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DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT

                                                                                    

by

                                                                                    

Laurie LC Lewis

Chapter One

 

4 A.M. Early August 1813

London, England

 

Lord Everett Spencer, the Earl of Whittington, arose in a sweat well before first light. He couldn’t recall the dream that had denied his peace during slumber, but the sense of foreboding remained, the heavy drapes seemingly closing in around him. He thrust his arms through the opening and spread the curtains wide, half expecting someone or something to press back upon him. With his heart racing, he scrambled out and stood on the floor, his dark hair swinging as his gaze darted and he stretched to see around him.

How long had it been since he had known peace? He couldn’t even remember. From first light to sunset his days were beleaguered with thoughts of war—Napoleon and the European campaign, and James Madison and his relentless, unyielding Americans. Napoleon was a shrewd strategist who ascribed to some sense of military protocol, but the Americans . . . They were altogether a different matter. He had disapproved of Britain entering both conflicts, but what was done was done, and now he was consumed by seeing that the sacrifice of blood and gold was meaningful.

Perhaps that was what haunted his dreams. He didn’t know. All he knew for certain was that some . . . some thing . . . plagued his rest.

What was it? The visitation always seemed so personal, so intimately meant for him—that he remembered. He clasped his hands together to still their shaking before moving to the nightstand to pour a glass of water, desperate to moisten his dry, trembling lips. But afterward, his mouth remained just as dry, his throat just as parched and tight. He moved to the window, praying for sunrise, but the sky withheld its first light, amplifying the glow of street lamps whose amber blush illuminated the edge of Hyde Park.

Wringing his hands, he turned up the wick on the bedside lamp and moved a chair near to read, but the effort was futile. While his eyes beheld the words, his mind sought to resummon the dream . . . the dreadful nightmare that had set him off on so many nights; and fight as he did to force his attention away from it and back to the page, he could not.

Unnerved by his lack of control, the earl bolted from the chair and paced to the highboy, willing to seek his solution in a bottle of brandy. He had cursed other men for such weakness, but in his state of mind he suspended personal judgment and drank deeply, grateful for the burn at the back of his throat and the warmth that began to distill within him. Not too much, he self-cautioned with an unexpected titter of giddiness swelling at the welcomed relief. Then, eyeing the bed which still seemed too menacing to offer peaceful repose, he chose instead to curl up in the chair.

It was there that his loyal manservant Mr. Ridley found him in the morning, aberrantly disheveled in appearance, his lean, handsome face twisted with worry while incoherent ramblings wearied his lips. One gentle touch, as if made by a brand pulled straight from the fire, jarred the earl into such a panicked awakening that his arms flailed, nearly knocking the gracious older man to the floor. The earl rushed to steady his tottering valet. “I am so sorry, friend.”

He dropped his eyes to the floor where the unread book lay. Picking it up, he quipped, “I’ll choose something more sedate before bed tonight.”

Ridley's brow wringled in worry, quietly dismissing himself to lay out the earl’s clothes and draw his bath while Lord Whittington stared out the window at his view of the park. A wagon moved slowly along Knight’s Bridge, its bed stacked high with a load of crates that set his heart pounding anew, triggering threads of the dreaded, recurring dream.

“What is it?” the earl cried out as he raised his eyes skyward. “What are you trying to tell me! Or is it your desire to drive me mad?”

 

Chapter Two

 

October 21, 1813

A forest near Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia

 

If you’re coming for me, then come! Jed Pearson silently grumbled from his treetop perch as he scoured the terrain for signs of the enemy. He scowled at the chafing that had made red rings around his wrists, remnants of his captors’ failed tethers. Flexing to ease the stiffness there, he grimaced as he cautiously repositioned himself, careful not to snap a twig or rustle a branch. He tossed his dark, dirty locks from his eyes, noting their greasy slap against his collar and shoulders. Then he grabbed angrily at the scruff of his beard and settled back to await his enemy’s approach.

