Minnie cleared her throat. She’d been sitting quietly, stitching something, while the men conversed.
“What about Major Siverly?” she asked.
Grey opened his eyes, regarding her blearily.
“He’s dead,” he said. “Were you not listening, Minerva?”
She gave him a cold look. “And doubtless he deserved it. But did you not begin this hegira with the intent of bringing him to justice and making him account publicly for his crimes?”
“Can you court-martial a dead man?”
She cleared her throat again and looked pleased.
“Actually,” she said, “I rather think you can.”
Hal stopped chewing fruitcake.
“I collected any number of records of general courts-martial, you know,” she said, with a quick glance at Grey. “When … when poor Percy …” She coughed, and looked away. “But the point is, you can have a posthumous court-martial. A man’s deeds live after him and all that, apparently—though I think it’s mostly intended to provide a record of truly stunning peccability, for the edification of the troops and to enable the wicked officer’s superiors to indicate that they weren’t actually asleep or conniving while all the dirty dealings were going on.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Grey said. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jamie Fraser examining a crumpet as though he’d never seen one before, lips tight. Jamie Fraser was the only person in the world—besides Percy—who knew the truth of Grey’s relationship with his stepbrother.
“How often has it been done?” Hal asked, fascinated.
“Well, once that I know about,” Minnie admitted. “But once is enough, isn’t it?”
Hal pursed his lips and nodded, eyes narrowed as he envisioned the possibilities. It would have to be a general court-martial, rather than a regimental one; they’d known that to begin with. Siverly’s regiment might wish to prefer charges against him, given the scale of his crimes, but the records of a regimental court-martial were not public, whereas those of a general court-martial necessarily were, involving the judge advocate’s office and its tediously detailed records.
“And it does give you a public arena, should you want one,” Minnie added delicately, “in which to explore Major Siverly’s relations with Edward Twelvetrees. Or anyone else you like.” She nodded at the singed paper lying next to the teapot.
Hal began to laugh. It was a low, joyous sound, and one Grey hadn’t heard in some time.
“Minnie, my dear,” he said affectionately. “You are a pearl of great price.”
“Well, yes,” she said modestly. “I am. Captain Fraser, would you care for more tea?”
THOMAS, COMTE DE LALLY, Baron de Tollendal, was lodged in a small private house near Spitalfields. So much Jamie had discovered from the duchess, who didn’t ask him why he required the information; nor did he ask her why she wanted to know whether he had spoken with Edward Twelvetrees and, if so, whether Twelvetrees had mentioned the name Raphael Wattiswade.
He wondered briefly who Wattiswade was but made no inquiries of Grey or Pardloe; if the duchess respected his confidence, he would respect hers. He had asked her whether she had heard of Tobias Quinn; she had not.
He wasn’t surprised at that; if Quinn was in London—and knowing what he knew about Quinn’s plans, he was almost sure of it—he would be keeping himself quiet. Still, he might be using the Druid cup as inspiration to those followers whose dedication was not quite sure—and if he had the cup and had been showing the dreadful thing about, there might well be rumors of it.
He walked through the narrow streets, feeling the alien strangeness of the city. Once, he had had men he knew—both those he commanded and those who sought him out—and networks of information. Once, he could have put out word and found a man like Quinn within hours.
Once.
He put the thought firmly away from him; that part of his life was over. He had made up his mind to it and did not mean to turn back; why did such thoughts still come to him?
“Because ye’ve still to finish it, clot-heid,” he muttered to himself. He had to find Quinn. Whether it was to put a stop to the Irish Brigades’ plot before it became action, dooming those involved in it, or for the sake of Quinn himself, he wasn’t sure—but he must find the man. And Thomas Lally was still a man such as he had been himself. Lally was also a prisoner, true, but one still with followers, informants, one who listened and planned. A man who would leave the stage of war only when carried off it feetfirst. A man who hasn’t given up, he thought, with a tinge of bitterness.
He’d come unannounced. It wasn’t courteous, but he wasn’t interested in courtesy. He needed information and had a better chance of getting it if Lally hadn’t time to decide whether it was wise to give it to him.
