Guns of Liberty (11 page)

Daniel returned to his father’s side and reached out to wake him. Brian rolled over and stared up at his son. He hadn’t been asleep at all.

“So … you’ve found the courage to face me, eh, and not sneak away like you did when you ran off to war,” Brian said.

“You’re a clever old fox, Papa,” Daniel said.

“Not clever enough to keep you from turning your back on everything we’ve built,” Brian replied, holding up the letter to the flickering firelight.

“You’ve built, not me,” Daniel said. “I want more than the life I have now.”

“More? Because Squire Trevane’s prissy daughter cast ye aside for merchant Greene’s eldest lad?” Brian shook his head and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You are not the first younker who’s had his heart tramped on by a fair lassie, and you won’t be the last, but heartache is no reason to throw your life away.”

“You don’t understand, Papa.”

“There’s everything here for you, Danny boy.”

“Yessir. Everything but what I want.”

“It is that Trevane girl, she’s turned your head …”

“No!” Daniel blurted out; then, “Yes …” He walked to the hearth and warmed his hands. “Maybe … at first I, too, thought it was the girl. Then I realized I’ve felt this way for a long time.”

“What are you saying?” Brian growled. “Talk sense to me.”

Daniel faced him. The two men stared at one another, father and son, both stubborn and determined to have their way.

“Look,” Daniel said. “When you work iron and shape it to your will, it has your mark upon it. Right?”

“Yes,” Brian warily consented, suspecting a trap.

“I want a life with my mark upon it. Can you not be understanding this? I want to forge my own life, for better or ill.”

Silence reigned, broken only by the crackling flames. Daniel could see the hurt in his father’s eyes. He wished there had been another way.

“Well, there it is, then,” Brian replied coldly. He turned his back on his son and walked to the window that overlooked the drive and, beyond it, the post road. “I’ll speak no more on the matter. Be off with ye.”

Years passed in a single breath. Flames shimmered and dissolved like the vestiges of a departing dream. The memory of one hearth became the reality of another.

Daniel surveyed his surroundings; the tavern room, the doorway beyond which a woman he cared for waited and waited, a woman he had already deceived, to his own remorse.

“Well, I’ve a life with my mark on it now,” Daniel said softly. But only time would tell the temper of the “metal” with which he’d worked.

Nathaniel Woodbine had only recently purchased his house on Mulberry and Sixth streets, just a couple of blocks east of the college and academy. It was a handsome, red-bricked, two-story structure that withstood the wrath of the storm. It was the downpour that had roused the colonel from his warm bed and set him on the prowl down the dark halls and stairway and through the spacious rooms below.

The faint odor of tobacco mingled with the aroma of that night’s supper. Woodbine paused, his eye scanning the table. He pictured in his mind the men who had only recently partaken of his food. There sat John Adams at one end. And my, how this round-faced, stocky rebel extolled the virtues of George Washington, reciting the Virginian’s name ad nauseum as he called for the formation of a Grand American Army to drive the British from the colonies.

Several of the guests, merchants and the like, men of proper breeding and station, championed such a suggestion, and none more loudly than Woodbine himself. It was plain to see that Washington was the best man for the job of commander-in-chief.

The other guests concurred, with the exception of Charles Lee, a British-born mercenary only recently returned from Europe who coveted the command for himself. Much to his displeasure, not a single individual among this gathering of Philadelphia’s aristocracy voiced the opinion that Major Lee ought to be considered for the post.

Woodbine paused in the doorway to the kitchen, the memories of the discussion still fresh in his mind, and in the lightning’s lurid glare made out the cloth-covered pie tin that Mrs. Patterson, Woodbine’s widowed cook, had left on the oak table near the ruby glow of the hearth.

Woodbine made his way across the winter kitchen, retrieved the pie and a silver spoon the widow had left next to the tin, and greedily began to devour the remainder of the mincemeat pie.

Mrs. Patterson knew her master was wont to roam about the house and liked a bit of nourishment for his efforts. Indeed, all the servants were aware of how fitfully the colonel slept and were no longer aroused by the noise of his midnight excursions.