He knew his patience and training had finally been rewarded when twelve figures, including two old-timers on horseback, pierced the twilight from the brush to a previously scouted clearing eight rods from his position. His heart began to race as he realized how perfectly he had reconnoitered the entire area, spreading his supplies and traps in a wide swath around their anticipated position.

Move when they move. The words of his aged instructor, Matthew Copely, a tactical genius who had served Jed’s grandfather during the Revolution, echoed in his mind.

Jed began to slowly ease his tall, lithe frame from his perch, camouflaging the sounds of his movement. A sense of power washed over him at the way his combat-sculpted body responded to his every command. Twenty pounds lighter—his pants cinched tightly against a taut, conditioned torso, with arms and legs so strong now that they could cling to a tree like a salamander—he began to shimmy down the trunk to the ground when he heard Matthew’s voice.

“Jed! Jed, can ya hear me? Come on in, son! I’ve got a message for ya!”

Moving to a lower branch, Jed established a new surveillance position, all the while smirking at his mentor’s audacity. After enduring months of tortuous training at his hands, did Matthew really think he could entice Jed to surrender his position that easily?

Moments passed without so much as a flinch as Jed studied the white-haired old war dog who likewise was still and alert, scouring the air for a sound that would reveal Jed’s position.

“Jed! . . . Jed! . . . Jed!” Old Matthew Copely rotated his thick-waisted body with each repeat of Jed’s name. “Jed! If you can hear me, please answer me! Jed, it’s urgent!”

Matthew slid down from his horse and scoured the area. Jed admitted that he sounded urgent. And his furrowed brow was convincing. Jed dismissed the thoughts. No . . . no . . . no . . . He chuckled inwardly. Too much hinged on a victory in this encounter for him to be deceived into surrendering. For nearly three months he had been scavenging in the West Virginia woods, scouting trails, drawing maps, setting lairs and traps of every variety. He had been bushwhacked, kidnapped, blindfolded, and abandoned in the middle of nowhere, all so he could better learn to fight and lead other men in battle. He had been taught to throw an ax as deftly as a well-balanced blade, and he could sight and shoot a target with incredible accuracy in seconds now. He had learned to build and set a catapult, and to lay out a minefield or a gauntlet that would cripple an enemy attacker. And the promise was, if he could defeat Matthew and his team and capture their cannon before they “killed” him, he would “graduate” and go home.

“Jed! Please, Jed!” Matthew pled with a tone that sent a chill down Jed’s spine. “I swear on the sacred name of your grandfather! This ain’t no trick! I need ya to come in now!”

Jed could now see the worry in the old hero’s lined eyes and his heart began to pound. In less than four seconds he made his descent, dropping to the ground within feet of Matthew.

“What is it? Is it Hannah? Is something wrong with my wife?”

Matthew raised his hands to calm his young protégé but his voice remained strained. “This’s got nothin’ to do with your missus, son. Your friend—the one that works at the President’s House? He’s been scourin’ the countryside lookin’ for ya.”

“Timothy Shepard?”

“Yep, that’s the one. He sent two of the president’s servants to my gun shop yesterday whilst I was pickin’ up more black powder. He needs you to come to his place in a hurry.”

Jed backed up a step. “Timothy sent men from the president’s staff? To look for me?”

“Jed, so much has happened since we’ve been holed up in these woods. I just heard about it myself. There’s reports comin’ up from the south. The British are terrorizing the Georgia coastline and now Creek Indians are all stirred up. A band of ’em killed a host of settlers and their families down Alabama way. Word came that they’d been supplied with shot and powder by the Spaniards who’re allied with the British. At the very last of August they attacked Fort Mims. Burned the folks out then tomahawked ’em. Killed over five hundred and scalped nearly half of ’em, or so I heard.”

Jed felt the blood drain from his face. “The British armed them?”

