Surrender the Night (42 page)

She could not go to Washington!

Alone.

What was she thinking?

She gazed over the grassy field beyond. Her home. Her sanctuary. Would it remain that way? Over the treetops the afternoon sun sped toward the horizon as if frightened of the coming night. Distant thunder rumbled from slate gray clouds looming in the east.

Oh Lord, please protect my aunt and uncle
.

Even at a gallop, the trip would take her at least four hours. She might already be too late.

She sank to the ground and dropped her head into her hands. “I cannot go. Lord, what if I’m attacked again?”

“I love you.”

God? Rose glanced around her but heard only the rustle of the wind dancing through the tall grass. “What if I don’t make it in time?”

“I love you.”

Did God love her? Memories of the dream she had a few weeks ago filled her thoughts. The man in white had said she had something important to do for God, just like Daniel had proclaimed. Rose wiped her sweaty palms over her gown.

“Go.”
The inner voice again. Gentle, yet not demanding.

“Me? Lord. I’m nothing but a frightened little mouse.” A heavy wind swept over her, twirling the dirt beside her into a whirlwind. She hugged herself. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Trust me.”

Trust
. Indignation forced her to her feet. She fisted her hands at her sides. “Trust!” She shouted into the sky. “Where were You when I was attacked? Where were You when I was ravished?” Her voice cracked.

“Right beside you.”

“Lord.” she sobbed.

“Precious daughter, forgive them.”

Rose closed her eyes. Light and shadow battled across her eyelids. The warmth of the sun embraced her as the wind caressed her hair and cooled her moist cheeks. Forgive. She didn’t feel like forgiving the sailors who had assaulted her, the family friend who had used her. But maybe it wasn’t about feelings. Mr. Snyder had asked for her forgiveness before he’d stomped out of the barn. Could she forgive him as well?

Rose clenched her fists. “I forgive them, Lord. I forgive them all.”

Love such as she’d never known before instantly fell upon her, cloaking her, filling her. More than the love of her earthly father, this love was like a fire, consuming all fear in its path.

She opened her eyes. And suddenly she knew. It didn’t matter what happened to her. She belonged to God. The Almighty Creator of the universe was her father. He would always be with her—even through the bad times. There was a plan.

A purpose behind the agony.

Half-giggling half-sobbing, she lifted her arms out to her sides, thirsting for more of this love, wanting to soak it in, to bask in it. She twirled around like a child frolicking among a field of wildflowers until she nearly stumbled with dizziness. So this was what Uncle Forbes meant when he said,
“Perfect love casts out all fear.”

“Thank You, Father.”

Thunder groaned in the distance again, reminding her she hadn’t much time.

Wiping her face, she drew a deep breath and swung onto Valor’s back. She clutched the reins and faced southwest. Fear still lingered within her. She felt its tormenting claws grinding over the fortress of love that held it at bay, clamoring to be released, but with God’s help, she would not allow it. Not ever again.

Snyder urged his gelding down the trail leading back to the Drummond home. No sooner had he reached Madison Street than he regretted his harsh treatment of Rose. He hadn’t intended to be so vile. In fact, quite the opposite. But the smug look of victory on her face had unleashed the devil within him. How dare she toss him from her farm like so much refuse? The audacity! Never in Snyder’s life had he been treated with such brazen impudence. Especially not from an orphaned farm girl.

Snyder’s own inferior birth and dubious heritage rose to sneer at him, but he shoved the unsavory thoughts aside. He had risen above the legacy left him by his father and grandfather. And he would rise further still.

For he had every intention of marrying Miss McGuire, despite this temporary setback.

With Mr. Reed gone, the lady had no other worthwhile prospects. Certainly none as advantageous as himself. His housekeeper, Miss Addington, had reminded him of that fact last evening as he stormed about his parlor, shoving vases and trays to the floor in his fury. “Easier to catch bees with sweet nectar than with tar,” she had said. He wished he’d taken her advice instead of behaving the ignoble beast. But who could blame him after all she and Mr. Reed had done? Nevertheless, he determined to make amends immediately, before her anger festered. He would swallow his pride and apologize for his behavior. Sooner or later, she was bound to see him in a favorable light and forgive his past indiscretions.

Adjusting the bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked along the side of the road, he snapped the reins and smiled at the assurance of his success. He was handsome, accomplished, and had much to offer the lady. Now all he needed was a bit of charm and a barrel of patience, and soon this prime land would be his.

A band of sooty clouds lined the eastern horizon, but the afternoon sun still beat down on him. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he mopped the sweat from his brow as he led his horse through the farm’s open gate and glanced toward the barn where he expected to find Miss McGuire. His eyes were rewarded with the sight of her standing beside her horse.

