Daniel Morgan strode from the house. “What’s the commotion?”
Michael slid from the horse, gulped a breath, and repeated, “Cornwallis’s surrendered at Yorktown on the seventeenth. Washington sealed ‘em up tighter ‘en a cork in a bottle. The limey’s couldn’t get through the French ships and Corny gave up wi’narry a fight. They say that’s all the fight the redcoats ha’ got in ‘em.
Morgan nodded, “Yes, Clinton knows that Cornwallis had the only army worth the name. With it broken, the war is essentially over. Now, it’s just a matter of convincing His Mad Majesty and his ministers of that fact.”
Deborah pressed her hand to her bulging belly. Her pregnancy had progressed from the “blooming” to the “uncomfortable” stage. But, the only thing she could think about was that Kit would be paroled and out of the fighting.
Chapter 22
A black cloud hung over the British troops, even though the late October day shown clear and crisp. The bloody colonials had been singing “Yankee Doodle” and “The World Turned Upside Down” for two interminable days now. Kit thought he’d go out of his mind if he heard
“If buttercups buzz’d after the bee
If boats were on land, churches on sea
If ponies rode men and grass ate cows,
And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse
If the mamas sold their babies
To the Gypsies for half a crown
If summer were spring
And the other way around,
Then all the world would be upside down!” once more. It wasn’t even good poetry. Cornwallis, damn his eyes, plead indisposition for the surrender and stayed in his tent, but the rest of the thatch-gallows had to march on with it.
Still, he couldn’t complain too much. Life as a prisoner of war of the Americans, as they were calling themselves, could have been worse. The royal troops and officers were reasonably free to move about, provided they had given their parole and surrendered their arms.
He felt naked without his sword! And helpless! It was galling to think this bunch of farmers and silversmiths had control of his destiny.
Nevertheless, duty was duty, even under miserable circumstances, and so he continued his inspection of his men. Besides checking on them, it let them see him. They knew their officers were with them all the way.
Kit had just finished helping two soldiers re-stake a tent, earning their everlasting wonderment, when a large American officer bore down on him. The man stood tall and fair and bulky, but not an ounce of fat on him. Something about him looked familiar, but Kit didn’t think he’d ever met him. Those eyes looked just…
“Damnation, it’s another Morgan.”
“Most certainly. Now, do I beat you into the ground or congratulate my new brother?”
“Do I have a choice?”
The Morgan cocked an eyebrow. “Since you’ve taken on that little spitfire, maybe I should just offer my condolences. Joshua Morgan.” He offered his hand.
“Christopher Marshall, Kit to my family.” Joshua’s hand swallowed his, but the grasp was friendly. “Yes, she does have a mind of her own, doesn’t she?”
Joshua grinned. “I see you know exactly what you got yourself into. Let’s go talk.”
**
Joshua secured Kit an interview with General Washington, himself. The General, in an expansive mood despite Cornwallis’s refusal to attend the surrender ceremony, heard him out and granted him a safe-conduct pass. Offering his congratulations on Kit’s marriage, he wished he could see his Mistress Washington.
As he prepared to leave with Washington’s greetings to Morgan and Joshua’s letter to his family, Thomson approached him with an offer to act as his batman, “or wha’ever it’s the quality call it.” Kit thought for a moment and took the sergeant into his service.
They pushed their horses as fast as possible from Yorktown to northern Virginia and made the trip in two days. They’d been stopped by Continental militia once, north of Fredericksburg on their second day, but General Washington’s elegant signature on the bottom of the papers had them on their way in short order.
Kit reined his horse to a halt as they cleared the edge of the forest several miles south of Charles Town. Thomson pulled up beside his and gave a low whistle. At the sound, Scamp stuck his head out of the small bag strapped to the saddle. Thomson reached around to ruffle the wiry fur on his head. The dog’s confinement was almost over.
“Who’d a thought it? That little waif came from this!”