So the colonel, snug in his robes and sleeping gown, listened to the sound of wind and rain and thunder and took comfort in the fact that his support of Adams’s proposal might push the Continental Congress toward a decision.

He spooned another helping of pie between his lips and savored the mixture of spices and fruit in his mouth. He judged the conservatory at the back of the house to be the only proper place to view the storm’s display. He headed for it, retracing his route through the dining room and then down a narrow hallway that opened into the window-lined conservatory, with its wing-backed, upholstered chairs and comfortable settees arranged around a pianoforte and harp.

Someone plucked a harp string. It was hardly an angel.

Woodbine froze in the entranceway, a spoonful of pie midway to his lips. He dropped the utensil into the tin and slowly ventured toward the center of the room, where a gaunt, rain-drenched figure sat near the harp, his bony digits plucking discordant notes upon the instrument.

“We agreed you would never come here,” Woodbine stated nervously. “My God, if someone should see you …” His voice was thick.

“No one did.”

“But if someone should … I mean—there are many in Philadelphia, like Colonel Washington, to name just one, who would recognize you.” Woodbine glanced nervously about, as if expecting one of his guests to pop up from behind a chair.

The figure by the harp stirred. Tinder sputtered for a moment and then the wick of a candle sputtered into flame. The sallow firelight played upon the sunken cheeks and eyepatched countenance of the uninvited guest. Water dripped from the hem of his cloak and the broad brim of his hat.

“No one saw me. No one will. Now, tell me what you’ve learned since last we spoke. And be brief; I’ve had a hard ride.” Major Josiah Meeks reached out and snatched the pie tin from Woodbine’s grasp. He helped himself to the last of the dessert that the other had coveted for himself.

Woodbine began an account of the current situation, the movement among the continentals to name Washington as commander of the army and the local effort to gather arms and munitions for the troops besieging General Gage in Boston.

The Philadelphian was swift and to the point, as he was most anxious to see Meeks on his way. As yet, no one suspected Colonel Nathaniel Woodbine of being anything less than an ardent patriot. He wanted to keep it that way.

June 1, 1775

T
HE CENTER OF SPRINGTOWN
was a collection of businesses and stately two-story brick homes whose lower floors had been converted into shops, all of them surrounding a commons fringed with stately oaks and elms. The commons, or the Green, as folk called it, served as a gathering spot for the whole community. This rectangular plot of ground, lushly carpeted with wild grasses, was already strewn with wagons and tents.

The Springtown Congregational Church, a whitewashed brick structure whose steeple had suffered lightning damage from the recent storms, now ten days past, dominated the north end of the Green, while the remainder of the town square bordered east, west, and south. Over a hundred people had ridden in from outlying farms to participate in the rally in support of the colonial troops besieging the British in Boston. Among the new arrivals on this first day of June was a wagon from the Hound and Hare Inn.

Daniel McQueen, following Kate Bufkin’s instructions, steered the mares off of First Street and onto Main, which bordered the Green on the east. Daniel was astonished at the crowd already decorating the giant old oak tree in the center of the Green. Soon the oak’s gnarled branches would be festooned with lanterns, ribbons, and broadsides, and its trunk ringed with patriots full of song and speeches to fuel their courage. Come nightfall and the “liberty tree” would be ablaze with the light of freedom. But this was the Sabbath, approaching noon, and wagons, horses, townspeople, and farm families choked the thoroughfare and reduced Daniel’s pace to a crawl. It was better than a country fair, and everyone who believed in the rebel cause was welcome.

The air was thick with excitement that seemed to feed upon itself and expand.

Daniel sighed. “I should never have come.”

Kate, at his side, followed his line of sight. His remark had caught her off guard. Had he already tired of her company? Then she noticed big Henk Schraner towering over his brothers where they stood in front of a pub. By the expression on his face, Henk had already recognized the couple on the wagon rolling toward him. Eben and Barnabas doffed their hats in greeting as the wagon crawled by.

Daniel returned the gesture, holding the lines in one hand and waving with the other.

Henk continued to scowl, his gaze smoldering with dislike. Kate noticed how the young man’s hands were balled into fists. Daniel had told her of his encounter with Henk in the woods near Sister Hope’s farm. Kate had hoped that Papa Schraner might have talked some sense into his adopted son and cooled the green fire of his jealousy. It was obvious nothing had changed.

