“Christ!”

“Shi— I mean S-word!” she said, grappling her horse back under control. “What did you do that for?”

“I called, but ye didn’t hear me.” He slapped the horse companionably on the withers and reached up a hand to her. He looked tired, and his eyes were creased with worry. “Come down and tell me what the devil’s been happening. Did ye go to the American camp? I shouldn’t have asked ye to— God, ye look like death.”

Her hands were actually shaking, and in fact, she realized, she felt rather like death. When her feet touched the ground, she nearly fell into his arms, hugging him, and began to live again.

98

Minerva Joy

LORD JOHN RETURNED FROM a visit to the local hospital, where the British wounded—along with those Savannah inhabitants injured by flying splinters or house fires—were being treated, to find his brother sitting at his desk in the study, looking as though he’d been struck by lightning.

“Hal?” John said, alarmed. “What’s happened?”

Hal’s mouth opened, but only a small wheezing noise came out. There was an opened letter on the desk, looking as though it had traveled some distance through rain and mud, and possibly been trampled by a horse along the way. Hal pushed this wordlessly toward him, and he picked it up.

Friend Pardloe,

I write in torment of mind and spirit, which is increased by the knowledge that I must oblige thee now to share it. Forgive me.

Dorothea gave birth to a healthy girl, whom we named Minerva Joy. She was born within the precincts of the prison at Stony Point, as I was confined there and I would not trust Dorothea’s welfare to the local midwife, whose competence I doubted.

Mina (as we called her) thrived and bloomed, as did her mother. There was an outbreak of fever within the prison, though, and fearing for their health, I sent them into the town, where they took refuge with a Quaker family. Alas, no more than a week after their departure, I received a note from the husband of this family, with the dreadful news that two members of his own family had fallen ill with a bloody flux, and that my own dear ones showed signs of the same disease.

I sought leave at once to go to treat my family, and was (reluctantly) granted a temporary parole for the purpose. (The prison’s commander, valuing my services to the sick, did not wish me gone for long.)

I was in time to hold my daughter through the final hours of her life. I thank God for that gift, and for the gift that she was to her parents.

Dorothea was desperately ill, but was spared by the mercy of God. She is still alive, but is sorely oppressed in both body and mind—and there was still much sickness in the town. I could not leave her.

I know thy sense of military honor, but Friends do not hold the laws of man to be above those of God. I buried my child, and then broke my parole, taking Dorothea to a place of greater safety, where I might, with the goodness of God, try to heal her.

I dare not write the name of the place where we are, for fear that this missive may be intercepted. I have no notion what penalty I might suffer for having broken my parole if I am captured—nor do I care—but if I am taken or hanged or shot, Dorothea will be alone, and she is in no condition to be left alone.

I know thy love for her and therefore trust that thee will send what help is possible. I have a friend who knows of her whereabouts and has been of the greatest assistance to us. Thy brother, I think, will discern his name and direction.

Denzell Hunter