His company was going after them at full charge; they'd taken enough today and were determined not to let their tormentors get away unscathed. Unfortunately, it meant they were out of earshot; there was no one he could holler to for a medic.
Taking another rag, he reached for his canteen and tried to open it, but his fingers were slippery with blood, and he couldn't get a good grip on the canteen. He wiped his fingers on his breeches and tried again. The water was warm from the sun. He splashed it on the cloth and began to wipe the grime from the sergeant's face.
Perhaps the moisture and soothing strokes penetrated the injured man's stupor. The sergeant gave a low moan, and his eyelids fluttered open slightly.
"Lie still," Jon said quietly.
"Hurt," Hitchcock managed to rasp out.
"Yes."
"Bad?"
"Yes," he said simply, knowing his sergeant would accept nothing but the truth. "If you promise you'll be still, I'll try and go get a doctor."
"No matter." Hitchcock coughed, spewing out a stream of blood and foam.
Ah, damn. His lung. They'd hit his lung. And no doctor was going to get here soon enough to help.
"Hang on." And then there was the anger, hot and acid, against the useless, stupid, futility of it all. What would it change? What would it help for this man to die? A good man, a fair man, a man who had patience and tolerance with every soldier in his company, including a slow-witted lieutenant.
"Hang on," Jon said urgently. "I'll get help."
Hitchcock coughed again, his whole body shaking. "Soldier. Always knew... die... like a soldier."
His head rolled back limply. Jon couldn't have said how long he stayed there, staring, sitting by the sergeant's body as night swept in and obscured the horrible aftermath of battle. Quiet, blessed coolness; it was almost peaceful. Hard to believe that in the morning the sun would rise to illuminate again ground churned up by artillery fire and strewn with dead soldiers.
Jon's hand trembled as he reached over and finally closed Hitchcock's eyes. The body was already growing cool, acclimating itself to the temperature of the dead, not the living.
Slumping back against the bush, Jon dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, which stung from the smoke of the battle. He rubbed hard, painfully.
There was no escaping war. There was no escaping death.
And there was no escaping that this whole bloody carnage was his fault.
CHAPTER 17
The moon stared down from the ebony sky like a malevolent, unblinking yellow eye. It illuminated the black, twisted shapes of the trees and limned the old abandoned fort in sickly yellow.
High summer night. Heat radiated from the ground; the air was heavy, close, so thick it felt to Jon as if he should be able to reach out and grab a fistful of it. It was a labor to draw a full breath.
Trying to let a little air get to his overheated skin, Jon tugged futilely at the thick padding that upholstered his waist, wincing at the pressure on the still-tender spot where the bullet had grazed his side. He hadn't discovered his wound until long after the battle, when his company had returned to find him still hunched beside the limp body of Sergeant Hitchcock.
It had taken nearly a week for him to return to full strength, a week in which he'd lain in bed and had too much time to think—far too much.
All he'd ever tried to do was the right thing.
He'd been so sure he'd known what it was. As a young lieutenant stationed in Boston, he'd been appalled at the Crown's treatment of those he still considered his own people. The massacre had been the last straw, and he'd begun feeding tidbits of information to Samuel Adams. Little had he known what it would lead to.
He'd been sure of who was right and wrong, who was enemy and who was friend. He'd been so confident, so damn self-righteous, absolutely certain he knew all the answers.
But the answers hadn't prepared him for the reality, and the reality was, people died. People who weren't his enemy, people who weren't evil or cruel or wrong. They were people just like him, doing their jobs, following orders, trying to do the right thing.
No matter how much he tried to cloak it in terms of honor and country, there was no getting around the fact that he'd provided the information that caused too many of those deaths. If he hadn't pulled the trigger, he wasn't sure that his culpability wasn't all the greater.
Worst of all, he saw no way out. He could only continue to do his job and pray that somehow the knowledge he gathered would hasten the end of the war. It didn't help that he knew neither side would surrender before they'd been beaten into the ground.
