Part Two
by Paula B and CJ
September 1776
En route to Pennsylvania
Albert Chegwidden led his small force along the Susquehanna River. It was hot, these first days of September merely an extension of the glaring summer. Even as the sun sank over the horizon behind them, the heat hung in the air. But his men seemed not to notice. He glanced over his shoulder at them. Curtis Rivers, part Negro, part Cherokee, one of the best soldiers on the frontier. The Cherokees, as an Indian Nation, may have sided with the British, but a number of individuals chose to fight with the colonists. Their skills had been valuable in the development of these guerilla troops that were cropping up in the west. Rivers taught them all to move silently through the forest and to live off the land. There were twenty in their party. A small group, but this kind of small group could fight much larger forces successfully, making good use of the element of surprise. They carried muskets, but often used more silent methods, the bow and arrow, knives, even their hands, to fight and kill.
Along with Rivers, he brought 'Mac' MacKenzie, an enigmatic soldier. Young and small, he was still one of the best, taking to this unconventional life with ease. Harmon Rabb, another of his men, seemed willing to try anything. «Young fool thinks he's invincible.» Albert listened to Mac and Rabb antagonizing each other. The two were fast friends, but extremely competitive.
Then there was Samuel Ryan. In his prime, strong and dangerous, he made a good addition to their group. He'd been a teacher before the revolution called. It was easy to imagine this sparse man as a scholar guiding young men. It was more difficult to look at him and imagine him a frontiersman. An Irishman, his skin was fair, the porcelain color that so often accompanies red hair and his ocean blue eyes seemed to peer right through you. He could sing and tell a story around the campfire, and when it was time to work, he seemed as strong as two men in his efforts to make up for his diminutive size. Standing side by side with Chegwidden, both men looked ridiculous, Ryan barely five feet tall and Chegwidden over six feet. Ryan hated the British as much as any Irishman could.
Albert had gone west as a surveyor after the Tories had taken his land to house their troops. To the north, the western lands had been settled by the French and won by the British during the French and Indian War. To the south, Daniel Boone had opened up the western country and it was filled with opportunity. «The British have taken over the land I worked so hard to develop, but I can start over, provided I'm still alive when this war ends. Provided the colonists win.» Albert mused quietly, constantly watching for any enemies in the dusk that settled over the forest. «The frontier is beautiful, but it will be nice to see old friends in Pennsylvania, even for a little while. Perhaps we can bring some new recruits back with the guns.»
"Colonel Chegwidden," Rabb said.
Albert cut him off, "We cannot use rank. We are simply surveyors coming east for supplies, at least as far as anyone else knows. Be careful. If we start now, it will seem more natural when we arrive in Pennsylvania. You shouldn't use 'sir' either. Nothing to give us a military air. Albert will do."
"It seems strange, Albert, almost cowardly," Rabb said quietly.
"We will be entering territories where the British are the official government. It would be foolish to walk in and announce ourselves as officers in the Colonial Army. Our mission is far too important. We have more recruits in the west than we have guns. If we don't manage to return with weapons, the only way to arm our new recruits will be when we capture armed enemies or when one of our own is killed. Neither is an effective military strategy," Albert offered drolly.
"How will we find the guns? Are we sure there will be enough?" Rabb asked.
Albert nodded. "We have an agent who has been secretly purchasing weapons from the Spanish."
Rabb listened attentively. "How will we know him?"
"I will recognize him," Albert assured the younger officer.
Rivers watched intently. He had evaluated each of the men along the way. «Albert Chegwidden moved through the woods as stealthily as any man I've ever seen. In the darkness, he seems to disappear. Even in the daylight, he seems barely a shadow.» Rivers admired him, both for the ways they were alike and for their differences. «I would just as soon never see that man angry.»
Jason Tiner, one of the newest recruits, was a quiet young man. He took in every bit of the landscape, gawking as they traveled along. «He shows real promise.» Albert thought. «If he lives long enough.» Albert had seen so many men die in the French and Indian War, and already in this war men had fallen in great numbers.
"We are near the mountains. I hope we can pass through them quickly. As the cold weather approaches, some of the passes will become increasingly difficult. I don't expect us to arrive in Philadelphia for another two months. Game will be scarce by the end of this month. I fear the men will grow tired of jerky and hardtack. They will be glad to see Philadelphia. Real food, real beds, and the first women they will have seen since July," Rivers pointed out the facts Albert already knew.
"It will come soon enough," the older man answered. "As we draw nearer to Philadelphia, we also draw nearer to New York, the British stronghold. We'll see more fighting the farther east we go. But we need the weapons or the British will win on the frontier."
