WET evening wind rippled the British flag on the front porch of the Adderley home. Chill yet refreshing, it caressed the face of the old man who stood there, watching the tree-lined road fade into twilight. His shoulders reclined gracefully while his elegant hands looked empty without a book. His eyes were clear, and his mouth smiled at the corners.

The Reverend Oliver Adderley rocked on his heels and walked across the creaking wood of the old porch, hands in his pockets. This was his favorite time of day, the magic hour when daylight died and the night was born. He’d loved it as a boy, but now he loved it more as a man of many years. He was like unto evening, and the evening was like himself.

The door swung with a creak and his brunette daughter, seventeen, pretty and sharp-featured, came alongside him.

“A pleasant evening,” Eliza remarked, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

The Reverend nodded. He didn’t feel like replying at the moment—the quiet language of the body would suffice. The spell was too perfect. He pointed silently to a detail on the road.

“Yes, the hickory tree needs tending,” said his daughter, half-commenting, half-interpreting. Her mind never failed to keep pace, and this made her his favorite companion.

He took a deep breath. The air was like wine—a living, water-tinged substance that made him remember God’s breath in Genesis—a divine wind that could make a heart of stone beat with blood.

“Indeed it does need tending. I’ve let the ivy grow too long. If only everyone could stand here enjoying the evening as we do,” said Oliver. “The world misses so much beauty.”

“They have their noses in other people’s business,” said Eliza. “Like the British marching all over our fields. I’ve had news from Martha—the patriots are retreating from Bunker Hill. They gave the redcoats a sharp rebuke there.”

“The ivy is strong,” said her father, walking along the wet green to the foot of the hickory. It was impossible to tell if this might be a cryptic reference to the war or a simple refusal to talk politics.

Eliza decided it was the latter.

“You find no interest in men dying, father?”

“Death is the least interesting thing, Eliza. Life, however, is most interesting.” He paused, fingering the ivy. “This ivy, for instance, kills the tree so it will live. So you see even death must borrow from life.”

A clop of hooves echoed down the mist-covered road and father and daughter stood silent. In an age of war, one never knew what the mist might reveal. The silhouettes of five redcoats and a wagon emerged with an officer on horseback. He was a man in bold relief, dark curls escaping beneath a tri-corner hat. His spine straightened and his face lightened as he caught sight of Eliza. Tipping his hat, he brought his horse to a stand beneath the hickory tree.

“Good evening, miss! And how do you fare, sir?”

“Well enough, lieutenant,” replied Oliver. “You have been riding long by the looks of it.”

The man glanced at his damp uniform, then concealed his discomfiture by signaling his men. The wagon slowed to a stop.

“You are right, Reverend. We have been riding all day. You may have heard of the recent battle. We have just come from there, but saw little action to tell the truth. My men and I are weary with traveling.”

“Bunker Hill… yes, I have heard news of the fighting.”

Eliza shot her father a quizzical look—and how had he heard of it?—but the Reverend only smiled.

“Perhaps, Lieutenant, you and your men would join us for dinner?” 

This surprised the officer, but not half as much as Eliza. The good humor of the Reverend, however, was impenetrable. That he should tease her sympathies was one thing, but to invite a troop of redcoats to dinner!

“We have plenty,” Oliver continued. His rhetorically pregnant use of that single word conjured a great banquet in the mind of the lieutenant, and he looked down the road, a thousand considerations playing in his mind.

“I will be honest, sir…” he stammered. “This is the first kind word I have had from a colonial since I landed in Massachusetts. We would be honored to sup at your table. My name is Marcus,” he said, extending a hand.

“And I am Reverend Oliver Adderley. This is my daughter, Eliza, and the honor is ours, Lieutenant. Eliza, please tell Cook to prepare another six plates. Your men can step inside and warm their toes.” 

The old man smiled—he loved to play the host and would have done so if his larder had been as bare as Mother Hubbard’s.

A short time later the men tramped up the porch stairs, eyes sideways to the pretty Eliza who stood just beyond the door, her hands intertwined. Their muddy boots went by without remark.

