Matthew Smith seizes Sarah Lloyd and her family as prisoners on a clear autumn day. Leading a party of British deserters, he now holds the family hostage north of Saratoga, New York. The Americans have just won a decisive battle, the turning point in their revolution, but Matthew’s turning point is yet to come.

On another battlefield in Pennsylvania, the Lloyd’s oldest son struggles to find meaning in this war, while his twin sister remains trapped inside the British-occupied, rebel-capital of Philadelphia.

The fate of each one of these people will be forged together that brutal winter of 1777.

Challenge the Wind
By Debra Tash Chapter 1

Matthew Smith glanced back over his shoulder to check the progress of the four men who had deserted with him. Their scarlet coats seemed to glint in the cool autumn shade of this wretched New York woodland. The men had their muskets slung over their shoulders as two of them carried Quinn on a stretcher. The sergeant had to be a strong man to have survived this long with the wounds he'd suffered at the battle of Saratoga.

Matthew focused on the way ahead. They must have traveled thirty miles or better in the last few days. He hoped the foraging party of British regulars General John Burgoyne had sent out in early September hadn't reached here. The packs Matthew and his fellow deserters carried were all but empty of food.

He paused at the sound of a snapping branch off to his right. A strand of his shoulder-length, blond hair fell across one of his blue eyes, but he didn't bother to tie it back in place now. He stood alert as the padding of the men's footfalls treading behind him mixed with the tinkling noise of the breeze rustling through the trees overhead. A shower of fire-orange and red leaves wafted down to join the forest litter at his feet. Matthew listened hard; certain someone or something was out there. He turned slowly as he slipped his Brown Bess musket from his shoulder. The men behind him came to a halt and looked about as well. Matthew cocked his head, but couldn't hear or see anything that gave him an indication they were being watched. He waited another moment, then waved the men on.

They'd gone a little ways before Matthew spotted what looked to be a trail through the thick undergrowth. He turned slightly and began to follow it, his musket still in his hands. Then he saw a clearing just up ahead. Matthew brought their party to a halt and studied the cluster of buildings there. What looked to be a main house, its wooden siding a weathered gray, stood across the clearing. Off to the left was another structure that couldn't be any larger than one room. It might be a dwelling as well for it had a stout chimney of smooth rock. Behind the main house, to the right, was a barn with a wood-shingled roof. It was connected to the main house through what looked like an enclosed passageway.

Matthew narrowed his eyes as he focused on a pair of angled doors at the side of the house. Possibly a spring cellar was below them. Behind it all was an empty field with what seemed to be the remains of an orchard. So many of the Yankee Doodle rebels had burned their crops and fruit trees to keep them from General Gentleman Johnny's men. Dear God, he hoped there was something here left to eat.

There didn't seem to be anyone around. Matthew signaled to the others to set the stretcher down. He appointed one of them to stand watch over the wounded sergeant. Matthew didn't have any rank himself. He was nothing but a regular in His Majesty's forces with no authority at all. Yet ever since they'd escaped the American rebel army closing in on General John Burgoyne's forces at Saratoga, these four men had done everything Matthew told them to do, even Jamie Fosset.

Jamie had been with him on the London highways, both of them thieves. They'd been caught in their mischief and condemned to Tyburn Tree. Now the two of them were here because they'd chosen to serve in the army over being hung. How Matthew hated being a King's Man. Only Sergeant Quinn had shown him and Jamie any consideration during their service. Quinn was someone worth saving; nearly a father to those who were under his command.

Jamie Fosset came up beside him. Matthew's life long friend looked at the house. "God, please, they've got to 'ave grub," he whispered as he licked his lips.

Bloody hell, they'd been starving for weeks now. Matthew scanned the clearing once more, finally deciding it was safe to span the forty or so yards to the house. He raised his hand and pointed ahead. They unslung their muskets and loaded. Four of them advanced, leaving one behind with Quinn.

Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty. The sergeant had honed them into fearless killers, but Matthew's heart still thudded with an anxious beat now. One of the front windows swung open, followed by the sound of gunfire, smoke billowing outward. Matthew and his men formed a close line, raised their muskets and discharged a volley. The window glass shattered. They reloaded with all the precision Quinn had drilled into them. Muskets raised they again advanced on the house.

They managed to move five yards before a shot came from the gapping hole where the shattered window had been. The ball skinned Matthew's left arm. He stumbled, then regained his footing. Another shot split the air. This time it came from behind them. Matthew whirled about just as Jamie dropped to his knees, hit in the back. Teeth clenched tightly, Matthew raised his musket and fired into the thicket of trees. He had the bastard! An old man stumbled out from his hiding place, doubled over, hand clutching his bloodied shoulder. Matthew spun round, fixed his bayonet, intent on charging the house.

He ran the five yards left between him and his goal, not even sure if the others were still with him. Blind with rage, he smashed all his weight against the door. It gave a little. Again he rammed it, this time with several of the others by his side. It splintered. Once more they shoved themselves against the barrier. It pushed clear.

"Kate, into my room!" a woman screamed as he stormed inside.

A young girl scrambled away, taking an even younger boy by the hand with her. He caught sight of the woman crouched by the window just as she leveled a rifle barrel at his heart. With one swift motion he spun the musket in his hand and plunged its butt against her head.

The woman sprawled at his feet. "My children," she whimpered just before she fell unconscious.

Matthew had Jamie Fosset brought into the parlor while Quinn was put on the bed in the other room. One of the men found a shakedown and brought it from the loft. They laid Jamie out on the thin feather mattress, careful of the awful wound in his back. Their prisoners were also in the front parlor. The woman who'd fired from the window, the two children—a girl of ten or so and a boy no more than four—and the old man whose keen shot had wounded Jamie.

