The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) (32 page)

“Did you see?”

I nodded and ran into his ready arms. I had never been more terrified in my life as when I saw the Regulars shooting at my militiamen, at my husband. I had never felt my heart beat like that before. It was louder than the volley of gunfire, louder than four hundred men firing their muskets almost at the same time. I was sure my heart had galloped up into my throat, where I thought it might still be lodged.

I cried then, clutching onto Mathew with all my might. I never wanted to see anything like that again.

“Oh, oh . . . oh dear . . . what’s wrong, Violet? Didn’t you see that we got those damned redcoats running? Running, I tell you. Can you believe it? What are all these tears for?”

I smacked him on his shoulder, hard. Harder than I’d wanted.

Mathew rubbed his shoulder, looking at me like I had just turned into a troll. No words came out of my mouth, or into my head, as I just stared at him, incensed he could be so . . . damned cocky at a time like this.

“Violet . . .”

Then I kissed him.

Yes, I was crazy, but I had just endured watching the man I loved being shot at. Somehow, God Almighty, he had survived.

Mathew lost his footing, and we bounced against the dark blue pantry in the kitchen. I clutched at his face, pulling him more into our kiss, inserting my tongue in his mouth, forcing my body against his, feeling him alive all over me.

Finally Mathew chuckled and pulled at my arms. He separated himself from my lips enough to say, “Were you worried about me, dear?”

I nodded.

There was a knock on the kitchen’s door. I couldn’t let Mathew get too far from me, so I followed him like a lost soul. Mathew said “one more minute” to someone, shut the door, and smiled back at me.

“I have a minute.”

I nodded and tried for a grin. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

Mathew held onto my waist and let his smile enhance. “I think that was just concern for me, which flatters me to no end, dear.”

I giggled.

“You should have been a boxer, wife. You have a nasty good punch.”

“I’m sorry, again.”

“I’ll wear this bruise proudly, knowing how you love me and worry about me. Of course, if any of the men discover it, I’ll say I was in hand-to-hand combat with a Regular.”

“I think you should, yes.”

“Can I say I love you again?”

“Please. Yes, please.”

He kissed me first, thereupon whispered he loved me three times, then there was another knock.

Mathew huffed as he stormed to the door. “God damn it! I said I’ll be there in a minute!”  He whipped the door open and there stood Colonel Barrett.

“Oh . . . sir,” Mathew stuttered.

Mr. Barrett gave me a small friendly smile before he waved Mathew’s harsh words away. “I’ve been a newly married man myself, once upon a time long ago. I understand the need for a minute here or there.” He came into our kitchen while both Mathew and I blushed. “Mrs. Adams.” He came over to me and gave me a soft hug. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have some of the Regular soldiers who are wounded treated here. You have your man, Mr. Jones, on hand to help?”

“No,” I only offered.

Colonel Barrett dug his graying eyebrows in confusion for a moment, but then he sighed and nodded. “Reverend Emerson has some of the wounded, both Massachusetts’ boys and Regulars. I was hoping you could take care of some of them too. I’ve already sent a messenger to my wife, so she will come and assist you.”

I nodded while thinking I didn’t want to take care of any soldiers—ones that wore a woolen red coat or ones that wore casual clothing of the day. I wanted this whole damned thing to end. I wanted Mathew to stay close to me, mayhap get me back into our bed and make love to me or just be close. I didn’t want to stay at home, tending to strangers, but I nodded while Mathew looked down at me with pride growing in his warm blue eyes.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Colonel Barrett moved closer to the door, but then turned back toward me. “We’re leaving the Regular’s who died where they lay—for now.”

“How many are dead?” Mathew asked.

Colonel Barrett shrugged. “Not sure. Of the Regulars, it appears there were two or three. Probably more as we saw some of the Regulars take their wounded and perhaps dead to the Emerson farm, trying to hideout, I’d guess. Might be a couple around your farm, Adams. Could take a few privates to scout out your place, make sure all the redcoats are accounted for. Of the militia . . . Captain Davis was one of the first to fall.”

