THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART NINETY-NINE:

Parker intended to come back to see Susannah again the following day, the sight of her having aroused his need to see her more, but Simcoe's Queen's Rangers were sent out on the 23rd of June on a raid to destroy boats and supplies, farms and mills on the Chickahominy River just west of Williamsburg. On the 25th, Cornwallis marched into town, Tarleton raising the British flag over the old capitol building and the remaining Loyalists in town coming out to celebrate.  Simcoe's raid was an easy couple of day's work with little fuss involved. The night of the 25th, however, word of the raid was received in Lafayette's camp. The Marquis had been hoping for an opportunity for a small engagement without having to face the full strength of the British army and immediately sent out Colonel Richard Butler, a veteran Continental officer, to intercept them.

Lafayette had very little cavalry but as so many of Simcoe's men were mounted, he sent horsemen under Major McPherson to join with Butler's corps of troops and riflemen. A certain Captain Morgan Kent was among the horsemen, smiling because each hoof beat took him closer to Williamsburg.

Simcoe, alerted to Butler's pursuit, looked for a local loyalist to participate in a ruse to lure his enemy into a trap. Unable to find such a man, Simcoe planted false information in the mind of a local rebel, sure that he would pass it on to Lafayette. Most of the night of the 25/26 was spent, therefore, by the Patriots heading to attack a campsite just vacated by Simcoe's men. Butler, frustrated upon discovery of the ruse, sent ahead an advance party of 50 horsemen with 50 infantrymen riding double behind them.

Morgan was tired, having ridden all night and now had the unaccustomed presence of another man riding double behind him. He was sweating, too, as even the nights this June did not cool much. The man behind him had a musket and was to be set down when the enemy was contacted. Morgan himself had a pistol and his sabre as most mounted Continental units weren't often able to find enough rifles for more than a handful of men in each troop.
 

Parker. He was with Simcoe, Morgan knew. The Queen's Rangers, he also knew, was an elite corps that had fought in every major campaign since the operations in Pennsylvania in 1777. Accompanying the Rangers this day were two rifle units, one a Hesse-Kassel jager unit, and a mounted unit of New York volunteers. Simcoe would not let anyone serve with him unless they'd merited the right so as not to 'contaminate' his regiment with anything less than excellence.

Also with him was a unit of North Carolina Loyalists who were performing the non-combat duties of herding the cattle Simcoe had rounded up and guarding the provision wagons he was

taking to Cornwallis.

The woods were thick and often swampy and the infantry with Simcoe had encamped just south of the Williamsburg road for breakfast. The fields and orchards here were surrounded by rail fences and both the Williamsburg road and the Jamestown Road that crossed it were also lined with them. Simcoe's cavalry had thrown down some of them to provide access to the meadows and the nearby stream for their horses and to give themselves greater freedom of movement to support the infantry and the cattle and wagons. Spencer's Ordinary was a small tavern with a house and barn at Lee's farm nearby. An apple orchard lay due east of the house and a big cornfield and a ploughed but not planted field lay south of it. Dense woods were to the north and the ground sloped from the tavern up to them. To the west, where McPherson's horsemen were, the hills were rolling and tall enough to hide movement.

Major McPherson, in his eagerness to engage the enemy, attacked Simcoe's videttes to the west of the road, a premature act that gave both Simcoe's cavalry and infantry time to assemble. McPherson had also not waited for Butler to bring up the main body of around 500 troops.
 

"There!" cried one of McPherson's men.

A Simcoe vidette was riding around a hill and McPherson ordered his horsemen after him, not realizing they were deliberately being led away from the Rangers, who were now mounting. Captain Shank, one of Simcoe's men, led a charge toward them and McPherson was knocked from his horse, severely injured. Morgan reined in close to the fallen major, prepared to offer assistance but a hussar had him in his sights and the slam of a ball through his left shoulder sent him flying backwards off Gideon. He crashed down hard on his back, lying there sick and dizzy from the shock as the battle continued around him. Simcoe's Captain Ewald led a bayonet charge that passed right over him, though one of the hussars fell close to Morgan, shot through the head, his bayonet landing across Morgan's legs.

