by Ron Carter
At ten minutes past ten o’clock a private rapped on his door. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, here’s the address you requested.”
McMullen waived off the private, opened the envelope, read the brief writing, tossed it on his desk, and called, “Orderly!”
Buck sergeant Aaron Brewster, tall, angular, rawboned, walrus mustache bristling, entered immediately and stood like a statue to stare at the crossed swords on the wall behind McMullen. “You called, sir?”
“In that envelope is a name and address of a colonial woman employed by the laundry detail. Find out what you can about her and make a written report.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. The report is to be strictly confidential. No one is to know. Have it on my desk in two days. That is all.”
“Very good, sir.” Sergeant Brewster spun and marched from the office, heels clicking on the clean, polished hardwood floor.
By noon the deep purple clouds had sealed out all sunlight and settled, and the air was still, humid. The first wind stirred the trees shortly after one o’clock, and by two o’clock the higher branches were leaning to the north and citizens were clinging to their hats. At two-thirty the first great drops of rain came slanting, and by three o’clock the cobblestone streets of Boston were swamped and everyone not under cover was drenched.
Major McMullen stood in his office staring out the rain-streaked window, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the steady hum of wind and pelting of rain. He turned back to his desk, sat in his leather-covered chair for a moment, rose again, and paced, restless, agitated.
Thorpe. Thorpe. Where have I heard it? It’s right there and it won’t come back.
The storm broke in the night, and by eight o’clock the morning sun was raising steam from the puddles and the mud. Major McMullen left the officers’ mess and carefully picked his way to the laundry building, walking casually, appearing uninterested in the drudgery of scrubbing and hanging endless bedsheets and underwear, while his eyes darted, seeking the tall form of Kathleen. He slowed when he saw her, and for a moment his breathing constricted, and he licked his lips. Then he picked up the pace and arrived at the sentry post while she was yet fifty yards distant. The two corporals were intent on checking the midnight crew out and the morning crew in. The one with the musket snapped to attention when he saw McMullen.
“Sir, can I help the major?”
“Yes. May I see that roster? It appears two names may be incorrect.”
Startled, the corporal with the roster handed it to McMullen, while the disgruntled civilians murmured and waited. McMullen stared at the page while he waited, covertly watching Kathleen approach. Her form, her movements, her dark eyes, dark hair—he felt his breathing constrict again.
She stopped in the growing crowd of workers, waiting, wondering, and McMullen suddenly raised his head and scanned the throng as though looking for someone. His eyes came to Kathleen’s, and for a brief moment they locked, and then McMullen handed the roster back to the corporal.
“Thank you, Corporal. The names you have appear to be correct. Carry on.”
Through the morning the image of the dark hair and the dark eyes and the way she moved rose to distract him, and again and again he felt the heady excitement, the grab in his chest. Kathleen Thorpe. Thorpe. At two-thirty he rose from his desk, agitated, searching, forcing his thoughts.
Where have I heard Thorpe? Where? Where? His compulsion for completeness, for control, for having all things resolved and in place, was driving him, would not let go. At four forty-five he suddenly looked up, dropped a file, and slapped the desktop with his open hand.
Of course! The colonials—Thorpe! Banished! Could it be . . . ? He ran to the door and threw it wide and nearly shouted, “Orderly!”
Sergeant Brewster jerked violently, and his pen and inkwell skittered across his desktop as he leaped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t the colonials lately banish a man named Thorpe?”
Brewster pursed his mouth for a moment while he thought. “I believe that is so, sir.”
“Could that man be related to the girl, the one I asked about?”
“Possible, sir.”
“When will you have your report prepared?”
“I get the last information at six o’clock, sir, just before evening mess. I’ll work on it tonight, and it will be on your desk tomorrow morning at seven o’clock as ordered, sir.”
“See that it is! Tomorrow is Saturday, and this will not wait until Monday.”
“Yes, sir. If I might ask, sir, wot’s this girl done?”
“That’s confidential.”
“Yes, sir.”
McMullen retreated into his office and closed the door, and Brewster waited until he heard him sit down at his desk.
“Confidential!” Brewster snorted under his breath. “In a pig’s eye! Humph.”
At two o’clock a.m. a steady breeze set in, and with it came more storm clouds, blotting out the stars from east to west as they moved inland from the Atlantic. Shortly after five a.m. the eastern cloud banks lightened from deep purple to gray; there was no sunrise. The air was suffocating.
At six-thirty a.m. McMullen walked the gravelled paths around the perimeter of the compound, stepping carefully to avoid spotting his impeccable boots with mud remaining from the previous storm, and slowed when he came to the laundry building, eyes darting as he searched, and then he saw her. He hesitated and felt the tightening in his chest as he stared at her. He passed slowly, watching her every move, every expression, his mouth twitching, eyes glowing, and then continued on to the officers’ mess. At seven-fifteen he walked into the anteroom of his office, and Brewster rose to attention.
“Your report?”
“On your desk, sir.” Brewster’s back was ramrod straight, eyes locked on the cracking plaster of the wall behind McMullen.
