Infinite Loss (Infinite Series, Book 3)

by L. E. Waters

  “I promise to think it over.”

  “Oh, one more thing, sir.” I try to catch him before he closes the door. “Can you please give this letter to Mrs. Arnold, along with this music box. She was terribly fond of it, and I feel so responsible for her anguish.”

  “Of course, Major. Anything else?”

  “Well,” I reach into my desk and pull out another letter, “For my mother—my father’s watch. Please see it gets to her safely.”

  He swallows hard, nods quickly, and leaves the room.

  Chapter 24

  The next day comes and closes, three days pass, and my guards get excited that the British just might be working something out. They all cheer for my release and Arnold’s hopeful demise. On October 2nd, a strange silence settles among the guards. The red sunrise shines through my little window and onto their sullen faces.

  I break the air. “So today is the day?”

  One guard begins sobbing.

  I demand at once, “Leave me until you can show yourself more manly.”

  I eat a large and rich breakfast of eggs, apple-buttered bread, and honeyed-ham sent by Billy, from Washington’s very table. I shave and dress with great care in the selected fine uniform of a British staff officer. I pick up the little portrait of Honora and speak out loud to it, “A promise is a promise.”

  I kiss it and tuck it into my waistcoat pocket where it has lived all this time, beside my last poem. I lay my hat on the table, sit down, and turn to the guards, “I am ready at any moment, gentlemen, to wait on you.”

  I’m surprised to see Smith arrive, and without words, he hands me a small note from Peggy that he intercepted.

  Farewell, I need not say how affectionately.

  The simple sentiment almost gets me to cry, but I push back the hot, eager tears to see Smith holding out his arm for me to take for the walk out. I smile and walk out, hearing the fantastic music and seeing the large detachment of troops outside the prison. I expected people to pelt me with rubbish and curses but, instead, I see somber faces and looks of respect, making it all the harder to keep my composure. I turn to Smith as we stride down the path in the sunlight.

  “One more thing, was Obadiah—”

  Smith smiles. “Your man through and through. I had to pin the missing messages on someone and I couldn’t have him coming along, with his espionage experience.”

  He holds his hands up, and I can’t do anything but laugh. The strangeness of it all. How funny things seem when nothing matters anymore. I pull Smith into a skipping run, pretending to wave and cheer like I’m on parade. Both of us laughing harder than we have ever laughed before, causing tears to come out of our squinted eyes.

  The death march is struck up. Smith catches my eyes yet we continue to stride in gay step.

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “You do know we’re not going to the ballroom, André? Just making sure you have not gone willy-nilly.”

  “Oh, I assure you, I have.” I turn to Smith and, in a happy voice, say, “I am very much surprised to find your troops under such good discipline, and your music is excellent!”

  We approach the hill, and I gasp when I see the masses of people swarming down below. I had no idea what a sensation it has all been until seeing the numbers that came out to see me die. I stride down among them, and they all part quietly to let me through—me, smiling all the way. Smith walks me to the cobbled-stone clearing under low trees, and he gives me back the necklace Peggy had given me for protection. His eyes well up. “I shouldn’t have taken it from you. This all might not have happened.”

  I take it from him gently. “It may still be of some help to me now. Good luck to you, Smith. No hard feelings.”

  He tries to answer, but his voice catches. Smith clears his throat quickly, but no words come out. His last attempt produces the word, “I’m—” before he chokes up once again. He has to turn away and leave the scene.

  I know what he was trying to say.

  I step up the stairs and onto the platform like a dancer taking the stage and bow to each of the officers on horseback. I wait for them to dismount and raise their guns before me. I see one of them stare above my head. My blood freezes when I look up at the unusually high noose. I lose my balance and involuntarily step back.

  “Must I die in this manner?” I call out as if someone would be able to answer me, but I’m answered as all the faces turn uncomfortably down and away.

  “I am reconciled to my fate, but not to the mode.”

