Daniel was pacing in the stable when she got there. “Ma’am, we got to hurry. I found me a man who sold me a pass, but we got to get you out of the city right now. Today.”

  The stablemen were showing James how to hold a currycomb; she drew Daniel a little more away from them. “Why, Daniel? Did he suspect something?”

  “No, ma‘am. But, ma’am, all he got to do is think about selling me on the dock. We can’t risk waiting, ma’am. You got to get out today.”

  “Very well. Do you have everything ready?”

  “Yes, ma‘am. The clothes and the cart in a yard up the Bay.” He paused, looking doubtful. “Ma’am, I could still send a boy to Mrs. Jackman. I send him now, her carriage could meet you the other side Clement’s Ferry.”

  “That’s the first thing my father’s men will look for, Daniel, a carriage. Consider walking the penance we do for an easy escape.” She smiled. “You fetch James, and I’ll bring Catherine and Martha. We’ll leave immediately.”

  The shoulder straps of the small cart dug into Gabrielle’s shoulders, and she stopped to ease them. It didn’t help much. At least, thank God, she’d be able to abandon the cart once they were through the city gates.

  Catherine slept in a sling across her chest, the way poor women carried their infants while they worked. Martha had wanted to carry her, but Gabrielle had refused. Catherine was a part of her disguise, like the coarse lindsey-woolsey dress and the dirt on her face.

  She looked back at James, peeping over the edge of the cart. “Remember now, not a word till we’re out of sight of the soldiers.”

  “Yes, Mama.” He beamed through his dirt. He seemed to enjoy it, as well as the ragged clothes.

  Ahead, she saw Daniel stroll past the guards. They hardly even looked at him. She started forward again.

  Bit by bit the entrances to the city had been fortified by the British, and much of the old rebel defense lines redug. On either side of the gate was an emplacement with two cannon, and the single guard of the days when the country seemed secure had been replaced by a squad under a sergeant. He stepped into the road with an upraised hand as she approached.

  “And where might you be going? Let’s see your pass.”

  “I’m going to gather firewood and kindling,” she said in a coarse voice, as she handed him the pass. “To sell.”

  The sergeant’s eyes strayed from the pass to her figure, and a leer came on his face. “Fine-looking bit like you, I’ll wager that ain’t all you sell.”

  A blush suffused her face. “I’m a respectable woman, with a respectable husband. I don’t sell nothing but firewood.”

  “Respectable, ay? I hear all the respectable women are rebels.” He tapped the pass against his teeth. “Maybe I ought to search you. You might be a spy, have our battle plans under your petticoats. Not that you’re wearing any as I can see.”

  The other guards guffawed. She was the center of attention, now. Desperation crept into her. “I’m carrying nothing but my baby.” Daniel was far up the road, looking back, but there was nothing he could do.

  “Well, you can leave the baby here.” He tried to make his attitude at once inviting and threatening. “You and me, we’re going in those bushes behind the number two gun, and I’m going to search you, inside and out as it were. You cooperate, and it won’t take long. You don’t—” There was nothing in his look but threat, now.

  She tried to swallow, and couldn’t. God help her. All she had to do was tell him who she really was. She’d be safe, then. If she could convince him. But Papa would put her under guard at Les Chenes. And Catherine. She opened her mouth with no idea of what she was going to say.

  “Trouble, Sergeant?” Gabrielle took one look at the officer coming out of the guardhouse and hurriedly averted her face. She knew him.

  “No trouble, Captain Mason. Just checking this woman’s pass. Going after firewood, so she says.”

  “I know about your checking women’s passes, Sergeant. I suggest you go to the Bay and find a whore. They abound there. Let me see the pass.”

  She studied him surreptitiously as he looked over the paper. It was the same man. He was quartered in a house just down the street from her. Oh, God. She kept her eyes on the ground. Martha passed, looking frightened; the soldiers never noticed one more black woman with a basket on her head.

