February 14, 1778
Prospect Hill, Cambridge
Between thirty and forty men, women, and children huddle away from the open, unfinished gables. The cold winter winds blow sleet and rain into this travesty of a barrack, whose dirt floor is quickly succumbing to mud.
“How is she?” A soft, gentle voice breaks through the hacking coughs and moans of the fevered, like an angel descended from heaven.
William McCauley looks up with a start. After months of captivity, it’s hard to tell the freckles upon his cheeks from dirt. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”
“How could I not?” Miss Eliza Thornton has been skulking about for a while, delivering food and blankets for the convention prisoners. Some days, she arrives with newspapers and gossip. Lately, food. Today, she brings something far more valuable: a doctor.
She’s a trustworthy one, they all know, but they’ve been loath to endanger her. Except today they’d no other option but bribing a guard to deliver a letter and a plea.
Patrick and his wife Mary kneel besides little Maggie, who is only seven. Though they’ve all suffered this cough, the adults have recovered. Maggie has only worsened, wheezing most pitifully, and McCauley knows, he knows Patrick cannot watch his daughter die.
Thomas sits near the girl, tapping his fingers rhythmically to soothe her. Even riddled with fever, Maggie loves music.
“She’s too weak to be bled,” says the doctor, a man named Lloyd. “I’ll prepare an emulsion of gum ammoniac. She’ll need two to three spoonfuls a day.”
Patrick pales; they’ve no money, but what choice has he?
Lloyd grimaces as he glances about their quarters. “The air is noxious here. It would be best for her to recover in a warm home.”
It would be best for all of them to be in different quarters, but they’re prisoners. According to the guards, that is certain as of last week.
Guilt thick enough to be tangible clings to Patrick. McCauley reaches out to steady him. “And if we’ve no options, sir?”
“You do,” Miss Thornton interrupts. “Mr. Dawes said he will provide whatever treatment is needed. Let her mother accompany her.”
Patrick’s eyes burn. Dawes.
“But…” Plucky Mary looks at her husband in disbelief. She’s followed him since they were twenty. She’d been one of only three women permitted to accompany this ill-fated journey with General Burgoyne. She’s survived battles and starvation and riots, and now she must choose between her husband and her child.
“Go,” Patrick says at once. “Do not return. ’Tis better for you both.”
“I will never abandon you!” Mary snaps.
“And I shan’t abandon you. We’ll meet again,” Patrick entreats. “But for now, Maggie needs her mother.”
“She needs her father –”
“She’ll have him,” Carroll interjects. “He’s still here, Mary.”
“Kitty’s found work laundering. You can do likewise,” McDeed urges.
Mary falls silent. Her chest heaves, but she will not cry here. McCauley prides himself on his understanding of people. Her husband is the only man Mary will ever permit to witness her tears.
“Go. For Maggie.” Patrick squeezes Mary’s hands, kisses her cheek first, and then his daughter’s burning forehead.
Lloyd scoops Maggie from the ground, wrapped in blankets and her father’s coat. She’s too light for a girl of seven, but she’s alive.
Eliza quickly removes the worn coat to return to Patrick. “I’ll return with a report once they’re settled, Mr. Walker.”
She departs with Dr. Lloyd, still clad in that pretty cardinal Kilroy bought her all those years ago.
Patrick pulls his knees to his chest, buries his head in his thighs.
“They’re alive,” McCauley reminds him. “Maggie will recover. She’s your daughter, and she’s as stubborn as her parents.”
Patrick nods, and surely that knowledge comforts him, but it cannot erase the fact that it hurts to be left behind.
***
February 17, 1778
Lincoln, Massachusetts
Another frigid gust strikes his face as Matthew swings the axe a final time. The oak splinters with a satisfying crack. Working his husband’s farm keeps his mind from straying to darker subjects. Like war. And captives.
He quickly tosses the last of these logs to their hefty pile. By his estimation, they’ve enough to last at least another month.
“A month? Miss Keziah says a year.” Alexander Ames whistles as he steps from the barn doors, where he’s been supplying their horse with hay aplenty.
Alexander insists he is a hired farmhand, but Matthew suspects he will be family before long if the vivacious Keziah Dalton has her way, and she usually does.
“You could always warm her instead,” Matthew purrs.
His dark complexion can’t hide the blood filling his cheeks. “I’d not dare.”
“I know. But she will, sooner or later.” Matthew fixes him with a stern look. “Josiah approves. Even his mother conceded you’re a good man. The only one who doesn’t is you.”
“It’s not that I…” Alexander trails off.
“I know.” Oh, these provincials calling themselves Americans love to boast of freedom, but they’d quickly squash that freedom if a black soldier dared return the affections of a pretty young widow. “But this town’s not terribly populated, and you’d have the protection of a former grenadier.”
“Better you than Josiah.” Alexander grins.
“Those who underestimate him can taste his aim at their own peril!” As Matthew cackles, a coach, an elaborate coach he’s not seen before, creaks up the road.
He and Alexander exchange glances. A stocky, bald man with skin even darker than Alexander steps out to open the door for his master.
A middle-aged gentleman as tall as Matthew leaps forth. His lanky form is clad in a richly embroidered black wool coat, and whomever he is, he carries himself with as much grace and purpose as Colonel Percy.
There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but Matthew cannot place it.
“Go,” Alexander mouths, but Matthew stands transfixed as this gentleman approaches to bow with an elegance that few could match.
“You must be Mr. Matthew Wilcox. And you?”
Alexander frowns. Most wealthy gentlemen would ignore him. “Alexander Ames.”
“A pleasure to meet you. I am Abraham Dawes.” The man’s black eyes twinkle. “This is my servant, Caesar. Forgive us for the late hour, but we’ve business to discuss with you, Mr. Wilcox. You, and Mr. Cairn.”
“What business?” Matthew asks coldly. He knows of this Dawes: a Son of Liberty who helped fund this rebellion, and if the rumors are true, now finances privateers that prey on his countrymen.
No doubt Dawes has heard that Matthew and Josiah have joined with Peter Edes to advocate for more benign conditions to the convention prisoners outside Boston.
“Business best discussed inside.” Dawes pauses. “I can discuss outside, but people are much more agreeable when warm, are they not?”
He’s not accustomed to denials, this man. Well, Matthew will not shy away from aiding his brothers-in-arms. No threats or money will ever be enough.
“Josiah is in the main house. Follow me.” He spins on his heel. “Alexander, you too.”
