Yes, hello! I decided to cross-post this fic from AO3 to . Its still WIP, but I will be updating here until we get all caught up with AO3. Bear with me while I reckon with the UI differences!
Anyway, this was one of my favorite episodes as a kid and so I decided to elaborate on it in fic form. This fic will have graphic depictions of violence and sexual themes. So, without further ado: Along The Northern Heights.
13 November, 1776
Wind sweeps the wooded crags of Manhattan Island's northern reaches. It groans through the boughs of naked timber as they sway and creak. Poplar, maple, and elm stand stripped and gray against dying autumn; only the oaks still retain a leafy mantle of ocher and orange. Crows chatter from perches in a blue afternoon's discourse, while songbirds huddle inward amongst the brambles below. Icefloe, the first of an early winter, slips down the Hudson River's fickle current. Some chunks run afoul of broken underwater obstacles once meant to thwart His Majesty's Navy, and there they spiral in incessant loops.
Below the wintry sun, under layers of linen and wool and whalebone, along bedrock-buckled terrain, Sarah Phillips is sweating.
Shoe heels crunch hoarfrost earth. Her breath steams against a cloudless sky, and the cold November air plies her throat raw, but her body is stifling, the small of her back slick. She almost feels a prisoner in all the fabric. Had she known the detour to Fort Washington meant traipsing up and downhill in such breakneck fashion, she'd have dressed appropriately and sought to top off her canteen.
Sod the Continental Army for this!
Running a dry tongue over her lips, she hastens across loose stones to keep pace with her guide. In truth the journey wouldn't be half so perilous had her ferry landed where it was meant – Jeffries Hook, a battery nestled just below the hill to Fort Washington. Spanning the river, the remains of a boat-bridge and obstacles, wrecked by British ships not four days prior, had snared and frustrated the ferry at every possible eddy. In the end she landed with her surly, taciturn escort a full mile south and uncomfortably close to the British line. Keeping to the sheer, rocky coastline for fear of capture by enemy scouts, they've since been obliged to climb, skid, and lope about a treacherous way to Fort Washington.
The day's letter to Mother - which James so rudely interrupted hours ago - is nestled in Sarah's pocket. To keep her mind off the way her body is at once cloyed and clammy, cold and itching with heat, every tendon begging mercy, Sarah continues it in her head.
You must forgive me the tone of this letter, Mother, she narrates, kicking aside a stray pebble. 'Tis only I am tired, and thirsty. How am I to write for the Gazette now, in such conditions? This venture offends sound judgment!
Except, Sarah supposes with reluctance, it likely doesn't. Most people, after all, would have agreed with the decision to send her away from Fort Lee. To disregard her thoughts on the matter and have her dawdling amongst the baggage with the other women and children. Even James was resigned to the logic. And here she thought, after everything they've been through, he'd see her side of the question!
Lady Phillips would surely concur this banishment to the baggage train in Fort Washington - to relative safety - was the very definition of sound judgment. After all, hadn't she been urging her daughter to remain in the confines of Philadelphia, only to be defied time and again?
A prickle of guilt settles in Sarah's belly; she pointedly ignores it, lest the discomfort grow heavy as lead. Defiance, after all, is softer on a stomach than shame.
Shifting the shoulder-strap of her portmanteau for better balance, she scrambles up a boulder half-buried in the sorry culvert they've been using as a trail. Upon alighting, her heel slips on a stray rock and she stumbles. The escort grudgingly assigned to her is near twenty paces ahead and, by the time Sarah has managed to hoist herself upright, tailbone smarting, his bearlike form all but disappears into the brush. Smothering a curse, needled by the runaway thump of her heart, she commands him to stop at once. Sharp disdain exaggerates her voice as it cracks along the rocks and hills; this lonely, stupendously asinine exercise has rendered her unable to care about feigning patience.
The guide halts sharp and throws his head back over a shoulder, casting his charge an offended glower as she huffs to close the distance. Sarah feels herself quail under his glare.
"Beg pardon, sir," she placates, trying to make herself small. "I know the fort draws near, but I cannot march as you. My legs are shorter than yours, and I am unus'd to the climb."
