Authors: Jennifer Hudson Taylor
For Love or Country
Other Books by Author
Other Books by Jennifer Hudson Taylor
Quilts of Love Series
Path of Freedom
The MacGregor Legacy
For Love or Loyalty
For Love or Country
For Love or Liberty
For Love or Country
The MacGregor Legacy
Jennifer Hudson Taylor
For Love or Country
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Hudson Taylor
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in association with Hartline Literary Agency
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Taylor, Jennifer Hudson.
For love or country / Jennifer Hudson Taylor.
1 online resource. — (The MacGregor legacy series ; book 2)
Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.
ISBN 978-1-4267-8730-0 (epub) — ISBN 978-1-4267-3385-7 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) 1. North Carolina—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Fiction. I. Title.
Scripture quotations from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.
Printed in the United States of America
To all the heroes who have fought for our freedom and our country
To everyone who helped make this book possible, and you know who you are, thank you!
As I was writing
For Love or Country,
I did a lot of historical research on the Revolutionary War in North Carolina, and specifically in Wilmington. I thought it would be helpful to discuss which characters existed in real life. The Tuscarora Indians really lived in the swamps in the Wilmington area, but the specific characters in the book are fictional.
Major James H. Craig was a real British officer who held control over Wilmington in 1781. The two Continental soldiers who were prisoners at the Burgwin House were real, General John Ashe and Cornelius Harnett. The events in the book regarding Cornelius being paraded around the town, beaten, and locked outside in a blockhouse in the cold are true.
Major James H. Craig issued a proclamation demanding that local residents give their allegiance to the crown. The Battle of Guilford Courthouse is real and reenactments take place each year in my hometown of Greensboro. The tunnels beneath Wilmington are real and date back to before the Revolutionary War, including beneath the Burgwin House, which really was built over a former jail.
I hope you enjoy
For Love or Country
All my best,
Jennifer Hudson Taylor
If my people
, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray,
and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways;
then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.
2 Chronicles 7:14 KJV
yra MacGregor did not want the Christmas feast to end. She leaned back in her wooden chair and peered at her family gathered around the long dining table, laughing and talking in jovial spirits. It had been a miracle her father, Lieutenant Malcolm MacGregor, and her elder brothers, Callum and Scott, were given a few days off from the Continental Army to spend Christmas with them. This time when they left, they would be taking her younger brother, Alec, now that he had turned ten and five. Tyra blinked back sudden tears as a searing ache twisted her insides.
“Lauren, this was a delicious meal.” Da leaned over and gave their mother a kiss on her rosy cheek. They shared an intimate glance of love and devotion. Tears sprang to her mother’s blue eyes. Tyra looked away, unable to witness the emotional exchange as the back of her own throat constricted.
“I did not prepare it alone, Malcolm.” Mama’s voice carried down the long table. “Tyra’s cooking skills have greatly improved since ye’ve been away at war.”
“Indeed?” Her father lifted a russet eyebrow, as the corners of his mouth curled in an approving grin. A full beard and thick mustache layered with gray specks in his reddish-golden whiskers branded its mark into her memory. “Then I daresay, well done, lass.”
“Thank ye, Da.” Tyra forced a tender smile to hide her fearful worry. Thinking of her gift to them, genuine joy crept into the muscles of her tense face. “And now I have a surprise for you all.”
“Dessert?” Kirk’s voice cracked as he shoved his empty plate aside. At ten and three, her youngest brother often suffered the embarrassment of his tones vibrating from his throat. He rubbed his hands. “I thought I smelled a sweet treat earlier.”
Tyra took his empty plate and placed it on top of hers, biting her bottom lip to keep from blurting out the answer. She whirled and stepped toward Alec.
“No, leave mine.” Alec threw a hand out to protect his unfinished plate. “I intend to eat every bite.” He glanced at their father and older brother, Scott. “I do not know when I might have the blessing of another home-cooked meal after this day.”
Tyra paused, her gaze meeting Alec’s brown eyes. Her heart thumped against her ribs in an attempt to stomp down the rising grief welling inside her. Even though she was only ten and seven, she believed Alec was too young for war. She didn’t care if other lads his age had already signed up these past five years. Many of them were gone from this world. The knowledge alone made her want to drop the plates and wrap her arms around him and beg Alec to stay. Others who had enlisted at his age continued to survive like her older brother, Scott. They had grown into fine young men, accustomed to the ways of war, always fighting for their freedom.
“I wanna go!” Kirk plopped his elbow on the table and set his chin on his palm. A disgruntled expression marred his forehead. “I am not much younger than Alec.”
“Hold yer tongue.” Mama’s blue eyes were like the crystal frost outside as late evening approached. She toyed with the wrist of her cream-colored blouse, her dark blond hair coiled into a French bun. “’Tis bad enough I must part with three sons and a husband. They can at least leave me one son.”
