Journey to Victory, page 19
Sarah Anne tried to object.
“Just leave them or I’ll be angry,” Christiane asserted. She went to the pegs by the door. Taking down her bonnet, gloves, and shawl, she let herself out quietly into the windy November day. The sun was deceiving. Its rays were only warm when one was standing directly in them. Christiane pulled the shawl more closely around and struck out briskly. She had to get away and think.
Far from the farmhouse down near the creek, she stopped finally. Leaning back against a thick, gnarled ancient oak, she positioned her feet in the crooks of its twisted and raised roots. The dried brown leaves above her rattled with each gust of wind and she began to think.
First of all, the Richardsons loved her and, most of all, loved her son. “I always knew that,” she whispered. They had made it clear that their home was hers when she had come to them last fall, but she had not realized that they would think she had come home to stay! She had thought almost nothing about their reaction to her leaving and taking Jean Claude with her. Her own callousness glistened coldly in front of her own eyes.
“But he’s my son! I didn’t mean to leave him with them for a whole year,” she said aloud. She caught hold of a low branch with both hands and gripped it painfully. The stabbing loneliness she had felt each night the year before without her son’s warm body cuddled up to hers washed over her in smothering waves as she struggled with the young branch.
But what can you give him? She let go of the branch and wiped away the tears that had come. Sarah and Josiah had given him a good home, love, and all their material wealth. She was engaged to a gentleman, the son of a wealthy family, but what did that mean for Jean Claude? Henry would be responsible for her and her son only when they were married, and that would not be till the war was over. What could she give her son now?
Christiane sat down on a prominent, gnarled root nearby. She had nothing to give her child except her love and the promise of a home. The Washingtons had made it clear that Christiane’s position was hers as long as she wanted it. She had not mentioned bringing Jean Claude back with her to either of them.
Perhaps she had not wanted to admit to herself that matters had not really changed. The same reasons that had forced her to leave him originally with the Richardsons, weren’t they still valid? The memory of shivering men standing in line at Morristown waiting for smallpox vaccinations flashed through her mind. How many children had died last winter, too? Christiane made a nest of her arms and rested her head in it.
To the Richardsons, the solution was simple. She should stay here and marry a farmer. Why couldn’t she accept that? She would marry again. Why couldn’t she marry a farmer and settle here?
But she knew she wanted more—a life filled with beautiful things: crystal goblets, silver tea sets, delicate bone china, satin gowns and lace camisoles, graceful staircases and symmetrical gardens. She wanted to be included in conversations with educated people, men who could turn a compliment into poetry, people who took an active part in making the future happen. In either station of life, there would be children to bear and duties to perform. But she wanted the elegance she had grown up with, not the hardship she had grown to expect.
But Jean Claude….her calm analysis broke down. Waves of strong, undefined emotions flooded her. Standing up, she pressed herself back against the firm trunk as though trying to resist them. She wanted many things. She wanted the life Henry offered her. She wanted the Richardsons to be happy. Most importantly, she wanted her son, who had made it clear that he considered her the outsider, to accept her. But Jean Claude did not want to leave his home.
Finally she became aware of the sun setting. She must get back or they would worry and she might hurt herself, walking in the semi dark. She turned abruptly and nearly tripped over another tree root. She walked quickly home over the frozen ground.
That evening was a blur. She could not hide her preoccupation. There was a quiet supper and then she watched Jean Claude fall asleep in Sarah’s arms by the fire. Finally Christiane gathered him up and carried him to his bed. This was the only time she could hold her son—only when he was so soundly asleep that he did not know they were her arms. On the previous nights, she had returned to spend a few fireside moments with Sarah and Josiah, but tonight she turned to her room instead. How could she bear to hurt them?
***
Later she heard their footsteps on the stairs and then a timid knock. “Christiane?” Sarah’s voice asked softly. Christiane rose from sitting on her bed and went to face them. Her pulse leaped erratically. She opened the door and tried to smile.
Josiah stood with his hand resting on his wife’s shoulder. Sarah Anne held a candle. “Christiane, is something wrong?” the old woman asked sadly.
Christiane shook her head.
“Is it the will?” Josiah asked huskily.
“No, I… No,” Christiane stammered again.
“We just want thee and Jean Claude to be safe and happy,” Sarah Anne offered.
“I know,” Christiane replied sincerely. Impulsively she hugged Sarah and then Josiah. “Good night,” she said, tears threatening. She could see they wanted to ask more, but graciously they bid her good night and she watched the small light waver down the hall to their door.
As she undressed, Christiane left her candle flickering on her bedside table. Outwardly she moved methodically. Inside her heart continued to race. Images of her past and thoughts of her choices tumbled over each other in her brain.
Dressed in her long, heavy flannel gown and stocking feet, she paced the room back and forth. The wind rattled the window and the candle’s shadows danced to each gust. The minutes accumulated into hours. Her head ached and her eyes were dry with fatigue. Still she paced. Finally she paused by the darkened window. By pressing her face close to the glass, she could see outside. The moon was nearly full and the stars were brilliantly crystal, shining coldly down on her. Resting her head against the icy window pane, she pondered what she should do.