For a moment, the guide is cold as the stony cliffside. But it is only for a moment. Gaze softening and, turning with a vague swish of his hand, he grunts something that Sarah thinks is probably human language, but she hasn't the ear to tell.
Honestly, Mother, the men in these colonies!
But the guide has slowed his pace.
Bloody camp bread tastes like sawdust.
James Hiller glowers as he chews - endlessly, it would seem - on supper. Not even a soak in the lard-water Fort Lee calls stew can save the sorry excuse for roughage. His jaw will be sore before he sees the meal through.
Wind flaps at the canvas walls of the tent and James huddles over his steaming bowl, drawing a threadbare blanket tight across his shoulder. At least hot rations serve to keep him warm, if they can't serve his palate. He wonders, vaguely, if Sarah fares any better. November will only grow deeper, and colder, and darker, and with the river between them he will be unable to speak to her for days, maybe even weeks. To ask her what she's writing, or thinking. If his thinking is mad, or if what he's written makes any sense. If she wants for anything.
A not-insignificant part of him wishes he'd followed Sarah. Or, at least, been more outspoken in her defense. The hours pass slowly without her.
It had been plain on her face, too, how deeply it smarted to have her will so thwarted in the matter. It stung to see. He could have spoken up. Gone with her. Yet -
No. You should be contented about this, James thinks to himself forcefully, gaze lost in the unseasoned globs of fat circling his bowl. The frontlines are no place for a girl, you know this! Even if she doesn't care to see so. What does it serve, fixing on her?
He picks at a chunk of what might be a parsnip. By his reckoning, she's now snug in Fort Washington, American guns bristling along the heights. And, the latest rumors in camp have Howe chasing Washington down instead of bothering with some fort named after him. Sarah's safe. Warm. Bored out of her skull, itching for something meaningful to write about. She's probably already begun to complain.
She'd be right to complain, of course.
When is Sarah Phillips ever wrong?
Something tickles his chest as he imagines her voice, brilliant and sharp against the injustice of it all, and suddenly he isn't so cold any more. If anyone can manage themselves, after all, it's Sarah Phillips. He chuckles softly and eats. Besides, they've likely more blankets at Fort Washington. Better bread, too. They might even have ham! Or beefsteak. Cider, bright and sweet and bubbly, instead of flat ale or watery switchel. And with fewer mouths to feed, more can go around. She will be so warm tonight, and her belly so full, she might as well be staying at an inn!
By all rights he should be ablaze with envy, stirring his ration of lard-water and parsnip, his blanket threadbare, meant to sleep in a flapping tent in the makeshift encampment at Fort Lee. He should be pleased that Sarah is sound within the walls of Fort Washington. Instead, he is cold, and he is lonely.
Not much longer, Hiller. A few days' time and we shall go home, together, back to our beds. And fireplaces. And full larder…
His gut drops at a sudden thought. The Continental Army will fold; when he and Sarah make for Philadelphia, it will be in flight.
The scent of New York City ablaze creeps unbidden to the corners of his mind, and, chest tightening, he scolds himself, and thinks he should have known all this time. It was to be expected. Sarah had only been telling him for months that the poorly-trained, poorly-paid, volunteer-fed Continental Army is hopeless against the red behemoth of His Majesty's Army, buttressed on all sides by Hessian mercenaries and the Crown's coffers. That it is all folly. That they are lambs to the slaughter.
When is Sarah Phillips ever wrong?
The gall of having to turn tail once more, of having to listen to Sarah gloat like the bloody tory she is at every plodding step of retreat, churns his bile to acid. When he finally recalls himself to finish his meal, it is by force and force alone he makes it through.
'Tis for the best she's not here.
The thought tastes like sawdust.
By the time Sarah reaches Fort Washington, standing tall atop the ridge, its earthen walls are awash in late afternoon glow. Tangling snares of tree limbs, anchored at a low angle and wreathed round the fort in an abattis, catch the light like teeth in a grin. Between openings in the bulwarks, brass cannons glisten.
It is, on the surface, a respectable enough sight. Maybe even a comfortable one, especially given other American fortifications Sarah has seen. One might even be forgiven for thinking this rebellion had a chance. Something spreads in her chest that she cannot identify; she bristles against it.
