Ashes (21 page)

Worst of all, I had betrayed Ruth.

The cannons boomed again. If I didn't do something, then our fate would be in the hands of others.

“I was wrong.” I took a deep breath. “You were right. These woods have ghosts, so we won't stay here. We leave now, this very moment.”

Ruth paused.

“'Way from ghosts?” she finally asked.

“Away from the ghosts, I swear. Take my hand, please.”

  *  *  *  

We walked directly toward the sound of battle until the trees thinned into brush and scraggly bushes. In the distance to our left, where Yorktown lay, came red flashes of the cannons. In the silence between the blasts we could hear faint voices far to our right when the wind blew from that direction. I couldn't tell if they spoke French or English. Were we to continue straight ahead, I reckoned that we'd wind up right in the middle of the field of battle.

“Is this far enough?” I asked.

Ruth walked in a slow circle, looking low and high, pausing a few times to close her eyes for reasons I did not understand. She walked to a place ten paces to the front of me and dropped her haversack. She untied her blanket, spread it on the ground, and sat, her back to me.

She looked at me over her shoulder and said, “No ghosts.”

The wind danced in the trees and brought the smells of cook fires with it. The smell of smoke brought to mind the gigantical fire that had burned through New York after Ruth was stolen. The flames had blown like the Devil's hurricane, hungry to destroy everything. Hundreds of houses burned that night, too many bodies to count. Ashes blew through the streets for months. There had been plenty of ashes at Valley Forge, too, graying the snow and sticking to the horrid firecake that the lads had to eat. The ashes in the blacksmith's forge had glowed as the man fashioned the iron collar that was locked round my neck for months. I still woke from nightmares clutching my throat, feeling it choke me again.

Those terrible days had convinced me that I understood sadness. I had been wrong.

Above us the stars watched without comment. Trees rustled behind us. Ghosts stirred too. Ahead of me Ruth's shadow rocked back and forth, her thumb in her mouth.

The state of my own soul flashed before me as bright as lightning. I'd seen so much evil, endured so much cruelty, that my heart was indeed hardening. I'd been impatient with Ruth. I'd disregarded her feelings. Instead of seeking to understand how the tumult of these months had appeared to her, I'd fussed, complained, and been concerned more for my sentiments than hers.

Burnt dreams seemed to fill my mouth and smother my heart. The dreams of having Ruth by my side, of a future with Curzon in a world without war, they had all gone up in flames, leaving only the bitter taste of sorrow.

Missus Serafina's caution to keep my heart gentle and love-filled whispered to me.

I walked to Ruth's blanket. I knelt in front of her and bowed my head.

“I must apologize to you,” I said. “I humbly beg your pardon for everything. I've been rough and mean and thoughtless.” I tried to control the shaking of my voice. “I should not have yelled or called you a bad name or, God save me, hit you. I am truly, deeply sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

A cannon fired and we both flinched.

“You sending me back to Prentiss?” Ruth finally asked.

“What?”

Ruth looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “You gonna send me 'way again?”

“Beg pardon?” I leaned closer, until I could see her face in the starlight. “I don't understand.”

She looked in the direction of the cannons.

“You sent me to Riverbend on account of my stupid. When I was little. Stupid makes you angry, it does.”

She could have been speaking in Dutch or Latin, for her words made no sense at all. How could she think that I had sent her to Riverbend? How could she think that I could have done such a horrible thing? It was unfathomable. But worse–she thought I'd done it on account of the way she was, her different manner of seeing things and understanding the world.

Ruth wasn't stupid or slow; she was just our Ruth, and I'd never thought otherwise. But she did not know that. She didn't know because I hadn't told her. All this time she had thought that I'd sent her away. All these months she'd been waiting for it to happen again. It explained everything.

“No!” I clutched her hands. “That witch Madam Lockton, she sent you away. Remember her? She took us to New York on a big ship. She kidnapped you, stole you from me!”

“She sent me to Missus Serafina and Mister Walter.”

“That was God's work, not Lockton's. Those kind people loved you and cared for you like one of their own. But I didn't want you to go, not ever. I wasn't angry. I could never be angry like that with you! Ruth, sweet girl, I fought to get you back. I broke all the rules, I made new rules for myself. I did everything–everything–I could to find you, to take care of you. I love you. I love you more than life. You're my sister. . . .”

The words stopped. Tears started and my world fell away.

And then Ruth leaned forward. She cupped her hands around my face. “Not angry at my stupid?”

I swallowed hard. “No, poppet. Never. You're perfect.”

She traced my scar with her thumb. “Curzon said she burned your face.”

“She did,” I said. “But that didn't stop me.”

A quiet moment passed. Owls called to one another in the woods.

“Curzon said you walked and walked and walked to find me.”

“I walked and walked and walked to find you.”

“You and Curzon.”

“Indeed, me and Curzon.”

Another long pause. Two cannon shots boomed, one after the other. When the last echoes died away, the owls hooted again. Bats swooped overhead.

She sat back, wrapped her arms around herself, and rocked back and forth, faster than before.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Are you crying?” I asked, my own voice breaking. “Please! Did I say something wrong again? I'm so sorry, Ruth, I'll never run out of sorry.”

She stilled herself, bit her lip. Finally she took a deep breath and asked in a small, uncertain voice, “You gonna leave me again?”

It seemed as if a bolt of lightning had illuminated the truth. Ruth thought that I'd sent her away all those years ago, and she thought that I'd taken her away from Serafina and Walter and that I could abandon her at any moment. She had been carrying more fear in her heart than I could even imagine. So much fear that it threatened to drown me.

