“I think you’re right. Forward!”

  Once more they roared forward. The artillerymen saw them coming. Desperately they swung the guns around and fired. The first round was the solid shot they were using against the distant American infantry. A single man was plucked from the saddle. They swarmed over their guns, then, ramrods and sponges twirling and spinning. A blast of cannister ripped gaping holes in the charging line, and then they were on the guns.

  Michael used the flat of his blade where he could. He knew the Royal Artillery of old. They wouldn’t abandon or surrender their guns, and there were too few of them to stand against the charge. In an instant it was done.

  Michael looked around. There was Louis, and there Henri. And young Tom with the flag. Before he had time for more, someone screamed, “The ridge!”

  He wondered for a moment if he was seeing things. With the British infantry bearing down on them, the first line of the Americans had shouldered their muskets and was marching up the ridge. Even as he watched, the second line did the same. Morgan was riding frantically down from the ridgetop, shouting and waving his arms. The British infantry sprang forward, shouting. And the Seventeenth Dragoon swung onto the field in line to face the American cavalry.

  “What in hell’s going on?” Washington shouted. “I just sent a messenger to the militia saying if they’d hit the left flank we could roll them up.”

  “Maybe we still can,” Michael replied. He took a quick look over his shoulder. “Tarleton hasn’t got the others ready yet. If we can cut through, and hit the infantry in the rear—”

  “And if the militia shows up. Well, it’s a damned small chance, but it’s all we’ve got. Form! McCall! Harris! Form line abreast!”

  Michael awaited the order calmly. Everything seemed to move at a snail’s pace, with infinite time for the smallest things. He adjusted the chin strap on his brass helmet, and checked the wrist cord on his saber. Washington’s sword crept upward. From the British came the tinny notes of a bugle, and the Dragoons moved forward. The sword floated downward. With a roar, time returned to its normal course, and the American line rolled ahead.

  The lines smashed into each other, and Michael was again in a tangle of flashing steel and desperate men. Barely was there room to hack, and none for cut and thrust. Some of the dragoons fell back, trying to re-form where there was more space. Michael pressed forward, Legionnaires at his heels, and the dragoons were forced back again. And again. On the ridge the British bayonets were less than thirty yards from the backs of the American line, still marching away. Suddenly, as one man, the Americans turned. There was no time to shoulder muskets. They dropped them to waist level as if to use bayonets and fired. The redcoat line staggered under the blow. At once the Continentals were on them, pushing bayonets. At that instant the militia came howling around the ridge, stopping to fire as each man chose, and tore into the British left.

  First one by one, and then in bunches, the British threw down their arms and cried for quarter. “Tarleton’s quarter,” someone screamed, and a hundred voices echoed, “Tarleton’s quarter.”

  In an instant the American officers were on their men, beating aside bayonets and knocking muskets up. Michael booted one man before he could bayonet a prostrate redcoat, and rode his horse into another with an upraised saber. “They’re surrendering, damn you. Put down that saber, or I’ll have your hide for breeches.”

  “He’s leaving,” Washington yelled. “He’s running.” He put spur to horse, his Continental dragoons streaming after him. Tarleton and his British Legion cavalry, perhaps two hundred in number, were riding away to the south.

  Michael hesitated only a moment. There wasn’t a British soldier left standing who didn’t have his hands in the air. Continentals were already moving some off under guard, and the militia were already beginning to loot.

  “Major Fourrier,” he shouted, “form the Legion.”

  “Yes, sir. Bugler, sound assembly.”

  “Colonel Fallon!” General Morgan picked his way across the field, wincing at almost every step his horse took. “Colonel Fallon, leave the remnants to Colonel Washington.”

  Remnants. Then it hit him. Except for those who’d fled with Tarleton and a few stragglers, the entire British force was dead or captive. It might not be as big a victory as Saratoga, but it was every bit as complete. He said as much to Morgan.

  “Maybe so,” the general said, “but we’ve no time to rest on our laurels. Cornwallis still outnumbers us better than two to one, and he’ll burn down hell to get to us. He has political ambitions, you know, and this won’t shine in England.”