I gasped and held my fingers to my lips.

Colonel Barrett nodded gravely, but flicked a sympathetic grin to me. “He was a good man, very brave.”

I nodded.

“What are we going to do?” Mathew asked.

Colonel Barrett shot an apprehensive glance at me, but then answered, “A rather fat redcoat colonel and a few companies of grenadiers met the retreating men on the road. The colonel and grenadiers escorted their retreating comrades back to Concord where, if I were to take a guess, that bloated colonel will rest his men, let them eat, and then begin their way back to Boston.”

“What of the Regulars at your farm, Mr. Barrett? The ones searching for our militia’s arms?” I asked timidly.

Colonel Barrett sharply inhaled and nodded. “God damn, I forgot about them in all this hubbub. I have to make an order not to shoot unless fired upon. I have to—” And he was out the door.

“That was a very smart question to ask, darling, and very bright to remember. I forgot, even Colonel Barrett forgot,” Mathew said.

I smiled and held him one more time before he left, in a hurry to scout out the farm, then to be with his men. He said his good bye so quickly, I didn’t think he heard me tell him that he was my heart, my love.

Mrs. Barrett would be coming soon, if she wasn’t delayed by Captain Parsons and his entourage, but already the wounded, all scarlet coated, lay on my front yard, mostly taking care of themselves as I stood staring at them. There were only about ten of them, huddled together, some crying, some quiet and blanched, others looking in my house’s windows. I frowned at that, but went to fetch a small bucket and filled it as full as I could muster while still being able to carry it. Trying to hinder the sloshing, I carefully set down the basin of clean water a few feet away from the men, all of whom, but one, could walk. I raced back inside my house for sheets and cups and came back, carefully settling everything on the ground, including small corn cakes that Bethany had made yesterday. The young men stopped their crying and were very quiet while staring at me with dead eyes. Those boys would never be the same again, not after seeing men die. I filled the cups and gave each man the fresh well water.

We didn’t say anything to each other, the wounded and I. We just gave each other quick glances, and I tried for a calming smile. Only one boy could stammer a thank you as he drank the water and stared at his bleeding leg.

Then I heard it. I don’t know why I didn’t hear it sooner, but as I turned toward the highway there were more men marching toward the North Bridge. This time from the west side. Captain Parsons was returning.

Oh, God, couldn’t this dispute be over?

Just then I saw the bright red of Cherry. Mathew galloped to the east side of the bridge and a little past to a small hill. Just beyond the hill was a stone wall. Cherry ran his precious rider until I could no longer see him past the wall, but I did notice there were many men standing guard nearby. Since I knew the location as well as I knew the back of my hand I could guess that Mathew and a couple hundred men were stationed around the rounded hill, protecting the bridge, in a blind spot to me, and a blind spot to the marching hundred Regular soldiers.

I looked down at the wounded. There was one boy who had lost consciousness. Damnation. Glancing at the boy who had whispered his thanks earlier, I said, “That’s Captain Parsons on the highway, I’m sure of it. I think you should carry that boy and meet up with your other troops down on the highway. Not that you’re a bother to me, I love having bleeding guests, but you might feel more comfortable with your own.”

The brunette boy with blood dripping down his leg nodded and tried to stand on one leg. All of them helped each other up, but between the lot of them, no one could carry the concussed boy. They all made brave attempts, but in the end I pushed them aside, and somehow loaded the boy on my shoulders, grunting and thanking God the boy was probably only sixteen, if that, and skinny. I carried him down to the highway, while the rest of the wounded hobbled behind me.

As gently as I could, I set the boy down on the one dry spot wide and long enough to hold a man. I couldn’t tell why the boy wouldn’t open his eyes. He didn’t appear to have a wound on his head, and was breathing just fine. I hoped he’d just fainted. His face held the softness of youth with acne and the sparse hairs of early manhood above his lip. As I stood, my neck and back creaking, I said to the group of wounded soldiers, “I—I—well, I wish you a full recovery.” Then I ran away.