The house was elegantly built with oak interior and great beams overhead. The autumnal parlor glowed in the light of an early fire. Greco-Roman statuary glistened, and a grandfather clock chimed mildly.

“Your home is beautiful, Reverend,” said Marcus. He stepped cautiously, aware of every creak beneath his feet.

“It was my father’s, built by his brothers and himself.” Adderley motioned to a chair, and the lieutenant obeyed. There was such grace in the Reverend that his wishes seemed commands.

“I have long meditated, Lieutenant, on the abiding power of rootedness. These walls are a meal for the mind and heart, and the longer they marinate in the seasoning of age, the richer the flavor. Remember the words of Our Lord about the salt.”

“I think you will find us salty enough for your taste,” said Marcus. He chuckled half-heartedly, then wondered if his joke sounded uncouth, and coughed.

The Reverend did not seem to notice. Their attention was caught by Eliza’s entering after the last soldier. She took her place near the doorway, back to the wall, her eyes steady upon her father. There was a stillness in her body that attracted Marcus even as it notified her father that something was amiss.

“Why, Eliza, you seem subdued this evening. Have you heard ill news from your friend in New York?” The Reverend’s eyes twinkled; he well knew the cause of her distemper—or so he thought.

Eliza did not feed his impish humor, but bestowed a smile on Marcus. “And has the road from Boston been a hard one, Lieutenant Marcus?”

“Nothing my men and I aren’t accustomed to, Miss Adderley. Our orders are to reunite with our regiment a few miles hence by midnight. The victory at Bunker Hill was a costly one, and there has been much movement of men and material in the aftermath.”

One of the men who had a sharp nose spoke up. “These rebels can only fire and run. We’ll have done with them by Christmas I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You impose on our hosts, Stephens,” said Marcus, casting him a hard look. “They have no wish to hear our opinion of their neighbors.”

The subordinate sniffed and withdrew into himself once more. 

The lieutenant turned to his host. “I imagine it is hard to balance loyalty to the Crown and loyalty to your fellow colonists, Reverend.”

Oliver took a seat. “My loyalty is to God, Lieutenant, before Crown or neighbor. But you raise an intriguing dilemma. The first skirmish in this war was in a town called Concord. Do you recall? That seemed a fitting irony to me and my mind has ruminated upon it some time since.”

“Concord, as you know, derives from concordia and refers to an agreement between two people, akin to two notes ringing in harmony. Discord is its opposite and this is what currently resounds all around us—a cacophony of dissent. Contrast this with the image of the King—a figurehead of justice and unity, bringing many people into one body, even his own. Has our earthly King united? Has he worked justice? It would be impolitic for me to answer, but we know the answer well enough for all that.”

He glanced at Eliza whose eyes betrayed a spark. Yes, she would enjoy that side of things.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “my neighbors say, ‘What of democracy?’ ‘What of representation?’ It seems to me that these things, good in themselves, cannot replace the spiritual anchor provided by the Crown. I feel keenly that I am a British subject. Am I left in the cold by my own government? One would be forgiven for thinking so. But I can’t help but think that if one is to experience concord, he must first choose it even if he be the first to choose it. Perhaps this is foolishness, but I see the power of long suffering in the life of Our Lord, and with that long suffering there was grace. I would have grace in my life even if the price were poverty and scorn.”

“But I have wearied you with my sermon. You ought to have stopped me, Eliza… she is to blame, Lieutenant. She spoils me greatly.”

“You have never required my permission to speak, Father,” replied Eliza. “He loves to tease, Lieutenant Marcus.”

“The mark of a good father, I would say,” he replied. “But what of you, Miss Eliza? Do you share your father’s sympathies?”

“You can hardly expect me to own my opinions in front of such company.”

Heaviness fell, more than she had intended—the men shifted, Marcus frowned, and Eliza regretted her honesty. Only the Reverend seemed unperturbed.

