The Patriot's Daughter

And Angels Keep Watch

DARK SKIES PAINT THE cool night, brisk air brushing my cream colored skin as I peak out the tent's flaps. A small fire glows warmly not far from my tent, the only light among camp. I bring my sleeves around my hands to battle the chilly night air.
How does it get this cold only a few hours after the heat of the day?
    Not a sound is made throughout all the camp, only the chirping of critters puncturing the silence. Liam was not joking, William is curled up on the ground, sleeping right outside the tent. I quietly walk around him, intent on getting warm by that fire. I glance behind my shoulder, to the side, making my way. Shaking a strand of hair out of my eyes, I stop mid-stride, looking on a figure clothed in firelight. His sitting frame reflects dark shadows lining the dirt ground.
    A chill runs across my arms, my brows drawing together tight. I make my footsteps quiet, leaning forward to study the stranger. A tricorne hat sits on his head. A long, black coat draping from his shoulders to the ground. His back rounds, elbows propped on his knees. The hunched shape looks very weary and spent . . . and familiar.
    I walk to the side, staying at a far distance. Suddenly a part of me wishes Liam was at my side. The man's side profile comes into view, and I freeze in place.
Could it be?
    I dare to inch closer, suddenly feeling a stick break under my shoe. The man whips around, hand flying to a knife at his waist. A familiar square jaw and black curly locks greet my gaze.
    A force of emotion hits every fiber in me. My eyes well to the brim. My mouth drops, whisper hoarse. "Papa."
     The blue eyes I haven't seen in so long, but have never forgotten, pierce through mine. His tall frame stands briskly, instantly. "Maddie . . ." Hearing his voice makes me fumble backwards. "Oh, Maddie."
    I run like a small child. "Papa!"
    His protective arms wrap around me, and I smell the combination of a long night's ride and forest dew. How could I have forgotten what it was like to hug him? I bury my head in his chest, tears spilling over my cheeks onto his wooly coat. "Papa. Wha—what are you—" My lip quivers, stopping any words from escaping. I laugh unexpectedly, clutching him tighter. "I can't believe it's you! Liam said—tomorrow . . ."
    Some say my Papa is as tall as General Washington himself, standing over six feet. I come to his chest, looking up to feel his smile warm away the cold. His blue eyes are serious yet adoring. Voice deep but hushed in the quiet camp. A wide hand brushes at my tangled hair. "Why are you out, my girl?"
     I laugh into my sleeve. "I was headed for the fire . . . Oh, Papa!" I slip my hand into his, shaking it once. "There's so much to tell you!" Thoughts bombard my head, too fast for my lips to catch up. I grip him and widen my eyes, my voice urgent. "River Springs was attacked, raided by Royal Dragoons. Annie's was hit, and Michael!" I suck in a breath. "They took Michael! And Sarah and Irene, they just escaped—"
    "Maddie!" Papa's hands move to my shoulders, his eyes wide with confusion. "What are you talking about? I thought Liam brought you all safely here to camp?"
    The need to tell him everything quickens my heart rate, but my mouth opens only for me to fumble. "I—Royal—"
    Papa's tanned face contorts as he leads me to the log by the fire. Immediately his eyes search mine as they seem to turn an even darker shade of blue. "Start from the beginning, child. Explain everything."
    Fear grips my throat, and I raise a hand to massage a growing lump away. "I told you, Papa. Royal Dragoons. They attacked."
    "Did you actually see them?" His brows knit.
    I nod firmly. "Aye, Papa! Two Dragoons took Michael and the rest rode away. I never saw any actually raid the town because they were sheltered by the forest, but I know for sure what I did see." For a moment I stop breathing, feeling the dust coat my skin again. Gusts of smoke and the replay of a torrent of screams seem to flood my eyes and ears. I wrap my arms around the rest of my body, looking to him. "Royal Dragoons."
