In the days that followed, Annabelle remained quiet about the soldier. That is not to say that she forgot about him or the conversation that they'd shared in the schoolyard. But after one week's time, Annabelle found that she was once again able to sit on the limb of her beloved apple tree each morning as though nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened there before.
Despite her silence about the encounter, a sort of awareness of the redcoats and their influence on the surrounding towns arose. Annabelle was beginning to spend just a fraction more of her time listening to the townsfolk speak about current events and, in turn, less time interrupting them with her usual jokes and observations.
Annabelle naturally assumed the role of the idealist in her family. Whenever one of her sisters expressed sadness or concern for their father or their childhood friend and neighbor, Harold Whitley, who volunteered to fight as well, Annabelle would go to great lengths to turn their attention towards something more cheerful.
"Now, I don't want you to worry," her father said to her before riding off for his first assignment, "about the world outside of our safe little town. There are hundreds and hundreds of men just like me and Harold who are fighting to keep our families safe from harm. Keep your head down, work hard and don't lose sight of your idealism. Your optimism. Don't lose sight of Annabelle."
A lovely sentiment, to be sure. But the war was a living, breathing thing and it was evolving quickly.
One Sunday morning, not even a month after Annabelle met the mysterious redcoat- the town's first interloper; the Casey girls arrived at church, assumed their usual seats near the back of the congregation, and sensed an incredible tension, unlike anything they'd ever felt in their safe place of worship before.
Several hushed voices rose above others. Annabelle listened to them closely. "It's terrifying. Just terrifying." A young woman gasped. "That's too close to home, if you ask me!" Piped the recognizable voice of Louie, the town's one-eyed baker.
"Tabitha?" Annabelle asked the elderly spinster woman who she'd sat beside every Sunday. "What has happened to make everyone so grim today?"
Tabitha reached out and touched Annabelle's hand with her clammy, spiderlike fingers. "Oh, my child. I dare not speak it."
Annabelle turned to both of her sisters and sighed. "Scarlett." She whispered past Delila, the youngest of the Casey girls who sat in the blissful daze of childhood oblivion between them. "Will you please ask Hector what has happened?"
To this, the young redheaded boy named Hector turned to look across the pew at Annabelle. "What are you saying my name for, Annasmell?" The nasty little boy wrinkled his nose. She challenged him with a playful glare, reached for the nearest hymnal and used it to gesture a swatting motion in his direction.
The fun was short-lived, of course, when Reverend Peter Chelsea entered from the back room. The somber expression on his face pulled even the rowdy back row back to reality.
"My children." Reverend Chelsea said. "Before we begin with today's sermon, I ask that we pray for the lives of the Hamilton and Rhodes Families. We have no answers as to why the British are beginning to target our rural farmers along with-" he paused, everyone knew what he was about to say, but were silently hoping that it remain left unsaid " their wives and children. For the benefit of those who live on the outskirts of town," he lifted his sallow, wrinkled face up from his podium and looked directly at Annabelle before moving his gaze to little Delilah and Scarlett, "such as our friends, the Caseys, the Whitleys and the Burges, I ask that we open our doors and share our hearths and bread with them until this threat passes. And now. Let us pray."
Heads were bowed in unison. Except for Annabelle's. Vocal little Annabelle who always had to get her word in. "Reverend Chelsea?" She called before the group prayer could commence. "I'm sorry, Reverend Chelsea. But I have one question for you…"
He raised his eyes. The sound of his tapping foot could be heard from beneath the podium. "Honestly, child! If Solomon and his late wife weren't my dear, dear friends-"
"I know, Reverend Chelsea. And I'm sorry." The congregation remained silent, but Annabelle could sense a growing frustration coming at her from all angles. "But if the British are threatening our rural families, wouldn't bringing us into the town cause the troops to move inward?"
"Miss Casey. How much longer must you use our Sunday gatherings as an opportunity to revel in the sound of your own voice?" The old Reverend asked, receiving several chuckles and nods throughout the room. "I understand that you are the type to… think aloud, but stating what is blatantly obvious-"
"That's the point that I was trying to make!" Annabelle cried. "It is blatantly obvious that the troops are going to move into our towns. The war isn't becoming personal as I've heard muttered all about town these last few weeks, it was personal to begin with! They are trying to weed us out. Not only our military."
"Well, Child," he said with a half-tolerant laugh, "we're all open to any suggestions you might have for us."
Annabelle tugged on the end of her long, golden braid in thought. "Very well… words. Conversation. The most common response to violence is more violence. Perhaps through conversation, we could come to a more peaceful resolve when confronted."
From his seat, Louie erupted with a loud, cough of a laugh. "It sounds to me like the girl is suggesting that we talk King George's men away!"