  I hold my head up straight as the executioner, with a leather bag tied around his head with eye holes cut out, comes up from the opposite side. Many of the peasants surprise me by booing him as he backs his small cart up under the rope. It’s such a strange thing to know that your death is but moments away—when you feel the healthiest of your whole life. I take a deep breath in, trying to absorb the last moments I will be alive, the last moments my lungs can take in air.

  October 2nd.

  The day I will die.

  How I never wished to be more alive than right now. I feel so ungrateful for every day I spent not feeling this joy simply for life.

  The military drums stop, and I wonder if the execution has been halted. However, the fifes begin a song that I know from the third note—Pachelbel’s Canon.

  I smile and look around for Smith, who I’m sure has set this last gift up for me, but can find him nowhere.

  It’s then that the cart stops backing up toward me, and I decide to quickly and bravely step onto the tailboard. This makes the crowd stir nervously, and many women hide their faces. I put my knee up and lift myself onto the cart. Some women begin crying, and I say to those gentle hearts, “It will be but a momentary pang.”

  This makes the crowd murmur in uneasy ways.

  A colonel stands up on the platform and reads my death sentence, then asks, “Major André, if you have anything to say, you can speak, for you have but short time to live.”

  I simply place my hands on my narrow hips. “I have nothing more to say, gentlemen, but this: you all bear me witness that I meet my fate as a brave man.”

  A wailing carries out over the crowd, oddly, giving me strength.

  Someone claps, slow and loud, and I search the crowd to see where it’s coming from. I spy Smith’s shining face in the center of the crowd, and he begins to whistle rowdily. The clapping spreads and speeds up and a chill runs over every part of my body, ending in my eyes, threatening me with tears.

  Thankfully, the gruesome, greasy executioner hoists his massive body up on the cart, distracting me from showing the emotion that has welled up within me. He comes so close to me I can smell the hops on the foul breath, seeping out from the leather-mouth hole, and he whispers, making darts of spittle hit my cheek,

  “When the epic strain was sung

  The poet by the neck was hung

  And to his cost he finds too late

  The dung-born tribe decides his fate.”

  “Ah, so you read the King’s paper I see. How fitting.”

  I snatch the noose before his dirty hands can and, denying the knave the pleasure, I put it around mine own neck. I pull my handkerchief out of my pocket and tie it around my eyes. Allowing my hands to futilely straighten my collar, I fumble up to the knot and pull it tight on the right side of my neck. My face burns, as the blood quickens in my veins and the rope, although not restraining, by its mere presence makes it hard to swallow.

  The colonel calls out, “His hands must be tied!”

  I let out an exasperated sigh, yank my blindfold down and pull out a second handkerchief. I hand it to the executioner, then bring the cloth back up over my eyes. I can smell Rosey’s glorious scent where she had just rested on it months ago. Both elbows are roughly grabbed and tied tight together. I hear the executioner scale the gallows post to secure the rope and jump down again like a savage. The crowd begins to surge, and the shouts for my mercy increases coming to a crescendo in a dizzying frenzy over their clapping. I attempt to stay a
s still as I can, afraid my knees will buckle, and I try to imagine something that can still my thoughts.

  All I hear is the music—the bittersweet melody reminding me of England; my mother’s smile; Honora laughing in the meadow; Clinton cooing to Rosey; the look on Peggy’s face as she heard the music erupt from my little snuffbox; the love that Smith had in his eyes as he danced with Peggy at Mesquinza.

  I try to disappear into the music, float away with the notes, and detach my spirit from my body before harm befalls—

  The crack of the whip stings my ears, causing me to jump slightly, and the cart leaves without me. Suddenly I’m falling—falling through thick space…and then feel nothing.

  Tenth Life

  Grains of Golden Sand

  Chapter 1

  Mr. Usher, an actor in Ma’s theatrical troupe, props tiny Rosalie up on his lap and takes one of the sandwich squares to her drool-dripped mouth. “Go on,”—he motions to us—“eat up.”

  Henry gives me a cautious look from his indigo eyes and I don’t dare reach for it. “It’s your sandwich, sir.”

  “Ah, come now. I had a giant breakfast, and you’ll all be doing me a favor in helping me finish it. One giant square is plenty for me.”