Rivers nodded. «Even with the weapons, the British may still win.» He glanced over the troops. «At least with Colonel Chegwidden in charge, we stand a real chance.» He looked back toward Chegwidden and followed in silence through the woods.
Behind him, Mac was quiet. The soldier's stoic countenance hid furtive thoughts. «Will I see anyone I know when we reach Philadelphia? Or have I changed enough so that no one would recognize me?» Mac wished for a mirror. «I've managed to fool everyone so far.» Mac sighed. «No one, not even my closest friends, has any idea that I'm really a woman.»
Mac had joined the Colonial Army following the death of her father. He had been a middling horse trader, but had provided for her well enough. She was proud of his determination to help the fledging rebellion. He had been part of the local militia in a small town just outside of Philadelphia. The day after his funeral, Mac shuttered the small rooms over the rickety stable, bound her generous bosom and took her father's clothes and weapons. She glanced down at her torso. «Lucky for me his clothes are a little on the large side.» They were baggy enough to hide her decidedly feminine figure. She signed on with a group of new recruits headed west. She barely arrived when she was chosen to be part of this envoy to acquire weapons from the east.
Mac had never felt as if she fit in anywhere before, but she felt comfortable with these men. She had built a camaraderie with them. She even had a comfortable friendship with Rabb. They constantly challenged each other, but managed at the same time to watch each other's backs. «What would Rabb think if he learned that his comrade-in-arms is a woman? What would the people back home think? What would HE think.»
For just a moment the trees around her faded away and she saw a bit of her former life.
She had to get back home. Papa would expect his dinner. Sarah MacKenzie quickly paid for her bolt of cloth. Turning abruptly she nearly ran into him.
"Careful. Ah, Miss MacKenzie." Clayton Webb quickly dropped his hands from her. He had gripped her waist in reflex.
Sarah blushed a bright red. "Your pardon, Mr. Webb." Embarrassment, as it often did, made her bolder than was considered lady-like. "What are you doing here?"
Webb just quirked his eyebrow at her. "Excuse me. Is there a reason why I can’t come into Thompkins?"
"Oh no. I mean, of course." «Damn you, sir!» She took a deep breath. «He’s smirking at me!» "I’m just surprised that someone as important as you, sir, would stoop to doing his own shopping." Her snarl was inappropriate at best. No, it was down right rude and she knew it. «What matters? Damn Tory.»
"Indeed, Miss MacKenzie." Webb’s eyes narrowed and Mac immediately regretted her tone. Clayton Webb was one of his father’s best customers. In fact, Sarah remembered that Josiah MacKenzie was supposed to have taken several quarter horses out to Oakton today. She knew she should apologize but before she could a low petulant voice interrupted.
"Clayton?" Sarah’s eyes immediately focused on the woman behind Webb. Allison Krennick was everything that young Philadelphia women were supposed to be. Sarah fought the urge to curtsy and instead just nodded.
"Good morning, Miss Krennick." Sarah knew that the daughter of Thomas Krennick had no idea who she was, even though Sarah had often gone to the Krennick Mansion on Olive Street when her father would bring a pair for Thomas Krennick’s hansom or a particularly fine thoroughbred for him to consider. Her father always said that no one could quiet a skittish horse better than Sarah. Once, while her father was waiting to get his money, Sarah had spotted Allison receiving Webb. «Hussy.» She thought and then chastised herself. What did she care how the rich lived? Particularly rich Tories who obviously cared nothing for the lofty ideals of Thomas Paine or Samuel and John Adams.
Webb must have seen something in her face because his amused tolerance turned haughty to match Miss Krennick’s. "Well if you’re quite sure that you are unharmed." He sniffed.
"Of course. I’m sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going…sir." Sarah managed to mimic the tone she had often heard her father’s customers' use. "Miss Krennick." She muttered in farewell as she hustled from the shop. She pretended not to hear the rude response.
"Clayton, whoever was that?"
"Oh, Sarah MacKenzie, the horse trader’s daughter."
"Oh." Allison made no effort to hide her disdain.
All the way home, Sarah had clutched her bolt of cotton to her chest. Fury seized her and she ignored several greetings from friends. «How dare he! Bitch! Damnable Tories!»
Now after all this time, she doubted that either would remember her. No, there would be little chance that she would be found out by an enemy.
Part 3
September 1776
A rural farm in Maryland near the Pennsylvania border.
Cordelia Wallace scurried around the house. «It seems so empty. Those damn British have burned most of the furniture. They've eaten all the livestock and cleaned out the cellar. They even ate the seed potatoes. Thank god they've moved on for now.» The occupying army had frightened all of the servants and field hands, as well. Cordelia was utterly alone in the house. «Thank goodness Braxton will be home soon.»
