The Promise Read online

  “We do not,” John answered, his dark eyes flashing in renewed anger. “Mister Foster, the British demand for your tobacco before trade ceased made you a wealthy man. An end to the war would reestablish that market. Aiding the Americans would be to your advantage.”

  “But the same could be said for aiding the British,” Foster returned.

  “Then your loyalties lie with them?” John asked.

  “Of course not, I favor neither side. So long as this war is ended, I do not see that it matters which side wins.”

  “America must win this war,” said John, putting his hand on George's shoulder as he passed and then retaking his seat. “We must tell them, George, they are unconvinced still. We must tell them.”

  George hesitantly agreed, “You are right.”

  “I will do it, it is enough you have witnessed it,” John paused to drink the last swallow of water in his glass. “In the days leading to the battle in Camden, General Gates carried no food and marched our army through territories to the south. They found nothing along the way except a field of green corn and the troops could not be dissuaded from eating it. Their great dysentery caused the delay of two days com­plete and weakened them cons­iderably. At the end of this time, and instead of Corn­wallis whom they sought, they faced Lord Rawdon. They lost. They were hungry, weak, sick with dysentery, and had just endured more death and dying in battle. But Gates ordered a night march further south to Camden. Along the way, he was joined by other regiments, all equally hungry. He...”

  “When we finally camped,” George interrupted, “we knew Cornwallis was near and we were to fight the next day, but just as we were falling asleep, word reached us confirming what happened at Waxhaws. We had not believed it until then, but it was true. At Waxhaws, the British Cavalry fell on a body of our Militia and cut them down. Our men had already thrown down their guns.”

  “Dear God,” Mary moaned. Uriah leaned over and whispered in her ear, but Mary shook her head.

  “Not one American,” George continued, “could grasp the reason for it, save pure evil. Most of us could not sleep. Then too, we heard first-hand accounts of how the British had burned Charleston. Three of our men called Charles­ton home and did not know if their families had survived.”

  George reached for his glass of wine and took another large swallow. “It was the seventeenth of August,” he began again. “Leastwise, that's the day we thought it was. General Gates positioned us to the left of the line, in an area of forest with swamps on either side. Our number was nearly 1800. Cornwallis had many more. Except for the small skirmish we had faced with Lord Rawdon, we Virginians, at least most of us, had never been in battle. Finally, we could hear them coming. The sounds of their feet breaking the branches seemed louder than the pounding of their drums. But we were ordered to hold and so we did. They marched nearer and nearer, but still we held.”

  The server stepped forward, poured more wine into George's glass, and then stepped back. George weakly smiled, drank, and wiped a tear off his face. “The men in front of me began to run. I could not believe it. I heard no bugler sound retreat or any man shout it. If I had not moved, the first line would have trampled me. Then all the men near me ran. I could see the full force of Redcoats coming at me. I could feel my heart beating in my throat and my hands shake. I thought I was the only man left to face them. I ran and hid behind a tree. That's when I saw him. It was General Gates on his horse, riding with all speed past my hiding place and shouting no orders at all. I did not know what to do.” His body visibly shaking, George covered his face with both hands. “I cannot, John.”

  “I will tell them,” John said softly. “The signal to retreat had not been given. Later, it was reported that the North Carolina militia, positioned on the other side of the line, also ran. The better-trained Continentals held fast to the middle and they, with one other regiment, were all that remained. They stood alone against all the Redcoats...”

  George moaned, “They screamed.” He bit his lip to keep from sobbing and waited until the urge subsided. “I stayed in my hiding place and watched Americans run past me with five or six Redcoats chasing after each.” George took a deep breath, “After the battle, we were deter­mined to rejoin the army and make another stand. We learned General Gates had gone toward Hillsborough, so we marched in that direction. There were only twenty six of us and we feared we were all that was left. We had no food, save two rabbits a man man­aged to trap, and roots we found along the way.”