Matthew shrugged. “Through the Spanish. This war’s spreadin’. The ante’s been upped on all sides. Tennessee’s governor called up five thousand volunteers and militia to repel the invasion and to bring help to the Mississippi Valley. A major general named Andrew Jackson’s leadin’ ’em.”

“I can’t believe five thousand men are being sent south when we’re spread so thin here.”

Matthew’s normal feistiness was gone now, replaced with a sense of foreboding that caused Jed’s stomach to tighten.

“So what do we do, Matthew?”

Copely’s chin dropped to his chest and his hand reached up to massage the back of his neck, a gesture Jed now recognized as a sign of frustration or worry. Jed waited in silence for the old codger’s reply. Matthew finally lifted his head, shooting Jed an upward glance. “I’m not sure that what I’ve taught ya is gonna matter much after all, son.”

Jed felt a coldness rush over him and his body slumped. “Wh . . . What are you saying?”

Matthew’s hands came forward like a shield to calm the younger man. “What I taught ya will come in handy if the battle breaks loose in a field or the woods. But that doesn’t seem to be what’s happenin’. The British are firin’ their rockets right into the town squares, then marchin’ in to take what they want and burnin’ the rest. It’s more’n just soldiers caught up in this. It’s civilians—old folks, and women and children too.”

The charred image of the once beautiful city of Havre de Grace, Maryland, returned to haunt Jed. “How do we defend ourselves against that sort of an attack?”

As if too heavy to lift it again, Matthew’s head dropped to stare at the ground. “We pray to the Almighty, son. If this is how this war’s ta be fought, we’ll need His help aplenty. Now you best get on your way.” The old man laid a hand on Jed’s shoulder and gave it a pat before turning from where Jed stood, frozen and numb.

“No, I’m heading home. Hannah’s likely heard all this news. She needs me.”

Matthew turned around to face him. “You’re needed in Washington, and I sent word you’d be on tomorrow’s two o’clock ferry to Georgetown. So git on with ya now, Jed.”

“Needed in Washington,” he scoffed. “Look at me. I’m filthy and my hair and beard haven’t seen a razor in weeks. I can’t be seen with a member of the president’s staff looking as I do.”

“Can’t be helped. When you’re a soldier ya just do your best. Ta make it ta the ferry by two tomorrow you’ll have to ride most of the night. I’ve got a cake of lye soap in my bag. I suspect you know where the river is. I brought your uniform along with me, though I doubt it’ll fit proper now. So hurry up with you. A quick scrub is all you got time for.”

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a now-oversized uniform, his jaw covered in days of scraggly growth, and his long, wet hair dangling beneath his hat, Jed Pearson saddled his beloved Tildie and headed the mare northeast toward the Potomac River and Washington City.

 

Chapter Three

 

October 22, 1813

Washington D.C.

 

Once the brown-skinned carriage driver saw the young lieutenant leading a bay mare down the walkway of the ferry he understood Mr. Shepard’s instructions. He’s been off pioneering for a while, so he’ll look a little rough, but I assure you, you’ll know Jed Pearson when you see him.

He was tall with broad, squared shoulders and leaner than described. As he disembarked, the man studied the area like a falcon, moving catlike as he guided his mount through the crowd. Long, tethered dark hair framed a handsome, bearded face with eyes that seemed older than Pearson’s reported twenty-three years. His shoulders eventually relaxed in his oversized uniform, and his bearing eased until be began to move with an easy, youthful gait.

“Lieutenant Jonathan Pearson?” the driver called out from his handsome rig. “My name is David. Mr. Shepard sent me for you. There’s been a change of plans. Mr. Shepard has been detained and I’m to drive you to the President’s House to meet him there.”

“The President’s House?” Jed protested. The driver began leading Tildie to the adjacent stables, but with one long step Jed regained hold of Tildie’s reins. “Just a minute . . . Are you saying that you intend to drive me to President Madison’s house looking as I do?”