Urging his gelding into a trot, he headed her way when, much to his surprise, she leaped upon her filly, kicked the beast’s sides, and galloped across the field, disappearing into the forest.

By herself! Did she know there were British afoot?

Snyder stared after her as a gust of wind swept away the cloud of dust kicked up by her horse. Of course she knew there were British afoot. Perhaps that was why she’d left in such a hurry—to rendezvous with a particular British naval officer.

Snyder ground his teeth together.
The tramp
. Tossing the flowers into the dirt, he flicked the reins and sped across the field after her.

CHAPTER 25

A
lex had barely slept ten minutes before a bugle blared and drums pounded through the camp, waking the troops to a new day.

A day his countrymen intended to march into the American capital and crush the heart of this fledgling nation.

Struggling to rise from the hard ground outside the tent, he stretched the ache in his back and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the fog from his brain.

Soon men in red coats emerged from tents like fiery wasps from their nests as officers stormed by on horseback shouting orders. After a cold breakfast of dried pork and water, the men tore down the tents, packed the supplies, and lined up in formation. Cool morning air, whispering the promise of a reprieve from the summer heat, drifted over the tired soldiers as they marched double-file into an immense forest where thick branches and a plethora of leaves in all shapes and sizes formed an archway of green overhead that shielded them from the sun. Behind Alex, the seamen in his charge heaved on thick ropes attached to the ship’s guns. It would have been much easier to pull the iron cannons in a wagon but due to a shortage of horses, none had been provided. They were good men, brave and loyal, some barely sprouting whiskers on their chins. The guilt of Alex’s treason ground
hard against his soul. He bowed his head.
Lord, please allow no deaths this day. Please save this wonderful nation and her capital
.

He felt a stirring in his soul. A mission. The American capital must not fall.

He didn’t know why. But he felt God telling him, assuring him that these rebel Americans would remain a free nation.

That they must remain a free nation.

His eyes locked on the service sword swinging at his side and the brass buttons lining his blue naval uniform. They seemed out of place on his body—as if they belonged to someone else. He raised his gaze and shifted his shoulders beneath an oddly pleasing sensation. He no longer felt like an Englishman. Instead he felt like an American. Longed to be part of this nation that stood for freedom and liberty and a man’s right to pursue his own path to happiness—a nation that did not honor a man simply because of his pedigree.

Soon the cool air of morning dissipated, ushering in a blanket of muggy heat. A groan rose in Alex’s throat, and he tipped up his bicorn and wiped the sweat off his brow. The task before him seemed insurmountable. Not only did he have to do his best to avoid battling the Americans, but he had to slip away from the British undetected, and make his way to the American troops without being shot by either side. The more he pondered it, the more impossible the task seemed. And the more dangerous.

After another hour the British troops emerged from the forest into an open field. Though the sun stood only halfway to its zenith, heat struck Alex with such ferocity, he felt as though he’d walked straight into an oven. Dust from the hundreds of boots that had preceded him rose to clog the air. Alex coughed and gasped for breath. His eyes stung. Not a wisp of wind stirred to clear the air or cool his skin.

On their right, they passed bundles of straw and the smoking ashes of campfires strewn across a field, evidence that a large body of men had camped there the night before. Farther ahead, the fresh imprints of hooves and boots sent a tremble down Alex.

The American troops were close. Alex’s heart leaped. Perhaps he could escape before the fighting began.

Yet the unrelenting heat punished them without mercy. Seasoned soldiers fell by the wayside, too exhausted and dehydrated to continue.
Alex took a position beside his men and aided them in pulling one of the cannons. Sweat soaked his coat, shirt, and breeches and dripped from the tips of his hair. His breath heaved and every muscle ached as he followed the ranks onto a huge field dotted with thick groves. An eerie silence fell. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the signal to form a square for battle.

Alex loosened his cravat and wiped the back of his neck. In the distance, a heavy dust cloud appeared. Drums beat the forward advance, and the troops continued down another road, passing a small plantation on their right before climbing a grassy knoll.

Ignoring the blisters on his hands and the burning in his thighs, Alex tugged on the thick rope. The soldiers who marched before him slowed. Their bodies stiffened like masts. The air twanged with tension. The clomp of horses’ hooves joined the shouts of commanding officers. Releasing the rope to another seaman, Alex darted up the hill and pressed through the throng of sweaty men.

Across a field of tall grass, not half a mile away, stood line after line of American soldiers, some in uniform, others not. All well armed. And beyond them in the distance, Alex could barely make out what must be the buildings of Washington DC rising into the afternoon sun.

Alex’s muscles tightened. He gripped the musket on his shoulder. The battle would begin in seconds.