Her gaze flicks to the west and squints against the low winter sun. Across the Hudson, exposed rock in the sheer New Jersey cliffside begins to darken with the afternoon. Further to the southwest, the ramparts of Fort Lee still shimmer. She can almost make out the colonials' flag dancing in the breeze and wonders, absently, what James is doing. If he's eaten yet. He's likely still writing with the daylight, but surely it has grown late for supper? On cue, a pang of hunger overcomes the thought and she sways; declining the cold chicken offered to her hours before was a mistake.
The heavy gates of the fort grind against stone. Snapping to attention, ignoring her stomach's complaints, Sarah waits for the guide to show her in - only to find he's gone and turned back.
"Thank you!" she calls out, bemused. A short grunt is his only reply as he shuffles down the trail.
Sarah is suddenly struck with the consciousness that she is alone, and a distinct impression that she is rather small. The thick walls loom tall above her and the men on guard are a broad, well-built sort. Their focused gaze, intent and questioning, bores into her, and a strange apprehension lifts the hairs of her neck - as if she isn't meant to be here. As if she was taken to the wrong place, or she is unexpectedly early, or her presence is somehow burdensome and strange. Tips of her ears ablaze, shifting the strap of her portmanteau, she picks one of the sentries - a smaller one, who has been eying her with more of an open look - and shuffles forward a pace.
"Pardon - sir -" she starts, quiet and halting. The soldier, coated in the dark blue of Pennsylvania, leans his ear forward and quirks an eyebrow.
"...Aye? Speak up lass," he grunts and frowns. The gunmetal of his musket clicks as he shifts his weight.
Lord, what has come over me? Am I a woman or a mouse? Sarah's chest squeezes at the thought. Clearing her throat, she takes another step.
"No need to be shy, ginger-love!" comes a satisfied bark from along the ramparts, making her start. "Fort Washington has itself a fearsome need for pretty little washer-girls like you! Hah!"
Sodding prick!
The silent invective surges white-hot through Sarah's body, followed by a chill that tingles her fingertips as she adjusts her cap. Mouth dry, trying not to look up, she can only watch the sentry roll his eyes and cast a dark look to his fellow soldier, but say nothing.
"Come on, lass," he beckons after a stilted beat, sounding tired. "We was told to be expectin' you. And never you mind that prick, I'll deal with him."
Preoccupied with keeping the ramparts in her peripheral vision for as long as possible, Sarah nods and marches into Fort Washington, trying to muster back the defiance that had been her companion until now.
The inner fort opens up as she passes through the gate, but before she can gather her bearings a gust of wind whips across, sending stray smoke and ash billowing into Sarah's eyes. She shuts them against the sting, and as the dust settles the damp spots of her clothes have become chilled. With a quick shiver, she opens her eyes and moves along.
Contained on five sides by earth and timber walls, the ground is mostly solid, weathered bedrock, polished by the business of countless bootheels. A constant thrum of activity radiates from a curious set of cooking fires at the open heart of the fort, dug into what little earth could be found and encircled by hungry soldiers. Scanning their masses, Sarah finds herself picking out uniforms. For months rebel New York had been a patchwork of blue, black, brown, green, gray, even red coated militiamen and soldiers. Here it appears the Continental Army's finest men are distilled to a palette of dark blue and brown. Pennsylvania, Virginia, Maryland.
A handful of wiry dogs are scattered about the fort, some faithfully at the side of their people, others roving about in search of scraps. Sarah finds she can't really blame the mutts; mixed in with the peppery scent of woodsmoke is the savor of cooking meat and it holds her captive. Is that beef she smells? Venison? Mutton? Another wave of hunger washes over and pulls her feet thither. She tries not to think about how much she's salivating - or how dizzy she's become - and mingles at the edge of the first mess she happens by.
"Beg pardon," Sarah cuts in. None of the men - riflemen, she gathers, from the hunting jackets and long-barreled guns - turn to acknowledge her, but she pays this rebuff no mind. Her eyes are glued to the bubbling iron pot hung above hot coals. Lazy steam makes it hard to judge what's rollicking inside, but it certainly smells like beef. She swallows as her mouth waters even more.
