Chester County in the Pennsylvania Countryside, 1777
Her father left at the same time every night.
Two hours before supper— if he was even back for it. She still prepared the cold meats and cheeses, watched from the kitchen as he lowered his head, stepped out into the waning autumn sunlight, and stood at the gate. The diamond windowpanes divided and distorted him, black fragments of a man waiting for another chance. If she couldn’t see him clearly, then she couldn’t see his hope rise and fall underneath their horses’ hooves or battered boots. If she couldn’t see him, then she couldn’t hear his pleas. She couldn’t hear their refusals.
No matter.
The soldiers were clear as day.
The music announced their arrival: the fife’s cry as it played slow airs, the primitive consistency of the drums. Before the war, she’d never heard such music in her life— during the few times her father let her wander into Philadelphia, music was distant and strange, a glimpse into a world she wasn’t born into, wafting through open doors of taverns they passed on the way to market. Soldiers didn’t carry fiddles. She was raised not to have a preference, but she much preferred the sound of a reel or quickstep. Evening marches reminded her of church bells, low and ominous like thunderclouds, high in the sky— waiting to smite and scorch the earth.
“Quite an interesting way to look at it, Esther,” her father said the day before he started the crusade. “I do not see them that way, I’ll admit to thee.”
“Then what do you see them as? Disruptors of peace?” she asked. “Who knows what will happen to the countryside now that they plan to”— the words were stuck in her throat— “to do battle.”
“I think of them as lost men,” he said. “They need a guide. One who is not a general in their line or a congressman making war. One who wants to save their lives.”
“Thou art idealistic,” she said.
He smiled at her as he dabbed his forehead with his kerchief. The summer heat still reigned over them, crawling in through the open windows, permeating the air and sticking to the overhead beams. How would they fight in this heat, she wondered. Perhaps it would deter them, and she wouldn’t have to worry about them reaching her home and the hills surrounding their farm. Blood would not flood the creek.
He will not do what he plans to, she’d thought.
The heat didn’t stop the battle.
The soldiers fought for a whole day, greedily reaching for control of the creek. She heard cannons and gunfire for the first time, sitting inside the Meetinghouse. Did the walls shake, or did she imagine it? “Friends—” Frederick Hatter stood, hands raised. “We shall be safe here. They will not harm us.” Another round of shots sang. Officer’s orders joined the chaotic chorus. No other Quaker spoke during the battle—they sat silently, crushed together as soldiers leaned against the outside walls and loaded their muskets. Esther saw their coats, blues and reds contrasting against their blacks, browns, grays. And she saw the look in her father’s eyes—quiet determination, loud conviction. He wore the same look every Thursday, preaching what God gave him.
“To the rear!” Someone screamed, a man’s southern drawl ringing in her ears. “Fall back to the rear!”
When they left, she saw destruction beyond the four walls of the Meetinghouse. The dead men wore blue, not red. Their bodies lay face down, heads sunk in the water, muskets and swords blocking the current, a violent, makeshift dam. They lay against trees; they fell near the road. Lone men stalked through the fields, on their knees, turning the corpses over to see what they could take. The air reeked of gunpowder and iron. Brandywine Creek’s water turned to liquid rust. She was nearly sick on the way home.
“Do you see?” her father asked, “do you see why I must do this, Esther?”
Every night after the retreat, soldiers marched down the road to only God knew where.
And her father, the bravest man Esther knew, stood at his gate, and begged them to do the unthinkable.
“Leave the army, young man. I will grant you shelter, and they shall not hang you for a traitor—not in my yard, young man. Lower thy sword, and release it from the throat of thy brethren.”
He didn’t stop them, didn’t reach out to grab their shoulders and halt the procession. He walked up and down the line, as if he were searching for someone in a crowd, someone hidden between the golden dirt road and oak trees. On evenings when he was bolder, he handed out biblical broadsides, preached the virtues of pacifism, all the virtues Esther had been taught when she was a girl, sitting on his knee.
The first time, some of the infantrymen turned their heads and stared at him, their march faltered. How many of them had ever met a Quaker? How many were far from home, wasting away in a disorganized troop of men who didn’t know the ways of war? They shook their heads, lowered their eyes as their officers caught them and threatened lashes. “I am sorry, sir, but I cannot.” A boy, no older than sixteen, his uniform falling off, was the first rejection.
“Next time.” Her father came in just after sunset. “Next time, they will listen.”
Now the soldiers kept their eyes trained forward, hands at their sides. An unbreakable column, building a foundation she wanted no part of. She did not join a side. But anger, ungodly and unladylike, boiled inside her—watching them act as if the humble Quaker was invisible, or worse, a fool, a beggar no one was required to listen to, to help. She wanted to burst through the door and scream at every single one of them. What were they doing that was so important? What Cause did they serve, what kind of Cause ignored the pleas of a common man? They gave six months, a year, to their army, but not a minute to her father?