  John relieved his friend again, “When word came of Camden, Captain Masterson marched us across the Dan River into Hillsborough. It was there we were joined with George and Abraham, and the most pitiful remnants of General Gates Army anyone could imagine. The men were near death. Our first duty was to feed them what we could. But the condition of their moral character had been shaken to the depth of their souls. They were now deserters. Many openly wept until they did not have the strength to do even that.

  We lay with the troops at Hillsborough more than two months while the men regained their strength,” John went on. “General Gates was relieved of his duties and passed them to General Nathaniel Green. Then we were ordered to Guilford again in search of Cornwallis. We did not find him and were marched back to Virginia.”

  John waited, but no one spoke. “Gentlemen, Waxhaws is not the only place where the British have cut down un­armed men, it is happening all over the Colonies. And Charleston is not the only place they intend to burn. If Virginia does not help and quickly, the British will win and their revenge for our rebellion will be unmerciful. They will not stop until they have killed thousands and torched all our properties. We must win. We have gone too far for a peaceful settlement. We simply must win this war!”

  The men kept their heads bowed while the women dabbed the tears from their eyes. The flickering candlelight danced on the walls and the fire in the hearth crackled, but the room seemed cold. Uriah could hear his own heart beat.

  “FIRE! FIRE!” someone outside shouted. “FIRE AT THE WADE HOUSE!”

  John completely forgot about his sore feet as he shot up and ran out the back door. When he reached the row of visitor’s horses outside, he unhitched the first, mounted, raced up the lane and turned down the road to Richmond. In the distance, he could see the red glow of smoke. As he grew nearer, enormous flames licked toward the sky through a massive hole in the roof. The two story mansion was completely engulfed by the time he arrived, dismounted, and started up the front steps. He yanked open the door and bellowed, “HESTER!”

  He received no answer. The hot flames had consumed the foyer and most of the staircase. He shielded his face and started in, but the fire was too hot and a beam in the ceiling was beginning to fall. He spun around, sprinted down the steps and raced around the house. Then he saw her. She was standing beside her father near the trees at the far end of the backyard. As he approached, he slowed, searching her face for signs of burns, and then scanning the rest of her. Slowly, he pulled her into his arms, “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Oh John, I knew you would come,” she blurted out, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “And you, Sir, are you hurt?”

  Hester’s father was still trembling as he tried to straighten his clothing and wipe the black smudges from his hands. “We barely escaped, I do not mind telling you.”

  “Redcoats?” Uriah asked, suddenly standing beside John.

  “I cannot be sure,” Mister Wade answered. “We saw a few ride by an hour ago, but they looked harmless. Besides, I am not political. What cause would they have to burn us out?”

  Uriah smiled and began to walk with him back around the burning house. “My good man, there is nothing harmless about a Redcoat. Have you anyplace to stay?”

  “We will stay with my sister.”

  “We expected you at Mahala this evening.”

  “Hester could not find one of her slippers.”

  John watched them walk away, glanced back toward the burning house and started to pul
l away from Hester. But she held on tight, so he renewed his embrace and began to stroke her hair. “You are safe now.”

  “I know, but I like feeling your arms around me. I wish this to never end.”

  “Then you should marry me.”

  Hester pulled away just enough to look up into his eyes. “I agree.”

  With that, John lowered his lips to hers and they were engaged.

  The servants, the Carsons, and the Carson guests, formed a brigade and passed buckets of water from the river to the house until the last ember was extinguished. Hardly any noticed the man, with his hands bound behind his back, being escorted through a break in the brigade by four Redcoats.

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, John joined his father in the small sitting room. His feet were healed and he gladly accepted a glass of Matthew’s favorite wine. “Father, I must go back. Please try to understand, this is my country and I cannot allow others to carry the burden of freeing her from the British.”

  Uriah raised his hand and rubbed his forehead. “It will kill your mother if anything happens to you.” He waited, but his son did not respond. “You are the heir to Mahala – the only heir. The girls cannot inherit and we have no other family.”