  “It looks fine from here, though, now doesn’t it? What do you want me to do, General?”

  “Until Washington rejoins us, your Legion will have to be both our eyes ahead and our eyes behind. Detach one rider for me to send a message to General Greene, and put a patrol across the river. I intend to have every man, prisoners included, across the Broad before dark. It’s time to run again.”

  Jean-Baptiste shuffled to the map on the wall of his study at Les Chenes, leaning heavily on a walking stick. The three months since the disaster at Cowpens had changed him. He was always tired, of late, and he couldn’t seem to find any appetite. Something was wrong inside, and he didn’t need those fools of doctors to tell him. He could look in a mirror and see the shrunken face and the burning eyes. He could almost count the hours left there. But it wouldn’t matter if he could bring his plans to fruition, if he could die knowing the Fourrier family was secure.

  That was why, every time he looked at the map, he wanted to howl with rage. A year before, in May of 1780, he’d been sure it was all but finished. To the north, if there’d been no great successes, at least much of what had been lost at Saratoga had been regained. And in the south the King’s forces were everywhere victorious. How could it all have changed so?

  Pins traced the armies’ movements. Morgan and Greene fled north, Cornwallis pursuing. Always the rebels fell back, and the King’s troops advanced. All the way across the Dan River into Virginia. Then, unexpectedly, they’d recrossed. There’d been a bloody, all-day battle at Guilford Courthouse. The reports agreed: the British had held the field. The rebels were limping back into South Carolina after sneaking away in the night. The latest issue of the Royal American up from Charlestown called it a great victory. But Cornwallis wasn’t pursuing any longer. The last intelligence had him moving down the river toward Cape Fear. What in God’s name could he want at Cape Fear?

  Justin pushed open the door, beating dust off his uniform. “I’ve got her.”

  “What in God’s name does he want at Cape Fear?”

  “Cape—?” Justin looked at his father in surprise, then frowned at the map. More reports, it seemed, and more worrying. The older he got, the more he worried. “Cornwallis? Maybe he’s after supplies from the Navy, or maybe he wants to move the Army by ship. It doesn’t matter. The rebels were whipped badly at Guilford Courthouse, and we’ll take care of what’s left as soon as they cross into South Carolina.”

  Jean-Baptiste snorted. “It does not matter, he says. We have no idea what is happening or why, but he says it does not matter. Cornwallis will not be resupplied at Cape Fear, nor will he enship his army. The waters are too dangerous there. He must move north into Virginia or back into South Carolina before the Navy can aid him.”

  “Well, there’s no need for him to return here. We’ll chew Greene up in one battle, what’s left of him.”

  “It is devoutly to be wished.” Jean-Baptiste dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh. “Now. What have you discovered of Gabrielle?”

  “That’s what I was telling you. I’ve got her, her and Fallon’s brats.” He went back to the door. “Get in here.”

  Jean-Baptiste coldly watched Gabrielle enter. The boy, close on five years old, clung to her skirts, and she had a newborn babe in her arms. One had been bad enough. Now his daughter had borne two of that scum’s children. Justin must be blind. Even if he couldn’t see Fallon in Robert, it should be plain that this boy was Robert’s brother. “Leave the children outside. Did you take her maid? Leave them with her.”

  Gabrielle tightened her grip. “No.”

  “Here, give them to me. Damn it, I won’t hurt them.”

  “Because you won’t touch them,” she said, backing away. “I’m warning you, Justin, if you as much as touch my children, I’ll kill you.” There was a ring of determination in her voice that brought him up short. “I know what you did to people who helped me, for no more crime than that. You will not put those bloody hands on my children.”

  Jean-Baptiste rapped his stick against the desk to get their attention. “Enough. They can stay. I do not usually allow children in this room, but I will make an exception for my, my daughter’s children.” He’d been about to say, my grandchildren, but the thought of the Fallon blood in them stopped him.