“Yes, sir.” The driver bowed courteously and smiled before retaking the reins and tying Tildie to the carriage. “Everything’s in order, sir. And don’t fret about your clothes. Folks come to see the president dressed every which way.” Before closing the carriage door the driver added, “You’ll find a small broom under the seat if you’ve a mind to dust yourself off.”

Jed was suddenly aware of every speck of dust and every seed on his ill-fitted, blue dragoon’s uniform. He brushed fiercely to clear them, then he pulled out his handkerchief, attempting to spit shine his boots. Accepting that he’d done all he could, he settled back to enjoy the ride through the half-vacant city, listening to the driver’s whistling from his seat above.

Jed looked out on the barrenness of Washington, though it no longer undermined his sense of its potential. Despite the dusty graveled roads and the vast expanses of wild grasses and marsh, new construction was beginning to fulfill Pierre l’Enfant’s architectural vision. Someday the city would make as fine a capital as any in the world. If it survived. Jed cringed, reminding himself that though only twenty-three years old, Washington City was the third capital of a nation that had seen fewer than forty years pass since the push for its independence had begun. And now Britain was challenging her sovereignty again.

Jed instinctively twisted his gold wedding band, turning his thoughts to the Willows, his treasured bride, Hannah, and the rest of his “Willows family.” Outwardly, they were an odd assembly, an assortment of slaves and freedmen that were as dear to him as blood. Two were missing from their little circle—his headstrong sister Frannie and his Irish farm manager, Markus O’Malley, whom he loved as a brother. He longed for everyone to be back together on the farm, but the location of the Winding Willows, set directly between Baltimore and Washington, boded poorly for the farm and its people now. Some said the British would attempt to take Washington. Some said Baltimore would be their aim, but Jed felt sure they would try to take both, and if things played out as he feared, the British march between Baltimore and the federal city would take the mighty army too close to his family.

Fear caused such a chill to overwhelm Jed that he had to wrap his arms around his middle to settle himself. The threat the British posed was frightening, but they were still a nation of rule and law. No . . . they didn’t pose the greatest threat to Jed’s world. Sebastian Dupree did.

Jed still didn’t know why the mercenary had set the Willows in his crosshairs because his only clues had come from untrustworthy sources—a young slave, freed by Dupree, and a Briton Frannie caught snooping around the farm. The man identified himself as Arthur Benson, a student of divinity, who claimed he had come to try and stop Dupree. Frannie had bought his story hook, line and sinker, but Jed had reason to mistrust the man. Jed believed Arthur Benson’s real name was actually Ramsey—the same name as the man who originally sent Dupree to attack the Willows.

Everywhere Jed turned there were dangers and lies. All he knew was that Dupree was now a valuable British spy with unlimited military resources and that his goal was to destroy everyone Jed loved. If the British defeated the Americans, Dupree would be unstoppable. Therefore, an American victory was not only politically essential, it would mean life or death for Jed and his loved ones. For that reason he had left Hannah’s side to seek Matthew’s additional training, clinging to the impossible hope that these unconventional strategies would make him a better warrior and leader of men. The sacrifice had reduced his marriage to little more than a few stolen nights and rendezvous when he and Hannah could arrange them. And now Matthew feared that Jed’s sacrifice was for nothing.

He shook his head and bit his knuckle to divert the dark thoughts, choosing instead to focus on the hopeful, empowering sounds of shipbuilding resonating from the Washington Navy Yard. He then gazed off toward the arsenal where vast quantities of powder, balls, and guns were being stored for Washington’s undermanned, poorly trained militias and his thoughts turned to his Irish friend Markus. He was in Baltimore helping to build the Chesapeake flotilla. Like Jed, Markus also held to seemingly impossible dreams, believing the barges would be effective at fighting in Maryland’s shallow, oyster-bed-infested local waters. Jed shuddered. America was taking on the greatest naval power the world had ever known, and they were going to attempt it with a navy made largely of privateers and glorified rowboats! It would require one of those miracles Hannah believed in. Many old heroes attested that heaven had intervened during the Revolution. Perhaps God would spare them again.

