by Jo Goodman
Jericho, Salem had written, was known of late by a different moniker than the preferred Smith. The troops were given to calling him Saint Smith, not because he acted like one, but because they figured it was only a matter of time before he joined them.
At the same moment that Rae was being encouraged to talk about the days—and nights—she had spent with Jericho on the schooner, Jericho was belly down at the edge of a cropping of trees taking the measure of General Lord Cornwallis's troops camped along the York River. Inadequately camouflaged by the sparse growth about him, Jericho had had to dig a small trench he could lie in while gathering the information Washington needed. His shirt clung to him, damp with his sweat, and his wool jacket was hot, heavy, and smelling like something had wandered up a sleeve and died. His breeches and stockings were soiled from the crawling and digging he had done; his boots felt as if they had all the earth from his trench in them. He was uncomfortable and cramped, weary and cross. And he had dirt under his fingernails. He examined his hands in distaste and swore under his breath. God, he hated dirt under his nails.
Grimacing, he decided Tom Paine had surely been right when he wrote, "These are the times that try men's souls."
Jericho ignored the urge to clean his nails and struggled instead to unfold a small piece of foolscap so he could begin drawing the earthworks and trenches as the redcoats were laying them out. His sketches were meticulous in detail, and while he drew he forgot his miserable position, the danger, and the unrelenting heat. If he felt anything at that time it was satisfaction in knowing that the cherry-red troops all around him were ripe for the picking. Comwallis had chosen a poor location to dig in. Even by taking up two posts, one in York and one on the opposite bank in Gloucester, his army's back was set firmly to the sea. Normally this was a favored position for the English, since they had the mightiest naval power in the world, but not this time, Jericho thought a trifle smugly. This time they would find themselves cut off from their navy by the French, who were on their way from the West Indies, led by Admiral de Grasse.
At least, Jericho hoped that was the case. He was as impatient as General Washington and eight thousand other men for news that the French navy was finally going to lend its support. There were already able French commanders leading troops on land, and Comte de Rochambeau, certain his countrymen would arrive in time to blockade Cornwallis, had put up $20,000 from his own war chest to pay the uneasy patriot troops who could easily be driven to mutiny by their poverty. Washington had gambled on de Grasse's support a few weeks earlier and had left New York to take on Cornwallis.
Jericho continued to sketch, wondering if Rahab knew how close he was to her now. Not that she would care, he assured himself. She would be more interested to know that Salem and Noah traveled with Washington and that Shannon remained in New York with a few thousand colonial regulars to keep Clinton from suspecting the main force was moving 415 miles to the south. Rae and her family would know soon enough what was happening. In a matter of days the population around Yorktown was going to swell dramatically with militia and sailors. Washington planned to make his headquarters in Williamsburg, not far from the McClellans' plantation. The army's presence would not be a secret for long. It was clear from the line of trenches Cornwallis was laying down that he anticipated a heavy and bloody confrontation with the Continental Army.
Jericho carefully folded the map he had made, took off his hat, and slipped the paper into the special lining. Too many spies had been caught with plans in their shoes. Jericho joked that if he were going to hang, at least he had used his head. Gallows humor, the men called it. Saint Smith, they called him. Smiling hollowly as the sun beat down on the bright beacon of his hair, Jericho jammed his hat on his head and lay motionless in the trench, resigned to spending the remaining eight hours of daylight in his earthen coffin until night made it safe to travel.
Saint Smith, he repeated to himself grimly, turning on his back. He closed his eyes and folded his hands on his chest as if testing out the length and breadth of his casket. He hoped death was more comfortable, and he shifted restlessly in response to his morbid thoughts. He supposed it was an improvement on his state of mind that he even recognized his thoughts as morbid. Of late he had played a dangerous game of tag with death, too many times to count. The general had finally demanded to know what he was doing, giving Jericho the severest dressing down he had had since he was a stripling youth.
Jericho could not recall what excuses he made for his careless behavior. Whatever he had said had not approached the truth, because Jericho was not certain he understood that elusive element himself. He knew that his lack of caution, devising risk-filled assignments that only he was reckless enough to take, had begun after he'd said good-bye to Rae. But what he didn't know was why, and more often than not, he avoided thinking about it. Now was no exception. He told himself he needed rest more than introspection, and placing a hand on the musket by his side, he cleared his mind by envisioning the placid surface of a glassy pond. In no time at all he was asleep.
Jericho could not exercise the same control over his sleeping thoughts as he could over his waking ones. It was only a matter of time before the smooth surface of the water developed a few ripples in it, and only a little longer before the ripples took on the shape of a face that was dearer to him than was his conscious desire.
