Brick buildings crowded the street from both sides, shadowing it from the midmorning sun. It always made him feel confined, as if the pathway was too narrow for his shoulders. He seemed too big for the place.
Slumping into Jon's characteristic slouch, he continued on his way. He passed an empty milliner's shop, its window festooned with faded ribbons and bedraggled feathers. A tobacco shop perfumed the air with the earthy scents of pipe tobacco and chocolate.
Boston was quiet, so different from the bustling city he'd found when he'd first come there. Now many of the shops were closed, their owners having escaped the volatile situation in the city at the first opportunity. Still he shuffled along, finding returning to his dimwit role more difficult than he'd imagined.
There was no sense in taking any chances that someone would see him acting too alert. But after only a few days as himself—or at least, as close to it as he was likely to manage—he was loath to become the idiot once more.
He turned a sharp corner and plodded on. When he'd first begun playing the role, it had amused him. People were so easily deceived, too lazy to look beneath the obvious. They always saw what they expected to see, what was easiest to believe, and he'd taken full advantage of their blindness.
Now, he felt a chill as he forced the idiot grin back on his face. He had the terrible, absurd premonition that, if he hid behind the facade of Lieutenant Jon again, he might never find his way back to Jonathan.
His ears picked up the distant throb of steady drumming. Troops were drilling in the common.
It was nearly thirty-six hours since he'd left Beth. He'd been slowed by his injury and recent inactivity more than he'd expected and had made it only a third of the way back to Boston the first night. He'd spent the day in a tumbledown barn, dozing and satisfying his suddenly sharp appetite from the generous store of food Beth had given him.
He was dressed as a colonial and, if the pinch came, he assumed he could pass for one. But he'd just as soon not take the chance of traveling through the daylight hours; the only weapon he had was the sharp knife he'd found in Beth's supplies, and if he'd been seen, he'd more than likely have had to answer questions about why a young, apparently healthy man wasn't with the Continental army in Cambridge. It had been simpler just to stay out of sight.
He'd made better time last night, slipping easily past both American and British sentries and into Boston. Then he caught a few hours of rest in the empty lean-to behind an abandoned blacksmith's shop, waiting for day and the appropriate time to go find his captain.
One more turn and he was approaching the subdued red brick building three blocks from the common that Captain Livingston had commandeered shortly after they'd been stationed in Boston. Two soldiers, polished and stiff in their bright crimson coats, guarded the door, their bayonets gleaming silver. The captain never forgot the proprieties.
Jonathan took a deep breath, and the muscles near his wound twitched. He felt completely exposed and longed for his musket, a sword, anything. If he'd been recognized the night of the fiasco at the fort, he'd be arrested the instant he identified himself to the guards—arrested, tried, and shot.
Then again, there was always the possibility they would attempt to use him, turn him as a double agent, or simply follow him closely, trying to flush out his contacts. He might not know his fate so quickly after all
He ruthlessly shut down his emotions, forcing the rigid control that had served him so well for so long. He'd not allowed himself to feel for so many years it had become second nature, and it had no longer been an effort. Now, it was becoming more and more difficult to submerge his feelings and find that place of cold, automatic duty.
He lowered his eyelids, as if he couldn't quite wake up, and let his features go slack. Acutely aware of the careful attention of the guards, he ambled up to the door.
"Halt!" Two bayonets snapped down, crossing in front of the entrance and effectively stopping his advance.
"Identify yourself," one of the guards said sharply.
Jon studied the soldiers through his lashes. He didn't recognize either of them. They were young, enthusiastic, and more than a bit edgy, the kind who were always a bit too quick to fire. His muscles tightened, but he made himself relax.
"Hello," he said in his most friendly tone.
"Who are you?"
"Lieutenant Leighton."
"Lieutenant... Lieutenant Leighton, did you say?" The guard narrowed his eyes and glared at Jon.
"Yes."
The guard who'd asked the questions redirected his bayonet. It hovered slightly above Jon's waist.