Do you want them to, Esther?
Would it bring more harm than good?
Her knife sank straight through the bread and into the cutting board. She jumped, thoughts interrupted by blunt sharpness, stinging clarity. The only soldiers who remained, dangerously lingering outside her window, were the officers. Out of the entire line, they were who she begged him not to speak with. Sitting atop their mounts, epaulets on their shoulders and sashes swept across their chests, they reminded her of the sovereign they hated so. Hypocrites, looking down at her father. If they wanted something, it was not his blessings. No, it was his cattle, his corn, his cooperation. If they did not get it, rumors claimed they threatened crimes worse than a mere plague of locusts.
Let the anger take over and ask them what they’ll do to you instead. Shall they insult a young lady trying to protect her family? Go outside and say what you truly think of their army. Throw the broadsides in their dirty, gunpowder smeared faces.
She never spoke during Meeting.
No matter.
Supper would be ready soon.
She waited until the end of the line. She never tried at the beginning—there was a chance he’d hear her, hear the back door open, catch sight of her low in the bushes, a vixen near the henhouse. And if he does would he care? Would he ask what you were doing, pull himself away from the task at hand? Ever so important? She could simply straighten herself and say she forgot a pair of boiled eggs for supper, or she wanted to surprise him with a pie, hidden in the pantry. She could wipe her hands clean of lies, deceit, as if they were just stains on her apron. Small, easily forgotten, and only noticeable if you looked at or caused it.
If the officers saw her from horseback, they didn’t attract any attention towards her. What harm was there in a Quaker girl going to her summer kitchen? She never gave them a dignified glance, tuned out their sophisticated or gruff voices. They disappeared when she shut the door, whirled around and positioned herself against the wall. She waited two minutes, enough time for her father to introduce himself. Then she worked.
Vixens stole eggs and valuable provisions; Esther only hid them. Apples stored before they needed to be, salt pork stacked between dish cloths, eggs behind a neglected case of old, smuggled Madeira wine. Options were limited—she handled the kitchen, but her father managed what was brought in for harvest, which wouldn’t be for a few more weeks. What they didn’t eat at supper that night, in case there was a lone straggler, a lowly private who lost his way, she gave to the barn cats.
God forgive her, she didn’t feel bad for the private.
What about your father’s trust? Do you abuse it? Do you go against everything you’ve been taught?
No, no, I am doing what everyone else does in war. Bury what you’ve been taught.
#
“Supper is ready.” She managed a smile. She was always quick to make it back in time.
Her father hung his round hat, revealing his head of white hair, and looked out one more time. He faced her, his features drawn, thin in his round, kind face. “Thank you, Essie, but I fear my appetite has left for the day.”
“Not even for conversation?”
He shook his head. “And what conversation will you indulge in? Pleasant, or quarrelsome?”
“I cannot say I know what you mean, Father.”
“Oh, come, Essie,” he said. “It is now part of our meal.” He gestured at the set table,. “I come in, thank you, and we either talk as we always have, or we argue.”
“No,” she said, “we only argue when I see soldiers through the window.”
“There’s a war on,” he said, too simply, as if a common phrase was answer enough—enough for every action and reaction.
“I am not being quarrelsome,” she said. She didn’t leave her spot behind the cutting board. “I am being protective.” He flinched, and she retraced her steps. “All I want is for you to be content, Father.”
“I will be when I finish the mission God has given me,” he said. He gently placed his broadsides on the table. “Go on, you’ve laid out a fine spread.”
“I made it for you, not myself,” she answered. “I shall start evening prayer early.”
Before she reached the landing, she heard her father whisper, alone at the table. “Perhaps I spoke too softly or wrote something wrong. Next time, they will listen if I carry my voice…”
She was falling asleep when the front door opened.
The creak ripped through her like a gunshot, pulsing her entire body, urgency tugging at her muscles and limbs. Good God, what if they were marching by now, at nightfall? What if this was one of their beloved General’s sneak attacks, what he’d done to the Hessians in Jersey? You know what he will do, Esther. If he’s still awake, if he catches a small glimpse, another chance—
She ran down in last night’s gown, hairpins falling through her half-brushed curls, her cap abandoned, heart racing—listening, listening for a lone drum or hushed order, her father’s voice— please, Father, do not—
“Oh, I’m sorry, Essie. We did not mean to wake you.”
Father sat at the dinner table.
Oh, Lord, help us all.
A soldier rose beside him.
He stood carefully, avoiding the overhead wooden beams, and straight, he stood straight, as if he were on parade, hands placed behind his back. He faced her. He wore the signature Continental colors: a dark blue coat with red facings and cuffs, colors dulled in the dim firelight. His waistcoat was red—her mind flashed back to jostling in the cart, staring at bullet wounds, staining their still chests. Riding boots fanned out at his knees, long, lean legs clad in buckskin breeches.