Hannah also believed something more—that a divine purpose was meant for America, and he too had come to trust that vision. It was why his arms prickled as his view fell upon the magnificent though unfinished Capitol. It would be years before the government could afford to finish it. Nevertheless, Jed’s heart stirred as he gazed upon it, sitting majestically upon a knoll from which spread an oak-strewn lawn, and why it burned in his chest as the carriage turned left onto Pennsylvania Avenue revealing the Virginia sandstone home of the president. The light gray stone made it appear almost white with red brick buildings flanking it left and right, housing the offices of the navy and the secretaries of war, state, and the treasury. Jed had ridden past it many times, but today chills coursed through his veins as the carriage ferried him between the two sculpted eagles that guarded the stone entryway. The door opened suddenly, revealing the source of his invitation: his college chum and aide to Mrs. Madison, Timothy Shepard.

Arms stretched wide, his face bearing a grin that warmed Jed’s heart, Timothy descended the steps and opened the carriage door himself, pulling Jed from inside and into a friendly greeting. Then he halted and began scrutinizing Jed from head to toe as his expression turned curious. “I must say, Jed, I hardly recognize you. And it’s not just the outward changes.” His gaze became fixed on Jed’s eyes. “Is this the result of marriage . . . or your military training?” Now aware that he was staring, Timothy stepped back. “In any case, except for your present attire, you cut a fine figure in that carriage. I believe you would make an excellent politician.”

“You Shepards are the politicians. Or have your dreams changed since entering Mrs. Madison’s employ? Are you no longer clerking for the Senator and planning to enter the law?”

Timothy smiled, baiting Jed as he gestured toward the house, indicating he would have to enter to get his answer. With a nod of Timothy’s head, French John, the Madison’s doorman, opened the door and Timothy led them into the entryway. His eyes gleamed with pride as his hands swept around the grand entrance hall with its fluted columns, decorative moldings and trims, and intricately patterned rug. Jed gawked like an awestruck schoolboy.

“Am I not surrounded by the very essence of the law, Jed? I sit either in the Capitol assisting Senator Glegg, in the congressional library by special arrangement of Mrs. Madison, or I am here, in America’s presidential home, the very emblem of our new society. I think I am the luckiest of men.”

“And the most contented in his situation it appears. I assume we are alone . . . I mean, there is no chance that the president or Mrs. Madison might come walking through?”

“No. They’re away visiting Mr. Jefferson. He rarely leaves Monticello anymore and the Madisons have sorely missed him. I’m taking advantage of their absence to finish cataloging the plating and the silver.”

Jed cocked his head and questioned teasingly, “You’re inventorying the dishes?”

Timothy was not the slightest bit ruffled. “I catalog all the items that are purchased, and those donated from private citizens or from heads of state of other nations. These are America’s treasures, and my record describes our country’s emergence onto the world stage. Give me five minutes of your time and I think your attitude about my work will change.” He crooked his finger and Jed followed him past the Oval Room to the southwest corner of the house. “This is the State Dining Room, Jed. Come in . . . I want to show you something.”

As Jed crossed the threshold he was oblivious to every elegant detail that spread before him because his eyes were fixed on only one thing—the object architect Benjamin Latrobe had blocked out the two western windows to accommodate at President Madison’s personal request—the nearly life-size portrait of President Washington.

Attired in a black velvet suit, Washington’s hand was outstretched as he stood upon a portico between a table and a chair, and like a moth to a flame, Jed found himself drawn to the portrait of his hero painted in symbolic splendor upon a five-by-eight-foot canvas.

“It’s wondrous, isn’t it?” mused Timothy. “Stuart Gilbert is the artist.”

“I forgot how magnificent it is . . .” Jed uttered as his hand went to his gaping mouth.