  “I’d like to go to my house in Charlestown,” Gabrielle said with firmness. “If you’ll have the coachmen take me—”

  “Oh, no,” Justin said. “You’ll remain right here at Les Chenes, where we can keep an eye on you.”

  Jean-Baptiste spoke before Gabrielle could open her mouth to protest. “We can keep an eye on her just as well in Charlestown.” Certainly, considering the risk of Justin seeing James and Robert together. He couldn’t give Justin time to protest. “The infant, is it a boy, or a girl?”

  “A girl.” She smiled at the child, and cooed to make her smile back. “Her name is Catherine,” she added, and saw the arrow strike home.

  “Your mother’s name,” Jean-Baptiste said finally. “And did Fallon approve of that?”

  “He did,” she lied. Michael had been gone for six months, but it seemed like six years.

  Justin smirked. “Trying to ingratiate himself now that his damned rebellion’s lost.”

  “No matter,” Jean-Baptiste said. “It will do him no good.” He examined Catherine carefully. “She may gain beauty; a useful quality.” He turned away. “Send them on to the city, Justin.”

  Gabrielle felt a chill inside as Justin took her out to the carriage. A useful quality, her father said. What if he took the child, to raise under his care? She had to escape. Somehow, she had to.

  The British officers riding by bowed with exaggerated courtesy, but the women pointedly turned their backs and fanned the hot August air vigorously, as if dispelling a bad odor.

  “At least they didn’t stop,” Gabrielle said.

  Lucy Mainwaring laughed. “Oh, my dear, they at least know by now that no decent woman in this city will associate with them.”

  “That hasn’t stopped them from trying,” she maintained angrily. It was silly to get so upset over a trifle. But then, trifles loomed large when nerves had been worn thin by life under enemy occupation. Hunger hadn’t helped. With prices increased over a hundred times since the war began, no one without a British Army requisition could afford to eat well.

  And Michael. It was almost a year since she’d seen him. Even the letters had stopped when Justin took her from Georgia. So long not to feel his arms around her, his lips and his hands on her. Damn him. Leaving her just when she needed him most. God, she had to get out. She had to.

  She couldn’t stand the small talk and the streets full of redcoats any longer. Making her excuses to Lucy, she hurried home.

  Martha met her at the door, a big smile wreathing her face. “Daniel bring a letter from Mrs. Jackman. And Miss Gabrielle, he done found his wife. Mrs. Holmes, to Oldfield plantation, she took her in.”

  “Wonderful!” She handed Martha her parasol and tucked the letter in her pocket. “I’ll read it while I’m with Catherine. Is she ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Martha said disapprovingly.

  Gabrielle smiled briefly as she hurried upstairs. Martha had protested long and vigorously about her nursing Catherine herself. She still maintained a silent disapproval.

  In the nursery Catherine was making hungry sounds in her cradle, while James played on the floor with wooden horses. “No good, Mama,” he said, slapping the floor with his hand. “Floor’s no good.”

  “I know, darling.” She bent to smooth his hair and kiss his forehead. What would Michael think if he knew his son preferred the cabin’s dirt floor to wooden ones? “And have you been good while I was gone? Has he, Martha? Very well then, you may take him to the stables to watch the horses groomed.”

  She had to laugh as he bounded to his feet and scurried to the door. Martha opened it for him with a smile, then had to grab his hand as he tried to dart out. He tugged impatiently, more leading her than she leading him. Next to playing in the dirt, he liked horses best.

  Gabrielle undid her bodice and lifted Catherine from the cradle. In a few moments the infant was suckling contentedly, clutching her breast with tiny hands, and she could open the letter one-handedly and read, hurriedly scanning for the most important news first. A sigh of relief escaped her. Michael was alive and well.

  He’d been mentioned in despatches at Guilford Courthouse, Louisa Jackman wrote, and also for his actions in harrying the enemy before the battle. He’d also been at Hobkirk’s Hill and the siege of Ninety-six. He was making quite a name for himself, it seemed, in cavalry skirmishes. All that mattered, though, was that he was unhurt, and so were her brothers.

  Now she could start at the beginning and read the general news and gossip.