“Say good evening to our guest,” Father instructed.
Esther said nothing.
“Captain Daniel Ainsley of the 1st Dragoons.” The solider bowed. “Your servant, miss.”
Oh, Good God, he let a horse soldier in? She looked past him, found his saber slung across the table, its sheathed blade hanging over the edge, and his leather helmet, black as night, its horsehair plume, white as snow, cascading above the floorboards. Soldiers with muskets were terrifying, but cavalrymen did the Devil’s work. They scouted routes, spied on neighbors, raided, and cut men down as they ran from their horses, their sabers Death’s scythes.
“Thou art no servant of mine,” she said.
“Esther!” Father scolded.
But the cavalry captain grinned. “No harm, sir. She is right, I do not serve your cause. But I have served with your Friends—or former, I suppose. I’ve met and fought with General Greene. Tell me, miss, do you think him a heathen?”
“Not as much as I think you one, Daniel Ainsley. Your General is a dissenter.” Esther stepped closer, bringing herself into the fold. “What is your purpose here?”
It was Father’s turn to smile—he beamed, blasted hope flickering across his face, and he leaned forward. “The good captain has come to hear my pleas, Essie.”
The captain’s resolve faltered for only a second, but she saw it.
“He is not here to do that, Father. Is that right?”
How long? How long had he been listening to him speak, offering him a meal and whatever he needed to desert the army? Did he pretend to read the writings? Did he murmur in agreement? Did he let her poor father believe he was achieving something?
“But you—” Father paused, glancing between her and the captain. “You knew my name, and my mission, and you are by yourself.” His voice wavered. Esther’s stomach turned. “If you came to deceive me, Captain—”
“Sir, I have come with the opposite intentions—”
“And what intentions are those?” Esther asked.
He turned to her. “I have come to warn you and your father, miss.”
A heavy silence filtered into the air. Father was watching her, what did he think she’d do?, Smirk and say, “what did I tell you?” Does he truly think I want to hurt him?
“Sit down, Esther.”
The captain pulled out her chair.
“General Washington plans to retake Philadelphia,” he said as he folded his hands as if in prayer, his tone somber, “before fighting season is over. I cannot say where we will march, but expect the news shortly. The British are aware of this, and we both patrol the countryside. Worse, supplies are low—”
“We are aware of that because of your looting, Daniel—”
“Esther, do not interrupt him.”
“We are beyond taking, miss,” he said. “Both sides have decided that if we cannot possess it, it will be better to—” he paused. She watched as he realized who he was speaking with, the consequence washing over him like a bout of sickness. He leaned back in his chair. In the darkness, his face paled. “Many fields and stores will be destroyed. Homes as well.” He broke eye contact with her. “Sir, it is not safe here. You must leave or stop your ministry. These are last resorts.”
She wanted her father to realize the error of his ways, the danger he brought home, but not like this. Not with a soldier telling him what he must do. A choice may be presented, but not always given.
“I will stay here,” Father said.
“No.”
“Essie—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I will not—this is madness, Father!” She took his weathered hand in hers. “I understand you believe God has led you here, but surely you must consider that He values our safety, our home, our—everything you have worked for, Father. And you will—” God help her, she looked away and laughed. “You will throw it away to preach to men who will not listen!”
“It is not so simple.”
“Right now, it is.” Were there tears in her eyes? “The men who believe in this Cause will not waver, and the men who may are terrified of punishment for desertion. The British need to keep Philadelphia. Isn’t that right, Daniel?” She needed a moment to breathe, to try and collect herself.
“Your daughter is correct, sir.”
“Yes.” Father sighed. “She is smart, my Essie. But right now, you do not understand—I must try to be a guide. I am still convinced I will serve as one, in whatever way necessary. I stay on this path, God willing.”
“You will not listen, then?” Her voice still shook. “After weeks of me telling you, and Daniel coming out of his way to warn us, you still will not listen? And you will accuse me of not understanding, not caring about your mission, about you, Father—”
“I will stay here. I have said my peace.”
For a moment, she was in Meeting, and he finished his testimony.
For a moment, she wanted to believe him.
“I must go.” Captain Ainsley pushed in his chair. “I have been out of camp for too long.” He grabbed his sword first, reattaching the blade to his hip. He tucked the leather helmet into his arm, its plume swaying.
“Will you not take a broadside, Captain?”
“I will, sir.”
He moved the sword aside and tucked the Bible verses beneath the blade.
She was exhausted, and all she wanted was to sleep, imagine this was a cruel nightmare—
“May I speak with you before I leave, Miss Esther?”
