Of Wildflowers and Gunpowder

Chapter 2

"It will be a cold night, Miss," the slave attending the horses said softly as he handed Benjamin's dapple-grey named Highlander back to me, "And I fear this rain will only worsen. Pray, Ma'am, have you a place to stay if the weather turns ill?"
I shook my head regretfully, a look of understanding passing between us. Neither of us seemed to have a place to sleep tonight.
"I must take my leave," I said softly, giving him a small smile and pressing a few coins into his palm.
"Thank you, Miss. God be with you," he said, bowing gently as I mounted the horse, my petticoats draped across the horse's body as I sat sidesaddle.
"And with you."
The trails through the woods were empty at this time of night and, although it made it easier not to raise suspicion, I was completely vulnerable to an attack from soldiers or criminals.
Beneath my cardinal red petticoat, I pulled down my stockings to my ankles as I rode, allowing my legs a bit of air flow.
About twenty miles away from the city, I stopped for a moment to let Highlander drink from a small creek and for me to catch my breath.
     Suddenly, a gunshot rang out and I was thrown off the horse, who bolted away at the sound. Adrenaline coursing through my head, I crawled desperately away from the trail in confusion.
It was then that the pain hit me. I collapsed into the dirt and held my right side in agony. I had been shot.
This couldn't happen. Not when I was so close to safety. I thought about the information I had learned and Benjamin and General Washington and a warm cup of coffee and a comfortable cot. Gone.
I would die right here, ambushed by militiamen or robbers or even British soldiers, I didn't know. My hands came away from the wound a sickening bloody red. I sobbed in pain and terror of what awaited me.
     It was too dark to see the men approaching until their guns were inches from my face. I gasped and tried to scramble away, grimacing in pain.
     "Please," I managed, noticing their forest green Ranger uniforms, "I'm innocent! My husband is a member of His Majesty's Royal Army! Please, just...let me be on my way and I won't tell anyone that you shot someone on your own side. I'm not—"
I looked up and my heart sank. Captain Simcoe was standing above me. "Your husband? A member of the Royal military? On our side? My, you certainly do have a gift for deceit! You may come with us, Miss Adams."
     Strong arms dragged me towards the horses, and they sat me in front of Simcoe before I could even utter another word. I could feel myself growing faint and he began riding at a painfully swift pace. It had to be the dreaded, infamous Simcoe. He'll show me no mercy.
I begged him to slow down but he ignored me and pulled me tighter, causing me to cry out in anguish. My vision grew blurry and I blinked rapidly, desperate to stay conscious until we arrived at our destination so I could find my way back if I escaped. It was useless.

I awoke groggily. My head was pounding and there was blood all over the place. I was in a large tent, obviously belonging to a high ranking officer, although there was nobody else in the room, as far as I could tell.
     Light shone through the canvas shelter, gently engulfing the room in sunny brilliance. There was a desk littered with papers and maps and another small cot on the opposite side of the tent. Quite plain but still somehow elegant.
Just then, the door flapped open and I cringed at the sight of the man who entered.
     "Ah," he said gently, "I am glad you are awake. My name is-"
"John André. I know who you are." He raised his eyebrows in surprise but the look quickly disappeared when he recognized my face.
"I don't expect you to remember," I said quietly, trying to sound strong although I felt quite the opposite, "but you killed my family in New Haven, Connecticut."
He bit his lip and began absentmindedly shuffling through a stack of sealed letters on his desk. Without looking up, he replied, "I do remember. Your brother shot me in the arm, didn't he?"
     I clenched my teeth in frustration at his seemingly apathetic attitude.
"Don't be angry at me," he added, eyeing me as if I planned to attack him, "I am not blaming him for shooting me; to be honest, I probably deserved it. I do apologize, however, as if that heals any of the pain it must have caused you. It was not my call, I was merely following orders."
He seemed sincere and truly wanted to make things right but that certainly didn't excuse him. As a British soldier with everything he'd ever wanted, it was obvious he wasn't very good at apologies. I was still bitterly resentful.
      "I accept your apology but I do not feel remorse over my brother's actions. Bullet wounds heal, Major. Innocent lives do not."
"I understand."
Suddenly, I was overcome with nausea and the pain in my side increased. I gasped and reached for the bloody wound, as if my touch could ease the pain. I fainted again.