The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (16 page)

Night fell quickly, bringing with it new activity. Soldiers called out sentry duties, or—quite unbelievably—protested said orders. If such flagrant disregard for authority was typical in the colonies, how did the Americans expect to win their war?

Captain Taylor came in carrying a lantern and flashed her a tired smile. “Good evening, my lady. I hope you have not been too bored in your captivity?” He set the lantern on the table.

“Oh, no, captain. There was plenty to keep me entertained.”

He grunted, and went to a narrow side table with a pitcher and basin. He grabbed the pitcher, then hesitated. “I apologize for my discourtesy, Lady Strathmore. Would you like to wash up?”

The dirt and sweat had crusted on her face. She was also in desperate need of a hairbrush, but that was possibly going a bit too far. “Yes, thank you, captain. I would like that.”

He called for another basin to be brought to his tent. He poured water in one and, when the other arrived, filled that up as well. Then Clara watched in utter shock as he stripped off his tunic and shirt and plunged his hands into the water. He proceeded to splash his face and upper body, wash with a well-used cake of brown soap, then splash some more.

“This is for you,” he said pointing to the other basin, his face and hair dripping wet. He grabbed a dingy towel and vigorously dried himself.

She could not take her eyes off him. Lamplight played off the contours of his muscled arms, his chiseled chest, his rippled abdomen, shadows made all the more prominent by the highlights of dampened skin. A trail of dark hair teased her as it disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. His body was perfection, like that of an ancient sculpture her brother once allowed her to see at a museum.

Confusion and anxiety dizzied her brain. A very attractive man was half-dressed before her, wanting her to join him in a rather intimate activity. She hadn’t really recovered from the heady experience of the cider. Was this how they planned to assault her? Get her drunk, then make her take off half her clothes under the pretense of bathing? Up until now the Americans had kept a respectful distance and she was beginning to trust them, to accept they were the ones Paul had said would offer her safe haven. Now, suddenly, she was not so sure.

She stood unmoving, staring at the captain. He put the towel down and regarded her quizzically. He spied the soap, picked it up, walked toward her, and held it out.

Clara jumped back. He was too close to her, much too close. She gaped at his nakedness in horror.

He returned her gaze, his forehead crinkling in puzzlement for only a moment before he colored from his hairline down as far as she felt comfortable looking. He sucked in his lips and calmly placed the soap on the side table, then slowly turned his back to her and shuffled into a clean linen shirt and deerskin tunic.

He said nothing as he strode out of the tent.

* * * * *

Sam found Pat waiting for him on the dark side of a tree trunk, out of earshot from his tent. “Christ, Pat, she’s really skittish.” He kicked the ground and raked his fingers though his still-damp hair.

“Of course she’s skittish. She’s being held prisoner.”

“Yeah, I know, but, well, I mean—” Sam stopped, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Look, you heard about those redcoats Andrew and Isaac found today—”

“Yeah? … Oh, God,” Pat groaned in realization, slumping against the brittle bark.

“Exactly! They assaulted her in some way, she didn’t specify how, possibly raped her. And then she somehow turned the tables and castrated them. God only knows what she did to her initial captor, the man her husband owed money to.”

“I’ll keep my ears open for any more reports of missing cocks, sir.”

Sam chuckled. Pat knew how to lighten his mood all too well. He looked out at the busy camp beyond. They were quite alone and tucked away from view.

He sighed. “It’s too bad she’s the enemy. We could use a woman like her.”

“Beautiful?” Pat goaded.

“Cheeky bastard.” Sam smacked him on the hip, letting his palm linger before sliding to cup a firm butt cheek. “No. A woman living by her wits in these troubled times, a woman willing to do whatever she needs to survive.” He squeezed.

Pat shucked him off. “You court danger, my captain.”

Sam slapped his hands against the trunk on either side of Pat’s head and leaned in. “I’m frustrated, lieutenant.”

“As are all of your men. You must embrace continence, and set the example.” Pat’s breath fanned hot against his lips.

“Damn this war.” Sam pulled back. He could really use a frig. “What are the sleeping arrangements?”

“Concerning Lady Strathmore? I wanted to ask you the same question.”

Sam groaned. “You’re right. She’s my responsibility.” He ran his fingers though his hair then drew them across his neck and along his jaw. His rather stubbly jaw. He smoothed his hand down the front of his buckskin tunic.

