The Loyalist

Ephraim Flint had his revelation the moment his eyes locked with the parson's daughter. One simple look dismissed any doubt whatsoever from his mind.

Rain splashed down his cheeks. Without a hat for the first time in as long as he could remember, Ephraim felt the unusual sensation of nature's bounty drumming the top of his head. Peering up at the darkening sky, the Connecticut farmer took a deep breath. The heavy scent of earth filled his nostrils, teeming with clay and stone.

A deafening roar tore Ephraim from his thoughts. The sound left many of the gatherers pale and solemn. The parson spoke a few words, challenged only by the growing rain as it fell like soft tears upon the crowd.

Ephraim took the opportunity to glance at the parson’s daughter again. His eyes had not deceived him. A damp red handkerchief protruded oddly from the nape of her coat, an old but reliable sign. She was a loyalist to king and country.

Turning away, he listened carefully to the grumbles of the Continental soldiers as the rain grew heavy. “My ol’ Bess is as sodden as a Tory whore,” one groused as he unsuccessfully tried to keep his musket dry under his coat. “What do we do about the last execution?”

A short silence followed, in which Ephraim could make out the sound of the captain's boots squelching in the mud. The captain was a young man forced to make decisions one twice his age would have trouble with. Time seemed to grind to a halt for Ephraim as the captain pondered the implications of ordering one more volley. A lifetime existing in every breath as Ephraim waited, droplets of rain running down his face. The squelching stopped abruptly and the captain turned to the crowd.

“Are any willing to keep this prisoner for a week until we pass back through?”

Silence met the captain’s request.

Ephraim felt a lump form in his throat. Not twenty feet away the body a young British soldier sprawled unattended, punctuated by smoldering burn marks from the close-quarter musket flares. That could have been Ephraim’s fate. With a flare of hope he caught the parson’s daughter’s eyes in his. She would be indispensable in his escape.

The parson’s daughter stepped forward, rain dripping down her forehead. With a trembling finger she pointed at Ephraim. “It is an affront to the Continental Army to spare this spy.” She grabbed the captain’s sleeve. “Please…do your duty.”

Ephraim released a chortled gasp. Had he been wrong about her? Had he miscalculated? Was the handkerchief coincidence? But the unique pattern was unmistakable. It was impossible that it had appeared upon her accidently!

The captain paused, taken aback by the sudden request. “Madam, it is unlikely our muskets will fire in this rain, and to expose them further would be folly – ”

The parson’s daughter straightened herself and looked the captain in the eye. He could have not have missed the beautiful glistening face, the strength of her grip on his sleeve, the conviction in her voice. “There is a war tearing this land apart, and we are alone out here in the countryside. You would leave this man among us? And who will protect us when you are gone? No. I implore you. Kill him and take his blood with you. And leave us be.”

The captain exhaled slowly. “Men, at the ready.”

Ephraim stood in silent shock. He barely heard the captain’s orders to present arms through the haze in his head. The parson’s daughter had betrayed him!

He looked upon the deadly barrels pointed at his heart and shivered. The tips of the muskets were so close that they nearly brushed against his coat.

“Fire!”

A half-dozen empty clicks sounded in reply. Ephraim went weak in the knees but remained standing.

“The powder is too wet, sir.”

The captain ordered a reload but the older soldiers shook their heads. Repeating their sentiment, he turned to the parson’s daughter. “My apologies, madam. As God’s witness, there is nothing we can do.”

The parson’s daughter glared at the captain. “You can hang him. A wet rope snaps a neck just as readily as a dry one does.”

Ephraim swallowed instinctively.

The captain seemed to consider it for a moment, but frowned. Relief flooded Ephraim as the captain responded. “We still have ten miles to cover before darkness. We must move on.”

“Then will you take him with you?” she demanded. “Certainly your powder will be dry by tomorrow morning.”

“If we must,” the captain relented, eliciting a chorus of mutters from his men. He turned to Ephraim, and death lived in his cold blue eyes. “Can you march?”

Ephraim could not bring himself to speak, but simply nodded.

“Captain.” The old parson stepped forward. “There is no need to slow your march. We will hold the prisoner for you.”

The captain appeared encouraged by this offer, but held his relief in check. “You are certain? We will return for him as soon as our duty is complete.”

“Father!” the parson’s daughter cried, her eyes blazing with anger. “I will not spend one minute under the same roof as that traitor, never mind one night!”

“And a week’s worth of feeding to boot,” added another villager, a brooding man with a gnarled beard.

“He won’t last the night, I swear it,” the parson’s daughter said. “It will be a knife in the chest for him before dawn comes –”

“Enough!” The parson cast a severe look upon the gathering through the heavy rain. “We will hold him as our duty as citizens of the Continental Congress. And he will not be harmed until the Continentals return.”

The captain ran his hand over his face. “With your daughter’s eyes on him I have would be speaking falsely if I said I did not fear for his life, but at least I know he will be secure.” The captain’s desire to be on his way was now obvious. “So be it. We hand him into your custody.”

Ephraim’s heart subsided from thunderous to merely rattling. He would live another day, and perhaps more – unless the parson’s daughter had her way. Or any one of these country folk, he realized as his eyes met theirs.

“Sir,” Ephraim said, his voice a strangled whisper that sounded strange in his ears. The soldiers were departing the field, and the parson was the only one close enough to hear him. The other villagers had maintained their distance in a tight circle.

The parson looked up from the body of the British soldier that he had been staring at. “Yes?”

“Can you keep me safe?”

The parson looked Ephraim in the eyes, and his gaze was emotionless. “No. I am sorry.” He crossed his arms and departed with his head bowed against the wind and rain.    

Ephraim’s stomach tensed into a knot as the brooding man with the gnarled beard stepped from the crowd and pulled a knife from his belt. Struggling against his bonds, Ephraim watched helplessly as the man reached him and pressed the flat of the blade against his belly.

“We ain’t wast’n a week’s worth of victuals on you, boy,” he growled, the rainwater pouring from the brim of his hat in a stream onto Ephraim’s face. “There’s ‘nough sickness and starvation around here as it is.” He grabbed Ephraim by the scruff of the neck and hauled him roughly towards the woods, the mud sucking at their boots.

The rain drummed against the trees in a steady rhythm, a beat counting down the last moments of Ephraim’s life. He was shoved against a wet oak, the bark rough. Had it been worth it? To die for king and county in the wilderness like a stuck pig? Who would know how he died? Would anyone come looking for him? He closed his eyes as his captor’s arms tensed, preparing to strike.

“The parson’s daughter,” Ephraim blurted out. His voice shook with anger and fear. “I might have lived if not for her.”

“She’s my sister-in-law,” the man growled. “And you speak right. But it’s the war she hates most. Three brothers gone, and two young sons to sickness.” The man slashed downward with his knife and struck the ropes around Ephraim’s legs.

Ephraim looked at the man in wonder. “What are you doing?”

“Freeing you.” The brooding man looked up from where he squatted, his gray eyes betraying a sense of desperation.

“But – ”

“The parson’s daughter don’t know what the handkerchief she be wearing means,” the man said by way of explanation, “but her sister does, and she told her it would look handsome for the execution.”

“So your wife had her wear it? But why did your wife not wear it herself?”

“Because she needed time to arrange the wagon for us on yonder ridge,” the man said, cutting Ephraim free. “You’re an important man to king and country. Important enough that we were told to look out for you.” His voice dropped. “Important enough that I be risking my family to save you.” The man stood and released a breath full of anticipation. “Time to go, Mr. Ephraim.”