McMullen marched through his door, slammed it, snatched the sealed envelope from his desktop, ripped it open, and read it twice. Then he tossed it back onto his desktop and barged back into the anteroom.
“When the night shift leaves the laundry in a few minutes, bring that girl here to my office. Do you understand?”
Brewster’s eyes popped. “Here, sir? Under what authority? She’s civilian.”
“Enemy civilian, Sergeant. Suspicion of spying.”
Brewster blinked. “Spying, sir? In the laundry?”
McMullen leaned forward, his mouth became ugly, and he jabbed a stubby finger at Brewster. “Bring her!”
Brewster recoiled. “Yes, sir!”
At ten minutes past eight o’clock Kathleen stopped at the gate and showed her name card to the corporal with the roster and he ran his finger down the page when the crisp command came from behind.
“Ma’am, you are to come with me.”
The corporal’s head jerked up, and he stared into the face of Sergeant Brewster, standing at full attention, chin up, eyes fierce, mustache bristling.
Kathleen turned and flinched in surprise. “Me? You want me to come with you?”
“Immediately.”
“I . . . Who are you? What is this about?”
“Sergeant Aaron Brewster, orderly for Major Avery R. McMullen.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Kathleen stammered. “For what reason?”
“He will explain that, ma’am. Come along, or I will order the corporal to assist.” Brewster gestured to the corporal with the musket and bayonet.
Kathleen backed up one step. She was damp from perspiration. Her hands were wrinkled, drying, and small specks of blood were beginning to show at the cracks in her palms. Her legs ached, her back was alive with pain, and she felt light-headed. She was drained, empty, and she could endure no more, had nothing else to give. Her face flushed and her eyes flashed. “I don’t know what this is about, and I’m not going with you until I do. I’m going home.”
Brewster gestured to the corporal, who moved before Kathleen did and stopped three feet in
front of her, musket held at the ready.
“Very well,” Brewster said. “If you insist on knowing, Major McMullen wishes to question you about spying.”
Both corporals were incredulous, and Kathleen’s head thrust forward in utter surprise. “Spying? Me? How? When? Spying on whom?”
“Will you come peacefully or under armed guard?”
Kathleen stared at the corporal standing before her for long moments while her mind recovered from the numbness, and then she looked back at Brewster and her shoulders slumped. “Peacefully.”
Five minutes later Brewster rapped on the office door marked “Major McMullen.”
McMullen settled onto his great leather chair, tossed Brewster’s report onto the center of his desk, assumed a casual expression, and said, “Enter.”
The door opened and Brewster announced, “Miss Kathleen Thorpe, as you requested, sir.”
McMullen leaned back. “Show her in.”
Brewster stepped aside, and Kathleen cautiously walked three paces into the room to stand six feet from the front of McMullen’s massive polished oak desk.
McMullen did not rise. He casually gestured to Brewster. “That will be all, Sergeant,” and Brewster closed the door as he left.
Kathleen stood stock-still, studying McMullen, waiting for him to speak. She saw the immaculate hands, the snowy starched shirtfront, and the lace at his throat. His forehead was high, nose broad, mouth pinched. She looked into his eyes and they were inscrutable, and she felt a shudder.
“Please be seated,” McMullen said softly, and Kathleen sat on a straight-backed upholstered chair facing his desk, and she noticed the sky-blue silk covering as she waited. He leaned forward to study the top sheet of the report.
Silence held for thirty seconds before McMullen raised his eyes. “Miss Kathleen Thorpe, I presume,” he said. His smile was mechanical, a mask.
“Yes.”
“I trust the sergeant did not mistreat you.”
“Why am I here?” Her manner was direct, blunt.
He sighed and tapped the paperwork with his index finger, and his eyes narrowed. “It appears you have been engaged in some questionable activities on this base.”
“Working at the laundry is questionable?”
McMullen smiled condescendingly and shook his head. “It isn’t.”
“Then what have I done?”
“It seems you have been secretly inquiring about the officers on the base.” He leaned back, smiling slightly as he toyed with her.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” Again he waited.
“No. I do not.”
“Is it true you inquired about Captain Richard Buchanan?”
Kathleen’s face clouded for a split second as she remembered. “That? Yes, I did. For a friend.”
“A friend?” He attempted a smile. “Convenient. What did your friend want to know?”
“If he’s alive or dead.”
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is your friend?”
“Just a friend.”
“Male or female?”
Kathleen’s eyes narrowed in anger and disgust. “Just a friend.”
McMullen smiled broadly, and rose and walked to the window to stare outside at the confusion of people in the compound. He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked back to his chair. “It will be so much better if you would simply tell me. We’ll find out anyway, you know.”
Kathleen remained silent.
McMullen shrugged and his eyebrows peaked as if in pain. “I dislike the thoughts of arresting you. What would become of your family?”
Kathleen started. “What about my family?”
“Your father gone, your family dependent on you. Most unfortunate.”
She tensed. “How do you know these things?”
He looked surprised. “It’s my business to know.”