Matthew knelt by his friend. Dear God, Jamie's skin looked so pale, his eyes so full of fright. Matthew glanced over his shoulder as the woman struggled to lift her head. She paused to suck in a deep breath, blinked as if trying to focus on the room and collect her wits. The small boy ran to her and flung his hands about her neck as he cried, "Mama!" She clung to him, cooing reassurances. Matthew's cheeks flushed. It would have been a touching scene except for the deep, bloody gash near her right temple. In all his young and rowdy life Matthew had never hurt a woman like that.

She struggled to stand, paused as if ready to faint. The woman looked to the young girl and asked, "Your grandfather, Kate?"

"I'm here, Sarah," the old man blustered.

She pointed a shaky finger at his wounded shoulder. "Robert, is it bad?"

"Enough!" Matthew shouted. His friend was dying and this damned old man was the cause. Matthew grabbed his musket and scrambled to his feet. He took a step closer, his bayonet poised and ready to kill the old man.

"Grandfather!" the young girl cried as she dashed towards the old man.

"No! Please," the young girl's mother begged him. "Don't hurt Kate!"

Matthew glanced at the woman. He struggled to remember her name. He'd heard it called. Sarah… Yes, her name was Sarah. She was a handsome woman with auburn hair, green eyes and that wretched gash he'd made. His hard resolve softened with indecision. He looked at her a long moment, then her children, knowing she, like any mother, had only been trying to defend her young. He and the other men were the invaders here. Matthew ran a hand through his blond hair. It wasn't powdered, nor were his buttons and buckles polished to a shine. He was ragged and dirty and so hungry. They all were.

Jamie moaned. Matthew dropped to his knees beside him.

"I'm afraid. So bloody afraid…" Jamie sobbed.

Matthew took his hand and clutched it tightly. Suddenly he felt so young, like the boy he'd never really had the chance to be. He was just as afraid as Jamie. Dear God, they were both so young, far too young for one of them to be dying. Please, he begged the Lord in silent prayer. Please don't let Jamie die.

Jamie threw back his head with a cry of agony. Matthew lifted him, his hands trembling. He tried to be careful of his friend's mangled back as held him securely in his arms. "I'm 'ere. I am, Jamie. Jamie, believe me, you ain't alone."

"Matthew, my legs… Dear God!" Jamie cried. He clutched Matthew's arms as he convulsed. "Lord, Matthew, I'm…"

Matthew opened his mouth to say something, but he could no longer speak. He just held onto his dying comrade, his soul etched with a piteous grief. One last convulsion and Jamie's hands dropped away.

Matthew clung to the lifeless body; refused to let go of his only friend. Silence fell on the room. Matthew finally rose to his feet, a knot of blind anger twisting his gut. He turned on the old man. "Your name's Robert, ain't it?"

He remained silent.

Matthew lowered his voice, his tone steely and cold. "Listen well—Robert—you'll dig 'is grave. Or, I swear, you'll find yourself in one."

"Even if I'd two good arms and hands now, I'll not dig a bloody back's grave," he spat.

Matthew narrowed his eyes at the insult. He grabbed the Brown Bess, intend on finally running the man through with its bayonet. The woman stumbled forward, reaching for her daughter. Matthew hadn't even noticed the young girl was still standing by her grandfather as if she could protect the old man. He spun the Brown Bess around and smashed the butt into Robert's injured shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain.

"You'll dig 'is grave, right enough," Matthew snarled. He jammed the barrel of his musket flat against Robert's throat. "Right willing?"

Robert nodded, but his pained eyes still glinted with defiance.

"Shouldn't we search the house?" one of the men asked him.

Matthew yanked the musket clear. "Yes."

Two of them went through the house. There was the sound of rattling pots, the slamming of cupboards, the squeaking of doors. They soon returned, having found nothing.

"The barn then," Matthew ordered.

"There's nothing there." Sarah glared at him. "If you're starving, you'll have to go elsewhere."

He turned on her. "Woman, we need grub!"

"The British army has already been here. There is—nothing—to eat."

He studied her, then looked to Robert. "Wot were you about in the woods?"

Robert remained silent, those pale-brown eyes of his unflinching. The old man's head, with its roughage of white hair and scraggly beard, was raised, lips pinched tightly together. Matthew studied him a moment, seeing the man's resolve not to give in still there. He put the bayonet to Sarah's breast. She tried to pull away, but Matthew had her pinned. "Wot were you about in the woods?" he slowly repeated his question.

"Hunting," Robert finally answered.

Matthew turned the sharp point and tore the fabric of Sarah's bodice. "Now, 'ow'd you fare?"

"I killed a doe."

"That's a right fine kill." Matthew drew the weapon back and spoke to Sarah. "Woman, looks like we don't need to go. We've plenty o' grub to eat."

Sarah's arms closed about her children.

Matthew spoke to two of the men: "Take the old man out and find 'is kill. Then make 'im dig that grave. And if 'e doesn't, put a musket ball in 'is back like 'e done to Jamie Fosset." The two men left with Robert in their keep.

Matthew stood a moment, his musket at his side. He was exhausted and so full of grief as he stared down at his dead companion. He had no more strength left. Heaven help him, Jamie was dead. Matthew took in a deep breath and gave an order to the remaining solider: "Find something to cover 'im. Then look after the sergeant."

The fellow disappeared into the bedroom and soon returned with a quilt. Matthew solemnly covered Jamie with it then sat in the Windsor chair by the fireplace while the other man went into the bedroom again. Matthew placed his musket across his thighs. His eyes stung with unshed tears. He turned them on Sarah. She bundled her children even closer. He knew if given the chance she'd kill him, this enemy who'd invaded her home, and he knew deep inside his heart she had every right to do it.