THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY
PART NINETY-EIGHT:
Susannah sat alone in the parlor, holding a stack of letters from Morgan. At the
bottom of each he'd turned the page over and poked pinholes through in the shape
of a heart. She ran a fingertip over one of them, smiling at his way of sending
her an 'I love you'. There were no letters just to her as husbands off in war
wrote to their wives, none because she could not read them. Every letter that
came had to be read by her father or Aunt Clara and by the very nature of that,
tended not to carry with it the feelings she knew lay in his heart.
Sighing, she touched another page, finding the heart there. Which letter was it?
She had no way of knowing if it were one written shortly after he'd gone north
in August of 1776 to join Washington or one written in a frigid January from
their horrid winter encampment at Morristown, New Jersey. He was often very
descriptive of his surroundings, though she knew he must leave out most of the
details of hardship and suffering.
"What is it really like for you, my darling husband?" she whispered aloud into
the quiet room. She thought of Morristown and then Valley Forge the following
winter. He'd gotten the long, thick muffler she'd knitted for him, the two pair
of socks Clara had made, but she knew he had to have been so cold, so very cold.
He would mention the cold in passing then go on to describe in great detail the
strength and courage of Washington and how it inspired him to carry on.
His first Christmas away he'd been with Washington as he crossed the Delaware
and attacked Trenton. She hadn't, of course, known that Christmas Day what he
was doing. All she knew was that he was far away, was cold, was in constant
danger of sickness, injury, death. She'd sat in a rocker that evening near a
fireplace, listening to the crackle of the burning logs, feeling their warmth on
her face, feeling the hole in her heart that his absence left. Then Myra had
brought
in little George for her to nurse. Thank heavens Morgan had still been home on
March 4th when his son had been born. He'd named him George after both Wythe and
Washington. George Harmer Kent was in his 10th month that Christmas and his
father had missed so much of his life.
He'd made it through the battle of Brandywine in September of 1777 unscathed but
had gotten a slight flesh wound in his left arm at Germantown in early October.
"Nothing to worry about," he'd written but she'd worried anyway. He'd exulted
over the news of the Patriot victory at Saratoga but she'd been glad he wasn't
there. He was a captain now and had been assigned to Lafayette's section of the
army. He wrote even more about the young Marquis than he had about General
Washington, glowing reports of his character, his intelligence, his care for his
men. For her, the best thing about Morgan's being with Lafayette was that the
Marquis was now in Virginia, which meant Morgan was also in Virginia.
Her fingers traced again a heart. It was June 22, 1881 and she'd seen him
exactly twice since August of 1776. Twice. George had turned five in March and
had no idea who his father was. Cornwallis had moved his army up into Virginia
from the Carolinas recently and Lafayette was shadowing him as he moved south
down the Neck, ever closer to Williamsburg. What, she wondered, would it be like
if the British actually occupied the town?
Morgan was wondering the exact same thing as he carefully pricked another heart
for his wife at the bottom of a new letter home. Home. He closed his eyes,
letting his own fingers run over the outline. How he yearned for his home, for
Susannah, for little George who was not so little any more, for the others there
who had become his family, Harmer, Clara, Micah, Layla, Myra. Missing had
become an almost continual pain tucked into his heart. So many years. How could
it have possibly been so long? He hadn't seen George since he was three.
If...when...the war ever ended, he'd have to start all over with his son and the
fact of that galled him terribly. Yet...he was doing what he had to do, what he
must do, and the thought that still everything could so easily be lost, that all
the years could have been spent in vain, loomed ever-present. Unless the French
fleet came, and came to the right place at the right time, there seemed no real
hope for anything but defeat.
For some time now Lafayette's army had been moving as Cornwallis' moved, not
really engaging, just keeping close, keeping a constant awareness of their
presence. That Cornwallis was now so close to Williamsburg was never far from
Morgan's mind. He would occupy the town. That much was inevitable. Then what?
