distracted. It was difficult to understand such people. She rubbed her temples. She’d been forced to mature.
“Don’t slouch like a peasant. We must remain above reproach.” Aunt Elizabeth stepped from James, picked up her embroidery hoop, then set it back down. Her aunt embroidered dainty flowers and sometimes read the Bible. Obviously, her way of coping, yet not very useful in these circumstances.
“Do you think we can still win this war? I heard there’s much skirmishing to the south, especially in the Carolinas.” Rowena stuffed her hair under her cap. The tide had turned in the revolutionaries’ favor after Saratoga in ‘77 and subsequent battles these last three years.
“Of course we can win. We haven’t given up, freckle-faced scamp.” He reached down and chucked her under her chin; yet his display of humor didn’t soften his eyes, and his tenor sounded brusque, laced with doubt.
“Stop it. I’m too old for that.” She slapped his hand away and fought her aggravation. “I’m no longer a child, and I wish…” She kept the rest to herself, to avoid his taunts. He’d grown worse since the war began. They’d all changed. At first the avenging leaders, now the loyalists had turned into prey.
“When we’re at peace again, I trust you’ll bring some nice young men around for Rowena to meet.” Aunt Elizabeth fluffed the kerchief around her neck. “She needs to be settled and safe, with the protection of a husband.”
Rowena resisted rolling her eyes. “That’s the last concern on my mind. I’d rather don breeches and ride into battle.” She’d voiced her wishes aloud. This idea cheered her more than it should have.
“Never say such things, dear. Don’t let these events alter who we are, proper landed gentry.” Aunt Elizabeth wrung her hands. Her eyes grew sad as if she was on the verge of wrestling with the reality of their predicament. “Cook can make tea; that will nourish us.” She hustled toward the kitchen. They had managed to hide the tea caddy from the invaders.
“Mother is in her usual fluster, poor dear. She’s lost without my father.” James turned to her, his mouth in a thin line. “Tell me what happened, Ro.”
Her emotions in a tangle of sadness and vexation, Rowena explained about the morning’s raid, and her father’s harsh and ignoble treatment.
“I must go up to Uncle Robert. Did you really hit one of the rebels?” James’ eyes turned icy cold, which gave her a chill. He bent close, his voice low, “Do not behave so again. We don’t want any extra attention drawn upon us here.”
“I’ll do what I must to assist Father and our position.” She sensed the underlying threat in his tone. Her cousin wasn’t just concerned for her safety—but seemed greatly disturbed on his own account.
James left her and mounted the stairs.
Rowena’s thoughts whirled. Father always said she should have been born a boy, since most men insisted that girls had no capacity for reasoning. However, why would God give her intelligence if she wasn’t allowed to use it?
She tightened her lips, determined to find out exactly what her cousin was involved in.
Father winced and eased into his favorite leather, wingback chair. Rowena sat near him on the settee in their rear parlor, designated the Library. Three days had passed since the ruffians had tarred and feathered him. At least the renegades hadn’t destroyed this room with its rich walnut paneling. Cook had barricaded herself in here, the settee against the door—thus preserved herself and the room.
Rowena kept glancing out the window, wary of anyone who might approach. Did they have enough gunpowder in case she needed to fire the blunderbuss? She twitched with the tension that was a constant in her life.
Father scratched at a red patch on his cheek.
“Can I get you anything? More ointment to soothe your pain?” she asked. “Aunt Elizabeth might be persuaded to…leave her bed and nurse you. Since you won’t allow me.”
“I’m your father; that would be highly inappropriate. My sister insists we shouldn’t lose all sense of propriety no matter our trials, and I must agree.” He adjusted the nightcap on his head. His periwig was too painful for his blisters. “I’m well enough, considering.”
Rowena poured tea into pewter cups. “Auntie would profit more from dealing with our difficulties, instead of ignoring them.”
Her aunt had remained in bed since yesterday, bemoaning she was ill with her megrims. She was attended by her maid, Mary, whom she’d brought with her when she moved in to ‘help’ with Rowena after her mother’s death and her own husband’s commission.