“Oh, no!” I cried. “Never, never, never! I will never stop loving you, I will never stop being your sister! We will never, ever be parted again, I swear to you!”

And then my arms went around her, and her arms held me so close that the beat of her heart fell into rhythm with mine, and we cried until we ran out of tears.

  *  *  *  

Later, after I'd fetched my blanket to cover us and we'd curled around each other like two spoons, the way we used to, she asked me to tell her the stories.

“What stories?”

“Stories you told when my foot was sick. 'Bout Momma and the garden.”

“You were listening?”

“You my sister, Isabel.” She patted my hand. “I always listen to you.”

T
HIS SIEGE WILL BE A VERY ANXIOUS BUSINESS.

–M
AJOR
J
AMES
M
C
H
ENRY WRITING TO
M
ARYLAND GOVERNOR
T
HOMAS
S
IM
L
EE FROM THE
Y
ORKTOWN ENCAMPMENT
, O
CTOBER 6, 1781

M
OMMA USED TO SAY THAT
all things were possible in the new of the morning. Never had I understood that sentiment so well. I awoke when the birds started singing, and lay content snuggled next to Ruth. By the time her eyes fluttered open, I had developed a plan. We had an old friend in this camp, and I was certain he would try his best to help us. But first I had to listen to Ruth's dream, which was filled with butterflies that drank cinnamon nectar from flowers as big as butter casks.

We moved south at first light, walking just inside the tree line until we found a stream that was sheltered enough to offer us privacy. We drank until our teeth chattered with cold and our bellies swelled round with water, then we washed off the stink of death and sweat. Once dried, we changed into the shifts that I had liberated from the laundry, part of our recompense for the weeks of work without pay.

Ruth sighed with contentment as she pulled on the fresh-washed linen over her head and arms.

“Clean clothes are a wonder,” I said.

Her grin made my spirit sing. The heart-mending we'd done in the night seemed to be just as strong in the light of day.

I explained to her that we had to find work and food and a better place to sleep than an open field. Once all of that had been accomplished, we'd figure out where Aberdeen was hiding himself. She nodded gravely. In truth, we had little hope of finding him. He was either dead, captive, or running, but I couldn't tell her that until our circumstances were more secure.

We made our way south, toward the sound of men chopping trees. The voices of French soldiers cheered in high excitement with each falling giant, and the air was rich with the smell of wood chips and pine sap. Before we approached close enough to be seen, we filled our arms with kindling wood. This was to be our disguise; we'd pose as camp followers tasked with collecting wood for the fires, an ordinary chore done by ordinary lasses. I prayed that this shield of deception would protect us long enough.

Few men noticed us as we skirted the edges of the tree-felling. We followed the ruts carved in the dirt by the horse teams dragging the tree trunks. These led directly to the edge of the encampment where the trunks were stacked, waiting for the sawyers to plank, chop, carve, and whittle the wood into whatever things the army needed.

Ruth paused to greet a team of horses. After she'd conversated with them a bit, we went back to walking.

“Walk with purpose,” I reminded her. “Chin up. Purpose and confidence.”

“What's purpose?” she asked.

That required a moment of pondering. “To walk with purpose means that you know what your aim is, and you mean to follow after it.”

“What's our aim?”

Before I could answer, a small French soldier doffed his hat and called, “
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Ruth!” as he scurried past us, a large sack over his shoulder.

“Bow-zhoor!” Ruth shouted after him.

The sound of Frenchified speech in my sister's mouth shocked me. The fellow nodded with delight, plopped his hat back on his head, and hurried on.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

“Bow-zhoor,” Ruth repeated. “They say it all the day long.”

“But that fellow, he knew your name.”

“He took the shirts.”

“When you delivered the laundry?”

She nodded, looking rather pleased with herself. “Aberdeen, he talked with everyone. We gonna see him soon?”

I hesitated, then found a way to answer without lying. “I truly hope we will see him soon.”

“'Tis a purpose,” Ruth said. “Seeing Aberdeen.”

“A good purpose,” I said quietly.

  *  *  *  

There were women working among the French, but none sought out my eyes to offer silent advice or warning. We could not take a chance on the French, no matter how courtly they might act to my pretty sister. With us not speaking their language, they could openly discuss doing us harm and we would be none the wiser.

British cannons continued to fire as we trekked through the growing tent city. I caught sight of Yorktown when we topped a hill: a collection of houses that lay a scant mile distant, its back to a wide river. The placement of this rebel camp seemed mostly beyond cannon range, but we watched horror-struck as a screaming soldier–one leg ending in a blood-spurting mess at the place where his foot ought be–was rushed by, carried by anxious-looking companions.

Ruth turned to me, her eyes wide.

“'Tis also our purpose to avoid cannonballs,” I assured her.

The encampment was much vaster than I had imagined, mayhaps two or three times winter camp at Valley Forge. Supply wagons were still arriving on the Williamsburg road. We walked on, staying at the edges of the stream of soldiery that created its own currents of movement across the boot-trampled greenery. After passing rows and rows of French soldiers busy raising tents and digging privy trenches, I turned us south again, angling eastward toward the rear of the encampment.

My notion of walking with confidence and purpose faltered as the day grew hotter. We hadn't eaten a bite in a day and a half. The kindling grew heavier and heavier. Sweat was rolling down my neck by the time we reached a noisome, broad plain where the tents the size of small houses were being raised.