The clatter of hooves interrupted Cordelia's thoughts and she ran to the door to greet her husband. «Who else would come out all this way at such an hour?» She opened the door to a shocking sight. Braxton clung to the horse as it slowed near the house. His eyelids fluttered, his face so pale it seemed to glow in the moonlight. «Has he a fever? Damn those redcoats for bringing sickness to this house!» Cordelia rushed worriedly to his side. Closer inspection made clear the cause of his pallor. «He's been shot!» "Braxton, who did this?" Cordelia asked.
"I did not see him in the darkness. But there is no time. Help me off the horse. Leave me while you put him in the barn. But hurry back," Braxton breathed heavily as she helped him into the kitchen.
Cordelia hurried to the door, leading the horse to the barn nearby. She removed the tack, then glanced at the animal. "Sorry, boy. I'll brush you down in the morning. My husband needs my care right now." She started to leave, then as a second thought, put out some oats that had been delivered after the British left. She took two buckets to the well, drawing up fresh water to fill them both. «At least the well hasn't run dry.» She left one in the barn for the horse and took the other with her back to the house.
"Ah, you brought water, good. A taste of that will feel good in this dry mouth," Braxton sighed. Cordelia took a ladle, dipped it into the bucket, and filled a glass with the cool water. She pulled a chair next to him, wiping his face with a damp rag. She pressed a clean dishtowel against his wound.
«At least something is cool here.» Cordelia brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. «These last days have been so humid. But the well is deep, lucky for us.» She looked at her injured husband. He winced, then began to speak.
"You must listen, Delia. You must remember everything I tell you. So much depends upon it," Braxton said, struggling for breaths between the words. Cordelia nodded and he continued, "There are two men you can trust, only two," he paused, then added, "No, there is a third, but you cannot go to him. Albert Chegwidden and George Washington, these two men alone you can trust. Anyone else could be a Tory spy."
Cordelia smiled. "I know of General Washington, but who is Albert Chegwidden?"
"He is a brave man, a good man, and he fights for our cause in the west. But he is coming here, to meet me. I have weapons that he needs," Braxton waited for her response.
"The guns in the hidden room? The ones you were afraid the British would find?" Cordelia asked.
"How long have you known?" Braxton waited for her response.
"A man may know what goes on in the world, but a woman knows what goes on in her own home," Cordelia gave him a reproachful look.
"You will need to go into Philadelphia every two weeks. There are arrangements. Talk to the blacksmith there, Bud Roberts. Mr. Roberts may have a message for you. You may also send messages through him to the third man you can trust. I do not know that man's name." Braxton gulped for air and closed his eyes as if that would make the pain go away.
"I cannot trust Mr. Roberts?" Cordelia wondered out loud.
"He is trustworthy enough, but there is little he can do to help you. Listen carefully, Delia. Follow my directions. When you go into Philadelphia, check with Mr. Roberts for messages." Braxton took a ring off his finger and placed it on Cordelia's forefinger. It was a small gold signet with the emblem of the Liberty Tree. "Show Mr. Roberts this ring. Whenever you visit him, be sure to make a small purchase or place an order for horseshoes in case anyone should question your visit. The messages will need special care. They must not get wet. There will be a written message, but you will also find a secret one. Either Mr. Roberts will give you a chemical to bring out the writing or you will use fire. The message will tell you when it is safe to meet the Spaniard, Galindez, who supplies the guns. He has two more shipments. Galindez will leave his message at the church where the pastor is a freedman, the Reverend Sturgis Turner. You may leave a message for him there. But be careful, the church may be watched." Braxton stopped to swallow.
"It sounds so dangerous," Cordelia whispered.
Braxton nodded. "It is dangerous. Would that I did not need to ask you to do this, but there is no other way. We must not change the plans at this late date. Let me finish. Chegwidden will come to Philadelphia. He should arrive some time in November. You will find him at the inn with the sign of a tree. The same tree as on the ring. You must speak to him alone." Braxton sighed heavily. "There is only one way you can do this. You must claim to be his wife. When you see him, embrace him, whisper to him. Tell him I am dead, but the plan remains the same."
"Braxton Wallace. How dare you! I will not claim to be the wife of another man! There must be another way. And why should I tell him that you are dead?" Anger rose in Cordelia's voice.
Calmly, Braxton addressed his wife, "I will be dead by then, Delia. I am lucky to have made it this far. I fear that by tomorrow night, you will be a widow."
"No," Cordelia gasped. "You are strong. You will be able to meet with Chegwidden."