He could only cling to what he had left: duty, and the overwhelming loyalty that had led him down this path in the first place.
It would have to be enough. But in the dead of the night, when he remembered a dying man in his arms, it didn't seem like enough. Oh, not nearly enough.
He hunched his shoulders in the tight, rich brocade of his coat. The part he played tonight was a new one: a middle-aged Boston merchant who'd grown plump and lazy on his sales to the British soldiers stationed there. The merchant placed commerce above country but showed a bit of defiance in choice of his wig, which was heavily powdered and had thirteen curls trailing down the back, a la Independence. Just enough resistance to keep the British from suspecting more.
Jon rarely went to so much trouble just to deliver his information. But then, rarely was his information so important.
That was the reason, too, that rather than use his usual channels in Boston, he'd chosen to come here to pass on the packet of papers stuffed inside the padding that created his ample girth. He was taking no chances.
He'd spent months piecing it all together. In the last two weeks, once he'd been given a clean bill of health, he'd worked like a madman, day and night, driven by the possibility that, this time, it would be enough to end it. He had little else to hold on to.
There was no sign of movement down at the fort. All was still, the walls and rough structures skeletal in the humid air. The fort had been empty since his company had been sent back to Boston. Except for the length of the ride to get here, it was the perfect meeting site. No one would bother with the abandoned, useless place.
Shouldn't his contact have been here now? He'd made sure very few people knew about this drop, and he was using his best courier. But there was no sign of the old peddler who'd been able to move in and out of Boston and Cambridge without suspicion.
He carefully approached the perimeter of the fort. His steps raised a swarm of insects, and he resisted the urge to slap them away from his neck, knowing the sound of his palm hitting his skin would stand out in the quiet like a gunshot.
And it was quiet—too quiet, he thought. The only sound he could pick up was the persistent buzzing of mosquitoes. Not even a bird called, as if even they couldn't bestir themselves in the oppressive heat.
Nerves prickled at the back of his neck. He reached the outer wall of the fort and slid silently along it, counting on the dark bulk to hide his presence.
What was that? He stilled, his ears straining. Nothing. Lord, even his own breathing sounded too loud to him.
He squeezed through the open door and into the center courtyard. Empty. He scanned the inner wall, looking for the telltale rough outline of a man. He couldn't make anything out. The ugly yellow glow cast by the moon seemed to cloak as much as it illuminated.
"Halt." The order hung in the air, heavy and terrible.
They came from the walls of the building, emerging from the blackness as if materializing right out of the thick, dark heat.
Soldiers, at least half a dozen.
Jon went cold. They'd found him. Somehow they'd known about the meeting.
Did they have the peddler already? Involuntarily, his hand went to the place where he'd hidden the dispatches.
If they already had him, there was nothing he could do for the peddler now, little to be gained and much to be lost by waiting around trying to find out.
Jon
lifted his hands as if in surrender. He saw the soldiers relax almost imperceptibly and begin to walk toward their prisoner.
He turned and ran. Oblivious of the shouts behind him, he pelted across the barren clearing in front of the fort, heading for the woods. The heated air burned his lungs as he breathed.
Crack. A ball whined by his left ear. God, please let them be poor shots. Heart pounding painfully in his chest, he redoubled his effort, heading for the hidden entrance to the path where he'd once followed Beth and her soldier pursuer.
He knew he could more than likely outrun any soldier following him, but he seriously doubted he could outrun a musket ball.
The blow hit him behind his left shoulder. It sent him flying with its force. He slammed into the ground, tasting dirt. Pain exploded down his spine.
Clamping his jaws together, he sucked air in through his teeth and forced himself to his feet. He shuddered, just once, against the searing, stabbing heat in his shoulder. Pain was acceptable. Capture was not.
More sharp cracks rent the air behind him. He narrowed his focus to the edge of the forest. Thick with leaves and new growth, it looked very different than it had last winter. He selected a likely looking bush, hoped for the best, and plunged in.