“We should forgive your aunt, my dear. She’s always had a frail constitution.” He sipped his tea. The lines on his ruddy face were carved deep. His round visage matched hers. “It’s been more difficult for her since your uncle went off to war and her home was confiscated…”
“I’ll try my best to understand her frailties.” Rowena said that to placate him. She’d little patience with flibbertigibbet women, though she loved Aunt Elizabeth for her gentle heart. “I know she means well in her limited way.”
“When we were children, she was always the timid one.” His green eyes that mirrored hers turned sad. Today, he wore no coat, his shirt frayed at the cuffs; a state of undress that no doubt embarrassed him, but necessary to ease his sores. “Elizabeth took after our mother, I daresay. Our father was very strict with her as the only girl.”
“Girls deserve better.” Rowena barely remembered her grandmother. Her grandfather had been a loud, grumpy man she’d rather forget. “Cousin James thinks the war will turn about in our favor. What are your thoughts?”
“The New York Volunteers have gone south to take Charles Town, your brothers with them. The British navy will be involved. We should hear something soon.” He picked up a book on a side table as if to distract himself. “Are you interested in continuing your Greek lessons?”
“It seems of little use now.” Her father loved the classics and Rowena had learned in a rudimentary way to read Greek. She was thankful her father treated her as an intelligent being. “Do you have a small cannon I might learn to fire?”
He smiled, though he still looked sad. “You’d assuredly master it, my dear. But a very bad idea. I wish your future weren’t so unpredictable, our existence in peril.”
Would the rebels swarm in soon to confiscate their home? The farm her father had named Mersheland; Mershe a medieval spelling of ‘Marsh.’
Rowena ran a finger around the edge of her untouched cup, picturing the smashed china. She blinked that away then stared at the cabinets filled with books, the smell of paper and leather once a comfort. Now she had to fret over her brothers storming into battle, perhaps dying. She fought a shiver.
“Are you aware of what James does for the war effort, if anything?” She tried to sound casual as she spread her fingers over the skirt of her bronze-striped dimity gown, dingy with a stain. With few servants, she and Anne would have to do the laundry soon, an onerous task.
“He’s performing important work for the conflict, that’s all I can say.” Father stretched out his right leg, his foot encased in an unpolished buckled shoe. He winced again, eyes averted. “If I hadn’t injured my knee so severely in our war with the French and Indians, I dare swear I’d be out riding with the troops; beside your brothers.” His position as solicitor four miles distant in Easton had been disrupted as the war raged on. He might have retired as a gentleman farmer, if the rebels hadn’t stolen their stock, and raided their small dairy.
“I’m certain you would join the troops, Father.” Disappointment weighed Rowena down. Father was cognizant but wouldn’t tell her of her cousin’s ‘important’ deeds. She must find a way to uncover it herself. “We’re both at a disadvantage. However, there are women helping to serve the King.”
“Why do these so-called patriots want to desert the motherland?” Father grunted with disgust as his fingers gripped on the chair arms. “These rascals will never manage without a strong government. Yes, we’re not treated as fairly as we could be with the high taxation, the forbiddance of foreign imports, but independence, bah. That’s an insane notion.”
“Having a voice in Parliament would be good, too.” Now she sounded like a rebel, but she’d never agree with separating from Britain. They’d be adrift with no mother country. “The leaders of this sedition seemed to only demand equal rights, at first.”
He nodded slowly. “We loyalists were shocked when their intentions changed. Though several of the more radical demanded complete freedom from the beginning.”
A quick knock, then Cook, properly Mrs. Johnston, entered, two glass jars held in her hands as if they were gold. “Sorry to intrude, sir. I still have apple and raspberry preserves that I hid in the attic, but we’re out of flour, or I’d make bread. There are shortages everywhere.” Her anxious gaze swung from Father to Rowena and back again. Petite in stature, well past sixty years in age, her sagging cheeks flushed crimson. “I apologize for my lack of—”
Father held up a hand and sighed. “That’s quite all right. It’s not your fault. My nephew promised to bring us supplies; we’ll manage.”
“Aye, sir. If you say so. I feel I should do more, but what?” She bobbed her head. “My brother did bring us a catch of trout from the river for our dinner.” Mrs. Johnston departed.
