The Turncoat by Donna Thorland Read Free Book Online Page A

cushions, but not this. Milly’s husband lay on the ground, bleeding. He was unconscious, and the deep gash across his forehead ran red over his face and nightshirt. His mother, who had listened to Angela Ferrers with girlish delight only that morning, knelt sobbing on the ground beside him.
    And Milly was being dragged toward the barn. Her hair was the color of her husband’s blood in the torchlight. Her swollen frame was awkward beneath her thin lawn shift. She struggled, impotent as a kitten, against five dragoons in tall bearskin hats. They paid her no heed. She dug her heels into the ground, and they lifted her over their heads and carried her.
    Kate opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clapped over it, and a heavy weight landed on her back, pressing her down into the carpet of dead leaves. Then Angela Ferrers rolled them down the hill and out of sight.
    They came to a stop in the hollow of a broken tree. The Widow’s voice was an icy whisper. “There are a dozen dragoons up there. Trained soldiers. We are two women, with only one weapon between us. Even if you overcame your pacifism, we could not prevail by force of arms. There are other ways to fight, but here and now, you cannot stop what is happening to her. Rape is not fatal. There is no such thing as a fate worse than death. If they found us here with these papers, Milly and her husband would hang with us.”
    The door closed on Milly, and the screams turned to sobbing. Kate shut out the other sounds, guttural and grotesque. It went on for longer than she thought possible. Then the barn door sighed open on its Quakerly, well-oiled hinges. There was more shouting, and the sound of men mounting up, hooves plowing the earth and fading into the distance, and finally silence.
    Kate waited in the quiet dark until Angela Ferrers released her. She climbed to the top of the hill once more and looked out. The garden was trampled and littered with broken crockery and glass. They’d tossed furniture through the upstairs windows, chairs and books and Milly’s sewing table and the cradle Andrew had carved and painted just that summer. There was no sign of Milly, or her mother-in-law, or Andrew Ashcroft.
    “They’ll take him to jail in Philadelphia,” Angela Ferrers said. “His mother was wise to go with them. She can petition Howe for his release.”
    “And Milly?” Kate asked, though she did not want to hear the answer.
    “Will serve them on the road until they tire of her.”
    Kate wanted to be sick, but her stomach was empty and would not oblige her. The barn doors gaped open, so she crossed the moonlit hilltop and pushed one, then the other closed.
    There was a carbine leaning against the wall of the barn. It had been hidden behind the open door, the leather straps of the powder horn and the cartridge box looped around the barrel. One of the dragoons must have left it there while he took his turn in the barn. Kate could imagine him, hulking in his bearskin hat and scarlet coat, too busy plundering to realize he’d forgotten his gun. He would be back for it.
    She turned to see the Widow staring also. They heard the hoofbeats at the same time, and turned together toward the road. Two dragoons crested the hill and stopped, as surprised to see Kate and Angela Ferrers as the women were to see them. For a moment, no one moved. Then one of the dragoons laughed and the other said something crude, and they spurred their horses and rode hard toward Kate and the Widow.
    “Run,” Angela Ferrers said quietly.
    Kate didn’t hesitate. She plunged into the trees behind her and ran tumbling and sliding down the hill. She could hear the dragoons, crashing through the trees, and turned for an instant to look. All she could see were flashes of red and sharp metal glinting in the moonlight. A hand gripped her sleeve and pulled hard and Angela Ferrers said, “Never look back.”
    They reached the horses, and Kate flew into the saddle. She dug her heels into her beast’s