"Not men under your command, I hope. I expect better from you boys."
"No, not under my command." Brendan smiled wryly. "Nor any of ours. We've set our men mostly to cleaning. Keeps them busy, and Lord knows the camp could use it."
"Adam's idea, I expect. Boy always did have a good head for leadin'."
"No, actually, it was mine." Brendan drank deeply of his ale.
"Yours, huh? Wouldn'ta thought it. Know you got a good mind, course, but never seemed to have much of a practical bent."
Sipping at her ale, Bennie watched Brendan carefully. She didn't see so much as a flinch, and she wondered if he'd finally reached a point where their father no longer had the power to wound him. She wished she could recover the ability to close off her emotions, an ability that seemed to have melted away with the snow.
"Disease is running wild through the camps, Da. It's causing more damage than the British could ever do. I only hope to God they don't attack any time soon; half of our men will spend the entire battle looking for the nearest trench." Brendan smiled, the first genuine smile Bennie had seen from him since he returned. It lit up his eyes with the sudden, potent charm he so rarely displayed.
"Of course," he continued, "none of the Jones boys have had so much as a sneeze."
"Good breeding," Cad said.
Bennie laughed. Maybe it was all going to be all right after all.
"So that's it then?" she asked. "Everybody holds their ground?"
Brendan's smile faded as he turned to look at her. Her own new lightheartedness evaporated as soon as she saw the expression in his eyes.
If his eyes had been dark before, they were black now, but for once, she could catch glimpses of the emotions they usually shielded: desperation, and a soul-deep sorrow.
And she had her answer. It wasn't going to be all right after all.
***
Running the brush briskly down the horse's side, Bennie spoke softly.
"That's a good girl, Puffy. You stand so still and let me make your coat look nice."
Unseasonable heat had swept into New Wexford the day Brendan had ridden out. A week later, it was close and stuffy in the stable, warm enough that her light cotton dress was damp as she worked. She set down the brush and picked up a metal comb, starting to work the tangles out of the tan mane.
'"Scuse me, miss, are you Miss Beth?"
She froze. Beth? Only one person had ever called her Beth, but not in that cracked, quavery voice.
She turned to face an old man, spare and hunched as a sparrow. Faded blue eyes twinkled from either side of a beaky nose, and he had a huge pack slung over his slumped shoulder.
"What do you want?"
"Are you Beth?"
Idly, she turned the comb over and over. "Hardly anybody calls me that."
"But someone does?" he persisted.
She ran her hand down her horse's flank. "Yes."
Beaming, he dropped his pack, the gaps in his teeth somehow failing to diminish the contagious happiness of his smile. "I've got somethin' for you, miss."
"For me?" What could he possibly have for her? He'd yanked open the top of his sack and was now rummaging around inside, muttering under his breath as he poked and prodded. The sack bulged dangerously. "Who are you?"
His head bobbed up for an instant before he buried it in the opening again. "I'm a peddler, miss. Come from Boston."
"I don't want to buy anything."
"It's free, miss." Tossing a bulky wrapped package over his shoulder, he went on, mumbling under his breath. "Now where did I put that..."
Free? What kind of a peddler gave things away? For that matter, what kind showed up in the stables, knew her name, and starting unpacking his wares before she had a chance to get a word in edgewise?
"Now see here—" she began.
"Ah, here it is." He emerged from the depths of his sack, his face bright with triumph, waving a crumpled piece of paper. "I'd stuffed it in a gill cup, miss. Kept it safe for you."
Reaching out warily, she took the paper. It was folded in quarters, a mellow ivory square. On one side, in black ink, big, blocky letters spelled out Beth.
Closing her eyes, she pressed the letter to her chest. Jon. It had to be Jon. Who else would address a letter simply to Beth?
"Where did you get this?"
"Boston. I was tryin' to make a bit off those bloomin' British. Huh. Ain't interested in buying much but rum. Their womenfolk, now, they're good cust—"
"Who gave it to you?" she asked impatiently.
"Don't know. Big fellow. Not too swift in the upstairs, if you know what I mean. Paid me good, though, to get a letter to the tavern keeper's daughter in New Wexford an' not tell anyone else about it."