"You've been missing for nearly a week."
"That long?"
"What happened to you?" the guard demanded.
Jon grinned casually. "Tell Cap'n."
"Tell me where you were."
"Tell Cap'n," Jon repeated. The bayonet was just a little too close for comfort, and it took all the self-control Jon could muster not to reach out and relieve the guard of his weapon. It would be simple enough; the young man's grip was too loose.
The guard hesitated, then glanced at the other guard and jerked his head toward Jon. "Watch him." He snapped open the door of the building and disappeared inside.
Jon turned his attention to the other guard, who, so far, hadn't uttered a word. "Hello. I'm Jon."
This one blinked and fingered the stock of his musket. "Quiet," he ordered.
"Your name?" Jon asked.
The guard simply stared at him. This one took his job just as seriously, it seemed. Jon had hoped to strike up a bit of a conversation and find out if he'd missed much while he was gone. With any luck, he also would have gotten a hint of what his disappearance had been attributed to, but it didn't look as if he was going to get much out of this man.
Jon smiled, slouched, and settled in to wait.
***
Captain Livingston frowned down at the dispatch. He shuffled the papers, then tapped irritably on the polished, gleaming dark wood of the desktop.
A traitor. By God, they thought there was a traitor, in his company! It was patently absurd. All his men were loyal.
He straightened his wig and settled back into the blood red leather chair. He looked around the familiar room that served as his office. Furnished in leather and dark wood, accented with brass and a few really lovely carpets, it was an adequate office for a captain, he supposed. A bit small, but it would suffice. Certainly it was a tremendous improvement over the pitiful conditions at that awful fort. Thank heavens his superiors had the good sense to call him back to the city where he belonged. Although Boston barely deserved the title of city, being unable to hold a wick, much less a candle, to London, he could work here. He knew his duty.
And now there was the affront of this dispatch. They'd been investigating his company for months now—months!—and they hadn't told him. It had taken them that long to verify that he himself wasn't the traitor. He would have laughed at the absurdity of it if it hadn't been so insulting. They'd told him they had an agent working in his company, but they wouldn't tell him who it was. Only that the captain had been cleared, and the agent would continue to work to uncover the traitor. Complete effrontery!
The entire thing was almost beyond bearing. He realigned the inkpot, quill, and papers until his desk satisfied his sense of order. The entire task in the colonies had been bungled almost from the beginning. The politicians in Britain clearly had no idea how to deal with the rebels.
He had plenty of ideas, by God. These colonists were simply waiting to be led. But prodding them and giving them ultimatums merely fueled their rebelliousness.
Yes, if he'd been consulted, there wouldn't have been the awful, humiliating slaughter at Bunker Hill. It didn't matter that they had ultimately won the hill and the day; their losses were too great for any but one who hadn't been there to claim victory.
And now they were penned in this town, surrounded on all sides by a force of vastly superior numbers, if completely inferior character and tr
aining. He'd lost the best sergeant he'd ever had, and the replacement troops were raw and ill-prepared. And that idiot lieutenant had somehow managed to get himself lost in the bargain!
Sighing, he rose from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back, and began to pace. There had to be a way to bring the new troops up to scratch more quickly.
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. Heavens, he hated it when he was disturbed. Didn't people know when he was contemplating?
"Enter," he called sharply.
The door creaked open and a head popped around it. It was one of those new ones—Herrington? Something like that. The boy was anxious to please, but he had the most confounded difficulty remembering orders. Livingston had set him to guarding the front door. That much, he'd thought, the private would be able to handle.
"What is it?"
The soldier's round face flushed. "Ah, there's a man, sir. At the door." His voice rose to a squeak. "He, ah, he says he's Lieutenant Leighton, sir."
"Lieutenant Leighton? Well, is it, man?"
"I don't know, sir. He's, ah, he's rather large, sir."
"That's him! What's his explanation of his absence?"
