The Minister's Wife

Chapter 7

Ian gasped. He never expected to find Oliver Hart in the midst of an enemy camp. He turned and fled, darting between trees and shrubs, the redcoats racing after him.

“Stop!” a soldier yelled. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Ian ran as fast as he could, swerving to make a difficult target. He eluded those that came from the camp and dove into foliage, buried in a thicket. Seconds later, the perimeter sentries ran toward him, passing only inches away. As soon as they were gone, he sprinted south, his gaze fixed on the damaged tree—the landmark used to find his horse.

A musket fired. The bullet came close, rustling through branches and ripping leaves. Ian barely paused, dashing for safety. He knew where he was going and the best way to get there. The enemy did not. They charged through shrubs, breaking branches, and snapping twigs, so close at times he heard their muttered curses.

Five minutes later, he reached his horse. A half dozen soldiers came toward him, spread through the foliage, stumbling through underbrush. He quietly mounted his horse and led him out of the woods. The road was deserted when he reached it, so he turned south toward St. Peter’s Church, breaking into a gallop. Seconds later a redcoat emerged from the trees, knelt to steady his rifle, and took aim.

The rifle cracked. A puff of dirt pinged off the road. Ian leaned over his horse’s neck. “Come on, boy,” he urged, gaining ground.

Fifty feet farther, he looked back. Soldiers stood in the road, some loading rifles, ready to fire. Behind them, redcoats gathered horses, preparing to pursue. Ian raced toward the church as the British started firing. The bullets missed their mark, the shot more difficult the farther he traveled. Three horsemen quickly pursued, but Ian maintained his distance, even though his horse was spent from the ride to Trudruffrin.

A hundred feet farther, another glance showed they were gaining. If he stayed on the road, they would catch him. But he was familiar with the countryside, and they were not. With darkness approaching, his chance to escape was good. He just had to outsmart them.

He approached the intersection—the road that eventually led to the White Horse Tavern. Four horsemen were coming from the south, just beyond the church, opposite those who chased him. He couldn’t see if they were British, travelers destined for Old Lancaster Road, or Patriots searching for signs of the enemy.

“Stop him!” a soldier called from behind. “He’s a spy!”

Ian frowned. Those in front were British. They increased their pace and came towards him, pulling pistols from their holsters. He was trapped between pairs of pursuers, three men behind and four in front. He had to get off the road.

He veered to his left, scanning the landscape, searching for a path to escape. He galloped across a field of wheat and leapt over a split-rail fence, urging his horse forward. Groves of trees interrupted the fields. Once hidden within them, he could elude the enemy. The soldiers who came from the south swung off the road and fanned across the field, trying to intercept him.

The sharp report of a rifle ripped the air, followed by another. Leaves of a nearby maple shredded as bullets sped through them, whistling as they passed. Ian galloped forward, searching for a stream he knew cut through the woods. Once he found it, he could work his way back to the tavern.

More shots were fired. Ian felt the sweat on his horse’s neck and knew it couldn’t run much longer, not at the pace they maintained. The British fired again, a volley, but Ian made it to the trees as bullets pinged around him, embedding in trunks with sickening thuds.

He slowed as he entered the woods. Little light pierced the foliage, making it harder to see, but difficult for the enemy to find him. He crept forward, using shrubs as cover, guiding his horse to thicker brush.

A few minutes later he found the stream. It wasn’t deep, barely a foot, and he forced his horse into the water. If he followed it, he would exit the woods in less than a mile, somewhere between the camp and the tavern. He just had to elude the enemy.

He hurried forward, wary of his horse’s footing, trying to get as far away as he could. The redcoats reached the stream a moment later, the two groups combined, judging by the noise they made.

“Which way did he go?” a British soldier called.

Ian dismounted and led his horse through a thicket. They stood quietly, sheltered, as the soldiers came down the stream. Hiding behind shrubs, peering into approaching darkness, he caressed his horse’s head, trying to keep him calm.

“He may have gone south,” a second soldier said, as if they couldn’t decide.

“We better find him,” another replied. “Duncan wants him captured.”

They came closer. Horses sloshed through water. Faint shadows showed as they moved through the stream, seven men on horseback. Ian stayed completely still, his heart racing, calming his horse so he made no noise, hoping the enemy would quietly pass or give up and turn around.

“We won’t find him now,” a soldier muttered. “Especially with darkness coming.”

The enemy turned upstream, splashing through the water, talking amongst themselves. The noise grew fainter, and a few minutes later, Ian couldn’t hear them at all. He waited a moment more and peeked from the foliage. No one was near, none of the soldiers lingered. He coaxed his horse forward, walking him for the next hundred yards.

The stream meandered through rolling terrain, twisting and turning but making it back to the road. After one last check for the enemy, Ian climbed on his horse and eased him downstream until they came to Old Lancaster Road. After ensuring no British were near, he left the woods and cautiously entered the road. He walked for fifty feet, not knowing how close any sentries might be, whether any watched him, prepared to fire. When no command came, and no shot followed, he picked up his pace. As soon as he came to the White Horse Tavern, he galloped toward Philadelphia.

He had to warn Congress.