Suddenly she knew clearly what she wanted to do. She wanted to leave. But if she followed both the General’s and Henry’s orders, it would take at least a week or two for a letter to reach headquarters and then more for a carriage to be sent for her. How could she force Jean Claude to leave with her? How could she leave the Richardsons completely alone? At this the tears hovered closely again. Fiercely she pushed them back.
How could she explain her true feelings to the Richardsons? They would not understand her desire for a different life. How could she face them, knowing that their dream of having her and her son close by in the way they had assumed was doomed?
She knew also that if they were the kind of people that would have met this news with arguments and anger, they would have made it easier for her. She could have felt righteous about asserting her own will. But she knew that they would not try to stop her. They were too good, too kind to hurt her. She could not face them. She needed to talk this over with Henry.
Through the window her glance encountered the barn below. An overwhelming urge to be safely back at headquarters in her accustomed role came over her. She had her mare, Nancy. She could leave tonight. Her own audacity shocked her. She could not go alone, she argued sensibly with herself. But her distraught mind shrieked, I want to go now!
An idea came to her. She moved over to her bed and knelt beside it. Silently she tugged out her old saddlebags. From them, she pulled out Jon’s buckskins. She had not been able to part with them. They had stayed with her and were all she had left of Rumsveld and Jakob. Now she was desperate enough to try a masquerade. She couldn’t wait for Henry to come for her. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave with or without Jean Claude.
Quickly she shed her feminine attire and examined the worn frontier outfit. If she were to succeed in her disguise, she would have to take pains to mask her womanly form. Eating regularly had filled her curves out nicely. Even the long, fringed jacket would not hide them. Soon she was wrapping a light shawl from a point just under her arms to the top of her thighs. It gave her a uniformly thick trunk and held her breasts flat. Then she added the cotton flannel shirt and buckskin breeches and jacket. She plaited her hair into two tight braids, which she pinned flat against the back of her head and drew Jon’s red foxtail hat on over them.
Now she must leave a note for Sarah and Josiah. She couldn’t bear to cause them worry by just disappearing. She sat at the bedside table, quill in hand, waiting for inspiration. She must write something soon before the low candle burned out completely.
Dear Sarah Anne and Josiah,
I am sorry to leave you like this, but I have my reasons. Please do not worry. I will return as soon as possible. Tell Jean Claude I love him and will return.
Christiane
She laid the note on her pillow.
Carefully she gathered up a few items and put them in the saddlebags for the journey, along with her brown dress, underclothing, stockings, and shoes. She would have to have an outfit to change into once this charade was over. After glancing around the room, she quietly left. She paused before the old couple’s bedroom door. If only Jean Claude were not sleeping in their room, she could see him once more.
Silently she walked down to the end of the hall and down the steps. From the pantry, she took a half loaf of brown bread and filled her water skin from the covered pitcher there. Then she stood before the side door.
A shiver of fear and cold sliced through her. Could she walk out into that chilling darkness, mount Nancy, and leave? Before fear could stop her, she blew out the candle and stepped out into the night. As she marched briskly to the barn and harnessed Nancy, she shivered in earnest. Then she walked the horse down the moonlit lane and she did not look back.
Chapter Eleven
The common room of the inn was almost empty. Overtired from her first night and day on the road, Christiane had overslept. Most of the other travelers must have left around dawn, she thought as she ate her rich porridge and thick slab of bread. She had been apprehensive about spending the night at the inn, but a few moments inside the door and she had been re-assured. It was a prosperous commercial inn, not one to encourage riotous behavior. Everyone who spoke to her obviously considered her a youth much younger than she was. Most called her, “Lad.” She was careful to speak little. She’d kept her hat pulled down over her forehead and didn’t look into anyone’s eyes. Her disguise wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny. But few paid any attention to her.
Sipping from her pewter mug of creamy, sweet tea, she felt almost wealthy. Last year she had begged her way through New Jersey. This year she had the few pence it took to purchase bed and board. But she sat as close to the warming fire as was safe. She dreaded going out in the cold. The late November sun shone brightly through the few windows, but the wind, whining through the leafless trees, sounded willful. From what she’d overheard in the inn, the Continental Army had moved to northeast of Philadelphia.
Finally Christiane rose and walked as masculinely as she could to the innkeeper’s thin wife. Her account settled, she and Nancy, both well-fed and rested, turned onto the road to Philadelphia. Christiane hummed as she reviewed the previous days. All had gone smoothly. The few people she had encountered had accepted her as the callow youth she wanted to appear.
After winning the battles of Brandywine and Germantown, the British had taken control of New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania and had taken Philadelphia as their headquarters. She was quite aware that she was riding through enemy-controlled territory. She would just as soon have bypassed the big city, but all roads led there, so she had no choice but to go to Philadelphia and then find her way to Valley Forge. She’d overheard the other travelers talking about General Washington setting up his winter headquarters at Valley Forge. The Forge’s position was a good one—easy to defend and close to the enemy, but unfortunately for the Continental Army, the English had already picked the area clean of provisions.