The fighting moved into the woods where Ewald blundered into Butler's light battalion that had moved into position by then. The Queen's Rangers opened fire and both Simcoe's and Butler's men maintained a running fire for several long minutes. Ewald fell back to two small mounds in the open meadow and sounded assembly to recall the jagers from his right.
 

Morgan pressed his right hand to his shoulder, feeling the blood seeping through his fingers.

Oh, God, he thought, so close, a mere six miles from Williamsburg. Clamping his teeth, he tried to fight off the pain, tried to concentrate for a moment on the image of Susannah's face. Insects

buzzed about him in the meadow and the sun beat steadily down on his face. He licked his lips,

suddenly terribly thirsty.
 

Simcoe, concerned that Lafayette might be closer than he thought, withdrew from the field but when he reached a defile on the Williamsburg Road decided there was no sign of pursuit and turned back. Butler, too, realized he was all too close to Cornwallis' main force and pulled back. Simcoe, reinforced now by more units of the British army led by Cornwallis himself, returned

to the battlefield to look for casualties and prisoners.

Flies began crawling on Morgan's sweaty face, on the blood stain on the front of his jacket. He tipped his head back, seeing that he was lying near one of the rail fences, and pushing with his
feet, squirming through the grass, he got himself up next to it. Grabbing the lowest rail, he hooked his right arm over it, dragging himself to a seated position. McPherson was moaning in agony where he lay and Morgan looked at him blearily.  The hussar's brains coated a small section of the tall grass.

Gideon stood in the field just a yard or two from the fence. If he could get to his feet, if he could stand, maybe he could make it to his horse...maybe. He turned his body so he was on his knees facing the fence. His left arm was useless so he used his right again, hooking it now over the second rail, to begin to stand. The world tilted and he squeezed his eyes tightly closed, waiting for

it to stop turning.

"Mr. Kent, I do believe."

Parker, returned with Simcoe to the field, had spied Morgan, his eyes attracted by the man's attempts to pull himself upright at the fence. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, he walked, pistol in one hand, sabre in the other, across the meadow, stopping about three yards back.

Morgan turned his head, blinking, trying to focus. "Wh...who?"

Parker inclined his head in a smiling, mini-bow. "Parker Harrelson, at your service. I had no idea you were back in Virginia," he paused to peer at Morgan's uniform, "Captain." He took several steps closer. "Did you know I've seen your wife twice of late? Did she tell you that?"

"My...my...Susannah?"

"Yes, Susannah, a most arousing kisser.  Only she will shortly not be your Susannah but mine.

I intend to make the poor widow my wife, mistress of Graylands. Do you like the sound of that...Captain Kent?"

"Wife...no...I...."  He tried to straighten more but Parker, not wishing him to stand, shot him through his right thigh and he began to fall, clutching desperately at the rail, on his knees, leaning into the fence.

Almost absently, Parker let his pistol fall into the grass as he began walking closer. "She was always too good for you. Surely you must have known that, miserable little merchant that you are, yet still you married her, married the one woman I'd chosen to be my wife. Do you hear me, Kent? MY wife!"

With a grim smile of utter satisfaction, he slashed his sabre across the kneeling man's back, watching as almost in slow motion Morgan's arm slipped loose from the rail and he toppled silently sideways and lay still.
 

"Harrelson! What in hell are you doing?" It was Simcoe himself, sitting on his horse several yards away. "This battle is over. We're here for our wounded and to take prisoners, not continue fighting with injured men." He'd seen Parker slash the helpless man and frowned deeply. "Your actions bring no honor to the Rangers, sir, none at all, and you will report to me back in Williamsburg." Simcoe wheeled his horse away.

Parker was too elated to feel much concern over Simcoe's displeasure. He knelt beside Morgan, grabbing his hair and lifting his head. The man was dead. He smiled again and let Morgan's head drop back to the ground. Standing, he looked around, then walked to Gideon and took his dangling reins, leading him up to the fence. Two young British infantrymen were passing nearby and he got them to heft Morgan up, laying him facedown across the saddle. He didn't want to lift him himself because he'd end up with blood on his uniform. Mounting his own horse, he took Gideon's reins and headed toward Williamsburg, whistling a tune as he rode. He paused once for a long drink from his canteen and stared with satisfaction at the size of the bloodstains on the back of Morgan's blue coat. Such a nice present he had for Susannah. His pleasant meditation of leaving her dead husband on her doorstep had never been far from his mind. Now it would be reality. Sometimes life was just so good!