As they enter the main house, Josiah looks up with a brilliant smile. He’s on the floor, arm outstretched as seven-month-old Sarah crawls towards him. At the table, two-year-old Martin battles his cousin Magdalena. Just shy of three years, she uses a doll to defend against Martin’s toy sword.
“Soon she’ll be crawling across the farm!” Josiah crows, and only then does he see the men behind his husband. He scrambles to his feet.
“Indeed she will.” Matthew scoops their daughter off the floorboards; she promptly squawks in protest and bites his arm. Fortunately for him, she’s late to teething.
“This is Mr. Abraham Dawes. And his coachman, Caesar.”
Mother hurries from the kitchen as Alexander slips to the basement, no doubt to inform Keziah and Susannah. “We’ve no tea, but coffee or chocolate –”
“There’s no need, but thank you kindly, Mrs. Cairn.” Abraham bows again, and to their astonishment, he sits beside Martin and Magdalena.
Then he’s handing the children sweets from his pockets, and Matthew’s suspicions reach a boil. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“Almonds covered in barley sugar.” Dawes is evidently the type to answer unasked questions before asked. “They are my son-in-law’s favorites.”
He sobers suddenly, meeting Matthew’s gaze. “He is also a grenadier, or he was.”
Matthew stiffens.
“Which regiment?” Josiah ventures. He seems torn on whether to approach Matthew’s side, or Martin’s.
“The 29th.”
Josiah gulps, casting Matthew a knowing look. The 29th’s grenadiers are now imprisoned on Cambridge’s Winter and Prospect Hills.
Their son slowly removes the candy from his mouth, as if he senses the tension. Matthew’s heart aches; he wants nothing more than for Martin and Sarah to never learn of war.
Dawes pats Martin’s head. “Do you like it?”
Martin nods vigorously, blissful once more.
Matthew’s suspicions soften. Perhaps he’s misjudged this man.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” Josiah whispers.
Dawes blinks. “’Tis no loss. He is alive. The army discharged him in London, rather than risk his return. You understand, Mr. Cairn, why grenadiers from the 29th might be particularly liable?”
Josiah inhales sharply. “I suppose your son-in-law was imprisoned here before? Say, eight years ago?”
Eight years – Matthew’s ears roar. Those men. A massacre, Josiah calls it, though having experienced the affections of Bostonians, Matthew has his doubts.
“Indeed.” Dawes sighs and returns his eyes to Matthew. “He is also named Matthew, wed to my omega son. I am fortunate that they are safe in London, but you understand the similarities between our families.”
For a moment, his eyes flicker. With fear, with loss, from a tear that will never heal so long as this war rages. And perhaps after.
A feeling Matthew knows well. That ache that nestles deep in his heart when he dreams of Sergeant Martin, or Green or Holmes or Fanthorp. Or Hatfield or Hornsford, still alive. Whenever Sarah and Hannah’s ghosts deign to visit him, to witness his new family.
“I am not so blind as to ignore the resemblance, but I must ask.” Josiah inches beside Matthew. “Your son-in-law was arrested for murdering civilians. Yet you were a part of the destruction of tea, were you not?”
“Now, why would I admit that before a British regular?” The man smirks.
Matthew lifts an eyebrow. Josiah scowls immediately. “He isn’t anymore.”
“Not in any sense but heart, no?” Mr. Dawes swallows hard.
“Perhaps you ought to divulge the nature of your call, sir.” Matthew keeps his words measured.
“I know you’ve done much work with the prisoners.” He politely avoids Josiah’s empty sleeve, but his husband squirms anyhow. “I surmise, Mr. Wilcox, that you are inclined to mercy for your fellow British.”
“All prisoners deserve mercy,” Matthew says evenly, though his heart pounds.
“We agree.” Dawes smiles, and then he’s focused on Josiah. “My son’s husband would have been among those captured, if he had not been discharged. Two of his comrades are held here. Comrades in more than regiment, if you take my meaning. If they are recognized… I fear there will be no mercy.”
“Are they not to return to London as soon as the winter ends?” Josiah asks.
Dawes shakes his head. “Word came last week. Congress has revoked the convention; they will be prisoners until the war ends, or they are exchanged.”
“What?!” Josiah bursts out. Mother claps a hand over her mouth.
Matthew’s heart twists. All his efforts feel in vain.
“You’ve heard of Colonel Henley’s court-martial, no? For the soldier he stabbed in cold blood, to hear my informer tell it.” Dawes cracks his knuckles. “If the Colonel can admit to stabbing a man for ‘insolence,’ can you imagine what he will do if these men are recognized?”
“Is his court-martial not ongoing?” demands Josiah.
Dawes glowers. “Do you really believe General Burgoyne can secure a conviction to an American audience? Honor be damned. Inserting himself in place of William Tudor destroyed any chance for justice.”
Matthew recalls Cunningham, how he let those men’s wounds fester, how he delighted when Matthew fell into his hands. Is the world so base that it holds more creatures like Cunningham?
“I know I cannot save them all. But these two… for my sons’ sake, I am inclined to act,” Dawes rasps. “Alas, I am too renowned to intervene in person. But, Mr. Cairn, you know the area. If you – if you can put them on the road to Newport –”
Newport, Rhode Island, which the British army holds. It is less than sixty miles. Not far, and yet, there are too many people along the way.
Josiah has paled, and Sarah weighs heavy in Matthew’s arms. Once more he is torn, between his old family, and his new.
“Sir,” Matthew hesitates, “We’ve a family.”
“I can pay –”
“I would not do this for money,” Matthew interrupts.
“You’ll have it anyway,” Dawes insists. “We’ve a plan. You’d only need to give them some directions.”
“Some directions? We cannot just leave them,” Josiah scoffs.
“But…” Matthew looks at his husband’s empty sleeve. “You are also recognizable.”
“As are you.” Josiah tugs Matthew’s golden braid, smiling up at his towering height. “We can direct them, but not steal them away. But I know someone who can, though it may take a few weeks for him to obtain the necessary permissions.”
Matthew thinks for a moment. It must be.
Josiah bows to Dawes. “My sister Susannah’s to visit a patient in Boston any day now. We’ll accompany her and find you to confirm a timeline.”
“I am in your debt,” rasps Dawes.
Matthew’s words fail, but Josiah is right, and he wants to do this, he does. If only they don’t risk Sarah and Martin.
“Thank heavens! I’d beat you if you refused!” Keziah throws the door to the basement open, and even Matthew has to laugh.
***
February 25, 1778
As McCauley swings an axe to cut some of the meager firewood they’re permitted, sparks flit across Rodger’s face again. The question of what would happen if they all swung towards their captors instead of wood.
