Part 27 (2/2)

At that Erva's vision blurred, her eyes p.r.i.c.king with tears.

”He's quiet,” Paul kept talking, almost more to himself. ”Always been that way. If I had known his father, met the man, I might have been fearful of talking myself. But Will...he was always so careful about what he said. I wanted to learn how to be like him, talk with consideration. I talk before I think often, which is never good.” He looked at Erva with a tiny sad smile. ”He bought me, ye know that?” Erva nodded as he continued. ”He gave me my freedom as soon as he bought me, but I had nowhere to go, so I stayed. The next day he came into my chamber with two wooden swords and asked if I would play with him. I'd never really done that, ye know. I'd been worked since my earliest of memories.”

Erva realized that the more Paul spoke, the more his particular English accent tightened into every word, making him sound more from Liverpool, and less like Will.

Paul lost his smile when he glanced at Erva again. ”I learned how to play, how to laugh, and how to have fun. I learned how to take care of myself, thanks to him. I watched him become a man and grow compa.s.sionate about slavery and wages and working conditions and...Lord, the man cares so much about everything. He cared so much for his sick wife.” At that Paul's eyes misted and reddened. ”And she was so sick. She kept seeing people and hearing them and then her behavior...oh, the man was a saint. Forgive me for sharing as much with you, his future wife.” Paul's mouth hung open for a moment, as if realizing she might not be in his future after all, because Will might not have one. ”In all my days, I might never be as good a man as him. But I'm going to try.”

Erva's tears surfaced and crashed down her cheeks. She nodded and watched as the ferry finally made it to sh.o.r.e. When she jumped out of the small boat before it landed, freezing cold water cascaded over her legs, but she didn't feel a thing. Her body had gone numb as her mind and heart raced.

The only problem with knowing when Will would die, was in not knowing where. She knew from maps where the buckwheat field was, but where Will would station himself was as good a guess as anyone's.

”I'll ask Howe himself for Will's whereabouts,” Paul said.

Erva nodded, but realized that Paul held her hands still.

”We'll find him. We will.”

But the way Paul's eyes reflected agony didn't have Erva feeling confident that he believed what he'd said. Panic raced through her veins, pumping chaos and red-black jagged thoughts through her hazy mind. The fog of war she'd written about, theorized, and lived through in Afghanistan. But no one had written about the fog of a broken heart. It couldn't be theorized or given words-too agonizing. It tattooed one's heart, though, forever more.

Think straight, think straight, her sergeant had yelled at her during bootcamp.

Think straight. Think clear, she reminded herself.

None of it helped.

Until she remembered Will. In the throes of pa.s.sion last night, he'd gripped the bedding beside her head, looking down at her as he climaxed, spasmed into her body, and whispered, ”G.o.d, I love you so much.” And she loved him so much. She knew him better than anyone else in the world. He was her dissertation after all. She knew his tactics. He was always the aggressor, liking to feign frontal attacks, while he circled around his enemy. But today, fighting in the buckwheat field was different. By the time he joined the battle, he'd be forced into a defensive stance. Making matters worse, outside the field was a thick forest. He and his troops would be forced against the copse, up against a wall, so to speak. And Will was outnumbered. What would Will do? Erva closed her eyes as she recalled everything she'd read about him.

India! He was just twenty when he took his first command against his enemy, the French, during the Seven Years' War, or the French and Indian War, as most Americans called it. He was stationed in India and his commanding officer had gotten them pinned in a rice field, when Will's CO was killed. Will had fought alongside his men as he pretended a retreat from the center, allowing his enemy into his lines. Then he had his center turn around, as the flank lines pummeled the surrounded French. He had fought on the left flank. And now he had to be on the left side of the buckwheat field!

With that Erva pirouetted on a toe and raced toward the sound of the musket shots, leaving Paul behind.

As she ran through the alleyways of white tents and the off-duty redcoats, many of whom stared north toward the sounds of the skirmish, all she could think of was finding Will in time. She ran faster than she had in years, and immediately her legs screamed in agony. She'd worry about the pain later. Her lungs were filled with acid, making breathing particularly brutal. She had to stop and throw up, either from not being able to breathe or something else. Maybe her throat was too tight? It didn't matter as she found her gait again and sprinted through a wheat field to a buckwheat meadow on a hill, surrounded by the thick New York woods. She tried jumping over a fence, because she had attempted hurdles in high school, but one of her legs tangled with a post. Falling into the dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of her, she struggled on the ground with her emotions and breath.

When she could finally breathe again, she began crying once more, which utterly humiliated her as she found her way into a pack of redcoats. They were young boys, who took a few glimpses at her, then finally one whispered, ”Oy, that's a girl.”

”If it is, that's a girl officer,” another one of them said. Then they all snickered.