  I check with Henry and he reaches for both squares, handing me one. The ham slices are as thick as bread, and the glaze slathered on the rind is as sweet as the taffy Pa used to bring home for us when he received a good review. But it’s been a coon’s age since I’ve tasted one of those. It’s been a long time since we’ve even seen Pa.

  Henry and I smack our lips as our sandwiches disappear too soon and, as we both watch jealously, Rosalie takes tiny bites of hers that remain far too long. I point to a smudge of stubborn glaze on his chin. Henry is happy to find a remaining taste, wipes it off with his fingers, and licks them clean. I hope some of the other stage performers will be taking their lunch soon too. You won’t believe the delicacies they bring with them every day and, lucky for Henry, Rosalie, and me, they all have poor appetites and offer us the bits they were going to throw away. Ma always tells us not to beg and to look out for ourselves, but she’s been sick for so long now she doesn’t see what we’re up to.

  “Did you know Edgar was a spy?” Henry says.

  “A spy?” Mr. Usher feigns a gasp. “No! I hope you are on our side.”

  Henry laughs, but I do not. I say, “I was hung by the colonists.”

  Mr. Usher now honestly gasps. “How do you know about colonists?”

  Henry jumps in. “I was a triple agent, and his name was John and he had a little weasel named Rosey for a pet.”

  Mr. Usher relaxes in smile. “Did you hear that Rosalie? They named a weasel after you.” He dots Rosalie on the nose then ruffles my hair with one broad palm. “You have every bit of your mother’s flair for drama. Both of you.”

  His laughter annoys me. “I didn’t name my ferret after Rosalie. I was Major—”

  “She’s asking for the little ones,” the red-lipsticked Mrs. Usher interrupts.

  Mr. Usher sets the delicious sandwich back on his napkin and lifts up little Rosalie. I hoped they might leave me behind and I could finish off those last bites, but when Henry’s chubby hand grabs hold of my wrist, I know the sandwich will be gone by the time we return.

  Mr. Usher follows Mrs. Usher out of the theatre and across the alley into the boarding house where most of the actors live. We clatter up the steep stairs and into the room that has been our home for as long as I can remember. From way before Ma got sick, way before Pa left us, and even before little Rosalie was born. Once, it was filled with smells of dinner, Ma’s singing and Pa performing, but now it’s the place Henry and I run from as soon as we wake up, so we can’t hear Ma’s endless coughing. The room is crowded with actresses. Their faces are drawn, but once they see Henry, Rosalie, and me their lips lift up in pretended smiles. Smiles that make their eyes fill with tears.

  They all leave except the Ushers, and Mrs. Usher takes Rosalie out of the actor’s high arms and sets her beside Ma on the bed. Ma coughs and opens her ever more-closing eyes and beckons Henry and me to her side.

  “Eddy, come closer,” she whispers, trying to hold back her coughing.

  I take another small step and Henry rushes to hold her. He sobs uncontrollably and I wonder what he knows that I don’t. I look to Rosalie, sucking on her hand and see she will be no help.

  “Ma, what’s wrong?”

  A single tear slides from one of her ice-blue eyes, and my stomach lurches, wishing I hadn’t just eaten that scrap of sandwich. Something is very wrong.

  “Look at what a lucky girl I am.” She squeezes Rosalie’s little hand and pats Henry’s heaving back. “I’ve been so blessed to have you precious ones.”

  My eyes widen, trying to take in everything so I can to figure out this moment.

  Henry breaks in, “Ma, you’re getting better right?” He plays with a tendril of her hair.

  She tries to get herself up a bit, but it starts a coughing spasm that always ends in her grabbing for the pink-splotched cloth on her bedside table—the once-white cloth. “Henry, my love, God is sending his angels for me and it’s my time to go—”

  “You’re going to leave us!” Henry cries, upsetting Rosalie now.

  The ham rises in my throat.

  “Ma!” is all I can say and I run to hold onto a piece of her.

  There’s a knock on the door, but I don’t turn around to see who’s come in.

  “Boys—” Ma coughs out as she tries to pull me up. “This is the nice lady who has been bringing suppers for us and the doctor to look in on me.”