They left the Schraners behind, and Kate directed Daniel to turn at Second Street at the north end of the commons. A block off the town square, they drew up before a white picket fence surrounding a two-story frame house and a neighboring church. Though not as large as the church in the center of town, Faith Chapel was well attended. About three dozen people were congregated on the front steps and in the yard. Daniel judged they had just concluded a Sunday prayer service. A minister in black frock coat and cleric’s collar stood among them, laughing to twice-told tales, empathizing with the newly revealed ache or pain, commiserating with loss, and sharing in the joys of his flock. He was a man of average height, thin, in his late forties. He was wigged, as was the fashion for ministers and barristers and men of high social standing.

“That’s Reverend Albright,” Kate said. “The barn’s out back.”

“I’ll find it,” Daniel told her. “You visit with your preacher friend while I unhook the team.”

Kate patted his arm, then climbed down. She hesitated for a moment, and her expression clouded. “You do think Loyal will be—”

“Fine,” Daniel completed her sentence in a reassuring tone.

“Sister Agnes and Sister Ruth are there to help him with any guests.” Kate had been reluctant to bring her brother into Springtown for the patriotic gathering. She feared all the commotion might serve to unsettle him.

Daniel called out to the mares and shook the lines. The horses obediently fell into step. He rounded the minister’s house and located the barn easily enough. It was a small structure, adequate to house the team and keep them out of the elements, but the wagon, like the minister’s own carriage, would have to be left outside. A charred patch of earth and soot-blackened debris indicated where a carriage house once stood.

By the time Daniel had found stalls for the mares and left each animal a pitchforkful of hay, he heard Kate’s voice and the deep, stentorian tones of the minister in reply ring upon the warm June air. Daniel emerged from the narrow confines of the barn and stood in the sunlight and stretched the kinks out of his muscular frame. He noted once again how pretty Kate looked in her pale green dress and white cotton apron with her bonnet hung loose on her back, away from her heather-gold hair. The ten days following the storm had seemed to Daniel like ten years as the last of May unfolded. One chore had led to the next, and lately the upstairs rooms were taking shape. But underneath every labor, haunting each task, was the memory of her warm kiss on that cold and rainy night when he had held her in his arms in the tavern.

“Reverend Francis Albright,” the minister said, extending a pale hand. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Welcome, Mr. McQueen, to our humble lodgings.” The minister displayed a good-natured expression, and his eyes were bright and friendly.

Daniel shook hands and glanced from the minister to Kate in surprise. He hadn’t intended to spend the night. She only shrugged, avoiding his unspoken question.

“Reverend Albright—uh—Francis has insisted we stay the night,” Kate told him. “He has an extra bedroom.”

“Oh?” Daniel brightened. One bedroom; now, that did sound interesting.

“And we’ve plenty of blankets to make you a warm bed by the hearth.” Albright beamed, clasping his hands together.

“Oh,” came Daniel’s dampened reply.

“It’s unfortunate you missed our Sabbath sermon,” the reverend continued, leading Kate and Daniel around to the front. Albright immediately launched into a discourse on the travails of Job and how the Old Testament story related to the turmoil of the times.

Daniel pretended interest, all the while looking across at Kate, who met his gaze with a whimsical smile. Now, that indeed was a dangerous look, one that meant she was plotting some mischief that would eventually involve him. He felt about as secure as a blind man in a field of bear traps.

And that was a high point, for when Daniel rounded the corner of Albright’s house he stopped dead in his tracks. Half a dozen horsemen sat their mounts before the picket fence in front of the parsonage. Three of them were strangers, gruff-looking men in homespun clothes with impassive faces shaded by their battered tricorn hats. The other three Daniel knew only too well.

“I wonder who they are?” Albright wondered aloud as Major Josiah Meeks dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to Black Tolbert. Bill Chaney nudged Tolbert.

A slender, pretty woman in a dark brown dress, white cap, and apron stood at the front gate with an eight-year-old boy who fidgeted in his tight breeches, waistcoat, and buckled shoes. He was the mirror image of his father, Reverend Albright.