Moonlight Rebel (24 page)

Lieutenant St. John Lawrence was one of the many who had been mustered and told that his new duties would be protecting the King's colonies. He realized that he might be forced to fight his brethren in order to preserve what was the King's. The thought did not warm him.

Sin-Jin, as he was known to his friends, had no fixed opinion about the war, neither philosophical nor moral. Fighting it was just part of being a soldier, which, at the moment, was becoming a source of great irritation and discomfort.

He had been at the Battle of Lexington. Marveling at the utter incompetence of the American soldiers, he had been certain that they would call an end to the skirmish once they realized how hopelessly outmatched they were. They were mere farmers and backwoodsmen going up against the world's finest troops.

But he had decided, as the battle dragged on, the enemy was not very bright for they just kept coming, fighting in what appeared to be cowardly Indian fashion. They held their ground with a tenacity unfamiliar to him, and they didn't have the good sense to know when they were beaten.

Nothing had ever made him want to hold on and fight with such ferocity. With the exception, perhaps, of Vanessa.

But Vanessa, with her long, shining coal black hair and her eyes as blue as robin's eggs, was not so much in love with him as she was enamored of his brother's inheritance. Sin-Jin was a second son, and a second son's lot was not a good one. The inheritance, all save a few pounds perhaps, always went to the eldest, and that was Matthew. Sin-Jin bore his brother no malice. That was just the way things were meant to be.

Sin-Jin never fought against the inevitable. That was why he couldn't understand why the rebels were fighting in this crazed fashion. Didn't they know it was futile? They would be beaten in the end; why not give up now before lives were needlessly lost?

More importantly, if they gave up soon he could go home with his regiment. He had been with General Gage in the beginning, before the man had been made Governor of Massachusetts by royal decree. The fighting in Boston was at a standstill with the never-ending siege going on. But in the South, things were just beginning to happen, and they needed soldiers there to stave off a pending insurrection. Sin-Jin was sent South.

Sin-Jin took his lot philosophically, but not without annoyance. If he had to be in this land, he'd much rather be in Boston. At least some of the comforts he was used to were available there. The Colonies were positively backward, and to have to spend his enlistment in this godforsaken area was utterly disagreeable.

But, a war was a war, no matter how sloppily fought, and he went where he was told to go. On December 20th, he was sent to Virginia, where the soldiers were instructed to recapture a British arsenal before the Americans made off with all the powder and ball. Sin-Jin's men found themselves vastly outnumbered. The small band of rebels within the arsenal had swollen to giant proportions as friends and neighbors aged twelve to seventy had poured in to aid them.

His men had never encountered such opposition before, and while they fought because they were paid to, their foes fought for their beliefs. The odds were totally against the British. They were pushed back, and the fighting continued on a running, regrouping basis. At times the British pushed forward, at others the Americans pressed ahead.

It went on for three days. Sin-Jin's army was demoralized. They had held the Americans in contempt. To be beaten by incompetents added insult to injury. On the fourth day, during the morning's final encounter, Sin-Jin was unhorsed and run through with a bayonet stolen from a dead British soldier.

As the searing pain went through him and darkness began to take hold, he heard himself mutter, "God, this is a hell of a place to die."

Cold seeped into his body. Somewhere, far away, an ache began and grew until it inflamed him.

Pain.

There was nothing but pain. In his shoulder, a pounding, throbbing. Sin-Jin's eyes fluttered and opened. He saw nothing. But there was a smell. Something wet and dirty. And oddly sweet. Blood.

Where was he? If this is hell, he thought, then it certainly is cold. He drew a breath, and his ribs responded with fierce pain.

The battle.

A thought pulsed through his brain. He was alive, for whatever that was worth. Sin-Jin raised his throbbing head and looked about. When his eyes focused, he saw bodies everywhere around him. Bodies in British uniforms and bodies in homespun and coats that didn't match.

We lost, he guessed. If they had won, someone would have found him and checked to see if he was truly dead. At least, he hoped so.

