Written in My Own Heart's Blood, Page 38

  pitying look reserved for virgins and confirmed bachelors, then ducked back, laughing, when William punched him in the arm.

  “Right,” William said. “That aside, I’m looking for a wainwright or a cooper. Any close by?”

  Tarleton straightened his helmet and shook his head.

  “No, but there’s bound to be one or two in that mess.” He gestured negligently at the train of baggage wagons. “Which regiment are you with, these days?” He frowned at William, seeming to realize that something was amiss with his dress. “Where’s your sword? And your gorget?”

  William gritted his teeth—and they really did grit, there being so much coarse dust in the air—and apprised Tarleton of his situation in the minimum number of words. He didn’t mention where or under what circumstances he had lost his gorget, and with a brief salute of farewell to the colonel, reined round and went down the column again. He was breathing as though he’d run the length of London Bridge, and pulses of electricity were running down his arms and legs, jolting at the base of his spine.

  His anger over his situation had been rekindled by his conversation with Tarleton and—unable to do any bloody thing about any of it—turned his mind to what he wanted to do to Harkness, should he meet the 26th Light Dragoons. He touched his chest by reflex, and his sudden urge to do violence changed at once to an equally sudden rush of desire that made him light-headed.

  Then he recalled his original errand, and hot blood washed through his face. He rode more slowly, calming his mind. Harkness could wait. The Endicotts couldn’t.

  Thought of the family pained him—and not only because he was ashamed of letting himself be distracted from their difficulty. But in recollecting them now, he realized that for those few moments with the Endicotts, concerned with their troubles, he’d forgotten. Forgotten the burden he’d been carrying like a pound of lead in his chest. Forgotten who he really was.

  What would Anne Endicott have done, if she knew? Her parents? Even … well, no. He smiled, despite his disquiet. He didn’t think Peggy Endicott would mind if he told her he was secretly a cutpurse or a cannibal, let alone a—

  Everyone else he knew, though … The Endicotts were only one Loyalist family who’d welcomed him into their home, and he’d not taken proper leave of any of those who chose to stay in Philadelphia, too ashamed to see them, knowing the truth.

  He looked back over his shoulder; the Endicotts were barely visible, now sitting in the grass in a companionable circle, sharing food of some kind. He felt a keen pang at the sight of their companionability. He’d never be part of a decent family, couldn’t ever marry a woman even of such modest origins as Anne Endicott.

  Her father might well be ruined, might have lost his wealth and business, the family might descend into poverty—but they would remain who they were, firm in their courage and the pride of their name. Not him. His name didn’t belong to him.

  Well … he could marry, he grudgingly admitted to himself, making his way gingerly through a group of camp followers. But only a woman who wanted nothing but his title and money would have him, and to wed under such circumstances, knowing that your wife despised you … and to know that you passed the taint of your blood to your sons …

  This morbid train of thought stopped abruptly with the appearance of a small group of artisans, trudging beside a large wagon that undoubtedly held their tools.

  He came down on them like a wolf on a flock of startled sheep and ruthlessly cut out a fine, fat wainwright, whom he persuaded by threats and bribery to mount behind him and thus carried his prey back to the Endicotts.

  With his spirit soothed by their gratitude, he turned northward again, toward the head of the army, camp, and his supper. Absorbed in thoughts of roast chicken and gravy—he ate with Clinton’s staff, and thus ate very well—he didn’t notice at once that another horseman had come up alongside him, matching his pace.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” said a pleasant, half-familiar voice, and he turned to find himself looking into the smiling face of Denys Randall-Isaacs.

  WILLIAM REGARDED Randall-Isaacs with something between annoyance and curiosity. The man had to all effects abandoned him in Quebec City a year and a half before and vanished, leaving him to spend the winter snowbound with nuns and voyageurs. The experience had improved both his French and his hunting abilities, but not his temper.

