Guns of Liberty (17 page)

“Yes,” Kate said. She stood and started from the room.

“And you have no regrets?” Martha asked, a note of motherly disapproval in her voice. She had hoped to talk some sense into the younger woman.

“Maybe one,” Kate replied, pausing in the doorway.

“Yes.” Martha brightened. Perhaps there was hope after all.

“Sorry about the lamp.” Kate headed up the stairs to gather her belongings. It was time to start for home.

Reverend Albright entered the kitchen. He crossed to his wife’s side to place a hand on her shoulder.

“Well, dear, did you bring your headstrong cousin around and show her the error of her ways?”

“Oh, shut up!” Martha snapped. The discussion was ended.

June 8, 1775

B
ARNABAS SCHRANER SQUIRMED BENEATH
his blanket as if trying to throw off the nightmare that plagued him. He was reliving a moment from childhood. He was twelve years old again, transformed and carried on the winds of his dream to the past. He had been feeding the chickens and was starting back toward the farmhouse, where his own dear mother was baking pies for a neighbor’s barn raising. Barnabas spied a snake, a black racer, gliding across the yard. He had seen his father once take a snake and crack it like a whip, popping the head off. Without weighing the consequences, Barnabas had hurried over to the snake and grabbed it by the tail end of the constrictor’s five-foot length. It seemed simple enough. He whirled the reptile over his head and cracked it like a whip. The snake shot forward, then recoiled right toward the twelve-year-old’s throat. The snake was not only intact but furious. It lunged for Barnabas, who was forced to whirl the snake overhead to keep the racer from catching hold of his youthful attacker. Each time the boy “cracked the whip” the black racer would come flying backward straight for the lad’s exposed throat, forcing the boy to repeat his actions while the snake, still quite whole, grew angrier and angrier.

In life, Barnabas, the boy, had finally just released his hold and sent the black racer sailing across the yard. In the dream, Barnabas tried to release the snake but the cursed reptile remained in hand. The boy couldn’t get rid of the damn thing and so had to continue to whip the indestructible snake out away from his body while growing wearier and wearier, dodging the snake and whirling it away. As he repeated the effort and slowly weakened, the nightmare unraveled to its dire and predictable end, an end which Barnabas managed to escape by bolting awake.

His eyes opened and he saw the branches above him. Reality seeped into his consciousness, and a twitch of arthritis in his left hip reassured him he was most definitely a grown man—not a boy of twelve—with a grown man’s aches and pains.

After such a nightmare, even life’s discomforts were welcome. He knew where he was now, about twelve miles north of Springtown, camped in a grove among the colony’s green hills. With his brother Eben and Tim Pepperidge he had searched the northern woods for sign of Daniel McQueen. After learning of Henk’s death on their return to Springtown, the Schraner brothers and their patriotic young friend had grabbed a half a day’s rest, then started out in pursuit of McQueen. Parties of other townsmen ranged the surrounding countryside but to no avail.

Barnabas hadn’t been surprised at their failure so far. Daniel had struck him as one to whom the wild country was a familiar haven. They weren’t going to find Daniel unless he wanted them to, Barnabas had explained to his father. But Papa Schraner insisted they try.

Now here we are
, Barnabas told himself,
the eighth of June. And nothing to show for six days of riding except sore backsides
.

There was a farm that needed tending to. He and Eben ought to be home.
We’ve ridden a wide circle east, south, and west and come up empty-handed. North is bound to be no better.

Barnabas closed his eyes a moment and inhaled the aroma of frying bacon and brewed tea. They had a crusty round loaf of bread left over from supper with which to sop the grease and make a meal along with the fried meat and tea. Pepperidge, being the best cook of the three, always stood the last watch so it fell to him to prepare the morning meal.

“Ah, this is the way to start a day, now, there’s a good lad.” Barnabas rolled over on his side to face the campfire. Through the flames he spied Pepperidge sitting across from him. The seventeen-year-old was securely bound, ankle and wrist. He wore a sheepish expression on his face. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Eben Schraner was also bound and gagged and propped shoulder to shoulder against young Pepperidge. Eben’s face was mottled with fury and shame at being taken without a fight. Barnabas suddenly thought to inspect his own limbs and discovering he was yet unbound, reached for his rifle—only to find it was gone.