He rode into Williamsburg, crossed the Palace Green, and headed happily down Nicholson Street toward the Wellington house. He'd gotten as far as the pathway that led down the side of their yard when two of Simcoe's lieutenants rode up from Botetourt Street.

"Captain Harrelson!" one of them called. "Lieutenant-Colonel Simcoe wishes you to accompany us to his quarters immediately."

Parker looked at Morgan and sighed. Ah, well, the man wasn't going anywhere, now was he? Just a brief reprimand and he could return and complete his little mission. "You can go on the doorstep a bit later, Captain Kent." He flipped Gideon's reins over a picket in the fence near the fig tree

and followed the two junior officers toward the Duke of Gloucester Street.
 

Gideon knew where he was, knew his stable was just there in the far back corner of the yard. He was hungry, thirsty, and tired. Tossing his head, the loose loop came over the top of the picket and he went down alongside the fence, turning to his right. Not far along the back fence was a larger gate, one Morgan had taught him to open with his nose by pressing on the latch. Now he opened it and walked into the yard, smelling hay and oats, scenting water. He stopped suddenly and turned when a loud sound from the street startled him and Morgan slipped feet-first off the saddle, crumpling in a heap on the grass.
 

The jolt of that jarred a bit of sensibility into Morgan, who had been lapsing in and out of consciousness for the last several minutes, and he blinked his eyes open, trying to focus, trying

to determine where he was. Everything was blurry but he vaguely made out a white shape. What...what was it? He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them wide. Marietta? No, how could it be Susannah's angel? Still...it looked like Marietta. How? The last he remembered was a searing pain in his back, sometimes the sound of whistling and a word or two from Parker. He wriggled forward, every inch a mile of pain and weakness. He had no strength, none at all, but he had to get to the angel even though he didn't know why he did. All he could do was pull himself with his right arm and push a bit with his left leg. Nothing else seemed to work. His right hand came down on something...brick? Yes, the upturned brick edging of the back of the garden. He gripped it, dragging himself into the flowerbed, closer to the statue. The bed was long and narrow and he managed to clutch at the angel's base, raising his head just enough to see that, yes, it was Marietta. He looked up at her profile, smiled slightly, then collapsed onto his side, rolling over onto his back, crushing the foxgloves.

Joel came out of the stables, heading for the kitchen, thinking of the stew Myra was making for lunch. He almost tripped when he saw the saddled horse standing in the middle of the yard grazing. "Gideon?" Good Lord above, it was Gideon! Quickly he strode to the horse. Why hadn't Morgan...? Then he saw the blood on the saddle and sucked in a deep breath. Instantly his eyes began to search the yard. Where? Oh, no...there by the statue. He ran through the flowers, kneeling beside the fallen man, seeing the blood from bullet wounds in his shoulder and leg. Then he was up again, sprinting for the house.
 

The back door was open to let in the air and he ran straight through it into the parlor. Susannah and Clara were seated on the sofa, both knitting, and Harmer was standing by the front window, watching British troops in the street, a frown on his face.
 

"Marse Wellington!" Joel gasped, waving his arm toward the back of the house. "Yo' gots ta come quick, suh. Morgan, suh, in de flowers."

Harmer turned, staring at the excited man. "What are you talking about, Joel? Calm down and tell me what you mean."

"Shot, suh. Morgan...in de flowers...shot!"

"In the...? Morgan? Morgan's here?"

"By de angel, suh. In de flowers."

"Good Lord!"

Joel was running out the back again with Harmer not far behind. Susannah's knitting had slid

to the floor and she was on her feet, going as fast as she could in their wake. Clara was calling, "Susannah, no!" but nothing would stop her from going, not if Morgan were there.

"Oh, my God!" Harmer moaned, sinking to a crouch beside Morgan, seeing the two bullet wounds. "Morgan?" He touched the young man's cheek then Susannah was there, too, practically falling herself into the flowers as she groped to find her husband.