"Well, if anyone in the colony could, it would have to be our own Annabelle Casey!" Hector's mother confirmed in a venomous tone. She leaned over, staring daggers from her seat beside her son. "Are you happy girl? This morning was supposed to be for honoring those innocent people who were killed and you made it about you! Your father would be ashamed. As would your mother."
Once Annabelle donned the congregation's desired look of humiliation, the service continued as planned. Deep down, however, she felt no remorse for speaking her part that day.
The weeks wore on without any word of related attacks- so, the Casey and Whitley families did not abandon their homes. They were on very friendly terms with one another and had always seemed like one large family that resided in two houses.
When their mother passed, Mary Whitley became a mother figure to the Casey girls, even though she wasn't like their dainty waif of a mother in the least. Mary was a heavyset farmer's wife- tough as nails and inherently protective of anyone or any cause that she felt passionate towards. It had been suggested many times that Annabelle gained her passion and tenacity through her time spent with Mary. Everything else, she and her sisters seemed to have learned from Harold Whitley, Mary's only child.
Annabelle had always suspected that she would marry Harold when the time was right. As a matter of fact, it had been discussed formally between families several times; but the war sent their plans into an inevitable tailspin. It was unclear to Annabelle whether Harold was in agreement with her on the matter, but she did breathe a sigh of relief when she learned that such plans would have to be put on hold. She did love him. Not in the sort of love that Annabelle had read about in stories or rhymes; but more a loving devotion to him and his family. Each of the Casey sisters dearly loved the rough-and-tumble boy next door. That is why it was so earthshattering for the Caseys when they learned that Harold had been injured in combat.
Mary was inconsolable as she waited for Harold to arrive. She'd asked to be alone, but Annabelle managed to force herself through the tiny farmhouse's front door anyway.
"Mary?" She coaxed, reaching out to touch her arm. "Mary, I know you think I'm going to demand answers."
"I don't think you will," Mary moaned, raising her red-as-a-radish face to the heavens in annoyance as Annabelle entered the living room, "I know you will."
The two women sat side by side on the sofa and Annabelle placed her tiny blonde head on Mary's shoulder. "I only want to be with you."
Mary raised her hand and stroked the end of Annabelle's hair with adoration, the way a mother might do for a daughter. "You're a thorn in my side, Child. You know that?" Annabelle laughed aloud at this and could feel Mary exhale the smallest of chuckles. "You've followed me like a shadow into even my darkest of days."
"And I'll always be here to do just that."
Mary contemplated Annabelle's words for only a moment. "That reminds me… I heard about your little outburst in church a while back."
"Which one?"
"Oh, you know… maybe we should try talking with the British soldiers if they come knocking on our doors or into our town. You wouldn't really be that rash?"
Annabelle removed her head from Mary's shoulder, reclaiming her braid with a tiny tug. She sat upright and looked her in the eyes. "I have been that rash." She confessed. "And I'm still here, aren't I?"
Mary's childlike face became even more radish-like in shade. "You must outgrow this storytelling phase, Girl! For all our sakes!"
"This isn't one of my stories, Mary. It really happened. I was waiting outside of the school a while back and a redcoat spoke with me. Not about anything important, really, just fireflies and poetry. Then, he jumped on his horse and rode away. He was actually very civil with me."
Mary's mouth twitched slightly at Annabelle's use of the word "civil". "Tell me more." She urged, surprising both Annabelle and herself.
"What more is there to tell?"
"Describe him to me."
"Dark hair, blue eyes, fair skin…" Annabelle mused, finding it difficult to conjure up an image of the man she'd found so intriguing while under Mary's judgmental gaze. "He was clothed in red with an embellishment of green velvet, I believe-" Annabelle was about to confess to Mary that she'd found him rather handsome when she interrupted her train of thought.
"He was on horseback?"
"He was. I asked if he was Cavalry, but he didn't provide me with any such answers."
Mary sprung from her seat and began to pace towards the window. "I know exactly what he was… when did this occur?"
"Towards the end of Summer." Annabelle watched Mary begin to tap her thick fingers against her chin. "Why? Should I have reported it or something?"
"I don't know. I don't know if that would have done any good… I don't even know if he was one of the men who…" she stopped herself. "Do you know why Harold is able to come home so soon?" Annabelle shook her head in response. "Because he wasn't even a day's ride away from here when… it happened. That's how close the combat is to our homes." She began to pace again, passion rising in her voice. "And those men- those men on their horses. They are clothed in the exact same fashion as the man that you described. They call themselves the 'Green Dragoons'. And I can tell that before long, they will be the ones that we will have to fear the most."