Tyra gulped, hating the tide of emotion threatening their last moments together. She carried the plates from the dining room to the kitchen where she placed them on the table. As she pulled out the dessert plates, her mother entered. She wiped at her eyes and took a deep breath. At five feet and eleven inches, Tyra towered over her mother by at least five inches, but she didn’t let it stop her as she threw a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders.
“Mama, do not worry. God will keep them safe.” Tyra hoped her voice sounded more certain than she felt. “Da, Callum, and Scott have been safe these past few years. We must have faith for Alec as well.”
“Of course, ye’re quite right.” Mama grabbed the extra plates and gave her a grateful smile as she reached up and cupped Tyra’s cheek. Thin lines framed the corners of her mother’s eyes, but she still looked young at two scores and one. “I am thankful I have ye here to remind me, lass.” She motioned to the dessert tray and waved Tyra forward. “Now on with ye, they are waiting.”
Tyra hurried to the dining room and set the tray before her father. “I hope you all saved room for my cinnamon gingerbread cake. ’Tis a small Christmas gift I want to give each of you.”
“Then we shall cherish it.” Her father rewarded her with a wide grin, reaching for the small plate with eager anticipation. He grabbed a fork and carved out a bite. With slow precision, he slid it into his mouth as he watched Tyra and chewed. He nodded in appreciation. “Mmm, quite good.”
“Thank you, Da.” Tyra said, pleased her father liked it. “Now, the rest of you must try it.”
“I am ready.” Kirk leaned up on his elbows against the dining table and drummed his hands on the surface. He beat out a ditty of “Free America.” “See? I could be a drummer. Plenty of boys my age have enlisted.”
“Well, ye shall not be one of them,” Mama said, as she set a plate by Alec and Scott. “Mind yer manners, lad.”
Tyra cut slices for each of them before carving a slice for herself. She enjoyed the sweet taste of the moist cake on her tongue. With the British blockade along the coast, they had learned to do without certain supplies and cooking ingredients. Sugar was rare, but the Tuscarora Indians who lived in the nearby swamp provided them with honey. She had been able to barter for it over the past couple of months to save what little sugar they had left in anticipation of their upcoming Christmas feast.
“Someone has been making you into a fine cook while we have been gone.” Callum sat back with a satisfied grin and pushed his empty plate aside. “’Tis good to be home again, all of us together one more time. I will cherish this fond memory in the months to come.” His brown eyes glistened in the candlelight as he blinked back moisture and looked away. When he had first arrived yesterday, she had hardly recognized him with a full beard and mustache. She was glad he had shaved it off. He now looked more like the brother she remembered with the exception of his somber mood. Tyra could only imagine what horrible images lurked in his mind from the war. He no longer acted like a young vibrant man of only a score of years to his credit, but a seasoned man who had seen too much of life.
Tyra glanced at Scott to see if he shared the same sentiment as Callum. Scott cleared his throat and looked down, hiding his blue-eyed gaze. His blond hair looked darker than she remembered, most definitely longer, tied back in a ribbon at his neck like her father.
Always the charmer in their family, Scott had changed as well. He was more pensive and quiet than she had ever known him to be. At ten and eight, he had only been serving for three years, unlike her father and Callum.
“Mama is a patient teacher,” Tyra said, breaking the silence. She glanced at her mother, knowing herself to be a difficult pupil with her unladylike qualities and lack of interest in domestic skills. She and her mother had set aside their differences and worked together while the men were away from their rice plantation at The MacGregor Quest. Tyra taught her mother to shoot a rifle and a pistol, while she made more of an effort to wear constricting gowns and assisted with more household chores—like cooking.
“Tyra has turned out to be quite a teacher herself.” Mama winked at her as she took a bite of her cake. “There has been too much strife in Wilmington of late between the Whigs and the Tories, so I decided the boys should receive their education here under Tyra’s guidance.”
“Aye, she is more like a growling bear,” Kirk grumbled, reaching for another slice of cake.
“No!” Tyra snatched the plate from his grasp, covering its contents with a protective hand. “The rest is for Da and our brothers. I wanted them to have at least one more slice to remind them of home whence they leave on the morrow.”
Kirk gave her a scowl, but sat back without another protest. He glanced at his father and brothers, his green eyes wide with concern. Tyra knew he felt the same fear as she—that it might be the last time they were all together. Most of his childhood had been stolen by the War of Independence. Soon they would welcome the year of seventeen eighty-one.
“Let us retire to the parlor.” Mama stood with a smile. It brightened the dark room lit only by a few candles which made shadows dance upon the paneled walls. Even the fruit painting by a local artist hung on the wall in darkness. A slight chill hovered at the glass windows of the dining room with no fire to warm them. “Kirk, go build us a warm fire in the parlor.” Her brother hurried to carry out their father’s bidding.