They looked over a huge complex of buildings, not as elegant as Monticello, but impressive, none the less. Convenience and utility, rather than symmetry seemed to be the guiding principle of the layout. Kit recognized stables, a smithy, and corrals lining one side, while other, less identifiable structures faced them.
“Her father’s a general, Thomson.”
“Aye, m’lord, but Continentals don’t pick their officers just from the swells. Look a’ Morgan, here. ‘E was a teamster for Braddock when we fought the Frenchies.”
“Umm, but no one ever said the man was stupid. Ban can attest to that, much as he might not like it.”
People working in the courtyard started to notice two British soldiers studying them. Guns appeared in a number of hands, and sharp or pointed instruments in others. Several horsemen charged them.
“Sir?” The soldier in Thomson waited for orders, but he was plainly worried.
“Stand your ground, Sergeant. Stand your ground. Give them no cause.”
A horseman approached at a gallop. Thomson gasped, “Why it’s...”
Kit straightened and then sat back in his saddle. “Yes, it most certainly is.”
Adam pulled to a halt along side them, a wry grin on his face. “Welcome to ‘Wagon’s Rest,’ Colonel. We’ve been expecting you. Sorry about the rather bristly welcome. We’ve had some deserters wandering through.” He nodded to Thomson. “Good to see you, too, Mr. Thomson. I hope we can actually get to know each other.” He wheeled his horse toward the house and started back.
They’d gone only a few paces before Kit spied the object of his search. He spurred his horse, leaving the other two in the dust.
Adam looked back at Thomson who was focused exclusively on the house. Reining in his horse so that he could ride abreast of the sergeant, he asked, “Gonna forgive me? I did what I had to do. Doesn’t mean that I had to like it. I think you’re a good man, and I would be proud to call you my friend. I’ll even overlook your being British.”
The latter, said with such sincerity, made Thomson smile, grudgingly at first, but the grin gradually grew.
“Aye, lad, ye did what ye ‘ad to do. I’ll not ‘old that against ye.”
**
Deborah came out to investigate the commotion. “British soldiers” was being whispered about in hysterical, if hushed, tones. The likelihood of an attack was small, but still very real. She stood on the porch, not wanting to go down the stairs. Stairs were becoming a real problem this late in her pregnancy. An officer, by the look of his hat, and a soldier sat astride horses at the edge of the clearing. Adam approached them. Something about the officer looked…It was Kit! Holding tightly to the banister, she lumbered down the stairs, cursing her slowness and awkward gait. He was here!
Kit charged straight across the lawn and hauled his horse more or less to a stop. He vaulted out of the saddle and swept her off her feet.
It wasn’t comfortable, being held so close, but she was too happy to worry about small discomforts. Laughing and crying at the same time, all she could say was his name, over and over again.
Footsteps and the thump of a cane sounded on the porch. Her father’s rheumatism was acting up today. He could be a bit testy, not that she blamed him, but she could have wished for a better mood.
“So, this is the scoundrel who thinks he can steal my little girl right out from under my nose, humm.” The rumble of his voic
e rattled the window glass.
Kit set her on her feet, kissed her nose, and looked over her shoulder. “Yes, sir, I did, and I intend to keep her for a long, long time.” He squeezed her waist, or what was left of it. ”I hope you don’t mind adding another son to your collection.”
Morgan studied the two young people trying to meld into one. A pensive look swept over his weather-beaten features and then blew away.
Thomson released the barking, yipping dog from his traveling prison. Scamp made a bee-line for his lady. Kit bent down and scooped him up for Deborah to receive the obligatory dog kisses and tail wags.
“You just might do, Christopher Marshall, you just might do.”
**
“What could they possibly be doing in there?” Deborah asked her mother. After dinner, the gentlemen retired to the library. That had been a while ago. Abigail and her daughter sat in the warm and cozy family parlor. Of course, Deborah would have been warm in a snowstorm. Pregnancy had her warm as well as uncomfortable. Scamp, however, took advantage of the fireplace to lie on the hearth rug in front of the fire and gnaw on a bone cook had slipped him earlier. Deborah made a mental note to talk to that soft-hearted woman, or Scamp would be rolling instead of walking through life.