The young private cleared his throat. "All he'll say, sir, is Tell Cap'n.'"
"That sounds like him." Captain Livingston allowed himself a small smile. "Well, then, send him in."
"Yes, sir." The soldier gave a quick bob of his head and disappeared.
Livingston tugged his cuffs and smoothed his coat as he waited for Leighton. With any other soldier, he could have assumed one of two things: the soldier had deserted or had been captured. With Leighton, however, there were endless possibilities. His horse may have run away with him. He could have fallen into a well. He might have been chasing butterflies. The captain rather found himself looking forward to the Lieutenant's explanation.
A brief knock, and the young private popped in again. "Lieutenant Leighton, sir," he announced.
"Lieutenant Leighton," Livingston said with what he felt was the proper note of joviality. Leighton shuffled in, followed by the young private who, clearly curious, hovered in the background.
"You are dismissed, soldier." Livingston gave the young man a stern look.
"Yes, sir." The private lowered his eyes sheepishly and backed out of the room.
"Now, then." Livingston clapped Jon on the back and indicated a nearby chair. "Sit down, sit down." He seated himself behind the desk, braced his arms on the top, and leaned forward, frowning. "You're out of uniform, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir." Jon fiddled with the bottom of his leather jerkin.
"I hope you have an explanation."
"Yes, sir."
Livingston furrowed his brow. "Let's have it, then."
"Got shot."
"Shot? Again?" Dubious, the captain looked Jon up and down. The lieutenant looked healthy enough, but then again, he'd always had the constitution of a draft horse.
"On free night, was walking. Got lost."
Lost again. Clearly he needed to assign a keeper to Leighton, although he hardly had the manpower to spare anyone. Still, it might be a good job for that Herrington fellow.
"Ran into American sentries. Told me to stop." Jon pursed his lips. "Didn't want to get captured."
"Of course not."
"So I ran. Shot me."
"So they captured you, then? How'd you get away?" He wouldn't have thought Leighton could have managed an escape. More likely, the Americans let him go after he'd destroyed half of their camp. Probably thought it would make a more effective weapon to turn him back on the British.
"Didn't catch me." Jon grinned widely. "Run fast."
"Where have you been? You've been gone nearly a week."
"A week?" The lieutenant looked confused. Too difficult a concept for him, obviously. "Didn't know. Was sick some, I guess."
"Have you had a doctor look at your injury, Leighton?"
"Not yet. Took good care of me."
"Who?"
"Tories. Found me, took care of me till ready to come back." He shrugged. "Better. Come back."
"Yes." Livingston was vaguely disappointed. He'd expected the tale to be slightly more entertaining. "That's it, then? Nothing else?"
"No." Jon looked crestfallen. "Sorry."
"No matter. Who were the people who cared for you? We must thank them properly."
"They were, ah, Williams? Wilson? Ah, Winston?" Jon's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Wilkins?"
"Never mind. Certainly you remember where they lived?"
Jon brightened. "That way." He waved west. "Somewhere."
Livingston sighed. "Perhaps you'd best go have your wound attended to before we continue this conversation."
"Yes, sir." Jon jumped to his feet, bumping the nearest table and rattling the fine porcelain tea set displayed on it. He quickly skittered aside and backed toward the door. "Sorry, sir. Go see doctor now, Cap'n."
Livingston closed his eyes gratefully when Leighton slammed the door behind him. He must remember not to interview Jon in his office again. He had no desire to see the place wrecked.
Nearly a week, and the man could only remember the slightest bits about where he'd been. But then, he didn't seem to know where he was half the time.
Livingston sat up sharply. It wasn't the first time Leighton had disappeared and no one had known where he'd gone to. It had only been for brief periods of time before, and they'd all simply assumed he'd wandered off and gotten lost again. But what if there was more to it? What if he was meeting someone?