Frantic beating on the front door sent alarm through Tyra as she exchanged worried glances with the rest of the family. Who would dare interrupt their Christmas? Most of their neighbors would be at home celebrating with their own families. “Lieutenant MacGregor! I have new orders for you.” A man’s voice called through the door. More knocking followed.
“Wait here. I shall only be a moment.” Da’s boots clicked across the wooden floor as he left the dining room and entered the foyer. The sound of him unlocking the latch and sliding it back grated on Tyra’s nerves. The hinges creaked and low voices conversed. A few moments later, he closed the door and walked back into the dining room. Tyra held her breath.
“I am sorry,” Da said, standing at the threshold. “General Greene has gained new information and is calling all the troops back to service. We must leave now.”
“Can it not wait till the morn when ye had already planned to leave?” Disappointment carried in Mama’s tone. Her chin trembled as she lifted fingers to her lips as if to still the motion. Her gaze slid to each son and lingered on the three eldest. “I had hoped to have a wee bit more time.”
“Me too, my love, but ’tis not to be.” Da took a deep breath of regret. “Leaving now will make the difference of eight hours of travel.”
“When will ye sleep?” Mama asked.
“War does not always give us time to sleep.” Callum stood to his feet. Scott and Alec followed his example. “Da, I shall prepare the horses.”
“Excellent.” He motioned to Scott. “Pack us some food.”
“I shall help.” Tyra launched into action, standing to her feet. Her head swirled in denial as her legs moved of their own accord. The back of her throat went dry, while it seemed as if stones churned in her stomach. The moment she had dreaded was now upon them.
Captain Donahue Morgan bristled as the hairs upon his neck and arms rose, crawling over his flesh. They were being watched and their red uniforms were like a bull’s target. He held up his hand to signal the four soldiers following his lead. Their mounts slowed to a stop. Hugh listened as he gazed into the layered forest of green pine needles and bare branches of oak and poplar trees. The earthy scent of fresh pine and melted snow drifted through the air. No sound of human life caught his notice, but winter birds sang and flew above them. Wiry bushes dotted the thick woods full of dark shadows where anyone could be crouched in hiding, waiting to ambush them.
The only map in his possession wasn’t drawn to scale, so he feared they might have wandered off the path to Wilmington. The drawing lacked significant landmarks and could have been more insightful. His superior officer had given it to him when he commissioned Hugh to find two of their ranking officers and negotiate their freedom from the rebel Continentals. Hugh could not fail. One of them was Colonel Neil Morgan, his elder brother.
A shiver of foreboding slithered up his spine and branched over his neck and shoulders. If Hugh had learned anything during his time in the colonies, it was the fact these blasted rebels did not fight fair like an upstanding British soldier, full of honor and courage. Instead, they would take cover behind rocks and trees, picking off His Majesty’s Royal Army one by one like the red-skinned savages he had heard about.
“Get ready,” Hugh unsheathed his sword from his side. “We are not alone.” He kept his voice low as he continued to watch the woods around them. Hugh saw and heard nothing that would alert him to danger, but surviving the last three ambushes in South Carolina with his full regiment had given him enough experience to trust his instincts.
The birds above flew away. Eerie silence followed. Hugh tensed. The sound of a rushing wind sailed by him. A low thud hit the man behind him and a gut-wrenching moan wrestled from him. Hugh twisted to see his comrade clutch the arrow in his chest, a look of shock and then pain carved his expression into a memory of guilt and it would not soon leave Hugh. His friend paled and fell from his horse.
“Go!” Hugh urged his mount forward. Arrows whistled past them from every direction. They were surrounded and outnumbered. Strangely dressed men left the cover of the trees with loud shrilling sounds which vibrated through Hugh’s head. He maneuvered his horse around one dark-skinned man who met his gaze, lifted his bow and arrow, and took aim. On instinct, Hugh dropped his head and tried to crouch his large frame behind his horse’s mighty neck. As Hugh raced by the Indian, pain sliced into his left side. It felt like someone had branded him with the end of a red-hot iron poker, fresh from a burning fire.
Air gushed from Hugh’s lungs as another fallen comrade landed in the dirt behind him. The man’s horse neighed and reared up on its hind legs, his hooves pounding thin air. Hugh raced on, eager to escape the same fate. He could not fail in this mission. Who else would rescue his brother? Clenching his teeth against the increasing pain in his side, Hugh blinked to clear his vision and leaned forward with determination.
More shrieks and warrior cries bounced through the forest, and they followed him. As near as he could tell, most of the Indians were on foot. Two of them climbed upon the horses of his two fallen comrades and chased after Hugh and his last remaining friend. They knew the layout of the land better than Hugh, and it showed as they caught up with them. Hugh ducked and leaned to the left and right to avoid the large tree branches, but he couldn’t miss the sting of some of the smaller ones as they slashed across his face and neck. A cut above his eyes poured blood into his blurry vision. With each breath, his heart continued striking against the inside of his chest like a fist that wouldn’t stop.