Deborah hesitated. “I know, and I’ve been thinking about it. I’ll have to risk it, won’t I? I think he’ll come around.”
“Even if he does, he comes from very different stock. He’s an English aristocrat, and you’re an American aristocrat.” Deborah looked at her as if she’d sprouted horns. “Yes, indeed. You’re father’s a general, and your breeding is obvious.
“My point is that even with your upbringing, it’s still going to be like marrying a foreigner. You might live in England. That’s taking ‘leave your mother and father and cleave only unto him’ to a fine point.”
Deborah looked startled and then resigned. “I suppose I’ve known that. It’s just scary to hear it put into words.”
“Can you do it? It could be a very different life style, even if he is a second son. As a career officer, it may mean moving, especially to places where there’s trouble. Then there are the risks of being a soldier.”
Opened mouth with horror, Deborah couldn’t respond.
“I think that’s enough.” Sarah rose and pulled Deborah to her feet. “I’ve given you a great deal to think about. Let me know if you need me.” She guided her friend to the door.
“Now, do you have any shopping to do?”
**
Sarah had wanted to gift her with the items, but Deborah insisted on a credit agreement. With no money, American or English, and nothing to barter, she refused to make any purchases without a promissory note.
Cutting began on Kit’s banyan with a clear mind. She’d chosen navy blue wool for the T-shaped robe. It would have a matching belt and negligee cap cut from wedge-shaped quarters with a turned-up band. Sarah had insisted on including some thread for embroidery. The design would take more thought.
The fabric stretched along the parlor floor from the door to the opposite wall. She had just laid out the lines when the door opened.
“Stop!” she shrieked. “Don’t come in here. This is all laid out.”
“M’um,” Mr. Thomson’s voiced reached through the door. “A dispatch just arrived from t’ Colonel and there’s a letter in’t for you.”
Deborah yanked open the door, scattering pins and chalk and scissors. “What? Where? Oh!” She grabbed the letter from his hands and slammed the door shut. As it reverberated, she heard a quiet chuckle on the other side, but paid it no heed. She sat on the floor, right on top of her unnoticed pin box, and caressed the letter. Carefully, she broke the red seal with its shield and sword imprinted on it.
My Dearest Deborah,
We are relieving the garrison at Georgetown on the coast. They’ve come
under several attacks by a small contingent of William Washington’s men.
Things are going well, and we should be finished in a few days. I think of
you frequently, but there is much to be done so this is written in haste,
Y’r (loving) servant, Kit
The “loving” had been inserted over the rest of the line. Deborah caressed it with her fingertip and then pressed the letter to her breast, rocking back and forth over it. She looked back down at the letter and noticed a postscript: Some local Tories mentioned that Gen. Morgan seems to have resigned his commission due to health problems and returned home. Thank God if it’s true. K
Chapter 15
Deborah examined her new nightcap critically. The candlewicking embroidery she’d applied to the cap’s edge pleased her. The small flowers gave it a richness that normally would have been achieved with lace. However, she sighed, lace was almost impossible to come by, as was the more conventional embroidery materials. Candlewicking had been developed by colonial women to circumvent this problem. They twisted candlewick thread, readily available, into a series of knots, forming the design.
Her mother would be proud, both of her design and execution, but also of her rather subtle support of American aspirations to be free of unwarranted taxation. After all, Mother taught her how to candlewick.
The cap wasn’t much as far as a trousseau went, she thought. A goodly number of things lay carefully packed in her hope chest back home in Winchester: linens, towels, table cloths, silver hollowware, trays, and a few other more prosaic items. Kit might be of aristocratic stock, but he was a soldier now. Her thrifty colonial ways would prove useful in the years to come, hopefully not on American soil. She didn’t think him extravagant or spendthrift. They should march on well together.
She stretched one more time before crawling up into the high, pillowing mattress. Only one problem niggled at her contentment. Kit had not been able to formally ask her father for her hand. That might be a sticking point. Telling Kit that her family didn’t have the smallest of Tory sympathies merited understatement of the year. Would Kit baulk when he found out just where those sympathies lay?