"Mess is full," comes a gruff voice, cutting off the inevitable inquiry. Sarah's eyes jump to meet the hard look of a woman, face tight against the campfire's heat, engaged in stirring the pot. Hair spills from her cap and her jacket sleeves are gathered high on the bulge of muscular arms, while her apron is wrinkled and dirty from the day's work. Sarah's hackles raise as she feels the cook size her up with a penetrating gaze; but then the woman's eyes soften.
"Six souls at a time to a cookpot, miss," she explains. "Souls aplenty; not enough cookpots. Pennsylvania mess over yonder might be free." The woman gestures vaguely, returning her attention to the bubbling rations.
Sarah hadn't quite caught which mess the cook might have referred to, but hunger drives her to meandering between clusters of blue-coated soldiers anyway, counting their numbers and trying not to feel dizzy. By now she notes the absence of barracks; Of any large buildings, really. Only a few small timber structures stand inside the walls – storage and offices for the acting commander, Colonel Magaw, most likely – and they are slapdash at best. Even more alarming, the solid bedrock could not possibly have allowed for wells to be dug, and sure enough no such things grace her sight.
A recollection that the wintering barracks were burnt to ash a month ago as His Majesty's Army landed at Throg's Neck sends a chill down her spine. As she counts eight men around the last mess, the yawning pit in her stomach sours. Fort Washington is not so impressive; perhaps it is not impregnable as insisted.
Was she sent all this way, then, under flimsy pretenses of keeping her safe, just to sleep in a spare excuse for a fort, so near the enemy? Well – so near their enemy. She should have expected this. And why is everyone looking at her strange, and why has nobody come to sort her out, and why is it so hard to find food here? She must be in the wrong place. Surely?
Oh, Devil take that scrub of a guide for leaving me!
A lump forms in her throat.
What, will you blubber next? Sarah admonishes herself, crossing her arms tight against her chest and smothering the urge to groan. You have done this before. You cross'd an ocean, for heaven's sake! You can govern yourself.
She feels eyes on her, and her jaw tightens with the awkward weight of not knowing what to do or where to go or who to speak with, and her joints burn, and her stomach turns and growls in hungry protest. To think, all of this would be avoided if she'd been left to her whim – her very sensible whim - of remaining with James at Fort Lee!
Whatever she might have felt, or thought, or wished for next is cut short as a tall woman practically leaps into sight.
"Fine afternoon to you, lass!"
Sarah starts; unabashed, the woman shoves a steaming tankard into her hands, and she reflexively takes hold of the hot cup.
"Oh! – yes – well-met. I thank you," Sarah stammers. A rich savor wafts from the mug and she is unable to look away from its contents. Broth, beef, beans. Who serves stew in a tankard? Hunger drowns out the observation as she swallows a gulp of hot rations.
"Fine stew, ain't it?" the loud woman proclaims, grin spreading. "The dirt from the river adds flavor, I say!"
At this, Sarah nearly chokes on her mouthful, but when she looks back, the other woman has broken out in laughter.
"Ahhh, 'twas a jest!" she exclaims between snickers. "We do take some care to filter out all the mud. Name's Margaret Corbin. Reckonin' you must be the miss from Fort Lee, aye?"
Sarah nods as she quaffs down more rations. She supposes the humor should needle her, that she needs be self-conscious of Margaret Corbin's loud, wide-open mien, but the stew, though plain, is both filling and warming. And, to speak truth, she does find herself amused. A smile pulls at her cheeks as she bobs a short curtsey.
"Sarah Phillips, at your service."
"Oooh, 'at your service,' she says! Take care who you go sayin' that to, love, lest you find yourself volunteer'd to go a-diggin' latrines."
Though Margaret's voice carries, it, too, is warming. Sarah sips at her stew as she takes in her new companion. Auburn locks blaze from under a fussed cap, and her skin is wild with freckling. Beneath her toothy grin runs a sharpness that Sarah can't quite identify; it would be unnerving, were it not for the flash of humor in her eyes.
"I must endeavor avoid that fate," Sarah quips, encouraged, then glances around. "Do you – well – am I where I ought? I suppos'd by now I would have been seen to by Colonel Magaw, only –"
"Magaw?" Margaret's tone is one of surprise, and she quirks an eyebrow at her new charge. Then, she snorts. "No, lass, fortune has you in my care. Magaw would not take well to a camp follower askin' him trifles, the arrogant prick!"