“Gilbert captured President Washington’s life and philosophies just as well as his physiognomy. See these storm clouds? Years after the war had ended and the treaty of Paris was signed, then General Washington wrote to Mr. Madison expressing his concerns for America’s course. ‘No morn ever dawned more favorably than ours did, and no day was more clouded than the present.’ How prophetic those words were.”

“And still are,” Jed added thoughtfully.

“Indeed. I believe it still pains President Madison that he and Washington, loyal allies during the Constitutional Convention, fell into opposition in 1794 over tensions between America and Great Britain. Mr. Madison and the citizenry pressed for action, while President Washington risked his sacred honor to avoid subjecting the nation to another war. Washington’s wisdom proved right, but here we are, facing off against Great Britain again with Madison appearing to be a war hawk. I often see Mr. Madison in here pondering the portrait, and I think the rift still pains him. Inspired though they may have been, they were just men, after all.”

Jed nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s why I brought you here, Jed.”

“This is why you brought me here?” Jed inquired with worried interest.

“Let me be blunt. Your name has been bandied around Washington lately.” Jed’s head cocked curiously and Timothy rushed on. “It was you who drove on through snow and sleet to deliver a message from Fort McHenry to forts all along the coast last spring. The commander of Fort Winthrop sent word to Secretary of War Armstrong ‘commending Lieutenant Pearson of the Maryland militia for his dedication and valor.’ He said your hands were nearly frozen and yet you planned to carry on. Surely you received some commendation about this.”

Jed watched his friend with curiosity.

“You are also known as the hero who saved Lighthorse Harry Lee, and you’re one of the men who risked his own life to guarantee the safety of Hanson and his supporters back in Baltimore as they defended their right to a free press. Little you do goes unnoticed anymore.”

“I’m no hero.” The burdensome feeling of being Atlas, the Titan bearing the weight of the world upon his shoulders, returned to Jed. “I’m a farmer. That’s all I desire to be!”

Timothy pointed to the portrait again. “Another once said the same of himself. He rose to do what was asked of him . . . to become what he was innately endowed to become. We cannot run from what we are, Jed. Each of us must serve where he is called, and in whatever capacity his talents make him suitable. Great men see greatness in you, and from the struggle you have waged within yourself since your youth I believe you know that much may be expected of you.”

Jed’s shoulders slumped as Timothy’s words hit their mark. He rubbed his fingers deep into his tired eyes and groaned, “Samuel says I already assume too much responsibility.”

Timothy laid a hand across his friend’s shoulders. “Our friend Samuel is a surgeon and surgeons are trained to ease suffering . . . to remove the source of the pain. You and I both know that your suffering cannot be lifted without changing your heart or removing it altogether. Deep down he knows it too, Jed. And my guess is that Hannah knows it as well.”

Jed’s eyes were moist as he raised his head to challenge his friend. “Why are you doing this to me? Why now? I am willing to serve. I am even willing to die if need be, but for the first moment in my life I have found my happiness. I ask only to be allowed to have a measure of life’s gladness to carry with me when I go into battle. Is that too much to ask?”

Silence hung between the two men as the tortured sorrow of Jed’s words echoed in the room. Timothy patted his friend’s shoulder and muttered, “Forgive me, Jed. I hear things . . . worrisome rumblings, and I wrestle over them. Then when I hear flattering things being spoken about my friend, I imagine that the timing of it all is providential. Perhaps it is not you who is running from your destiny. Perhaps I am seeking someone to relieve me of my own.”

Jed heard the soft retreat of Timothy’s steps and he returned his gaze to the portrait. It had been painted as Washington was about to end his second term of office and return to his farm, despite the citizenry’s cries for him to remain. The similarities of their situations touched Jed. He did not desire his lot in life, but he did rise to fulfill it.

Again Jed looked into the gentle gray eyes that seemed to be peering into his soul and swallowed hard. Exiting the room, he found Timothy inventorying the last of the china. Timothy looked up at him, embarrassed and apologetic.

“I’m sorry Jed . . .”