  “This is in order, I be—” Abruptly he tilted up her chin. She stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling. He nodded slowly, and tucked the pass into the sling with Catherine. “I knew a girl, once, who looked very much like you. Her father kept her a prisoner. We aren’t all barbarians, miss. Good luck. With your wood gathering, that is.” He smiled when she stood rooted to the spot. “Well, get on with you. You’re blocking traffic.”

  She took a step, then paused. “Thank you,” she said, and threw her weight against the shoulder strap.

  Daniel and Martha were waiting together up the road. The road to Tir Alainn.

  32

  The British cavalry fled down the road through the morning hours of September 8, 1781. They were only fleeing as far as their camp, Michael knew, in front of the brick house by the springs that fed Eutaw Creek. But he was of no mind to follow. Not with thirty men. He told off two to escort the dozen prisoners they’d taken, unarmed and digging sweet potatoes, back along the road toward Burdell’s Tavern and the approaching army under Greene.

  Louis moved up beside him. “What do we do now, Michael? They’ll warn Leslie, for sure.”

  “We wait. No one was thinking this would be a surprise.” He paused as the first companies of militia moved up the road past him. Already the drums in the British camp rattled assembly. “It’ll be another hour or two, yet. If we move over into those trees, we’ll be just about in position.”

  “Sergeant,” Louis called, “move the men off to the right, there. Dismount and post two sentries. Henri, if you still have those cards, I’ll let you win back some of your markers.”

  Michael followed slowly, checking the ground. The scattered trees were going to break up infantry formations. Attacks would be disjointed, and defense worse. From where the creek flowed into the Santee, all along the bank was tangled myrtle. Impassable. If there was ever a good battle ground, this wasn’t it. Dismounting among his men, he lay down to sleep, with his reins wrapped around his hand. As he drifted off he heard someone remark about him setting an example for coolness, and smiled. He just wanted some sleep.

  Young Jarvis woke him with a shake. “Time, sir.”

  The Legion was already mounting, and so was Lee’s cavalry, next in line. Beyond them the American Army stretched to within a few hundred yards of the river. And ahead of them were the British.

  Both sides’ artillery let go with a roar just as he swung into the saddle. He tightened his reins as his horse danced sideways, and loosened his saber.

  Louis had his out. “We should be hitting their flank. It’s hanging in the open.”

  Michael pointed to a hedge line that came almost to the British flank. “What do you suppose might be back there, waiting for us to swing against their flank so we can be hit in the rear?” He caught sight of the bugler with his horn at the ready. “Put that down, man. Not a sound till you hear the signal.”

  Cannon smoke drifted down toward the river as each side tried to dismount the other’s guns before attacking. An American three-pounder suddenly flipped onto its back, the gun crew writhing around it on the ground. A British cannon spun into the air, and then another American gun was gone.

  As if it were a signal a ripple ran down the British line. Bayonets dropped to the proper slant, and two regiments stepped off together. The cannon continued to pound. Michael drew his saber. Behind him he heard the rasp of others.

  The regimental lines broke as they advanced, splitting as they flowed around trees and over uneven ground. In scarlet parcels of five and ten and twenty they came on. And the front lines of American militia fired.

  As if practicing on a parade ground, they moved. Front rank, fire. Fall back and reload. Second rank advance to the front. Front rank, fire. Fall back and reload. Second rank advance to the front. The air in front of them thickened with a fog of powder smoke. Men hacked and coughed, and paused to wipe their eyes, but they continued the drill.

  First came a grunting roar, heard above the shouted orders between volleys. Then the redcoats came wading out of the smoke, by ones and twos at first, dimly seen and disappearing in a hail of musket fire, then more and more, until screaming hundreds plunged into the American line with flashing bayonets. Instantly scores of smaller battles broke out, a dozen men against twenty here, ten against ten there. A militiaman slipped away, and then another. Suddenly it was a flood, and the British howled after them.

  Behind Michael his men moved impatiently. “Wait the signal, damn you,” he growled, but he leaned forward in the saddle himself. Would the damn thing never come?

  Drums beating the cadence, the blue facings of the North Carolina Continentals appeared to meet the charge. They halted to fire a volley, then rushed forward with a deafening roar. Above the din three long bugle notes sounded.