    Papa's head tilts slowly in the light of the fire. He appears suspicious as he studies me and leans in. I watch him and continue at his silence, closing my eyes to recall. I feel my legs clench, remembering the burn of them running. "So much was demolished, debris and fallen shops everywhere. I had ran as fast as I could, I tried to save him, I promise, Papa." A memory flashes in my head while I look into his gaze, Michael's curly head beneath two soldiers as he struggles against their hold. The same defeat that pushed me against Liam's shoulder while Michael was still being held behind tumbles over my lips. "But I didn't save him. I couldn't. I'm so sorry, Papa."
    For a moment I'm not sure that he believes me. But he grows still and his eyes stay unblinking as his forehead creases in deep thought. "What kind of soldiers would take a child like Michael?"
    I hide my surprise at his response. No emotion lies in his eyes or panicked questions on his mouth. He is quiet and pensive, unreadable and unmoving. "Dragoons, like I told you." I furrow my brow, impatient.
    "When? When did it happen?"
    "Just yesterday," I hurry, glad to finally have his attention. "I had just met Liam in the woods, and he gave me the letter. But after I came back home to gather my things, the cannons went off—"
    "You must have seen regular redcoats," he stops me, watching the ground as if stuck on a previous thought. "Dragoons are an elite, often rogue band of ruthless mercenaries and they don't operate this far southwest—"
    "I know what I saw, Papa!"
    He leans in on his knees. "What did the soldiers look like?"
    "They aren't soldiers," I let out, shaking my head. "They're criminals." The image of their green vests and red jackets resurface, two pairs of arms pulling at Michael. "Michael was grabbed by men dressed just like Dragoons." I look up to him. "Just like the one's you've described in your stories. Green vests. Feathers in their helmets."
     He gives a quick nod, as if he is accepting the truth of who they really are. Another quick nod, as if Papa has already made a decision and has a plan. "Which direction did they take your brother?"
    The word brother stabs every muscle, every fiber in me, and I grow tired of his interrogation. The question brings on a queasiness, making me dizzy. I close my eyes and reach back to recall the details of that horrid day. "They . . ." A picture of our wooden house shows up in my vision. "To the left of our house, if you're facing the front." My eyes open, shifting to him. "Into the woods."
    Papa stares hard at the dirt ground, appearing unwilling to answer. Perhaps reconsidering whether he is willing to accept the news.
    I want to say something more, raise a hand to his shoulder. But I also want to cry. Lean into his shoulder rather than pat it, because I can't sit up any longer. I look over and catch my breath, following the tear trickle down my father's cheek with weary eyes. He sniffs, folding his hands, elbows propped on his knees. "Where's O'Dally, dear?"
    I hide my surprise at the question, shifting on the log. "He . . . well, that's the thing. He's not here." I blink drearily, having almost no strength left to argue. "Why? I can tell you everything he could about the attack."
    He lifts his brow through a teary gaze, dubious. "If he's not here, then there must be a very good reason for him to leave you with so many soldiers you do not know."
    I hold his stare. "I know William."
    He leans in with a tired smirk tugging at his mouth, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Yes, well, William is a good lad, but Liam is the one I wanted watching over you."
    I inhale a deep breath and frown. "There is a reason Liam's not here, that's what I've been trying to tell you. He took a group of soldiers to survey town, where the Dragoons attacked."
    He's silent, as if a lump in his throat keeps him from opening his mouth, choking out any possible word. If there are even any words to say. I've said all I can . . . everything's now left to Papa to decide.
    "What about Sarah and Irene?" His head lifts suddenly.
    I pause, dreading even thinking about the two. So there is more to say.
    Papa has never been around enough to actually spend time with the two women he took in, but he obviously cares about them and their well being. Sarah was widowed before asking Papa for a roof over her head in exchange for being the caretaker of Michael and me. Having pity for her and her daughter, he made sure they were sheltered from that day forward and even now he feels a sense of responsibility for them.
    Except that Papa can't do anything about them now.
    I hurry to explain, not feeling a bit of relief for the fortunate events. "They escaped in time. Ran into the forest. Probably better off if something happened to—"
    "Maddie," his weary snap silences me. I look further away. "Do not wish harm on innocents."