For his part, McCauley’s seen enough death. Not just that night on King Street eight years ago, but those weeks last autumn, skirmish after battle after battle. He’ll never forget the desperation in a person’s eyes as they fight to live.
All of those men remind him of Mary, of the way her fingers clung to his as she labored in vain, how she fought to survive, how her last words begged his forgiveness, and how that stabbed deeper than any bayonet, because he’d gladly have surrendered his own life for hers.
This prison is colder and shabbier than that gaol across the river, but at least he can move about here. No iron bars cage him like an animal. Here, the bars were first empty promises of ships to carry them to London. Now their cell is invisible threats of desertion peppered with reminders of that unfortunate brother who soaked the barracks with his own blood.
“Thank you, miss,” says a pimply young guard who stands not far from McCauley. A militiaman by his lack of uniform, he clutches a canteen of what is most likely ale or grog. “You’re plenty kind.”
“As are you, sir!” Eliza chirps as she twirls a shiny dark strand around her finger before sidling into the barracks, where Patrick still lies, recovering from a relapse of that cough. McCauley brightens, as they all do in her presence.
Doubtless she began her visits for Kilroy’s sake. But even after she’d been reassured that he and Abijah were left in London, she kept coming. A kind soul, indeed.
Her steps are light. She must carry good news, but McCauley follows anyhow. He likes to know as much as possible about as many as possible.
Patrick stiffens. His hollow cheeks tighten, giving him the appearance of a skeleton. He looks terrible, but as long as Maggie and Mary survive, so will Patrick.
“She keeps improving. Slow, but steady,” Eliza assures.
Patrick exhales.
She plops a basket beside him; inside are two loaves of bread. There may be dried fruit, fruit dotted within. “Fear not, I’ve no hand in preparing this.”
“Surely anything from your hands would be angelic,” says Rodgers.
“You would be dead in a day,” she says flatly, and despite their situation, despite their ravenous hunger, the men snort.
Eliza lowers her voice, leans forward. “You’ll hear soon enough. Colonel Henley was acquitted.”
Thomas’ jaw spasms; Patrick can only shake his head in dismay.
“Damn it.” Carroll clenches his fists.
“Damn Henley. Damn Congress. Damn that jury,” Dixson has tears in his eyes. He and Rodgers had witnessed it.
McCauley’s mind whirls. Here in Boston, where Montgomery and Kilroy were convicted of manslaughter against a mob, a man who ran unarmed Corporal Hadley through with his sword, hard enough to bend the metal, was acquitted. If not for Hadley’s arm and rib, he would have been killed.
You see, when Burgoyne had surrendered at Saratoga last October, they were informed he had negotiated a convention that prevented their imprisonment. They would be permitted to sail home, never to return to the war, but they would be free.
But winter arrived first, and though they were promised they merely had to wait until spring, McCauley’s misgivings rose and rose. In response to their conditions, a riot broke out in early January, and Corporal Hadley nearly paid with his life. Henley claims the man disobeyed his orders to disperse, but McCauley noted the militia guards’ own skepticism. He suspects ’twas more to send a message: that they are trapped.
Two weeks past, the cruel truth was finally ascertained: this perfidious Congress nullified General Burgoyne’s convention. They are captives of war, and will remain so until this war ends or they are exchanged. Given the thousands of Yankee prisoners in New York rumored to die in dozens at one time, McCauley doesn’t imagine there’s much eagerness to exchange.
“Damnation,” Eliza agrees. “Why is it always tragedy that moves men?”
Rodgers sends her a questioning look.
McCauley understands immediately. “Our officers have been quite clear that leaving is desertion.”
“Pish posh. They’re told to say that to keep you in here,” Eliza argues, and she’s right.
McCauley knows they are on borrowed time, but he is reluctant to flee. Rhode Island isn’t far, but they are too large to fit in well. They’d need to avoid the main roads, and he’d be lost.
“It isn’t safe to leave,” she agrees, brushing back a strand of hair. She looks back and forth between McCauley and Carroll. “But is it safe here, for you two especially?”
“The lass speaks true,” Thomas says.
“We cannot leave you,” Carroll growls. “You might be recognized, too!”
“We weren’t charged for murder,” McDeed retorts. “What can they say, that they nearly killed Rodgers and Thomas? That Dixson was involved with a bat? No, they’ll focus on you two. And there will be no justice.”
“Patrick, you at least –” begins Carroll.
“I’m going nowhere until my girl recovers. First, it must be you two,” Patrick says firmly. “I shall not die, not as long as Mary and Maggie draw breath.”
It isn’t so simple, McCauley knows, but he daren’t contradict his friend. Both of them, alpha men with beta Marys. Watching Patrick’s family bloom has soothed his own tragedy.
“Carroll, you know Warren would have already fled. And McCauley, you know your Mary would want you to flee. You know it.” Thomas is as adamant as he’s never been.
Carroll gulps. William Warren is his dearest friend, but some years ago he transferred out of the grenadiers for disciplinary issues. Now he’s safe in Canada, and no doubt frantic over the fate of his former company. Knowing Warren, only the threat of a noose would keep him from launching his own poor rescue plan.
McCauley feels struck in his heart. He wants to argue, because the only reason he can endure a second imprisonment is Mary. How can he leave his brothers here?
Now they will be the ones leaving the others behind, and he’s no desire to abandon them. “Patrick, you and McDeed have family –”
“Kitty is safe mending laundry,” McDeed interrupts. “Carroll. McCauley. It would do us all good not to fret over your imminent discovery. We’d rather not lose you in Boston a second time.”
“We’d not lose you,” McCauley snaps, but – how can they stay here?
“I’ll return in a few days, when I know more.” Eliza smirks as she smoothes her skirt. “In the meantime: none of you are alone. And if all goes well, who knows? Perchance this is not an end but a beginning.”
She would – she’d risk – how – McCauley’s head spins, but she’s already striding away, and they cannot ask more, lest suspicion fall upon this miracle of a woman.
Dixson mutters, “She’d make a fine army wife.”
McCauley nods. Dixson is a kind, sensitive man. Miss Thornton would be treated quite well if they could escape.
But at present, they need more prospects than prisoners of war.
***
April 3, 1778
It’s been a full fortnight since Miss Thornton’s last visit, and McCauley cannot but fret that she’s taken ill, or been discovered. After three delays, her last promise was that things were finally in place, and to listen for a secret word that has never come.