Braxton shook his head. "I fought in the French and Indian War, Delia. I have seen these wounds before. I will die; the only question is if it be tonight or tomorrow. But listen, for the fate of our country may depend on it. You must go to Chegwidden. You must pretend to be his wife. It is the only way you can be alone with him. When you are alone in your room at the inn, and only then, can you tell him of the weapons."
Cordelia swallowed and for a moment she was unable to voice her concern. Then she managed to speak, "I will be alone with him. What if he -- "
"Have no fear from Chegwidden. He is quite honorable. He will not force himself upon you." Braxton smiled at his wife. «It will be some time before she forgets the lewdness of those redcoats.» "Stay with Chegwidden. No one must doubt that you are man and wife."
"How will I know this Albert Chegwidden?" Cordelia asked. "Will he wear a ring also?"
"No," Braxton shook his head. "He has been in the frontier, fighting. A ring is not the best idea for him. But he will be easy to recognize. He is tall and bald. He has dark, penetrating eyes. You will know him when you see him."
"What else do I need to know?" Cordelia waited for Braxton to continue.
"You know the secret compartment in my desk?" Braxton said. Cordelia nodded and waited for him to speak again. "There are two bottles of ink. One reads 'oe F' and the other reads 'oe A.' These are the inks you must use to write any letters to the third man, the one who will send you messages through the blacksmith. First you must write a regular letter, filling the page. Then use this ink to write in-between the lines. Seal them with wax using the ring. You must let him know when you have met with Chegwidden. He will give you the date when it will be safe for Chegwidden and his men to return to the west with the guns."
"How do I take the guns to Philadelphia?" Cordelia asked.
Braxton was amazed at the strength in Cordelia's voice. She had accepted all that she had been told, and, ever practical, was planning ahead. "The wagon. You helped build it. You know how to work the false bottom and you know the second compartment under the footrest. Bring the guns back here. Chegwidden will distribute them so that even if part of the shipment is discovered and taken, at least some of the guns will make it west."
"I must get you to bed, Braxton. The rest will help you. You will live, I know it," Cordelia whispered. "Let me help you up the stairs."
"No. I will stay here. It will be easier." Braxton gasped in pain as he moved to touch Cordelia's face. "I am dying. It will be easier to take me out of the house from here in the kitchen than from upstairs in the bedroom. Deadweight is a heavy weight. I am afraid you will not be able to carry me by yourself, not all the way from upstairs. Just sit with me. Wait with me." He leaned against her, his breathing irregular. Finally, he seemed to relax. Cordelia held him, leaning back in the chair as she fell asleep.
Cordelia awoke as the sun's rays passed through the window, stroking her with golden fingers of warmth. She ran her hands through Braxton's hair and shrieked as she touched his forehead. "Braxton!" she screamed, shaking his body. But he was stiff and cold. In the light of the day, she could see the blood on his clothes, on her dress, on the floor of the kitchen. His lifeless eyes stared at her.
"Damn them. Damn them, every last one of them," Cordelia screamed. She reached out, brushing her fingers over Braxton's eyelids, closing his eyes. Ever practical, she began to list what needed to be done. «I must dig a grave. I must make a casket. I need to move him to the grave. How am I going to manage this?» She walked slowly to the barn. «I'll take one thing at a time and do the best I can. Something will come to me.» She found the shovel and walked in a daze to the graveyard behind the house. She looked at the small grave, so new in the earth, and began to dig beside it.
The digging had been therapeutic. So had making the simple coffin. Using her hands seemed to calm her. But burying Braxton nearly killed her. Not physically, Cordelia was strong. But emotionally. So much had happened, so many changes, so fast. She came back inside and scrubbed the floor of the kitchen with a strong lye soap to remove the blood. Then she walked through the house, staring numbly at the debris left behind by the British soldiers. Her efforts had taken the whole day. She was tired to the bone.
"I believe I will make a visit to Mr. Roberts, the blacksmith. Mercury is in need of some new shoes. I will leave in the morning," Cordelia muttered under her breath. "But now I must bathe and change out of this dress. I think I shall burn it when I return."
Cordelia brought two buckets of water from the well, carried them upstairs and poured one into a basin. She stripped, and using a clean cloth, began to bathe, wiping the blood and grime from her skin. The water turned pink as she dipped the rag into it, then began to take on a grey color. She carried it to the window and poured it out, then rinsed the basin, pouring that water out as well before filling it again. With a new rag, she pressed the cool water against her skin.
