Jenny would have welcomed the cramped quarters of the Destiny. She huddled beneath her blue shawl, a woolen blanket stretched across two tree limbs in a vain attempt to keep her dry. Mr. Gates and two other crew members sat beneath the leafy canopy, their coats drenched, hats pulled down to shelter their eyes. The rain intensified until thick drops ricocheted off the ground and bit into her legs. This downpour seemed eternal.

Sleep had been useless, and they had missed a good night’s sleep the night before, trying as quickly as possible to get inland from the cove where the Destiny sheltered. Like New York, New Jersey was rife with British troops. Perth Amboy might have been a safe harbor, but travel up Sandy Hook Bay would have been too close to British-held Staten Island. Their only choice was to land farther south and make the rest of the trip on foot.

As a gray ribbon of dawn lightened the eastern sky, the rain eased. Mr. Gates handed out strips of dried beef and hard tack. She had gotten used to this fare aboard the Destiny. If she paid no attention as she ate it, the food was easier to consume.

“Eat hearty—we have a long trek today. I’d like to reach our first stop by sundown.” He shook out his jacket, took off his cap, and wiped his drenched hair with his handkerchief.

Jenny rose and wrung out her shawl and the wool blanket. Though her back ached and her stomach still longed for food, she hurried along. The faster they made this trip, the sooner she’d be with Father.

The sky cleared to brilliant blue with a scattering of clouds that billowed along from the west. The humidity clung to them like a cape, inviting flies and mosquitoes to feast all day. By the time they reached the farm that was their goal, she had scratched her arms and legs to bleeding.

The farmhouse door opened upon their approach, the barrel of a rifle all that emerged.

“State your business.” The voice carried across the small pond in front of the house.

“We seek shelter on our journey to Perth Amboy.”

The rifle lowered a bit.

“We seek liberty from our suffering along the road.”

The rifle disappeared. A short man with hair like straw and pale blue eyes emerged, a toddler girl with matching features clinging to his leg. He beckoned them, scanning the yard as they approached. Even though they stood before him, he moved closer.

“We quarter two lobsterbacks here. They’ve ridden to town for the day but will be returning before long. You’d best be on your way.”

Mr. Gates’s shoulders sank. He glanced at Jenny.

“Could you spare some victuals? We’ve nothing left to eat.” Mr. Gates looked at her again.

A slender woman with a gaunt face joined them. She held an infant who stared at them but made no noise.

Jenny wanted to take the baby—the woman looked too weak to hold the child.

“I got nothin’ to give you. The soldiers have taken over our home. They’ve confined us to a small room at the back, and they’ve eaten all our stores. I can’t even feed my wife and babes.”

Mr. Gates laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “God be with you, sir. I will try to send help.”

The man blinked back tears and pulled back his shoulders. “In all times, I’ve always been able to take care of my own …”

“But these are different times.” He patted the man’s shoulder. “Come. Let’s depart before the soldiers return. We don’t want to bring this family any more suffering.”

They trudged through the woods, avoiding the road lest they meet up with the soldiers. Jenny’s legs trembled, and she wobbled along the path. The image of a baby too weak to cry filled her mind. How could soldiers take the home and food away from a family? From babies? Father had been fighting against exactly such injustice. What if he was too weak to recover? Her body ached, and the urge to drop to the ground and simply surrender overwhelmed her. She gritted her teeth. I must go on. Please, give me the courage to go on.

Heading for his next stop, a farm north of Annapolis, Andrew skirted a small town. Though he’d been able to stay on the main road most of the time, he thought it prudent to duck into the forest whenever riders approached. The British were thick in some areas, and a few close calls urged him to greater caution. Shadow sensed when it was imperative to be silent, standing motionless among the trees.

Every mile he traveled took him closer to British occupation and possible capture. No matter how many times he shook his head, the sound of Eleanor’s scream reverberated in his ears. And his mind’s eye imagined the scene: Cyrus lying dead at his wife’s feet. Eleanor collapsing beside him. Cyrus had paid the ultimate price in the fight for freedom, and Eleanor probably would as well. Every time he acknowledged that Cyrus had sacrificed his life for him, Andrew shivered, though the August night was hot and muggy. Randy and Cyrus were right. This was bigger than he and Jenny being parted. Oh, God, how he missed her, but he had a mission to complete before he could give in to his own desires.