But Christiane felt that the enemy control of Philadelphia would work in her favor. She would tell Henry that friends of the Richardsons had brought her as far as Philadelphia, but since Christiane had not wanted to put Henry or any other officer in danger, she had merely traveled the short distance from Philadelphia to the Forge by herself. She permitted herself to smile a bit smugly.
She was certain also that in a few weeks she would persuade Henry to marry her and send for Jean Claude, or perhaps she would leave her son with the Richardsons and visit them often. Everything in her life would fall into place at last. She would have the kind of husband she needed and her son would be reunited with her.
A few hours down the road, she boarded a ferry at the Rappahanock River. The memory of crossing ice-filled rivers the year before as Washington’s army ran for its life flashed vividly through her mind. Once again this year the Revolutionary forces had been pushed back by the invading army. But she had no doubts about the men she had worked with. They would not give up the fight till their independence had been won.
Now on the other side of the river, Nancy plodded on down the lonely winding road with its thick growth of leafless trees, crowding it on both sides. Christiane’s mind wandered.
“Halt!” the voice boomed like a cannon through her preoccupied thoughts. Old Nancy shied. Christiane tightened her grip on the harness a second too late and off she went. Landing on her bottom, she gave an “oof.” The two English soldiers laughed at her discomfort. It was a roadblock. She had been stopped at a few before, but at those she had seen them ahead and also had been shielded from close scrutiny by a group of other travelers.
Her mind raced. She was a lone woman and had no illusions about what men were capable of. Another complication occurred to her suddenly. If they discovered her masquerade, they might think her a spy. Sympathizers were imprisoned and spies were hung. Her terror escalated, but she worked to keep her wits about her. She was just a young lad, traveling on family business. Slowly she retrieved the dragging harness and stroked the jittery mare’s neck.
“Lad,” the older of the two soldiers barked, “don’t h’ever think of ji’ning the calv’ry. You won’t neever qualeefy.” The two roared again at their own humor. Inwardly Christiane was relieved at their acceptance of her ruse. “State yer business,” the same one demanded.
“Jest going to Philadelphy,” Christiane mumbled, squinting up at him.
“What fer?”
“Family matter,” she mumbled again, watching the two Englishmen studying her. They looked bored and chilled.
“Yer saddlebags is awful full,” the talkative one observed.
“Just some things for my sis,” she improvised quickly.
“You have a sister?” the younger soldier piped in.
The older one laughed.
“You have a sister in Philadelphy?” the young man persisted.
“Aye,” she grunted in her best boy style.
“Pretty?”
“No.”
The older one laughed again. “George ‘ere don’t care if she’s pretty or not. Think she’d be interested in ‘im?”
“She’s married,” Christiane grunted again.
“George wouldn’t ‘old that against ‘er. Would you, George?”
George just grinned in response.
The conversation disgusted Christiane and she wanted to be off. She threw the reins back up to Nancy’s back and made ready to hoist herself up.
“‘Ere, lad, you ain’t been given permission to mount up yit!” the older one shouted. “Nobody ain’t neever taught you ‘ow to treat your betters! You take yer ‘at off when you speaks to a King’s soldier!” Both men closed in on her.
Memories of the night in the kitchen crowded closer. Christiane panicked. Fumbled at her belt for her knife. She heard a shout and felt a blow to her skull. Blackness.
***
Pain. She was aware of pain so severe she could not bear to open her eyes. Someone was lifting her and then carrying her like a sack of meal. Her head pounded. A door creaked and she felt herself being thrown down. The smell of stale hay. Darkness.
***
“The town jail is full up and we don’t have no proper military jail, my lord,” the young private said anxiously. “I’m sorry to have to bother you this late in the evenin’, sir.”
“Quite all right, private,” the major answered perfunctorily. “You say the prisoner was brought in this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir, seems he acted suspicious-like at a roadblock east of here.”
The major nodded absently. They were approaching the stables near his quarters. He was wondering how he had gotten this duty tonight. Normally a captain or lieutenant would handle interrogating such an unimportant prisoner. Usually these prisoners were just young boys, full of the rebellion, no threat, just young and cocky. He would scare the hell out of this one and send him home to his mother.
At least, it was something different. How he hated going into winter quarters. It reminded him too much of Canada. The major entered the stable, followed closely by the private, who was carrying a lantern. The horses snorted and pranced a bit at their intrusion.
“There, there, good fellows,” the major said soothingly. He stroked a head here and there as he went down the center aisle between the stalls. They reached a small door at the end of the aisle. The private fumbled and jangled the keys in the dim light and then the old lock grated open. The private unlocked the door and the officer stepped in. A slight form lay still on the scattered hay.
“Here, boy, wake up,” the major said as he gently nudged the form with the toe of his boot. Only a soft moan answered him. “Private, was he hurt, do you know?”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t know. I didn’t see him brought in.”
The major motioned for the lantern as he bent one knee into the straw. Carefully he turned the body toward him and looked at the closed face. “There are bruises on his chin and forehead.”
“Yes, sir.”