"Well, you found me."
"Ain't you gonna read it?"
She opened her eyes. The peddler hopped from foot to foot. She wanted to be rid of him, quickly. Although her first instinct was to open the letter immediately, it somehow seemed wrong to do so in front of someone else.
"Was there something else you wanted?"
"Well." He scrunched up his nose. "I thought mebbe you'd want to look at some of my wares. They're fine ones, that."
"No."
"Couldn't interest you in anythin'?" he wheedled.
"Perhaps. Are you going back to Boston soon? Could you get a reply through?"
Scratching at his gray-stubbled chin, he replied, "Naw. 'Tain't worth it. Gettin' dangerous around there, ain't ya heard?"
"Yes, I'd heard. Well, I won't keep you then. Thank you for your service."
"Pleasure, miss." It seemed to take him forever to repack his bag to his satisfaction, lift it to his shoulder, and shuffle his way out the door. She resisted the urge to hurry him on his way, suspecting it wouldn't do any good anyway.
Thank heavens. He was halfway out the door. Then he paused and turned back to her, deep creases crinkling around his eyes as he grinned cheerfully. "You enjoy that letter now, you hear?"
"I will." I hope, she thought. She didn't know why Jon would have gone to so much effort to get a letter to her. Trouble, perhaps? He was injured, he wanted to warn her—or her family—about something?
Rounding the corner of the Eel, the peddler was out of sight at last. Bennie scrambled up the ladder to the loft, not even thinking about why she sought out that place.
She'd been up in the loft several times since Jon left, getting fodder for the horses, but she'd never really looked at it. On those days, before the grass had grown long enough to sustain the horses, she'd simply thrown the hay down and gotten out as quickly as she could.
This time she stopped and took it in. How different it seemed now than it had that black, stormy April evening. Although it was dim, light poured through the open window, burnishing the hay to mellow gold. Dust motes floated lazily through the sunbeam.
Her violin was still there, packed away in its case where she'd left it, on one corner of the brown blanket that was still spread over a pile of hay. She hurried over and sat down.
Gently, she stroked the surface of the blanket. It was rough, scratchy, and yet it had never abraded her that night—because her bare skin had never touched it. Jon had protected her, had shielded her with his body, and she was, irrationally, positive he had meant to do so.
Their lovemaking had been desperate, frenzied, and brief. Despite how quickly it had ended, she remembered each instant with startling clarity, for she'd relived it again and again. Each night, when the terrible, terrifying blood and fire invaded her thoughts, she turned to him.
It no longer mattered to her whether it had been wrong. She'd needed it. She'd needed the feelings, she'd needed the thunder, and now she needed the memory.
Taking a deep breath, she unfolded the paper. The writing was sharp, angular, strong, and seemed perfectly suited to those big, powerful hands.
My drst. Beth,
I hope this finds You. I am not good with Words or
Writing, so I paid a Printer here in Boston to wr
ite this Message for Me. He assures Me He will correct my Mistakes & make it sound Proper.
I wanted you to know I am well. Nearly half of the Citizens of this fair City have left, so we have ample Quarters. Ships from England bring steady Supplies. I have planted a small Garden in the Common, as have many of My Fellow Men. The Turnips & Radishes look very well, although the Beans are a bit slow.
I told You I am not good with Words. I wanted to tell You again that I am sorry for any Pain I have caused You. Your Friendship is My most cherished Possession.
I remain, always,
Your Devoted Servant,
Jon.
Bennie carefully folded the letter along its original creases and tucked it safely into her pocket. She reached for her violin and, for the first time in nearly two months, began to play.
CHAPTER 16
God, he hated the smell of blood.
It clogged the back of his throat and filled his nostrils: sickeningly sweet, cloying, pungent. There was no getting away from it, no fresh breeze sweeping it away with the crisp warmth of early summer. It clung to him, making him feel sticky and dirty, and he knew there wasn't enough water in the world to wash it away.
