Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

E dmond rammed another charge into the breach of his musket, handling the hot barrel carefully even while wearing woven mitts. What he would not give to have his rifle back, though smoke hung so thick over the ramparts, he could scarce see what he was doing. His ears rang, his eyes watered, he could barely draw breath through his nose, and his throat scratched as though lined with sand when he swallowed. After exchanging fire with the Loyalists until dark the day before, they had been at it for almost six hours today.

Still, this was a far cry from face-to-face combat, which he’d seen last year here on the Satilla, south on the St. Mary’s, and again when Fort Barrington had fallen under attack in October. He’d take fighting from behind strong pine or cypress walls over that any day.

“Hey.” Edmond nudged Dougal. “Got any more shot?”

The private eased down from firing his musket and thumbed open his empty cartridge box. “Down to my last. Ask Shelton or Bailey.”

Edmond looked down the line at the two other rangers who frequently scouted with them. “Got anything?”

Both shook their heads, their unshaven faces begrimed. Their expressions reflected the lost hope of all those manning the wall that reinforcements would arrive. Just as Edmond had feared.

“I will go see if there’s any left in the blockhouse.” ’Twould give him a chance to see how the Loyalist widow fared.

They had carried several wounded men in to her yesterday. At twilight, Edmond had volunteered to assist with the last who’d fallen nearby. He’d found Tabitha with her shirt sleeves rolled up, wisps of hair loose from her braid, hands and arms smeared with blood. When she turned to him, he expected the pleading in her eyes. What he did not expect was what she’d said.

“I used all the bandages and the geranium you gave me.” He carried a supply of the powdered root in his haversack, as ’twas needful for slowing bleeding. “I have nothing else that will help these men, not even honey. They suffer terribly.”

The moan from a soldier who cradled his linen-wrapped arm near his chest punctuated her statement.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Edmond had said. ’Twas all he could do not to thumb back the strand of hair stuck to her cheek.

“That one did not make it.” She’d tipped her head toward a blanket-covered form in the corner. Then her eyes searched his. “Edmond, if the British come tomorrow and this siege continues, no one is going to walk out of here.”

The way she used his name made him want to move heaven and earth for her. Even more so that she pleaded not for herself, but for the men. Evangeline would never have displayed such strength. He couldn’t be angry with Tabitha for leading them to believe her husband was alive, not when a man’s name was all that might protect her. Edmond could even understand her bargaining with Brown. But that still did not explain her desperation in hunting down lost cattle. And had she shared her husband’s sentiments? Her reply to his captain, clarifying that her husband had been a Loyalist but not mentioning herself, had cast doubt on that.

His questions would have to wait.

“Hold up, Tabitha. You are doing well.” He’d allowed himself to squeeze her arm, reassurance she soaked up with an immediate softening. “This will be over soon.”

One way or another.

During the night, Colonel Brown had drawn his forces back into siege position. And come daylight, the expected reinforcements had arrived, British Regulars in red and white with the sun flashing off their bayonets and painted Creek warriors with bows, tomahawks, and muskets. They approached far too near for comfort and hid behind stumps and logs, keeping close watch on the loopholes.

Edmond cocked his musket’s dogshead and sighted a particularly vexing brave, waiting until the eagle feathers moved above the downed tree he lay behind. At last, Edmond got the shot he wanted, and the man fell backward. Edmond stepped down from the loophole and wiped his face on his sleeve. This wasn’t the first man he’d killed, and it wouldn’t be the last, but the day the sight of death failed to clench his chest with regret was the day he’d fear for his soul.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” The cry echoed from without and within.

A messenger approached with a white flag.

“ W e’re to walk to Fort Howe? Tonight ?” Clutching her chest, Tabitha faced Edmond and Dougal just outside the blockhouse a couple of hours after Captain Winn and Colonel Fuser had met halfway on the field outside the fort.

