Before the Scarlet Dawn

Part 3





Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins.

Psalm 25:18





26





On a warm spring afternoon in 1782, Hayward made his way along the river path toward home. The familiar hills of Maryland deepened in the light—leafy walls of shale cast cool shadows over the Potomac.

As he urged his horse to a gallop, he imagined that Eliza’s pretty face had not altered, and that her hair would be longer. For a brief moment, he thought about the hardships and loneliness she must have suffered during his long absence. For the good of The Glorious Cause, there was nothing either he, or his fellow compatriots could have done except hope for the best for the families they had left behind, and pray that the Almighty would watch over them.

He shook off the feelings he had come to know in war, the hardened heart of a warrior that had possessed him for too long. Now it was time for married life again. Tonight he’d sleep with her in their bed, between soft cotton sheets, with her silky skin against his. He ached for her as the weary miles lessened, which caused him to smack the sides of his horse to quicken the animal’s pace along the shadowy road above the Potomac.

He left the woodland path and rode alongside fields thick with corn and knee-deep wheat. There would be a good harvest, and the mill would bring him money.

A half-mile later, under the shade of a limestone bluff, he dismounted and dragged the reins over his horse’s head. Stiff from the long ride, he stretched his limbs and led his horse down to the riverbank to drink. Far in the distance, on the opposite side of the river, he watched a blue heron spear its beak into the water.

He cupped his hand, dipped it into the water, and drank. He saw his reflection in the quiet pool and noticed the lines around his eyes. How would Eliza react to his changed appearance? He looked down at his hands, plunged them back into the water, and rubbed them together. He hoped to wash away the stains—reminders of the British blood he had spilled in the fight for freedom.

Refreshed, he stood and pulled his horse back to the path to remount. He rode on and reached a point where the river grew narrower. Green-headed mallards and their mates skirted along the bank, followed by troops of ducklings. He urged his horse to a trot, and it stepped forward and raised one leg higher than the other. After he drew rein, he jumped down from the saddle and examined the hoof. No stone— just a loose shoe.

The blacksmith shop stood close by. He walked the horse toward it. A young man pounded an iron hinge with a hammer against a black anvil. Sweat soaked his shirt, for he stood close to the fire in the forge. He was dressed in ragged canvas breeches and leather-buckled shoes. Upon sight of Hayward, the smith paused in his work and wiped the sweat from his face.

“You there. Where is Old Ben?”

“Old Ben’s in Heaven, sir.” The corners of his eyes creased.

Hardened by the sights and sounds of death, Hayward threw the reins over a post. “The last time I saw him, he was in fine fettle. When did this happen?”

“Five years ago, sir. Can I be of service to you?”

“If you are skilled at shoeing a horse, yes.”

“Old Ben taught me everything he knew. I can do the work.”

Hayward moved inside. Stacks of firewood and iron, along with a barrel of water, cluttered the opening. “My mount has a loose shoe. I shall pay you good silver to make it right, and to do it quick.”

The smith shook his head. “No silver, sir. A few copper pennies for one shoe is all.” Stepping away from the oppressive heat of the forge, he moved outside, where he lifted the gelding’s hooves to inspect them. “The others are in good shape, sir. But he cannot go any further with this shoe. I can make it right.”

Hayward leaned against a post. “What’s your name?”

“Thomas, sir.”

“Well, I pray you be quick with my horse. I am in a hurry to get home.”

“Is home far, sir?” Tom reached for a pair of pliers.

“Not very. I hope to be there right before the light fades.” Hayward picked up a piece of iron and examined it. “I’ve been away at war and am eager to get home to my wife and daughter. Do you know River Run?”

The tool slipped in Tom’s hand. “I know of it, yes. You’re Captain Morgan?”

“Yes. Perhaps you have shod my wife Eliza’s horse. We always brought our horses to Ben when he was alive. I left a brown mare with her. Surely she’s come here.”

Tom kept his eyes on his work. “I’ve shod so many horses, sir, I could not say.”

Hayward drew out his watch and checked the time. “You would remember her if she had. She has a look not easy for a man to forget.”

Tom yanked the nails free from the shoe. “Long time ago, maybe.”

“Eliza might like a new kettle or something like it. Can you make those?”