Even worse, a new retinue of militia arrived as guards a few days ago. Initially, McCauley had harbored hopes, only these men are even more embittered towards the British regulars. And new rumors have emerged that soon they’ll be marched to Rutland, further from Rhode Island.
As twilight fades, a militiaman stalks into the barracks. He snaps his fingers at McCauley and Carroll. “You two, with me. You’re tall enough. The roof needs fixing.”
“At night?” Carroll cannot resist. The sun has set, and though there’s no storm, the wind howls outside.
“Have you such little affection for your comrades that you’d let them shiver in the rain?” grouses the man. “And here I thought the famed British grenadiers feared no difficulty.”
McCauley eyes this guard as others laugh. He’s young and thin, twenty at most, with strongly blonde hair and missing two fingers on his right hand. There’s alcohol on his breath.
As faint as he feels from hunger, this militiaman would be easy to disarm.
No. He should not.
“Where is the problem, sir?” McCauley rises reluctantly.
Carroll begins to stand, only Thomas shoves him down. “Can you provide more details?”
The guard scoffs. “It appears you fear advancing liberty to the extent you’ll punish your comrades.”
And then he glares straight into their eyes.
The word is ‘liberty.’ She’d worn a most precocious smirk.
A shiver runs down McCauley’s spine. Thomas steps back.
“We’ll be right behind,” McDeed murmurs. “Go. Don’t disobey.”
As he takes a step, McCauley frantically scans Patrick’s smirk, Dixson’s pockmarks, Rodger’s prominent Adam’s apple. The gentle blaze that simmers in Thomas’ dark gaze. That scar on McDeed’s forehead, from that tavern brawl he attempted to stop in Ireland all those years ago.
Memorizing them, until he sees them again.
“Walk in front of me,” orders the guard. He keeps his firelock fixed on them as they pass two more militiamen slouched against the crooked walls.
“They’re more in liquor than me.” The guard grins, a little uneasy as they reach the road.
“I suppose you had no hand in that?” Carroll asks lightly.
“How could I?” The man flexes his scarred hand before gesturing towards a grove that lines this path. “Behind the tree, right there. Make haste.”
McCauley and Carroll dart behind a large elm. Their benefactor quickly rummages through the roots to unveil two cloaks, several shirts, and breeches that, while clearly homespun, are far warmer and finer than the threadbare clothes they’ve endured. There’s even hats.
“Put these on. Hurry.” The guard’s eyes dart about.
McCauley swallows hard. To abandon their regimentals – they really will resemble deserters.
It’s the only path, he reminds himself. As long as this is no trap, they are not deserters.
“Why?” McCauley asks as he obeys. He’s surprised how loose this shirt hangs on him. He’s grown thinner than he had after eight months of Boston gaol.
Shadows haunt the guard’s face, though he doesn’t speak.
McCauley gestures to his hand. “You’ve been in a battle.”
The guard focuses on his own threadbare shoes. The only sound is the shrieks of wind and the muffled rustlings as the two prisoners button their shirts.
Finally, the guard mutters, “You’ve heard of the conditions in New York.”
McCauley nods. Carroll stills.
“I escaped. A brave corporal from our side joined hands with the omega mistress of a British soldier. If I’d stayed longer, starving in my own filth, I would be another of the disappeared. No one – no one should – no man should be treated like a beast.”
His voice tremors, and he’s there again, McCauley and Carroll can see it in his pale blue-gray eyes. They can comprehend it in the liquor on his breath, the desperation, the reason he sounds as if he’s pleading with God above.
“My brother-in-law, he died the day I received this.” The guard holds up his hand. His jaw quivers. “And all those men I left, in Boston, in New York, they’re brothers too. One by one, they’ve all gone to their long homes.”
“It is not your fault. Who you left behind,” Carroll says immediately.
“I hope you speak true, enemy.” The man forces a smile. “Let’s be on our way. It isn’t far.” He gestures them onwards.
“What is your name, sir?” Carroll inquires.
Why would he give it? ’Tis safer not to divulge information. Yet, to McCauley’s surprise, the guard meets their eyes again. Seeking the comfort of being known.
“Kemp. David Kemp.”
“You are a brave man, Mr. Kemp,” McCauley says quietly. He echoes the words he spoke to Kilroy and Montgomery when they’d been left behind. The words Hartigan once told him, when Mary passed, the same words he repeated before Hartigan perished. “Both those who succumb and the survivors who endure, each are brave in their own way.”
***
A tavern rises at the intersection of Charlestown Lane, with a wagon waiting outside. A familiar, rather beautiful face sits within.
Eliza waves briefly.
McCauley is mildly surprised to see her, but then, they all know not to underestimate how far her schemes may go.
Two men sit in the fore. One is small of stature and frame. His left sleeve hangs empty, and his dark eyes glow with determination. A baby is crooked in his right arm.
The other is taller and broader than Warren, with golden hair and a grim expression upon his pursed lips. A boy who cannot be more than two has his arms wrapped tightly around this man’s shoulders.
“We always seem to cross paths in prisons.” The taller man bows to Kemp, the boy still clinging to him.
“’Tis considerably superior to be the guard this time.” Their rescuer grins. “I’ve taken Corporal Royal’s example, you might say.”
The tall one’s face clouds. “I hope he fares well.”
“As do I,” says Kemp freely, even though McCauley suspects they speak of a British officer.
“You ought to return to your duties,” says the small one. “I’m glad to see one of us again, friend.”
For a moment, the expressions they exchange convey something so awful, so horrid that McCauley forgets to breathe. A feral scream that cannot ever be expressed, the same scream he and Carroll have repressed for months.
These three were prisoners together, doubtless. And most of their brethren shall never be seen again.
McCauley prays that is not true of his comrades, the comrades he just left, weak but alive, alive, alive.
“Get in.” The small man gestures to the back of the wagon. “Mr. McCauley, you and Miss Thornton are eloping in scandal. Mr. Carroll is her brother. You’ve paid us for a ride, as we are on our way to visit a sick aunt in Bristol. The babe is yours.”
He holds the child forth.
Eliza colors, but that quickly is replaced by nervous laughter as the tall man adds, “Drop her and you die.”
“We would never,” says Carroll. “Well, McCauley shan’t. He’s good with children.”
Eliza squeaks, and she’s rather pretty like this, McCauley must admit. Is he betraying Mary and their little Eleanor, who never lived more than an hour?
No, no, she would want him to escape, even with another child who is not theirs. He scoops the baby from Eliza’s arms and settles beside his ‘intended.’ Except now Dixson’s remarks drum between his ears, and he must force himself to meet her eyes.