“Aye. Unarmed.” Dougal’s wry comment escalated her terror to a whole new level.

She’d known the fort being overrun as Brown had threatened was the worst that could happen. All she’d heard from the men in the blockhouse had been of the bitter quest for revenge shared by the trio of East Florida Rangers commanders. Apparently, the backstory of the youngest, Colonel William Cunningham, bore strong resemblance to Daniel McGirth’s. While she was thankful Colonel Fuser’s nobler sensibilities had prevailed over the ranger officers’ bloodlust, marching without defense to Fort Howe could mean massacre outside the fort walls rather than within. “What will prevent them from attacking us on the road?” Especially the Creek allies. Would the sole British commander, Fuser, be able to hold them in check?

“The lieutenant said Captain Winn requested an escort from the 60 th Royal Regiment.” Edmond held the barrel of his musket, its butt planted on the ground. Powder darkened his cheekbones, a shadow of auburn whiskers his strong jaw. He had spoken with the superior officer as the men emerged from a lengthy parlay with Winn in the blockhouse, where he reported the officers had sworn to die to a man, but the dwindling powder supply had forced the captain to seek terms—ones better than those Colonel Brown had offered the day prior.

Tabitha curled her hand at her breast. “But why can we not go in the morning?” The sun already slanted in from the west, and they were still waiting on the British colonel’s response. By the time they had it and set out, it could be full dark. The thought of traversing the tangled wilderness at night wrought shivers down her spine.

“’Tis not the way of things, lass.” Dougal spoke with regret. “Even with us leavin’ now, they will likely require hostages.”

Edmond answered her alarmed glance. “To ensure we do not mount another assault.”

She blinked. “How will the hostages be chosen?”

“From among the officers.” When her chest heaved with a deep breath, he added, “Higher-ranking ones. And if it helps, I asked Colonel Winn if he could request your horse. I doubt even they will refuse to let a lady ride.”

Tabitha held out little hope for such a courtesy, given the way this experience had reframed her expectation that Loyalist officers would act as gentlemen. No, the men before her, with their rough clothing and stoic manner, had proven themselves more deserving of the label. How thankful she was that Edmond should not be among those held by the British. And how thoughtful that he had extended himself once again on her behalf. Her mare would provide such comfort—though not near as much as this man’s presence would.

After they got to Fort Howe, Sergeant Lassiter would fade into the background of her life. They would have no call to cross paths except perhaps on rare occasion. Until then, she would enjoy the comfort of someone watching out for her.

Her shoulders relaxed, and she offered him a small smile. “Thank you. I want you to know, I’m cognizant of the honor you do me. The trouble you have gone to.” Tabitha allowed herself to reach for his hand, intending to give it a brief squeeze, but the moment her fingers brushed his strong, callused palm, heat licked up from her midsection and set fire to her face. Not to mention, Edmond’s eyes went wide. She quickly dropped her hand to her side and included Dougal in her glance. “Both of you. If ever there is something I can do for you in the future…”

“Thankee, ma’am.” The Scot tipped his head.

Edmond remained silent, his presence next to her a palpable force.

At that fortuitous moment, Captain Winn strode toward them from the gate. He stopped in front of them and removed his cocked hat. “Colonel Fuser has agreed to the terms. He requires but two officers remain behind and will provide an escort to Fort Howe.” His gaze swept Tabitha. “Mrs. Gage, your horse will be delivered once we surrender our arms.”

She blew out a little breath and thanked the Patriot officer.

Dougal grumbled about sacrificing yet another firearm.

Edmond frowned and stepped away from her, speaking low to Winn but in a tone she could yet hear. “How can we be certain the Regulars will not abandon us on the road?”

Captain Winn resettled his hat on his head. “We can’t. I read of Indians killing prisoners between Montreal and Albany. So I suggest you stay close to the lady.” As he glanced back at her, Tabitha wrapped her arms around herself. “Pack your things, Mrs. Gage.” A forced smile stretched his lips. “You shall be home soon.”