Jed shook the apology off. “Tell me exactly why you brought me here.”

“All right.” Timothy laid aside the piece he was inspecting. “You know how I feel about the Madisons. I think Mrs. Madison is one of the noblest women in the world, and President Madison . . . he’d be the first to admit that he’s not a perfect man, but I trust him. However, I cannot say I feel the same about some of his advisors, particularly those who daily reassure him that Washington is safe and that her defenses are sufficient. We are strapped in the north and now this Indian crisis in the south further drains our forces. People are fearful, Jed. The mayor of Alexandria and his council are among them. They want to see the reports that confirm our safety, but Secretary Armstrong refuses to acknowledge their concerns.”

“You pass men of power every day in the Capitol and the President’s House. What can I offer that’s in any way equal to your opportunities? I am nothing but a lowly lieutenant.”

“If you still believe that after all I’ve told you about the esteem in which you are held, then you are sorely blinded.”

Jed pointed straight at Timothy. “You’ve deluded yourself. If it’s an ally you seek, you already have Mrs. Madison’s ear—tell her your concerns!”

“I cannot! She knows her husband has enemies in the government, and because of it she is his fiercest champion. If I in any way imply that the president is being misled, she will attribute my lack of confidence to disloyalty and dismiss me, and that will not serve our purpose. Attacking Armstrong directly will also get us nowhere. We need to convince the local military leaders to press for more men and arms. If we don’t, I fear the local militias will fold in battle.”

Knowing his old college friend too well, Jed asked, “What have you done, Timothy?”

Timothy breathed deeply before confessing. “The mayor of Alexandria and his council are on their way.” Jed began to argue but Timothy rushed on. “Hear them out! You have dealings with Captain Robertson, who is both the second in command at Fort Warburton and the man asked to assess the readiness of the local batteries. You also have a vested interest in the defense of this area since your sister is living in Alexandria now, entertaining the socialites.”

Jed scowled. “You encouraged her to come here and return to the stage so you could court her, and now you would use Frannie to manipulate me? The cause is too urgent for such games. I don’t see what I can do, but I will meet with your committee and hear them out.”

 

* *

 

The young sentry stood at his post in the guard tower of Fort Warburton, staring down the road that led from Washington as a cloud of dust moved in his direction, stirring leaves like a small tornado.

“Rider comin’ in!” he yelled to the men manning the great doors that remained barred despite the British navy’s retreat from the Potomac some weeks ago.

The gates opened and Jed thundered into the fort. Dismounting, he ran his hand lovingly along Tildie’s haunches and, speaking softly to his favorite mount, cooed, “Good ole girl, Tildie. Good ole girl,” as several young soldiers scurried over with offers to take his horse.

Dubious about the attention being paid his arrival, he quickly noticed the fort’s second in command Captain Andrew Robertson hastening his way in the company of his cocky aide, a pretentious first lieutenant named Brewster. One look at Robertson’s scowl and Jed knew trouble was brewing. Straightening, he struck a salute saying, “Captain Robertson. I’m glad to see you’ve returned from your inspection of the Potomac’s defenses.”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Robertson began as he stared Pearson down. “I’ve been back for two weeks. Where have you been? Off playing war with Matthew Copely?”

As Jed lowered his hand from his salute he eyed Robertson curiously. He was an imposing presence. Three inches shorter than Jed, fair-haired and handsome, he was one of the few men who could ruffle Jed’s confidence. The men had once been rivals for Hannah’s hand, and the announcement of their marriage had been noticeably painful news to Robertson, but the men had reached an understanding. Or had they? Jed would soon see. “With all due respect, Captain, I am on my own time, free to do or see whomever I choose.”

Robertson’s face drew into a scowl equaled by Brewster’s. “This fort is not an inn, Lieutenant. If you’re not here on military business, I suggest you head back home to your plow.”

The derisiveness of the comment was equaled by the deliverer’s tone. Neither was it lost on the aide who made a spectacle of himself as he suppressed a snigger.