Finishing her bath, Cordelia poured that water out as well. She dressed in a simple nightdress and lay on the bed. She stared at the ring on her forefinger. «Braxton told me about this. He called it the Liberty Tree. A sign of the patriots. I must be careful. Someone saw it, recognized the sign and killed him. If I am to complete his work, no one must know what I am doing.» She rose from the bed and removed her Bible from her chest of drawers. She opened it, thumbing carefully through the pages. She found the necklace, a small gold chain with a cross that had been her mother's. Her father had taken it off her mother just before she was buried. Cordelia kept it there in her Bible. She opened the clasp and slipped the ring onto the chain, then fastened the pendant around her neck. Then she returned to the bed, resting on top of the blankets in the heat. She was certain she could not sleep, but her weariness overcame her and she sank into oblivion.
The midmorning's clear sky made the ride to Philadelphia easy, but the sweltering heat overtook Cordelia as the sun rose high. «I'd forgotten how long it takes to ride into Philadelphia.» Cordelia rarely made the trip, having relied on Braxton to secure anything she needed or wanted from town. «I suppose I must grow accustomed to it. I'll be travelling this way at least every fortnight.» She let the horse have his lead and prepared planned out her schedule. «I do not need to seek Chegwidden yet, but I can find the inn. I should also stop by the church and introduce myself to Reverend Turner before I visit the blacksmith.» "Are you ready for new shoes, Mercury?" The horse's ears pricked as he recognized his name.
Cordelia began to see signs that she was nearing the town. Farmhouses were closer together and she passed a small country church. Cordelia took a deep breath and prepared to meet Sturgis Turner. She tucked a tendril of hair up under her bonnet. «I can try not to look completely disheveled when I arrive.» She slid off the horse and tied him to a low branch before cautiously entering the building.
Inside, the church was quite simple. The windows were high, allowing light to enter from above, but making it impossible to view anything happening outside. Plain wooden pews lined either side of a central aisle. The pulpit stood on a platform a little higher than the floor of the church. It reflected the simplicity found elsewhere in the building. Her footsteps echoed on the slate floor. Cordelia felt strangely secure.
"Can I be of service, ma'am?" called a voice. It belonged to man standing in the doorway at the other end of the church. "Reverend Sturgis Turner." The man nodded his head a walked toward her.
"Reverend Turner?" Cordelia seemed surprised.
The man smiled. "The Methodists need ministers here in the new world. It's a growing church. In the west, large areas are shepherded by circuit riders who have no permanent church home. Instead, they travel continuously, much like Jesus and his disciples. I'm lucky to actually be assigned to a church. Here in Pennsylvania, my skin color is not an issue. There are places where a Negro circuit rider might be in danger. The Methodists are rather freethinking. They even have ministers who are ladies, although they usually don't take to the circuit, either."
"I'm sorry, Reverend Turner. I didn't mean to be rude," Cordelia said quietly.
"No offense taken. People are often surprised when they learn that I am a minister," Turner paused. "So tell me, ma'am, what brings you to my church?"
"I am Cordelia Wallace. My husband was Braxton Wallace. He told me to meet someone here; that you would know when his... friend arrived. Can you help?" Cordelia asked.
The minister stood calmly, eyeing her. He sighed and spoke, "Your husband was Braxton Wallace? I spoke to him day before yesterday. Pray tell, why do you say 'was?' Surely, even if he has fallen ill, he has not passed so quickly."
Cordelia swallowed and blinked away the tears. "He did not fall ill. He was shot on his way home from Philadelphia."
"Shot? Surely not?" It was Turner's turn to be surprised. "He has some equipment in storage for some friends. I can send someone to get it."
With a laugh, Cordelia said, "Are you talking about the guns? They are perfectly safe. I am here to learn when the Spaniard will arrive with the next shipment. Braxton may be gone, but he made sure his work would be finished. Leave the guns where they are, sir. The redcoats failed to discover them when lived in our home, there is no place safer. I know what to do, Braxton told me everything before he died. I will look for his contact in November."
Turner looked at her with renewed interest. "But you are a lady, how can you do this?"
"You yourself pointed out that your church has ladies who are ministers. America is my country, too. Should I not stand up as a patriot?" Cordelia challenged him.
"It is dangerous to be a patriot these days," Turner said.
"My husband held me in high enough esteem to share his confidences with me. He had faith in me and you must needs accept his wishes. I have the guns. I will see that they arrive where they are needed." Cordelia placed her hands on her hips defiantly. "Now, tell me, Reverend Turner, when does the Spaniard arrive with the next shipment?"
"He should be here tomorrow, Mrs. Wallace. If all goes as planned, he should be here tomorrow," Turner shook his head as he spoke.