  At the third Michael whipped his saber down. “Forward!” And the Legion ripped into the British flank just as the Continentals hit their front.

  In seconds the entire breadth of the field was a maelstrom of twisting, grappling men. There was no room or time to load and fire. It was bayonet against bayonet, sword against sword, bare hands against bare hands. A solid sheet of sound, men yelling and weapons clashing, hung in the air.

  In the crush there was no room for the intricacies of sword play. Michael knocked aside bayonet thrusts with hand or foot. He kicked men in the face. He hacked and slashed at everything that came close. His horse screamed as someone realized that it was easier to bayonet the mount than the man. Another redcoat thrust into the horse, and it rolled to the ground, screaming and thrashing.

  Michael stepped out of the saddle as the horse fell, already looking for another mount. One reared and plunged nearby with trailing reins. Sidestepping a sword thrust from a screaming young officer, he grabbed the man’s sword wrist, smashed his saber hilt against the man’s head, and as he fell thrust him through. Then he was stepping over the body and into the saddle.

  The battle had moved into the British camp. Redcoats were falling back through the tents by companies, or even platoons. A score of them, in buff facings, turned to form ranks. It took a moment for it to register. Buff facings. That was the Third. They’d been on the far side of the line. That meant they’d all been forced back. They must be kept moving.

  Quickly he grabbed passing horsemen, a half dozen of the Legion, a handful of Washington’s, a sprinkling of Lee’s. They caught the Buffs unprepared. Wheeling by ranks the infantry turned to face the charge, but before they could fire, sabers were rising and falling in their midst. They scattered like leaves before the wind.

  Ahead, the brass-fronted bearskins of the grenadiers and leather light infantry caps moved along the creek, heading for the palisade behind the house. The house. Damn, it’d be a natural strongpoint.

  “Shall we charge them?” one of Lee’s troopers shouted.

  “No, the house, the house!” Michael shouted.

  Even as he led the dash out of the camp he could see they were too late. Redcoats, many supporting or even carrying wounded, were crowding through the doors and climbing in windows. Green-coated infantry of Lee’s Legion closed with a rush. The doors slammed shut and a withering fire poured from every opening at point-blank range. The charging line crumpled like wet paper.

  Michael drew his men in. It was futile to send cavalry against that. Suddenly, with a rumble of caisson wheels and the jangle of harness, four six-pounders swept by. Before the horses were led away the guns had already been swung against the house.

  “Too close!” Michael spurred toward them. Men swarmed around the guns, loading. “You’re too close! Pull back!”

  The hail of lead that had smashed Lee’s infantry began to fall among the cannon. The gun crews tried to continue, but they fell in bunches, running forward with cartridges, in the act of ramming home the shot. Before a single gun had fired, there wasn’t a man left standing.

  “You there,” Michael shouted at the men with the guncarriage teams, “come on. We’ll get the guns off.”

  They followed reluctantly. Suddenly Michael felt a tremendous blow on his side. He swayed in the saddle and almost fell. At that the men scattered, leaving the horses to run free. There was no chance to bring even one gun away alone. Instead he’d better look to getting away himself. He gave his horse rein and let it run. Twice more musket balls tugged at his coat, and once his horse screamed as it was nicked in the shoulder.

  On the other side of the road, out of range of musketry, he pulled up, hunching over against the pain. The wound was low on his side, almost on top of the scar from the splinter he’d taken at Charlestown. He felt a wild desire to laugh. The British must have picked out one particular place to shoot him, and meant to keep at it until they succeeded. At least it’d gone all the way through. There’d be no probing for Gabrielle to do.

  The men from his Legion had followed him, he realized; the others had gone God knew where. He forced himself to straighten. He couldn’t charge the house. That was a job for infantry. But other than Lee’s, only scattered infantry parties were visible.

  Suddenly redcoats poured out of the brick building. Others clambered over the palisade. Along the creek, the light infantry and grenadiers formed ranks. The unmanned guns were quickly pulled back close to the building. The redcoats looked tired and dusty in their bandages and torn uniforms, but they sloped bayonets precisely and stepped off toward the tents to the beat of a drum.