“A decent meal,” Rowena said. “Cook is nothing if not diligent.” She hadn’t run off in fear like their housekeeper but might be on the verge of despair. The dependable woman had been with them for many years.
Rowena slid to the edge of the settee. “Can I help improve our cause, along the lines in what James is doing, perhaps?”
“No, no, my dear. I’ve given you too much liberty as it is.” He shook his head, gaze weary. He shifted with a grumble in his chair. “I’m regretting my lack of discipline since your sainted mother’s death. You hit an enemy soldier. You’re running too wild.”
“Father, please. You make me sound like an unbroken colt.” She pinched the material of her dress—the same as her heart pinched—forming wrinkles her aunt would scold her for. “If matters worsen, where can we go if we’re forced to leave Pennsylvania?” She spoke as evenly as possible.
Leave her home? This house brimmed with Rowena’s memories, her mother’s laughter and caresses, her entire essence. A small walnut writing desk sat beside the bookcase. Mother had kept her household accounts there. Her throat tight, Rowena pictured her parent in the chair.
“All in good time, we’ll see what we must do to keep our home.” Father inhaled slowly. “No need to panic yet, and you’ve been stoic. I’m proud of you.” He pressed on her hand. “But your forward actions with the enemy put your life in danger. I won’t have it.”
Another tap sounded on the door. Sam, tall for his years, rushed in and handed a broadsheet to Father. The stable boy carried the smell of hay and horse into the library. “Me da brought this from town. He says you’ll like it, sir.”
Father snapped the sheet and scanned the words. He laughed, face brightened. “This is excellent news. Our navy has subdued Charles Town in the Carolinas. His Majesty’s ships bombarded their harbor. A decisive victory.”
“Oh, Father, I hope that it is.” Her heart lifted; dare she hope? She rose to read the words herself. Energy shot through her. She turned to the lad, who presided over the nags left to them. “Go into the kitchen and cook will give you a piece of the toffee I know she stashes.”
“Aye, Miss. Your servant.” Sam bowed then hurried off, his dark blond hair swinging.
Father leaned carefully back in his chair, holding the sheet high. “England does have the most powerful navy in the world.” He smiled broadly, something she was relieved to see. “After the second battle at Savannah last year, when we crushed the French and Revolutionaries, we should be optimistic. The Loyalists chased from the south into East Florida came up to aid in this battle.”
“I do pray we’ll remain victorious.” Perhaps they would defeat the rebels, but she took nothing for granted. She needed a plan, a direction. James was asleep upstairs after a long night out. The next time he left, she’d follow him. She intended to be part of the warfare and not lurk on the perimeter.
* * *
Rowena urged her lumbering pony to quicken its pace along the winding path through the forest, a half mile from their farm. The air cooled as the sun vanished. Was she foolish to do this as night spread over the landscape? A two quarter-moon weakly illuminated the maple branches she ducked to avoid. Loamy scents filled her nose, though did not ease her agitation.
James’ horse could be heard ahead on the path. For several nights, she’d waited until he’d sneaked from the house as the case clock struck midnight; then she’d headed for the stable. But she had it planned beforehand. After he rode off, she hustled for her pony’s stall.
She rode bareback, refusing her side-saddle. She’d borrowed a shirt and breeches from clothing left behind by her youngest brother, Andrew. Both garments hung baggy on her smaller figure—and she had to wear her own leather half-boots. Her springy hair was tied in a queue, doubled over because of the length.
Rowena had promised Sam a shilling to keep her actions with the pony, Lily, a secret.
An owl hooted, and Rowena sucked in her breath. She’d played in these woods as a child, and knew her way, but never in complete darkness. Shapes loomed out of the murk, like fingers reaching for her. She swallowed hard.
Finally, ahead, a flickering light broke the dark. Men’s low voices. She slowed her old pony, a mount left behind as useless by the rebels, and even her short legs dangled too long on Lily’s sides.
She dismounted and crept closer to the light, her pulse hammering, trying not to make any noise. Her brothers had taught her how to navigate in the woods as they played hide and go seek, along with their cousins. Including James, the one who could get rough and always had to win.
However, now she was alone and the thick forest closed in around her. Insects hummed, the crickets chirped; their clamor helped to disguise her footfalls.