Cordelia stuck out her chin, "Then, sir, I shall return tomorrow." She held out her hand, and Turner, surprised, shook it. Cordelia smiled. "It was very nice to meet you, Reverend Turner. Until tomorrow, then." She nodded and walked slowly out of the church.
«Now to get a message to the blacksmith.» Cordelia thought as she pulled a letter from her pocket. It was nonsense, really. She had written it early that morning, a tedious epistle detailing the loss of inventory from their farm in a very businesslike manner. She had used the special ink write between the lines an account of her husband's death and her intention to finish his business. «Braxton said he thought this contact was masquerading as a Tory. If this letter were found, it would merely seem as if I had fallen upon bad circumstances and asked for help. I need let him know the next shipment should arrive tomorrow.» She pulled a bottle of ink and a quill from the saddlebag, then took the letter out, slipping it from the envelope. She added the information quickly, bracing the paper against the saddle as she wrote. "Shhhhh, Mercury. Be still," she whispered to the horse to keep him still. She blew on the paper and when it had dried, slipped it back in the envelope and placed the letter, the ink and the quill in the saddlebag.
Climbing back onto the horse, Cordelia headed to the blacksmith's forge. She saw the smoke billowing into the sky long before she saw barn or the house. «It must be terribly hot, that fire in this heat.» The dirt road split in two, one fork leading to the house, the other to the barn where the forge was lit.
The blacksmith saw Cordelia's approach and nodded. "Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked.
"You are Mr. Roberts, are you not?" Cordelia spoke carefully; watching as the man poured the molten metal into the mold, then closed the tongs and dipped the mold into a bucket of water. The steam filled the air making the blacksmith seem almost like a ghostly apparition, even the broad daylight.
"I am Bud Roberts, ma'am. And you would be?" he smiled expectantly.
"I am Cordelia Wallace. Braxton Wallace was my husband," Cordelia waited for his response.
The man seemed quite taken aback. "I saw him," the blacksmith paused, backtracking in his imagination, "I saw him just two days ago. He was fine."
"He was shot as he returned to Glascow. He died early yesterday morning. But before he died, he gave me some information." Cordelia paused. "Perhaps you should look at Mercury's foot. One of his shoes seems to have become loose."
Roberts nodded and followed her to the horse. He patted the animal and began to check each hoof, tapping gently to make sure each iron crescent was fitted tightly. Cordelia continued, "He told me about his business. I have a letter for you to pass on. Braxton told me how to finish his... project."
Roberts stared at her. «I would never let my wife...» He interrupted his own thoughts, "You are picking up the guns? From the Spaniard? That could be dangerous, ma'am."
"Why does everyone seem so shocked? My husband had confidence in my abilities to carry out his work. He would never ask me to something that he felt I was incapable of doing. I will meet with the Spaniard and pick up this shipment and any more shipments that arrive," Cordelia's cheeks flushed and her tone made it clear that there was no arguing. She slipped her hand into the saddlebag and handed the blacksmith the envelope and some money. "Pass this on as soon as possible to your other contact. I will return tomorrow after I have the guns to see if he has any word for me. I will bring a horse that needs to be shod. Good day, sir."
"I'll see you tomorrow, then, ma'am. I'll be expecting you," the blacksmith nodded.
Cordelia stepped into the stirrup and lifted herself up onto the horse. «Damned side-saddle. I wish I could ride out of here properly.» She trotted down the lane, hoping to make Glascow before the sun set. She was tired, dirty and thirsty and knew that tomorrow promised more of the same.
Cordelia arrived at the church early the next day. She brought the wagon loaded with hay and ridden Philadelphia first to purchase some chickens and some additional supplies. She needed them; the redcoats had either eaten or taken everything edible at the farm. «At least if the servants come back, I can feed them. And perhaps as this war moves on, there may be others who need refuge.» The door of the church opened and Turner stood in front of the church. The chickens were noisy and she couldn't hear what the minister said. He pointed behind the church, and she reigned the horses, causing them to turn, leading the wagon down a low grade to the back of the building.
A wide creek ran behind the church. It was nearly hidden by a grove of trees and brush, and there in the water Cordelia could see a small boat filled with wooden boxes. A man sat on top of them, his gun aimed in her direction. He cocked his head when he saw Cordelia. "Who are you, senora? I expected to meet a friend, not a woman." He did not lower his gun.
"I am Cordelia Wallace. The man you expected to meet was my husband. He was shot earlier this week, when he came into town to check on your arrival," Cordelia explained as she climbed from the wagon and approached him. "I have your money."
"How do I know you were not sent by the British?" the man asked suspiciously.
Cordelia lifted the chain she wore around her neck. "My husband wore this ring; do you recognize it?"
