Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(31)

At the next ladder over, however, things didn’t go so smoothly. The sapper reached the top of the wall, but before he could bring his weapon to bear, a shot ran out and he fell backward off the rungs. One of his feet caught the soldier behind him, nearly knocking him from the ladder. Only when he saw the tattered sole of the falling soldier’s boot did Alex recognize him. Corporal Fromm.

But there wasn’t time to mourn. Alex dropped to one knee and aimed his rifle at the top of the wall. He found the sniper who had taken out Corporal Fromm, who was frantically reloading his weapon. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. The soldier twitched, not like he’d been hit by a bullet, but as though a bee had stung his shoulder. Then his rifle fell from his hands and he slumped forward over the spiked top of the fence.

There was no more time to gloat than to mourn. Alex reloaded as quickly as he could, emptying his rifle, pouring in more powder, packing it, then dropping a ball in place. He didn’t really expect to get another chance to fire his weapon, though.

He checked the axemen’s progress. They’d concentrated their effort on three different areas. As their tools struck the wood, the tree trunks rattled. Gaps were opening up between them, exposing the light of the enemy’s fire behind.

He heard a voice in his ear.

“Won’t be long now.”

He turned to see a familiar face beside him.

“Laurens!” he said with warmth. “I am so happy you made it through.”

“The British are scared,” Laurens answered. “They’re barely trying to defend the line.”

“Do you think they’ll try to run when we break through?”

“I think there’s a good chance.”

“That is unacceptable,” Alex said, as though he were sending back a burned slice of pie at an inn. “General Washington wants them defeated but captured, not regrouped farther inland.” He paused to consider. “Our best intelligence suggests there are no more than one hundred twenty men holding the redoubt. I want you take your battalion and circle around the rear of the fort. If the British soldiers try to run, let them know there is no escape. Exercise prudence. We want prisoners, not a slaughter. I will lead the charge here with Fish’s and Gimat’s battalions.”

“You will have no more than two hundred men. That’s a numerical advantage, but not a guaranteed victory. Are you sure?”

“The enemy will not have time to count our numbers. They have seen what’s on the field, and will expect all of us coming through the breaches here. Fear will do the work for us.”

In the dim light, he could see pride in his friend’s eyes. Laurens stepped back and saluted. “I won’t let you down, sir,” he said, and disappeared into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, Alex headed toward the closest breach. He found Major Gimat there and ordered him to assemble his men for the assault. He ran to the next breach, dodging the bodies of fallen Continental soldiers—and the occasional redcoat shot from the wall—in a macabre game of hopscotch. The sappers on the ladders had secured their positions at the top of the wall, however, making it all but impossible for the British soldiers to take potshots, so at least the carnage had stopped.

He made it to the next breach and found Major Fish, gave him the same order. Even as he spoke, there was a splintering sound and a voice called mockingly, “Timber!”

Alex looked up to see one of the trunks twist and fall to the ground as his sappers ran out of the way. The gap weakened the whole line. Within seconds, two more trunks had fallen, then a fourth and a fifth. A six-foot gap stood in the wall now.

Gimat reappeared. “The men are ready, sir.”

“Very good, Major. I will lead the charge myself.”

Gimat blinked, but that was the only reaction he showed. “As you wish, sir.”

He moved back, and Alex stepped to the front of the line.

He turned to the sea of pale faces. “Gentlemen,” he said. “We do this not for glory but for America.” He held his bayoneted rifle above his head. “Charge!”





11





Home Invasion


   The Schuyler Mansion


    Albany, New York


   October 1781


All summer and into the fall, Eliza’s thoughts continually drifted to her husband, off on his command, off at battle, and she had learned to live with the constant worry. The few letters she received from the front had done much to assuage her concerns, but it was hard to find comfort in the pastoral peacefulness of home when she knew Alex was far from safety. Even months later, she still chided herself for their less-than-ideal parting, and kept the letters that did make their way to her tucked safely in her pocket at all times, so that she might remind herself of the reality of his existence and his love.

“He is all right,” said Angelica, as if reading her thoughts. Her sister linked arms with her as the remaining womenfolk walked the heavy steps between the rows of flowers that lined the garden path that morning.

Eliza squeezed her sister’s elbow in gratefulness.

“Tell me something, Mama,” said Angelica, attempting to keep Eliza occupied with more trivial matters. “Why is it that the Pastures lacks a porch?”

“A ‘porch’?” Mrs. Schuyler repeated, as if the word were a Native American term she had never heard, like squash or moose. She preceded her daughter into the octagonal gazebo at the center of the ornamental garden south of the mansion and took her seat in a low-angled chair fashioned from round sawn logs whose bark had been abraded to polished smoothness over the years.