"Is...is it him, Daddy?"

"It's Morgan, darling, yes. He's been shot." He looked up at Joel, who was shifting from foot to foot in anxiety. "How did he get here?"

"I don' know, suh, but Gideon done come home an' musta brung 'im."

Clara arrived, having routed out Micah and Myra to come with her. Layla she'd sent upstairs

to watch over George.

"Micah, good," Harmer nodded. "We've got to get him into the house. Help me."

Micah slid an arm under Morgan's shoulder to begin lifting him but pulled it back when he felt sticky wetness. "Wait, suh," he said, turning Morgan just enough to reveal the long sabre wound.
 

Harmer closed his eyes, opening them when Susannah cried, "What? What is it?"

"He's hurt more than I thought," Harmer said, his voice cracking. "Come now, let's get him up."

Morgan opened his eyes a bare slit. "Not...not inside. No."

"Morgan...thank God!" Susannah gasped.

"Why, son?" Harmer asked. "What do you mean?"

"Parker...he...he's coming back."

"Parker? He did this?"
 

Morgan nodded slightly. "Heard say...coming back...doorstep."

"Doorstep?"

"Me...doorstep...leave...you find. Thinks I'm...thinks I'm dead."

"He plans to leave you on our doorstep?" Harmer's mouth dropped open in ghastly amazement.

"Doorstep...yes. Not find me...look. Not inside. Not...." His eyes closed.

"My God!" Harmer gasped. He licked his lips, looking from Micah to Joel to Myra. "We'll have

to hide him then."

"Dat Parker debil done gwine look fer him. Yo' knows dat, suh," Myra said, her practical mind racing. "We gots ta make him keep thinkin' our Morgan here done be dead. He done los' a lotta blood an' we gwine hafta do somethin' 'bout dat but we still gots ta make de debilman think what he thinks." Myra, in action, was like a drill sergeant and when she knew what was the best thing

to do, it got done. "My kitchen," she announced firmly. "Bring him to my kitchen an' we takes kere o' him."

Carefully, the three men lifted Morgan and carried him into the backyard kitchen house, where Myra spread a cloth quickly over the large preparation table. "Joel," she said, "yo' git yoreself

out ta de back fence and dig up somethin' that'll pass as a grabe so we kin tell de debil we done buried our man, then you takes them there broken flowers an' pile 'em on it so's dere a reason

dey done got broke. An' take kere o' dat horse, too."

She looked at Susannah, who was pale and shaking. "Miz Susannah, dis here ain' no place fer you, chile."

"I'm not leaving him, Myra, so don't bother asking." She wiped a hand across her face. "I'm not."

There was no time to argue with her. No one knew when Parker might return and before they could hide Morgan, his bleeding must be stopped. She asked Clara if she'd go watch George and send Layla to her as she needed her help. Morgan was lying on his back and Myra got Harmer and Micah to sit him up enough to remove his coat and shirt while she took a small knife and cut open his tight-fitting white pants above his leg wound. The front shoulder wound seemed to have stopped bleeding, but blood was still steadily seeping from his thigh. She sighed and slid the blade of a larger knife into the cooking fire.
 

Harmer cocked a brow at her but she shrugged and said, "Ain' no other way, Suh, not wif de time we gots, not wif dat bleedin' he done doin'."

Morgan was making little, low moaning sounds and Susannah, leaning near his head, kept brushing his hair back from his face, whispering into his ear. "You're home, my darling, you're home. We've got you and everything will be all right. You'll see, my love, it will be all right."

But Harmer and Myra exchanged a look across the table that said neither of them were at all sure about that. Morgan's skin was almost white because of blood loss and he was obviously in shock. Now there would be more pain. Layla came in, her mouth setting in a grim line when she saw Morgan. Myra handed her a bottle of whiskey, and she poured some over the front thigh wound and on his shoulder.

"Yo' bes' stan' back, Miz Susannah," Layla said as Myra approached the table with the glowing knife. Micah held down Morgan's shoulders and Layla his legs as Myra pressed the end of the blade above the wound. Morgan's head came up off the table, his back arched, and a cry began to escape his lips. Tears in his eyes, Harmer clamped a hand firmly over his son-in-law's mouth so that no one passing by might hear his scream. Susannah was shaking, tears streaming down her face, then everything was silent as Morgan lay limp and quiet on the table.