The tall man has finally persuaded his boy to release him. The child plops beside Carroll’s feet, looking up at them with wide blue eyes, the bluest McCauley’s ever seen. He chews his thumb as he offers, “I’m Martin. That’s Sarah.”
“I’m William,” says McCauley, smiling. He nods to Carroll. “And this is John.”
As the cart creaks away, the small man turns to beam at them. “You’ve already met our little ones, but I’m Josiah Cairn. This is my husband, Matthew Wilcox.” He nods to the tall man. “Do the shirts fit? My sister will ask. She used him to estimate.”
McCauley smiles tentatively. “We’ve no complaints.”
“Any new clothing might as well be King George’s robes,” Carroll adds.
“I wouldn’t say his name in these parts,” Matthew says briskly.
McCauley’s curiosity is piqued; clearly, these men are Americans in disposition as well as location. “Why are you aiding us? It cannot be mere compassion.”
“Why not?” Cairn retorts, as if he’s offended.
“Because it isn’t,” huffs Matthew as he urges the horse along. He lowers his voice. “I was once a grenadier in the 5th Regiment of Foot.”
“You deserted?” Carroll asks dryly.
Josiah gasps. “He would never!”
“But he would.” Matthew jerks his head towards Josiah. The two exchange fond smiles. “Once they learned I was an omega, I could not continue in this war. We were sent to London with nowhere to go, but we found our way home.”
McCauley starts. The 5th – a grenadier – “You’re – you’re that omega!”
Matthew flushes.
“No, no, we were more admiring of you than not,” Carroll hastens to reassure him.
McCauley clutches the baby. This man survived a full decade in the army, it was said, without detection. No wonder; McCauley would never dream that someone with his likeness could be anything but an alpha.
They said he was only discovered because he took compassion on a rebel who had previously saved his life.
A loyal heart, these men have, despite their differing sides.
***
After a few hours, they reach a tavern with whimsical, heart-shaped cutouts on the shutters. McCauley’s heart skips. They’re nowhere close to Rhode Island; by his best estimates, they’ve gone ten or fifteen miles southwest.
Suppose they are caught? But then, riding through the night might also arouse suspicions, should they happen upon any militia.
“Fear not,” Matthew murmurs as little Martin climbs him again. Josiah has already hastened towards the inn.
If the cautious Matthew is not worried, he shouldn’t either. “How do you know this place?”
Matthew’s cheeks color. “He hid me here. Once.”
McCauley softens. They were all prisoners, a bond he’d not like to share with anyone.
“Mrs. Woodward, how do you fare?” Josiah chirps from the door, and McCauley breathes a sigh of relief. Wherever this tavern is, if they know the owner, they ought to be safe.
They soon find themselves crowded into a room with two beds. Matthew unwraps parcels of cornbread for everyone as Josiah retrieves Sarah from McCauley’s arms. Martin stumbles over his fathers to hold his dear sister in their bed.
McCauley nearly cries when he tastes the cornbread. He’s not had food this tasty in months, perhaps a year. Carroll has already finished his.
“Tomorrow at dawn, we’ll start for Rhode Island. You’ll need to take the ferry, with your story,” Josiah says. “But we can take you that far.”
“Thank you, sir.” McCauley smiles at Sarah. “I suppose you’ll want my intended and I to part with our dear daughter?”
“Indeed.” Josiah kisses the baby’s head; she reaches up to grab his nose. His voice comes forth strangled. “The ferryman can remain ignorant of that part of your story.”
There’s worry behind Josiah’s laughter. Travelers with children are far less suspicious than those alone, but ’tis a risk McCauley doubts these two took lightly.
“I shall sleep on the floor,” declares Carroll. “McCauley, Miss Thornton, I trust you to wait one night.”
“Nonsense. We’ve a babe already. We share,” Eliza shoots back before flopping on the very, very edge of this thin ticking mattress.
It’s more a bed than they’ve had in months. But they are filthy and –
“What kind of brother –”
“A protective one, allowing her to marry her lover,” snaps Josiah, jabbing his finger towards Carroll.
This benefactor must have a younger sister of his own. McCauley claps a hand on Carroll’s shoulder. “Fear not. Your supervision shall protect your sister’s virtue, as Mr. Cairn has his.”
Josiah gulps. Matthew opens his mouth, but to McCauley’s disappointment, his benefactor clamps his lips shut rather than elaborate.
Perhaps, then, these men cannot judge. After all, were not the rumors that the omega was found pregnant?
They are strangers. He daren’t ask. Yet, as he falls asleep clinging more to Carroll than Miss Thornton, a free man even if just for a night, he wonders if they’ve stronger bonds anyway. A bond of those who know what it is like to escape prison.
***
To Josiah’s dismay, a snowstorm begins not long after noon, and ’tis violent enough that he cannot see beyond a few feet.
Never mild of manners, Sarah begins to cry; as Eliza clutches Sarah closer to keep her warm, the child kicks her in protest. McCauley wrestles the babe from her arms, wincing.
“Pass her to me.” Josiah positions Martin on his lap. “Martin, you hold Sarah while I hold you.”
“Mm,” says Martin, ever eager to please. Sarah quiets as soon as she is in her brother’s arms, and their boy brightens.
“In the meantime, warm your sweetheart, future brother.” Carroll shoves McCauley into Eliza, to Josiah’s amusement.
McCauley stiffens, but she is shivering terribly. “Forgive me for being forward,” he mutters as he drapes an arm around her.
“Nothing to forgive,” she mutters, leaning pressing her head into his chest to shield her face from the ice falling around them. His auburn tangles spill across her silken brown locks.
Perhaps Matthew is correct, Josiah allows. Perhaps there are more feelings between Miss Thornton and this man than honor and loyalty.
Worry pierces Carroll’s dark eyes. From what Kemp said, the barracks were only half-built. Doubtless they fret for the brethren they’ve left behind.
“We cannot go much farther,” Josiah whispers.
“We’ve gone too far already.” A muscle spasms in Matthew’s jaw; doubtless he fears risking their children beyond what they’ve already allowed. Though they have Susannah’s word that she would find the children if they found themselves arrested.
Not twenty minutes later, the snow shifts to soaking rain, and Josiah yearns for snow again. The rain penetrates their coats far faster, and Martin’s teeth have begun to chatter.
There’s a cluster of houses ahead. Tavern or not, they must stop here.
Josiah breathes a sigh of relief as a large black sign with gold letters swings in the wind. S. French’s Tavern.