Thank God. It was the right one. He ran on, branches scratching his face and scraping at the wound in his back. He staggered once when the pain ripped down his body, all the way to his knees.
All he had to do was get to his horse. They'd taken after him on foot, and by the time they realized he had a mount and went back for their own, he'd be long gone.
Lord, it hadn't seemed this far away when he'd set out. Sweat trickled into his eyes. Wiping it away with one forearm, he threw up his other to block a low-slung branch.
Damn, if only he could breathe. The trail was so narrow. He felt the edges of his world begin to close in.
Finally. As always, he hadn't tied his horse, just in case he needed to get away quickly. The huge, sturdy beast, his reins looped loosely over his neck, had been contentedly cropping the thick grass in a tiny clearing. He raised his head at the sound of Jon's arrival.
Jon reached to grab on to the saddle and pull himself up, and found his left arm didn't work. No time to worry about it. Hanging on with his right hand, he shoved his foot into the stirrup, and heaved, barely managing to swing his right leg over the horse.
God, he felt weak. His clothes were wet with sweat and blood, but he was shivering as if chilled. He knew it meant he'd lost too much blood already.
He tugged on the reins and banged his heels against the horse's sides, heading him down the trail before Jon slumped over his neck.
There was no way he was going to make it back to Boston. After tonight's fiasco, he didn't know who he could trust—on either side.
There was only one person he dared go to now. He had no right to ask, but he had little choice. Closing his eyes briefly against the pounding in his brain, he hung on to his horse, praying he'd make it in time.
***
The sun was barely up. Why was it already so hot? Slipping into the stables, Bennie felt the light cotton of her simple blouse sticking to her back. She wasn't fond of getting up this early, but she'd wanted to get the worst of the work done before the heat became unbearable.
Inside the stable the heat seemed to hover, trapped, thick with the smell of horses and ripe grass. There were no overnight guests at the Dancing Eel and therefore no horses but the five her brothers hadn't ridden off to war.
Business had fallen off considerably since the outbreak of hostilities. No one wanted to travel unless it was absolutely necessary; conditions were simply too unstable. Bennie was grateful. The Eel had its regulars, who gathered everyday to jaw over the situation. There was enough income to take care of the few Joneses left in New Wexford, even though they helped out her sisters-in-law and their children. Any more work would have been more than they could manage.
It shouldn't take too long to herd the horses out to the pasture just beyond the woods. At least in the meadow there'd be the remote possibility they could catch a rare breeze.
She shoved impatiently at the stray curls corkscrewing at her temple. Knowing it would be too warm to stand even a few tresses plastered to her neck, she'd ruthlessly gathered every strand of hair into a disciplined knot this morning, nearly tugging out half of it in the process.
Useless. Less than an hour later, curls were springing out all over her head, as if they had minds of their own. She thought longingly of how neat her mother's smooth hair stayed no matter the humidity.
The horses' energy too seemed sapped by the temperature; they didn't even bother to rouse themselves at her entrance. They simply stood there, heads slung low, desultorily swishing their tales at the annoying flies swirling lazily around them.
Taking a handful of tack from the hook just inside the door, she approached Puffy first. Bennie ran her hands automatically over the horse's neck and withers, checking for depth and tone of muscle. Today, though, she was careful to stay at arm's length, avoiding the heat that radiated from the huge body. She slipped the halter over his head and led him out into the bright, hazy morning sunshine. Around the back of the stable, she looped the reins loosely over a post and returned for another horse.
"Easy there, Patience," she murmured to her father's big gray. The name was a complete misnomer; the horse was skittish, stubborn, and downright difficult to manage. Dancing away from her reach, his hoof struck the side of his stall with a resounding thud.
That couldn't be a groan, coming from the next, empty stall. She backed away from Patience as her heart began to pound. A cat, maybe.