Harmer and Micah then turned him over. They'd noticed earlier that both balls had passed all the way through him and so there needed to be no digging to remove them. More whiskey was quickly poured. The exit wounds of both balls seemed to be bleeding the most. As Parker had shot his leg from the back, it was the front of his thigh that needed cauterization, but the hussar had hit him from the front and Myra pressed the reheated blade to the back of his shoulder. He'd done a long slide into darkness with what she did to his thigh and now lay unmoving as she tended to his shoulder. His face was turned to his left and Susannah kept touching his cheek.
 

The long slash across the middle of his back from side to side was also still bleeding and Myra debated quickly cauterizing that, too, but it was so long and she knew that so much tissue around it would be damaged if she did that. "Layla," she almost hissed, "fetch me my sewin' basket." While Layla was gone, Myra applied a second, careful dose of the whiskey along the nearly straight wound.
 

"She's very competent, your Myra," Marshall commented.

"Indeed she is," Eden agreed. "I don't really like having to write what nowadays is considered demeaning dialect for her, but that's close to how she would've really spoken, though not entirely correct, I suspect. If she'd lived in our modern times, the woman could've been the

CEO of a corporation."

Her lips pursed intently, Myra chose a curved darning needle and some thick black thread then

set about stitching the wound as quickly as she could. That Morgan still lay perfectly unmoving was a great help to the process. There was no time for proper poultices and bandaging, not yet.

She felt in her bones that Parker would be back any moment and she wanted to have just Micah and Layla with her to finish what she intended to do.

"Suh," she said, looking at Harmer, "I knows what gots ta be done now an' if'n yo'd kindly take Miz Susannah inside de house now, Suh, an' maybe gets her ta lie on de sofa like she done be lay all low wif grief when dat debilman come, dat be a big help, Suh."

"You...you plan to hide him out here, Myra?" Harmer asked.

Myra nodded. "'Hind them barrels an' sacks, Suh. Debilman search de house fer sure but maybe not here so well."

"What...what if he wakes and makes noise or moves?"

"I take kere o' dat, too, Suh. Don' yo' worry none 'bout dat. I knows what ta do."

Harmer smiled slightly. He believed she did. "Thank you, Myra," he said sincerely. "I am more grateful to you than I can say."

Susannah didn't want to leave but Harmer talked her into it simply because it would be safer for Morgan if she did. Once inside the house, she did lie on the couch and it wasn't hard at all to look like she was distraught because she was. She felt clammy and her pulse was pounding in her neck.
 

In the kitchen Micah was asking, "How yo' gwine keep 'im frum movin' or makin' noise he done wakes while dat Parker man lookin' fer 'im?"

"Like dis," Myra said and with Layla's help and a fresh sheet from the clothes line, began to swaddle him like a newborn, wrapping the cloth around him and tucking it in on itself tightly, which was both good for his injuries and kept his arms pinned to his sides and his legs together.
Micah pulled the barrels out further from the back wall of the kitchen and Layla tossed some

more laundry from the clothes lines on the floor there to pad it a bit before they laid Morgan down. The bloody sheet from the table, Morgan's coat and shirt, Myra grabbed up and stuffed into a barrel, then put its lid on again and set some onions atop it.

Morgan on the floor, moaned again. She'd hoped he'd stay unconscious longer and, sighing, tied a large knot in a big cloth table napkin and gagged him. "I's sorry 'bout dis, my sweet Morgan, but we cain't have dat debil hearin' yo', so dis be fer yore own good."

Micah pushed the barrels back close against Morgan and Myra and Layla piled several layers of empty burlap sacks over him. As a last touch, Myra picked up a big basket that was filled with freshly-picked herbs and set it on the sacks over his legs. Micah set a few full sacks of flour and potatoes on the barrels, making the barrier higher as Layla wiped off the big table and arranged several pots and bowls on it.
 

