Challenge the Wind

Chapter One

Matthew Smith glanced back over his shoulder to check the progress of the four men who had deserted with him. Their scarlet coats seemed to glint in the cool autumn shade of this wretched New York woodland. The men had their muskets slung over their shoulders as two of them carried Quinn on a stretcher. The sergeant had to be a strong man to have survived this long with the wounds he’d suffered at the battle of Saratoga.

Matthew focused on the way ahead. They must have traveled thirty miles or better in the last few days. He hoped the foraging party of British regulars General John Burgoyne had sent out in early September hadn’t reached here. The packs Matthew and his fellow deserters carried were all but empty of food.

He paused at the sound of a snapping branch off to his right. A strand of his shoulder-length, blond hair fell across one of his blue eyes, but he didn’t bother to tie it back in place now. He stood alert as the padding of the men’s footfalls treading behind him mixed with the tinkling noise of the breeze rustling through the trees overhead. A shower of fire-orange and red leaves wafted down to join the forest litter at his feet. Matthew listened hard; certain someone or something was out there. He turned slowly as he slipped his Brown Bess musket from his shoulder. The men behind him came to a halt and looked about as well. Matthew cocked his head, but couldn’t hear or see anything that gave him an indication they were being watched. He waited another moment, then waved the men on.

They’d gone a little ways before Matthew spotted what looked to be a trail through the thick undergrowth. He turned slightly and began to follow it, his musket still in his hands. Then he saw a clearing just up ahead. Matthew brought their party to a halt and studied the cluster of buildings there. What looked to be a main house, its wooden siding a weathered gray, stood across the clearing. Off to the left was another structure that couldn’t be any larger than one room. It might be a dwelling as well for it had a stout chimney of smooth rock. Behind the main house, to the right, was a barn with a wood-shingled roof. It was connected to the main house through what looked like an enclosed passageway.

Matthew narrowed his eyes as he focused on a pair of angled doors at the side of the house. Possibly a spring cellar was below them. Behind it all was an empty field with what seemed to be the remains of an orchard. So many of the Yankee Doodle rebels had burned their crops and fruit trees to keep them from General Gentleman Johnny’s men. Dear God, he hoped there was something here left to eat.

There didn’t seem to be anyone around. Matthew signaled to the others to set the stretcher down. He appointed one of them to stand watch over the wounded sergeant. Matthew didn’t have any rank himself. He was nothing but a regular in His Majesty’s forces with no authority at all. Yet ever since they’d escaped the American rebel army closing in on General John Burgoyne’s forces at Saratoga, these four men had done everything Matthew told them to do, even Jamie Fosset.

Jamie had been with him on the London highways, both of them thieves. They’d been caught in their mischief and condemned to Tyburn Tree. Now the two of them were here because they’d chosen to serve in the army over being hung. How Matthew hated being a King’s Man. Only Sergeant Quinn had shown him and Jamie any consideration during their service. Quinn was someone worth saving; nearly a father to those who were under his command.

Jamie Fosset came up beside him. Matthew’s lifelong friend looked at the house. God, please, they’ve got to ’ave grub, he whispered as he licked his lips.

Bloody hell, they’d been starving for weeks now. Matthew scanned the clearing once more, finally deciding it was safe to span the forty or so yards to the house. He raised his hand and pointed ahead. They unslung their muskets and loaded. Four of them advanced, leaving one behind with Quinn.

Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty. The sergeant had honed them into fearless killers, but Matthew’s heart still thudded with an anxious beat now. One of the front windows swung open, followed by the sound of gunfire, smoke billowing outward. Matthew and his men formed a close line, raised their muskets and discharged a volley. The window glass shattered. They reloaded with all the precision Quinn had drilled into them. Muskets raised they again advanced on the house.

They managed to move five yards before a shot came from the gaping hole where the shattered window had been. The ball skinned Matthew’s left arm. He stumbled, then regained his footing. Another shot split the air. This time it came from behind them. Matthew whirled about just as Jamie dropped to his knees, hit in the back. Teeth clenched tightly, Matthew raised his musket and fired into the thicket of trees. He had the bastard! An old man stumbled out from his hiding place, doubled over, hand clutching his bloodied shoulder. Matthew spun round, fixed his bayonet, intent on charging the house.