Matthew halts Pretty Pony, who is neither pretty nor a pony, but a sturdy stallion with the misfortune to have been named by Magdalena. “Everyone in here.”
“Do you know these people as well?” Carroll queries.
“No, but let’s not perish of cold,” Josiah says. The men acknowledge this with a grimace.
The tavern door swings open, and a young lady with dimples and dark hair exits, a cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “How may I help you, sirs? Here to escape the weather?”
“Aye,” Josiah says cheerfully, lifting their adorable children for her viewing. “We’re on our way to visit our ailing aunt in Bristol, but we were not expecting this weather.”
“Oh, you poor dears,” tuts the lady at once. She reaches out to pinch Martin’s cheeks. “Come in, come in. There’s a fire to warm you up. I’ll lead your wagon to our stable –”
“I can manage, thank you, madam,” Matthew says.
“Mrs. French, if you please.” She bobs her head and waves them inside.
As they step into this blessedly warm room, hazy with smoke, Josiah fights the urge to scream. His grip tightens on Martin and Sarah. Even Eliza turns ashen, and the two regulars tremble from more than ice.
Because inside, directly beside the hearth, sit a Continental army officer and several soldiers.
This officer is younger than most. He smiles coolly, but there’s wariness in his eyes.
Josiah counts five men. Enough to capture them, even if they’ve the brawn and height of three grenadiers.
There’s only one option.
Josiah slides Martin and Sarah to the floor. He spins towards the men, displaying his empty sleeve. “How do you fare, good sirs?”
“Well. And you?” The officer stands to bow. “Captain Samuel French.”
“S. French, I suppose? Is this your tavern? ’Twas a blessed sight out on the road,” Josiah chatters. “We set out to visit Aunt Elizabeth in her infirm, and heavens, I fear my omega and I shall soon fall ill beside her.”
Amusement dances on several of the soldiers’ expressions. Josiah does not resemble an alpha, and even with children in his arms, Matthew will never resemble an omega.
And yet, if they suspected Matthew of soldiery, Josiah is certain he’s extinguished that possibility.
“Have you many brothers?” says French with a small frown as he surveys Carroll and McCauley.
The door opens behind Josiah. He prays ’tis Mattthew.
“Nay. We’ve not met before this morning. These are Mr. William Carroll, Mr. John McCauley, and the lovely lady is Miss Eliza McCauley, soon to be Carroll.” Josiah deftly switches names.
“Forbidden love, it seems, and a dutiful brother,” grunts Matthew’s welcome voice. “We agreed to give them a ride out of Massachusetts.”
Carroll smirks, and Eliza blushes, perfectly playing their parts.
“Perhaps you should enlist, brother dear. You, on the other hand –” Eliza shakes her fist sternly towards McCauley.
He offers a feeble smile to the soldiers. “If I’d like to actually swear vows soon, I suppose I oughtn’t.”
Carroll slams his hand on the table. “I am seeing you wed, Eliza, if it is the last thing I do!”
“Then join them and perhaps it shall be,” she replies, sticking out her tongue as if they truly are siblings.
“There is no requirement to join to stay here tonight,” Captain French says dryly, and finally, finally, the light of suspicion leaves his eyes.
***
The rain returns to snow the next morning. As they break their fast on hot stirabout, McCauley’s eyes water. It’s been so long since he’s eaten oatmeal mixed with milk.
Josiah continues to befriend French. “How fares recruitment? The alliance with France must have more ready to serve, no?”
“And yet we’ve need for more.” French sighs. “Where you’re headed, be warned. There’s not 250 men between Warren and Bristol. If we’ve ever hope of defending our land or retaking Newport, we need more than the French.”
What useful information. McCauley repeats it in his head a dozen times.
“Indeed, we need this French.” Though his wife pinches his ears, they’ve already blushed.
Josiah laughs lightly. He touches his shoulder, almost absent-mindedly.
“Did you serve?” a young soldier asks suddenly.
Josiah gulps; Matthew moves beside his husband at once. “He was at Bunker Hill, sir. In the redoubt.”
McCauley’s eyes widen. Carroll stops chewing.
Captain French’s lips part. “You are a brave man.”
Josiah fidgets, but Matthew hastens, with a fond smile, “That he is.”
He is. He fought and killed many, most like, and he still risks his life to save his enemy. McCauley’s throat tightens. He seizes the mug of small beer. “To Mr. Cairn, brave for liberty.”
Matthew finally bestows McCauley a look of approval. He raises his cup.
Josiah splutters, waving towards Captain French. “To all soldiers brave for liberty!”
Captain French and his soldiers raise their cups as well. Now, this captain shall never suspect their meaning, but McCauley understands the intensity of Josiah’s gaze.
All of them, brave for liberty in their own way.
“That includes you, Mr. Cairn! And my sister, for choosing her husband.” Carroll raises his cup. Eliza only echoes her ‘brother’ after elbowing his side.
As McCauley drains his mug, Eliza squints out the window. “I believe the snow has stopped for now.”
***
The gray waves of Narragansett bay are tipped with white, tinged with the golden hue of sunset. They’ve been fortunate enough not to suffer more than a flurry or two, and even in Warren, they encountered few soldiers. None stopped to question them.
Brick and wood houses dot the shore up ahead. Bristol.
And the island beyond it, Aquidneck, hills of soggy grass browned from winter. A windmill tops a hill not far in the distance, and if Josiah strains, it appears there is a redoubt on that hill.
Safety, for these men. Not for Josiah or Matthew. If they are caught, Josiah can only pray Providence spares them on account of their children.
“Wait.” Carroll sounds confused. “What will you do, Miss Thornton?”
“I must go to Aquidneck with you,” she replies.
“And when you return?” He is aghast.
“She can’t,” Matthew says shortly. “She knew this before she began.”
’Tis the only way to keep the disguise, she’d argued, until Josiah and Matthew surrendered, though Matthew soon after remarked that this schemer must be smitten with one of these men.
“I insisted,” she admits. “I wanted to ensure your safety as much as possible. And if that means I stay among Loyalists, branded a traitor, so be it. I have not betrayed my friends. To me, that is loyalty superior to loyalty of country.”
“Some would call you loyal to both country and friends,” Matthew says slyly as he passes them a few pence for the ferry.
“I would,” says Josiah, his eyes damp, Patriot though he is.
“We’ll find work for you,” McCauley assures her. She smiles and nods, all demure.
Carroll’s eyes bulge. Matthew stifles a guffaw.