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Just a simple explanation of your interest in the officers on this base.”
“I told you. A friend wanted to know if Captain Buchanan had died. That’s all.”
“Who was the friend, and why was that information wanted?”
“I don’t know.”
“You refuse to explain?”
“I know nothing more than what I’ve told you.”
He settled back into his chair and sat in silence for long moments, reading from Brewster’s report, letting Kathleen wait. Finally he raised his eyes to hers.
“I find myself in a hurtful position,” he said quietly. “I have no desire to harm you, but I have my duty and I cannot ignore it. I need answers and I must get them, agreeably if possible, disagreeably if necessary. I regret that, but there’s little I can do about it. Do you understand?”
Kathleen suddenly stood. “I’m going home. I’ve worked all night and I’m tired, and I have people to take care of.”
He raised a hand. “Please sit down. I’ve been thinking. Perhaps there’s a way to handle this.”
Kathleen slowly settled back onto the front edge of the chair, waiting.
“I see no urgent need to conclude this investigation immediately,” he said. “Perhaps I could be persuaded to take some time. Do it thoroughly.”
Kathleen remained silent.
“May I make a suggestion? Go home and think it over until you report back for work Monday night. When you finish your shift Tuesday morning, Sergeant Brewster will escort you back here. Maybe that will give you enough time to think of a way you can persuade me to take more time with this investigation.” He paused until she looked him in the eyes. “And, it is possible I could find much more appropriate work for you on this base than scrubbing soiled laundry, if you could persuade me. Much more appropriate.”
For the first time his eyes were unveiled, frank, filled with lust.
For a split second Kathleen did not understand, and then the full implication exploded in her brain and she bolted to her feet. In two strides she was at his desk front and her clenched fist slammed down.
“You filthy animal!” Her words echoed off the walls and her eyes were like glowing coals. “You’re insane!” She turned and strode to the door, threw it open, marched past a gaping Sergeant Brewster, jerked open the anteroom door, and crossed the compound without looking back.
McMullen waited until she was gone before he sauntered out to Brewster in the anteroom, smiling. “She’ll do a little thinking over the weekend, and Tuesday morning she’ll be more agreeable. Bring her back then.”
Kathleen worked her way through backstreets, marching ramrod straight, mouth set, eyes blazing with outrage. She was three blocks from home before the first stir of hot breeze moved leaves in the trees, and she was rounding the corner of the last block before her chin began to tremble. She hurried through the gate and stopped at the front door, where she drew and released a great breath, closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself, and walked in.
“Kathleen, is that you?” came the muffled call from Phoebe’s bedroom.
“Coming,” Kathleen answered and walked to her room. Phoebe was still in bed in her nightgown, the children sitting on top of the great goose-down comforter.
Phoebe exhaled. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!”
“The British were looking for spies at the base. It took a little time. I’ll change and get breakfast.”
At ten-thirty, Billy Weems opened the front door of his home and cast a squinted eye at the heavy purple overcast. The rising wind moaned in the trees, and he waited for a moment to see if raindrops had begun.
Dorothy called, “Where are you going?”
“To see Kathleen.”
“About what?”
“For Brigitte.”
“About that British officer?”
“Yes.”
Dorothy shook her head. “Only trouble can come from that. Take your rain cape.”
The wind was rising, and before Billy opened the gate to the Thorpe home, he was holding his hat jammed onto his head. Kathleen met him at the door.
“Billy, come in.”
“Getting fierce out there,” he said, smiling. He could hear the children quietly playing in the hallway. “How is Phoebe?”
“Asleep.”
“How are you?” Only then did he notice the dead look in her eyes. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong.” He saw the slight tremor in her chin, and she swallowed.
“Sit down.”
Facing him in a chair, Kathleen worked a handkerchief with her hands, folding and refolding it, eyes downcast, as she spoke. Neither of them was aware when the door into Phoebe’s bedroom silently opened and she walked softly down the hall in her woolen slippers, toward the sound of the voices, and stopped two feet short of the archway, mesmerized by the story her daughter was quietly relating to Billy.
Kathleen’s first silent tears came, and she wiped them with the handkerchief and continued. Billy listened without moving until he learned the reason McMullen had ordered Kathleen into his office, and he reared back in his chair, holding his anger until she finished.
“Tell this to the reverend!” he blurted. “He’ll know what to do.”
Kathleen shook her head. “No one will care. My name is Thorpe. It was my father who was banished.”
“People will care!” Billy exclaimed. “You can’t ignore it. We’ve got to do something!”
Kathleen drew a resolute breath and brought her eyes to Billy’s. “I can do nothing. I must have that work at the laundry. Without the money, the children will not eat.”
He saw the fear and the defeat and the desolation in her eyes, and it reached to touch him like something alive, and it struck pain into his heart.
Neither of them heard the silent movement as Phoebe retraced her steps to the library, where Henry’s large desk and array of medical books had been untouched for three months. She sat in Henry’s large overstuffed chair and drew a piece of his professional stationery before her, reached for quill and inkwell, and began.