He ran the five yards left between him and his goal, not even sure if the others were still with him. Blind with rage, he smashed all his weight against the door. It gave a little. Again he rammed it, this time with several of the others by his side. It splintered. Once more they shoved themselves against the barrier. It pushed clear.

Kate, into my room! a woman screamed as he stormed inside.

A young girl scrambled away, taking an even younger boy by the hand with her. He caught sight of the woman crouched by the window just as she leveled a rifle barrel at his heart. With one swift motion he spun the musket in his hand and plunged its butt against her head.

The woman sprawled at his feet. My children, she whimpered just before she fell unconscious.

Matthew had Jamie Fosset brought into the parlor while Quinn was put on the bed in the other room. One of the men found a shakedown and brought it from the loft. They laid Jamie out on the thin feather mattress, careful of the awful wound in his back. Their prisoners were also in the front parlor. The woman who’d fired from the window, the two children—a girl of ten or so and a boy no more than four—and the old man whose keen shot had wounded Jamie.

Matthew knelt by his friend. Dear God, Jamie’s skin looked so pale, his eyes so full of fright. Matthew glanced over his shoulder as the woman struggled to lift her head. She paused to suck in a deep breath, blinked as if trying to focus on the room and collect her wits. The small boy ran to her and flung his hands about her neck as he cried, Mama! She clung to him, cooing reassurances. Matthew’s cheeks flushed. It would have been a touching scene except for the deep, bloody gash near her right temple. In all his young and rowdy life Matthew had never hurt a woman like that.

She struggled to stand, paused as if ready to faint. The woman looked to the young girl and asked, Your grandfather, Kate?

I’m here, Sarah, the old man blustered.

She pointed a shaky finger at his wounded shoulder. Robert, is it bad?

Enough! Matthew shouted. His friend was dying and this damned old man was the cause. Matthew grabbed his musket and scrambled to his feet. He took a step closer, his bayonet poised and ready to kill the old man.

Grandfather! the young girl cried as she dashed towards the old man.

No! Please, the young girl’s mother begged him. Don’t hurt Kate!

Matthew glanced at the woman. He struggled to remember her name. He’d heard it called. Sarah… Yes, her name was Sarah. She was a handsome woman with auburn hair, green eyes and that wretched gash he’d made. His hard resolve softened with indecision. He looked at her a long moment, then her children, knowing she, like any mother, had only been trying to defend her young. He and the other men were the invaders here. Matthew ran a hand through his blond hair. It wasn’t powdered, nor were his buttons and buckles polished to a shine. He was ragged and dirty and so hungry. They all were.

Jamie moaned. Matthew dropped to his knees beside him.

I’m afraid. So bloody afraid… Jamie sobbed.

Matthew took his hand and clutched it tightly. Suddenly he felt so young, like the boy he’d never really had the chance to be. He was just as afraid as Jamie. Dear God, they were both so young, far too young for one of them to be dying. Please, he begged the Lord in silent prayer. Please don’t let Jamie die.

Jamie threw back his head with a cry of agony. Matthew lifted him, his hands trembling. He tried to be careful of his friend’s mangled back as held him securely in his arms. I’m ’ere. I am, Jamie. Jamie, believe me, you ain’t alone.

Matthew, my legs… Dear God! Jamie cried. He clutched Matthew’s arms as he convulsed. Lord, Matthew, I’m…

Matthew opened his mouth to say something, but he could no longer speak. He just held onto his dying comrade, his soul etched with a piteous grief. One last convulsion and Jamie’s hands dropped away.

Matthew clung to the lifeless body; refused to let go of his only friend. Silence fell on the room. Matthew finally rose to his feet, a knot of blind anger twisting his gut. He turned on the old man. Your name’s Robert, ain’t it?

He remained silent.

Matthew lowered his voice, his tone steely and cold. Listen well—Robert—you’ll dig ’is grave. Or, I swear, you’ll find yourself in one.

Even if I’d two good arms and hands now, I’ll not dig a bloody back’s grave, he spat.

Matthew narrowed his eyes at the insult. He grabbed the Brown Bess, intend on finally running the man through with its bayonet. The woman stumbled forward, reaching for her daughter. Matthew hadn’t even noticed the young girl was still standing by her grandfather as if she could protect the old man. He spun the Brown Bess around and smashed the butt into Robert’s injured shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain.

You’ll dig ’is grave, right enough, Matthew snarled. He jammed the barrel of his musket flat against Robert’s throat. Right willing?