From behind bushes, in a small clearing, she observed James talking with another man as tall as her cousin, but with a stronger build—broader shoulders in a black frock coat. A lantern sat on the ground between them, shedding light on their scuffed boots.
“Yer certain you weren’t followed? I thought I heard something.” The stranger’s hushed voice was clipped and deep with a hint of an accent. He glanced in her direction, his face in shadow under his cocked hat.
She hunkered down and shivered, as if she could feel his eyes boring into her.
“As well as I can be certain. I heard sounds, too. Spies and informants are everywhere,” James replied in an impatient whisper. “What is my next task?”
Envy rushed over her. She’d been right about her cousin. His ‘activities’ were clandestine. She yearned to be involved, to be of consequence. The idea excited her far more than dull ladies’ chat and sewing. She held her breath and concentrated on their exchange.
“…part of the campaign moves farther southwest,” the stranger said. “The British wish to wipe out the Spanish and colonial resistance.”
“Yes, I hear Captain Bird will ride into what’s called Kentucky. With Indian troops.” Shoulders stiff, words curt, James rarely looked the stranger in the face, as if he didn’t trust him.
“More will attack to the south. We must wrest control of New Orleans from Spain; that port’s important.” The foreign-sounding man crossed his arms. “And the New York Volunteers along with our navy are in the middle colonies. General Clinton believes we can control the south from Charles Town.”
She’d stewed this day over her brothers being in the perilous south—and no one had told her until her father’s admission in the library. But then, men joined to fight.
“I cheer our recent victory,” James said with little mirth. “Yet, I’d rather stay fairly near to this region. I have a mother to look after.”
Rowena leaned closer, the tangy bush leaves tickling her nose. His concern for her aunt gave her a brief warmth.
“Don’t be a lackwit,” the other man hissed as he kept scanning their surroundings. She couldn’t clearly see his face, only the movement of his hat. But his features appeared sharp in the feeble outline of lantern light. “Everyone has a mother. Family drags on a man’s duty.”
“Ah, you have reason to criticize me about duty?” James’ question burst out more like a challenge. “Family is important. My father and cousins fight for His Majesty.”
Rowena scraped a nail along a bush leaf. There was animosity between them.
“As they should, but the rebels could snatch yer uncle’s property if we don’t push them back. Yer family might have to flee or suffer worse repercussions.” The man thrust his hands on his hips. “Ye are needed in Philadelphia, not too far. To work as a courier, when required, and intercept enemy couriers.”
James grunted. “I’ll be there, if I must. I’m dedicated to the cause.”
“We’ll continue to scour the countryside for men to bring to our side,” the stranger said. “’Tisn’t easy anymore.”
“Many have given in and left. I attend the Refugee Club, where we dare to gather.” James shifted. “Did you bring what I requested?”
The stranger stepped to the side, to a thicket, bent down and returned with a canvas sack. “Here’s the flour and seeds I promised, but focus on our mission, bachgen. Meet with our contact at the Bachmann Publick House in Easton, tomorrow night. At eight of the clock. He has more details.”
“I’ll be at the Bachmann.” James shouldered the sack. He strode off, into the trees to the left, toward his horse.
Rowena grimaced again at the idea she and Father could lose their farm. And why had this stranger called James a ‘bachgen’? A word unknown to her. Her nose started to itch from the leaves. She rubbed, then covered her face with both hands. She wanted the man to depart before she crept back to her pony. Her nose tickled again. A sneeze was coming. She turned and crawled away, one hand squeezing her nostrils; but the sneeze broke through, too loud even muffled with her sleeve.
“Damn ei,” the stranger cursed with his foreign inflection. “Who is there?”
Should she run, hide? Rowena’s thoughts splintered. Footsteps started in her direction. Crouched low like an animal, she scratched her hands as she crawled farther through the brush. She slithered down into a ravine. Her heart drummed in her ears. The borrowed breeches nearly slipped from her waist. Among dirt and plants, she balled her body up behind a thicket of bushes, her forehead on her knees for a moment. She should have brought her father’s pistol.
The man’s footsteps crunched above her. Dirt sprinkled down. The lantern swung over the area in circles of light. Her skin goose-bumped. She heard his angry breaths. Rowena held her own as tightly as she could. The adventure she’d sought carried the real risk of her being killed.
