Caesar felt like he had seen a ghost, or worse.
“Where is he?”
“I have him with my lads at our fire. I didn’t want him to talk. He asked to see you.”
Caesar nodded grimly. The implications were obvious, because the rebels spent so much effort moving spies and messengers in and out of Philadelphia. He could see that Fowver was as disturbed as he was himself. He had the added complication of being in love with the man’s daughter, and he tried to imagine White, either White, spying for the enemy. It made him sick.
“I’ll come. Hey, Horton,” Caesar called to the sentry. The boy came at the run.
“You boil this water and make tea, and come get me when it’s ready, and I might forget I caught you asleep.”
“Yes, sir!”
Caesar followed Fowver along the line of fires, thinking dark thoughts.
If he expected Reverend White to show fear at his approach, he was very mistaken.
“Good evening, Sergeant Caesar,” he said gravely.
“Good evening, Reverend.” Caesar bowed a little. “You understand that we have to question you, Reverend?”
“I do.”
“Can you explain what you were doing in the wastes between the armies?” Caesar began to examine him. Marcus White was not dressed in the threadbare garments of a preacher of the gospel, but in a filthy red waistcoat and leather breeches that had seen a great many farmyards, tucked into heavy boots. It was the costume of a poor laborer. It didn’t look like anything that Marcus White should own.
“I cannot, sir, except to say that I have many souls to minister to, and not all of them can be visited in a black coat or by the full light of day.”
Caesar bowed again.
“Reverend, I understand that, and yet I am charged with taking any man I find between the lines.” He turned to Fowver. “Anyone with him or around him? Did he have anything on him?”
Fowver shifted his eyes a little, uncomfortable.
“I didn’t search him,” he said.
Marcus White stared into his eyes for a moment. It was a look of mingled reproach and question. Caesar succumbed.
“Leave us alone for a moment, Ben,” he said, and Fowver moved away.
“Take me direct to Lord Howe,” Marcus said. “Don’t make a fuss of it, but take me yourself. If a fuss is made, it might ruin everything.”
“And you will not tell me what it might ruin.”
White shook his head.
“These are not my secrets, Julius Caesar.”
“Now?”
“Better than the whole camp knowing I was here.”
Caesar shook his head.
“This is not the city, Reverend. I have to take men with me if I go back. I’m not risking capture out here by going alone, and you know what happens to our kind if they are taken. Do you still want to go if I take a party?”
“I understand your concern. I’m more worried about too many knowing my secrets than I am about capture.”
Caesar nodded. White seemed very cool. He motioned to Fowver, who brought him the steaming kettle of tea.
He drank a cup gratefully, then handed the little wooden cup, filled to the brim, to White, who drank greedily in his turn.
“Sergeant Fowver,” he said formally, “I am handing the command of the company to you until Mr. Martin rejoins in the morning. I am taking this gentleman back to the city immediately.”
Fowver nodded.
“I’ll need two files of men, and as yours are still dressed, I’ll take them.” He motioned to four privates and saw from their weary resignation that they understood. He examined their muskets and then checked their haversacks for food.
“Bad news is, you get to walk all night. Good news is, you get to sleep warm tomorrow.”
He sensed he was in for a lot of grumbling, but he wanted to do some of his own.
They had to cross seven miles of snowy roads and pass two lines of pickets to get back into the city. It was a dark night, and the going was slow, as every farm corner seemed like a turn in the road, and there were no signs to help them on their way. For a while they followed the tracks of a party of mounted dragoons who had visited them during the day, but then other horses joined and left the track and they could no longer rely on the clear horse trail. The moon came out from behind clouds and the night grew colder, but the men were warm as long as they kept moving. White was silent, and Caesar tried to read his soul and felt bad for it. He wanted White to prove himself good, but he couldn’t help but feel that the man had wanted him to take him to Philadelphia alone, or that he was still hoping for a lucky rescue. He couldn’t imagine what was behind that stoical face. Reverend White just kept walking, his head always up, glancing about him with interest even in the dark.
They took a wrong turn at some point and walked a mile before Caesar realized they were going east, straight into the rebel lines, and he turned them around and walked them back until he could see their old tracks and the little drift of new snow that had put them off the main road. They climbed the drift, tired and deeply cold now, and walked north. There was no more grumbling. The four men who had been out all day with Fowver were deeply tired, and Caesar, who had walked posts and watched woodcutters for two straight days, was catching himself asleep from time to time even as he walked. Marcus White just kept walking, silent, careful, and watching all that they did with what appeared as a happy curiosity.
The challenge of the Fortieth Regiment sentry was a welcome, and they thawed at the fire for a few moments before starting the home stretch into the city. Caesar watched White more attentively, afraid that the man might bolt or attempt an attack, but his demeanor never changed. It didn’t change at the second sentry line, where the sergeant of the guard showed some suspicion about the lot of them, or in the streets of the city, just waking as the first carts of the day rolled to the market. Caesar almost led the man home, and his heart was rising in unease as they approached the army headquarters, but he marched his charge to the headquarters guard and passed him into their care. He was not encouraged to wait, or give his version of the story, and he explained himself to Lieutenant Crawford at the barracks and went to sleep, exhausted and quite concerned.
