Chapter 3

Anne opened her pearl-handled penknife and sharpened her favorite quill, a look of concentration on her lightly freckled face. She looked sad but determined. A tattered rider had delivered a folded and wax-sealed letter from Billy Fields, and the girl had snatched it from Moses, read it three times and even dropped a tear on the smudged paper before she put it aside.

Billy was sick, feared he might be dying and had pledged her his love, foreswearing all others. Anne almost laughed at that, knowing how many biddies there were fluttering in his wake. At first she thought he might be joshing her, but on a second reading became convinced he was deadly serious and very ill. He wrote that many other men were ailing and that the army, what little was left of it, was cold and starving in crude huts up in the Jersey hills.

She sniffed, swallowed and wrote, "Dearest Billy" and then stopped, balled up the sheet of well-laid paper and threw it across the room. The cat on her bed lifted one ear and opened one eye. She dipped her pen again, wiped the tip carefully and wrote, "Sir," and then she stopped, bit her lip, took a deep breath and crushed that sheet in her fist and tossed it over her shoulder. She blotted her third try and dropped that to the floor. On the next attempt she wrote: "Private Fields - I received your fine letter which came through Head of Elk, by way of Mr. Paca's rider, and was sorry to learn that you were not well. I hope this note finds you, and your misguided companions, in better health." She stopped, read over what she had penned, squirmed in her chair and drew a large X several times across the page, tore it in half and tossed the pieces away. "Damn," she said aloud and beat her feet on the floor. "Damn, damn!" The cat hissed and scurried away.