Twenty minutes seemed to pass as Rowena hid from her cousin’s mysterious contact, though it couldn’t have been much more than five. Her face pressed on her breeches, she dug her elbows into her hunched up thighs, her quiet breaths seeping between them. At last, the man with the burr of an accent walked away in long strides, boots whipping through the brush.
Head raised, she waited, a shaking hand pressed to her chest. In a jangle of bridle, she heard the man ride off, his horse’s hoof beats fading away. She heaved in relief. Slowly, she rose from her cramped position and swept dirt from her bottom. Her knees ached, and her mouth tasted as dry as old leather. A common nighthawk called a lonely auk, auk, auk. Crickets joined in with chirps; a night symphony.
Rowena rubbed her temples. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to be out in the field, fighting for the Tories. However, she refused to be discouraged. More experience was needed—and a pistol.
With careful steps, ears alert, her eyes probing the darkness, she retraced her way to her pony, praying that the stranger hadn’t found Lily and snatched the little beast.
* * *
The following afternoon as she walked beside their cook, Rowena gripped her basket close. The town of Easton, a grid of low stone buildings, tucked at the confluence of the Delaware and Lehigh Rivers, had become a rebel stronghold. She kept her eye out for any blue-coated Continentals patrolling the streets. The stink of horse manure—and perspiration when people passed close—thickened the air.
Cook trotted closer to her, their skirts brushing, as she fidgeted with her larger basket. “I should’ve come alone, Miss.” Mrs. Johnston touched Rowena’s arm. “The soldiers oft pay no mind to the likes of me. But I stopped bringing my granddaughter since this town’s now a place of unrest and rabble-rousing.”
“I’ll be fine, I told you.” Rowena had insisted on coming; she sought details of the tavern mentioned to her cousin by the stranger. “I thought women and children were treated better than Loyalist men and I’m mostly viewed as a child.”
With her round freckled cheeks and turned-up nose, she looked younger than her years. Then she remembered, with a slight shiver, the leering rebel who’d helped tar her father. She might bump into him here on the street. The basket rustled in her hands.
“You’re a stubborn one, if you don’t mind me saying, dear,” Cook huffed, but her scold was full of affection.
“As I’m often told.” The two women passed the Great Square, the center of the town. Rowena observed Easton’s buildings that radiated out from this square. She’d scampered here in her earlier years with her brothers and cousins—when life seemed normal. The courthouse sat at the center, and the Farmer’s Market, though it looked deserted today. Rowena twitched. She’d once enjoyed visiting the market with her mother.
Wagons and carts pulled by old nags or mules rattled past them. All the best horses were commandeered by the army. Women hustled by in plain gowns and caps or straw hats, a few carrying baskets or canvas sacks. One matron, who was a former friend of her mother’s, glared at Rowena as if her presence desecrated the town.
Rowena gave her a tight smile. Had she ever felt welcome here? Mayhap when she was too young to recall. Despite this cruel scrutiny, she hid a yawn after her eventful night with little sleep. Now that the immediate danger had dissolved with the light of day, her courage returned; she rippled with exhilaration. She’d escaped the dark stranger. He appeared to be on their side, though he gave her an uneasy feeling.
“The market looks closed. Where shall we go?” Rowena’s gown and petticoats swept against her legs as she moved. She missed the freedom of breeches, the absence of the confining stays. At least her kid gloves masked the scratches on her hands.
“We’ll shop in here, Miss.” Cook directed Rowena inside the greengrocers. The shelves and baskets sat empty or sparsely stocked.
Rowena glanced about, filled with dismay. Had matters gotten this bad?
“Sadly, the soldiers take most of it,” Cook told her in a whisper. “We should have come earlier.”
The elderly owner in his stained apron scowled at them. “I once respected your father, Miss Marsh,” he said. “He’d do well to change sides.”
“Leave the child be.” Mrs. Johnstone pointed her sharpened widow’s face at the man.
“My father is being true to his original allegiance, and he continues to deserve respect, sir,” Rowena couldn’t help replying. Cook shook her head as if to shush her. They placed rhubarb, wilted lettuce, asparagus, and a jar of sauerkraut in their baskets. The kraut wasn’t her favorite food, but they must make do.