Leaning wearily against a side-turned supply cart, Jon once more went through the motions of cleaning his weapon. To his right, the water glittered with deceptive cheerfulness, bright and gay with the late afternoon sun. To his left sprawled the line of stone fences, fortified rail fence, and redoubt that they'd spent the day trying to take.
Ahead of him lay the beach, a wide band that rimmed Charlestown, littered with the remains of a day of fighting—torn clothes and spent powder horns, crumpled bodies that lay like discarded rag dolls. Almost unbelievable that those loose, pale, disjointed corpses, dressed in red and stained with black, were real—except he could smell the blood.
Ramming the brush down the barrel of his musket, he methodically dragged it in and out. The cardinal rules of soldiering: head down, follow orders, keep your weapon clean.
Behind those fences the hill—Breed's? Bunker? Nobody seemed entirely sure which—swarmed with Americans. Hard to tell how many, but they'd dug in well over the night. The British command had determined that the colonists couldn't keep that high ground, which would give their cannon a clean shot down into the center of Boston where the British forces were clustered, and so this morning they'd begun the attempt to drive the rebels from Charlestown.
Sergeant Hitchcock dropped into the sand beside Jon. He pulled out a rumpled cloth and mopped his forehead.
"Damn rough one today," he said.
Jon glanced at the sergeant, who looked much too frail to withstand battle. Nevertheless, when they were engaged, he fought with precision, discipline, toughness, and rock-steady control.
"Yes," Jon agreed.
"You did good today, son."
"No. Scared." It had been near to impossible, trying to maintain the fiction that he couldn't shoot when all hell had been breaking loose around him. "You?"
"Naw. Only afterwards. That's when I start to shake. Still, ya done good. You're a big target. Kept your head down. Followed orders. I was proud of you," Sergeant Hitchcock insisted, clapping Jon on his shoulder.
Oh, God. Jon clenched his musket barrel. When was the last time someone had said that to him? Had anyone ever said that to him?
"Thanks."
"Ready to try it again?"
"Again?" They'd tried it twice today and been massacred both times. There were companies of fifty-nine men that had only a few members remaining. How could they possibly mount another assault with their depleted forces? It was suicide.
"Yep. Word just came down. We're gonna roust those mohairs or die trying."
***
Die trying. Those words echoed through Jon's head as the world exploded around him once again. He was bolstered behind a ridge of sand, which was, in his opinion, clearly inadequate protection.
The roar of artillery and muskets thundered so loudly in Jon's ears he could no longer tell if he was hearing the current fire or an echo of fire that was already gone. It was steady, pounding, bursting in sharp shards of pain inside his head.
Sweat trickled down his face, blurring his vision and tickling his upper lip. He longed to wipe it away, but he couldn't seemed to make himself release his rigid grip on his musket.
Fire. Pour in powder. Ram a ball down the barrel. Aim. Fire again.
There was a terrible, repetitive rhythm to his actions, a rhythm that suspended time and submerged reality. Had ten minutes passed? An hour? Who knew? Just fire, reload, aim. Fire.
To his left, Sergeant Hitchcock, hunched low, scrambled across the beach like a hermit crab, scuttling along behind the ridge of sand. He ducked lower as a ball whined over his head and threw himself prone next to Jon.
"You doin' all right, son?" he hollered.
"Yeah." Jon fired again, at a beautiful indigo patch of sky a good five feet above the abutment.
"I'm going over."
"What?" Unable to hear above the thundering weapons, he turned to the sergeant. It was sometimes easier to understand when he could watch his lips and connect the movement to the snatches of words he managed to catch.
"I'm goin' over. Already told the cap'n. Want you and the rest of the company to cover me, then follow as quickly as ya can."
"Can't do that!" Jon protested. "Too dangerous."
"We sure as hell ain't gettin' nowhere down here." The sergeant scanned the ridge. "The firin's lighter, Jon. Ain't ya noticed, son?"
"Noticed."
"I figure some of 'em left, or they're gettin' low on shot. Maybe both. Best try and take 'em before reinforcements arrive."
"Maybe." And then again, maybe the Americans were setting them up, just waiting for the regulars to rush the barricades. They'd be pigs sitting in a fenced yard, waiting to be picked off. However, he didn't figure that scenario was one "Jon" should be clever enough to think of, so he bit his tongue and didn't object.