  “Captain Randall-Isaacs,” he said in acknowledgment, rather coldly. The captain smiled sunnily at him, not at all put off by his tone.

  “Oh, just Randall these days,” he said. “My father’s name, you know. The other bit was a courtesy to my stepfather, but as the old man’s passed on now …” He lifted one shoulder, leaving William to draw the obvious conclusion: that a Jewish-sounding surname couldn’t be an asset to an ambitious officer.

  “Surprised to see you here,” Randall went on, chummy, as though they’d seen each other at a ball last month. “You were at Saratoga with Burgoyne, weren’t you?”

  William’s hand tightened on the reins, but he patiently explained his peculiar status. For possibly the twentieth time.

  Randall nodded, respectful.

  “Certainly better than cutting hay in Massachusetts,” he said, with a glance at the marching columns they were passing. “Thought of going back to England, though?”

  “No,” William said, somewhat startled. “Why? For one thing, I doubt I can, by the terms of parole. For another—why should I?” Why, indeed? he thought, with a fresh stab. He’d not even begun to think about what awaited him in England, at Helwater, at Ellesmere. In London, for that matter … oh, Jesus …

  “Why, indeed?” Randall said, unconsciously echoing him. The man sounded thoughtful. “Well … not much opportunity for distinguishing yourself here, is there?” He glanced very briefly at William’s belt, bare of weapons, and away again directly, as though the sight was somehow shameful—which it was.

  “And what is it you think I could do there?” William demanded, keeping his temper with some difficulty.

  “Well, you are an earl,” Randall pointed out. William felt the blood rise up his neck, but couldn’t say anything. “You have a seat in the House of Lords. Why not use it to accomplish something? Take up politics. Doubt your parole says anything about that—and as long as you weren’t going back to rejoin the army, I shouldn’t think the travel itself would be a problem.”

  “I’d never thought of it,” William said, striving for politeness. He couldn’t think of anything he’d less rather do than be political—unless it was be political while acting a sham.

  Randall tilted his head amiably to and fro, still smiling. He was much as he’d been when William had seen him last: dark hair tied back without powder, good-looking rather than handsome, slender without being slight, graceful in movement, with a constant expression of sympathetic geniality. He hadn’t changed much—but William had. He was two years older now, much more experienced, and was both surprised and a little gratified to discover that he realized that Randall was playing him like a hand of bezique. Or trying to.

  “I suppose there are other possibilities,” he said, guiding his horse around an enormous puddle of muddy urine that had collected in a dip in the road.

  Randall’s horse had paused to add to it. Randall sat as composedly as one can in such a situation, but didn’t try to raise his voice over the noise. He picked his way out of the mud and caught William up before continuing the conversation.

  “Possibilities?” He sounded genuinely interested, and probably was, William thought—but why? “What were you thinking of doing?”

  “You recall Captain Richardson, of course?” William asked casually, but with an eye on Randall’s face. One dark brow rose a bit, but otherwise he showed no particular emotion at hearing the name.

  “Oh, yes,” Randall replied, as casual as William. “Have you seen the good captain recently?”

  “Yes, a couple of days ago.” William’s temper had abated, and he waited with interest to see what Ran
dall might have to say to this.

  The captain didn’t look taken aback, exactly, but his air of pleasant inconsequence had definitely sharpened into something else. William could actually see him wondering whether to ask bluntly what Richardson had wanted or to take another tack, and the perception gave him a small thrill.

  “Is Lord John with Sir Henry?” Randall asked. That was enough of a non sequitur to make William blink, but there was no reason not to answer.

  “No. Why should he be?”

  The brow lifted again.

  “You didn’t know? The Duke of Pardloe’s regiment is in New York.”

  “It is?” William was more than startled by that, but hastened to collect himself. “How do you know?”

  Randall waved a well-manicured hand, as though the answer to this was irrelevant—as perhaps it was.

