Defiant (31 page)

“The enlisted men live there.” Connor pointed with a nod of his head. “To your left are the parade grounds.”

Sarah saw a wide-open space to the west of the soldiers’ cabins, a whipping post standing in its center, its iron manacles hanging empty. Beyond that, along the island’s western shore, she saw three small huts that must surely have been privies.

“Those are the soldiers’ necessaries. The officers’ necessaries are on the eastern shore.” Connor pointed toward larger cabins and beehive ovens. “And there are the officers’ cabins and behind them the sutler’s shop and the kitchens. Joseph and his men make camp in lodges there, on the north end of the island.”

In England, it would have been the muddiest and poorest of villages, but here it was an outpost of civilization where men fought to preserve a grand empire, pitting their skill not only against their enemies but also against the forest, which encircled the fort, river, and royal blockhouse in the distance like a great dark wall. On the fort’s ramparts, soldiers in bright red
uniforms went about their duties. And then the question came to her.

“Why do the Rangers live here on this island rather than in the fort itself? Wouldn’t you be safer within its walls?”

Connor gave a rather ungentlemanly snort, sharing a look with Joseph before answering. “The redcoats cannae abide us Rangers. There are many amongst them who dinnae believe the British army needs our help. If we lived amongst them, there’d be fightin’ every night.”

“Only at night?” Joseph chuckled.

Sarah felt a rush of indignation on the Rangers’ behalf. “But why should they hate you? Do you not fight for our sovereign just as they do?”

Connor glanced at Joseph, then set his gaze forward, the smile gone from his face, his jaw hard. “My men fight to make the frontier safe for their families. This is no’ some distant corner of the British Empire for them. ’Tis their home.”

And Sarah felt like she’d been rebuked, though she could find no fault in what she’d said. Still, she thought she understood Connor’s anger, for most in Britain looked to events in France and Saxony, the war in the Americas seeming far off and of lesser import. But for families like the one that had lived in that little cabin where she and Connor had taken shelter, the war here was only too real—and far more savage than anyone in London could imagine. How abandoned the colonists must feel!

A group of Indians dressed much like Joseph strode toward them, calling to Joseph and Connor, who answered in their tongue, grins on their faces.

Joseph turned to Sarah, resting his forehead against hers in a gesture of farewell. “I go to my men. Be well, little sister.”

She watched him walk away, a lump in her throat, her fingers seeking the band of wampum he’d given her. If kinship were measured by sacrifice and caring, rather than blood, he truly would be her brother. She looked up to find Connor watching her, his brow bent in a concerned frown.

“You’ll see him again. Come, my lady.”

She walked with Connor amongst the rows of tiny cabins toward a larger one that sat alone facing the others. Killy wrestled a large wooden washtub through its door, disappearing
inside for a moment before emerging again and hastening away with pail in hand. And Sarah realized this was Connor’s cabin.

Connor led her inside, dropped his pack on a small rough-hewn table, and bent down to start a fire in the fireplace. “Rest, my lady. A fire will chase away the chill, and we’ll soon have a bath and a hot meal ready for you.”

And for the first time in three days, they were alone together.

Acutely aware of Connor’s presence, Sarah looked around the cabin, already feeling at home within its walls, perhaps because she could smell his scent in the room, a spicy scent that mingled easily with those of wood smoke and forest. Here was where he slept between missions, where he returned when exhausted by battle. And yet for a place meant to shelter and serve as his home, there were precious few comforts.

The cabin was clearly the home of a soldier. A large bed covered with a thick bearskin sat against the far wall, a nightstand with a half-melted beeswax candle beside it. A rough-hewn table and four wooden chairs stood beneath a window of greased parchment. Two muskets stood in the corner, hooks above the door where he must surely hang his claymore. Strange gear hung from wooden pegs on the walls—a powder horn and many things she couldn’t identify. On the wall above a mantel hung a simple wooden crucifix.

Connor stood and faced her. “Your uncle entrusted me wi’ your safety, so you’ll be stayin’ where I can watch o’er you until he arrives.”

Sarah felt a rush of hope.

“I’ll be sleepin’ in McHugh’s cabin just over there”—Connor pointed—“so I’ll no’ be far away. Now I must see my men settled and pay a visit to the sutler. If there’s augh’ you need in the meantime, call for Killy.”