    Wouldn't we be well-off without them? Sarah never cared for any of us. Now I see that her only obvious intention was to marry Papa for recognition. My mouth clamps shut, though thoughts run through my head rapidly, one after another, wishing they could be said.
    Sarah never actually cared, all those times Papa was gone. She never thought anything of us, from her strict rules to demanding voice, her unfair treatment of providing more food for Irene than Michael.
    Papa should have known . . .
    "No one could ever replace Mama." I only realize I whispered the thought after Papa looks at me, wide eyed.
    I glance down, cheeks red.
    He clears his throat and lowers his gaze, seeming to let the comment go. His voice remains a whisper as his head stays down. "Michael . . . you're sure?"
    The silence steals the air for itself, tightening my throat. I move a hand to my stomach, clenching rough material, barely managing a hoarse whisper. "Yes." My hands wring in my lap as a dewy mist starts to descend upon grassy land and cloud the air around us.
    Trees sway in the distance to their own song . . . though if you forget yourself for a moment, and open your heart, you can hear it along with them. I blink my eyes drearily, wishing to get up and disappear to the forest, to dance and pretend that none of these last two days were real.
    Papa's hands drop as his gaze turns to the fire. I study him for a moment and realize I haven't helped anything at all. The weight of his whisper seems to make the air colder, the night heavier.
    "They took my little boy?"
    Surprisingly the ache has lessened, and I want to snap. Scream at something. I tighten my fists into a ball. "Haven't you been listening, Papa?" I look around, as if pleading with at least the trees to hear me, but finding no response. My throat grows thick and my mouth turns dry as I dart my glance from the darkened sky to the ground. I hug my waist, sitting still.
     Will the morning ever come? What if from now on, even the mornings awaken the anguish of Michael's capture to my heart and mind?
    Suddenly Papa rises, looking down. "I need you to help me."
    I shoot up, eyeing him. "Yes—of course, Papa. Anything."
    He extends an arm. "You can help me by getting sleep tonight, and then assisting me in mapping out a picture of everything you saw that day at sunrise."
    I shake my head quickly. "I can't sleep now. Not with Michael still missing and Liam gone for the night."
    Papa pauses a moment just long enough so that the silence is uncomfortable, as if he's reading me. "Then you might as well help me form a picture of what happened."
    A smile stretches across my face. I nod firmly.
    "Come over here, to the dirt." His voice is still quiet in order to not wake the other soldiers.
    We crouch to our knees, finding sticks.
    He points to the ground with the pointed end of the piece of wood. "I need you to outline for me every place the cannons fired from. Can you do that for me?"
     I nod hesitantly, then more firmly after painting in my mind the picture of town on that terrible day. Swiftly, my hand goes to work, fingers lightly gripping the stick like they would a paintbrush. I forgo outlining the front of town, and work on making a scribbly tree line and a row of shops towards the back. "I can't say for sure where the first one came from. I was inside." I nod, thoughtful. "But once outside, I know for sure they came from here . . ." I point to one drawn square.
    Papa lowers his head to look closer, rubbing his scruffy chin. "How long between cannon shots?"
    "Not long, definitely not enough to have moved the cannons. I think they were all fired from the same spot, at least while I was there."
    I designate four spots where the cannons hit their targets, remembering Annie's being hit and another small shop close to the spot we had knelt, surrounded by clouds of dust. I raise the stick, my wrist curved in the air, satisfied with the illustration once finished.
    "You're sure this is where the canons fired from?" Papa points to a square drawn in the dirt.
    "Yes, Sir. It hit Annie's." My lips curve downward in a frown, remembering the horror that coursed through me at the sight of Annie's wall tumbling down with a crash.
    "Annie's? Was she there? Was Lydia?"
    "Only Annie, and she seemed mostly okay, but very shaken up."
    Papa nods deeply, eyes narrowed on the circle at our feet. With his stick he taps the back of the circle, lined with scribbles of trees. "If the Dragoons started firing here like you said, then they came in from the west." He pauses, his head shaking slightly. "We had it all wrong."
    I furrow my brow and wait. What does he mean?