It was completely ridiculous. The man didn't have the mental capacity of a field mouse. More, he'd found Jon on the battlefield, holding the body of Sergeant Hitchcock. His grief had been genuine; Livingston was sure of that much. He'd seen enough grief in his years as a soldier to know it at a glance. That look—the shock and emptiness—in Leighton's eyes couldn't be faked. It certainly wasn't the triumph of a man who'd witnessed the death of an enemy.
Livingston hadn't known Jon before his accident. He'd heard how intelligent and clever Jon had been before he'd had his brains bashed in by a horse, but Livingston had always assumed that that "brilliance" was only in contrast to what Jon was now. But what if he'd been truly ingenious? Enough to pull off a ruse like this?
It was utterly, absolutely absurd.
But so, then, was having a spy in his company.
CHAPTER 25
"Excuse me, sir, but would you be Jon?"
Jon bit down an oath and turned to the woman who'd followed him from the potter's. He'd spent more time than he had to spare in the shop, feigning an interest in dishes, mugs, and bean pots, all the while trying to delicately probe for any information about the peddler. This was his last contact, damn it, and he'd come up empty again. He didn't have the time nor the patience to listen to this little bird of a woman, whose hands fluttered in the air like a hummingbird's wings.
It was getting more and more difficult to keep the grin plastered on his face. "Yeah," he replied.
She peered at him carefully, her bright little eyes peeking out from under a snowy cap and a fringe of equally white hair.
"The peddler told me to expect you."
"The peddler?" he asked cautiously.
She nodded.
"You know the peddler. Why didn't you say anything inside?"
"I know the peddler. I didn't say me husband did."
"But—"
"No one pays much attention to a frail old lady, sir."
He looked at her more closely, noting the glint of determination in her eyes. "It could be useful, I suppose."
"Yes." She patted her lacy cap. "He left you a message."
"A message?"
"Yes. Said he thought he was being watched. Thought it was best to get out of town, quickly."
"Yes," Jon said thoughtfully. "I'm sure he was right."
She peered at him. "Something you might consider yourself, sir."
"Perhaps I should. However, it's not something I'm able to do j
ust yet."
She straightened her spine, and her air of fragility disappeared. "Yes, sir. Some of us have more work to do, don't we?"
He tipped his tricorn. "That we do."
After the little woman had disappeared back inside the shop, he began the trek back to the common.
Damn, damn! The peddler had been his last hope. All his contacts had evaporated as if they'd never even existed.
The intelligence operation was completely compartmentalized: if someone was caught, the number of others that agent could identify was severely limited. Unfortunately, it also meant that in this situation Jon had no idea whom to contact. He knew only the limited number of people he'd worked directly with, and they'd all disappeared.
That left him few options. He had information that had to get through, and the only way to be sure it got into the proper hands was to deliver it directly to Washington, who'd recently been appointed to head the colonial troops.
How? Now there was a problem. There was simply no disguise he could think of that would allow him to slip through two lines of sentries, through an entire camp, into the general's headquarters, and back out again without being detected. Even he wasn't that good.
Jon absently kicked a rotting apple out of his way and turned into a quiet side street, taking the long way to return to the common. He needed the walk, the time to think, before he had to be back on his guard when he returned to his company.
A bank of clouds had rolled in, blotting out the sun, and the narrow street was dim and cool, hedged with buildings and smelling of horses. He consciously slowed his steps to a shuffle.
There had to be a way to get the information through, there just had to be. And he would find it—but not before he'd attached a small additional note of his own.
***
Nibbling on a bit of cheese and the fresh bread she'd baked that morning, Bennie watched the small creek meander by. Its surface was dappled with the sunlight that filtered through the lush leaves of the trees, and dragonflies lazily flitted from reed to reed in the marshy area by the opposite bank.
She leaned back, letting the breeze caress her face. It was quiet here, as if the lush vegetation absorbed superfluous sound. She enjoyed the calm, something that had been so absent from her life for too long. The tension and the worry that surrounded the Eel and New Wexford frazzled her nerves and left her inexplicably convinced that something even worse was going to happen at any minute.
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