Tom nodded, and hammered a new shoe on his anvil. “I can make anything you require, sir.” He plunged it into the water. Steam rose and seethed. As he tacked the shoe into the horse’s hoof, it sidestepped slightly. Tom steadied Hayward’s horse with a firm grip as he kept the horse’s leg between his knees.

Hayward tucked his watch back into his waistcoat. “It is good to see a man concentrating on his work as hard as you do. You are true to your craft.”

Tom tossed the old shoe onto a pile of rusty iron and glanced over at Hayward. “Thank you, sir.” Again he drew the rag over his sweaty brow.

“Were you in the struggle for our independence?”

“No, sir. I stayed right here, and worked for Mr. Halston.”

“That is regrettable . . . for a man, that you missed out on the fighting.”

Tom shrugged. “I did my part. I made shoes for the officers’ horses, sent some upriver to Fort Frederick. I hear your time away was not so fortunate.”

“Really? What did you hear?”

“That you were on a prison ship. Folks thought you were dead. Mr. Halston said your half brother wrote to Mrs. Morgan, said you attempted to escape, and the British hung you. It came as quite a surprise to everyone in these parts when we heard you were alive.”

A smile crossed Hayward’s face. “Before heading home, I wrote to my half brother. No doubt he’ll be astonished to learn he was told wrongly about me.”

“Aye. And Mrs. Morgan believed it for a long time, until she got the good news. Reverend Hopewell said a special prayer of thanksgiving at the church, and the whole congregation joined in praising God that you had been spared.”

“Except for Mr. Halston, I imagine.”

“Mr. Halston left before then. He was good to your wife and child.”

“What do you mean he was good to them?” Hayward’s muscles grew taut. He did not like the idea Halston had known anything about Will’s letter to Eliza, or that he had given Eliza comfort, whatever that meant. Had she been faithful to him?

“Well, the Good Book does say to take care of the widows and the orphans. He made sure she had enough provisions to last the winter months. There was a fierce blizzard and an Indian attack. He . . .”

Despite hearing of the dangers his family had faced, Hayward raised his hand. He knew if he did not stop Tom, he’d hear the praises of Halston’s valor. Part of him was thankful Halston had been there for Eliza in his absence. But jealousy ran deep within him and overtook gratitude. “There is no need to tell me anything more,” he said. “I’ll want to hear it from my wife.”

He took the reins from Tom, mounted his horse, and paid the fee. “Whatever happened to Mr. Halston? Is he at home like some of the other cowardly Tories?”

“Mr. Halston was no Tory, sir. Like I said, he left a long time ago to join the army and never returned—he was killed at Yorktown. His land was bought up.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know, sir. But I hear tell the new owner intends to lease the land and house.”

Hayward looked up the lane leading from the blacksmith shop and fixed his eyes on the house. It would be a suitable dwelling for the Breese family. “I will write my half brother of it. He has a growing family and this would be a suitable home for them. Thank you, Tom.”

Drawing his horse back, Hayward tipped his hat, and made his way toward home. The clop of hooves echoed through the trees, and with eagerness, he pushed his horse to a gallop through the dappled sunshine. Before him waited his beloved, and the daughter he had left as an infant.





The sky shone as blue as the broken robins’ eggs Darcy held in her hand and showed to Eliza. “I found the nest by the tree, Mama. Sarah said the wind blown it down.”

Eliza took in the excited glow within her daughter’s eyes. “I’ve no doubt Sarah is right, my darling. Here, put your treasures in this.” Eliza handed Darcy the basket she used to collect herbs from her garden. “Show them to Ilene.”

Darcy, barefoot and dressed in a white cotton shift, set the eggs carefully inside the wicker cradle, then dashed away to kneel beside Ilene. Having been parted from him at such a young age, she would not remember her papa’s face, but she had told Eliza she imagined his gentle voice. She asked Eliza when he would come home, what war and revolution meant, something that in her young innocence Darcy could not comprehend, and no one, not even Eliza, tried to explain. Word had spread through the villages and hovels along the rivers that General Washington had won a victory at Yorktown and the war was over. Menfolk would be returning to cabin and manor. But not Mr. Halston.

Would Hayward come riding home today, tomorrow, to rescue her out of her loneliness? Or would weeks pass by, and rack her nerves with worry? Her face had not changed—not a spot or wrinkle to mar it. On this score, she was not worried he would be disappointed. No, the years had not changed her in appearance. However, events and circumstances had caused her to age internally.