“Have you ever noticed, gentlemen, that a vigorous society produces its vision of the ideal man? Who is the man of democracy? A self-made, self-driven, and if one is not careful, self-ish man. If our colonies do form a democracy, we will certainly produce this man, no doubt honed in the wilderness, armed with terrific stamina, gifted with charisma to win the people’s hearts. But is such a man the best of men?”

“A man of the monarchy, by contrast, must be integrated as society is integrated in the figure of the King. Nobility, grace, duty—these are the marks of our society’s ideal man. When the crowd goes wrong as a crowd so often does, this man steps forward, a mind to correct the passions, a will to lead by example. From boyhood every man is given this ideal of reason and honor. It is not about ‘standing out’, but ‘standing for’ his fellow man. It is true that such a society may not produce the ingenuity of the first man. But our ideal is at once more modest and more extravagant.”

“A rare combination!” Marcus was enjoying himself.

The Reverend continued. “Our man of monarchy must be prepared to toil in obscurity while the man of democracy dreams of shining before the world. Our man will be measured by the institutions he serves while the democratic man must merely amaze the people.”

“Consider this: the monarch is a living figure who resembles our true situation in life. For a monarch is given without merit the greatest gifts and bound by honor to live up to them. He did not ask for his duty, for none of us are asked. All men alike are enslaved to the generosity of being born. If our nascent republic succeeds, it will be despite democracy for it will require our man of monarchy in order to exist at all. When the last such man has died and all that is left are men of democracy, democracy too shall die. So you see, in my book, to part with the King would be in some sense to part with the men we ought to be.”

“Excellent words, sir,” said Marcus finally. “High-minded, though the way of life you describe is a difficult road. One has many obligations, and it is not easy to balance all of them.”

“Prudence is the fruit of old age and difficulty. It shall ripen in you yet, Lieutenant”.

Marcus made no reply to this, and Eliza, who had been half-listening, moved suddenly. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I will see how dinner is coming along.”

Her absence did not excite comment, for the hour was late, and the men had begun to fear that the Reverend would be long on words and short on supper.

What was the cause of Eliza’s disquiet? Supper would be long in coming for Cook was not in the Kitchen. Where she was, and why, Eliza well knew, and the truth filled her with dread. How stupid of her father to invite these soldiers into their home! Of all the nights to do so! Eliza, prone to Puritanical thoughts, suspected the judging hand of the Almighty. 

She descended the stairs from the kitchen into the cellar and approached a wooden door where the root vegetables were kept. She cautiously knocked three times. The door swung wide and the pale face of Cook appeared.

“Thank God you’ve come… I was afraid to leave him. He hasn’t woken yet and I didn’t want him to die with no one here.”

“My father has invited six British soldiers to dinner, Caroline. We’ll need more than the soup tonight.”

There was an explosion of silence, and then Cook donned her apron, gathered a pile of root vegetables and hurried out of the room. Eliza shut the door and turned to the figure on the table.

His face was handsome and keen—much like her own, she thought—and looked very strong. He had stumbled to their door during the night with a gunshot wound. Through mischance the Reverend had been visiting a sick parishioner, and Eliza, fearful of the many British moving on the roads, had hidden him in the cellar. All the day she and Cook had traded the burden of caring for him; Cook urged her to tell her father and call Doctor Simpson while Eliza resisted, unsure that her father’s loyalties or Simpson’s gossip would not end in disaster.

The bullet had shattered his upper left arm. Now this was bandaged and in a sling. Eliza watched him sleeping. By nature she was fearless when facing danger alone, but with her father’s honor now in jeopardy, she bitterly accused herself. It was not simply the wrong, but how uncharacteristic the wrong was.

For Eliza Adderley to lie was unthinkable; after all, she was too headstrong to conceal her opinions for long. But her natural honesty, unhoned by the discipline of grace and prone to overreach, had given way before her self-righteous passion for the Cause. For this unexpected deceit was no small thing. It had a name: treason.