He ran a hand around inside his collar. It was hot, excessively hot, this June
in Virginia and he took off his blue Continental jacket, hanging it over the
back of his camp chair. It seemed in this man's army one was either freezing or
broiling or sopping wet. Rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, he fanned
himself with the piece of paper he'd been writing on. Two years since he'd seen
Susannah. My God...two years. Now he was so close he could mount Gideon and be
there in a day or two. Only the British army was between him and home. Only
that. But the nearness of
it to his home weighed
heavily on him.
Yet once again he looked at the letter in his hand. How he wished he could write
private things to his wife that only she would read. It would, possibly, have
made the long separations more bearable. But always he had to keep in mind as he
wrote that Harmer would be the one reading the letter aloud, him or Aunt Clara.
He did write endearments, yes, but not of the kind his soul yearned to write.
Placing a kiss on the heart, he folded the letter then sealed it, turning to
slide it into the pocket of his jacket. With the two armies in their current
positions, he wasn't at all sure a letter would even get through.
Leaning back in his small chair, he contemplated the immediate past. On May 24th
Lafayette had written Washington, saying that he was "not strong enough even to
get beaten." The Marquis' general plan had been to keep himself between
Cornwallis' much larger force and a line of communication to the north.
Washington still expected that the main British attack would fall on New York
City and he and his army remained in the north. Wayne, though, had marched
south to join Lafayette, whose army was comprised mainly of militia. In early
June Banastre Tarleton, who'd gained the nickname in the Carolinas as 'the
Butcher', had been sent by Cornwallis in an attempt to capture Jefferson at
Monticello. Tarleton had 189 dragoons and 70 mounted infantry with him, but
Jefferson had been warned and escaped. Cornwallis' other dragoon legion was
under the command of Lt. Col. John Graves Simcoe and was made mostly of
colonists loyal to the Crown, mounted on the best of the blooded horses of
Virginia. Harmer had written Morgan that Parker Harrelson had joined them, the
Queen's Rangers, as they were called, and they, too, were in Virginia, attacking
here and there. On June 6th they had raided Point of Fork, from which Steuben
had retreated, and Simcoe destroyed the American military stores there.
What bothered Morgan the most was that in the third week of April, Simcoe's
Rangers had been in Williamsburg, had forced the Virginia militia under James
Innes to retreat from the town. Surely Parker would have left Susannah alone?
Morgan hadn't had a letter from Harmer since before then so didn't know if there
had been any encounter or not.
There had been. Layla had opened the door to find Parker standing there,
resplendent in his green dragoon uniform. Her lip had curled slightly at the
sight and Parker had simply brushed past her and entered the parlor unannounced.
Harmer had been over at William and Mary on business and Susannah was alone,
seated at the harpsichord. He stood there a moment in the middle of the room,
just looking at her. She was still the most beautiful woman in Williamsburg and
it had been a thorn in his side that she had chosen Morgan over him. Since he'd
gone off to war, he'd only had women in taverns or among the camp followers,
women who were nothing like the lovely flower she was. He felt a stiffening in
his pants at the mere sight of her.
"They're going to lose, you know," he said.
She knew the voice, though she'd not heard it for a long while.
"Parker. What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you."
"It's not your place to see me, Parker. I'm married, a mother."
"I heard you'd had his whelp. Have you seen him recently?"
"That is none of your business."
He smiled. "You haven't, have you? You probably don't even know if he's still
alive."
"I know...no, I shall not speak of him, not to you."
"It's been a long war, Susannah. You're probably...lonely."
"Not for the likes of you, Parker. I...just go, please."
He came closer, standing beside the small bench on which she sat. "I want you to
know, Susannah, that when this is all over, when their army has lost and he's
been hung for treason or left dead on some battlefield, then I will come for
you. I still want you even though you weren't wise enough back then to know what
was best for you."
She tipped her head. "You will go...now. You have no idea what you're talking
about."
"You think not, do you?" He clutched her shoulders, pulling her to her feet,
kissing her hard, invading her mouth with his tongue, bruising her lips. "That,"
he said, "is what you've been missing, my dear, and when your Mr. Kent is in his
grave, that is what you'll have. I promise you."