“I figured you’d need your hands free to eat,” said Daniel McQueen, freezing Barnabas in midreach.

Barnabas slowly turned to face Daniel, who was seated on the trunk of a fallen white pine. He offered a plate of bread and bacon in one hand, his short-barreled pistol in the other. Barnabas had his choice, death or breakfast. The eldest Schraner brother didn’t have to belabor the matter. Hell and blazes, the bacon smelled mighty good. He grabbed for the plate.

“Good choice.” Daniel took up another plate and, balancing it on his knees, ate with one hand while keeping one of his Quakers cocked and primed.

Barnabas gnawed a chunk of greasy bread as he surveyed the campsite. Their weapons were piled on the ground about seventy feet away. Daniel must have stolen into camp in the wee hours, dispatched Pepperidge, and then taken their rifles and pistols while the brothers slept. He could imagine Eben being rudely awakened with a gun to his head.

“I never heard a thing, Barnabas,” young Pepperidge said meekly. “I’m … uh … real sorry.”

“
Mmmmmhhagh
!” Eben added disgustedly, making his opinion known despite the gag.

Next, Barnabas focused on his captor. Daniel’s unruly red hair was gathered and tied at the back of his neck. The lower half of his bronze features were hidden behind a nine-day growth of beard. He looked tired, his shirt was torn and dirty, and yet there was a flash of merriment in his eyes, perhaps at Schraner’s expense.

“What do you want?” Barnabas said.

“I have it.” Daniel finished off the last few morsels, set the plate aside, and crawled over to the fire, where he helped himself to a cup of tea. For a moment, his back was turned.

Barnabas tensed and carefully began to ease his plate aside. This might be his only chance.

“I wouldn’t try it,” the man at the campfire said without even looking back. “Besides, I took your flints. They won’t fire till you add new ones.”

No chance at all.
Barnabas glumly resumed eating.

“Why’d you stay around these parts?” Barnabas asked. A guilty man ought to have skedaddled. All one need do was flee to a colony farther south or north to be beyond the reach of any pursuit from Springtown. Staying just didn’t make sense. It was a fool thing to do.

“I have business here.”

“Like with Henk.”

Daniel handed Barnabas a cup of “Liberty” tea, a drink brewed from various roots and plants and ground cherry bark, it was a strong, bitter drink that could burn the sleep out of a man and stand him on his toes.

“Henk’s death was none of my doing. Now, leave me alone. Call it off and go home.” Daniel gulped his tea, then stood and started to walk away from camp. “I scattered your horses during the night. That ought to slow you awhile.”

Barnabas winced, then glared at Pepperidge, who shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

“How do I know you aren’t no killer?” Barnabas shouted.

Though Daniel had vanished into the woods, his words drifted back through the forest:

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

June 11, 1775

A
NY BLACKSMITH, IRON WORKER,
or gunsmith of the City of Philadelphia who is willing to supply the Colony with any number of fire arms, completed by the 1st day of November, may apply to the Subscriber in Philadelphia who has been appointed by Assembly to offer Bounty and Encouragement for such labour he has engaged.

June 1, 1775

Carpenter Hall Wm. Rutledge, Esq.

Daniel McQueen read the broadside beneath his breath. The missive had been posted beneath a wooden signpost that sported two placards. The topmost sign read
ROAD TO YORK
, with an arrow pointing north. The sign beneath read
PHILADELPHIA
, with an arrow pointing toward an impressive array of shops, houses, and warehouses, many two and three stories tall, arranged in an orderly sprawl along the banks of the Delaware. The carefully ordered streets were alive with carriages, horsemen, and people afoot—everyone on their way somewhere, each to his own destination. A forest of masts rose in the harbor, where barks and frigates were anchored.

From the hill, Daniel could take in most of the city at a glance. It never failed to fill him with wonder. The colonies were no longer primitive settlements clinging to the eastern shores of North America. They had come of age and now must be tempered in the crucible of war.

