Chase the Dawn (40 page)

“I daresay you now wish you had joined the ranks of the wise virgins and supped when you had the chance?” Ben spoke with mock solemnity at her side as her stomach growled.

“Do not gloat; it’s most disagreeable,” Bryony told him. “It was not as if, with foolish improvidence, I passed up the opportunity when it was offered. It was not offered.”

“You were not around when it was,” her husband corrected with remorseless truth. “However …” He leaned sideways to unfasten a saddlebag. “Being a caring and considerate commander, I thought of your welfare.” He handed her a small package. “This will serve to keep the wolf at bay.”

“My thanks.” Bryony smiled gratefully and unwrapped the offering with eager fingers. Cheese, a hunk of manchet bread, and an apple did much to restore her spirits, and she was beginning to feel that maybe they would get through this dreaded march without mishap, when an explosion to the right, accompanied by a sheet of flame, brought a bellow of fear and anger from somewhere behind her.

“What is it?” Even as she asked, the crack and whine of musket balls rent the air, and all hell broke loose.

“God dammit! We are under attack!” Benedict swore, wheeling his horse. “Get down low over the saddle. Whatever you do, stay mounted and keep up with the front line. I will be back as soon as I can.” He galloped off to the rear, intent on rallying the dismayed troops. Bryony crouched in the saddle, bereft and terrified. General Gates and his headquarters staff, as one body,
spurred their horses onward, hoping to outdistance the fighting.

Instinctively, she drew back on the reins as the fear of separating herself from Ben took precedence over her fear of the firing. Charlie Carter appeared at her side. “You’re to keep up with the general’s party,” he panted. “Ben says he’ll have your hide if you lose them.”

“But I don’t want to lose Ben,” she protested, then pulled herself together smartly and urged the mare forward again. “I crave pardon, Charlie.” Brilliant flashes of light stabbed the dark night and the explosions of grenades mingled with the incessant snap and crack of muskets as they were primed and fired. Commands were shouted on all sides, and Bryony could not begin to imagine that there was any order in the seething bubble of confusion that had filled the night.

“Ben will be all right,” Charlie comforted. “But he’s needed where he is. If the men lack leadership, they’ll cut and run in panic.”

“Then, had you better not go where you are also needed?” She smiled, her face pale, but her eyes shining resolutely in the reddish glow that had replaced the darkness.

Charlie looked doubtful. “Ben said to stay with you if you wanted me.”

“I do not require a nursemaid,” she responded firmly. “I will stay with the general’s party, and Benedict will find me when he is free.”

“If you are sure?” It was clear that Charlie could not wait to be off to the action himself, and Bryony reiterated that she was quite certain and sent him on his way.

The rest of the night passed in a nightmare of shouts and shots, interspersed with the shrill screams of horses
and the cries of wounded men as the attackers hounded the army, cutting down stragglers and keeping up an incessant barrage of fire into the columns of marching men who could not see the enemy in order to defend themselves with returning fire. Benedict and his fellow officers could do little but keep the columns moving, shouting encouragement where it would help, and curses and threats where they seemed more appropriate. Men fell on all sides, but Ben, his face blackened with gunsmoke, deeply etched with lines of fatigue and fury at this senseless carnage that could so easily have been avoided, rode in the midst of the slaughter as if protected by some talisman. On one occasion, a musket ball almost clipped his ear, but he simply brushed the air as if a mosquito had attacked him, and then hurtled down, sword raised, at a group of the enemy who had fallen upon a pair of wounded troopers. Miraculously, they fell back, making no attempt to cut down his horse, and vanished into the swampy darkness. A ragged cheer rose from the column at the sight, and Ben forced a grin on his face as he galloped past them, waving his sword in victory and encouragement.

Dawn did eventually come, even to those doubters who had become resigned to an eternal night of sudden death. With the first gray streaks in the sky, the attack ceased, the enemy fading into the landscape. Benedict rode the length of the column, taking note of the damage. The walking wounded struggled on with the aid of their fellows, but those who were down stayed down, littering the path on both sides, together with the bodies of horses and mules. On the faces of all but the veterans, sullen anger, resentment, and fear showed. What had happened in the night was not war as they had believed
it to be; it was murder and they had been offered up like pigs to the slaughter.