Sarah is taken aback by the outburst and watches her companion warily before pressing further.
"But I am in the right place? I mean – am I to stay here?"
Margaret gives her a curious look, then gestures broadly. "You see any barracks or tents about? What, you were told nothin'?"
"Only that I'm to be with the baggage at Fort Washington." Sarah feels a lick of the day's defiance on her tongue once more. For her part, Margaret lets out a heavy breath through her nose; it smokes in the cold air.
"Matter o' course, Corbin," she mutters to herself, rubbing a temple. "Here was I, wond'rin'– and why should the bloody Army think to tell a lass anythin' worth mention? Bloody – "
Here she cuts herself off, cheeks reddening. Something flashes behind her eyes and she huffs another long, protracted exhale, her breath a thickening cloud. Sarah watches, tense, until the flush in her companion's face evens out, the sharpness in her eye softens.
"Well. Come along, Miss Phillips," Margaret Corbin sighs after a beat. "No use gettin' all work'd into a lather. You're to camp with us on Forest Hill."
She makes for the entrance and beckons her new charge to follow. Bemused, Sarah harries to keep pace with Margaret's loping gait, gulping down the last of her stew. When they pass through the gate, the sentry from before shoots her a puzzled glance.
"…This is the way to the encampment?" Sarah carefully ventures to her companion; Margaret snorts.
"'Not to the Fort Washington camp. Keep up, lass! Forest Hill! 'Tis a way's north of here, so best get those legs a-marchin'. We'd do well to have you set to rights afore sundown, aye?"
Margaret shoots her charge a wry, smiling look, and Sarah cannot help but smile back.
"That would be lovelier than all the dirt stew in the Continental Army, Miss Corbin, I thank you."
"Hah! Missus Corbin, actually. But you may as well call me Molly Pitcher, like every other woman in this goddamned Army."
A way's north, it turns out, is another half-hour's traipse. Sarah's legs still twinge and ache from the grueling climb before, but, in the very least, the terrain atop the ridge is mostly even, and the slope to Forest Hill gentle.
One would sooner call it Forest-No-More-Hill, Sarah thinks, gaze roaming the graveyard of tree stumps cris-crossed about them. 'Tis plain where they found all the timber for that monstrous abattis.
To her left across the river, the New Jersey cliffs are now sunk deep in shadow against the fading sun, while the very tops of trees smolder with pinkish-yellow light. High in the sky peeks out an alabaster moon, having risen early. Twittering swifts fill the evening and Sarah watches a flock weave and dive in frolicsome display. Behind the chewed-up stumps and between blades of dry grass, a staccato choir of field crickets sing. Every so often, Sarah's step disturbs one from out of hiding, and she marvels at its glossy black carapace and remarkable size. She recalls the heft of Henri's most prized toad – Marcel, Roi des Grenouilles, he named it. With a fare of such crickets, she wonders at the thought it might ever have been small.
Is anything in this country ever small?
A gust races all along the heights, picking up a bouquet of river water, cold earth, crisp leaves, and campfire. Sarah fills her lungs and thinks, despite the frigid bite, it really is rather pleasant. This evening is, really, rather pleasant, after all the day's irritations. The company is certainly more engaging than the grumbliest trail guide in the Continental Army. Margaret might have a gazelle's gait, but she stops every so often to keep close, if only to foster conversation, one-sided though it may be at times. It makes the last leg of their march go by swiftly. The acrid tang of woodsmoke grows stronger with each minute; before long the pair finally arrive at the encampment of Forest Hill.
By now the sun has sunk below the New Jersey tree line, casting the camp in a long, dusky blue shadow. Still, between the ruddy glow of campfires Sarah can make out the precarious bulk of laden wagons, orderly rows of army-issued tents, even the subtle outline of a slumbering draft ox. They are later, perhaps, than Margaret Corbin had promised, but at least the march was over. Sarah finds she is too tired to care.
Cold night air nips at her nose and cheeks, and, after unceremoniously depositing her luggage on a stiff cot in a close, dark tent, she is relieved to find Margaret hastening her to a fire. Heat bathes her face and clothes, and she settles into the sensation. In the buttery firelight, Margaret passes out tankards of what smells like small beer and makes the introductions to three other women sitting fireside. Two Betseys and another Sarah; this draws a laugh from the group, even a tired chuckle from Sarah Phillips as she ships a watery ale. One of the Betseys – the taller of the two – asks her whereabouts she hails from.