Something caught her attention. She stopped to listen to the noise. Horses and men marched in the distance. Coming into camp at this time of night, it could only mean problems.
She threw her clothes back on and rushed downstairs. Mr. Thomson, in shirt and britches, stomped into his boots as he left his room. “There be trouble m’um.”
“Indeed, sir. Have a rider go into Camden to Dr. Alexander Garden on South Broad Street. Toss the doctor out of bed if necessary.” Deborah looked toward the edge of camp where torches were flaring to light the way. Several carts flanked by soldiers were in the vanguard. She glanced at Mr. Thomson.
“Wounded,” he pronounced grimly.
“Send for the doctor, now.” She left to organize camp followers as nursing staff and gather the supplies.
**
One man was dead before they got him out of the cart. It was Prissy’s husband, and from the wails behind the infirmary tent, Prissy was there. Deborah grieved for Prissy’s loss, but knew that the woman wouldn’t remain a widow long, the situation being what it was.
Prissy’s husband had gone with Kit, but Deborah hadn’t seen him yet, in all the confusion.
She had little time to worry. Three men were beyond her help. All she could do for them was to give them laudanum and blankets: oblivion and warmth. Seven other required a combination of cleaning, stitching, and bandaging. Three more required a surgeon. As she separated the men for treatment, she realized that some of the wounds were several days old and some were very, very new. Whatever, she thought; they still need to be patched up.
Camp followers cleaned bandaged and fetched under her direction as she stitched. She was far from finished when the last of the men marched into camp. The doctor arrived about the same time.
Dr. Garden’s head barely came to her shoulder. He made two, or three of her in girth, and his smile set her teeth on edge. She watched him carefully for a while, painfully aware that the title “Dr.” had nothing to do with competence. He impressed her when he washed his hands and, after a few minutes, she left him to his own stitching.
The camp follower understood how to bandage the man Deborah finished stitching, and she moved on to the next man. The flap of the tent flew open and Deborah’s face lit with pleasure to see Kit, until she saw Lt. Bradley under his arm, holding him up. “Merciful heavens, what happened? Bring him here.” She led them to a generally clean cot and helped Bradley lower him onto it.
“Damned, stupid fool,” Bradley muttered.
“I’m fine, you cretin,” Marshal slurred.
Deborah soothed his head and gently pushed him down onto the cot. She ignored his outburst and paid Bradley only the slightest of attention. She hunted for the scissors to cut off Kit’s bloodied breeches, propriety be damned.
The doctor, seeing the injured officer, bustled up to care for him.
“I’ll take care of him,” Deborah snapped.
The doctor pointedly looker over at her hand on the patient’s leg, nodded, and went back to work elsewhere.
Marshal tried to push her away. “No’fitting. Go ‘way, le’be.”
She gently batted his hands down. “Laudanum, Sally, two drops here,” she called to a camp follower.<
br />
The wound opened long and red before her, and the reality of it struck her. Her hands began to tremble.
Bradley leaned over her, “Let me get the physician.”
“No!” A deep breath and a hard gulp, and she was ready. “I’ll take care of him myself.
“Lift him up and give him the laudanum. He’s almost out anyway, but this will help.”
She watched as Kit struggled against the drink. “No,” he slurred, “no laudanum.” Bradley and Sally struggled to subdue him.
“Wait,” Deborah demanded. “Kit, it’s all right. You’re with friends, and we’re going to help you, I promise.”
Sally tried to give him the drink, but he still mumbled and pushed it away, again. Deborah took the glass and gestured the woman away. “Kit, listen to me. It’s Deborah. Do you know me?” He nodded, and she continued. “We’re going to help you. This will help you sleep. You need to sleep to let your body heal.” She held the glass to his mouth. He sipped and made a face at the bitterness. Awkwardly, he lifted a hand and closed it around hers. He drank as he watched her, his eyes working more or less independently. Slowly, those eyes closed. Deborah bowed her head and went to work.