Robert nodded, but his pained eyes still glinted with defiance.

Shouldn’t we search the house? one of the men asked him.

Matthew yanked the musket clear. Yes.

Two of them went through the house. There was the sound of rattling pots, the slamming of cupboards, the squeaking of doors. They soon returned, having found nothing.

The barn then, Matthew ordered.

There’s nothing there. Sarah glared at him. If you’re starving, you’ll have to go elsewhere.

He turned on her. Woman, we need grub!

The British army has already been here. There is—nothing—to eat.

He studied her, then looked to Robert. Wot were you about in the woods?

Robert remained silent, those pale-brown eyes of his unflinching. The old man’s head, with its roughage of white hair and scraggly beard, was raised, lips pinched tightly together. Matthew studied him a moment, seeing the man’s resolve not to give in still there. He put the bayonet to Sarah’s breast. She tried to pull away, but Matthew had her pinned. Wot were you about in the woods? he slowly repeated his question.

Hunting, Robert finally answered.

Matthew turned the sharp point and tore the fabric of Sarah’s bodice. Now, ’ow’d you fare?

I killed a doe.

That’s a right fine kill. Matthew drew the weapon back and spoke to Sarah. Woman, looks like we don’t need to go. We’ve plenty o’ grub to eat.

Sarah’s arms closed about her children.

Matthew spoke to two of the men: Take the old man out and find ’is kill. Then make ’im dig that grave. And if ’e doesn’t, put a musket ball in ’is back like ’e done to Jamie Fosset. The two men left with Robert in their keep.

Matthew stood a moment, his musket at his side. He was exhausted and so full of grief as he stared down at his dead companion. He had no more strength left. Heaven help him, Jamie was dead. Matthew took in a deep breath and gave an order to the remaining solider: Find something to cover ’im. Then look after the sergeant.

The fellow disappeared into the bedroom and soon returned with a quilt. Matthew solemnly covered Jamie with it then sat in the Windsor chair by the fireplace while the other man went into the bedroom again. Matthew placed his musket across his thighs. His eyes stung with unshed tears. He turned them on Sarah. She bundled her children even closer. He knew if given the chance she’d kill him, this enemy who’d invaded her home, and he knew deep inside his heart she had every right to do it.

Chapter Two

The camp bustled about them . Men were seeing to their own meals around company messes. Cooking odors mixed with the smell of human waste in the fine autumn air. How Adam Lloyd hated this camp and this war for what it was doing to his family. His twin sister was trapped in British-occupied Philadelphia, the rest of his family—except for his father—were far away in New York. And now his beloved father had been wounded. Jonathan Lloyd grasped the knobbed branch he used for a cane. Adam knew his father’s leg had to be getting worse. He held a bucket in one hand as he hobbled away to fetch water.

Sit down, please, and let me have a look at your leg, Adam said.

Jonathan Lloyd paused. There’s nothing to be done about it. The surgeon found no musket ball. It’s mending and I’m not helpless.

Christopher can fetch the water, Adam said.

It’d been nearly a week since the Continental army had retreated to Pennybacker’s Mills after losing the battle at Germantown. Adam knew Jonathan’s wounded leg must be festering by now. He only stayed with Washington’s army because of his father. Deep inside Adam didn’t really believe in the Cause—the bloody battles, the waste of human life, all for some strange notion of liberty. Weren’t they all Englishmen, granted the same rights of Englishmen? The differences they held could surely be overcome.

Adam beckoned to his friend. Christopher strode up and waited expectantly, but the older man wouldn’t relinquish the bucket. Adam snatched it from his father’s hand with a mumbled apology and gave it to Christopher who went off to the nearby stream.

The leg, please.

With a grunt, Jonathan, took a seat on a nearby stump. The area around their camp was surrounded by woodlands—orange and red mixed among green foliage. This part of Pennsylvania reminded Adam of his home in the Hudson Valley, the smell of living green mixed with the brisk scent of early fall beyond the camp. It made him even unhappier. He longed to be hunting with his grandfather, Robert, home safe with those he loved and far away from this lamentable, ill-equipped, half-starved army.

Adam unbuttoned the hem of Jonathan’s breeches, pushed the pant leg above the knee and carefully unwrapped the bandage. The linen was stained yellow and dark brown and the wound gave off a faintly unpleasant odor. Adam groaned when he found the abscess had grown larger, the redness spreading. He touched the skin—much too warm. It was as bad as he’d feared.