He nudged Shadow to a quicker pace.

Now windows flickering with lanterns and candlelight lit his path around the perimeter of the town. The door to a public house burst open, spewing a drunken man who swore oaths at the innkeeper. Something to do with the owner’s daughter. Andrew dipped into the trees, giving wider berth to the buildings on the outskirts.

As he headed out of town, the woods fell away to farmland. Corn planted on either side of the road rustled in the breeze, but was too short to allow concealment should he need it. Nudging Shadow with his heels, he cantered down the road, hurrying toward the spot ahead where the forest resumed.

Behind him, hoofbeats thundered. As if on cue, Shadow broke into a gallop, and Andrew hunched forward, leaning against the horse’s mane. The hoofbeats grew nearer. Had they spotted him?

“Halt.” A voice rang out against the midnight air.

Andrew urged Shadow on, and the horse complied. They flew toward the wooded stretch of road.

“In the name of King George, HALT.”

A bullet zinged past them on the left.

Shadow sped up, horse and rider moving as one, smooth and swift. They reached the trees and Shadow veered into the forest. The steed had an uncanny awareness of where to run, zigzagging among the trees. Andrew simply gave the horse its head, lying low against it. Shadow vaulted over a fallen tree and halted. The horse’s breath gusted through its flared nostrils. Andrew held his breath, listening.

His hand encircled his throat. What would it feel like to hang? Gulping, he loosened the stock about his neck. He had seen a man hanged once, riveted by the fear in the man’s eyes, how his legs trembled. Andrew had trembled with him. Someone had thrown a rope over a sturdy branch then, low enough to reach, but high enough for a man to swing. Would they place a black cloth over his head as they had done to that man that day? Through the material, he had heard the man’s weeping mixed with gasps for the breath that would soon be choked. The crowd had been boisterous until that moment. Then, as one, the people quieted.

Andrew had wanted to run, to look away, but he had been transfixed, rooted to the ground. The knot of the rope had been skillfully placed just at the jaw—an easier death than strangling. The ladder was kicked out from beneath the man. Snap. His legs kicked, a stain spread over his breeches, and a woman and young boy nearby wept softly. Then his legs were still, and the people who had been frozen in grotesque curiosity moved as if they’d just come alive. Some of them laughed as they drifted away, some were silent. Andrew had vomited.

Was that what hanging would be like for him?

No, he must banish these thoughts and see his mission through. He must reach Jenny. He shook his head to rid his mind of the gruesome scene. He would not hang. They would have to catch him first.

The troop was on the road beyond where Shadow had left it.

“Search the woods. Find them.” The command sliced the night.

The soldiers dismounted, clambering into the trees. Andrew crouched as they slashed their sabers into branches and bushes, hacking through any hint of the direction Shadow had taken. He hunched against the horse, his legs moving with the rhythm as Shadow’s sides expanded and lowered, a bellows of breath, slowing as they stood, waiting. The soldiers searched either side of the road, advancing even farther along than Andrew and Shadow had traveled.

“Find them!”

The sounds grew fainter as the troop moved on. Finally, the sound of men mounting horses floated back to Andrew. Hoofbeats echoed then faded into the distance. Shadow snorted; Andrew chuckled.

“Was that a comment on the efficiency of the king’s troops, Shadow?”

The horse whinnied softly. They waited until all was silent on the road. Then, weaving into and out of the woods, they continued to the next stop.

The sharp light of the noonday sun reflected off the window panes of the house Jenny had been searching for in Manhattan. She ran her hand across her midriff, feeling the loose cloth of her dress. Traveling for four days on foot with little to eat had taken its toll. But somewhere there was a mother cradling her thin baby. Jenny would be hungry for only a few days. Their fate was unending.

The farmer who had sheltered them the night before had offered a hearty meal of roasted rabbit and corn, but her appetite had dwindled, and what she’d eaten lay like a lead ball in her stomach. She’d had a good night’s rest on a straw mattress that was opulence compared to the hard ground that had been her bed the previous nights.

The same farmer brought her the final miles to this house where Mother and Father stayed. At last, she would see for herself how Father was doing. So why was she hesitating?

Was Father in good health? Was he still ailing? Was he even alive? She held her stomach attempting to stem the fluttering that threatened to disgorge her breakfast.