He crossed the room in easy strides before stopping at the mantel. Father always said flames reminded him of her hair. “What is it?” She had to raise her chin for a clear view of his face.
Daniel lowered his head, fringes of light brown hair falling onto his cheeks, spilled over layers from his braided queue. His eyes were a shady, stormy blue, reflecting the fire’s sheen. “I do not know how to phrase this delicately.” His voice lowered, a conspirative whisper. He glanced behind them; Father sat alone, staring at a wall.
“You have said worse things in your time here.”
His face didn’t change. “Come with me.”
She stepped back. “You cannot mean that, Daniel.”
He leaned closer. “I offer you pure protection, and nothing more. I swear it. I will take you somewhere safe, away from the impending raids and marches. Surely you have family, Friends in other parts of the country.”
“And if I did… I go alone, don’t I?”
“I cannot provide protection to a man who does not want it…” His fingers picked the broadside’s edges. “Let alone a Quaker. You must understand.”
She tried to imagine herself, alone in a military camp, traveling down roads she’d never heard of, fleeing to Lancaster, or wherever promised small salvation. A terrible existence. A dreadful loneliness.
And a guilt—a guilt that would kill you.
“Would you abandon your father in a time of war?”
“Never,” the captain said.
“You understand, then.”
He nodded. “I am sorry, miss.”
Then his gloved fingers were on her wrist, a phantom grip. They were warmer than the fire. He kissed her hand. “God bless you, Miss Esther.”
Captain Ainsley looked back as he mounted his horse, donned his helmet, and disappeared into the trees, a nighttime specter.
If he were not a soldier, and could protect them both, she would’ve agreed immediately.
#
She was falling asleep, and the front door opened.
She didn’t move, stayed straight in bed—something inside her told her that if she moved, she’d be dragged down, down into a hole, or by a force she couldn’t get away from or crawl out of. She clutched the quilt close to her chest and tried to listen for Father’s voice.
The captain’s voice. Daniel Ainsely’s voice, as if he had spent the past two weeks waiting for her at the end of the road, and finally grew weary.
She heard no one.
A faint, sheer veil of gray creeped through the slants of her door.
Smoke.
The door slammed against the wall, and she stepped into the gathering clouds, the hardwood floor hot beneath her bare feet. She threw herself downstairs, frantically whipping her head around for any sign of him. Get out. He is not here! Run, Esther!
She fled into the night, cold air hitting her face like water.. “Father!” She cried out. “Father!”
“Essie.”
She raced toward his voice, hoarse and low and drained of all life. “I’m coming, Father!”
Her father lay near the end of the cornfield, between the pastures.
“Essie.”
He was curled up on his side and didn’t protest when she fell to her knees and rolled him over. His eye was swollen, dried blood caked his cheeks. He spit drops onto the grass. His groans hit her like a punch. “Essie?”
“I’m here.” She touched his face. “I’m here, Father.”
“They… they knocked on the door, Essie. I wanted to wake you, but they grabbed me and kicked me onto the ground. One of them hit me, I don’t know where, and another used the end of his rifle to push me down for good. And then they walked into the cornfield with torches, they threw them—such bright torches, like hellfire. Hellfire has come!”
He buried his face in the grass, sobbing.
Their two horses whinnied and ran in circles, bucking up in fear. Their cattle—where was their cattle? Pieces of the fence were scattered across the grass, small pieces kindling. Did she hear the sheep? Their chickens? Was the pantry door open? Oh, God, what had they taken? But they—he said they did not want anything? And why would he lie? Why would he lie- why would he lie, but ask you to go with him? She didn’t understand, her mind flooding with questions, panic—
She heard the roar of flames, tearing through the cornfield, and looked just in time to see the blaze, brighter than any sun she’d seen, so close she felt it on her cheeks. A broken layer of the sun, speeding towards the earth, towards all they—all she had.
Rings of fire, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Father?”
She turned him back over.
“What coats were they wearing?”
He didn’t answer.
She shook him, frantic, desperate. “What color did they wear, Father?”
“I couldn’t see—”
“Tell me. Please, you have to tell me, you have to know…” Her knuckles were white on his shoulders, she choked on her own sobs. “Please, what color?”
“I don’t know!” His voice bellowed, echoing across the night air, briefly overpowering the singing fire. “I don’t know!”
She managed to convey them to the other side of the road. Her father lay unconscious beside her. His breathing was still, but he was cold. Why didn’t she hear him scream? Why didn’t she hear him call for her? Oh, God, had she grown deaf to his pleas?
Did he ever hear hers?
Esther watched the flames rise until they reached the roof, reaching upwards like pairs of wire-thin hands, greedy and hungry for the endless sky.
If God opened the heavens and let lightning strike, she’d wish, against everything.
Go ahead and smite them all.
The Tributary 