Finally, up the hill to my house’s porch, I shuddered as I studied the highway where Captain Parsons was approaching with nearly a hundred men. The marching red line was a ways off, and couldn’t have seen me, I hoped. Yet growing jittery, I hastily retreated into the house.

I took in a deep breath, weighing my choices, bit my lip and turned around in the parlor. Thanks to Bethany everything looked clean and tidy and smelled faintly of lavender, just like my sister had left the house. God, how I loved his house, how I wanted to have children in this house—children with Mathew. I was furious at Mathew for being with his militia, but also fiercely proud that he was with his men. And all I really wanted was that picture I had developed of Mathew and me growing old together, having children, and living in love.

I grabbed an overcoat that hung on the couch. While rushing through the house, I noticed that it was another of my husband’s, this one black and simple, and hung past my hands. I rolled the cuffs as I walked through the kitchen, but then I stopped. My rifle leaned against the wall in the corner beside the smaller blue pantry. The pan where gunpowder was to be filled was blackened, and even with all the oil in the world I couldn’t make it gleam. I genuflected before the rifle, fingering the cherry wood and the brass-color of the metal. I needed to have children that looked like Mathew, raised in the house where I had grown from babe to woman. I needed to fulfill that dream. How I cherished thinking the word, husband—the man who was bound to me, mine. I winced as I remembered Jacque saying those words. How ironic! Now I whispered them to myself–my husband, mine–and the words resonated with warmth and rightness.

Wrapping my hands around the stock of my rifle I prayed for destiny. It was my fate, as a woman to have babies and live in a house filled with love, was it not? I was in love with my husband, and I was not about to let anything stand between me and my wishes, my desires, my husband. I’d already had so much taken from me, but not my husband. Not as I could do something about it. I righted myself as I tied the bag of lead balls and extra gunpowder to my belt then bulleted out of my house.

Just as I jumped from the porch I saw a black steed carrying a very familiar form to the other side of the wall, close to where Mathew was hiding. Wide shoulders, slim waist and hair so dark that it almost appeared blue.

Jacque.

What the hell was he doing here? I stole behind the Joneses house, let my rifle lean against the wall, and peeked around the corner. I couldn’t see the horse or the rider. Could I have imagined him?

I couldn’t see much from my disadvantaged viewpoint, save for the approaching redcoats on the highway. I needed to get to higher ground, but I knew that of the hills behind the farm, specifically Punkatasset Hill, were littered with militia members. Damn, I had to chance it.

I had grabbed my father’s wide brimmed hat as I’d left the house, and pulled it down low, in case anyone wanted to peer into my face. Then I grabbed my rifle and jogged through my freshly plowed field. It was a perfect day for planting, I realized.

I rushed through the copse and quieted my step to listen for any other militia that might be roaming through the woods. Or Regulars. I couldn’t sense any person near, so I decided to make a run for the other side of the Concord River. Just before I opened my eyes I remembered the iron feel of his wide shoulders, how silky his midnight blue hair was, as Jacque had nestled with me, whispering sweet love poems in French. I jolted as I opened my eyes, remembering too well, and how I had tried to forget, Jacque poisoning me.

Ass! Lunatic ass.

I gritted my teeth as I ran to the river to where I knew a fallen oak tree provided a bridge so I could cross the full river and be on the same side as my husband and his militia, a few rods from where they stood. And Jacque too. The gall of the man! As I crossed the tree bridge, the river murmured and sputtered. Impregnated by the spring showers and the gradual melting of snow, it was huge, brown, and alive. I didn’t blame the river for my sister’s death . . . sometimes, for my sister was in more pain than she could explain, more pain than she could endure. I knew it, and had wrestled with her pain and tried to force her to live for me. But all the while, I knew she hadn’t truly survived. She had told me herself of her own murder.