  “Pardloe left Philadelphia this morning with Sir Henry,” he explained. “As the duke has recalled Lord John to duty, I thought—”

  “He what?” William’s horse jerked his head and snorted at the exclamation, and William stroked the big neck, using the gesture to avert his face for a moment. His father was here?

  “I stopped at his lordship’s house in Philadelphia yesterday,” Randall explained, “and a rather odd Scotchwoman—she must be his lordship’s housekeeper, I collect?—told me that his lordship had been gone for several days. But if you haven’t seen him …”

  Randall raised his head, looking ahead. A haze of woodsmoke was already showing above the trees, cook fires, wash fires, and watch fires all marking the growing camp, their tang a pleasant spice in the nostrils. It made William’s stomach growl.

  “Hup! Hup! At the double, quick … march!” A sergeant’s bellow came from behind them, and they pulled aside for a double column of infantry, who hadn’t needed the exhortation; they were eager for their dinner and the chance to lay down their arms for the night.

  The pause gave William room for a moment’s thought: ought he to ask Randall to sup with him later, try to draw him out? Or get the hell away from the man as quickly as possible, using his need to wait on Sir Henry as excuse? But what if Lord John really was with Sir Henry right this moment? And bloody Uncle Hal—all he needed in the present circumstance!

  Randall had evidently used the pause for thought, as well, and come to his own decision. He came up close beside William, and after a quick glance to be sure no one was near them, leaned close and spoke in a low voice.

  “I say this as a friend, Ellesmere—though I grant you’ve no reason to trust me, I hope you’ll listen. Don’t, for God’s sake, engage in any enterprise that Richardson suggests. Don’t go with him anywhere, no matter what the circumstances. If you can avoid it, don’t even talk to him again.”

  And with that, he reined his horse’s head around, spurred up abruptly, and was off down the road at a gallop, heading away from the camp.

  SCROUNGING

  GREY WOULDN’T MIND, if it weren’t for the headaches. The ache in his side had faded to something tolerable; he thought a rib might be cracked, but as long as he didn’t have to run, that wouldn’t be a problem. The eye, though …

  The injured eye stubbornly refused to move but jerked in its socket, pulling against whatever obstruction held it—an orbicularis muscle? Was that what Dr. Hunter had called it?—in an attempt to focus with its fellow. This was painful and exhausting in itself but also led to double vision and crushing headaches, and he found himself often unable to eat when they halted, wanting only to lie down in darkness and wait for the throbbing to cease.

  By the time they stopped to make camp on the evening of the second day of march, he could barely see out of his good eye, and his stomach was heaving with nausea.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting his hot journeycake at one of his fellows, a tailor from Morristown named Phillipson. “You take it. I can’t, not just …” He couldn’t go on, but pressed the heel of his hand hard against his closed eye. Green and yellow pinwheels and brilliant flashes of light erupted behind his eyelid, but the pressure eased the pain for a moment.

  “You save it for later, Bert,” Phillipson said, tucking the journeycake into Grey’s rucksack. He bent close and peered at Grey’s face in the firelight. “You need a patch for that eye,” he declared. “Keep you from rubbing at it, at least; it’s red as a whore’s stocking. Here.”

  And with that, he took off his own battered felt hat and, whipping a small pair of scissors from his bosom, cut a neat round patch from the brim, rubbed a bit of spruce gum round the edge to make it stick, and then bound it carefully in place over the injured orb with a spotted handkerchief contributed by one of the other militiamen. All of them clustered round to watch, with the kindest expressions of concern, offers of food and drink, suggestions as to which company had a surgeon that might come to let his blood, and so on. Grey, in the weakness of pain and exhaustion, thought he might weep.

  He managed to thank them all for their concern, but at last they left off, and after a swig of something unidentifiable but strongly alcoholic from Jacobs’s canteen, he sat on the ground, shut his good eye, leaned his head back against a log, and waited for the throbbing in his temples to lessen.