“You were right,” Josiah breathes quickly. “Well, the ferry is at the southern tip of Bristol. Keep going, friends.”
Friends. They are near strangers, and they are on opposing sides of a war. Yet, they are friends all the same.
“Say good day.” Matthew strokes Martin’s brown locks.
“Good day!” he cheers as the men depart, walking down State street. “Good day! Good day!”
“She’ll wed that man by summer, mark my words.” Matthew guides Pretty Pony to turn about.
“I believe you,” Josiah grins. “Now, shall you take us to dear Aunt Bethiah, my dear husband?”
He glares. “I thought it was Aunt Elizabeth!”
“I thought better of it,” Josiah protests. “‘Bethiah’ is more a fit for our family.”
“Is it?” Matthew draws Josiah and their children into his arms. “Not anymore.”
Josiah smiles up at him. They’re not safe, they won’t be until they return, and even then, they must hope no one ever questions. Yet he’s no regrets. In Matthew’s arms, this man makes him feel safe enough to dare more and more, to show their children they should always be bold in pursuit of compassion. “No, not anymore.”
***
“Who goes there?”
Even after dark, McCauley can discern this guard’s distinctive popinjay green facings. He’s of the 54th. Several pickets have been posted on a hill topped with a battery not two miles past the ferry, and as he hoped, they’ve been spotted.
McCauley pauses. Why do his palms sweat, why does his stomach feel swarmed by wasps, only now?
He was calm in the face of that suspicious ferryman. Only Eliza’s tears that her father intended to stop their marriage at all costs had softened the man enough to row them, and even then, he glared daggers, as if he knew their real intent. Without her continuous sniveling, McCauley’s quite sure he and Carroll would have been tossed into the bay.
“We are members of the 29th Regiment of Foot. We’ve made good our escape from Cambridge,” Carroll supplies.
The guard frowns, though his musket lowers. Another guard approaches, and a third, their countrymen, their countrymen. “How would you make it through Bristol?”
“Some friends of the King and some friends of liberty… for all men, it seems,” McCauley answers honestly.
“And the lady?”
“Our guide.”
The moon emerges from behind a cloud, and the guard’s expression eases. Perhaps he can see the weariness in their gaunt faces, the stubble beginning to grow on their chins, the shadows both within and under their eyes. “Welcome back, sirs.”
The warmth that spreads within is hotter than the summer sun in Florida.
’Tis nearing midnight, and another ten mile journey, before McCauley, Carroll, and Eliza find themselves in Newport. Only it feels like dawn, it feels like they’ve eaten a feast rather than a few salted rations, because they’re safe, they’re back, they’re truly back.
They’re escorted to the parlor of none other than General Robert Pigot. McCauley and Carroll stand to salute, while Eliza bobbles a curtsy.
They have never been in the presence of such a high-ranking officer. General Pigot is pasty-faced and plump, rather short. But his title alone intimidates.
“Sergeant Carroll and Corporal McCauley. Please, sit.” Pigot gestures to a sedan behind him. “You were with the 29th’s grenadiers, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Captain Petersham’s company,” says McCauley.
“The lady, who is she?” He speaks as if Eliza cannot answer.
“Miss Eliza Thornton is a friend. A very clever friend,” supplies McCauley.
Pigot’s eyebrow slides up his forehead.
Carroll dons a look of disgust. “Sir, we first made her acquaintance eight years past. McCauley and I – we were among the eight on trial for our lives, she aided the defense.”
Eliza coughs.
Pigot seems stunned. “The shooting in Boston?”
“Yes, sir,” McCauley says quietly.
“You saved their lives twice, then.” Pigot bows to Eliza, who squeaks in protest. He lifts his quill pen. “Are there others there?”
“Not from that incident,” Eliza answers first. “I made sure of it. The others shall most likely flee upon the march to Rutland. Our guard has his directions.” She winks.
McCauley’s jaw drops.
“The lady has more steel than most men,” observes Pigot.
“She does indeed,” Carroll says, nudging McCauley’s foot.
“Mm.” McCauley doesn’t understand why he feels self-conscious.
“How did you arrange their escape, Miss?” Pigot asks. “Besides bribing a guard.”
“’Twas not a bribe, so much as a plea from a friend of a friend,” McCauley answers.
“We pretended to be an eloping couple. Mr. Carroll is as swarthy as I, so he was my brother, determined to see Mr. McCauley and I wed,” Eliza titters. “Our benefactors who took us also had children along them, and that kept suspicions at length.”
McCauley burns.
It feels as if Pigot scrutinizes his face. “I see. What did you notice along the journey?”
“We encountered a continental who said there were less than 250 men stationed from Warren to Bristol.” McCauley scratches his head. “Given how few we encountered, I don’t doubt it.”
“He shared this with you openly?” Pigot is bemused.
“Our benefactor, who transported us in his wagon, he was a continental at one point. But married to a, er, loyalist.” Carroll fumbles to describe Matthew. He directs a pointed smile to McCauley. “It seems that love triumphed over everything else.”
***
Three days later, the sky is finally clear enough, and the weather pleasant enough, for McCauley to watch the stars again. He used to do this with Mary.
He knows now how Kilroy and Montgomery felt. When what is right feels so wrong.
Yesterday, McCauley and Carroll were stunned when none other than General John Burgoyne arrived in Newport by ship. He and his aides had been granted parole, and the General is keen to leave this continent and his men behind.
Oh, McCauley knows he is being unfair. Burgoyne tried to save his men as best he could. He even prosecuted that court martial against Colonel Henley. Congress’s treachery is not his fault.
This morning, a Major Mackenzie of the Royal Welch Fusiliers approached them. Evidently, Pigot had conveyed their arrival to Burgoyne, and he requested to speak to them.
As expected, the general was not near as thin or dirty as the soldiers. And yet, those black eyes teemed familiar ghosts. “You are both eligible to return home on the next ship. The Grampus is to sail at the first fair wind.”
“Yes, but General Pigot is in need of numbers, sir,” said McCauley.
“It is true he could use dependable officers. But, he told me who you are.” Burgoyne rubbed his temples. “If an attack is truly imminent on Newport… I would be loathe in my duty, to at least two men out of the six thousand I’ve led, not to entreat they return home instead. If it’s the bounty for escape you fear, you will receive it no matter your choice.”
Carroll’s nostrils flare. “’Tis our countrymen we fear for.”
“No one feels that more than I,” Burgoyne said, and his voice even trembled.