The sun was high by the time he arrived; Pardloe had invited him to make use of the Greys’ coach, but he didn’t want anyone knowing his destination and so had walked halfway across London. They weren’t bothering to follow him anymore; they were much too busy looking for the members of the Wild Hunt. How long might he have before one of those names led them to someone who would talk? He knocked at the door.
“Captain Fraser.” It was Lally himself who answered the door, to Jamie’s surprise. Lally was surprised, too, but cordial—he stepped back, gesturing Jamie inside.
“I am alone,” Jamie said, seeing Lally peer down the street before closing the door.
“So am I,” said Lally, casting a bleak look round the tiny front room. It was disordered, with smeared crockery and crumbs on the table, a cold, unswept hearth, and a general feel of neglect. “My servant has left, I’m afraid. Can I offer you …” He swung round, eyeing a shelf that held two or three bottles, picked one up and shook it, looking relieved when it sloshed. “A glass of ale?”
“Aye, thank ye.” He knew better than to refuse hospitality, particularly under such circumstances, and they sat down at the table—there was no place else to sit—pushing aside the dirty dishes, green cheese rinds, and a dead cockroach. Jamie wondered if the thing had died of starvation or poisoning.
“So,” said Lally, after a minimal exchange of commonplaces, “did you find your Wild Hunt?”
“The English think they have,” Jamie said. “Though it may be naught but a mare’s nest.”
Lally’s eyes widened in interest, but he was still reserved.
“I heard that you went to Ireland with Lord John Grey,” he remarked, and sighed a little. “I haven’t seen it in many years. Is it still green, then, and beautiful?”
“Wet as a bath sponge and mud to the knees, but, aye, it was green enough.”
That made Lally laugh; Jamie thought he didn’t laugh often. It didn’t come easily to him.
“It’s true that I was obliged to go wi’ his lordship,” Jamie said, “but I had another companion, as well—one less official. D’ye recall Tobias Quinn, by chance?”
Indeed he did; Jamie saw the knowledge flicker deep in Lally’s eyes, though his face stayed calm, slightly quizzical.
“From the Rising. One of the Irish who came with O’Sullivan, was he not?”
“Aye, that’ll be the man. He met us in Ireland and traveled with us, in the guise of a traveler met by accident.”
“Indeed.” Lally sipped ale—it was flat and stale, and he made a face and threw it out the open window. “What was his purpose?”
“He told me he sought a thing—the Cupán Druid riogh, he called it. Ye’ve heard of it?”
Lally was not a good natural liar.
“No,” he said, but his hands curled on the tabletop and he stiffened a little. “A Druid king’s cup? What on earth is that?”
“Ye’ve seen it, then,” Jamie said, friendly but firm. Lally stiffened further, torn between denial and answer. So he had seen it. Which in turn meant that he’d seen Quinn, for surely Quinn would surrender it to no man save Charles Stuart.
“I need to speak with him,” Jamie said, leaning forward to indicate
sincerity and urgency—neither one feigned. “It is a matter of his own safety, as well as that of the men with whom he’s involved. Can ye get word to him? I shall meet him anywhere he likes.”
Lally sat back a bit, suspicion darkening his eyes.
“Meet him and betray him to the English?” he said.
“Ye believe that of me?” Oddly, the idea that Lally might believe it hurt him.
Lally grimaced and looked down.
“I don’t know,” he said, low-voiced, and Jamie saw how drawn he was, the muscles of his face hard under the skin. “So many men I thought I knew …” He gave a small, despairing shake of the head. “I don’t know whom to trust—or whether there is anyone who can be trusted, anymore.”
That, at least, held the ring of truth.
“Aye,” said Jamie quietly. “I, too.” He spread his hands out, flat on the table. “And yet I have come to you.”
And yet … He could almost hear Lally thinking. Furious things were going on behind that pale, twitching face.
Ye’re in it up to your eyebrows, poor wee fool, he thought, not unkindly. Add one more to the tally, then; one more man who might go to his doom if this harebrained scheme came to the point of action. One more who might be saved, if …
He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.