“You’re of no value to this post as long as you persist in following the directions of a maverick like Copely,” Robertson continued. “He could have been a great asset to our military, but he declined reenlistment, choosing instead to head off into the wild with men like you to train his own little renegade force. Individualism undermines authority and order in an army. I have no stomach for men who fight for personal glory or to further their own agenda.”

“Nor do I!” Jed shot back. Bordering on insubordination, he leaned toward Robertson, and Brewster stepped toward him in a pompous gesture of bravado. Jed glared at the twit and then at Robertson. Seconds of continued silence ensued before Robertson nodded his aide off. Brewster held fast then stepped back with slow deliberateness, failing to intimidate Jed.

“I came here as a private citizen . . . as a friend,” Jed noted. “Was I wrong in believing we had achieved a mutual understanding? Is this still about Hannah’s decision to marry me?”

“This has nothing to do with you marrying Hannah,” snapped Robertson. “Your rogue training is undermining my leadership. Half of my men are young and untested in battle. Their heads are filled with rumors about how Jed Pearson is secretly training to lead and fight like an Indian. It undermines their confidence in their training and blurs the line of authority.”

“I’ve kept my doings quiet. I haven’t said a word to any of your men!”

“Word gets around . . . like the story about how you’re being preened for political office! I suppose a nice war record would help your cause,” he accused sarcastically.

Jed’s jaw clamped tight. “If you have a question, ask me directly. I’ll do whatever I’m asked when the time comes. Your primary concern should be the readiness of every officer, but perhaps I’ve overestimated you. Perhaps you prefer weasels who curry your favor.”

The pair glared at one another until Robertson growled, “Go home, Pearson.”

“First, look me in the eye and assure me that the concerns of the local leaders have no merit. What has been done to secure the Capitol and her neighbors? We need more troops!”

“Meetings with the local leaders . . . So the politicizing has already begun.”

“This is not politics. This is personal. I have loved ones who are depending on the readiness of this fort and the local cities’ defenses to keep them safe if the British sail up the Potomac. Yet nothing’s been done since I left three months ago! Tell me, after assessing Alexandria’s and Washington’s defenses, that you feel we are fully prepared.”

Robertson stalled in answering and Jed could see the worry underscoring his fury. Pearson took a step closer and lowered his voice. “You can be proud of the work you did at Fort McHenry. Does the nation’s capital not deserve the same? Can you not strengthen the militias?”

Robertson issued Jed a cold stare. “You’re to be transferred to Aisquith’s sharpshooters out of Baltimore. You give your best to protect that city and trust me to do the same for Washington.”

“Then give me your word you will at least speak to Secretary Armstrong about these things—”

Before Jed even finished, Robertson had turned and strode away leaving him with no alternative but to saddle Tildie and leave the fort. As he reached his horse he saw another lieutenant sidle over to taunt Brewster, Robertson’s cocky aide. Jed pretended not to overhear.

“The men are calling Pearson a hero,” Jed heard the man say.

“Hero?” Brewster grunted in Jed’s direction. “He’s no hero!”

Jed cinched up Tildie as he listened to the man’s reply.

“What galls you more, Brewster? That he’s nearly as wealthy as you or that he won the captain’s woman? Pearson’s the captain’s equal, but your daddy had to bribe a general so you could follow Robertson around and lick his boots.” He followed the insult with slurps and sneers.

Livid, Brewster spun around on the man. “I’ve earned what I have!”

Jed cast a final, disgusted glance at the pair and saw Brewster’s tormenter sidle away, continuing the make the insulting slurping noises. His eyes met Brewster’s furious glare as he nudged Tildie out through the gate but he didn’t hear the proud lieutenant’s threatening reply.

“So you want to be a great soldier, eh? Lead men into battle? Be a hero?” sniped Brewster. “Well, the spoils of war go to the survivors, Mr. Pearson. And war is a widow maker.”