“’Tis the wrong allegiance, Miss,” the proprietor groused. “He will regret it.”
“I suppose you find his money repugnant as well?” Rowena snapped the coins on the counter. She’d hate to contemplate the further harm the rebels might inflict on her father, or any of them.
“You’re fortunate I allow you to shop here.” He quickly plopped the coins into his till. “That might change, especially after you took a broom to a soldier.”
“Many Loyalists opposed the Stamp Act and high taxes, too.” Rowena bristled at his words. Cook smiled at the man and urged her back out onto the street.
“Have a care, girl. We must be wary with what we do or talk of here.” Cook hustled her away from the grocers.
“You’re right, I daresay.” Rowena blew out her breath. She hated the town’s menacing atmosphere. “I might have ruined the shopping for you, Mrs. Johnston.”
“Just smile and nod and pay these fools no mind.” The older woman patted her arm.
Rowena swallowed a retort and returned to her purpose for coming. “Isn’t the Bachmann Publick House down this direction?”
“La, Miss. Why would you need to know that?” Cook’s eyes widened under her mobcap, her small mouth pursed like a prune.
“I’m curious. My journeys into town have never included tavern visits, of course.” She tried to sound nonchalant.
“As well they shouldn’t. And you must not start now, Miss.” Cook arched her thin eyebrows. “Let’s hurry to the dry goods shop for your aunt’s embroidery thread, we’ll check the baker’s for bread, and then we’ll leave for home.”
Two soldiers in blue coats with red trim and cuffs strutted past them, their scrutiny intrusive. “They allow the Marsh chit into town?” the one with a scar on his cheek said. He spat on the ground. The men swaggered into their path. “Our captain covets Mersheland Farm. It is a fine location.”
“Good day, sirs.” Rowena bit down on her lip to quiet a sharp reply. She must learn diplomacy, as Cook said; yet struggled to quiet her tongue. “I’m certain you will permit us to pass.” These rogues hadn’t even given her the dignity of addressing her as “miss” and they’d demoted her to a chit.
“We should marry her off to a good patriot or take her innocence for ourselves.” Scar-cheek, a fairly handsome man with an ugly grimace, moved closer.
Rowena’s pulse trebled in her throat. She clutched the basket to her chest and stretched as tall as her short stature allowed. “Let us pass, and I’ll forget your insult.”
“Leave her alone; such rudeness to a young lady shows your bad breeding.” Cook spoke in a scolding-mother tone. She grabbed Rowena’s arm. “My husband gave his life at Saratoga. You have your pound of flesh.”
“Tell your cousin James we will expose him,” the pock-faced one said. He leaned close enough that Rowena felt his foul breath.
She resisted shrinking back, almost shouting if I were a man…!
“Come along, Miss.” Cook dragged Rowena around them.
The men chuckled, made mocking bows, then continued on their way.
Rowena’s blood boiled along with a spark of fear. To her chagrin, she realized men no longer viewed her as a child. She refused to be intimidated, but did they suspect James was a spy or some sort of informant? “Let us hurry to the tavern,” she whispered when well past them.
“After what just happened?” Mrs. Johnston stared at her, alarm in her eyes. “I need to get you safely home.”
“Please. I must do this. It’s down this street, isn’t it?” Rowena crossed the dusty road with Cook on her heels.
“Your father will not approve.” Mrs. Johnston glanced about as if in dread that Father might be following them. “My brother used to drink at the Bachmann, before the troubles grew worse.”
“It seems we Loyalists aren’t welcome anywhere now,” Rowena muttered to herself. “We cannot let these rebels rule us.”
From Church Street, the spire of The First United Church of Christ scraped the sky. They no longer worshiped there due to the animosity. Her mother would have been heartbroken. Rowena hurried to the corner of Fermor and Northampton Streets.
Cook raised her chin. “There it is. It’s boasted they read their Declaration of Independence in that evil establishment.”
Rowena studied the three-storied stone building, elegant in its wicked stance. Two dormer windows and two chimneys poked out from the roof. Why would the dark stranger send her cousin to a rebel tavern to meet someone? But maybe that’s how spies operated. The soldiers’ words pricked her like pins. Steal their property? She must come back tonight to know what’s afoot, to be a part of it. She might insist that young Sam accompany her.
