Ashes

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

–Declaration of Independence

This book is dedicated to the fulfillment of that promise.

I
N SHORT, MONARCHY AND SUCCESSION HAVE LAID . . . THE WORLD IN BLOOD AND ASHES.
'T
IS A FORM OF GOVERNMENT WHICH THE WORD OF
G
OD BEARS TESTIMONY AGAINST, AND BLOOD WILL ATTEND IT.

–T
HOMAS
P
AINE
,
C
OMMON
S
ENSE

V
EXATION, BOTHER, AND BLAST,” I
muttered, trying to blink away the sweat that stung my eyes.

Curzon dug his elbow sharply into my side, scowling, then tapped his finger on his lips. He wanted me to be silent as the grave, even though the British patrol we were hiding from was much too far away to hear us.

“A little closer,” I whispered low, “maybe I could read it then.”

“Any closer and you'll be gutted by bayonets.” He turned his head so his lips touched my ear. “Patience.”

That foul word again.
“Pox on your patience.”

I shifted my gaze to the lobsterbacks gathered at the edge of the woods. If they weren't a patrol, then they were a foraging party sent to plunder farms. Whatever their purpose, they looked about to expire of the heat. The cool shade of the enormous live oak had so delighted them that they'd quickly stripped off their sweat-soaked coats and waistcoats and hung them from branches to dry. Two had even removed their shirts and rinsed them in the stream, showing a shock of white skin paler than any ghost would ever dream of being. 'Twas a frightful sight, but their desire to cool themselves had allowed Curzon and me to crawl safely to a hollow that was sheltered by tall ferns and overhanging magnolia and bayberry branches.

We'd had several encounters with patrolling soldiers in the previous weeks. Our course of action had always been to retreat slow and careful, and then circle wide to avoid them. This time we could not. A milestone stood at the crossroads a few paces from their fire. Hidden under their collection of bloodred coats and dingy haversacks was the carving of letters and numbers that showed travelers the direction and distance to Charleston, South Carolina.

After walking more than a thousand miles, after months spent laboring first in Lancaster, then Baltimore, then Richmond, and at whatever mountain farm would have us . . . After having been cheated, lied to, near captured twice . . . After months lost in worry, waiting to see if Curzon would recover from the wounds inflicted by a falling hemlock, then another half a year wasted as I fought an intermittent fever that gripped my lungs so tight I could barely walk . . . After dodging two armies, wild packs of banditti, and armed Loyalists deep in liquor . . . After sleepless nights haunted by ghosts and endless days of empty bellies . . . After all that, I was close to finding my baby sister, Ruth.

The thought of it made my heart pound.

All I needed was the information on that milestone.

We stayed hidden under the ferns in the hollow so long that the sun swung from the east to the west, and the damp ground soaked through both my skirt and the shift under it. The smell of the rabbits roasting over the British cook fire pained me. We'd eaten our last meal–a small, hideous fish boiled with bitter greens plucked from the edges of the swamp–more than a day and night previous. We were out of salt and hadn't tasted bread nor porridge for weeks.

A mosquito bit my neck. I pinched it dead between my fingertips. In our years of journeying I'd grown accustomed to being bone tired, starving, and filthy, but I could not abide the bloodsucking demons.

“I'm going to move a wee bit closer,” I said.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Too dangerous,” Curzon said.

I killed another mosquito. “Not knowing where we are is the real danger. What if they decide to camp here for the night?”

A broad-shouldered, pink-faced soldier placed his damp coat at the end of a long stick, which he held above the fire in an attempt to dry it. Not a moment later the stick broke, the coat fell onto the rabbits roasting on the spit, and the whole lot tumbled into the flames. The soldiers roared with laughter, save the one who owned the coat. He snatched it out and stomped on the smoldering cloth, cursing vile and loud, while his companions rescued their supper.

“They're barely keeping watch.” I pointed to a fallen tree trunk halfway between our position and the road. 'Twas alarmingly close, true, but several young pines sheltered it from view, the tips of their branches touching the ground like a drapery. “If I hide behind that log, I'll hear every word they say.”

“The sun has fried your wits.” Curzon used his sleeve to wipe away the sweat trickling down my cheek, the scarred one. The unexpected kindness of his gesture startled me.

As we lay silent, my tired mind drifted into the past, to the day I'd first met Curzon back in '76. I'd been a terrified maid of twelve, still in shock from the circumstances that had landed Ruth and me in New York. He'd been a cheerful lad, two years older than me and foolish enough to be eager for war.