His reassurance rang hollow.

It took little enough time to gather her belongings when she’d arrived with aught but the coat on her back. While the officers packed papers and accoutrements, Tabitha helped some of the men piece together stretchers for the wounded soldiers.

By four o’clock, the South Carolinians and Georgians had stacked their arms and vacated the blockhouse. Tabitha’s heart beat hard at the red-and-white uniforms of the British officers who waited in the stockade. One of them demanded the Patriot commanders surrender their swords. Rather than hand his weapon over, Captain Winn placed it on a stump, and the other officers followed suit. The swords were collected and presumably taken to the Loyalist officers.

As Winn formed his men to march out, Tabitha kept to the shadows, avoiding the curious and speculative stares of the English officers.

An older man with polished brass buttons and gorget who could only be Colonel Fuser strode into the fort bearing an armload of swords. He approached Captain Winn and returned the weapons. Tabitha released a breath. If Fuser was honorable enough for such a gesture, surely, he would not send his Creek allies after them.

Sight of her mare coming through the gate provided further reassurance—until she saw who led her. Thomas Brown. As he approached, Tabitha’s legs started to shake. Edmond stepped out of line and stood beside her.

The Loyalist colonel halted a few feet away, his mouth a slash across his stiff face. “Your horse, madam.” After a jerk of a bow, he presented the reins.

When Tabitha hesitated for fear of her fingers brushing his, Edmond took hold of the leather lines for her.

Brown cut a glare at him before sweeping Tabitha with a disdainful look. “Twice now, you have been the recipient of my grace.” His thunderous expression and begrudging tone belied his outlandish statement. “Should our paths cross again, I shall expect the favor to be returned.”

The old Tabitha would have told him she owed him nothing. But the old Tabitha wasn’t widowed and destitute on the border of a war zone. The current Tabitha silently took Cora’s reins from Edmond, her gaze downcast.

Brown scoffed, pivoted on his heel, and stalked away.

She let out her breath, then gathered the mare’s head against her breast and kissed her ear.

“Let me help you mount.” Edmond’s voice behind her soothed her frazzled nerves.

“I think I shall walk a bit.” She turned to offer him a wobbly smile. “But thank you.” She wouldn’t share that she felt safer at his side than up on her horse.

She did not need to ask him to stay close. And the captain hadn’t either. He remained a foot from her as they exited the fort and followed the troop north, the wounded borne on stretchers in the middle. Loyalists and Indians bracketed the Old Post Road. Thank goodness she had not mounted Cora. The men stared enough as it was, their eyes glittering dark in the rapidly encroaching shadows, weapons bristling at their sides. A column of British Regulars fell in behind them.

They had traveled less than a mile when the last rays of weak winter sun splintered through the trees. The underbrush rustled along the silvery thread of the sandy road. She pulled Cyrus’s coat tighter and shivered in the cool dankness of the February evening.

Again, the urge to pray came over her, more strongly than it ever had. But she no longer remembered the liturgy from her youth when she’d attended Christ Church with her family. And talking with the Almighty was the practice of pious women like her sister. She settled for a silent plea.

Dear God, keep us safe.

A new thought stopped her in her tracks. Had God sent Edmond and Dougal? What about the steer stuck in the hedge? If not for the steer, if she had not come upon the men, would she have stumbled all alone into the Loyalist troops instead? And maybe met a much worse fate?

Dulcie would say so. She was always talking about the grace of God. ’Twas ludicrous for Thomas Brown to speak of grace. His return of her horse had been forced, not freely given. Not requiring nothing in return.

If God had arranged for Edmond to find her, that was grace.

“Are you all right?” Edmond’s voice was filled with concern as he wrapped his hand around her arm.

She had slowed. She had best get moving, or the British Regulars would march right over her. Tabitha glanced over her shoulder to see how close they were and gasped.

Their escort was gone.