Slowly, painfully, he drew himself up. He kept looking around, alert to any movement. His instinct for survival was keen, and he was not about to let himself become a target if he could help it.

Now what? There was no horse around. That meant walking. In his condition, he wouldn't get far. His tall, lean body protested, telling him that it took an incredible effort to stand, let alone to walk. But if he were to give in and lie down again, he would die of exposure, if not of his wound, and there might be animals out there, waiting to feast on him before he was dead.

He shivered. "No, I'm not ready to die just yet," he said out loud, needing to hear the sound of his own voice. Needing reassurance.

He tested his legs. They were unhurt. Unsteadily, he took up his sword from where it had fallen and awkwardly put it back into the scabbard with his left hand. His right hung at his side, useless.

"A lot of good that'll do me," he muttered. "By the time I reach for it, I'll be run through."

He started to walk.

He had no idea where he was going. Perhaps what was left of his unit was up ahead somewhere. Perhaps not. But if he happened upon the home of British sympathizers, he could get medical aid and something to eat.
If I'm lucky,
he thought.

He knew that he couldn't stop walking. Not while he was conscious. But his mind floated in and out, bringing back segments of the battle and bits of his life before he had donned a uniform a year and a half ago. Where would I be now if I had been born first? he wondered, trying to keep his mind off the pain and the endless trudging. Probably in Vanessa's arms, sampling her warm, rich body, he decided.

Lucky old Matthew, he thought. Doesn't know how easy he has it.

His legs became heavier and heavier, and he began to stumble. How long had he been walking? Had he gone in circles? No, no, the forest was behind him now. How far, he had no idea. His arm burned.

Lie down, lie down, his body called to him. Rest. Later you can walk.

"Damn," he muttered. "I'm going to die anyway and be exhausted into the bargain. No way to meet your Maker, dirty and exhausted. And defeated. Damn old King George. Damn this war. Damn that bayonet. Damn . . ."

His breath was gone, and he couldn't feel his legs anymore. They had gone numb. They buckled beneath him now as he tripped, the heel of his boot sinking into a small hole in the ground.

Damn. Just as he thought he saw a house.

Probably just his imagination anyway.

Sin-Jin's eyes closed.

Chapter Eighteen

The rooms on the ground floor had gotten stiflingly hot. The number of people Morgan hosted astounded Krystyna. On the day after Christmas, he seemed to have invited almost the whole of the county to his home. All the fireplaces were lit. What with that and the heat of all the bodies milling around, it had become unbearably warm. Krystyna wanted to walk outside, to feel brisk cold air on her face once again. To be alone with her thoughts.

It wasn't just the heat that sent her outdoors. She had been the recipient of Savannah's hostility for the better part of the day, and she didn't trust her tongue to remain still any longer. So she slipped out, thinking it best to leave before anything erupted between them. Savannah was Morgan's daughter, after all, and Krystyna was essentially living on his good graces. He could, if he so chose, terminate the bargain between them at any moment, and then where would she be? She certainly couldn't reach home on the little she had saved, and who knew if anyone else in the region would be willing to pay for her services? Countesses, even those who teach, are not much in demand, she thought with a rueful smile.

Bundled up in her warm coat, Krystyna savored the sting of the cold air as she walked the short distance to her cabin. She thought of Jason, but put him from her mind just as quickly as his face had risen up before her. There was nothing to be gained by thinking of him.

She would leave him behind when she returned to Poland. Getting further entangled would only make the pain worse. For she already knew that when the time came to go, there would be pain.

A movement in the distance caught her attention. She strained her eyes, trying to make out a shape. Nothing stirred.

She decided it must have been her imagination, but then a thought struck her. What if it was a deer? She had seen several roaming about, foraging for food. What if it was weak, starving? The thought of such a beautiful creature suffering filled her with sorrow.

Lifting her cumbersome clothing higher, she trudged quickly toward where she thought she had seen the animal sink down.