The man’s eyes opened. Eliza started, then stepped back instinctively. His eyes were cloudless blue but empty and unfocused. He turned his neck stiffly and looked at her. Then he groaned as his limbs uncoiled.

“How long have I been here?”

“A day.”

He began to rise. Eliza would have stopped him, but even wounded she feared his strength.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“John Ridley.”

“I am Eliza Adderley. 

He looked around, disoriented.

“You are not far from Charlestown,” said Eliza, guessing his thought.

He swooned slightly and Eliza instinctively supported him. Yes, the man was strong, but still weakened. 

“You need something to eat.”

“Yes…do you have cheese? I have longed for it.”

When he was stable, Eliza went to a corner of the cellar where several cloths were draped over wheels of cheese. She had hardly brought back a few slices before Ridley wolfed them down. 

“My gun… where is it?”

“I… I’m not sure.” Truly she was becoming a terrible person, lying like this. But she could not arm such a man at such an hour. “I will ask Caroline where she has stored it.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No…thank you for saving me. I will not be a burden to you much longer, I swear.”

“One should not swear.” Eliza smiled. Ridley was unusually handsome, she thought. His face had a craggy, uneven look that evoked personality.

A sudden footfall above them recalled Eliza to the world outside. “I must return to the dinner party,” she exclaimed without thinking, then recoiled as Ridley’s hand gripped her wrist. 

“What dinner party,” he whispered.

Eliza breathed deeply and then pulled away. He was incredibly quick for being so weak.

“I should have warned you. My father does not know you are here. He is a very generous man, but he is a Loyalist. There are six British soldiers, including an officer, dining with us tonight.”

Ridley’s eyes did not flinch as she had expected, but instead glowed with an unsettling fire. “I will remain here. Is there a sign you will give me if there is trouble?”

“Yes…” Eliza’s mind raced. “Three taps—I will give you three taps on the door if there is danger to you.”

“Hurry upstairs… go!” he whispered, pushing her out. Eliza did as she was bid, chagrined to be commanded by her own houseguest. Before she had time to consider all that had passed between them, she was among the men once more, smiling and trying to appear more friendly. She felt her father’s eyes upon her. 

Marcus too noted a difference, but he had no context by which to judge. “And did you find the Cook, Miss Eliza?”

“Yes,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “Supper will be ready shortly. Cook has had soup cooking for some time.” This news disappointed the soldiers who’d eaten many bowls of broth these last few months. 

Marcus smiled nonetheless. “I am sure it will be delicious.”

“Perhaps we might open the storehouse, Eliza?” said the Reverend, sensing the disappointment. “Would you retrieve a few bottles of sherry in the cellar? We could all do with a glass while we wait.”

Eliza obeyed and hurried back down the stairs. She opened the door to find Ridley checking the barrel of his musket. He’d easily found it among the potatoes where Cook had thought it hidden, and the sight distressed Eliza. 

“You must put that away.” 

Ridley ignored her. “It still works, thank God,” he said. “You are back quickly.”

“To get some sherry,” she replied and moved past him to the wine stands. She took up two dusty bottles. 

“I may refresh myself with one if you don’t mind,” said Ridley.

“Help yourself,” she said, starting to hate him, and then she was up the stairs and back in sunlight, back in the courteous and awkward situation in the parlor. Soon eight glasses shimmered in the last rays of day. The talk turned to various topics—trade in Boston, the religious fervor (or lack thereof) of New Englanders (or British soldiers), and the likely outcome of the war. 

INALLY word came that dinner was prepared and the party repaired to the dining hall which glimmered with polished wood and tall tallow candles. The soup was delicious but the root vegetables were undercooked.

Marcus bit into a hard carrot and winced. He had a bad tooth, a malady to which battle had delayed the remedy. He decided to smell his food first for he had an uncanny sense of texture and took brief trial bites with his back teeth. It was this method that caused him to stir uneasily a short way into the meal—for he smelled blood.

Was his nose bleeding? Or was it a mouth wound? Marcus checked both surreptitiously, but found nothing. There was no stench amongst the men. But now the acrid scent which had burned his smell on the battlefield burned him again.