  Food is now as scarce here in the country as it is in Charlestown, what with both armies foraging. The redcoats have stopped burning houses, but they have fired three churches. No one can imagine why. And they are still stealing slaves, in even greater numbers than before.

  To that Gabrielle could attest. She’d seen them, hundreds at a time, being rowed out to ships for the West Indies. Some had come into the city on their own, after the plantations had been burned, only to find the British regarded them as fair game. Even free blacks risked being taken. It was as if the British knew they were going to lose and were taking as much as they could while they could.

  Then she came to the last paragraph of the letter:

  The Tory partisans, I fear, have grown worse. They are running riot, burning and hanging as if to rid the state of all who haven’t taken the King’s oath. Their actions daily drive people, no matter their previous sympathies, to our cause. Wade and Henry Hampton have left the Crown to join their brother John with General Greene. Most painful for me to relate is that Justin is foremost among the looters and burners, and the quickest to hang on the slightest excuse.

  Saddened, she folded the letter. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what Justin did. She’d seen what he left behind. She had dreamed about it. It had been a grief to realize that Justin was insane. It was imperative to get out, to get the children beyond his grasp.

  Martha returned just as she was putting Catherine back in the cradle. “Miss Gabrielle, Daniel waiting in the stable to see you. And Mrs. Croft downstairs. I think she been crying, ma’am.”

  Gabrielle sighed. Rebecca Croft had reason to cry. Her husband was one of those exiled to Saint Augustine. Now they were being exchanged, some of them, but not to come to Charlestown. They were being sent to Philadelphia, and their wives and families had been ordered to leave South Carolina as best they could. “Tell her I’ll be right down. And tell Daniel I’ll come to him as soon as I can.”

  Rebecca Croft rose as Gabrielle entered the drawing room. She was trying to keep a cheerful face, but her eyes were red and puffy.

  “It’s so good to see you, Rebecca.” She motioned her back to her seat and reached for the bell-pull. “May I offer you some wine, or herb tea?”

  “No, thank you. I—I came to see you about, about Colonel Hayne.” It was so obviously not what she’d been going to say that she blushed in confusion. “I mean—That is—Do you think they’ll actually hang him?”

  Gabrielle sighed. They’d been over this a hundred times before. Whatever Rebecca was crying for, it wasn’t Isaac Hayne. “Rebecca, we’ve all signed the petitions, and we all know they haven’t done any good. Now tell me what’s really troubling you. Has something happened to your husband?”

  “To Thomas? Oh, no, he’s—” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ve tried to be strong, Gabrielle. God knows, I’ve tried. You know I’ve been told to leave. I’ve been trying to sell our horses for the money.” She laughed bitterly. “That’s engaging in trade, and as an admitted rebel I need permission for that. But when I went to Colonel Balfour, there was a man there with papers. They said Thomas’s estates had been confiscated and the horses weren’t mine to sell. I don’t even know whether the children and I will be allowed to take our own clothes, and I’ve no idea how we’re going to leave. I’d managed to scrape together enough to hold four places on a ship sailing this very afternoon, but now—I don’t know. I’m sorry, Gabrielle. I shouldn’t burden you with my troubles, but I needed someone to talk to.”

  Gabrielle rose without a word and went to the highboy between the windows. Her father gave her a small allowance to run the house, but she managed to save a bit of it. She took a purse from the drawer.

  “Oh, no, I can’t,” Rebecca gasped.

  “Don’t be foolish.” She took the other woman’s hand and closed it around the purse. “How many people in this city have you aided, Tory and patriot alike, for no more reason than they needed it? And if you can aid strangers, why can’t I help a friend?”

  “I—”

  “Think of your children. Think about going to Thomas. There won’t be much left after four passages to Philadelphia, though.”

  “I have relations in Philadelphia.” She seemed suddenly closer to tears than any time before. “Oh, thank you, Gabrielle. God bless you.”

  “You’d better hurry now, to secure those passages.” She helped Rebecca out through streams of tearful gratitude. She prayed that when her chance came to leave, it would come more easily.