“Hear me, a Tomás MacGerealt,” he said formally. “Quinn will maybe have told ye what he said to me, and I to him. If not, ask him. I said it not from cowardice, not from treachery, nor unwillingness to stand wi’ friends and comrades. I said it from sure knowledge. Ye kent my wife?”
“The Sassenach woman?” The ghost of a smile touched Lally’s mouth, sardonic.
“La Dame Blanche, they called her in Paris, and for good reason. She saw the end of the Cause—and its death. Believe me, Thomas. This venture, too, is doomed, and I ken that fine. I wouldna have it take ye down wi’ it. For the sake of our shared past, I beg ye—stand clear.”
He hesitated, waiting for an answer, but Lally kept his eyes on the table, one finger circling in a puddle of spilled ale. At last, he spoke.
“If the English do not send me back to France to clear my name, what is there for me here?”
There was no answer to that. Lally lived at the sufferance of his captors, as Jamie did. How would a true man not be tempted by the possibility of regaining his life? Jamie sighed, helpless, and Lally glanced up, his gaze sharpening as he perceived pity on Jamie’s face.
“Ah, don’t worry about me, old comrade,” he said, and there was as much affection as irony in his voice. “The Marquise of Pelham comes back from her country house next week. She has a tendresse for me, La Marquise—she will not let me starve.”
30
Particular Friends
HAROLD, DUKE OF PARDLOE, COLONEL OF THE 46TH FOOT, visited the Judge Advocate’s office, attended by both his regimental colonels and by his brother, Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Grey, to file the necessary documents to call a posthumous general court-martial of one Major Gerald Siverly, on a variety of charges ranging from theft and corruption, to failure to suppress mutiny, to willful murder—and treason.
After hours of discussion, they had decided to proceed with the court-martial at once and to add the charge of treason. It would cause talk—an immense amount of talk—and perhaps bring more of Siverly’s connections to the surface. Meanwhile, those men they had managed to identify from Siverly’s list of the Wild Hunt—a half dozen or so—would be carefully watched, to see whether news of the court-martial might cause them to run, to act, or to seek out others in the plot.
Even with the documents filed, it would be nearly a month before the court-martial was convened. Unable to bear the inactivity of waiting, Grey invited Jamie Fraser to go with him to a race meeting at Newmarket. Returning two days later, they stopped at the Beefsteak, where they took rooms, intending to dine and change before going on to a play in the evening.
By unspoken mutual consent, they had avoided any reference to Ireland, Siverly, Twelvetrees, court-martials, or poetry. Fraser was quiet, occasionally withdrawn—but he relaxed in the presence of horses, and Grey felt a small relaxation of his own tension in seeing it. He had arranged for Jamie’s parole at Helwater because of the horses and the relative degree of freedom, and while he could not deceive himself that Jamie was content as a prisoner, at least he had some hope that he was not completely unhappy.
Am I right to treat him thus? he wondered, watching Fraser’s broad back as the Scot preceded him from the dining room. Will it give him something to remember, to recollect with pleasure when he goes back—or only increase the bitterness of his position? God, I wish I knew.
But then … there was the possibility of freedom. He felt his stomach knot at the thought but wasn’t sure whether it was from fear that Fraser would gain his freedom—or that he wouldn’t. Hal had certainly mentioned it as a possibility, but if there proved to be a fresh Jacobite plot, the country would be swept up once more in fear and hysteria; it would be nearly impossible to have Fraser pardoned in such circumstances.
He was so caught up in these reflections that it was some moments before he realized that he knew the voice coming from the billiards room to his right.
Edward Twelvetrees was at the green-baize table. He looked up from a successful shot, his face alight with pleasure, then caught a glimpse of Grey in the hallway, and his face went stiff, the smile freezing into a tooth-baring rictus. The friend with whom he’d been playing stared at him in astonishment, then turned a bewildered face toward Grey.
“Colonel Grey?” he said, tentative. It was Major Berkeley Tarleton, the father of Richard Tarleton, who had been Grey’s ensign at Crefeld. He knew Grey, of course, but plainly could not understand the sudden hostility that had sprung up like a wall of thorns between the two men.