No sense standing here wondering.

She mounted the steps and lifted the brass knocker, rapping it hard three times. A young black boy eased the door open, peeking around to see who was there.

“Isaac? Is that you?”

The boy’s face lit up. “Yes, Miss Jenny.”

“Why, you’ve grown a foot since I left.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

She waited, but he continued to beam at her.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He swung the door wide just as a tall slender woman entered the hall from the parlor. Her gray eyes mirrored Jenny’s, but her hair was flaxen.

“Isaac, who is at the—oh, my gracious.” The woman froze, her hand flying to her heart.

“Mother, I’ve returned.”

She collapsed into Mother’s arms. All the fear and discomfort she’d felt melted into Mother’s warmth. She was home. She was safe. She slumped a bit, legs trembling, and smiled at Isaac as he moved a chair closer, but Mother would not release her.

Isaac closed the door and slipped to the back of the house.

Jenny clung to her, then stepped back. “I am travel-worn and dirty. I will soil your clothing.”

“Jennifer, I told you to remain at Brentwood Manor,” she scolded, hugging her tighter.

“I know, but I could not resist coming to see Father. How is he?”

Mother wiped her tears with her handkerchief. Lines creased the corners of her eyes and mouth, lines that had not been there when Jenny had left the previous year.

“Your father … is still ailing.”

Thrilled, she hugged Mother again. Father was still alive.

“What have you endured, child, to arrive here so quickly? I sent the letter only a month ago.”

“Uncle Jonathon was coming to New York anyway …”

“He cannot. They will arrest him—”

“He did not sail into port here in the city.”

“Then how did you arrive? Are you alone?” More lines creased her forehead.

“No, Uncle Jonathon would never abandon me.” Jenny laughed, brushing her fingers along the furrows etched in Mother’s brow.

“Of course he wouldn’t.” Mother smiled, erasing at least the new creases. “Forgive me for such thoughts, it’s just that times are so different now, so treacherous …” She pulled her wrap closer as she gazed toward the window. She shook herself and looked at Jenny. “I forget myself. Let me ring for tea, and then you can tell me of your adventure since departing Brentwood Manor.” She pulled a rope bell, and a slender woman with silken brown skin hurried in.

Seeing Sarie was like a warm, soothing balm. She had served the family for years, but Jenny loved her like an older sister.

“Miss Jenny,” she said, her voice breaking. “You’ve come.”

Jenny drew her into an embrace. “Yes, I’ve come, Sarie.” Pulling back, she searched the servant’s eyes—striking blue eyes, brimming with tears, bright against her mocha skin.

She wiped at her own tears.

“This is what Mr. Sutton needs. Your presence will surely bring him ‘round,” she said, squeezing Jenny’s hand.

Mother reached for the back of the chair where she stood.

“I’m sure it will.” She turned to Mother. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Let me fetch tea for you ladies,” Sarie said over her shoulder, having already turned toward the back of the house.

“How serious is Father’s injury?”

“It is probably good that you’ve returned after all.”

“I want to see him.”

“After tea, you can take a nap. I’m sure you’re exhausted after your voyage.”

“No. I want to see Father now.”

Mother nodded slightly. “Of course, dear.” Her brows drew down. “It is good that you are here.”

Little of the golden afternoon sunlight peeked through the partially closed shutters when Jenny entered Father’s room. Mother’s arm encircled her waist. A foul odor permeated the air, and she paused. It took all her strength not to press her handkerchief to her nose to block the stench. Swallowing, she continued into the room. For a moment, she couldn’t make out the figure in the bed. As her vision adjusted to the dimness of the room, she gasped at Father’s emaciated form. Edward Sutton’s face was as pallid as the pillow he lay on, his jaw set against the pain. Seeing her, his expression brightened and he attempted to smile, though it was more like a grimace.

“Father,” she whispered as she rushed to his side, fighting her repulsion to the odor.

He reached up to stroke her cheek, but the effort was too much. His hand fell back to the bed.

“My Jenny.” His voice was soft and raspy.

She took his hand, kissing it, cradling it against her face. “I’m here, Father.”

“It gladdens me.” He stopped, the effort to speak too much.

She looked up at Mother, standing tall, shoulders back, holding a damp linen cloth. A single tear escaped before she could wipe it away.