Then his eyes looked down and saw the red tinge on Eliza’s sleeve as she sat at the head of the table. 

He looked back up—everyone was laughing, but he felt as if he were lost in a dream. How was there blood in the food? His mind searched for a reason, but could think of nothing. There must be a simple explanation. He was only on edge after the battle…

Meanwhile, Eliza’s smile was as frozen, her imagination constantly recalling the musket in the cellar. If blood were shed in her father’s house due to her deception…she stifled a shudder. Her father would never trust her again.

All at once, as if the strain had snapped, she found herself scraping her chair as she stood up. All eyes looked to her. She stammered an apology and left the room.

She had determined that removing Ridley as soon as possible was the only escape from the doom she felt hovering over the household. They could not risk another minute of possible discovery.

She descended and then stopped, listening for someone following her. When no sound came, she hurried to the cellar door and opened it, only to cry out when she saw the musket aimed straight at her breast.

Ridley’s hands were over her mouth in an instant. “Quiet!” he whispered. She broke free and stood catching her breath. They both listened for what seemed several minutes. But there was only silence. 

“You must leave at once,” she said finally.

“Is there a horse out back? One of the British horses?”

“You must not steal from our guests!”

His blue eyes narrowed. “I have crawled through the mud over two moonless nights, past a thousand soldiers. I have slept in the forest in the day, concealed beneath leaves that stifled the air I breathed, all while the life bled out from me. I did all this for freedom. I will not be bound even by your generosity, Miss Adderley.”

“So you only care for your own survival.”

“My survival is the Revolution’s survival.”

“I see. You may take our horse in the stables. It is all we have, but I would rather you take it than rob from our guests.”

He seemed to accept this and began gathering what food stuffs lay to hand in his satchel.

Eliza pointed to the storm doors in the corner of the cellar, the only entrance other than the staircase. “I will go round and unlock the storm doors from the front. Then you must slip away. Please wait five minutes after you hear the lock unlatch, so that I may return to the dinner and not be suspected. You will do this for me at least?”

“Of course.”

She turned and left the room, ascending the stairs rapidly. The key to the storm doors lay in her father’s study and she went there now, rifling through papers and drawers as quickly as she could.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure standing in the door. She startled—but it was only her father.

“Eliza, what are you doing? Our guests are ready for dessert, but your plate is untouched.” 

She did not dare meet his eyes. “I was looking for the keys.” 

“Whatever for?” 

She paused, unable to lie to him, knowing that it wouldn’t work and would only break his heart.

“Come now…they are waiting for us.” 

The Reverend, his face clouded, extended an inviting arm and Eliza followed, knowing that there would be time for explanations later. But what of Ridley? He would have to wait—and he deserved no less.

“We have missed you, Miss Adderley!” said the soldiers all at once as she re-entered. The wine was flowing freely and all were in good spirits, except Lieutenant Marcus. His expression was sphinx-like. 

“Forgive me,” Eliza said with a winning smile. “I have been distracted this evening. Are we ready for our dessert?”

“We are,” said the Reverend. “Will you go ask Cook to bring in the plum pudding? It is our favorite, Lieutenant… I hope your palate agrees?”

“Can an Englishman deny pudding?” came the reply. “I should hope I’m more English than to refuse!”

“Indeed.”

Eliza entered the kitchen, the Reverend took his seat, and Marcus sipped from his glass when a great blow rattled the dinnerware. All sat in stunned silence.

“What was that?”

Oliver was pure surprise. “I’m not sure.”

“Is someone else in your home, Reverend?” There was a cold suspicion in Marcus’s eyes. Though he knew nothing, his edge of constant worry and suspicion had sprung from the scabbard with all too much practice.

“Let us go investigate, Lieutenant.” 

“No need,” Marcus said tonelessly. “Two of my men and I will go.”

The Reverend said nothing as the three soldiers rose, retrieved their weapons from the foyer, and approached the staircase to the cellar. Eliza stood with the plum pudding in hand, immobilized as if in a dream.