“Do you think they’ll ever fight again?” John Davidson, his face as black and weary as Benedict’s, appeared out of the dawn gloom.

“Not with much heart,” Ben replied grimly. “Can you blame them?”

John shook his head. “Where is our illustrious general?”

Ben’s lips tightened; his eyes became ebony pinpricks of contempt. “Safe and sound, it is to be assumed, well ahead of all this mess. I only hope my wife is with him.” He turned his horse toward the head of the columns. “I think, if you will excuse me, John, I’ll go and find out.”

Bryony, however, once the firing had ceased and it became clear would not be restarted, couldn’t contain her anxiety and dropped behind the front line, where she had ridden throughout the long dark hours, crouched low in the saddle, her hood drawn tight around her as if she could block out the sounds of fear and death, trying to master her own terror—a terror that was for Ben rather than for herself.

“Mrs. Clare?” an adjutant, seeing her fall back, called imperatively. “Is anything the matter?”

“No, nothing,” she replied. “I had thought to go in search of my husband.”

“He’ll be along soon enough with his report,” General Gates said briskly. “You’d do much better to keep your place with us. No sense getting lost. Clare will not be best pleased if he cannot find you.”

There was certainly sense in this, Bryony reflected, but she knew she could no longer ride in ignorance with this group who showed no imperative need to discover
the worst. True, throughout the night, riders had brought reports of events behind them, but Bryony couldn’t understand why, now that they could draw breath, the general did not halt the army and take stock. “I will not go far, sir,” she said, and turned the mare. She was halfway down the column when she recognized Ben’s horse first, the blackened rider second.

Her heart leaped with relief, and joy seeped into her toes. “Ben!” She set the mare to gallop, pounding up to him, waving with frantic abandon.

“Dear God! What are you doing here?” demanded Ben, the need for discipline taking precedence over his own joyful relief and the overpowering urge to sink into her softness, drawing from it the strength he knew would be forthcoming. “I told you to stay with the van.”

“Oh, never mind that!” Bryony held up her arms imperatively. “You look like a sweep, but if you don’t kiss me immediately, I shall not be able to believe you’re alive.”

“I do mind it,” Ben groaned, yielding to what was both demand and invitation, leaning down to catch her face as she clasped her arms around his neck, her lips opening on a soft exhalation of pleasure as dread and terror finally were vanquished. “If I cannot trust you to obey orders, I will be prey to anxiety, and I cannot afford to add to my worries.”

“I left the general’s side but ten minutes ago,” Bryony declared in stout defense. “There seemed to be no further danger, and I couldn’t stand to wait in idleness and dread another minute. You cannot have just cause for complaint.”

“No, I suppose I cannot,” Ben agreed. “But, oh, lass, it was a damnable night’s work.” Weariness stood out in
every line of his body, for all that he held himself as straight in the saddle as if he had just mounted after a long night’s sleep. She touched his gloved hand in silent empathy. “Come, I have to make my report.” His voice became strong again, and he urged his tired mount forward. “As soon as we are free of this damn swamp, we must halt and rest.”

It took much persuasion, however, before General Gates could be brought to see the necessity for a brief respite. Benedict was amply supported by others who had seen the devastation and dismay among the ranks, and at mid-morning a halt was called on the banks of the Wateree River. The pause allowed the surgeons to do what they could for the wounded, and allowed the hale to eat what they could scavenge and to rest bodies that had been pushed unmercifully for sixteen hours.

Ben’s saddlebags yielded a slab of bacon; John appeared with six duck eggs, laughingly refusing to account for such a possession. But no one was prepared to question the arrival of such bounty. Charlie, bewailing the fact that he had nothing to contribute but his labor, collected sticks and lit a fire, then begged the use of a skillet from a group of troopers who had contrived to tickle two good-sized trout from the river and were willing to share their skillet in exchange for use of the fire.

“I think that perhaps I should cook,” Bryony offered tentatively. “Since everyone except me has produced something. But Ben is a great deal better at it than I am.”

“Your presence is sufficient gift.” John bowed formally, offering the heavy pleasantry with a wicked gleam, and Bryony laughed as she curtsied.