This needs to be drained.

Then one of the surgeons will do it when they have the time.

If they have the time. Adam bristled. With over five hundred wounded, and his father being so wretchedly stubborn about matters of health, Adam doubted the leg would ever be tended. I’ll have to do it.

You’re but eighteen.

I’m old enough to fight in this war, Father. Besides, you’d have let Molly nurse you. His twin sister was virtually a prisoner inside Philadelphia now.

Ah, well, Molly assisted your mother with such things. Learned something of the art.

Their mother, dear God, Adam always said a prayer for Sarah and the safety of all of them in New York whenever he could. He worried about how isolated the family farm was which was not a good thing in these times.

You must trust me now, Father. I’ve the sense to see you could lose this leg. If it’s drained, you’ll have a chance at keeping it. But leave it to the surgeons’ pleasure, and you just may be hobbling back to the Hudson Valley on a wooden peg.

You not only have the fine looks of your mother, dear son, you argue with her stubborn sense. Jonathan nodded. I suspect you could do no worse than the surgeons here.

When Christopher ambled up with the bucket, Adam hailed him, Chris, bring over my rum!

Christopher Dutton frowned. Good spirits to stew a few greens?

Adam pointed to his father’s leg. His friend set down the water bucket and fetched over the swiggler. Adam kept his limited, and very guarded, rum ration in the small canister.

Adam took out his knife and made sure the blade had a fine, sharp edge. He polished it with the corner of his shirt, then took the swiggler and poured some rum on the festering wound. He let the blade have a drink just as he’d seen his mother do any number of times. The liquor ran off the steel’s pointed end. His grandfather, Robert, had always complained it was a terrible waste of spirits. But his mother had always countered that it was needed to burn away the inflammation—a far better use than extinguishing a man’s senses, she’d say.

Adam hesitated, gazing into his father’s face. Jonathan Lloyd was used to hard work, farming and carpentry, a husky man. His face was weathered, lines drawn about eyes that were the color of polished mahogany. His hooked nose was a little too large, the mouth thin, the rosy-blond hair misted with gray. It was the gentle face Adam loved. It belonged to a scholar not a soldier, a man of fine ideals.

How had someone like him come to be in this war camp with a musket wound in his leg?

You’ll need to get off that stump.

Jonathan sat on the ground. Adam motioned to Christopher. His friend knelt behind the older man and bound his arms around Jonathan’s chest.

Look away, Father, please.

Jonathan turned his head aside just as his son drew the knife across the abscess. Jonathan’s body jerked as pus and blood spurted from the incision. Adam used his fingers to push out even more of the foul mixture. Then he poured more rum on the cut. The older man sucked in a ragged breath.

If it festers again, I’ll have to drain it. Perhaps put in a hollow reed as well. I beg, no more objections from you.

Jonathan remained silent.

Father, Adam finally snapped. He’d let his leg rot off for his cherished cause. Promise me, Father, he said, regretting his harsh tone.

If it festers I’ll have you drain it.

Adam gently released the leg and stood up. He felt so guilty over his agitation with his father. Adam loved him far too much. Later on, he would boil the old wrappings to use again, but for now he’d need new bandages. Let it air while I try and find some clean linen to bind it.

Jonathan smiled at him. Adam could see the pain behind it, but he wasn’t sure if it was so much caused by the wound in his father’s leg or something else. You are so very much like your dear mother, Jonathan said.

I miss her, too, Adam whispered.

He went off to find clean linen, not an easy task considering how short their regiment was on supplies. Perhaps he could persuade someone from another colonial line to part with a strip of unsoiled cloth. Christopher took a few quick steps and joined him.

If only we’d won this time, his friend said with marked disappointment. I keep thinking of Molly, in Philadelphia with the British occupying it.

Adam gave him a sidelong glance. Christopher’s already ruddy cheeks blushed a deep red. He’d loved Adam’s twin sister since they were all children.

I worry about her being alone there.

She’s under my uncle’s protection, Adam said.

Forgive me for saying it. Are you sure you can trust your uncle? I mean, he did argue against the war right in front of us when we took Molly to his house.

Adam knew his father had to leave Molly with their Uncle Henry. Politics aside, it was necessary. The life of a camp follower had exacted its dues on Adam’s twin sister. Molly had taken ill with fever before the battle at Brandywine Creek. When the Continental army marched through Philadelphia beforehand, Adam, Christopher and his father had conveyed her to their Uncle Henry’s home. A month had passed since his father had sent word to Philadelphia inquiring after Molly and they’d yet to receive a reply on how she fared.

