Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

February 17, 1777

E dmond’s brief stint of fitful sleep ended when he jerked awake shortly before dawn. The faint gray light showed that the rain had stopped, though a low fog hovered over the river and moisture dripped from the trees. Edmond’s long boots had kept his legs fairly dry where they stuck out from beneath the hollow in the bluff.

Was Dougal still on guard on the riverbank? A faint movement on the bank confirmed it. Edmond started to sit up, but something was pressing his shoulder down. A dark head. Mrs. Scott’s.

As he gazed upon the crescents of her dark lashes resting above her cheeks and her full lips parted in sleep, he failed to summon even a smidgen of the irritation that had filled him when first he’d been saddled with her. Despite her bravado, the reverses of the prior day had allowed glimpses of vulnerability. Especially when she spoke of her husband. Something wasn’t right. The woman was convinced she had to rely on herself alone. Even if Edmond had originally rued the position she had placed them in, he admired her grit.

In repose, she looked so soft and sweet that his heart tugged. Whether she acknowledged it or not, she needed him. The weight of that responsibility settled over Edmond with less distaste than it had yesterday.

The situation had its perks. A beautiful woman slumbering on his shoulder next to the Satilla River was the last thing Edmond would have expected.

The unmistakable pop of muskets about a mile distant brought a timely end to his dangerous musings and Mrs. Scott’s eyes open with a start.

“What’s that?” She sat up and struck her head on the root above. “Ow.” Dark hair ran like inky rivulets over her fingers as she rubbed the offending spot.

Edmond propped himself on his elbows. “I reckon the Loyalists have attacked the fort.”

Dougal approached the hideout, his rifle in his hand, and crouched before them. “This will give us the chance to flee north, Sergeant.” His optimistic statement overlooked the obvious—that they could have prevented the attack had Mrs. Scott and her cow not delayed them.

Edmond tamped down a wave of impatience as he rubbed his eyes. “We will give it a bit to make sure they are well engaged before skirting northwest of the fort.”

“’Tis boggy territory.” Mrs. Scott paused in her attempt to run her fingers through her hair. “Where I was separated from my servants.”

Edmond took a swig from his water flask. “All the less likely the Tories will find us there.” He scooted out from beneath the shelter and went to see to the horses.

By the time he returned, Mrs. Scott had braided her hair and sat on a fallen tree beside Dougal. He joined them, and they partook of the leftovers from yesterday’s supper. The rattle of musketry continued from the fort, distant enough that morning birdsong flowed around them. Upriver, a mother otter and her two babies emerged from beneath the roots of a tupelo tree and frolicked in the shallows.

Edmond pointed them out, and the delight that transformed Mrs. Scott’s face punctured his midsection. How breathtaking she would be clean and dressed as a lady. Regal, no doubt. Not that her waif-like appearance did not hold its own appeal. That smudge beneath one eye, though…she must have acquired it when the dirt fell on her face last night.

He stepped over to the water and dipped his handkerchief in, then returned and handed it to her. At her blank look, he pointed to her cheekbone. “You have, uh…some dirt…”

“Oh.” Her face flushed, and she wiped it with the cloth. “Is it gone now?”

He nodded and looked away. When she tried to hand him the handkerchief, he waved her off. She needed it more than he did.

After attending to personal business in the woods and placing their belongings back on their horses, they mounted up and set out. Mrs. Scott was correct. Swamps and tangled bogs riddled the land northwest of Fort McIntosh. They picked their way slowly through sabal palms, evergreen viburnum, and devil’s walkingstick. Swamp azaleas were just putting out leaves.

Having met the famed naturalist William Bartram when he visited the McIntoshes before the war, Dougal had taken to studying the local flora and fauna and loved to force his knowledge on everyone else. He occupied himself during slow stints of service by attempting to sketch the plants. Thankfully, today he refrained from regaling Mrs. Scott with a botany lesson.

After riding a quarter of an hour, they came to a stretch where clusters of tupelo trees and massive cypresses, six feet in diameter, emerged from murky greenish-brown water. Mrs. Scott drew back on her mare’s reins and sent Edmond a frowning glance.

“There is no help for it, ma’am. We must go through.” Skirting east would bring them to the Old Post Road, a heavily patrolled route they needed to avoid, and going farther west would take too much time. Edmond urged Maximus forward on the most solid ground available.