Half of McCauley wanted to weep with him, whilst the other half wished to punch this general as he screamed the names of the private soldiers in his company, one by one, who cannot gain parole, who are prisoners, who have been helped more by enemies and a woman than their general.
But now, twelve hours later, McCauley knows this general is right. To stay is a risk.
Yet how can he leave?
Leave Patrick, Thomas, McDeed, Rodgers? And for Carroll, how can he leave Warren in Canada?
“What will you do?” Eliza asks. He’d asked her to sit beside him.
“I do not know.”
“You do,” she retorts. “You know what you should choose.”
He does, but he doesn’t wish to admit it. Instead, he croaks, “Why have you cared so much?”
Eliza sighs. “You must know I sought you out for Matthew’s sake, at first. But I recognized you, as well. And Mr. Carroll, he was there that day I ended things with Matthew.”
She tilts her head. “Matthew needed no saving, but his friends did.”
McCauley’s heart pounds. “Do you still love him?”
“I always will.” Her eyes mist. “Oh, I shan’t seek him out. I am happy he found his peace in Mr. Dawes. But I – he saved me, in a manner of speaking. I wanted to return the favor.”
“How so?” McCauley frowns. There’s a shadow dancing about her countenance.
She’s quiet, gathering her thoughts. “My parents died of fever when I was quite young. I was taken in by my uncle, a fisherman in Chelsea. He… he is a cruel man. Captain Cobb found me desperate on the wharves, begging for any position. He was one of the few who believed me. He gave me an indenture, and once it was signed, I was safe from my uncle’s depravity.”
McCauley frowns. There’s something unspoken, but – surely an uncle would not –
“But, I was to avoid all temptation and debauchery from then on. I wouldn’t consider soldiers inherently debauched, but my master certainly would.” She snickers. “You were with Matthew when we first met. I recall your face. His was vexed, yours melancholy.”
“Ah, it was that notable?” McCauley grimaces. “I’d like to say I recall this, only I don’t. I’d lost my wife and daughter just before we left Halifax. Those months are meaningless to me.”
Pity swarms her eyes.
“Betas and alphas do not mix, I was warned.” He looks up at the setting moon. “I cared not. I wanted Mary anyhow, and she wanted me. A child would be a blessing, but all I needed was her.”
“You are a brave man, Mr. McCauley.”
“No braver than you. You saved Matthew and Hartigan at that trial, even though it risked your position. You saved us now, even though it placed you in danger again.” He smirks. “To quote Dixson, you would have made a fine soldier’s wife.”
Just then, Carroll stumbles up to them.
“Are you in liquor?” Eliza leaps to her feet.
“Mackenzie’s lieutenant, Townsend, he was rather generous on account of our daring enterprise.” Carroll points to McCauley and Eliza. “It’s not too late to make her one, that’s all I’ll say.”
“That’s quite enough!” Eliza sounds offended.
“I mean no offense!” Carroll insists as he claps a hand on McCauley’s shoulder. “You’ve permitted her to make a cat’s paw of you long enough. Sir, her machinations, that tale of elopement, was no coincidence. The best lies are half-truths, Warren likes to say.”
Eliza gapes.
“You daren’t deny it, Miss Thornton!”
Her only defense is to hang her head.
McCauley’s balance feels off. Eliza, she had to suffer so with her uncle. She is loyal, and courageous – and doubtless a quick study. The kind of girl who would learn exactly how to obtain what she wants.
And she wants – she wants –
Me?!
Carroll is shaking him by his collar. “Mary would want you happy. Be brave and wed this brave beta lass. Take her home with us.”
Home? Has he ever had a home?
He recalls Matthew Wilcox’s words. We were sent to London, but we found our way home.
Perhaps he ought to travel there too. Find his own way. To at least visit Kilroy and Abijah and their ever-growing brood.
McCauley jerks away from Carroll. “Suppose we throw him overboard?”
Eliza taps her chin. “You lift him. I’ll distract the crew.”
McCauley bursts into laughter, and as her melodious giggles float into his ears, he recalls all the times he and Carroll and Warren and even Montgomery would plead for Matthew to listen. To believe that he could have Abijah.
So who is he not to at least consider Carroll’s words here?
Real People
Dr. James Lloyd – 50, a Loyalist who decided to stay in Boston, so I figured he was a nice fit for helping Maggie here.
Colonel David Henley – 29, and literally the only historical figure in all of Stubborn Things that made me think “hey, fuck that guy!” Despite a month-long court martial, he was acquitted for mistreating prisoners, including stabbing a man named Corporal Hadley for not dispersing quickly enough (luckily, Hadley healed). Burgoyne insisted on acting as judge advocate (prosecutor), replacing none other than William Tudor, Abijah’s friend and fellow clerk. More on Henley in a later post.
David Kemp – 20 here, he was captured at Bunker Hill, listed as dead for the better part of a year, then later confirmed to be alive. There’s some evidence he escaped New York with a group of fellow captives, and a David Kemp later joined the militia to guard the convention army in March, 1778. There were only two recorded David Kemps in Massachusetts at the time: David and his 56-year-old father, so I decided to make this David Jr.
Samuel and Lucy French – Samuel is 27, and has been married to Lucy for three years. We know Lucy’s late husband’s last name was Peirce, but not what her maiden name is, nor her age. Samuel served in the army, and indeed his tavern in Berkley, Massachusetts, was a place of recruitment and training for the Continental army.
General Robert Pigot – 57, commander of the Newport garrison in Rhode Island.
General John Burgoyne – 56, nicknamed “Gentleman Johnny” for his disinclination towards corporal punishment, he was a playwright who had the misfortune of surrendering at Saratoga.
Major Frederick Mackenzie – his detailed diary also contained the weather, so the April snow is true! He died on July 6, 1824, at the age of 84, so he should be about 38 here.
Bibliography
- “Bristol in the American Revolutionary War,” by Christian McBurney
- Captives of Liberty: Prisoners of War and the Politics of Vengeance in the American Revolution, by T. Cole Jones
- Diary of Frederick Mackenzie, giving a daily narrative of his military service as an officer of the regiment of Royal Welch Fusiliers during the years 1775-1781 in Massachusetts, Rhode Island and New York, by Frederick Mackenzie
- Escape in America: The British Convention Prisoners, 1777-1783, by Richard Sampson
- The Heath Papers, compiled by the Massachusetts Historical Society
- “Monday Moments at the Museum,” by the Berkley Historical Society
- Roger Lamb’s American Revolution, by Roger Lamb, edited by Don Hagist
(Yes, I read 4 books for an 9000 word extra. It’s Who I Am).
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