She gently sponged blood from the five inch gash. It was long, but relatively shallow, a probable saber slash, probably while he was on horseback. She’d seen this kind of wound before. He’d lost a fair bit of blood, as evidenced by the small amount of white on the now-red breeches and stockings.
“Sally, get me some thread…” Sally placed the bowl with a needle and thread sitting in a puddle of alcohol next to her. “Thanks, Sal.”
“Aye, an’ you be wanting me here?”
“No, no, start cleaning that one.” Deborah nodded to the man on the left.
Deborah took a deep breath and glanced up at Lt. Bradley. “Hold him, just in case.” She set the first stitch. “What happened?”
“He sent me ahead with a detachment and the wounded, ‘cause when we left Georgetown there was some rear-guard harassment. He stayed behind with the main body of the troops. We hadn’t seen anyone for two days, so when we were about 20 miles away, he sent more troops ahead, thinking the raiders had been left behind. He should have kept them all! We didn’t need them!” Bradley’s young face contorted in grief and remorse. “I didn’t think we needed them in the rear. Some of the men were from my company, and I wanted them with me, under my command. Not under his.” He lifted a hand to gently stroke Kit’s arm.
Looking up to Deborah, he wailed, “He’s my friend, and I left him to get hurt, maybe killed.”
“Did they catch up with you?” She thought to lead him away from his guilt.
“No, it was a bunch we’d never seen. They weren’t the soldiers from Georgetown, I’ll bet my spurs on it. They were locals, a rag-tag bunch, even for Continentals. We rode right past them, never even saw them. Then they ambushed the tail of the column. When I got back there, they were swarming around Kit. He took the saber slash before we could beat them off.”
Deborah finished her stitching. As she turned around, Sally was at her elbow with a tray of bandages. “Is ‘e gonna be all right, m’um? Me Georgie thinks ‘im a right fair man for an officer.”
Deborah smiled tightly, and Sally patted her arm before leaving.
Images of the sword bearing down on him paraded through her thoughts as she bandaged Kit’s leg. She ripped the fabric lengthwise to form the tie ends and finished it. I have to get to the others, she thought, but made no move to leave.
Bradley pushed his dark brown hair out of his face as he surreptitiously wiped his eyes. Deborah started to rise, knowing she had to tend to the other men, too, when he spoke. “I keep seeing it over and over again in my head. All the attackers were crowded around him. They weren’t trying to engage any of the others: it almost seemed like he was their target.”
Deborah plopped back on the stool. “What are you saying? They went for him specifically?”
Bradley thought for a moment. “Yes, that’s exactly it. When I rode up, there were several men around Kit, and the others appeared to be their rear guard.”
“But that’s how it’s usually done, right; go for the officers, first.”
“True, but they barely paid any attention to me.”
Silence. Deborah tried to explain to herself why any one would attack Kit.
“Did he tell you that this was the second time he’s been targeted?”
“What?”
“The last patrol, somebody took a single shot at him and then took off.”
“Oh, my…”
“Mistress Morgan,” Dr. Garden bellowed, “I need help here now!”
Deborah whirled to see the Doctor dealing with a fountain of blood. The stool tangled her shirts, and she kicked it aside as she ran to help.
**
Despite her worries over Kit’s leg, Deborah later recalled the time as three gloriously happy days. Kit conducted his business from a makeshift day bed set up in the drawing room. She would stay with him when her duties allowed, sewing and trying to limit his activities. In this, she had the willing collaboration of Mr. Thomson, Lt. Bradley, and Rogers.
In the evening, the two of them would sit and talk. They debated the causes of the war, the tastiness of the local hams, and the value of universal education, among other things. Deborah learned more about him in three days than she had in three months, and liked every bit of it.
On the fourth day, January 18th, Kit requested a pair of crutches from Rogers and ventured out into the clear, crisp winter air to inspect his troops.
“Kit, please, you know you shouldn’t be on that leg. It has to heal.”