A small geyser of sand spewed no more than six inches from his thigh as a ball plowed into the beach. Then sudden, blessed silence, perhaps ten seconds' worth, so quiet after the thunder and firing that he almost didn't believe it.
"Now!" Hitchcock shouted, jumping to his feet and plunging forward. A hail of shot followed his ascent, all the gates of hell burst open at once, and his small, wiry body seemed pitifully fragile against the fury.
"No!" Jon's voice was lost against the volley of shots. He took careful aim this time, following the path the Sergeant was taking, trying to provide some cover. Swearing, he rushed after Hitchcock, trying to reload as he ran, only dimly aware that the rest of his company were fighting their way up the slope too.
He no longer flinched when a ball flew by his ear. It was useless; the fire was everywhere, anyway.
Hitchcock dived over the reinforced fence. Jon angled in that direction, keeping his gaze fixed on the spot where his sergeant had disappeared. Twenty yards, fifteen. Bushes whipped by in his peripheral vision; sand disappeared beneath his feet. Why, then, did it seem he was going so slowly, each second stretched to the limit of human tolerance?
Smoke, acrid and hot, stung his eyes and burned his nose. His ears rang with screams, shouts, and the crack of muskets; the sharp tang of battle filled his mouth. Ten... five. Bushes. Piles of hay and mud, clumps of timber and dirt. The fence.
He was over. He glanced around quickly for a barrel, a mound of earth, anything to provide some protection. A waist-high, naked bush made poor cover but he dived for it anyway. He crouched by the thin trunk and frantically gulped air. How long had it been since he'd breathed?
The Americans were in retreat. No uniforms, their lines ragged, but still fighting fiercely as they slipped back across the high ground. Returning fire, Jon wished, once again, for better cover. He was too big; too many pieces of his body—pieces he didn't care to lose—were exposed. Looking for a better position, he shrank closer to the bush and glanced around again,
N
ot far off a crumpled heap of red and dirty white lay on the ground—Sergeant Hitchcock.
Jon ducked his head and headed for Hitchcock. A sharp pang along his side was nothing; all his focus was on the body lying on the dusty ground.
No time for niceties. Jon grabbed a handful of coat and dragged Hitchcock back behind the bush, now grateful for the meager cover.
Jon shoved his rifle aside and rolled Hitchcock over, taking the sergeant's head in his lap. Hitchcock's face was pale and slack, his eyes closed. Jon groped along the loose folds of Hitchcock's neck, searching for a pulse. There. Unsteady, thin, but there.
Maybe there was still time. Jon jerked open Hitchcock's coat, shoving aside the powder bags and broken cross-straps.
Blood. Dark, sticky, thick, it covered Hitchcock's chest and belly. He peeled back the remains of the sergeant's shredded shirt, and sucked in his breath. God, it couldn't be all his, could it?
Jon stripped off his own jacket and shirt, vaguely surprised to find them stained with blood on the back as well as the front. He tore the shirt into long strips, grateful, for once, for his size. At least there was a lot of fabric. He was going to need a lot.
Lifting Hitchcock slightly, Jon ran his hands down the man's back, checking to see if wounds were there too. No exit holes. The balls must still be inside him, then, but all Jon could hope to do was keep the sergeant alive long enough to get him to the surgeon.
But he had to stop the bleeding. He packed the holes with wadded linen, pressing down hard as blood soaked through the fabric and covered his fingers. There wasn't even the slightest flinch from the sergeant when Jon pushed at his chest although the pain must have been excruciating. The man was out cold—or dead; Jon leaned over and put his ear close to Hitchcock's mouth.
Shallow breaths, too rapid, too weak, but breath. Jon straightened. Grabbing another handful of cloth strips, he carefully wound them tightly around the sergeant's chest.
He hadn't even noticed, while he'd been busy tending to Sergeant Hitchcock, that the hail of bullets around him seemed to have stopped. The colonials were in full retreat, out of his sight over the hill, and only the faintly muted sounds of firing reached him.
Law, Susan Kay Page 18