  Michael pounded on his fist against his thigh. God, for even twenty more men. He was in perfect position to strike their rear.

  Louis galloped up, his helmet gone, wild-eyed. “We’re pulling back.” Blood was running down his face.

  “Louis, get the rest of the Legion. We’ll take this lot in the rear. Then the infantry can—”

  “The infantry’s looting rations,” Louis snapped. “When they gained the tents half of them forgot everything but their bellies. We’re to join what’s left of the Legion, Michael. Greene’s orders.”

  Beyond the tents, where the woods thickened short of Gaillard’s Road, officers rode up and down rallying the Americans racing from the camp. “Turn and stand! Turn and stand!” The line was forming raggedly in the trees.

  Michael saw his Legionnaires approaching and immediately motioned them to the ground. “Dismount! Use your carbines!” He joined them, looping his reins around a nearby branch.

  The British came out of the tents with their lines disorganized. The scarlet masses flowed and rippled as they tried to re-form and press an attack simultaneously.

  “Fire!” The command was repeated to a dozen American throats, and the woodline blossomed with smoke and the crash of muskets.

  The carbine slammed back against Michael’s shoulder. It didn’t really have the range or accuracy, but even a ball far off target might find another in the tight-packed redcoat ranks. Smoke billowed up until he could see his targets only hazily. He bit open cartridges till his mouth tasted permanently of powder, fired till his ears rang and his shoulder was numb. He forgot all about the hole in his side, and the pain. He just loaded and fired like an automaton.

  Some time later an officer stopped him as he was reloading. “The cease fire’s come down. They’ve pulled back.”

  Michael stared at him duly in the sudden silence. “Who won?”

  “God only knows.”

  Michael pulled himself wearily into his saddle as the officer ran off to a distant rattle of musket fire. His wound seemed to have stopped bleeding. Here and there a man on the field tried to lift himself up, and fell back. Someone screamed endlessly, and another sobbed for water. He found the clustered Legion. There were faces missing, more than he’d hoped for. But young Jarvis was there, and Louis, and—“Louis, where’s Henri? Louis?”

  Louis shivered once. His voice and face were frozen. “Dead, Michael. He was hit when we charged into the camp. I saw it happen. He went down, and before he could get up again, two of them pinned him to the ground with bayonets. I killed them, but it was too late. He looked at me, and he screamed, and he died. The Legion is ready to move, sir.”

  Michael wanted to say something, but Louis was too close to the edge. “Very well, Major. Move out toward Burdell’s Tavern. I’ll find General Greene for orders.”

  As the diminished Legion rode past him, he surveyed the field once more. Yes, he’d find Greene. And maybe Greene could tell him who’d won.

  Cursing men, high-piled carts, and crowded carriages jammed the road into Charlestown. British soldiers, ragged and dirty, stumbled along, eyes fixed on the city ahead. The civilians kept gazing fearfully back.

  Elizabeth leaned back worriedly, ignoring Solange, sniffling in the corner. She couldn’t understand it. She’d been planning her party for the British victory of Eutaw Springs when Solange came to tell her what was passing on the road.

  That doleful parade of fugitives had told the news. It had all been lies. There’d been no victory. The rebels were coming. And they’d surely come for the Fourriers. It took her thirty minutes to join the stream toward Charlestown.

  She climbed out of the carriage at the Broad Street house wanting nothing more than a bath. “Take my things to my room, Solange,” she said, and hurried inside.

  The hall was unattended; someone was speaking in the drawing room, and she opened the door an inch.

  Justin stood with his back to her, one arm around ten-year-old Robert’s shoulders, Gerard, not yet six, held up in his other arm. All three of them looked down into a coffin laid across chairs. Justin spoke, his voice loud and cracking with anger and hate. “Yes, look at him well. Your grandfather. Jean-Baptiste Fourrier. His blood, my blood, your blood, all one. Murdered! By this damned trash that call themselves patriots. Rebel garbage against their King. Remember. Remember those dogs killed your grandfather. You must kill them. Kill them! Kill them!”