The Spaniard nodded and sighed with relief, finally lowering his gun. "I have never sold guns to a woman before, senora. It is a strange thing for me. I am Victor Galindez." He bowed slightly after he finished speaking.
"I wish to see what I'm buying. Can you show me that box there?" Cordelia pointed to one of the boxes.
Galindez chuckled as he reached for the box and began to pry it open. Without speaking, he handed her a gun. Cordelia took it from him and began to inspect it. Galindez watched. It was clear from the way this woman handled the gun that she was no stranger to weapons. "You know guns, senora?" he asked, trying to hide his shock.
"I know enough about guns," Cordelia replied abruptly. She saw the Spaniard's surprise. "I live on a rather rural farm, Mr. Galindez. My husband couldn't stand guard beside me every minute of every day, and neither could my father. I can use a gun. I can clean it, load it, I can even shoot dinner with it. And after this past month, I would have no qualms about shooting a man, at least, not as long as that man is a redcoat."
«A strong woman. I believe she would shoot a redcoat if she had the chance.» Galindez nodded as she handed him the gun.
"These are fine weapons." Cordelia handed Galindez the musket. The man began to load the heavy boxes on the wagon. "Is there no one to help you?" Cordelia asked.
"You are not the only one who has suffered a loss at the hands of the British. As we came up the river, before we turned off onto the creek, my friend was shot and killed. I am late because I stopped to care for his wound, then again to bury him," the Spaniard said quietly. Cordelia started to lift one end of the box he carried, but Turner brushed past her.
"Let me help," the minister said as he reached for the crate. The two men loaded the boxes, hiding them in the secret compartments underneath the chickens and in the footrest.
When they finished, Cordelia handed a small bag to Galindez. "Here is your money. It's all there, but feel free to count it."
Galindez smiled. "Senor Wallace has always been fair and honest with me. I have no fear that the amount is wrong. Do you want the additional shipments, senora? Or shall this be the last?"
Cordelia thought for a moment, then spoke gravely, "I want every shipment, every gun he ordered. When will I next see you?"
"It will be at least a month, senora. But I will return as quickly as possible. But I will send a message ahead to Reverend Turner so that you know when to expect me. Until we meet again," Galindez bowed low this time, then stepped into his boat. Cordelia nodded as the boat disappeared down the creek.
Finally, Turner spoke, "Will you return to Glascow now?"
"I need to stop by the blacksmith's house first. Then straight back to the farm by the fastest route," Cordelia said.
"Do you have someone to help you unload the weapons when you reach your home?" Turner asked.
Cordelia held his gaze. "There is no one else on my farm save a few horses, cats and dogs. But I can store the guns. Only a few at a time will fit through the entrance to the storage space. When it is dark and safe, I will transfer them from the wagon, a few each night. The wagon is well constructed and rarely used. The British raided my farm some time ago and I feel certain they have no desire to return soon since they took anything of value they could find with them. The only reason we have horses is that Braxton set them free into the woods when he saw the British arriving. All but one came back."
"If you don't mind my asking, what will you do after the war is over?" Turner asked thoughtfully.
"I have no idea, Reverend Turner. A week ago I would have said my life would be much the same. Now I can barely imagine tomorrow," Cordelia sighed and glanced down uncomfortably. "I should go to the blacksmith's now. I want to make it home before dark." Cordelia climbed onto the wagon and tugged at the reigns. The horses pulled the wagon into a sharp turn and began to climb the hill toward the front of the church. Turner watched as they disappeared on the other side of the building.
From the porch of their small house, Harriet Roberts watched her husband at the forge. «He works so hard to take care of us. I know the only reason he hasn't been more open with his patriotism is because he's worried what will happen to his family. I believe he sometimes envies Mikey being free to join the Colonial Army.»
Smoke billowed around the blacksmith. It mixed with steam whenever the molten metal touched the water. Bud Roberts continued working, oblivious to his wife's gaze.
«I wish there was something I could do to help the patriots. At least I can help Buddy.» Harriet placed the baby in a cradle, then stepped away from the porch to the covered well. She pulled up a bucket of water, then removed the drinking ladle from the nail on a nearby post. Filling it with water, she carried it carefully across the yard to her husband. "Here, Bud. You look so hot. This will cool you a bit."
Bud paused for a moment and drank deeply, letting the cool water soothe his dry throat. "Thank you, Harriet." Bud smiled appreciatively at his wife. «Every time I start wishing I could do more for the cause, I see her and know how lucky I am. My family is why American independence is so important.» He handed the empty ladle to Harriet. Neither of them noticed the approaching wagon until it was beside them.