Sarie entered carrying a pitcher of water. Placing it on the bedside table, she opened the shutters on the window closest to the bed. Father winced, turning away from the bright light, and Mother placed the damp cloth over his eyes.

“You may want to leave while I tend to your father.” Mother’s voice was soft.

“No, I will stay.”

Sarie picked up the pitcher and held it for a moment, as if deciding what she must do next. Her gaze shifted from Mother to Jenny.

“Miss Jenny, I don’t mean to tell you what’s best, but it would pain Mr. Sutton to have you see him in distress.”

Jenny wavered for a moment; the stench signaled a gruesome wound. She could be here to lend emotional support and leave the repugnant task of dealing with the wound to Mother and Sarie. Did she have the fortitude to face this task? Did she have a deep enough love? She tightened her hand around his. “I will stay.”

Mother nodded.

Sarie poured water into the basin and handed Mother the towel. Dipping the towel in the basin, she wrung it out and carefully drew back the blanket covering Father’s leg.

The putrid odor surged up. Jenny reeled, letting go of Father’s hand to cover her nose. The stench intensified when Mother slowly pulled back the compress that covered the wound.

“Oh my God.” Jenny jerked back.

An ugly gash stretched from Father’s knee up his thigh. Yellow pus oozed out even as Mother wiped it clean. One area was an ugly blackish-green.

Jenny’s stomach lurched. The smell invaded her nose and throat. She gulped down bile, willing herself not to be sick.

Though Mother worked slowly, taking great care not to hurt him, Father moaned in pain, gritting his teeth.

Jenny reached out and took his hands in hers, trying to comfort him. “Shhh, Father. I am here with you.” Her words rang hollow. What could she do to help him? She laid her head beside his on the pillow. “I am here, Father. I am here.” Tears burned as her hollow words became a hollow pit in her stomach.

You will not do your father any good by feeling sorry for yourself.

“What can I do?” she asked.

Mother wrung out the cloth.

“Pray, Jennifer. You can pray.”

Reaching into her apron pocket, Sarie took out a fresh linen, fragrant with comfrey, thyme, and lavender. She gave it to Mother, who applied the compress to the wound, securing it with strips of cloth tied around Father’s leg. Finally, she pulled the blanket up, covering his legs and dulling the odor. Picking up a vial from the bedside table, she gently propped him up with one arm and placed the bottle to his lips. She tipped it to allow him to swallow a small dose of the elixir. She replaced the vial but continued to hold him in her arms. She kissed his forehead.

Sarie closed the shutters, casting the room into twilight. She picked up the basin, pitcher, and old compress. Her usually brilliant blue eyes were slate with sadness when she glanced at Jenny as she left.

Jenny studied Father. Her arms were leaden; her mind muddled. Memories of him played in her head: Father swinging her and Kathryn into the air, making them laugh with glee. She and Father riding horses, galloping over fields, him laughing as she vaulted over fences and hedges. The authority he exuded when he strode across a room, strong and commanding. Now he shrank into the bedclothes, his eyes as pained as when he had carried Kathryn to the house. When her eyes were lifeless.

How could this have happened to him? When Jenny boarded the ship for Williamsburg, he had cautioned her to be safe and sensible. Had he not listened to his own words?

Mother still held him in her arms. Her face was drawn and pale, and she stared ahead as if she, too, had been remembering her lively, robust husband.

“We must pray for him, Jennifer. We must have courage.”

“Tell her.”

Mother jolted at her husband’s voice. Whispering gently, she eased his head back to the pillow, but he tried to rise.

“Tell her.” His voice was strong, then it faded to a whisper. “You must.” He searched Mother’s face.

She nodded in understanding. “I shall tell her if you rest.”

He nodded, Jenny thought more in exhaustion than compliance. He drew in a deep breath and sighed. His chest stilled. Mother’s face paled, and she leaned toward him, her body tense. But her shoulders relaxed upon hearing his slow, even breathing, and her panicked expression returned to sorrow. She stared at Jenny as if she were not there, almost transfixed. Then, as if waking, she nodded at her.

“He is resting. Now I must keep my part of the bargain.” Pulling the blanket up on his chest, she kissed his cheek and patted his hand. “Come, Jennifer. There is much to tell you.”