There was utter silence for a minute as the stairs creaked. Then a scuffle and a slamming door echoed through the house. 

As if the noise had broken a spell, Eliza tossed the pudding aside and ran for the stairs. At the bottom she found Ridley—his hands securing the lock on the cellar door and moving to his musket. From behind the door came the bellows of Lieutenant Marcus and his two men. 

“Stand aside, Miss Adderley,” Ridley said, but before she could move, a hand held her shoulder. It was the Reverend Adderley behind her.

“Who is this, Eliza?”

“Is everything alright down there?” came a voice from above. It was the sharp-nosed soldier and the other two men. 

“Who is this Eliza?” the Reverend asked again.

Ridley pushed past them, aimed up the staircase and fired. The sound of the explosion ricocheted throughout the stone cellar, deafening everyone. There was a cry up above and the tumbling of a retreat.

Ridley turned to Oliver. “My name is Ridley. I am a soldier of the Revolution. Your daughter saved my life. I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve brought you, but it’s all for throwing off the English yoke.”

“Our Lord had much to say about yokes.”

A blank look came over Ridley’s face and he blinked. Meanwhile cries came from the cellar and pounding on the door. Ridley began reloading his musket while Eliza burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, father,” she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. “I’ve helped this man without your consent and now I’ve ruined us.”

“Hush, daughter. Dry your eyes. Of course, I would have helped this man—as you would well know if you knew me better. But now we must see to our other guests. We are poor hosts tonight.”

The Reverend moved to unlock the cellar door but Ridley cocked his musket and turned the gun on him. Their eyes met—one pair narrow slits of blue, the other open and clear.

“I am grateful to you, Reverend, but I can’t let you open that door.” 

“Mr. Ridley, for a man who values freedom, you are eager to lock up others. But you are not free either—for you are bound by the law of courtesy to allow me this one liberty.”

“To endanger the Cause? Never!”

“You mistake my meaning. I wish to join my guests in the cellar.”

Again the blank stare came over Ridley’s face. They stood there as the pounding continued. Suddenly as if the trapped men had given up the commotion ceased, and Ridley seemed to come to himself. 

“Don’t try anything foolish,” he said and nodded toward the door. 

The Reverend unlocked it and quickly passed through with Eliza behind him, but even as Ridley moved to bar it again, a sight from the room beyond filled him with dismay: the storm doors were wildly blowing in the windy night.

Ridley cursed and brushed past Adderley, but as soon as he glanced over the rim of the storm doors, two musket balls splintered the wood around him.

He retreated and stood, considering the stairs behind him and the doors before him.

“I think you will find both exits held against you,” said Adderley. 

“Do you think I don’t know that!”

“Then allow me to negotiate on your behalf. You are my guest after all.”

Once more surprise lit Ridley’s eyes. He stared and finally nodded once more.

Adderley quickly removed a white cheese cloth from a nearby shelf, wrapped it round a wooden dasher, and raised it high through the storm doors.

“Parley!” he yelled and yelled again until he was rewarded with a shout. He smiled to Ridley and Eliza and walked beyond onto the green that lay behind his home.

The Adderley yard held several stately trees, old and tall. Behind two of these, diagonal to the storm doors, were two soldiers with guns raised. Lieutenant Marcus crouched by a bush, pistol in hand. Seeing the Reverend approaching, he came forward, keeping his head low. “What is the meaning of this, Reverend Adderley?” he growled, eyes glowing with distrust.

“I must apologize to you, Lieutenant. It would appear that a wounded soldier who, like yourself, recently came from Bunker Hill, has found refuge under our roof.”

“Did you know of this?”

It was more an accusation than a question, but to his astonishment, the Reverend did not react in anger or shame. Indeed, he did not react at all. It was as if a mighty wave of emotion had crashed against granite, thinking it might tumble. Instead the clear eyes of the Reverend simply held Marcus’s own until the Lieutenant blinked and found himself apologizing for the outburst.