“I couldn’t say, my love, but I expect they will be finished when they are finished.” Abigail stitched complacently on an elegant beaded purse that was to form part of Deborah’s trousseau, if a little belated. The design was a subtle Bald Eagle, the bird that the Continental Congress had recently decided would be the national emblem. Ben Franklin had wanted the wily Turkey, but he was overruled in favor of the majestic eagle. The bag promised to be a fitting accessory for Deborah’s new lifestyle, but Abigail did not want anyone to forget her daughter’s roots.
The parlor door opened. Deborah held her breath. Her father entered, leaning heavily on his cane. Hellfire must be rioting in his joints. She made a mental note to get his tonic. He lumbered to his massive arm chair near the fire and dropped into it with a sigh. Adam came in next, looking…thoughtful? Although he was highly intelligent, thoughtful was not a word she would apply to her youngest brother.
Kit entered last. He’d looked better after he fought for his life against his cousin. Walking over to her chair, he put his hand on her shoulder. Smiling up at him, she reached to cover his hand with hers. He didn’t return the smile. Worried, Deborah looked to her father.
General Morgan rubbed his knee, seemingly oblivious to the tensions in the room. Finally he spoke. “Well, Abigail, it seems your daughter has gone and gotten herself married to a rascally British lord all right and tight. Showed me his marriage lines and his letters of credit and all. He’s bolder ‘en brass and richer ‘en God…”
“Daniel Morgan!”
“…But I think he’ll do.”
Kit squeezed Deborah’s shoulder, and she squeezed his hand. This time he returned her smile.
“I am, however, none too pleased with his plans to take her back to England.”
Abigail looked up from her beading. “What did you expect, my dear? That they’d stay here?”
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “yes.”
“Would you have stayed with my parents after we were married?”
From the side of the room where he leaned against a large curiosity cabinet, Adam snorted.
“Lord help me, no!” Morgan’s gaze swept the room without looking at anything. Abigail looked expectant but said nothing. “Well, I thought…hoped we could arrange…dammit! I want…”
“Daniel.” There was no heat in the word, no reproof, but Morgan slumped down in his chair, muttering, and reached for his pipe.
Deborah had seen her mother win arguments with her giant warrior before, and she just smiled.
Kit’s mouth fell open.
Scamp looked up at his people and cocked his head.
**
“Hell and damnation, I thought they’d never leave us alone!” Kit kicked the door closed and grabbed for his wife in one smooth motion. Deborah turned into his embrace with less grace but equal fervor.
“Merciful God, I’ve missed you! I’d turn to say something to you, and all I’d see was that damned green-striped wall silk. Or I’d hear the door open and look up for you, only to find Thomson’s ugly horse face staring at me. I thought I’d go out of my mind.” He framed her face with his hands and kissed her with all the longing she’s been feeling. His mouth slanted across hers, greedily opening them both to allow them to taste. “I’ve waited so long…” His hands snaked around her back to unbutton her dress.
“Kit?” He nibbled on her ear and for a moment she lost track of everything she was going to say. “Kit, you have to listen.” She braced herself against his upper arms and pushed. Surprise and frustration at being denied showed on his face, but he granted her a few inches of space and his attention.
This time, she framed his face. “My dearest, we can’t.”
“Can’t what?” He looked down at her in confusion.
“Make love.” It was a bombshell of a statement. His eyes widened with outrage. “The baby—I’m too far along. It might hurt the baby.”
She could see the moment realization struck. His shoulders dropped and his eyes closed. He turned away from her and ran a hand through his hair. “Oh God, of course. I forgot.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I was so excited to have you back again, it’s been so long…”
“I know, I know. It’s the same for me.” She crossed over and hugged his back.
He straightened and looked over his shoulder at her. “I think it would be best if I put up somewhere else. I’m not sure I could just sleep next to you.” His expression was wry.