Parker was in a foul mood, having been dressed down by Simcoe at some length, but he cheered somewhat as he rode along Nicholson, getting closer to Wellington's house. It was worth it, the stern reprimand, worth it because of the result his actions on the battlefield would now have. He could almost taste the pleasure of dumping Kent on the doorstep. Maybe Susannah might even trip over his body? Wouldn't that be a sight! He turned into the little path where he'd left the dead

man, glowering when he saw the horse was no longer there. Standing in his stirrups, he looked across the garden, and when he noticed someone moving near the stables called out, "You there! Come over here!"

Joel took a deep breath and crossed the yard to the herb garden by the fence. "Suh?" he said, doffing his hat.

"I left a horse here not more than an hour ago. What happened to it?"

"Oh, dat be Gideon, Marse Kent's horse, Suh. He come home wif Marse Kent daid on his back. Marse Wellington, he done ast me ta bury him dere," he pointed to the far fence line in the rear

of the yard, "so's Miz Susannah she not hafta hab his body lyin' 'bout."

"Buried him? You buried Kent already?" His brows rose incredulously.

"Yas'suh. Dat what Marse Wellington done want me ta do. I kin show yo' if'n yo' want, Suh."

"I do want! Parker snapped.

"Back gate, Suh," Joel pointed and Parker spurred his horse to ride down the fence line then turn right while Joel sprinted to the gate, opening it for him. Parker dismounted just outside and strode through, glaring at the groomsman. Joel led him past some large lilac bushes to where there was

an obviously freshly-dug grave. It was only a foot deep, but it was the surface size of a grave and Joel had mounded the dirt up rather effectively then sprinkled the broken foxgloves over it.

Parker stood looking down at it, feeling robbed. Finally he said, "She knows he's dead, then?"

"Suh? Marse Morgan? Yas'suh, Miz Susannah knows."

"Good," he said, then turned, looking toward the back of the house then down at the grave again. Something didn't seem quite...right. Without another word to Joel, he began walking quickly through the yard toward the open back door. Susannah heard his spurs as he came down the back entry and a shiver of fear went through her lest he discover Morgan.

Parker paused in the archway to the parlor. Susannah lay on the couch, her eyes closed. Harmer stood nearby, drinking a glass of water, his hand shaking, both because he wanted the effect of

that for Parker's sake and because it really was shaking on its own somewhat. So much was at

stake in this moment.
 

"Parker," Harmer said, "you've heard?"

"I've heard Morgan was killed. Is that true?"

Harmer looked devastated. "I'm afraid so." He glanced at his daughter. "My poor Susannah is quite prostrate with grief."

Parker walked to the couch, looking down at her, seeing tears still wet on her face. Her grief seemed real enough. He touched her arm but she only moaned and turned on her side, her face against the back of the couch.

Good girl, Harmer thought. He hadn't wanted her to have to endure speaking with Parker.

Parker straightened. "You won't mind, then, if I have a look around."

"There's no need for that, Parker, but, of course, I don't mind. Since you came in the back, I trust you've seen his grave."

Susannah moaned again and her shoulders shook. It wasn't feigned. She knew all too well Morgan could still die.

"Very well," Parker said stiffly and went quickly up the stairs, looking in each bedroom, under every bed, even inside a  large wardrobe. In George's room he gazed at the child a moment. The brat looked like his father. He couldn't possibly have him at Graylands. Downstairs, he checked under the dining room table, in the pantry, lifted the lid of a big chest in the hall. Morgan was not in the house. Still not completely satisfied, he stalked out the back entrance, going around the
brick path to the cookhouse.
 

Myra was stirring a big pot of stew, to which she'd added a lot of onions and herbs, its scent filling the room, covering that of evaporating whiskey. Layla was at the table, mixing bread dough in a large bowl. They both watched silently as he moved around the room, tipped a large barrel, frowned, then left. He walked across the yard back to the grave, stared at it briefly, then bent

and picked up a long stem of lavender-colored foxglove. He twirled it between his thumb and

forefinger, then slid the fingers of his left hand down the stem, shredding off the trumpet-

shaped blooms. A bee inside one of the trumpets, stung his thumb. With a low curse, he sucked on the sting, his brow deeply knitted. Tossing the bare stem back onto the dirt, he turned on his heel, went to his horse and mounted.

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