“And it’s healing beautifully, by your own admission and through your dedicated ministering.” He reached down to grasp her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Kit!” She snatched her hand away. “Yes, it’s healing nicely, but it’s not healed yet. You could still have problems.”
“I’ll go easy, I promise, in fact the gig’s coming around as we bicker.” She smiled. “I have to walk the leg some though, or it’ll stiffen up on me.”
Rogers drove the gig around the corner of the palisade.
“Care to accompany me, madam?” Kit bowed as far as his crutches would allow him. “I promise I’ll ride as soon as the leg gives out on me.” She looked skeptical. “Promise. I need the exercise.”
Deborah glanced up at Rogers who stared off into the distance while valiantly smothering a smile. “All right, but only for a little while.” They started off towards the tents, her hand lightly covering his on the bracket of the crutch.
**
A little surprised by how quickly Kit capitulated to the demands of his leg, Deborah allowed Rogers to assist her up into the gig. He then went around to discretely provide any help the Colonel might need. As Kit tried to decide how to clamber up to the seat, the thunder of hooves heralded some 20 horsemen riding into camp at full speed.
“What the duce?” Kit peered into the distance. “It’s Tarleton. What the hell is he pulling, riding in like that?”
Even at a distance, the bottle-green jacket, now dirty and torn, and the wild blond hair well in front of the pack were readily recognizable. The distinctive plumed hat was nowhere to be seen. The horse was lathered and very nearly blown.
Tarleton saw them and charged toward the gig.
“What’s wrong with him? Is he insane?” Deborah whispered.
“I don’t know. I got a dispatch saying he was hunting Greene up on the Broad River near the North Carolina border. Guess we’ll find out.” He gave up trying to get into the gig and walked to the front of the horses. Rogers followed at a discrete distance.
Deborah wondered if she should join Kit, but decided she didn’t want to be any closer to Tarleton than she had to be. She watched Tarleton bear down on Kit. Closer and closer. The horse’s spittle streamed from his mouth as he continued the wild charge. Deborah, alarmed, started to rise. “Kit,” she warned. A slight lift of
his hand told her he heard and understood her concern.
Tarleton hauled up on the horse’s reins a few yards from Kit, and he jumped to the ground. The horse danced and tossed his head, obviously annoyed at the cavalier treatment. Sweat sprayed everywhere. Tarleton close-hauled the reins and yanked the horse’s head down. “Damn you,” he snarled.
Quietly, Rogers stepped forward to take the reins. Tarleton threw them at the servant and then ignored him. Rogers moved the horse a short way, stroking and calming it. Behind him, the rest of the troops rode up in varying stages of exhaustion, health, and disarray.
“Damn the man,” Tarleton raged. “Damn him to the deepest pits of hell. I’ll get him,” he jabbed a finger of outrage in Kit’s chest, “and when I do, I’ll…”
“Ban!” Kit shoved the hand away.
Tarleton growled and bent to pick up a fist-sized rock off the path. He hurled it toward the group of gawking men gathered at the other side of the road. A yelp from one of them prompted Kit to grab his fellow officer.
“Ban! What the hell are you babbling about?”
Tarleton shook off the restraining arm and prowled back and forth in front of the gig. “Braddock should have strung that bastard up when he had the chance. They shouldn’t have stopped with a whipping. They should have flayed the peasant and left him for the Iroquois to play with.”
Kit watched him, puzzled and uncomprehending, but Deborah knew with increasing certainty who Tarleton was talking about. She muffled her cry of recognition and concern. She knew the scars from the whip well. They decorated her father’s back.
“Ban, damn you! Tell me what’s going on.”
Quietly, she climbed from the gig, wanting to hear every word, even though the two men were shouting at each other by now. She crept up behind Tarleton.
“We thought we had him. It was the perfect place. He had his back to the river. We even had him outnumbered.”
“Who?” Kit bellowed.
“Morgan, you stupid sod, Morgan!”
“Well, say so!”
“I’m trying!” Tarleton still addressed the entire camp. He stalked off a few paces and then back. Deborah held her breath, but he never noticed her.