"Baltimore, surely? Or Philadelphia?"
"You know," Margaret mentions with a chuckle, "I was so dreadin' it would be nightfall when we got to camp, I hadn't the mind to ask!"
"And yet you manag'd nightfall anyway…" the first Betsey mutters, earning her a short glare from Margaret.
"'Tis only you speak so well, miss," the other Betsey says to Sarah, "and your manners are so neat. You must hail from a fine city." To the others, she declares "'tis Philadephia, surely."
"Well, put your money where your mouth is, Betsey Miller!" Margaret cries. "Guinea on Baltimore."
"Guineas? Where does a girl get plate like that round here, Cap'n Molly?"
"If you but learn'd Whist, Molly Pitcher, you, too, could fleece your fair share of officers!"
As she listens to the banter, the corners of Sarah's mouth lift.
"Well, if you must know – " she begins.
"Aye, we must!" Margaret cries out, taking a swig of her drink, while the first Betsey adds, "hear hear! 'Less your origins are some sort of secret, love."
"Maybe she's got herself a secret love!" the other Sarah snickers in mock-whisper, "and if we only knew which regimentals he was wearin', we would go a-searchin' for him!"
For reasons unaccountable, heat sears across Sarah's face. She rushes to bridle the speculation, words tumbling out before she can stop herself.
"If you must know! Y-yes! I am from Philadelphia." Her voice falters and stomach drops. "Ah - so to speak."
Good Lord, what has come over me today?
"So to speak!" Margaret cries. "Whate'er do you mean, 'so to speak?'"
Sarah absently picks at a nail as the attention – and the question – makes her feel transparent. As she gathers herself, the pause feels awkward.
"Well - I am from Philadelphia – that is – I have lived there for years now. Only…"
"Only?"
"Only I come from England. London, to be exact." The confession rushes out of her, and something tightens her chest. She doesn't look up from the worried fingernail. What would all these patriot women think, an English girl in their midst? Alone? Behind their lines? In their camp? Thoughts start to race. It had never been an issue before – but then again, she had always stuck with James and Henri, or been around officers. The few camp followers she did meet had been sullen, tired, withdrawn from conversation and company. Some seemed downright offended at everything - her presence especially.
Suddenly she wishes James were here, sitting beside her, with that damned knowing smirk of his spread across his features, making the corners of his blue eyes crinkle, a stray lock of straw-colored hair peeking from an ear. He would chuckle, and his broad shoulders would rise and fall with the motion, and it would invite her to laugh with him because, really, what does it signify that she is English? Hell, even he likes her all the same for it.
Something tickles deep in her chest and she tries to ignore the sensation.
"That all?" the Betsey Miller exclaims, drawing Sarah's gaze up. To her relief, none of the women bear anything but open curiosity. She imagines James' pleased laughter at being right, for once, and the tickle bubbles down her spine and all the way to her toes.
"Well – yes. I suppose so."
Margaret's face breaks out in a wide, satisfied grin.
"Well we shan't hold that against you!" she declares, holding up her tankard. "Shall we, ladies?"
Round the fire, the women sound their assent with a hearty "aye!" Sarah can no longer contain the smile that's possessed her. She chuckles appreciatively, and when the others knock back their tankards she drinks her ale, too.
"Sooooo your secret love is a Pennsylvania boy, then?" the other Sarah then twitters suggestively, sliding over to elbow her in the side. At the words, Sarah Phillips' stomach tumbles wildly and she sputters.
"Oh, do have mercy on the poor lass and contain yourself!" Margaret chides.
"You're a fine one to talk of containin' oneself, Cap'n Molly! Ev'ry woman about Manhatt'n Island knows how you man your John's six-pounder!"
"Well if ev'ry woman about Manhatt'n Island would quit her eavesdroppin' - !"
"Eavesdroppin'? No need for eavesdroppin', you two are loud as banshees ruttin' at Sunday worship!"