“Major Tarleton,” Grey said, with a nod that did not take his eyes away from Twelvetrees. The tip of Twelvetrees’s nose had gone white. He’d received his summons to the court-martial, then.
“You unspeakable whelp.” Twelvetrees’s voice was almost conversational.
Grey bowed.
“Your servant, sir,” he said. He felt Jamie come up behind him and saw Twelvetrees’s eyes narrow at sight of the Scot.
“And you.” Twelvetrees shook his head, as though so appalled that he could find no speech to address the situation. He turned his gaze upon Grey again. “I wonder at it, sir. Indeed, I wonder at it. Who would bring such as this fellow, this depraved Scotch creature, a convicted traitor”—his voice rose a little on the word—“into the sacred precincts of this club?” He was still holding his cue, clutching it like a quarterstaff.
“Captain Fraser is my particular friend, sir,” Grey said coldly.
Twelvetrees uttered a most unpleasant laugh.
“I daresay he is. A very close friend, I have heard.” The edge of his lip lifted in a sneer.
“What do you imply, sir?” Fraser’s voice came from behind him, calm, and so formal as almost to lack his usual accent. Twelvetrees’s hot eyes left Grey, rising to Fraser’s face.
“Why, sir, since you are so civil as to inquire, I imply that this arse-wipe is your”—he hesitated for an instant, and then said, elaborately sardonic—“not merely your most particular friend. For surely only the loyalty of a bedfellow can have led him to do your bidding.”
Grey felt a ringing in his ears, like the aftereffects of cannon fire. He was dimly conscious of thoughts pinging off the inside of his skull like the shards of an exploding grenade, even as he shifted his weight: He’s trying to goad you, does he want to provoke a fight—he’ll bloody get one!—or does he want a challenge, if so, why not give one? Because he wants to look the aggrieved party? He’s just called me a sodomite in public, he means to discredit me, I’ll have to kill him. This last thought arrived simultaneously with the flexing of his knees—and the grasp of Tarleton’s fingers on his arm.
“Gentlemen!” Tarleton was shocked but firm. “Surely you cann
ot mean such things as your conversation might suggest. I say you should command your passions for the moment, go and have a cooling drink, take sober thought, perhaps sleep on the matter. I am sure that in the morning—”
Grey wrenched his arm free.
“You bloody murderer!” he said. “I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Fucking sodomite!” Twelvetrees’s hands were clenched on the cue stick, his knuckles white.
A much bigger hand came down on Grey’s shoulder and dragged him out of the way. Fraser stepped in front of him, reached across the corner of the table, and plucked the cue out of Twelvetrees’s hands as though it were a broomstraw. He took it in his hands and, with a visible effort, broke it neatly in two and laid the pieces on the table.
“Do you call me traitor, sir?” he said politely to Twelvetrees. “I take no offense at this, for I stand convicted of that crime. But I say to you that you are a greater traitor still.”
“You—what?” Twelvetrees looked mildly stunned.
“You speak of particular friends, sir. Your own most particular friend, Major Siverly, faces a posthumous court-martial for corruption and treason of a most heinous kind. And I say that you should be tried along with him, for you have been partner to his crimes—and if justice is served, doubtless you will be. And if the justice of the Almighty be served, you will then join him in hell. I pray it may be swift.”
Tarleton made a small gobbling noise that Grey would have found funny in other circumstances.
Twelvetrees stood stock-still, beady eyes a-bulge, and then his face convulsed and he leapt upon the table, launching himself from it at Jamie Fraser. Fraser dodged aside, and Twelvetrees struck him no more than a glancing blow, falling to the floor at Grey’s feet.
He remained in a crumpled heap for a moment, panting heavily, then rose slowly to his feet. No one tried to assist him.
He stood up, slowly straightened his clothing, and then walked toward Fraser, who had withdrawn into the hall. He reached the Scotsman, looked up as though gauging the distance, then, drawing back his arm, slapped Fraser bare-handed across the face with a sound like a pistol shot.
The Scottish Prisoner: A Novel Page 33