Chapter One
Sandwich, Massachusetts
April 1, 1775
Kitty Campbell pressed a gloved hand against her stomach to quell the surge of feathers in her middle. What was I thinking? She stared out the foggy window of the parked carriage as fat drops of rain plunked against the glass. Tucking a lock of her wayward curls around her ear, she exhaled, reviewing what had brought her to this moment. Perhaps she should have at least tried to send Eliza a note to tell her she was returning. Then, for the hundredth time she reminded herself, there hadn’t been time.
With God’s grace, they would receive her arrival with jubilation, not woe.
She pressed her legs together as the cool air wriggled up her dress. Too bad she’d resisted Henry Donaldson’s invitation to wait for him inside the tavern while he conducted his business. Whatever he must do, it took much longer than she’d expected. She shifted in her seat. At least it wasn’t Boston. Though both Boston and Sandwich were on the coast, somehow Boston seemed colder. With its hoards of homesick soldiers and wild patriots, empty harbors and lonely streets—she couldn’t be more pleased to leave the city. Her breath plumed against the window. But it wasn’t the weather that made Boston cold and loveless. Without her childhood home and loving family to warm her spirits, any place would be equally icy. The year she’d spent in Boston hadn’t transpired the way she’d anticipated. She sat back and released a heavy breath. Eliza had been right. Somehow, her sister was always right.
Kitty’s shoes tapped the floor and she drummed her fingers against her knees. Where was Henry? Hopefully nothing was amiss, though ‘twas surely nothing that a strong captain in the British Army couldn’t handle himself. She rested her head on the cushion behind and pinched her lips in a nervous smile, crowding out any worry she felt for her friend. She stared into the street, past the streams of water trailing down her window. Would Eliza and Thomas really be glad she’d returned? She wriggled in her seat. Could they see past their differences?
Or would they only see her as a Tory?
Her smile vanished, taking with it the last degree of warmth in the empty carriage. Had she really done right in coming back? She toyed with the fabric of her gloves. When Henry had learned he had business to attend to in Sandwich, he’d insisted she travel with him, and not return. She’d agreed without a second thought, though if only she’d—
Just then the door opened and she jumped, pressing a hand to her chest with a quick inhale. Releasing the pinch of sudden tension, Kitty laughed. “Oh, Henry, ‘tis you.”
Rain dripped off his hat and his warm smile eased around her shoulders, but the tension in his eyes revealed a displeasure he reserved behind his gaze. The burden of his position in the army seemed to weigh more heavily on his shoulders with every passing month.
“Did I startle you?” Henry’s grin widened, before he cupped his mouth and called to the driver. “We’ll go up the road. Take your first left and continue on until you see the house on your right. Stop there.”
Henry crouched low and stepped in, shutting the door. His broad shoulders and long legs filled much of the space in the small carriage, though it was his strong character that swelled around Kitty, making that familiar contentment release the nervous twitching in her fingers.
Tossing her a quick look, he removed his hat, revealing his dark blonde hair pulled in a queue. He exhaled and gave her a friendly smirk. “Even the driver had the sense to come inside and wait. I do hope you weren’t too lonely. Or cold.”
The carriage lurched forward and Kitty clutched her seat. “The silence was welcome. I had much to contemplate.” The pinch in her voice revealed more than she’d intended.
“I know what you mean to say.” Henry fingered the black felt of his hat. His gentle blue eyes softened, while his brow creased. “Boston was far too dangerous, Kitty. I care for you as I do my own sisters and I would have advised them to do the same.”
The cold rain lashed against the window and somehow pelted straight through her. “You’re right, and I shall always be grateful to you. I’m simply unsure what to think. I don’t believe the way my family does, and it is not as if they reserve their feelings to any degree.”
Henry’s strong jaw tightened. He pulled his lip between his teeth and stared out the window a moment before answering. “I must tell you Kitty, in confidence, though I support the king as you do, I see many virtues in what people like your sister and brother-in-law are striving for.”
Kitty’s brow shot skyward. Such words, especially from Henry, were nothing short of treasonous. She shook her head with a questioning laugh. “Henry what do you mean? You shouldn’t jest in such a way.”
“I do not jest.” Henry’s expression darkened. “I value my position in the army to be sure. I need it in fact, to support my sisters. I love England. I am subject to the king. But...”
Kitty tipped her head, disbelief knitting her brow. “But what?”
He pushed a quick breath from his mouth and met her gaze as the carriage tottered and swayed. “I’m beginning to understand why the patriots feel to fight for their liberty.”