John Julius Stewart sat in Sally’s parlor and read his latest letter from Miss McLean with mingled senses of guilt and unreality. She belonged to another world from this, one where the war did not drag on, where he did not have a black mistress and a group of hard-living libertine friends and a growing mountain of debts to affront his father. It almost didn’t seem to matter that she missed him, or rather, he so doubted that he would ever see her again that it seemed unfair to worry about such trivialities. He was introspective enough to dislike these excuses he heard in his mind, and he turned her letter in his hands and tried to see her.
Sally was standing in the doorway of her chamber, a fire filling the grate of her fireplace and warming her as she combed out her carefully straightened hair. She was modestly dressed in a good print jacket and and warm quilted petticoat, and her face had no hint of the makeup she might have worn in New York. Philadelphia was a different place, and although the British officers might play libertines in its Quaker streets, a woman who didn’t want her clothes spoiled or worse took care. Sally took care.
She watched Stewart with tolerance and amusement. He was dressed to go out, in a long civilian coat of plush and a fancy waistcoat. Jeremy said he’d be at the theater half the night, which he often was. She wished she could go, the more so because Polly was sometimes there and other girls who had followed the army used it as a place to make their little rendezvous. She missed Polly, who came from time to time with a message from her father. She wanted company, and Stewart seldom offered it.
Jeremy always told her when the letter came, and she didn’t feel any jealousy for an absent rival an ocean away. Stewart wouldn’t keep her forever, but he’d already done fairer by her than any of her previous boys, and while she missed the company of other girls from Mot
her Abbott’s, she didn’t miss the men or the obligations.
Stewart rose and she helped him put a greatcoat over his elegant coat, then straightened him and tugged at his ribbons and his watch fob to make sure he was solidly accoutered. She lacked Jeremy’s expertise with his hair, but she helped him as best she could, patting the stray wisps down and touching up his curls, knowing it was all a waste as the first breeze in the street would set it all awry.
“Enjoy yourself, sir,” she said demurely. He bowed to her, something none of her customers had ever done before she met Stewart.
“Your servant, madam. I doubt I’ll meet any company tonight that I will enjoy as much as this.”
She shook her head and laughed.
“We have a dance lesson tomorrow with Miss Hallam.”
“Just so,” he said with a smile, meaning that he would get up for it even if he had a thick head. She was glad he remembered, as it was her favorite day of the week. He bowed again and kissed her a little, and then went down the stairs, cursing as his sword caught in the narrow entranceway. She heard the bang of the front door and felt the gust of cold air under her own door, and he was gone.
Jeremy arrived at the milliner’s shop later than he intended and he bounded to the door, stopped to check his watch, and saw that a man was just coming down from her rooms. He made a gesture of his mouth in distaste and stood aside, well into the shadows of the little hall where firewood and old furniture was stored at the base of the stairs. The man came down slowly, almost as if he was limping, and as he passed, Jeremy could see that he was a slight man in a bearskin coat, with gray in his hair and a hard face, and white. Not Captain Stewart, at any rate. Silently, he made his moue of distaste again and waited for the interloper to close the outer door before he moved up the stairs.
He had to knock several times before she opened, and then it was not any version of the Sally he knew, neither the bold one nor the saucy one, but a woman beside herself with fear and something darker. She was visibly relieved as soon as she recognized him.
“What is it, Sally?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Nothin’,” she said. “Nothin’. I had a fall.”
“Nonsense, Sally. Who was that man on the stairs?”
She looked away.
“He hit you, didn’t he? Look at me, Sally.”
“Won’t you jus’ give me a minute, honey?” She smiled a little, although her lip trembled. She was making a great effort to master herself. Their evenings together were rare, and she wanted to cry to see it ruined. She liked Jeremy above all men she had ever met, and he was looking at her in a horrible way.
“Sally? Who was he?”
“Does it matter, honey? I ain’t your sister.” She smiled bravely at him. “One man more or less can’t really hurt me.”
He glared at her, and then was suddenly calm.
“Sure, Sally, and I have no right to take you to task for spreading your favors, except that I don’t think the captain would be so understanding.” She nodded. “You don’t need money?” He couldn’t believe it. He wrote his master’s accounts, and he knew what she received.
She bit her lip and tasted a little blood where the man had hit her. She had forgotten that Jeremy would come. She couldn’t think what to tell him. She ached to tell him the truth, and see him look at her with something like admiration, but she couldn’t.
“Take me out?” she asked, making the smile and the half-lidded eyes that led men along so easily.
Jeremy shrugged. “Just as you like, but we’re going where I want to go. Perhaps you’ll learn something by it.” He waited while she cleaned herself up, helped her into a cloak, and they went out into the snow. They walked quite a distance in silence, and her elegant shoes began to hurt her feet. She had walked the roads of the south for too long barefoot to be able to get her feet into pretty shoes comfortably, and that irked her, but frozen, painful feet irked her more.
“Where are you taking us?”
