The space was huge, and we brought the horses inside as well, sheltering them from the weather and hiding them from anyone who might pass by. I lay back against my saddle and took out my book and quill, not eager to write, but needing an excuse to sit up when the others were bedding down. Grippy and the general spread themselves out and pulled their hats over their eyes like the others, and I scratched away by the light of Williby’s lantern, writing a letter to Elizabeth that was more a list of the goods we’d seen in the cavern than anything else.
I didn’t want the general to see me step outside. He would be the only one who cared and would mark my absence and my return. Sproat had assigned a man to watch, but everyone seemed mellowed by the wine and unconcerned about our safety.
“I know the farmer who owns this barn. He’s a patriot. We’ll be fine here,” Williby had reassured us.
“No book tonight, Shurtliff?” the general asked, his voice heavy.
“Perhaps. I’m not really that tired.”
He grunted and lifted his hat from his eyes so he could look at me.
“Liar. You’re nodding off just sitting there.”
I put my journal back in my saddlebag, stretched out like the others, and closed my eyes, convinced my discomfort would prevent me from sleeping.
It didn’t.
I awoke hours later, the men around me already stirring, morning light seeping in through the cracks in the barn walls.
I scrambled up, stunned that I’d slept so deeply, and almost wet myself, so desperate was my need.
The general and the others were saddling their horses, talking quietly, and I hurried past them and out the door, rushing for the trees. Someone chuckled, and Grippy called after me.
“I need a moment. My bowels are feeling a little loose. Too much fruit,” I babbled.
The chuckling multiplied, but no one followed.
I walked, teeth clenched, until I was certain no one could see me and no one had decided to come after me. I crouched behind a bush, my back against a tree, and wriggled my breeches down while contorting to keep the stream of urine from hitting my shoes or wetting my clothes. I’d gotten spoiled the last months at the Red House with a private perch and a locking door, and I had grown soft. I stayed crouched much longer than I usually dared, making sure I was emptied before I patted myself dry with the square of cloth I kept in my pocket in case my menses started, and secured my clothes.
The storm had passed and the air was fresh and cold. In the growing light, without the gale to distract me, the surroundings were familiar. The cherry orchard my detachment had been chased from wasn’t far, and a large estate owned by a man named Jeroen Van Tassel was nearby. Captain Webb had hurried us through the area, claiming it was full of Dutch loyalists. I had no reason to doubt him, especially considering the secret depot and the gulch with the burned-out wagons.
I pulled the tie from my hair, smoothed it with my fingers, and refastened my queue. I’d left my hat in the barn and my canteen near my saddle. There was nothing more I could do to tidy myself, but I was stalling, dreading an embarrassing return after my mad dash into the trees. I had not been a good aide-de-camp that morning.
They were waiting for me, everyone mounted, when I stepped out from the shelter of the trees west of the barnyard. Grippy held my horse’s reins—he too had been saddled—and my hat had been tossed over the pommel. Embarrassment flooded my chest, and I paused for courage. But none of them were looking at me. Their attention was riveted on a small rise just east of the wide, empty field. Woods crowded the cleared plot on every side, and a cabin was just visible through the trees.
The horses shimmied, suddenly nervous, and lightning rumbled and cracked. A gnat whined past my ear and then another. I slapped at it, even as I rejected the notion. It was March, not July, and the storm had passed. The swarm was not bugs but bullets.
The cluster of waiting men scattered, flowering outward across the field, and I cried out, not wanting to be left behind.
“Shurtliff,” the general shouted. “Run, boy!”
But I was frozen in place, watching the drama unfold. Grippy’s horse was running full out for the trees to the north, and Common Sense followed right behind him. Sproat was trying to marshal his men, but they too were barreling for the trees, some of them shooting, most of them simply running for cover. Sproat gave up and spurred his mount forward, firing at the unknown assailants as he bowed low over his horse’s neck. One horse was hit, and his rider tumbled from the saddle. Williby was downed before reaching the trees. The general, still holding Lenox back, fired off a round with his musket and pulled the pistol from his hip and fired again.