Bollocks.

He looked nothing like the officer he was supposed to be. Some of the privates looked more professional. No wonder Lady Strathmore had been slightly impertinent. She probably thought the discipline as lax as the captain’s state of dress. “She has to be watched, Pat. I want sentries posted on each side of my tent.”

“Then she is to sleep with you?” Pat’s tone dripped with insinuation.

“Not ‘sleep with’ me, you fool!” Sam hissed.

Patrick pursed his lips, trying very hard not to smile.

“Jesus, this is going to look bad, isn’t it?”

“Not with sentries on all sides of your tent, it’s not.”

“Good. Then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll need an extra cot.”

“That would be prudent.”

Sam glared at him.

“Sir,” Pat added, the edges of his mouth trembling upward. He called for one of the night watch sentries and requested he commandeer a cot from the medical tent.

“I should check on her,” Sam mused as they waited.

“As you wish, captain.” A tremor of mirth edged Pat’s voice.

“You find this far too amusing, lieutenant.”

A grin finally cracked across his face. “Sam,” he laughed, “you have an amazingly beautiful young woman—still in her lusty adolescence, mind you—in your tent at this very moment, and you are about to go to sleep. You, Samuel Taylor, who can out-perform any and all of Paul Bridgers’s whores, are planning to simply go to sleep. Alone.” Pat pressed forward until his nose tickled Sam’s cheek. “Of course I find this amusing. As much as you find it frustrating, my friend.”

“Perhaps if I were certain she was the maid and not the lady…”

Pat chuckled at his attempt at levity.

Sam sighed. “Look, we don’t know what she’s been through, but something happened. Like I said, she’s skittish.”

Pat’s fingers reached for his in the dark. “You’re a good man, Sam. You know I’m only teasing you.”

Sam squeezed Pat’s hand. “I know,” he said softly.

A woman’s yelp pierced the night.

“I see the cot has arrived. Duty calls, lieutenant.” Sam hastened to his tent.

Inside, Lady Strathmore sat fretfully at his desk staring wide-eyed at the two ensigns who carried the cot.

Sam pointed to the side opposite his own bed. “Please put it there.”

Lady Strathmore waited until the subalterns had departed before she spoke. “I won’t go to bed with you!”

Oh, Christ
. He shoved his fingers through his hair and gripped the strands as he drew in a breath. “Look, Lady Strathmore, you are to sleep over there.” He pointed to her side of the tent. “And I am to sleep over here. I have posted sentinels on all four sides and at the door should you get any ideas about escaping, or should I get any ideas about ravishing you. As I am positively exhausted, I plan to go to sleep. I suggest you do the same. We leave tomorrow very early in the morning for Fort Revolution.”

And with that, Sam stripped off his spatterdashes and shoes, blew out the candle in the lantern, and plopped down on his cot.

Alone.

Chapter Eleven

Fort Revolution was an entire day’s ride away, although it seemed longer as Captain Taylor’s mood was rather unpleasant and he took it out on everyone, angrily snapping orders to timorous soldiers. For Clara, it was a long ride spent on the hard wooden seat of a supply cart. According to Captain Taylor, however, she was lucky he didn’t make her walk alongside the baggage carts like the other women.

They reached their destination in the black hours before dawn. The torches of the train of soldiers revealed the impressive earthwork ramparts and ditches surrounding the angled curtain walls and towers of the stone fortress. Clara breathed a sigh of relief at the sight which promised the end to bouncing on the unpadded cart bench. From her neck to her knees, her bones creaked and muscles complained.

Once inside the fort, she was led to a cot in what she thought she heard was the women’s dormitory. She did not bother to inquire about her new surroundings. Once she stretched out on the cot her eyes closed in sheer exhaustion.

She awoke to the sound of dozens of women chattering and laughing. She uncurled herself and sat up to survey the scene. She was in a large room filled with cots, their heads against the lime-covered stone walls. Shabby curtains hung between each so as to separate them into not-too-private sleeping spaces. Her own curtains, she noted dryly, were pulled aside, no doubt so the other women could keep their eyes on her.

“She’s up.”

One of the women approached. “You look a mess, love. Would you be wanting a bath?”