If only we’d won we could go to Philadelphia ourselves and see her. Adam grumbled. We seem to lose nearly every bloody battle.

He gazed in the direction of Philadelphia. Perhaps the British would leave, starved out because the Americans had thrown a tight cordon about the city to cut it off from the surrounding countryside. The rebels also controlled the Delaware. The forts down river were limiting British supplies coming in by ship. But if the enemy occupying Philadelphia starved, so would Adam’s beloved twin. And that wouldn’t help Molly, especially if she hadn’t recovered fully from her illness yet.

He stopped to inquire about some linen from a Marylander. But the man merely shrugged and suggested he try the South Carolina line. Adam crossed his arms over his chest as they walked on. He knew he must put aside his own misgivings and set his mind to rest. He had to—it was maddening enough just trying to find anything in this camp.

Molly Lloyd looked down from the second story window. An hour ago she’d seen a contingent of British officers walk up the steps leading to her uncle’s door. She stepped away and closed the wooden blinds. Uncle Henry had welcomed the damned redcoats. Molly wondered if her father had known of his brother’s Tory sympathies when he’d left her here in early September. She’d been in no condition at the time to know much of anything herself. How she wished she were with her father and twin brother, Adam, now to be of some use to the Cause. Molly’s family had all managed to follow George Washington’s army for a time. But this spring her mother, along with her sister, Kate, had to return to the Hudson Valley because of her youngest brother’s failing health. David, the four year old, had never been strong.

There must be some way to escape the city. Molly had considered the idea over and over again. But her Uncle Henry and cousin, Stephen, kept too keen an eye on her—and there were the British troops. The servants had spoken of them, maundering and looting households, no matter what orders their officers issued. It’d be too risky to leave just yet. She paced the room, hands clasped behind her back, head hung in thought. What could she do here to help the rebel cause? There was nothing she could do now.

A tap came at her bedroom door. I’m ill, she called.

Why, you’ve been well for weeks now, cousin. In fact, you looked perfectly fit this morning, came Stephen’s muffled voice. He tapped at the door again.

Molly put on a mob cap and tucked as much of her long auburn hair as she could beneath it. She went over and turned the latch, narrowing her green eyes a bit to make herself look as if she weren’t feeling at all well.

At the age of five and twenty, Stephen was seven years her senior. He was a man with a sullen, moody outlook who always seemed to be brooding about something. His brown eyes reflected some dark inner turmoil that caused Molly to feel ill-at-ease in his presence. His breath was always foul and the soured odor of his skin turned her stomach. From what Molly could tell by the old portrait at the foot of the stairs, Stephen had his late mother’s looks—a feeble chin, lower lip thicker than the upper, his nose much too long and thin. Uncle Henry, if little else could be said, had a well-made look about him.

Her cousin stepped through the door. His deep-blue jacket turned darker in the shadows of her room. He had a muslin cravat tied about his neck, one that was an awful shade of yellow. He cocked his head as he examined her. Yes, Margaret, you do look very well today. And we have guests downstairs.

It’s my stomach, Stephen. Do offer my regrets to your father’s guests.

Father has asked for your presence.

I’m not properly attired. That would distress Uncle Henry. On any number of occasions Henry Lloyd had admonished her for wearing the ragged dress she had on the day she’d been brought to this house. The woolen garment had been her mother’s, handed down for the sake of economy. Still it was far more comfortable than anything her uncle had thus far gifted her to wear.

Stephen held out his hand. I beg you not to disappoint my father.

Then give me time to change into something more appropriate.

Stephen kept his hand raised to her. His guests are about to depart and they’ve expressed a desire to meet the mistress of this household.

Molly had little desire to meet her uncle’s guests, but she also dreaded Henry Lloyd’s disappointment if she refused to heed his request. She’d already had the misfortune to experience his foul temper more than once. Molly took her cousin’s arm and allowed him to escort her down the grand staircase. This was a fine house, much finer than anything Molly had seen before. And every time she went down that staircase she felt the need to run away more strongly.

It was the perfect house for a British officer’s billet. The balusters were carved, not turned on a lathe, and the walls above the chair railing were papered, the light-green covering stenciled with a repetitive dark-leaf pattern. The