    Frustration, mixed with regret, lines his forehead and glazes over his blue eyes. "We were sure they were marching in from the east and our reports said they were regular soldiers."
    I glance back to the dirt, running through my thoughts. "Papa, Dragoons are cavalry . . . they would have arrived at their destination before you were able to find them out. As long as you thought it was just regular redcoats approaching, you didn't expect them for several more days." I pause to think on the new idea. No wonder Papa kept insisting I saw redcoats and not Dragoons . . . redcoats were who he was expecting, not highly trained, elite British troops who covered miles on their resilient mounts faster than any other soldiers in either the British or American Army.
    "Aye." He turns to me with a glean in his eye. "When did you get so smart, dear one?"
    I smile up at him. "Great teachers raise great students." Leaning into his shoulder, we lower to sitting positions on the ground.
    After a moment Papa's deep, gentle sigh vibrates through my head laid against his chest. "I need to speak with Robert Brenley. Has he arrived?"
    "Liam and I spoke with him today." I lift my head, glancing behind my back. "I'm not sure which tent is his."
    "I'll call on him in the morning. You need to sleep while the night hours are still here." Papa rises and leaves the stick on the ground.
    "But Papa, there is so much more to tell you." My words start spilling out, not making much sense even to me as I rub my eyes wearily. "A spy, Peterson, from this camp, and Liam thinks maybe Captain Grover too. And Warren, he's a Dragoon but was on our back porch with Irene—"
    "Shhh, child, I think your first time in a soldiers camp and the lack of sleep is playing games with your mind. Get some sleep and we'll sort it all out with Brenley at first light."
    Weariness makes my eyelids ten pounds heavier as I nod in reluctant agreement, taking his hand that lifts me onto my feet. "I'll show you our tent." My words jumble together as a yawn widens my mouth.
    "You go ahead. I will know which one it is." He looks up to the midnight sky, scanning the trees that sway to a cool breeze. "I'm going to stay out for a bit longer. Pray to the Lord for wisdom."
    I watch the branches dance with him, just barely seen by the firelight. The night is still, the air is crisp, the cream moon full. I breathe in deeply to remember it all, and stumble into Papa's chest like I did only moments earlier. Again I relish in the fact that my Papa is here, and I am held by him once more.
    "Let the angels keep watch tonight, my Maddie." He brushes the top of my hair with a kiss, hugging me firmly and fondly all at once, just like he would everyday at home. My eyes flutter shut, wanting him to say it again. The words he would speak to me every night as a child, up to every night before he left, words that soothed my mind and quieted my worries. The angles will keep watch tonight . . .
    Sleep will come, and peace is here.
    I release him and step back, smiling up at his scruffy face. "Goodnight, Papa." My eyebrows lift. "Please come to the tent soon. I hate to be away from you now that you're here."
    He strokes the top of my head, eyes reassuring. "I promise."
    I nod, stepping away from the warming fire, turning on my heel to look back once more. "I love you, Papa."
    He seems to choke on some unknown emotion, silent for a moment. "I love you too, dear Maddie." He shifts, lifting his hat to swipe a hand over his forehead. "Get some rest now."
    I let a smile fall on my lips as I pull up the ends of my dress so as to not trip on anything in the dark, turning to face the rows and rows of tents. I find the large tent hastily, quick to get out of the cold and under the wool blankets. Wrapping both sleeves around my waist and the thick blankets over my chin, I pray before drifting off to sleep.
    Liam comes to mind, the dangers he could be facing in the night, and even more once morning comes. I beg God for his divine protection, surprised in the middle of my prayer at my deep focus on the young messenger. Suddenly aware of my fervent concern for him, I let my prayers shift direction and praise God for bringing Papa back to me, or bringing me to him, however it went about. No matter, my heart still overflows with joy this night.
    Yes, Michael is gone.
    Yes, these circumstances are impossibly hard.
    But now, under this tent, dwelling on the faithfulness of God, the same God who split the Red Sea so His chosen people could walk right through it, I surrender my heart to peace and let my eyes close, and the angels keep watch tonight.