* * *
Sam shook his head as he inspected Rowena as they mounted their animals outside the stable after night fell. “Pardon me, Miss, but why don’t you sew up them clothes to fit?”
“I made my best effort.” She nudged Lily, named long ago by her mother, down the dark road to town. With a glance over her shoulder, she breathed easier that the house stayed quiet, then stuffed the large shirt firmer into her breeches. She also wore an old frock coat from one of the footmen no longer in their employ. Thank goodness he’d been slight. She’d tied strips of material around her small breasts. “I’m not very skilled with a needle, though I can knit somewhat. But I could hardly ask my aunt to do this alteration.”
He chuckled, riding beside her on an old donkey her brother William had named Trent, after a stubborn tutor he disliked. “Aye. But I thought all girls was skilled at stitchin’. You don’t act like no girl, hardly ever, Miss.”
She stifled a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment, whelp.” She liked Sam, even as he grew bolder with age. He’d been their stable boy for three years and was a hard worker. His father shoveled manure on the streets of Easton and his mother took in laundry to support their six children. Sam had said his mum was breeding again. Baby after baby. Rowena wasn’t sure she cared for that sort of future.
She adjusted her cocked hat, lined with extra material to fit and most of her hair stuffed inside. So far, the only sounds were insects in the pasture, night birds and the slow clopping gait of their animals on the road. The breeze blew cool, carrying the rich scents of the fields.
“Your da will have me hide if he finds out,” Sam said, a frown now on his pale, triangular face, lit up by the lantern he held. However, mischief glinted in his eyes.
“He won’t, if we’re careful. I made certain he and my aunt were asleep.” She gripped Lily’s reins, straining to sound confident. “I’m a young man, with my servant, out for a drink.”
“You could sneak about as a woman; I’ve heard of some who have.”
“Not at this hour. I want the freedom of…riding at night like we are. No one would question two young men together. Or if I entered a tavern I would not be under scrutiny, the stares a woman must suffer.” She enjoyed the daring of being other than who she was, the ease of movement in clothing and manner.
“We’ll be up to our ar—knees in rebels. This idea’s risky.” Sam held the lantern closer to her. He didn’t sound afraid, only honest. “I pray you do pass for a ‘young man,’ Miss. And people might know me.”
“It doesn’t mean you weren’t promoted, or serving another house as well.”
Rowena was having second thoughts the nearer they came to the dim lights of Easton. This was a risky endeavor, but her pride kept pushing down her anxieties. The treatment by the soldiers that afternoon made her more determined to assist her country, avenge her father—and serve her king.
Though she agreed that the king should treat these colonies with less oppression, why couldn’t they come to a rational agreement and stay together as a country?
When they entered the town, the streets were fairly quiet yet the hair on Rowena’s nape prickled as if someone watched. Laughter and voices filtered out from the tavern as they reined in beside the place. Lanterns were lit on the portico and the side wall. She touched the pocket of her frock coat where the small protection of her mother’s muff pistol was tucked.
Sam dismounted, and she hopped off before he could help her. “What does you hope to do here?” he asked.
Her chin itched, and she almost scratched where she’d rubbed coal dust to give herself a faint hint of a beard. “I want to hear the latest gossip, to see who James meets with. I should be a part of our fight.”
“Your brothers made you too much like ’em, Miss. Too brash, if you pardon me again.” Sam shrugged then tied the pony and donkey at the far end of the hitching post, which was draped in shadow. Six horses and two carts were hitched nearer the tavern.
“So I’ve been told. Now call me Master Rowland, like we agreed.” She tugged her hat low, took a deep breath and ascended the stairs on the building’s left side. When Sam joined her, she prayed for courage—turn back, her common sense cried. Still, the thrill of these actions appealed. She lifted the heavy door latch.
A low hearth fire crackled directly in front of her. Tables with benches were scattered on the wide pine plank floor. Men sat at a few of the tables, the place half crowded. They puffed on clay pipes and drank from pewter tankards or sipped glasses of wine. Candles flickered from sconces, casting a weak light in the room.