Any other time, she'd think that was funny. But she kept running as she found more and more redcoats, and the noise of gunshots grew louder and louder. Something smacked against her chest hard, making her stop in her tracks. She glanced up when she realized she was firmly tucked into a man's st.u.r.dy body. There, she saw the anxious and maybe angry face of Sergeant McDougal.

”Jesus Christ, what are ye doing here, my lady?”

”Will. Will can't be here.”

Sergeant McDougal's jaw kicked. He didn't say anything for several eons. She was about ready to buck from his strong grip when he leaned close to her ear.

”His head's not in the battle.”

She nodded.

”He yelled at General Leslie. He's never done anything like that before. He swore too. Granted, Leslie is a pompous a.r.s.e, but yer General has never done anything remotely like that. Yer General Hill has always been the most patient of men I've ever known.”

Nodding again, she leaned away enough to look at the sergeant in the eyes and plead her case. ”He's-he's going to get himself killed.” Her voice broke, and tears rushed down her cheeks all over again.

The sergeant sighed. ”I understand yer fear. I do. But these are just a bunch of farmers pretending to be soldiers. They couldna do any damage to yer man.”

”The way they didn't do damage during the Battle of Lexington and Concord just a year ago?” She shook her head and tried to gain more distance between herself and the Sergeant. ”Trust me, McDougal, those pretending soldiers can and will do damage. But I'm not about to let them do it to Will.”

McDougal gave her a wide smile. ”There ye be, Minerva. Ye fight for him, hmm?”

She tore free from the Sergeant's grasp, but for some odd reason answered him. ”Yes, I will.”

He sighed and nodded. ”He's on the left flank, just over there.” The sergeant pointed in the direction where the musket shots were intense and jarring. ”I'll come. I doubt ye need the help, but just in case.”

Chapter 28.

Erva rushed ahead of Sergeant McDougal, now a.s.sured where Will was. The buckwheat field sat on a fat hill, where row upon row of British soldiers stood their ground, making their scarlet uniforms such a bright contrast to the earthy grains. It was too late for harvesting, and the buckwheat's fruit had fallen shame-faced down toward the thinning, skeletal stalks.

For this battle, she knew neither side had enough time to gather field pieces, so they were shooting each other only with their muskets. Of course, to many thinkers of her time, the in-line formation for a battle seemed absurd and silly-to just stand in front of an enemy and get shot at and shoot right back. What most modern people didn't understand was that the muskets weren't anywhere as close to as accurate as the guns of the twenty-first century, meaning that one side couldn't target the other. Shooting at each other was more a game of chance, and not as fatal as one would think. Further in-line tactics hadn't changed much since the dawn of battling with pikes. The only time it altered was when weapons became more accurate and deadly.

Sergeant McDougal dragged Erva back by clasping her wrist and pulling. ”I can't have ye go into the battle.”

She easily twisted her arm then swung free. ”The h.e.l.l you won't.”

In a step, the sergeant grasped her arms. ”He'd kill me if he thought ye were in peril. Again.”

She balled her hands into fists. ”He can't kill you if he's dead himself.”

His grip loosened, and she ran from him. She sprinted so fast, she didn't watch carefully where she was going, other than the direction the sergeant had indicated Will would be. Pus.h.i.+ng young soldiers out of her way, she knew they were changing lines. The front row of men needed to reload their muskets. They would about-face, and have the second line come in their place. G.o.d, the air was thick with white-blue smoke and smelled strongly of sulfur, the tell-tale sign their gunpowder wouldn't pack much of a punch.

She vaguely heard the sergeant call out her name, but she scanned the crowd of redcoats for her Will. Finally, close to an apple orchid, she saw him, sitting on that big black horse, a bit away from his men, but he was stationed so he could see better, his eyes focused on what lay ahead of him. Continental soldiers.

Never were the Continentals in uniform. Well, some were, but mostly they dressed in their civilian clothes, which unfortunately were threadborn and disheveled. It was a wonder so many stayed and fought. They never had enough clothes, food, or pay. But they must have believed in the cause. And Erva knew Will believed in freedom and equality too.

She jogged through the red-clad troops, all reloading. A soprano buzzing sound erupted too close, then stung her shoulder. It made her stop in her tracks, the pain that suddenly exploded throughout her right arm. With her left hand she clutched at the bee sting, but when she looked at her palm she realized she'd been shot.

”Jesus,” she whispered.

She knew it wasn't a deep wound, but it still hurt. A lot. It burned and simultaneously began to throb as fast as her heartbeat. Getting hurt had never entered her mind. After all, she wasn't in her own time, and for some strange reason she'd thought she'd be immune to pain, getting shot, and death.

But she didn't have time to think more about it.

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