Elizabeth Meyette (19 page)

“We must get Andrew inside,” Joanna said as drops of rain began to spatter on the ground beside him. “You must not lift him, Emily.” She turned to look at the eight remaining soldiers. “Please, help us get him inside.”

They looked at each other, hesitating and a voice from behind them commanded, “Help them. Now!”

Looking up, Emily saw Deidre standing there with a pistol pointed at the head of one of the soldiers.

• • •

Jonathon was itching to break into a gallop and speed to Brentwood Manor. He kept telling himself that Emily would be fine as long as he was alive — and after Walters was dead. But doubt crept into his mind because he knew that the man was brutal and uncaring. Wiping his hand across his eyes he forced himself to concentrate on the immediate mission. They were close on the heels of Walters and his men, and today, God willing, they would meet face to face.

Hoof beats sounded fast and heavy ahead. A scout Jonathon had sent out came pounding up to him.

“Sir, British troops are approaching. They are about a mile down the road. They should be here within a quarter-hour.” He gasped for breath and his horse snorted and reared.

“Did they see you?” Jonathon asked.

“No sir. I did just as you told me; I stayed in the trees, and I stayed low.”

“Excellent.” Jonathon patted the crewman’s arm.

“Men, lead your mounts deep into the woods. We will ambush them from both sides of the road.” He motioned for half of the men to go on one side of the road and the rest to the other. At once, they disappeared into the trees and the road looked as undisturbed as if they had never been there.

Jonathon tethered his horse to a tree deep within the woods, unseen from the road. He crept back scanning the woods to see where his men were. Through the trees he saw them moving cautiously to avoid snapping twigs beneath their feet, bent over as they walked to remain concealed. Nearing the road, Jonathon took cover behind a shortleaf pine. He checked his rifle and pistol, and unclasped the top leather strap of his knife sheath. Rubbing his hand along the barrel of his Brown Bess, he knew his shot must be accurate … and deadly. Gates signaled him from across the road that all of the men were in place, and the ordinary forest sounds echoed around them.

Finally, hoof beats sounded in the distance, and Jonathon gripped his weapons. If there were twenty-five British soldiers, they were outnumbered by ten; Jonathon liked these odds, for they had the element of surprise on their side, and his men were intrepid. The beating of hooves grew closer, but the forest around him projected a sense of innocence as none of his men stirred. They knew the signal: Jonathon would fire first.

The initial British troops appeared on the road; the men held their place. In the lead, Jonathon saw Captain Walters, and his finger tightened on the trigger. His shot had to be clean and precise. The riders came closer, and Jonathon waited until the distance was best for the range of his rifle. Just as he pulled the trigger, the soldier to Walters’s left pulled in front of him catching Jonathon’s shot in the chest. The man’s mouth formed an O of surprise as he jerked back, and then death took him and slid from his horse. Chaos ensued, and while the horses shied and bucked and the British troops tried reining them in, Jonathon’s crew leapt from the surrounding woods, weapons firing.

Jonathon cursed his bad luck and scrambled between the horses and men looking for Walters. Shots rang out around him and men cried out in pain or in victory. The mounted men were at an advantage for taking aim at the crewmen, but at a disadvantage in ability to maneuver in the limited space afforded by the narrow road. The horses also pushed the men on foot, sometimes knocking them to the ground. Bayonets jutted out of the soldiers’ muskets, and after firing, they stabbed at the attacking crewmen. Outnumbered, Jonathon’s men realized their disadvantage, but continued fighting valiantly. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathon saw his men firing at the mounted soldiers, or dragging them from their horses and using their knives, but it was clear the British had the upper hand.

The sound of approaching riders was concealed by the surrounding din, so Jonathon did not hear Randy, David, and the men from the Raleigh Tavern arrive, but as they grew closer, he caught sight of them. Relief flooded him as he watched the insurgence of support riding into the melee and leveling the advantage.

Gaining the upper hand, his men were driven by their success, but the one man Jonathon sought seemed to have disappeared. Frantically, he searched for Walters and finally spotted him through a group of mounted soldiers. The captain’s eyes roamed the patriots intently, and Jonathon knew he was looking for him. Moving with catlike precision, Jonathon wove his way through the horses until he stood in front of the horse bearing Walters.

“Brentwood,” he said, his eyes glinting, a sneer crossing his face.