"Good day, Mr. Roberts. Could this lovely lady be your wife?" Cordelia smiled. She had no idea whether or not the blacksmith's wife knew of the Sons of Liberty or about his secret activities for the colonial cause.
"She is indeed." Bud introduced them, "Harriet, this is Cordelia Wallace, Braxton's wife." Turning to Cordelia he said, "Mrs. Wallace, this is Harriet Roberts." The two women nodded.
Harriet smiled at the woman. «She looks tired.» Bud had told her that Braxton Wallace had been shot. Harriet suspected it had to do with his work for the Sons of Liberty. Bud had been open with her about his membership in the group, although he had always been circumspect about exactly what services he provided. From time to time, strange people visited their forge, and even people of great importance sometimes stopped to have their horses shod by her unassuming husband. She believed that Bud probably relayed messages from one person to another. «She was here yesterday, so she must be expecting news of some kind. I'll let them be.» Harriet spoke to her husband, "I'll let you get back to work." Then she returned to the shade of the porch.
"I need to arrange to bring in some horses to be reshod. It should be a fortnight before I can bring them in. I shall probably have a horse or two to be reshod every fortnight for the next two or three months." Cordelia said. "Will that work into your schedule?"
"Of course. Let's check my ledger to see exactly what style shoe Braxton preferred on his horses. Follow me," Bud made a motion and Cordelia slid from the wagon to walk behind him into a small work shed.
Once inside, Bud whispered, "I have a letter for you. You can activate the ink with this candle, then I will burn it in fire at the forge."
Cordelia took the envelope. Breaking the seal, she removed the letter and held it over the flame of the candle. She read the words in disbelief as the words between the lines of writing began to appear. «Do not go home tonight. British soldiers are alerted to something in the area and they are searching travellers. If they stop you, they will find the guns. You must wait at least three days in town." Cordelia sighed, then caught the corner of the paper on fire, burning most of the message before she blew it out.
"Thank you, Mr. Roberts. I should go now." Cordelia left the corner of the letter with him, confident he had not seen the words. «Wait three days in town!» Cordelia thought as she exited the shed, crossed the forge and climbed into her wagon. «I shall not do any such thing. Who is this person to tell me to wait? How does he know what the British are doing? There was no one checking anything when I came into town.» She set off down the road.
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Cordelia let the horses have their lead on the road home. She knew that they were used to the journey and it gave her time to rest a bit. It would be dark by the time she arrived at home, but she would be in a safe enough area before dusk. She looked at the trees beside the road. They showed signs of dryness. The summer's heat made them seem smaller. Dust rose from the road as well. She was thirsty and there was not much water in her jug. «Better to wait until later tonight.» The chickens clucked restlessly in the wagon. «It will be good to have eggs again.»
The horses stopped abruptly and she looked to find out why. There were eight redcoats on the road before her, barring the way. She held her face expressionless. «Damn them. The message was right after all.» "May I go through? I have a ways to travel tonight and chickens to settle in when I arrive at home."
The British soldiers laughed. "We can solve that problem for you. Jameson, get over here and relieve this lady of her troublesome chickens," one of them, clearly an officer, said. A younger soldier moved around to the back of the wagon and lifted the cages, one by one, until all of the chickens had been removed from the wagons. The officer watched, then turned to Cordelia, "It has been some time since we had such a good supper as chicken and dumplings. Now, on to other matters." He glanced over his men, then said, "Check the wagon."
One of the men wrinkled his nose at the straw that Cordelia had placed on the wagon bed under the chicken cages. "Captain, sir, it's full of chicken shit."
"I ordered you to check the wagon. Do it," the officer barked.
"What exactly are you looking for?" Cordelia asked. «It seems the natural thing to do.»
The Captain eyed her carefully. "We know there is a spy ring operating in these parts. We suspect that they are storing contraband for the patriots' cause. We fully intend to put a stop to it. We'll also put that contraband to good use."
"All I have is chickens. All I had," Cordelia corrected herself, giving the Captain an evil glance. «I pray the compartments are well hidden.»
In the wagon bed, the soldiers checked the soiled straw gingerly. It stank. They were eager to leave the wagon and check underneath it. Cordelia wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but she held back, not wanting to draw attention. She knew that they would find nothing on the underside of the wagon.
"Nothing here," one of the men said.
"Nothing but chicken shit," another muttered.
The Captain smiled formally at Cordelia. "You may leave. Thank you kindly for the chickens. They will make a fine dinner for the troops." The British soldiers moved out of the way and Cordelia lifted the reigns, urging the horses on.
«Damn British!» Cordelia felt the color rise in her cheeks. «That's the second flock of hens they've taken from me.» She thought angrily as the horses made their way down the road.