  John only stared into his glass.

  “Son, this is not our war. We are British. No matter the outcome, we will survive and nicely.”

  “Papa, how can you say that? You know the British will retaliate and few will be spared.”

  “We will be spared. I have connections still and we will be spared.”

  “And all our friends? Will they have sufficient connections?”

  Uriah stood up, walked to the window and thought about it. Then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “What about Hester?”

  “She has agreed to wait for me.”

  “Is there no way to stop you?”

  “None. I will be careful and I will come home. I promise it.”

  ONCE MORE, JOHN KISSED the cheeks of his mother, his aunt, all six of his cousins and Etta Henderson. Then he shook hands with Matthew and his Uncle Caleb. Facing his father last, he said, “I am counting on you to take care of them all. And see to Hester for me.”

  “You know I will.” Uriah gathered his son in his arms and whispered, “I love you.”

  “And I you.” With that, John mounted his horse and rode away.

  Uriah put his arm around Mary and watched his son turn down the road to Richmond. “You’ve loaded that horse so completely, he could not out run a pursuing turtle, my love.”

  “He’ll give most of it away as soon as he reaches the encampment. He is far too generous.”

  Uriah pulled away to look at her, “Why, Mrs. Carson, I didn’t think you suspected.” He turned her and together they walked back inside the house. “Family,” he said raising his voice so all could hear, “I desire to have a word with you.”

  As soon as they settled in the larger sitting room, Uriah slapped his hands behind his back and began to pace just as Matthew did when he was still able. Everyone giggled. ”The boy needs our help. Have you any ideas?”

  It was Elizabeth who answered first, “Shoes, he needs new shoes and often, not to mention warm clothing for winter and...”

  Soon they all began to talk at once and before they were finished, each had a chore and each was filled with purpose. Even Caleb and Elizabeth’s youngest twins took on a responsibility. In less than a week, Mary had notified all the neighbors and supplies began to flood into Mahala’s barn.

  AS SOON AS THE FIRST wagon was filled, Caleb and Uriah drove it to the encampment at Chesterfield. In an effort to keep the wagon from being inducted into the militia, they unloaded it in the woods. Late at night, Uriah snuck into the camp and put a note in John’s hat telling him where to find the supplies.

  A week later, they took another load. This time they watched from the bushes. As expected, a shout of joy went up and it was all the Captain could do to make sure each man got his fair share of food. Uriah smiled as he watched his son eat a few bites, but then his smile faded when John scraped the last of his food on to the plate of a weaker man.

  For a full three weeks, they took supplies and were amazed when they returned to find still more donations at Mahala. Only once did they find the need to hide a wagon from British soldiers.

  JUST OFF THE NARROW dirt road leading away from Richmond and toward John’s encampment, Uriah and Caleb sat against a large tree and glared at the three Redcoats guarding them from a few yards away. The brother’s hands were bound behind their backs and another rope had been wound around their chests to hold them fast to the tree. The sun was only just beginning to set.

  “A whole wagonload lost,” Caleb mumbled. “We should have brought men to protect it. It turns my stomach to think the British are feasting on all the fine food we managed to gather.”

  “We have dropped our guard and we are not so young as we once were.”

  “Quiet!” one of the guards commanded.

  The brothers stilled. A few hours later, two of the Redcoats bedded down for the night, leaving only one on guard. Uriah had nodded off for just a few moments when he felt a slight tug on the rope that wound around their chests. He glanced at Caleb, but his brother was asleep. There it was again. It was not his imagination; someone was cutting the rope behind the tree.

  “Stay still, Jonathan,” a man’s voice whispered.

  Uriah complied as the rope was loosened and pulled away. By then, Caleb was wide awake and dismayed. He turned ever so slightly and leaned forward so the mysterious man could cut the rope binding his hands.