The house had been readied, the pantry stocked with his favorites, the barrel in the kitchen filled with ale, his long-stemmed pipe set on the table beside his chair.

“Look, Ilene. Are they not pretty?” Darcy gently picked up one egg, and it toppled into her palm.

Ilene toddled forward, placed her hands on the grass, and on her knees leaned over to look at the little treasures. “Pretty!”

“Come sit here, Mama.” Darcy looked back over her shoulder. “The grass is cool.”

“I’ll spoil my dress, my darling girl.” Eliza took a step down from the porch but remained above the lawn. “I pray someday you shall have finer clothes than I.”

“I’d rather have a kerchief like Sarah’s, Mama.”

Eliza glanced over at Sarah. With strong arms she carried the wash in a large wicker hamper on her hip, dry now from hanging outside, and folded neatly. She wore a faded blue dress, with a red kerchief tied around her throat.

“There is a difference between what a lady should wear and a servant’s garb, Darcy.” Eliza brushed her hand over her daughter’s head of curls. “That is but a rag Sarah wears to wipe the sweat from her brow. It is not suitable for a lady.”

“If it were mine, I’d make believe it was a string of rubies or red rose petals,” said Darcy. She tumbled back with a giggle, and Eliza smiled. Her gaze drifted over to Ilene. Between her delicate fingers, the child gathered one of the eggs and balanced it in her cupped palm. Her hair, the color of ground nutmeg, tumbled over her forehead in tight ringlets that caught the sunlight. Ilene lifted her brown eyes and smiled at Eliza. Guilt stirred her heart, coupled with love.

Ilene called to Sarah, “Mama, see?”

On the brink of wishing that word had been spoken to her, Eliza shut her eyes. I cannot mother her. I cannot, though my heart breaks, and I long to cradle her in my arms, soothe her when she cries, comfort her when she is afraid, tuck her in at night, and kiss her little face. It is my own fault, my own sin that has caused my pain.

Sorrow and regret stabbed her as she watched Sarah bend down and look at the egg in Ilene’s hand. “Be gentle, Ilene,” Sarah said. “Robin eggs can break easy.”

From a distance came the sound of hoofbeats growing stronger. Eliza lifted her hand above her eyes. Out of a copper cloud, man and horse appeared in the distance. The familiar set of shoulders under a blue regimental uniform, the handsome face shaded by a tricorn hat, caused her heart to run riot. But as he drew closer, and she saw him more clearly, her heart ached to see how lean he had become. Barely could her legs support her as her breath halted and she gasped. Hayward! Her pulse pounded in rhythm with the thump of his horse’s hooves.

The door behind her opened, and Fiona hurried beside her. “It is Mr. Hayward come home!”

Sarah stood and gathered Ilene up in her arms. Eliza held her hand out to Darcy, and she skipped up the steps beside her.

“Look, it is your papa, Darcy,” Eliza said. “He has come back to us. Is he not fine upon his horse?” She looked down at her daughter and saw her eyes grow wide. “He will be so glad to see how you have grown.”

Hayward jerked the reins and his horse halted, shook its mane, and pawed the soft ground. He threw off his hat and slid from the saddle. Eliza hurried down the steps and across the lawn to meet him. He gathered her in his arms, swung her around, and laughed. He kissed her face, her eyelids, her lips, and gathered her close. Every inch of Eliza soared. She grew faint, the same way she had felt the first time he kissed her. She tossed her head back and gazed up into his careworn face. His eyes were the same. A sigh slipped from her lips, and she pulled him to her, kissed him, and pressed her cheek against his.

“I had prepared words, but they fail me.” Hayward moved her back and placed his hands around her face. “You are as beautiful as the day I left.”

Yes, but so changed.

Tears burned in her eyes, and she let them fall. “I prayed God would watch over you and bring you back to me. Is it true, the war has ended and there is peace?”

“Yes, peace, Eliza.” He embraced her. His wool uniform brushed her skin. The scent of him was not as before. He smelled of woodlands and campfires, sweat and struggle.

Eliza turned out of his arms. “Darcy, come greet your papa. Ah, you have stained your knees in the grass. Never mind. Papa will not care.”