“Walters, are you prepared to die for what you did to my wife?” Jonathon asked raising his arm and pointing his pistol at him.

“I thought our fight was about loyalty to the king,” Walters sneered, his eyes glinting with anticipation.

“There is no loyalty to the king here, Walters,” Jonathon said, cocking his gun.

Walters raised his arm revealing his own pistol. Both men fired, but the jostling of the fighting men around them caused their bullets to miss their marks. Startled by the close shots, one horse leapt between them, knocking Jonathon to the ground. He quickly rolled to his left to avoid being trampled by the rearing horse, and as he sprang back up, he saw that his men were winning the skirmish; most of the British were dead or wounded. Walters, quickly surveying the scene, reached the same conclusion. He turned his horse to flee back down the road, but before he sped off, he spat his threat back to Jonathon over his shoulder.

“This is not finished, Brentwood. I will come back for you, and I will kill you!”

Jonathon took in the scene around him. His men had been victorious, but at the cost of some of their lives. Going to each of the wounded men, he assessed their conditions and acknowledged their efforts. He had lost five men, and he knelt beside each of them and offered a prayer.

Reaching Randy and David, he clapped each man on the arm.

“Excellent timing, my friends,” Jonathon said, a rush of affection for his lifelong friend and brother-in-law running through him.

“You did not afford us much notice, Jonathon.” Randy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “And sending a sweet lass to pass along your message caused me a moment of confusion, for she is a lovely young thing.”

“
Young
is the word to which you should attend, Randy! And my brother-in-law David here would have you strung up should you dally with his niece!” Jonathan replied, his attempt at lightness overshadowed by his sorrow at the loss of his men.

“Jonathon is correct, Randy!’ David laughed.

Jonathon knelt beside more of the wounded offering comforting words. Rising, he grabbed a mount and vaulted into the saddle.

“Gates, bury our lost men, and care for the wounded. Randy, form a contingent to take the soldiers who are able to travel to Williamsburg to be jailed, and then join David at Brentwood Manor to ensure my family is safe. I will contact you as soon as I am able.”

Turning his mount in the direction Walters fled, Jonathon spurred the horse into a gallop.

• • •

Andrew’s face was ashen against the crisp, white linen pillowcase. Dulcie’s son, Jedadiah, accompanied by a British soldier, had been sent to fetch Dr. Anderson over an hour before, but Emily knew that he often attended the Virginia Convention in Williamsburg these days. She prayed that he would be at home and able to tend to Andrew soon. Brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, she pressed a damp cloth against it. Her eyes took in the amount of blood that seeped into the cloth Joanna had bound around his upper arm and chest where the bullet was lodged. She knew it was imperative to remove the bullet and clean the wound, but she was frightened to try to accomplish that herself. Surely Dr. Anderson would arrive soon. She tried to calculate the time it would take them to return with the doctor, and even if they rode swiftly, it could be too late.

The remaining soldiers had taken over the manor, and were presently lounging in the dining room drinking brandy and ale having commanded Dora to prepare a meal for them. Their raucous laughter floated up the stairs, and they harassed the house slaves. At Deidre’s command, they had hefted Andrew up and carried him to his room, laying him on his bed roughly.

“You will likely lose this one,” one of the soldiers said to Emily, smirking. Anger rose within her, and she slapped his face. He reached for her, but Joanna stepped between them.

“It would be best if you go downstairs now,” she said, setting her mouth in a firm line.

He looked from one woman to the other, shrugged his shoulders and left the room.

Deidre looked at Emily. “I did not do this for you, Emily. I did it for Jonathon because I know he is so fond of Andrew. And because I hate the British for all they have taken from me.”

Emily saw the defiance in the woman’s eyes.

“Nonetheless, I thank you, Deidre,” she said. The smirk on Deidre’s face told her that she could never trust the woman. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Deidre turned and left the room.

Emily ran to Andrew’s bedside, tears falling freely now. She untied his shirt, and carefully spread it open to reveal his wound. Joanna tore strips of cloth from the extra pillowcase, poured water from the porcelain ewer into the bowl and wet the strips. Sitting beside Andrew, she cleaned the wound and gently wrapped it. These were the strips Emily stared at now watching crimson seep further into the linen.

She heard the door open and Joanna’s soft footfall.

