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Go.
Hannah blinked, helpless against the crippling shackles of confusion and fear.
Go, now!
Compelled by a power not her own, Hannah gripped the horse’s mane and kicked her heels. Clutching her mount, she trained her focus on the black road. She must get to safety. But where? To whom could she turn? Who would know what to—
Clear as a summer sky, the answer scrolled across her mind as if written with a heavenly quill.
Militia camp. Nathaniel Smith.
Aye, Nathaniel. She leaned closer to the horse as his head bobbed, heedless of the biting, speed-induced wind that cut against her ears. It had been years since she’d seen him, but he would surely know what to do. His work with the Patriots’ cause was renowned.
Tears burned, spilling hot streaks against her freezing skin. She could not think of Ensign now. She must make the forty miles. And then…then she could weep for him. Then she could seek to avenge his bitter loss. For he, she vowed, would not have given his life for her in vain.
Chapter Four
“Aw, good fellows. Look who has finally cared to join us.”
Joseph pulled on the reins of his horse and dismounted, chuckling in reply to Nathaniel Smith’s jocular greeting. “I figured I ought to lend my services. Heaven knows you poor souls won’t be able to succeed without me.” He ignored Nathaniel’s outstretched hand, instead pulling him into a brotherly embrace. “Good to see you, old friend.”
Nathaniel patted him hard on the back before pulling away, his beaming grin and bright eyes preaching both strength and weariness. The collar of his jacket was pulled up, a thick scarf around his neck. “Our little band was not complete without you.” He motioned to a young boy who stood several paces back. “Jackson, walk my friend’s horse for him, will you?”
The boy rushed forward, taking the reins with a gleeful expression on his whiskerless face. “Aye, sir.”
Nathaniel turned to Joseph but motioned to camp. “You can see to your horse later. First, we must talk.”
From behind Nathaniel, Henry Donaldson broke from a group of somber troops and welcomed Joseph with a warm smile and firm clasp of hands.
“Welcome, Joseph.”
“Good to see you, Donaldson.” Joseph glanced past Henry’s broad shoulders to the sorry scattering of shelters, where the other volunteers huddled around pitiful fires or inside makeshift huts. “So this is our fearless army, eh?”
“Come,” Henry said, gesturing with a flick of his hand. “Allow us to give you a tour of our grand encampment.”
Joseph hurried after his horse to unlatch his small satchel from its spot on the saddle, then followed after them. He nodded briefly at a handful of men who eyed him, bobbing their heads as he passed, not a whisper of a smile on their worn faces. Joseph looked up, quickly scanning the other small groups scattered around the clearing. Were they all so gaunt? Washington’s petition for more volunteers had swept up and down the coast, and now Joseph could clearly see the need had not been exaggerated. Joseph eyed a weary pair whose matching red hair named them as father and son. Taking note of their threadbare coats and shoes that gaped at the sides, Joseph’s gut twisted. The boy could be no older than Jacob. Dear Lord. He stared overlong at the innocent expression on the lad’s face, praying once again that Jacob would feel God’s strength and peace. For once, the tragedy of Jacob’s accident seemed almost a mercy.
“Are all these men from Sandwich?” Joseph lengthened his stride to walk beside Nathaniel. “I thought I knew everyone from town, but it seems I give myself more credit than I deserve.”
“Nay, these groups are varied and scattered.” Henry answered first, nodding at a lone soldier as he passed. “But we tend to stay with your local militia as best we can.”
“Connecticut, Rhode Island, even Pennsylvania men, they’re all here, scattered along this line, awaiting the British to make their move. Or Washington—whoever acts first.” Nathaniel touched his hat as the three of them passed a shack constructed of canvas and old pieces of roof. The men inside lowered their chins, never moving their outstretched hands from the weak fire that waved only inches above the small circular pit.
A realization dawned, and Joseph scowled. “Where is Thomas?”
Nathaniel led Joseph to the largest tent at the edge of camp. Flapping back the door with a loud whack, he motioned for Joseph to enter. “He’s been appointed as Knox’s right hand. He’ll be here this evening.”
Joseph nodded, not in the least surprised that the humble, steadfast man had been chosen to help in such a capacity. Ducking to avoid the shallow opening, Joseph grinned in mock surprise. “These are your humble quarters then?”
Henry followed and stopped just inside when a man rushed up to them.
“Captain Donaldson.”
“Aye?” Henry looked from the man to Nathaniel, then back again. “What is it, Private?”
“A dispatch rider, sir. Says he must speak with the leader of these groups—that is you, isn’t it, sir?”
Henry nodded the affirmative and looked to Nathaniel. “I shall return.”