  Despite his bodily discomfort, he felt comforted in spirit. The men with him weren’t soldiers, and God knew they weren’t an army—but they were men, engaged in common purpose and mindful of one another, and that was a thing he knew and loved.

  “… and we bring our needs and desires before thee, O great Lord, and implore thy blessing upon our deeds …”

  The Reverend Woodsworth was conducting a brief service of prayers. He did this every evening; those who wished might join him; those who didn’t occupied themselves in quiet conversation or small tasks of mending or whittling.

  Grey had no real idea where they were, save somewhere to the northeast of Philadelphia. Messengers on horseback met them now and then, and confused bits of news and speculation spread like fleas through the group. He gathered that the British army was heading north—clearly to New York—and that Washington had left Valley Forge with his troops and was intending to attack Clinton somewhere en route, but no one knew where. The troops were to muster at a place called Coryell’s Ferry, at which point they might, possibly, be told where they were going.

  He didn’t waste energy on thinking about his own position. He could escape easily enough in the darkness, but there was no point in doing so. Wandering around the countryside in the midst of converging militia companies and regular troops, he ran more risk of ending up back in the custody of Colonel Smith, who would probably hang him out of hand, than he did in remaining with Woodsworth’s militia.

  The danger might increase when they did join Washington’s troops—but large armies really couldn’t hide from each other, nor did they try to avoid notice. If Washington got anywhere near Clinton, Grey could at that point easily desert—if one considered it desertion—and cross the lines into British hands, risking only being shot by an overenthusiastic sentry before he could surrender and make himself known.

  Gratitude, he thought, hearing Mr. Woodsworth’s prayer through a haze of growing drowsiness and fading pain. Well, yes, there were a few more things he could count on his list of blessings.

  William was still on parole and thus a noncombatant. Jamie Fraser had been released from the Continental army to escort Brigadier Fraser’s body back to Scotland. Though he’d returned, he was no longer in the army; he wouldn’t be in this fight, either. His nephew Henry was healing, but in no way fit for combat. There was no one likely to be involved in the coming battle—if there was one—over whom he need worry. Though come to think.… His hand found the empty pocket of his breeches. Hal. Where the bloody hell was Hal?

  He sighed, but then relaxed, breathing in the scents of woodsmoke, pine needles, and roasted corn. Wherever Hal was, he’d be safe enough. His brother could take care of himself.

  The prayers over, one of his companions had started to sing. It was a song he knew, but the wo
rds were quite different. His version, picked up from an army surgeon who’d fought with the Colonials during the French and Indian war, went:

  Brother Ephraim sold his Cow

  And bought him a Commission;

  And then he went to Canada

  To fight for the Nation;

  But when Ephraim he came home

  He proved an arrant Coward,

  He wouldn’t fight the Frenchmen there

  For fear of being devour’d.

  Dr. Shuckburgh hadn’t had much opinion of the colonials, and neither had the composer of the newer version, used as a marching song. He’d heard that one in Philadelphia and hummed along under his breath.

  Yankee Doodle came to town,

  For to buy a firelock,

  We will tar and feather him,

  And so we will John Hancock!

  His present companions were now singing—with gusto—the latest evolution:

  Yankee Doodle went to town

  A-riding on a pony,

  Stuck a feather in his cap

  And called it Macaroni!

  He wondered, yawning, whether any of them knew that the word dudel meant “simpleton” in German. He doubted Morristown, New Jersey, had ever seen a macaroni, those affected young men who went in for pink wigs and a dozen face patches.

  As his headache eased, he began to appreciate the simple pleasure of reclining. The shoes with their makeshift laces fit him badly and, as well as rubbing his heels raw, gave him shooting pains in the shins from the effort of constantly clenching his toes in order to keep the bloody things on. He stretched his legs gingerly, almost enjoying the tenderness in his muscles, so near bliss by contrast with walking.