“Joanna, even if they ride as swiftly as the wind, it might be too late,” Emily whispered. Fear gripped her and she recalled the first time she almost lost her brother when they sailed on the
Destiny
. Jonathon had saved his life; oh, how she wished he were beside her to help save Andrew’s life again. And to hold her and give her strength because at this moment, she felt helpless and afraid.

“The British sit with their feet propped on the dining table,” Joanna said, her voice low and her eyes flickering toward the door lest they be heard. “They are uncivilized oafs!”

“And we are to house them and feed them?” Emily asked.

“It is the law. We are required to house and feed any British troops who demand it,” Joanna said. “That is a major cause of contention against the crown.”

Raucous laughter rose through the floor. The women looked at each other. Emily felt helpless to stop the cruelty of the soldiers, and she could see concern etched on Joanna’s face. How long would this go on? But Emily knew it would continue as long as Jonathon was free — or until Captain Walters was dead.

Andrew moaned softly, and Emily turned to scan his face. His eyes were open, and he looked at his sister. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek and smiled softly. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, and he reached for her hand. She grasped his and was alarmed at how sweaty and hot it felt. He closed his eyes and his grip slackened. Emily looked anxiously at Joanna.

“Dr. Anderson will be here soon, Em,” she whispered.

Emily nodded, feeling tears spill down her face. She looked at her little brother, his face so pale, his life so precious.

They sat together in silence, praying for Andrew’s recovery, each lost in her own thoughts. The afternoon heat hung in the room, and Emily shifted uncomfortably in her chair beside the bed. She noticed that Joanna had dozed, and wished she could do the same, but worry for Andrew and discomfort from her increasing size kept her awake.

Dulcie entered the room, and her eyes conveyed the news Emily dreaded.

“Miss Emily, the doctor is away in Williamsburg,” she said, hands folded in front of her, eyes downcast. “I am most sorry, ma’am.”

Emily felt hope disappear in the closing of the door as Dulcie left. There was only one thing to do, then. She must remove the bullet from her brother’s shoulder as best she could. Rousing Joanna, she mentally listed what she would need. Joanna started up at Emily’s gentle nudging.

“What is it, Emily?” she asked.

“Dr. Anderson is not coming, Joanna. We must tend to Andrew ourselves.”

Joanna looked at the young man lying on the bed, and Emily followed her gaze, aghast that he seemed to shrink into the bedclothes. She pulled herself up and gathered her wits. She crossed to the bell and rang for Dulcie.

Returning to the bed, she gently unwound the cloth around her brother’s shoulder. Removing the last of it, she forced herself to look closely at the wound. An ugly gash surrounded a hole that dug deep into his shoulder. Blood continued to ooze out, but not at the alarming rate it had been. Cautiously, she probed the area, feeling his muscle, bones and finally, a hard, unyielding lump lodged just below his collarbone.

Dulcie entered the room. “Yes, ma’am?”

“We need sheets, thread, needles, and water, boiling water and fresh water in the pitcher, Dulcie. And we need a knife, but first clean it well.”

Emily saw Dulcie’s eyes widen and she looked frozen in place.

“Hurry, Dulcie. We must remove this bullet from Andrew’s shoulder.” She instructed her on what herbs to bring as well.

After the maid left the room, Joanna sat beside Emily taking her hands.

“Emily, are you sure … ?”

“What choice do we have, Joanna? Andrew will die if the bullet remains there.” She searched her sister-in-law’s eyes seeing the fear and doubt. “I will need your help.” Joanna nodded, straightening her shoulders.

When Dulcie returned with the items, Emily instructed her to rip the sheets into strips as Joanna had done with the pillowcase. Each of her senses was magnified as she prepared the items for the impending procedure. The sound of the shredding sheet was rhythmic and steadied her nerves. She felt she could almost hear the heartbeat of each person in the room so acutely perceptive was her hearing. As Emily took the knife and dipped it into the pan letting it soak there, the boiling water scalded her hands making them sensitive to whatever they touched. She removed her hands cooling them as she poured fresh water from the pitcher into the basin, and then dried them on a clean strip of cloth. The brightness of the sun streaming through the windows on either side of the bed slanted across the floor, and she saw with sharp clarity the outline of each item in the room. Her mind seemed to have reached a different plane of awareness while it refused to acknowledge what she was about to do, holding her fear at bay.