“My thanks, sir. But I must protest, you do me too much honor.”

“Far too much,” agreed Ben. “We have no platters. See what you can contrive.”

“Dock leaves?”

“Or some such.” He cracked the eggs into the bacon fat sizzling in the skillet, and Bryony went off to hunt for broad, firm leaves that could serve as platters.

Eggs and bacon maneuvered off a leaf with the blunt edge of Ben’s clasp knife tasted better than anything Bryony had ever eaten before. That morning, with the hot sun on her neck and the cheerful raillery of her companions, deliberately creating an atmosphere of ease and relaxation to combat the hell of the previous night and the anticipation of the hell awaiting them in the battle to come, would remain forever in her memory. She fell asleep on the grass, as suddenly and as easily as a kitten, exhausted with play, will collapse where it stands.

“We should try to do the same,” Charlie said soberly. “There’s no telling when we’ll have the chance again.” The earlier lightness dissipated as it must. It had been chimera only, a moment to be snatched from a fearful uncertainty; a moment that would stiffen the backbone again.

Ben lay on the bank, closing his eyes, feeling the sun’s heat against the lids, creating a red glow that filled his internal vision. He put a hand out to touch the curled figure beside him. His palm flattened against her hip, and just the feel of her was sufficient to remind him to count his blessings. But how long would it—could it—last …?

“Colonel, General Gates wishes to see you immediately.” The adjutant had spoken only the first word of his sentence and Benedict was instantly awake. He glanced at the sun and judged that he had perhaps been
asleep for thirty minutes—not much to recompense for a sleepless night, but better than nothing.

“Very well, Adjutant. I am on my way,” he replied quietly, anxious not to disturb Bryony, although she looked as if it would take an earthquake to return her to the land of the living. He went over to the river and splashed his face with cold water before reporting to the general for orders that he already knew he would not want to follow.

Half an hour later, a bugle sounded its imperative note, and Ben shook Bryony awake, ruthlessly ignoring her protests, her pleas for five more minutes as she curled tighter on her side. “I will be quite awake then,” she begged, her words slurred with sleep.

“No!” Ben yanked her over onto her back. “You have to be on your horse in three minutes!”

Bryony’s eyes shot open, and she blinked into the set face above her. Something had made Ben exceedingly angry. With a hasty apology, she scrambled to her feet and stood swaying in the sunshine as her blood rearranged itself in her body. The bugle sounded again, and all around her men were running to fall into the columns already re-forming. “I feel dreadful,” she groaned, stumbling over to her mare.

“No more so than anyone else,” Ben snapped, catching her around the waist and swinging her into the saddle.

“I was not asking for sympathy,” she retorted, gathering up the reins and swallowing her yawn. “Why are you so angry now?”

“I don’t have time to explain. You will ride in the van again, and this time you will stay there—is it understood?”

“Where will you be?” Bryony found that she was waking up rapidly; indignation was a powerful spur.

“Wherever I am needed,” he replied curtly. “Is it understood?”

Bryony nodded. “I suppose so. Quite frankly, when you are in this mood, I cannot imagine wishing to go in search of you. I am just as tired and irritable as you, as it happens, but I do not take it out
on you.”

She looked so rumpled and pink in her indignation that Benedict could not help a sudden chuckle. “It is most unjust of me, lass, I agree, but I have no time for either apologies or explanations at the moment.” He swung onto his own horse and cantered off without further expansion.

“He makes me so cross!” Bryony declared to John Davidson, who had been audience to the spat. “I have done nothing to my knowledge to annoy him. It is always the same when something has angered him. I always have to play whipping boy!” She glared into the middle distance, then recollected that it was perhaps not decorous to discuss one’s husband in such fashion. A sideways glance at her companion, however, was reassuring. He did not appear in the least embarrassed by her confidence.

“He’s greatly concerned for your safety,” John said after a minute. “Gates is insisting on meeting Cornwallis head-on as soon as we come up with him. His battle plan, Ben is convinced, will be a disaster, and the men will have been granted no respite to recover from the march. Ben wishes to find a safe place for you, well away from the battlefield, but he cannot do that if he doesn’t have the time to reconnoiter.”