Another moan, low, rumbly, decidedly human. A tramp, a vagrant? Maybe a deserter? Well, they didn't think they could just move into her stable, did they?
A weapon. She needed a weapon. Casting about for something suitable, her gaze fell on the pile of tools near the door. The ax Isaac used for chopping wood was propped up against the wall.
She tiptoed carefully over to it. There were no more sounds, but she had no intention of giving the intruder any indication she was doing anything more than caring for the horse.
The ax was large and heavy, its handle smooth from use. She lifted it easily, grateful, for once, that she wasn't as small as her mother, who never could have handled it. Raising it over her shoulder in preparation, she crept back to the stall.
"Jon!"
She dropped the ax, forgotten, to the floor. The empty stall was filled with broken tack and a small pile of straw left from the summer before. Jon was sprawled on the pile, resting on his right side. His right arm was flung over his head; his left rested loosely at his waist.
"Oh, Lord. Jon."
She flew across the stall and dropped to her knees. His hair was tangled and matted to his head, and he was wearing strange, rich clothes that were torn and stained.
"Oh, Lord." He was so still. She lightly touched his beard-shadowed cheek. "Jon," she repeated.
He opened his eyes slightly. Their beautiful, pale blue was glazed, washed of color.
"Beth," he said in a hoarse croak. "Found you."
"What happened to you?" His cheeks were hollow, and deep purple shadows looked like bruises under his eyes.
"Hurt."
"Don't move. I'll go get help."
"No." Weakly, he raised one finger, as if that small gesture could stop her. "Arrest... me."
They would. A wounded British officer would be a worthy prize to any colonial. He'd end up a prisoner of war, if a doctor could manage to save him.
He looked into her eyes, the plea in his own unmistakable. "Help... me."
Bennie twisted her hands together until the skin burned. "I don't know how."
"Take... ball... out."
Take the ball—oh, Lord, he'd been shot!
She couldn't do this. She had to go get help. Even if he got arrested, at least he'd be alive.
"I can't," she protested.
"Yes, can." He smiled sli
ghtly at her, a ghostly parody of his old grin. "Can do... anything, Beth." He closed his eyes as if the effort to both speak and keep them open was too great for him. "Can't... be arrested. Kill me."
"All right." What was she going to do? She needed... things. Bandages, scissors, water. What else?
"Hang on, Jon. I'll be right back. I have to get some supplies." He didn't respond, and she was suddenly afraid she'd lost him already. "Do you hear me, Jon?" she asked urgently. "Don't die while I'm gone." She raised her voice. "You can't die on me!"
"Yes... ma'am," he whispered.
Hesitating only a moment, she ran out of the stables. It was hardly the ideal place to leave him; anyone could stumble across him. But there didn't seem to be much choice. There was no way she could move him by herself, not when he was in this condition.
Patience snorted, reminding Bennie of his presence. She had to get the horses out to pasture before her father came wondering why they were still in the stable.
At least the stall Jon was sprawled in wasn't visible from the door. If someone walked in a mere ten steps, however...
Thank goodness, neither her father nor Isaac were early risers. Her mother was certainly up, but she never came out to the stables. With any luck, Jon would be safe for at least a little while. Hurrying away, Bennie prayed for a little luck, and a whole lot of divine guidance.
She couldn't go back to the house; it was unlikely she'd be able to sneak what she needed right out from under her mother's nose. So she headed for Brendan's shop, hoping she could find what she needed.
Thankfully, she made it to Brendan's without running into anybody. The shop was stuffy and sweltering, filled with a stale, closed-up smell. She shoved everything she could think of in a large canvas sack and sped back to the stables.
"Bennie!"
The shout came when she had almost passed the Dancing Eel. Oh, Lord. Her father. She stopped cold, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.
Calm. She had to be calm. He didn't know anything about Jon. She just had to be calm. Taking one final gulp of air, she clutched the bag tightly and turned to face her father.
Law, Susan Kay Page 19