“I should have more evidence before doubting your good will, sir. But this is a time of war and my enemies are many. I am sure this man is an intruder.”

“He is no intruder. He is my guest and as such he is under my protection.”

“You cannot be serious! This is treason!”

“Do you mean to arrest me, Lieutenant, for helping a wounded man?”

Marcus laughed—a short, humorless bark. He threw up his hands and walked away, but the Reverend did not move. Eventually he circled back and stood where he had been before.

“You want me to let him go, don’t you?”

“I believe you have two duties, Lieutenant, one to your king and one to me. Your duty to your King demands that you report to your regiment—not that you kill every rebel you encounter. The second requires you to honor the generosity of a man who has given you food and shelter.”

“I cannot leave this man here and show my face to my commanding officer.”

“But you can allow me to give him some food and send him on his way, provided that you will stay here and finish our visit.”

“A half hour head start?” Again his tone was incredulous.

“It is the least you could do for my sake.”

Marcus bit his lip. It seemed truly incredible that he was actually considering what the Reverend had suggested, but such was the power of the man that he did not know how else to respond. Though he had all the power of death at his disposal, this man’s peace impelled him as a river might draw driftwood.

“I ought to arrest the lot of you,” he said furiously.

“Look me in the eyes, Lieutenant, and tell me that you will arrest me and my daughter and this wounded man.”

The two men gazed at each other, and in those few moments of quiet, something changed in the air between them. Marcus exhaled and finally looked to the ground.

“I will gather my men out front and prepare to depart. We cannot eat with you. But this man—tell him that if we find him on the road, we will do our worst.”

“I’m sure that you will do your best,” came the reverend’s reply and he extended his hand, and they shook on it.

Meanwhile Ridley and Eliza had watched the conversation with little comment. She was furious while he was pale with sweat. When the Reverend returned to them, Ridley was almost on top of him.

“Well?”

“You are free to leave,” said Reverend Adderley, “but if they find you on the road, you will have no protection.”

Ridley seemed unable to comprehend this. He staggered aimlessly around the cellar and then sat down, looking like a dead tree in a windstorm.

“How have you done this?” he asked finally.

The reverend did not answer but finished packing a loaf of bread, some medicinal ointments, and a flask of wine. “Take these with you, and hurry! The moon will be brighter tonight. If you take the path at the back of the green, it will carry you to the hills. You will be safe there from prying eyes.”

Like a rabbit who has heard the snap of a twig, Ridley snatched the satchel and glanced across the green. It was as the reverend had said—the soldiers were gone. Soon the rebel was no more than a silhouette against the moonlit grass.

Out front Oliver and Eliza found the British troop saddled and ready to depart. The sharp-nosed soldier, Stephens, had his hand wrapped in a bandage, but it was due to splintered wood, not a musket ball. Eliza had seen the great hole left in the kitchen from Ridley’s blast, but the reverend had hardly noticed it.

“I’m afraid we are leaving your home in poorer shape than we found it, Reverend,” said Marcus.

“I have been a poor host to you and your men, Lieutenant. I am sorry you did not taste our pudding, but I hope you will enjoy this spice cake for later.”

Marcus took the wrapped loaf in hand, almost against his will. But his face softened with a sudden emotion. “I thought you were a man who saw the justice of our cause, Reverend.”

“All men are my cause, Lieutenant, you among them.”

“I see. I don’t know why but I hope our paths cross again. Goodbye!”

And with that the troop rode down the road to vanish into the dark. Eliza did not breathe until the last hoofbeat had lost its echo.

“What horrible men!” she cried, covering her eyes to hide her tears. “I am sorry that I ever met any of them!”

“What an odd thing to say,” replied the Reverend. “I thought that all of them were much better men today than they might have been.”

“You think too well of everyone.”

“I think well on everyone, my dear. There is a difference. But let us retire.”

“It was only your grace that saved us from ruin, Papa.”

“Nonsense. There is only God’s grace. But next time, my dear, do tell me if you hide an armed man in the cellar.”