Her breath caught in her throat when she gingerly stepped into the brush and found not the crumpled form of a deer but a British soldier lying on the ground. Her first inclination was to run, however, something stronger than fear held her in place. Carefully, she bent over the man to see if he was still alive.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she turned him over. He was almost startlingly handsome. What a waste war is, she thought wearily. Was he dead? She looked closer and saw that despite his pale color, he was breathing. Just barely.

She sat back on her heels, wondering what she should do. She couldn't just leave him there. If she did, he would die. That much was certain. She looked down at the dried blood on his sleeve. If he didn't get some sort of medical attention—and soon — gangrene might set in.

Nathan would know what to do. As she rose to her feet, she saw Jeremiah looking curiously at her from across the field. For a moment, she froze. And then she beckoned him forward.

With long strides, he cut the distance between them until he was standing at her side. His expression never changed when he looked down at the fallen man. Life had taught Jeremiah to be surprised at nothing.

"I found him."

There was barely a hint of a smile. "Well, in his condition, he sure couldn't have found you." Jeremiah peered down at the soldier. "He alive?" It wouldn't do for a slave to touch a white man, even to see if he was alive. Not with another white person watching. Jeremiah stood by, waiting for orders.

"Yes." She wondered why he didn't try to ascertain that for himself. The soldier moaned. "I think we had better bring him into the house."

Still Jeremiah made no move. "I dunno, Miz. Master Morgan, he say he'd kill the first redcoat he see on his land."

Krystyna stood silent for a long moment, debating. Was what Jeremiah had said true? He knew his master a lot better than she did. Morgan did feel passionately about the war. How would he feel if she brought a British soldier into his home? What would he do? Would he lash out at her? Perhaps she would be better off just leaving the soldier where he was.

She looked down on the unconscious man's face. No, she couldn't do that, no matter what the penalty. This was a living, breathing human being. Someone's son. Perhaps someone's husband or father. He would die if she left him.

"All right," she decided out loud. "Bring him to my cabin." She looked at Jeremiah. Would he listen to her or return to Morgan and report to him?

Jeremiah's brown eyes swept from her face to the face of the young soldier. Then with no further word, he bent down and raised the soldier to his feet, draping the man's good arm about his neck.

Krystyna waited for Jeremiah to say something. When he didn't, she turned. "This way," she said needlessly. "Quickly."

Jeremiah didn't have to be told that either.

As they hurried to her cabin, Krystyna glanced toward the house to see if there was anyone around who might spot them. There were two figures on the veranda, but they weren't turned in her direction. Krystyna pressed her lips together as she recognized them.

Charity had her arms entwined about Jason's neck as she whispered coquettish words in the hope of arousing his feelings. When he failed to respond, she kissed him.

At a distance, Krystyna saw only the kiss. A stab of pain and shame went through her. "Hurry," she urged Jeremiah, her voice hoarse.

The cabin, nestled as it was at the side of the slave quarters, was out of sight of the house. Jeremiah emitted a soft sigh and deposited the soldier on Krystyna's bed as she shut the door behind him. Tears were stinging her eyes, but she forced herself to think only about the present situation.

She touched Jeremiah's arm. "Thank you." They both realized the penalty for his action if this came to light.

Jeremiah's strong shoulders lifted and fell. "Can't let no man bleed to death. Lessen he deserves it," he added.

From his tone, she knew he meant it. He would probably leave Aaron to die, she thought. She had seen the way Jeremiah looked at the elder McKinley son, with smoldering hatred in his eyes. She never saw that expressed when he looked at anyone else. Given the nature of the plantation system, she couldn't help wondering why Aaron tolerated it. Unless, perhaps, there was guilt involved.

Jeremiah looked over the soldier's wound. "I think he needs some help right quick." He turned in Krystyna's direction, knowing each word drew him more deeply into the situation. "Marwilda knows some good poultices to use." He paused. "And I can fetch him a nightshirt."

Gratitude sprang to her eyes. She wondered if he knew that he was befriending her in a way few would have, risking his life for something she asked of him. "You really are a very good man." Her voice was soft and hushed.

Unaccustomed to compliments, Jeremiah said nothing in reply as he left.