“Will there be snakes out yet?” The faint-voiced query from Mrs. Scott barely reached his ears.

He turned in the saddle to answer as quietly as possible. “’Tis early yet, but keep an eye out.” He wouldn’t mention that even in the heart of winter, the reptiles had been known to sunbathe on warmer days in these tropical environs. Facing front, he made a mockery of his own warning when a thin branch thwacked him in the face. Edmond spluttered and shoved it away.

Muffled laughter echoed from behind. ’Twas what he got for coddling a woman.

Minutes later, Edmond ducked to avoid a tattered gray shawl of Spanish moss as he passed beneath a live oak. Only when a commotion behind him ensued did he realize Mrs. Scott had chosen to go around the other side of the tree and ridden into the water. Her horse splashed, and she screamed.

“A snake! A snake!”

Edmond rounded the tree, expecting that the creature had fallen onto her from a branch above. Instead, a harmless green water snake rippled away from the flailing hooves.

“Mrs. Scott, ’tis not poisonous.” Dougal’s admonition did little to calm the distraught woman, who sawed at her mare’s mouth in an attempt to pull her away from the reptile. Instead, her efforts led them deeper into the muck. Mud oozed up to the mount’s fetlocks.

“I cannot get her free.” Mrs. Scott’s flushed face and wide eyes portrayed her panic.

Edmond rode right past the snake to the woman. He leaned out and grasped the mare’s reins, bringing her next to Max, who stood stock still like the war horse he was. Edmond ran a soothing hand down the bay’s face. The poor beast rolled her eyes and blew air out her nostrils. Calming her rider might prove even more of a challenge. “You’re not stuck. We shall just go slowly, and I will lead you out.”

He must’ve spoken coaxingly enough, for Mrs. Scott blinked, met his gaze, and nodded. Leading the mare behind Maximus, Edmond succeeded easily enough in bringing them all back to dry ground. “There now.” He’d just turned to behold Mrs. Scott’s relieved smile when the hammer of gun clicked back.

An Indian with his face painted red stepped around a tree in front of them, his musket pointed their way.

I f Mrs. Scott had been terrified by a water snake, Edmond hated to think what she suffered now, huddled with him and Dougal, their hands bound behind their backs and the muzzle of their captor’s musket trained on them. They sat on a blanket of pine needles in a stand of the trees just behind the line of Loyalists besieging Fort McIntosh—divested of their weapons, of course. The midday sun striped through the lofty, swaying branches. Scents of gunpowder and evergreen wafted on the breeze. Puffs of smoke from the ramparts of the stockade and the loopholes of the blockhouse they had so recently carved out answered the musket fire of white, black, and native Floridians stationed behind small trees and brush. A burned section of woods attested to the diversionary tactic that had allowed the rangers to advance so far up the road toward the fort.

They should be grateful the Indian who’d captured them had not killed them on the spot. But Edmond could see no good way out of this. Even if the Patriots prevailed, he, Dougal, and Mrs. Scott could be bartered with the fort’s occupants as hostages or executed in reprisal.

The tremors that shook Mrs. Scott’s body showed she was all too aware of the gravity of their predicament. Edmond leaned his shoulder against hers in an attempt to still her trembling. It seemed to work, though a tear tracked down her cheek.

She bowed her head and murmured a familiar Psalm. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.’”

Memories of Edmond’s boyhood, sitting between his mother and father in the Presbyterian Church in Savannah, washed him with a sudden peace. Back then, he’d believed in God’s goodness. His good plan. He could almost smell his mother’s sweet lilac scent and hear her lilting voice as she recited the liturgy.

When Mrs. Scott choked on a quavering breath, he nudged her. “Go on.”

Her brown eyes darted from the left to the right. “I cannot remember.”

And Edmond couldn’t recall the last time he’d prayed, either, but he’d never forget the Twenty-third Psalm. “‘Thy rod and thy staff…’”

“Yes.” She joined him. Together, their voices grew stronger.

“‘They comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me?—’”

“Silence!” The Indian’s musket barrel swooped down, separating them and knocking Edmond’s cocked hat from his head.

With a whimper, Mrs. Scott cowered.

Edmond glared at the man and deepened his voice. “‘In the presence of mine enemies.’”

The Indian drew back the length of metal and whacked it hard on Edmond’s temple. He recoiled, but it was Mrs. Scott who cried out. Her protest rang especially loud in the sudden silence that had fallen. What had happened?