Clara wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She would love a bath, but weren’t they in a fort? Was this woman making fun of her? She looked kindly enough, and matronly with graying hair and a plump body.

“Too tired to answer, I see. I think you do, love. Captain says I’m supposed to treat you well. Like a real lady. You’ll be first in the tub with fresh water. Now take off your things while we get it all ready.”

Clara slowly shed her clothes, making sure to tuck the knife belt in a deep pocket of her cloak, keeping an eye on the group of women giggling and gossiping unabashedly in various states of undress. One of them scampered up to her wearing nothing but a sheer shift shamelessly clinging to her lithe body. She took Clara’s hand and led her to the bathing area.

“I hear you’re a lady. Like a duchess or something. Are you a duchess?” She went behind Clara to unlace her stays.

“My husband is a viscount,” said Clara. “That makes me a viscountess.”

The girls oohed and aahed over this bit of information, and tittered over Clara’s accent. She made sure she herself handled her heavy stays, laying them on a chair along with her garters and stockings.

“Do you have another shift with you, love?” asked the matronly woman.

“No,” Clara responded as politely as she could. Obviously the women had no idea she was being held against her will. Most likely the captain had purposely led them to believe she was a traveler with baggage.

“Well, then, do you want to bathe as God made you?”

Clara looked at the tub, steam rising from the water into the cold morning air. There were screens all the way around, and plenty of women standing by to protect her from the prying eyes of men, of which she hadn’t seen any yet. She untied her shift and let it fall from her body, then placed it on the chair with her stays. She tested the water with her hand, then stepped in and sank down. She closed her eyes to feel herself float buoyantly and the warm water lap at her breasts. It was like being in heaven.

“You be quick now, my lady,” said the matron, handing her a cake of brown soap and a brush.

Luxuriating over with, Clara proceeded to scrub herself, then dipped her head back to wash her hair.

“You’re a dirty one, aren’t you?” laughed the matron. “Been out traveling without stopping at a proper inn, I hear.” She motioned to one of the girls. “You’re next, Susie,” she said as several of the women helped Clara out and covered her with a towel.

“I get to bathe in a real viscountess’s bath,” said Susie gleefully, as if nobility would seep through her skin. Clearly very pregnant, Susie held onto her friends as she stepped into the tub. A sharp pang wrenched Clara’s heart as she watched the young woman enjoying herself in the water.

“What’s the matter, my lady?” asked a pretty raven-haired young woman handing Clara her shift. Her voice was gentle, genuinely concerned.

“I lost a child not too long ago,” Clara said wistfully, putting on her stays. “I mean, before it could grow in my womb.”

“I’m sorry. Susie’s sister Constance lost one earlier this year, as well.”

Constance?
Clara dismissed the thought. Surely there were any number of women named Constance.

A blond girl couldn’t help breaking in. “They say it was Lieutenant Hamilton’s baby she lost, too,” she whispered.

“Abby, don’t go spreading rumors!” chided the raven-haired girl. She began to comb out Clara’s hair. “My name’s Martha. You’ve got some tangles here—what’s your name, anyway? Should we call you Lady Something?” She continued working on Clara’s mass of curls.

Clara smiled. The girls all seemed so nice, so friendly, so much her own age. “Well, if you want to, you can call me ‘Lady Strathmore.’ That’s my title. But you can also just call me ‘Clara’.”

Martha braided Clara’s hair, then twisted it into a bun and secured it to the top of her head with pins. “I just keep my hair down these days, anyway, so you can have my pins. My fellow likes it that way. Do you have a cap, Lady Clara?”

“No. I think I lost it,” she lied. She couldn’t very well say she had forgotten to grab it as she was fleeing a burning brothel, could she?

“I’m sure I have an extra. What about a dress? You had a very fine one what you came in with. That all you got?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Susie,” Martha called out. “You still got your old short gown you were wearing before you got big?”

Susie laughed. “Yes. Why? You want to tease me about my big fat belly?”

“No! Lady Clara here will need a work frock. She can’t very well wear a silk gown when she’s a-sweeping, now, can she?”

Clara wanted to correct Martha that it was most assuredly not “Lady Clara,” just simply Clara or Lady Strathmore, but thought better of it. Susie came up to her, holding a towel to her nude body, and handed her a very plain blue-and-white striped bodice and petticoat.