There's a wild burning flush in Sarah's cheeks; still, she finds herself giggling – then laughing – along with the others, and the effervescence of it all helps to ease the embarrassment. After a few more jabs at Margaret's expense, the subject of Pennsylvania men and their cannons are dropped, though Sarah finds herself preoccupied with the thought for a little while longer.
As time wears on, the fire smolders down from crackling flames to glowing cinders, occasionally shifting with a hiss and pop. Voices soften as faces turn up to trace patterns in the stars. High above, the moon is a stark white semicircle that pierces the cold, glittering night.
At some point a rather little girl toddles up in the dark to Betsey Miller, making the woman start.
"Whatever are you doing about, Rosemary?" she chides under her breath. "Get yourself abed, child!"
But the girl manages to push and squirm her way into her mother's lap, anyway, drawling in broken sentences about a dog before falling at once to sleep. Betsey Miller, after a moment of gentle rocking, is the first to take retire and disappears with her daughter into the night, softly humming to the little girl.
One by one the other women slip away and the ruby-dark coals are smothered; Sarah has long grown too sleepy to attend anything closely, and it is only until she feels Margaret's hand on her shoulder that she shudders alive from the first spell of sleep.
"Manag'd to finish your ale, I see," Margaret quietly exclaims as her charge shuffles upright, handing back the emptied tankard.
Sarah shrugs and yawns. "I'm not a child."
"Aye. S'ppose you're not." With Margaret's soft chuckle, the two women shuffle to bed.
Wind rustles through camp, while the field crickets pick up their song once more. Every so often, the scrape of shoes and click of gunmetal heralds the shifting guard. Running underneath, the gentle rush of the Hudson River fills all corners. An owl softly hoots to his mate; far in the distance, she hoots back.
Of this night's music, Sarah is senseless. Her body hardly hits the cot before she's sunk into the depths of sleep.
Historical notes (there's gonna be a lot of these:)
Washington absolutely figured that Fort Washington was gonna be attacked and split his forces, himself landing in Fort Lee on the 13th. Making Sarah go to Fort Tryon to be away from the frontlines makes no sense in this context. As it turns out, I messed up the timing of this episode when I started writing, but decided to go with it for thematic purposes. AU canon-divergence, it is!
In the show, the action takes place at Fort Tryon. According to Wikipedia, the outpost that became known as Fort Tryon was not called so until the British took it, and was located on what was then called Forest Hill, which is what I'm going with in this fic. It was about a mile or so north of Fort Washington and among the first locations in the battle.
In the show, it seems like the location they're calling Fort Tryon is Jeffries' Hook, which is a little... well, hook of land just south of the fort where a battery was installed. I am going with the historic location of Forest Hill.
The real-life Margaret Corbin seems to be described by her contemporaries as eccentric, ornery, prone to swearing and smoking, and a heavy drinker. And rather hard to get along with! Getting some real alcoholism/PTSD vibes from her! LK's Margaret Corbin, on the other hand, is folksy and adorable. There's a huge disparity here and I'm aiming to sort of combine the two.
We have no accounts of John, so dealer's choice.
This is a huge simplification, but contemporary accounts of 18th c British North American colonists' accents have them speaking a very similar accent to then-London and Southern UK, with some wiggle room for regional differences. Overall, though, it seems fairly uniform. What we think of today as a "proper" British accent is called Received Pronunciation, or RP, and it originated in 19th century fancy Brits deciding that they needed to separate themselves from the poors even more by changing their accent. TL;DR if an 18th c Londoner and a British North American colonist met, there might not be a huge difference in accent/dialect, and thus plausible for people to not know Sarah is British-British by accent alone.
There would probably not have been cooking fires/messes in the middle of a ding-dang fort but I didn't think of that until now.
According to what I've read, uniforms of the Pennsylvania troops at Ft Washington in 1776 were blue and brown. The Maryland and Virginia rifle regiment wore a grayish hunting jacket, but I preferred the sentence flow of just blue and brown. Yes its minutiae I sacrificed on the altar of aesthetic, I am not the only fanfic writer to have done so and we will do it again.
"Put your money where your mouth is" is an idiom from the 20th century but I like it so it stays.
If you're so inclined, I have a tumblr wherein I make LK fanart and scream about things. Look for tricornonthecob.
Anyway if you've made it this far, and you like it, lemme know! Love y'all, take care! :)