As a cold trickle of blood trailed down his forehead, Edmond sucked in his breath, though not from the pain. From amazement. A man whose dark frock labeled him an officer had stepped from the tree line sheltering the Loyalists and was approaching the fort, a white cloth in his hand.

With the Indian distracted by the parlay about to take place, Mrs. Scott dared to whisper, “He is not surrendering?”

He shook his head, sending pain through his temple. “No. He’ll be demanding a surrender.”

“Will the commander accept?”

Dougal scooted closer. “Captain Winn will wait for reinforcements from Fort Howe.”

A vise tightened on Edmond’s chest. Reinforcements that might be on their way had Mrs. Scott not screamed like a banshee over what his private would call a wee green serpent.

No, that was not fair. Chances were, the Indian would have set upon them in the swamp regardless. Whether Creek or Seminole—it was impossible to tell, for both tribes dressed similarly in hunting shirts, leggings, and moccasins—his sharp ears had probably already heard their conversation. And now the man took note of Edmond’s hat on the ground a few feet away. He lunged for it and settled it over his half shaven, half roached hair.

Edmond looked away. If his hat was all he lost during this wilderness confrontation, he’d count himself fortunate.

The fort gate opened just enough to allow someone to accept a paper the officer delivered, then closed again. The Loyalist officer limped away, his uneven pace probably due to a previous injury.

“What happens now?” Mrs. Scott asked softly.

“Now we wait.” When Edmond said no more, she looked at him, and her brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry about your head. You can wipe it on my?—”

Their captor moved closer again. At a scowl from him, they sealed their lips. A moment later, another brave joined him, and they talked in their own language. If only Edmond could understand what they were saying—most likely something about the terms offered.

The man who had delivered the surrender demand had retreated to a live oak where he conferred with two other officers. Mrs. Scott’s gaze swung to them. Suddenly, she straightened and raised her voice to address their captors.

“Take me to your leaders.” When the men’s heads swiveled in her direction, glares returning to their painted, angular features, she cringed, but she tilted her chin toward the white officers. “Take me to them.”

Edmond fumbled behind him and managed to grab her wrist. “What are you doing?”

Her body was trembling, but she pulled away and attempted to stand.

The brave who had captured them strode forward and jerked her to her feet, gripping her by the elbow.

“Help!” She raised her voice and called toward the officers. “Help, sir!”

The Indian’s hand flashed out and struck her across the face. She cried out as her head snapped back.

With a roar of fury, Edmond reared up and plowed his shoulder into the man’s legs. It was enough to break his hold on Mrs. Scott and send him stumbling, but Edmond crashed face first into the ground. When he rolled to one side, he looked up to find two muskets pointed at him.

“Stop!”

The sharp command froze fingers on hammers and Edmond with his head raised. Black riding boots stomped into his vision, the gait of their owner uneven. As the natives lowered their weapons, Edmond struggled into a sitting position.

The officer stopped before him, looking the three of them over with his forehead creased up to his wig—and a scar that gleamed like a fat pink worm just below it. Edmond’s insides went hollow. The limp. The mark of a scalping knife. He knew who the man was before the notorious Loyalist demanded Edmond reveal their own identities. He’d just finished giving their names and ranks when Mrs. Scott stepped forward.

The Indian’s blow had left a red mark across her cheek, but she held her head high as she addressed the officer. “Sir, you must release me at once.” Despite her forceful words, her voice quivered.

Edmond shook his head, but she paid no attention, just stared down the officer, oblivious to the fact that she faced Colonel Thomas “Burntfoot” Brown, the man every Georgia Ranger simultaneously feared and aspired to kill or capture.

In the imperious voice of an aristocrat, she dared to continue. “If you knew who my husband was, you would do so immediately.”

Brown sneered at her. “What do I care who your husband is, madam, when my scout captured you in the company of two Georgia Continentals from this very fort?”

She sucked in an unsteady breath. She did glance at Edmond then. “I came upon them when I was looking for my stolen cattle. I know them not. My maiden name was Scott. My married name is Tabitha Gage, wife of Henry Gage, Lord Riley, owner of River’s Bend Plantation and loyal servant of the king.”

Edmond’s jaw fell open. He’d risked their lives and sacrificed a fort protecting a Loyalist?