And her hope faded.

C
onnor sat on the steps of McHugh’s cabin, his belly full, his tin cup almost empty, the rum it had held warming his blood, easing the tension inside him. He watched as his men settled in for the night, the familiar routine a source of comfort. Some sat outside their cabins, sipping their daily ration of rum. Others gathered around bonfires lit in the space between the
officers’ cabins and those of the enlisted men. They saw to their gear, stitching new moccasins out of tanned hide, repairing tumplines, cleaning muskets, sharpening knives and bayonets, melting lead to make musket balls.

Together with the thirty who’d met up with him and Joseph in the forest, the Rangers now numbered fourscore and ten, the others having mustered early in case Connor should need them, leaving their families behind to answer the call to war. Good men and true, they’d fought under the MacKinnon name so courageously and for so long that they were his brothers, too, not by virtue of the blood that flowed in their veins, but rather because of the blood they’d sacrificed and shed together.

His Rangers.

Connor had never thought to command them. Leadership had passed to him only because Iain had been released from service and Morgan cast out for marrying Amalie. Now Connor had been at war longer than either of his brothers.

’Twas a strange thought.

He looked toward the cemetery that held the bones of so many strong, braw men, their names and faces fixed in Connor’s mind. Peter. Robert Wallace. Robert Grant. Lucas. Billy Maguire. Phinneus. Caleb. David Page. Charles Graham. Richard. Old Archie. Malcolm. James Hill. Gordie. Jonny Harden. Lachlan.

Some lay in earth at Ticonderoga, dear Cam amongst them. Poor Charlie Gordon’s body was buried here, his head at Ticonderoga. Others lay in the forest where they’d fallen. Still others had been taken captive, their fates unknown to all but the Almighty.

So many lost. So many.

He glanced over at his cabin, saw the door still closed. He’d left it to Killy to prepare Sarah’s bath and bring her supper, taking it upon himself to visit the sutler and purchase new garments for her, certain she must be eager to shed her Shawnee attire and dress like an Englishwoman. And although he’d been certain the gowns and undergarments he’d bought for her were plain compared to what she was accustomed to wearing, her eyes had lit up when he’d handed them through the door to her. But that had been almost an hour past. How bloody long did it take a woman to bathe and dress?

He forced his gaze back to his men. McHugh and Forbes were playing at draughts, Brandon and Jabez deep in a discussion about the upcoming campaigns. Then Dougie emerged from his cabin with his fiddle. He strode toward the fire, sat upon a log, and began to tune it. One by one, the men fell silent, but it wasn’t eagerness to hear Dougie play that suddenly stilled their tongues.

It was the sight of her.

She stood not ten feet from him, wearing a gown of blue cotton the color of her eyes, a white cotton kerchief tucked into her bodice for modesty’s sake, a gray woolen shawl about her shoulders. But no shawl or square of cotton could hide the loveliness of her form, her breasts thrust upward by her stays, her waist slender, her hips gently rounded. She still wore moccasins on her feet—there’d been no shoes to fit her—but one could scarce see them beneath her long hems. She’d left her hair unbound, the damp tresses hanging to her waist.

God’s blood, she was beautiful! She looked from him to his men and back again, clearly discomfited at being the object of so much male attention, his men gawping at her openly. “I…I heard the violin…the
fiddle
…and hoped I might listen.”

Connor stood, motioned to the steps. “Come, my lady. Sit.”

As she drew near, he could smell the warm scent of soap on her skin, her gaze seeking reassurance from his. Somehow he found his tongue, even managing to smile. “The lady has a love of music, Dougie. She would hear you play.”

Grinning, Dougie tucked the fiddle beneath his chin and began to play a jig.

Connor watched Sarah’s face, her lips curving into a sweet smile, one foot tapping. But in her eyes, there was longing.

S
arah listened to Dougie play, her fingers aching to hold the instrument. She looked up, saw Connor watching her. He seemed to know what she wanted to ask him. Without speaking a word, he nodded.

When the next song ended, she stepped forward. “Please, sir, may I play?”

Dougie looked at her as if he couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly. “You wish to play my fiddle?”