Thunder rumbled again and a cool breeze stirred the moss that hung from the branches above.

I snuck a look at Curzon. He now stood a head taller than me and had the forged-steel strength of a man. He was still capable of mischief on occasion, but his smile was rare. He'd long ago traded the red hat he affected for a dark blue cap that did not draw attention. Likewise, the piratical earring he used to wear was now hidden in the lining of his filthy jacket.

There was no way of figgering what he saw when he looked at me, for he'd grown skilled at hiding the truth from his eyes. Time and hard travel had much changed us both.

Our friendship lay in ashes, another victim of the unending War of Independence. Months earlier we'd argued terribly, as fierce as two armies, when he declared that he needed to enlist again with the Patriots. We'd called each other ugly names and exchanged cruel words that cut deep. By the end of the battle he'd agreed to stay with me only until we found Ruth, but the damage was done.

The thunder rumbled again, dragging me from my remembering.

“I'll backtrack,” Curzon whispered, “circle around and come down the road from the north, act as if I'm fleeing a rebel master. I'll ask for their protection.”

I snorted. “So they can drag you to Charleston and put you to work with a shovel?”

“I'll invent a tale of some Continentals I saw up the road. That will shift them away from here.”

“Blast your eyes!” I muttered. “You just want to play soldier.”

“Play? I'll gather information and . . .” Curzon broke off speaking. His gaze shifted left, tracking a group of swallows as they flew betwixt the trees. Something shuffled in the distance behind us.

“Did you hear that?”

“A squirrel,” I said. “Nothing more.”

He rolled onto his back and lifted his head so he could better study the heavily wooded forest behind us. Our recent time lost in the swampy wilderness had revealed Curzon to be mortally afraid of alligators. In truth, I suspected half of his excuses for dawdling in the last few days were due to his unnatural fixation on the beasts.

'Twas not charitable to prey on his fears, but I knew my plan was the wiser one. I gave a start, as if I'd heard something else. “Over there!”

“What?” He tensed. “Where?”

“I heard something.”

“You said 'twas a squirrel.”

“Nay, this was a different sound, low and slithersome. As if a heavy tail was dragging through the brush.”

“A tail-slither sound?”

“A long and heavy tail.” I feigned deep concern. “Reminded me of that big fellow, the one we saw with the fawn in his jaws.”

He swallowed hard and squinted, trying to see the alligator that did not exist.

“Or it could be nothing,” I added. “The wind, mayhaps. I can go back and scout for it, if you'd like.”

“'Tis likely nothing.” He swallowed hard. “But I'll go.”

“You swear you won't circle round to meet the soldiers on the road?” I asked.

He nodded curtly. “I swear. But don't move from this spot.”

I waited until he'd slipped out of sight, then rose up on my elbows to study the soldier standing guard, musket resting on his crossed arms. When he turned away to say something to his companions, I crawled forward one pace, keeping low to the ground. I'd become rather clever at moving without attracting notice. Months of dirt had erased the colors of my clothes, so I blended into the landscape. My few belongings fit in a small haversack, and my hatchet was secured to the leather belt I'd fashioned from reins taken off the skeleton of a horse. I was as skilled at moving without being seen or heard as an army scout.

After another check of the guard I crept forward two more paces. Just then he stepped onto the road. I pressed myself against the dirt as he gave a quick glance north and south, then returned to the comfort of the shade.

I studied the ground ahead, eyes keen to spot poison ivy, which I never wanted to touch again. I crept ahead a third time, only to be stopped by another noise in the woods behind me, this time off to the left. I slowly turned my face in that direction. Shadows danced as the strange moss that hung from the trees swayed like tattered laundry in the breeze.

A branch snapped.

I flinched. Curzon was too wily to make any such noise this close to danger. The Carolina woods were filled with treacherous creatures: bear, wolf, and panther. Was one stalking me for its next meal?

I forced the thought aside and trained all of my senses on the enemy ahead. The minutes ripened slow and fat, caught in the sweltering heat. When the guard put down his musket and knelt to fiddle with his boot, I crawled four full paces, moving silent and steady, until I ducked under the low branches of the pines and reached the advantage of the log. I breathed slow as bits of the soldiers' conversation drifted over me: “bloody rebels,” “consarned heat,” and “affliction of my great toe on both feet.” Grumbling complaints were the common language of all armies.