She walked around him and slipped his jacket off his shoulders. He resisted, but she pulled it off and tossed it on the chair in the corner.
“My love, this isn’t such a good idea.” His voice sounded strangled, and she gave him a wicked little grin.
“Well, my mother, bless her heart,” she untied his cravat and tossed it aside, “happened to mention that,” she undid several buttons of his shirt before he grabbed her hand, “there are ways,” she loosed her hands and resumed her task, “to remedy the situation,” she spread the shirt wide open, “for both of us.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes, pulled him closer, and daintily licked around one hard male nipple.
He shuddered and groaned. “Oh, yes, there is. God bless your mother.”
**
Somewhere in the middle of the night, Kit bolted from the bed. He tossed quilts and dislodged Deborah from the cozy nest she’d made in the hollow of his shoulder. He also terminated the first tranquil night’s sleep she’d had in months. “Wha…uh…Kit…?”
Harvest moonlight seeping through the curtain barely allowed her to see his face. He was staring at her. His wild-eyed look banished any remnant of sleep she might have been harboring. He pointed at her burgeoning belly, “The…the baby kicked me!”
She blinked once and then burst into laughter. “The little monster has been kicking me for months. It’s about time you got walloped now and again.”
Kit ran his hand through sleep-tousled hair and chuckled sheepishly. “Well, I guess that, being a gentleman and a soldier of the King, I can withstand such a beating. But, bloody hell, that was a boot.”
“Could just as well have been an elbow. Come back to bed.”
**
A week after Kit’s arrival, the Morgan clan headed out before dawn to the White’s farm a few miles away. Mr. White’s barn had been destroyed that summer when a horse knocked a lantern into a bale of hay. White’s house sat up on a small ridge, while the barn was to go back on the flats below it.
Kit came along, partly because it was expected, but partly because he was entranced by the idea of a community coming together to build a barn. Along with the General’s explanation last night of local custom, he had presented Kit with a Barlow jack knife. The horn of the casing s
ported carvings of flying geese. Kit guessed that it was quite old from the wear patterns on the handle even before Morgan told him the knife was his grandfather’s. “A good knife is like a good woman. Treat them with care and respect, and they’ll be an invaluable helpmate all your life.”
For the time being, at least, Kit would keep the knife close, if only as a sign of appreciation.
The raising went well. Since the new barn simply replaced the old one, the foundation holes would be reused. The owner and his people had already dug them out. Although he had some basic knowledge of construction, Kit had no idea what was to happen. He noted men of all estates at the gathering, Thomson also came to help, but he blended more easily into the crowd. At first the men had looked on Kit in his British officer’s uniform as something to be avoided. He was mildly surprised when the obvious gentlemen shucked their jackets and helped haul the pre-made wall frames into place. Kit shrugged and did likewise. That and the Morgan family connection gained him acceptance and a goodly measure of congeniality.
White tacitly acknowledged the General’s precedence when he asked Morgan to call the orders of the actual raising.
The ladies prepared meals, provided drinks, and brought small supplies. In deference to her condition, Deborah was assigned the job of cutting and plating the pies.
By late afternoon, the four wall frames stood vertical, the rafters were nailed in place and the final delicate work of setting the ridge pole was about to begin. Kit stood with the General, White and several other men, discussing the best approach to the job. He observed that his formerly white breeches sported a ubiquitous shade of brown.
A shout of greeting rose at the edge of the gathering. Kit turned to see Eli ride in, not returning the greetings but obviously looking for something or someone. The moment Eli saw him, their eyes locked. Eli changed direction, and Kit knew that he was the goal of the search. The expression on Eli’s face was not welcoming or even civil.
Dismounting, Eli yanked off his jacket and tossed it over his saddle. “Well, you bloody English bastard, one of Tarleton’s boys got himself dished and became real chatty. He had a lot to say about the circumstances leading up to my sister’s marriage.” He was working himself up into a lather. “I think you have a number of things to answer for.” With a snake-like punch, he sent Kit stumbling back into the men behind him.