Kitty dropped her hands in her lap, her mouth gaping before she snapped it shut. “Henry, the king is our ruler, our protector. You of all people should know that.” Sitting straighter, she exhaled and shifted the reticule in her lap to ease the budding tension. “You must watch yourself. You’re speaking as a traitor.”
“Harsh words, Kitty.” A knowing smile lifted his mouth and he patted her hand with a quiet chuckle. “Just because I believe in someone’s right to defend themselves doesn’t mean I’m a traitor. You’re a wise woman, Kitty. You know no one can be forced to come to an understanding of such things. That comes in God’s time. This conflict is crucial, and someday you’ll come to see that truth as well.”
Truth. The word rammed into her middle making the tea and cream from that morning’s breakfast sour in her stomach. Eliza claimed their Father had wanted them to discover the truth, that he had wanted them to embrace th
e cause of liberty, but Eliza was mistaken. He’d raised them to revere the king.
I’ll honor you, Father. I know this is what you would want me to do.
Henry cleared his throat and pointed out the window on her side of the carriage. “See that building there?”
Kitty peered out the clouded glass. “Aye.” The small stone building rested in a generous clearing set-back from the road. Two windows near the roof peered at her like large black eyes, and a sturdy wooden door in the center of the stone walls appeared unhinged. Kitty blinked and squinted to see more clearly through the foggy glass and streams of rain. A cloaked figure hunched near the ground beside the door and she strained to make out more than that, but gave up the attempt when Henry started again.
“That’s the town’s ammunition and arms magazine.” He shifted in his seat, looking out the opposite window then down to his hands again, his voice taut. “It seems more and more towns feel the urgent need to defend themselves should the king decide to make his control more pressing. As all powder is manufactured in England, the colonists take great care in protecting what little they have for they believe it belongs to them, although the king believes differently.”
Kitty touched the wet sleeve of his red coat and tried to allow a smile to peek from behind the angst. “Nothing will happen, Henry. This trouble will die down soon enough. We must be patient.”
“I’m not so certain. Not with the tensions arising in and around Boston. You know that, Kitty, you saw such first hand.” Henry’s tone dropped and his stare split through her. “Your sister has embraced the patriot’s cause with passion, and it is a valiant cause, Kitty. Keep your heart open to the possibility that you may do the same.”
She jerked back, as if his hateful words roped her to the seat. “I will never come to see why they are doing any of this, Henry. Never.”
A brief sigh passed his lips that were twisted in a wry smile. He reached around her shoulder and hugged her as an older brother might—as her dear Peter might have done, had he lived.
“Let’s not argue,” he said. His warm voice dulled the blade in the air. “You know I support you, as I do your family.” The richness of his tone resonated in the small carriage and he cleared his throat as if to purge the undeniable emotions. “Perhaps I’m speaking more for myself than for you. Be that as it may, there will come a time when we will be called upon to act in defense of the cause we believe in. It won’t be enough to merely stand by silently and watch others fight for us.”
His words acted like pointed barbs, piercing her through to the fragile center of her soul. Watching out the window as they passed rain-soaked trees, Kitty drove a spike of determination into the lid of her resolve. There was nothing anyone could say or do to move her from supporting the king, no matter how desperate or convincing. Her father had raised her honorably, and that was how she would live.
No matter what anyone did to persuade her, she would never conform to the beliefs that ran rampant as pestilence. Kitty Campbell would be a Tory until the end of her days.
***
Biting spring raindrops plunged from the voluminous clouds, pelting Nathaniel’s face. Fists clenched, he raced over the muddy ground. This cannot be! His muscles cramped as he rounded the corner and pinned his gaze on the magazine. Clutching tighter to the medical bag in his hand, he ground his teeth and tore ever harder across the rain-soaked road.
Glancing at his friend beside him, Nathaniel spoke between hurried breaths. “How badly is he hurt?”
“I cannot say.” Thomas Watson matched Nathaniel’s every stride and squinted against the rain. “His father is with him now.”
Shards of anger, like pieces of shrapnel, drove deeper into Nathaniel’s gut. Caleb was only a boy, no more than fifteen years. He should never have guarded the building alone.
Nathaniel glared ahead as he ran. Tories. Growling in his chest, he pushed harder as the realization hit with the same sting as the cold rain. Who else would steal the precious munitions from their own townspeople?
He increased his speed another measure as he neared the stone building. Caleb’s father, Roger Oliver, held his son’s bleeding head in his lap, his weathered face scrunched in an anxious scowl.
Nathaniel skidded to a stop beside them, spraying mud as he pressed his boots into the ground. He bit his tongue to keep from swearing and dropped to his knees in the sopping ground beside his patient.