  More coughing.

  The lady decides to introduce herself while Ma struggles. “You can call me Fanny.” She seems to only be watching me.

  Ma nudges us during her fit, and we both begrudgingly say hello. The fit ends in a bright red blotch, and I grab again onto Ma as Fanny hurries to get Ma a drink of water and a clean cloth.

  After Ma takes a few small gulps, she thanks Fanny and asks her to fetch her bag, as she tucks the hair from her widow’s peak behind her ears. After digging through, she pulls out a gold necklace and places it around Rosalie’s bonneted head. Rosalie grabs for it with stubby fingers and chews the thick chain with her few teeth. I would’ve expected Ma to scold her, but instead, she smiles and hands Henry a gold pocket watch. “Henry, this was my father’s watch and since you are the oldest you need to keep this safe for me.” She dangles it in the air and it spins like a star in the sky. He stops its twirling and immediately goes to work trying to figure out how to open it.

  She puts something into my hands that fills both of them and, when I look down, I see a tiny painting of her. Her brown hair is long and tied up in ribbons, her face pink and not peaked as it is today. I pull it tight under my chin and she smiles. “As long as you have this painting, you will always have me near.” She also hands me a little painting of a majestic city on the water. I flip it over and finger the mysterious letters on the back. Ma is sent into another coughing fit, causing Fanny and Mrs. Usher to pull us away from the bed and sweep us into another room. If I had known that was the last time I’d see her I would have hugged her one more time.

  Later that day we wait in abnormal quiet for something unknown. The actresses pack up our things and stack them into three little piles. I’ve never seen Henry sit so still, and I keep nudging him to make a move for the door to start our usual adventures, but he keeps answering me with a suddenly adult glare. Henry just sits there with Rosalie on his lap. She tries to grab his long, dark eyelashes and gets frustrated when she can’t take them away in her fat, pincer grasp.

  Fanny returns, out of breath and with her dark hair messy. “All has been seen to. Your Ma will be laid to rest under a beautiful cypress tree and you can come visit her whenever you’d like.” She fixes her large Bonaparte hat on her head, cocked to one side.

  I stare at my fingers, not sure if I like this Fanny lady or not.

  She wal
ks over to my little stack with Ma’s paintings on top and gathers them up under one spindly arm. She holds the other out and flaps it at me. “Come on, little Edgar. We must leave before it gets dark.”

  “Me?” I pull my legs up onto the bed, hoping to put more distance between me and this woman, but she shuffles over, all flustered, and pulls me to my feet.

  “Say goodbye to your brother and sister, Edgar.”

  “Aren’t they coming too?”

  Fanny can’t seem to look at them. “Oh, no. A nice, nice couple will be taking Rosalie, and your grandparents are going to be taking charge of your brother.”

  My grandparents?

  “Why can’t they take me too?” I pull out of her hand and run to Henry. “Henry, tell her I’m staying with you.”

  He stares at me with eyes I’ve never seen before and he doesn’t even need to say more, but he does. “We all have to go to different homes, Eddy. Ma told me so.”

  “But Pa’s coming back soon. Right, Henry? He’ll take care of us.”

  Henry looks to Fanny with some hope, but Fanny reaches me and slowly tears me away from a spot I never wanted to leave.

  “Henry!” I cry, as she closes the door.

  Chapter 2

  “You mustn’t cry anymore. You’ve nearly drenched all my handkerchiefs.”

  I sniffle out, “I want to go home.”

  “That is where we’re headed. Your new home.”

  “I don’t want a new home.”

  “It has been a serendipitous event. Once I saw the article for charity for your sick ma, I knew God was answering the prayer I’ve made for the last five years. A dear, little boy. I knew it as soon as I saw your little black curls and sparkling dark eyes.” She takes my left hand and pats the spot at the base of my littlest finger. “Yes. This feels just right.”

  My eyes begin to fill again.

  “And don’t you worry about Henry and little Rosalie. We’ll be sure to see them again soon. Rosalie’s new family lives in the very same city!”