  Uriah did the same, rubbing his freed wrists but keeping his hands behind his back. Then he heard the voice whisper, “The two on the ground are already dead. Wait here while I distract the other and then he is all yours, Jonathan.” The man slipped a long knife into his hands.

  Uriah waited, slowly inching his back up the tree and pulling one knee up so he could get to his feet quickly. Then a man, dressed in white breeches and the blood red coat of a British regular, parted the bushes in front of the guard. “Do not shoot,” the man laughed. “I be on your side.” He boldly stepped out and then greeted the man on guard like an old friend.

  Before the guard could utter a word, Uriah shoved the knife into his back. With a look of shock on his face, the guard staggered and then fell face first to the ground. Uriah pulled the knife out and turned him over to make sure he was dead.

  “Levi Moore?” Caleb gulped, “Can it truly be you?”

  Levi removed his hat and bowed to Uriah, “Lord Rodes, I’ve been scouring the land for you, Sir.”

  “Lord Rodes?” Caleb questioned.

  “You are Jonathan and Christopher Rodes, are you not?”

  Uriah answered, “We are.”

  Caleb swallowed hard, “We are?”

  “I will explain it later. First, we must make certain John has not been marched.” Uriah and Caleb followed Levi into the bushes and soon they led three British mounts to the road. The half moon shed very little light, but they followed the road for quite a ways before they turned off and bedded down for the night.

  The next morning, they remounted and headed out again. This time, Levi Moore was wearing the clothing of a farmer. When Caleb turned a weary eye on him, Levi laughed. “My boy, I’ve been a major, a beggar, an oarsman, a regular, a cook, a colonel, a priest, and a heathen. Today, I am a farmer.”

  “I see. Why have you been searching for us?”

  Levi reached into his pocket and pulled out a well-worn white scarf with the Rodes crest embroidered on it. “To give your brother this.”

  Caleb studied it and then handed it to Uriah. Uriah smiled, tipped his hat to Levi and stuffed it in his pocket.

  They rode on and it was nearly noon by the time Uriah stopped at the edge of a clearing and pulled his horse up short. “They are gone!” Before him lay a field with scorched areas where camp fires had once been and trodden down grass where soldiers had taken their rest.

  CALEB GR
OANED, “HOW will we ever find them?”

  Levi rode into the field, dismounted, and stuck a finger into the remnants of a small fire. “‘Tis cold.” He got back on his horse and searched the ground near the edge of the clearing until he found a place where the bushes and grass were heavily trampled. “They went this way.”

  Stopping only to rest the horses and eat what little they could find in the Redcoat’s saddle bags, they followed the trail of John’s regiment until it turned east on the road that bordered the James River. An hour later, they sat on their horses staring at the bloody bodies of Redcoats and militiamen alike strewn across the road. Women searched the faces of the dead looking for fathers and sons. One cried out and other women gathered to carry a body to a waiting buckboard. A man with paper and pen scoured pockets in an effort to gain the names of the dead and write them down. In time, the names would be posted in the center of towns across the land.

  “I’ll do it,” Caleb said, dismounting and walking to the first body dressed in the ordinary clothing of the militia. He looked at the face, and then shook his head. There were so many, Caleb stopped looking back to reassure his brother. Instead, he moved on to the next and the next, until he had seen the last face. He shook his head finally, headed back and noticed Levi Moore was gone. He glanced around until he spotted him waving from the edge of a clump of trees.

  Caleb mounted his horse, patted his brother on the back and pointed toward Levi. Levi Moore led two pack mules out of the bushes loaded with food and supplies.

  “Which way?” Caleb asked when they reached Levi.

  “One of the women said the call has gone out for all men to march south.”

  “South it is, then.”

  “YOU HAVE COME AT LAST,” Mary whispered, wrapping her arms around Caroline just inside Mahala's front door. “I have missed you so.”

  “Not nearly as much as I have missed you,” said Caroline. “Are they still asleep?”