Daniel knew of such things: furnaces, anvils, molten metals, and the sacrifice a man must make to produce anything worthwhile and lasting. That was why he had come to Philadelphia on this morning. He had followed a circuitous trail from the countryside around Springtown, allowing the black mare to rest as much as possible and taking two days to reach Philadelphia.

Daniel studied the city that lay before him and wondered how he was going to find George Washington. After all, Virginia colonels traveled in different company from Scottish blacksmiths. Yet Daniel was certain that once he found Washington, he’d be able to arrange some kind of meeting with the Virginian.

But where to begin? The man by the broadside had pondered the problem throughout his journey and come to only one conclusion. He would try Nathaniel Woodbine. Daniel had no great liking for the man, especially for the merchant’s financial hold over Kate Bufkin; still, Woodbine was a patriot and colonel and no doubt moved in the same circle as Washington. It was worth a try. As for finding Woodbine’s house, well, someone must know. He’d begin with the local artisans, who were constantly being employed by such men of means. It seemed a good enough plan.

Perhaps
, Daniel told himself,
my luck is about to change.

Colonel George Washington stretched his long legs before him, loosened the buttons on his uniform, and settled back to enjoy the dessert young Sexton Rutledge brought from the kitchen. The nine-year-old boy, firstborn son of Dr. William Rutledge, had taken it upon himself to bring a second portion of sweet pumpkin pudding to the man he idolized.

Washington tousled the boy’s sandy hair and then made a great show of inhaling the pudding’s aroma and smacking his lips in anticipation.

“Your son makes a grand forager,” the colonel said with a chuckle. Young Sexton’s chest swelled with pride. He returned to his father’s chair.

“Bill Rutledge, you tell your wife that I used to think my own Martha’s pumpkin pudding was the best in the colonies, but I’ve been forced to reevaluate my thinking. I have found this custard to be more than a match, and I’m having a second helping to prove it.” Washington spooned a delectable spoonful into his mouth.

Today he felt at peace with the world around him, though the world around him was hardly at peace with itself. That was why he had come to Philadelphia. He wondered how he’d leave—as a colonel in Virginia’s home guard or as the commander of this fledgling nation’s army.

Dr. William Rutledge, a Philadelphian of influence and wealth, sat across from Washington in the parlor. The good doctor had parlayed several tracts of land into a considerable fortune by selling off the least valuable and selectively exploiting the resources of the rest. He was a man of modest appearance, average in height, unassuming in demeanor, at least when relaxing among his peers. But place him in any arena of competition, be it financial, political, or a game of whist, and the mild-mannered, unassuming physician became as combative as a gamecock—another sport he fancied, as did Washington.

But breeding cocks and fighting them had not initiated their friendship. The two men had marched side by side during the French and Indian War. The field of battle had forged a bond more lasting and truer than bloodlines and heritage between these two friends.

Rutledge yawned and rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He lowered his voice as Sexton went across the conservatory to plunk random notes upon the harp.

“Seriously, George, what think you of our host and ally?”

Washington frowned a moment. He had hoped this visit would remain cordial and pleasant. Nathaniel Woodbine had opened his house to many of their mutual friends, patriots all. These two men seated in the conservatory had been the first to arrive, and the colonel from Virginia, victim of a sweet tooth, had walked right over to a table laden with custards, pies, and honey cakes, many of which had been left earlier by Edythe Rutledge and her household staff after Woodbine’s own cook had taken ill.

“You have embraced him.” Washington hesitated to commit himself, like any good man of the soil, without assessing the situation one last time.

“He furnished the last shipment of powder and rifles out of his own pocket. I have met few so willing to be of service,” Rutledge conceded. Trustworthiness was a rare quality to find in a man.

“I know you trust him,” the Virginian said, taking another mouthful of pudding. “That is good enough for me.”

“He has won me over. I wish some of those obstinate men at Carpenter’s Hall were as dedicated,” Rutledge complained. “Vermont wants Artemas Ward, Massachusetts insists Hancock is the man to lead us. Such obstinacy.”

“Come, now, Bill,” Washington chided. “Nathaniel invited us here to relax. The only decisions I wish to make are which sherry to drink and how many games of whist I shall allow you to win before I take every coin you have on your person.” Washington scratched beneath his wig and set the bowl of pudding aside.