Marzec - Patriots Heart

PATRIOTS HEART

Penelope Marzec

Copyright 2014 Penelope Marzec

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Editing by Susan Baganz

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Prism Book Group

ISBN 10: 1940099706 ISBN 13: 9781940099705

First Edition, 2014

Published in the United States of America

Contact info:

http://www.prismbookgroup.com

DEDICATION

For Aunt Grace,

who always encouraged me.

CHAPTER ONE

Leedsville, New Jersey

Monday, June 29, 1778

Agness heart pounded as she stood in the midst of the battle. With the thick smoke clouding the air, she could barely see anything except for the soldiers grappling on the ground at her feet. The men twisted and thrashed about in their fight to the death, but none of them were Father or Uncle Fitz and she wanted to find them. She needed them at home.

Stepping over the combatants groveling in the dirt appeared impossible and dangerous. Instead, she turned. Behind her a man stood with a bayonet in his hands. He lunged toward her. She tried to scream, but no sound came from her lips.

Then, above the sounds of struggle, the sweet lilt of Colleens voice singing Risn Dubh floated on the air. Agnes woke with a start and drew in a ragged breath. A cold sweat covered her and tears moistened her cheeks.

She had been dreaming. Shaky, she pushed herself to sit in the big bed and rubbed her eyes. It was not surprising that her mind had conjured up images of battle. Only yesterday the sound of cannons, though a dozen miles distant, shook the ground as the British and Patriots clashed near Monmouth Courthouse. She and her sister, Margaret, had prayed for their father and uncle in the Continental army. Colleen spent the day singing merry songs of war. This mornings melancholy tune could only mean one thing: the Patriots had lost the battle and the British had won.

Dawn tinged the horizon and though Colleen continued her somber performance, the unmistakable rumble of heavy wagons sounded on the road.

Agness heart constricted with panic. Had the war come to their door?

Fearing the worst, she dressed and hurried into the kitchen. Her young sister Margaret stood at the table with flour up to her elbows as she rolled out sweet buns while Colleen trilled her doleful air as she stirred porridge over the fire. Margarets thick blonde braids swung back and forth as she flattened the dough. She nodded at Agnes, but did not speak. They had learned long ago that when Colleen sang Roisin Dubh, it was best not to interrupt.

Colleens recital did not prevent her from handling her chores. She lifted the kettle without missing a note and poured tea into a mug. The aroma of raspberry leaves and mint seemed to restore Agness senses.

Thank you. She mouthed the words. After Father joined the army and marched off to fight, Colleen treated Agnes as the head of the household, which unsettled her. Until that point, Colleen had been like a mother to her.

Colleen set a steaming bowl of porridge on the table and Agnes ate slowly, with her body tensed, as she waited for the end of the song. She must know the news.

By the final cadence, Agness bowl sat empty and the smell of Margarets sweet rolls baking in the oven wafted through the house.

Hobart said three chickens are missing and Jonas is gone, Margaret blurted out the moment Colleen took a deep breath.

Agnes gasped in horror. Stolen livestock had become a regular occurrence with the Tories raids, but Jonas was a special pig. The unfortunate animal had been shot a few months past in a surprise attack by a group of Tories. Agnes had dug out the bullet and healed the young hog with Colleens help, for the Irish woman possessed a fine knowledge of the uses of herbs for healing.

Agnes swallowed her sense of loss. More important issues lay at stake beyond a missing, though dear, pig. Who has won the battle?

The guns of the British are tramping past. Colleen put a hand to her heart and shook her head. Does the king not rule these colonies with an iron fist?

The British left Philadelphia to retreat to New York, Agnes pointed out. Did they defeat the Continental army? Why are they not fighting?

Yesterday was far too hot for a battle. Margaret wiped her brow with her apron. Today is not much better.

Agnes rose from the table, and tucked the errant strands of her brown hair neatly into her cap. Aye, I labored to breathe in the shade in the afternoon. Surely, someone will pass by the forge with an account of the fray.

Ill bring you one of the sweet buns on my way to the inn, Margaret promised. No doubt someone will carry tidings of the armys clash. Travelers are always thirsty and drink loosens their tongues.

Ach, and its dangerous to be talking with strangers, Colleen warned in her soft brogue. What if you happen upon Tories? Why, any of them would stab their own mother in the heart.

We cannot trust some of our disaffected neighbors either. Agnes sighed and stepped out of the house into the new day. The rolling wheels of the heavy wagons came faintly to her ears as they drew further away, but the pungent smell of smoke lingered in the morning air. The sun ascended above the horizon and turned the sky to rose. She hoped the rain would come soon and clear the skies of the insufferable heat.

Walking to the barn, she pondered Jonass capture. The pig had become a rather clever creature. She believed he understood English and would never have allowed a stranger to put a rope around his neck. Surely, whoever seized him must have killed him first. Her eyes grew misty at the thought.

When she drew nearer, she noticed one of the wide stable doors already open. Had the British stolen the cow and calf, too? Her heart quickened in fear.

Stepping inside with caution, she saw no one in the shady interior. The cow mooed, the calf echoed his mothers call, and Agnes quelled her panic. She picked up the bucket and stool, sat next to the cow, and set to the familiar task of milking.

With the steady rhythm of her hands, the bucket filled near to the brim. When a low moan echoed from the back of the barn, her breath hitched in her throat. She told herself the sound came from an owl, a mourning dove, or some other unfortunate creature calling for its mate.

Done with the milking, she led the cow and the calf outside to the fenced pasture. She returned for the milk and heard the groan again. Louder and more distinct, it emanated from the last stall.

She grabbed the rake hanging on the wall. Danger lay in moving an injured animal and she needed to protect herself from sharp teeth and claws. With her heart pounding and perspiration dripping from her brow, she tiptoed to the back of the barn.

She did not find a wild, suffering animal. Stunned, she blinked her eyes several times to be sure she had not fallen into a dream or a nightmare. On the hay lay a British soldier, her enemy, with a musket at his side. Blood and mud stained his red wool coat and white breeches.

Her pulse raced, and her initial reaction was to turn and run. She swallowed instead as she studied him. His eyes were closed and he had not shaven in days. He had fine features and a headful of coal black hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck with a strip of leather.