Tail Gait

September 7, 1780

Gorgeous early fall weather made up for the work in a sweltering summer. No one complained about the labor. Two Hessian prisoners of war had broken their ankles sliding down as they worked to ease the grade on Ewing Garth’s wagon road. Other than that, no injuries.

At three in the afternoon, tired men picked up their tools. The walk back to their barracks would take forty-five minutes. Captain Schuyler pulled his horse out of the stables, where Garth allowed him to put the sturdy fellow.

Captain Schuyler unrolled the light blanket across the horse, then rolled it up, throwing it across the front of the saddle. “Almost done for the day.”

As he easily mounted, a figure slid through the barn doors opened for her. Captain Schuyler swept off his hat, bowed as low as he could while on the horse.

“Captain,” she greeted him. “Do you read, Captain?”

“I do, Miss Garth.”

She smiled again, incandescent. “I have brought you something. I imagine the nights at the barracks can be tedious.” She reached under her silk shawl to bring out a small volume wrapped in heavy white paper, tied with raffia. “I have not been able to thank you properly for the assistance you gave me when Renaldo misbehaved.” She drew in a deep breath. “Father doesn’t like me out of his sight when the prisoners are here, so you and I have enjoyed few conversations. I have not been able to show my gratitude.”

“He is quite right to protect you, although I do not think there is a man among the prisoners who would harm you.”

“But would they harm you?”

His black eyebrows raised. “Me? I don’t think so.”

“Should we lose this war, Captain, you will be branded by the British a traitor. My father fears he will lose everything and die a pauper for aiding our great cause. We must win our freedom.”

He smiled as his horse stamped a foot, eager to go as he heard the traces on the wagons jingle. “Miss Garth, we will win this war. I have seen the British in battle. They are disciplined but not so well led. Many of their soldiers are paid men from other countries. We are fighting for our land and”—he grinned—“we are paid infrequently.”

She had not known about the realities of the army, the haggling with the Continental Congress. “But still you serve?”

“With all my heart. I languish here at the camp, and I hope in time I will be recalled to my regiment so I can fight.”

She stared at him, saying nothing.

He blushed under her gaze. He tried to remember what Charles taught him. “Making your acquaintance has sweetened my current situation.”

Finally, her cheeks flushing too, she replied in her beguiling alto, “You are a brave man, Captain Schuyler, but I do so hope there is no”—she paused, searching for the right words—“foolish risk.” Then she collected herself, turned, and opened the barn doors even though Jeddie was ready to do so. “Might you keep the book’s giver to yourself, Sir? Father would be upset.”

He tipped his hat again. “Yes. And I am grateful as the nights are endless.”

—

As Captain Schuyler rode away, Catherine pressed three coins into Jeddie’s palm. The fourteen-year-old slave looked up at her.

“Miss Catherine.”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence because she whispered in his ear, “Jeddie, if you will keep your own counsel and occasionally assist me, I promise more.” She paused significantly. “You know how my father can be.” A gap-toothed grin revealed that Jeddie knew Garth’s ways only too well.

Catherine hurried back to the house, slipped into the kitchen, threw off her shawl. Rachel tiptoed down the back stairway.

Catherine shot her sister a look. “Better view from the top windows, Rachel?”

Ignoring her sister’s tone, the younger girl giggled. “He’s so handsome.”

Catherine shrugged. Sounding nonchalant, she said, “I suppose he is, in a rough way. I owed him something for his pains. This is the first time since Renaldo’s theatrics that I’ve been able to see the good captain by himself. I can’t stand the thought of an audience—like you, for example.”

“Oh, Cat, don’t be a toad. I’m not spying.”

“I’m not a toad. But there’s always someone around, watching, listening.” Catherine yanked her shawl off the table, wrapped it over her sister’s head, and slapped her bottom.

Laughing, they both walked down the hallway to their reading room, where the fire would ward off the coming night’s chill. Catherine kept thinking about how it felt to have Captain Schuyler’s arms around her. She’d never felt anything like that shot of heat. How powerful he was. Not for the first time, the young beauty wished she had her mother to talk to, to ask questions. Her mother had been both wise and uncommonly sweet.

—

Some men rode in the wagon, but most walked, the movement keeping them warmer. Captain Schuyler rode up next to Charles West. “You take your gloves off when you draw. I doubt I could hold a quill, a piece of charcoal, or anything in heat or cold. I can hold a sword or an ax handle, but nothing so narrow.”

“I have to work fast. Then I go back to add more details. As to the road to the bridge, I keep reviewing with Corporal Ix. I am not sure of the proper grades.”

“Can’t be that far off.”

Charles half smiled. “I hope not. And as to gloves.” He pulled his gloves from his breeches’ pocket, many of the fingers were now missing. “You know, Captain, I had hoped to add to my slender purse with some bounty from victories, but as you see…” He held up his open palm.

“No bounty for you, and I have your fine pistol.” Schuyler touched the handsome flintlock gun.

“Indeed.” Charles glanced down at Piglet, happily trotting beside him. He scooped up the dog, carrying him for a while.

Captain Schuyler nodded and rode forward.

Once back at the camp, his horse untacked, brushed out, a light blanket over him, fresh water in his bucket, John Schuyler opened the wrapped book. It was Aesop’s Fables, with illustrations. An inscription in French was written in a flowing, artistic hand.

Slipping it back into his tunic, he saved the paper and raffia, for he wanted everything her hand had touched. He briskly walked to Charles’s barracks, twilight enhancing even those rude structures. Opening the door, he felt a bit of warmth from the fire. The men stood up as he entered.

“Lieutenant West, would you step outside for a moment?”

Grabbing his outer coat, Piglet at his heels, Charles followed John Schuyler outside.

“Will you read this for me? I cannot read French.”

Charles gingerly took the book. “Ah, I remember this.”

He opened the cover, looked at the beautiful hand, did not comment, and translated, “ ‘How true these are. Catherine.’ ” He handed the book back.

“Thank you.”

“I quite like ‘The Fox and the Grapes.’ ” He waited for a moment. “A gentleman would read this, then write back a thank-you, perhaps with something witty or amusing regarding one of the fables.”

“I can write, but it’s a scrawl.” His face registered disappointment.

“My hand is good.”

“She doesn’t want her father to know she gave me this.” Captain Schuyler slipped the book back into his coat.

“Ah, well, that changes things.” Before the Continental soldier took his leave, Charles inhaled the cold air. “Let me think on this, and”—he inclined his head slightly—“if you can learn anything of our fates, that would be most kind.”

As they parted, Charles returning to his makeshift cot, he thought that while he was a captive, he was not nearly so much a captive as John Schuyler. Odd? Fate? He had no idea. Piglet jumped up, in answer, snuggled next to him, and they fell asleep fatigued by the long day’s work.