“On my soul, this is Darcy?” He crouched down and took her hands in his. “You were a little mite when I left, Darcy. How pretty you are, just like your mother.”

Darcy touched one of the buttons on Hayward’s coat. “What’s your horse’s name?”

“Gareth. He is somewhat worn for war, but strong. Do you like him?”

Eyes bright, Darcy nodded. “Yes, Papa.”

“What happened to Omega, Hayward? He was your favorite.” Eliza ran her hand over the horse’s sleek nose. Gareth blew out his nostrils.

“He was shot out from under me. I do not wish to talk about it.”

Darcy tugged on Hayward’s coat. “Can Ilene and I sit on your horse’s back, Papa?”

Eliza touched Darcy’s shoulder. “Your Papa is tired, no doubt, and cannot be bothered with such things.”

She followed the direction of Hayward’s eyes. Sarah cradled Ilene on her hip. A nimbus of russet hair tumbled about Sarah’s face and shoulders, and down her back in sleek spirals that caught the shimmer of sunlight.

“Who is this?” Hayward asked, his smile a touch lighter.

Eliza held out her hand. “This is Sarah. She was taken by the Indians, and after she escaped she found us.”

Ilene tucked her head into the curve of Sarah’s neck to hide her face.

“She has a child, Eliza.”

She stroked the sleeve of his regimental jacket. “Yes. Ilene.”

He glanced about the yard. “The father? Where is he?”

Sarah lowered her eyes. “I have no husband, sir.”

Hayward paused with a frown. “I will not ask why,” he finally said. “Have you worked hard at River Run?”

“Yes, sir. I love it here. I beg that you will allow it to remain my home—mine and Ilene’s.” Sarah ran her hand down Ilene’s back to soothe her when she whimpered. A cloud drifted over the sun, and the light faded and turned the color of the trees to a dull green.

“As long as you pull your weight, yes.” He handed Gareth’s reins over to her. “Can you stable my horse? Do you know how?”

Sarah nodded, and with Ilene in one arm she led the horse away. Hayward squinted and watched her. “She has an impediment, Eliza.”

“Yes, but she has a strong will, and it does not hinder her.”

Hayward slipped his arm around Eliza once more. Relieved that he had accepted Ilene as Sarah’s, and that he would be kind to her, she leaned against him.

Fiona stood near the door in the shade, her eyes full and warm.

“You look well, Fiona,” said Hayward. “Not a year has been added to your face. Is your cooking as good as the day I left?”

Fiona chuckled. “Better, Mr. Hayward. You’ll see. I’ll whip you up a homecoming you shall never forget. I still know how to roast a chicken the way you like. It’ll put flesh back on your lean bones before you know it.”

He smiled. “What little meat I have had these troublesome years has been as tough as boot leather. Prison food, if one should call it that, was not fit for pigs. So I welcome all the dishes you can provide.”

“I shall begin at once, sir.” With a skip, she turned back inside the house and headed toward the kitchen.

After she looped her arm through her husband’s, Eliza took in a slow breath. He spoke of the house, how well she had cared for it. And he inquired as to the prosperity of the mill. She nuzzled her face against his shoulder and assured him all was well. “I have missed you for so long. I cannot say it was easy taking care of River Run. It was exceedingly difficult. But you’re back now . . .”

“And for good.” Hayward took hold of her hand and moved with her inside, his gaze warm with desire. “I am starved for Fiona’s cooking . . . and for you, Eliza.”

She leaned her head back, drew him further inside the foyer, and looked at Darcy standing in the glare of the doorway. Then she reached up and touched his face.

“Tears, Eliza?”

“Will sent me a letter. He told me about the prison ship, but said you had died. I have grieved all this time over you— until I received your last letter. And now to have you back, to see the face of my beloved, which I never thought to behold again, has overwhelmed me with joy.” Her smile widened, and she laughed through her tears.

“I intend to write to Will and let him know I am now at home, with you and Darcy.”

“Yes, you must right away . . . he said he intends to bring his family to Maryland, and this news will . . .”

He nudged her chin. “Eliza. I know. I understand.”

Releasing her hand, Hayward reached down and lifted his daughter into his arms. Eliza smiled and wiped away her tears. Surely Hayward would never believe any child other than Darcy could be hers.