“A tavern,” he said sharply, and kept walking. He took her all the way down to the port, near the river, where merchantmen and a few Royal Navy vessels filled the wharves. The ice on the river was already breaking. They passed several taverns before he led her to one whose appointments suggested that it was for the better class of sailors, with a gilt anchor cut like an officer’s button as its sign.
Sally stopped. “I don’t like taverns,” she said, in bitter memory.
“I won’t sell you, you foolish girl. Just come inside.”
“Black folk ain’t welcome in this sort of place.”
“I drink here often, Sally.” Jeremy looked at her with appraising eyes, and she sensed that he had wanted to bring her here for some time. He led her into the warmth of the place and in a moment she felt her legs flush under her petticoats. She was cold.
The seats by the fire were filled with gentlemen in navy uniforms, or in civilian clothes that failed to hide their true profession. A few army officers were there as well, and some merchant sailors. Jeremy was greeted once, by an officer, and he bowed in return and got them to a table near the door to the kitchen. Sally grew warmer by the moment.
“Do you see?” he said eagerly, once they had been served warm wine.
She shook her head. “They treat you nice,” she agreed. “You speak like a gent and have nice manners, and they don’ know who you might be.”
“Not that, Sally. You are a ninny. Look over there.”
She looked off into the candlelight beyond the fireplace on the other side of the common room. A black man sitting with a big blond man, or perhaps overgrown boy. They were arguing loudly about something.
“Know him?” Jeremy asked.
“The black one? Is he another servant? He sounds like he’s from the Indies.”
Jeremy laughed aloud. At the sound of the laughter, the two men turned and looked at him. The blond boy waved at Jeremy, but the other man rose and bowed to Sally before sitting again. Sally looked into her wine for a moment, thinking that men were all exactly the same, but pleased by the bow nonetheless.
“Sally, he’s an officer. A Lieutenant in the Royal Navy.”
“A black man?”
“The same. Lieutenant James Crease, born a slave in Santo Domingo.”
She drank off her wine.
“Still a man like other men.”
“Don’t be coarse, there’s a good girl. Sally, he’s an officer. Maybe just the first. There’s nothing we can’t do. That’s what I brought you here to see.”
Sally leaned back in her seat and put her face very prettily in one hand.
“Honey, you was never a slave. I was. I was born one.”
He nodded.
“It don’ jus’ pass out of you, honey.” She smiled at him, beautiful in the candlelight even with a growing bruise. She thought to say more, but the black man from the table was suddenly standing by Jeremy and bowing.
“Your servant, sir. Crease, of HMS Apollo.”
Jeremy rose and bowed more deeply.
“Jeremy Green, sir, in service to Captain Stewart.”
“I hope you won’t think me a libertine if I say I stopped here to say that your lady is very beautiful,” Crease said, with another bow. The big blond fellow called something out and waved again. Sally smiled at him, and Jeremy bowed.
“Thank you, sir.”
“My pleasure. Time to shove off, Jack,” he called, and went out.
“Sergeant!”
Caesar awoke to find that it was mid-afternoon and one of the men from the Black Pioneers, another black company, was trying to shake him awake.
“Sergeant!”
Leaden with lack of sleep, he opened an eye. The whole of his straw mattress was warm, gathered around him like the thickest comforter in the world.
“An officer for you, Sergeant. And a young lady.”
He forced himself up.
In ten minutes he was as clean and neat as his backpack could make him. Most of his g
ood shirts were still locked in a trunk at the Moor’s Head in New York, but with what he had to hand and a cup of hot water, he was clean and shaved when he came down the stairs to the guardroom at the front of the barracks house. Lieutenant Crawford was sitting primly with Miss Polly White. They made something of an odd couple, but they fell silent as he entered.
“Sir?”
“I’m to escort you to Colonel Musgrave, Sergeant.” Caesar looked around a little wildly.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not that I know of. Now get a coat and come along.”
The walk wasn’t far, and Colonel Musgrave was brisk. He had a mountain of correspondence in front of him and was busy signing off items for his regimental agent, all on documents with which Caesar was intimately familiar. Caesar took off his hat and bowed, and Musgrave remained as he was, head down and writing steadily for some time. When he looked up, he seemed surprised to find anyone there. Then he smiled.
“Ah, Sergeant Julius Caesar of the Guides. A pleasure, Sergeant. A word about last night, if I may? Your patrol encountered only a member of this army in distress, and rescued him, then brought him back to headquarters. Nothing more. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Caesar had only addressed Colonel Musgrave once in his military career and was daunted by the second attempt.
“You did very well. Glad you showed some spirit in the thing, and glad no harm was done, eh? Here’s a guinea for the men of the patrol, and another for you and the other sergeant. Right? Right, then. Well done. Dismissed.”
Caesar bowed and was shepherded out again by Lieutenant Crawford.
“That mean anything to you, Caesar?” asked Crawford.
Caesar nodded, looking at two guineas in his hand.
“Any idea why I was told to bring Miss White, then?”
She smiled at him and held out a hand.
“I can only hope, sir,” he said. Crawford shook his head. When they were outside, she tugged her hand away.
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