  He was distracted from his catalog of meager blessings by a small, hungry gulp near his ear, followed by a young, low voice.

  “Mister … if ye’re not meanin’ to eat that journeycake yourself …”

  “What? Oh … yes. Of course.”

  He struggled to sit up, one hand pressed protectively over his bad eye, and turned his head to see a boy of eleven or twelve sitting on the log just beside him. He had his hand inside his sack, rummaging for the food, when the boy let out a gasp, and he looked up, vision wavering in the firelight, to discover himself face-to-face with Claire’s grandson, fair hair in a tousled halo round his head and a look of horror on his face.

  “Hush!” he said in a whisper, and grabbed the child’s knee in such a sudden grip that the boy gave a small yelp.

  “Why, what’s that you’ve got there, Bert? Caught you a thief?” Abe Shaffstall, distracted from a desultory game of knucklebones, looked over his shoulder, peering shortsightedly at the boy—Christ, what was his name? His father was French; was it Claude? Henri? No, that was the younger boy, the dwarf.…

  “Tais-toi!” he said under his breath to the boy, and turned to his companions. “No, no—this is a neighbor’s son from Philadelphia—er … Bobby. Bobby Higgins,” he added, grabbing at the first name that offered itself. “What’s brought you out here, son?” he asked, hoping that the boy was as quick-witted as his grandmother.

  “Lookin’ for my grandda,” the boy replied promptly, though his eyes shifted uneasily round the circle of faces, now all aimed in his direction as the singing died away.

  “My mam sent me with some clothes and food for him, but some wicked fellows in the wood pulled me off my mule and … and t-took everything.” The boy’s voice trembled realistically, and Grey noticed that, in fact, his dirty cheeks showed the tracks of tears.

  This provoked a rumble of concern round the circle and the immediate production from pokes and pockets of hard bread, apples, dried meat, and dirty handkerchiefs.

  “What’s your grandpa’s name, son?” Joe Buckman inquired. “What company is he with?”

  The boy looked nonplussed at this and shot a quick glance at Grey, who answered for him.

  “James Fraser,” he said, with a reassuring nod that made his head throb. “He’d be with one of the Pennsylvania companies, wouldn’t he, Bobby?”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy wiped his nose on the proffered handkerchief and gratefully accepted an apple. “Mer—” He interrupted himself with an artful coughing fit and amended this to “Thank ye kindly, sir. And you, sir.” He handed back the handkerchief and set himself to ravenous consumption, this limiting his replies to nods and shakes of the head. Indistinct mumbles indicated that he had forgotten the number of his grandfather’s company.

  “No matter, boy,” Reverend Woodsworth said comfortingly. “We’re all a-going to the same place to muster. You’ll find your grandpa with the troops there, surely. You think you can keep up with us, though, a-foot?”

  “Oh, aye, sir,” Germain—that was it! Germain!—said, nodding fast. “I can walk.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Grey said hastily, and that seemed to settle it.

  He waited impatiently until everyone had forgotten the boy’s presence and begun to ready themselves for sleep, then rose, muscles protesting, and jerked his head at Germain to follow him, muffling an exclamation of pain at the movement.

  “Right,” he said in a low voice, as soon as they were out of earshot. “What the devil are you doing out here? And where is your bloody grandfather?”

  “I was lookin’ for him,” Germain replied, unbuttoning his flies to piss. “He’s gone to—” He paused, obviously unsure what his relationship with Grey now was. “Beg pardon, my lord, but I dinna ken should I tell ye that or not. I mean …” The boy was no more than a silhouette against the darker black of the undergrowth, but even the outline of his body expressed an eloquent wariness. “Comment se fait-il que vous soyez ici?”

  “How did I come to be here,” Grey repeated under his breath. “Comment, indeed. Never mind. I’ll tell you where we’re going, shall I? I gather we’re bound for a place called Coryell’s Ferry to join General Washington. Does that ring a bell?”