He turned on his heel with a sharp jingle of spurs, went to the entrance archway
of the parlor and paused. "Remember that, Susannah. That's why I've come today,
to promise you that. Believe me, I'll make it happen. I will. You know I will."
When the front door had closed, she'd hurried to her room, dipping her hands in
the ewer near her bed, washing across her mouth over and over. She was still
doing so when her door opened and little George came in. "Mama?"
"Oh, sweetheart, I'm all right, everything's all right." She gathered him up in
her arms, sitting with him on the edge of her bed. She'd never seen him, but she
knew how much he looked like his father. Everyone remarked on it, on his green
eyes, his brown wavy hair, and she'd felt his straight brows, the cleft in his
little chin, the general shape of his face. He was her tangible piece of the
love between her and Morgan, something of him she could hold. Parker's words
about Morgan's
death had been a knife in her heart and she pressed George close, kissing and
kissing the top of
his head.
Now, here in the last week of June, she knew Simcoe's men were back. As her
fingers rested on the heart, she thought of Parker's unwelcome visit in April,
her other hand going to her mouth, wiping across her lips. So lost in thought
was she that she hadn't heard the door open, was unaware she wasn't alone until
a male voice said, "You wish another kiss?"
"Wha...? Parker?"
He came and knelt on one knee beside the rocker, knocking Morgan's letters off
her lap onto the floor. "It will be over soon. I feel it. Then you will be free,
Susannah, to be mine."
"Are you mad, Parker? Do you truly think that even were I widowed I would
ever...ever...be with you?"
"I shall be part of a great, conquering army, my dear, and you, yes, you, will
be my personal conquest. This ridiculous notion of a country separate from
England will die, he...will die, and you will need caring for. My father is
dead, you know, and Graylands is mine. I shall take you there and you will be
mine, too, and be glad of it."
"I would die first." Her words came as a broken whisper.
He laughed. "You think that now, but in time you'll come to your senses. A woman
like you needs
a strong, capable man to
watch over her."
"Like me? You mean...blind?"
"Blind, yes, and lovely. You are lovely, you know, my Susannah."
"I am not your Susannah. I...Morgan...."
"I shall kill the man myself if need be." He wished he knew where Morgan was so
that could be facilitated. He'd heard he'd left in late summer of '77 to join
Washington so he was probably still somewhere in the north. He indulged, though,
in a pleasurable mental image of choking the life out of him and leaving him on
the Wellington doorstep. Yes, wouldn't that be a fine thing?
"Cornwallis, you know, will march into Williamsburg this week." When she
started, he smiled. "You didn't realize he was that close, did you? Yes, this
week. I know this for a fact. He is but a
couple
day's march away. The French have not come and Lafayette is but a boy and no
match for Cornwallis. You'll see." He laughed again. "Well, maybe you won't
'see', but you'll hear it all, I'm sure, as the most splendid army in the world
takes over the town.. We will be here and there's nothing your Morgan
can do about it." He rose up a bit, taking her shoulders again, preparing to
kiss her.
Susannah could feel his face getting close to hers, feel his breath, and the
memory of his revolting kiss flooded through her. She spat in his face,
startling him. He pulled back his arm, almost slapping her, but controlled
himself at the last second. Instead, he stood, the fingers of his left hand
bruising her upper right arm he gripped her so firmly. His eyes narrowed, he
stared down at her, wanting both to hit her and kiss her. What he really wanted
was to pull her out of the chair and take her right there on the carpet. For a
long moment he seriously considered doing just that. "No," he said aloud, "that
will wait." He released his grip. "With the British army occupying
Williamsburg, know that I will be back. Count on it!" Then he was gone again
and Susannah pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold back her tears.
"He's not very nice," Marshall remarked in obvious understatement.
"If he had a long black moustache, I 'spect he'd be twirling it," Eden smiled.
"But we need a set-up for Spencer's Ordinary."
"Poor Morgan," Marshall sighed.
"Yes, poor Morgan," Eden agreed.
"I know what I'm going to do about it," he added.
"Do you now? Are you telling?"
"Not yet," he smiled, "but wait and see."
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