“Yes. I…I am a musician.” There. She’d said it. “I haven’t been able to play for many long months. If I could but play one song…”

Dougie looked over to Connor, muttering something about strange ways of the English. He motioned her forward, holding out the instrument. “I’ve never heard of a lass playin’ a fiddle afore. You hold it like this, wi’ your chin—”

“She kens how to hold the bloody thing, Dougie,” Connor called. “Let her play.”

Sarah’s pulse raced as she settled the instrument beneath her chin, the fingers of her left hand finding their place on the fingerboard, while those of her right adjusted their grip on the bow. She drew bow across the strings, played a few slow chords, her throat going tight as sweet notes shivered through the wood.

Then she closed her eyes and let the music come.

She’d given no conscious thought to what she would play, the Affettuoso from Master Handel’s Violin Sonata no. 7 in D Major spilling from her fingers, months of suppressed longing surging through her at the sweet sound, the music lifting her up, carrying far beyond the troubles of the world around her. She finished the Affettuoso, slid straight into the first Allegro, then the Larghetto, and then the second Allegro, music pouring through her, leaving her breathless. Only when she had finished the entire sonata, the last notes lingering in the cool evening air, did she realize what she’d done. She opened her eyes.

Every Ranger in camp was staring at her, even Connor, a look of stunned surprise on his handsome face. Was he angry?

Reluctantly, she lowered the fiddle, feeling uncertain. She hadn’t meant to play so long. The music had simply rushed out of her, almost beyond her control. She was about to hand the violin back to Dougie, when the Rangers burst into wild shouts. It took her a moment to realize their shouts were cheers and meant as praise.

When the cheers had begun to quieten, Connor spoke, his voice strangely soft. “I’ve ne’er heard such beautiful music afore, my lady.”

“Nor have I,” called one of his men.

“The lass has a gift, so she does.”

“Dougie, are you certain you’ve no’ been playin’ that fiddle wi’ your feet all these years?” McHugh shouted out.

“More like his arse!” shouted Killy, wiping what looked suspiciously like tears from his grizzled, scarred face.

Raucous laughter.

Through it all Connor held Sarah’s gaze, unwavering. “Can you play it again?”

Connor wasn’t angry with her. He
wanted
her to play for him.

And Sarah’s spirit soared.

April 5

C
onnor walked with McHugh to the parade grounds on the west side of Ranger Island, this day beginning as every day began on the island—with muster and inspection. The men stood in rows, firelocks in hand, powder horns over their shoulders, tumpline packs on their backs. They bore the April morning chill without complaint, some wearing bearskin coats, others tying woolen blankets around them for warmth.

Sevenscore and six they numbered now, the company near its full strength of one hundred fifty. Many were new recruits, more than a dozen good men dying over the winter from fevers, scurvy, and smallpox, Brian, Torcan, and Seamus MacFearchair amongst them. Connor couldn’t remember a winter where so many men had perished of sickness, and he could not help but wonder. Had he brought this upon them?

The thought had eaten at him all night, robbing him of sleep, haunting even his dreams. He tried to tell himself that it had been a hard winter and that the Almighty would not be so cruel as to make the men suffer for Connor’s sins, that their deaths had naught to do with the vow he had broken or the lives he’d taken. And yet he could not shake the nagging guilt.

You ought to have confessed to Father Delavay long ago.

Father Delavay had been kidnapped from a French camp
and smuggled onto the island by Iain when he’d had need of a priest in order to wed Annie. But rather than returning to his people, the good father, seeing so many Catholic Highlanders with no shepherd to guide them, had remained, dressing as a Ranger, sharing camp life with the men, his presence a closely guarded secret lest he be discovered and hanged for a spy. But though he served the Rangers well, he was still French.

Would the good father be as understanding as Sarah had been—or would he condemn Connor?

Have you not read the Bible, Connor? Even angels kill.

He walked amongst his men, checking their gear, making sure each had what he was required to carry into battle and that all was in good repair. A broken string on a moccasin, a dirty musket barrel, or a dull blade could cost a man his life. “The socket on your bayonet is bent, Angus. It willna fit over the lug like that. See it repaired afore evenin’ muster, aye?”