The eyes formed first, alive, deeply green, beckoning him with their teasing, vixen slant. Dark lashes fluttered playfully, mocking a harlot's advances. The slender line of her nose, faintly tilted on the end, took shape next, followed by a familiar sprinkling of freckles that outlined the arch of her cheeks and disappeared into the soft threads of mahogany hair at her temples. She was breathing softly, her dewy lips slightly parted, and Jericho could just make out the pearly edge of her teeth where the tip of her tongue rested nervously. Jericho smiled at the uncertain tilt of her head, the question inherent in her posture, as she returned his steady regard. He did not feel so powerless, knowing she was as off balance as he in the face of their attraction.
He reached for her hand, drawing her from the pool of water. She stepped forward lightly, skin glistening wetly, droplets of water sparkling on her white throat like a choker of perfectly matched diamonds. Her long, tapered fingers gripped his wrist for support as she was pulled inexorably into the safety of his embrace. And that was when Jericho admitted, at least in his dreams, that he loved Rae McClellan. If he had not loved her so well, there would have been nothing safe about the circle of his arms.
He held her slender torso close to his chest, and though her small breasts flattened, he could still feel the hard coral tips of her nipples. As her arms wound about his neck his own hands fell to her buttocks and urged her closer, cradling her in his thighs. They rocked on their feet, mouths fusing in a kiss that was only a sweet prelude to the union desired by their bodies. The tips of Rae's nails caressed his shoulders and followed the light mat of hair on his chest until it led her to the source of his arousal. Without warning her nails scratched him as they traced the path and Jericho growled low, putting some space between them.
"Sheathe your damn claws," he told her harshly, not sure he liked this wildness in Rae. It seemed calculated and hard.
At first there was no response, then a rough voice laughed. "Did you hear that, Dugan? He thinks he's got a cat by the tail!"
"Aye, Zach, but wot kind of cat?" The tip of Dugan's bayonet rested precariously close to Jericho's swollen manhood. He nudged his prey with more gentleness than he had when he had scraped the sharp weapon across Smith's chest. "I'd say our spy 'as been dreaming of a lady cat. And it's rare I seen such a stiff piece wot could pleasure every camp follower we got."
Jericho's dream had vanished, forgotten now as he was presented with a complication he would have liked to avoid. A frisson of fear ran down his spine. Though he did not show it, he was alert to the smallest movements of the two men who stood over him, and if he didn't have much hope of getting the better of them, he wasn't rea
dy to give up either. It was difficult not to tighten his fingers on the musket, especially with a bayonet poised at his privates. It must have been some kind of dream that had put him in such a state and kept him from hearing the advance of the two redcoats. A narrow glance at their cloddish boots told Jericho they had not been especially quiet as they crept up on him.
Zach stood at Jericho's feet and leaned carelessly on the butt of his musket, a simple smile splitting his clean shaven face.
Clearly he was enjoying himself at the expense of the Yankee Doodle. Jericho did not discount him as a threat, but the more dangerous of the two was the man who was prepared to spear him. It was not merely the fatal aim of the bayonet that worried Jericho, but the fact that he was certain he had met Dugan before. And the encounter was not one Dugan was likely to forget, since he had left it the scarred loser. Jericho's shaded blue eyes followed Dugan's thick legs upward, rested briefly on the red coat that did not fit comfortably about Dugan's paunchy middle, and studied the bulky shoulders that had not yet turned to fat. Not by a flicker of his lashes did Jericho allow Dugan to know he was being inspected, yet something gave him away perhaps a quickening of his heartbeat, when he saw Dugan was missing the lobe of his left ear.
Dugan poked him in the thigh. "Looks like we woke 'im from 'is nap," he told Zach. "Get on your feet, man. 'Ands on your 'ead. I'd as lief run you through 'ere, but there are orders for spies to 'ang. An example for the men, don't you know."
Jericho thought then that Dugan did not recognize him, or he would never have been allowed to stand. He came to his feet slowly, almost lazily, careful to give no indication that his fingers itched to reach for the musket or the knife in his boot. "Reckon you fellows caught me out fairly," he drawled, not looking too keenly at Dugan. It had been fifteen years since he had seen him, and then Jericho hadn't been much above fifteen. Still, Dugan was not the forgiving sort, certainly not when he had been bested in front of his shipmates by a mere lad with more good looks than good sense.
"It seems a shame, it does," Zach was saying, "to have to take him back to camp when he's already dug his own grave here. What's your name?" He grinned, as if sharing something hugely funny. "Just so we can set up a proper marker in case we change our minds."
Jericho felt his blood run cold as Dugan answered in his place. "D'you mean you don't recognize 'im from the circulars, Zach?" he scoffed, never taking his eyes from his captive."'E's wanted as a spy, our friend is. Been causin' grief for our troops up and down the coast, 'specially these last few months. I'd thought you'd know from the color of 'is 'air. It's been too long, Smith. Did you think I'd forget your pretty face? I had a mind it was you in the bushes when I spied your yellow 'air. You shouldn't 'ave taken off your 'at. Like as not I'd never 'ave seen you." His eyes darted over Jericho's face, but it was on his countenance that beads of sweat began to form, betraying his nervousness as his anger continued to mount. "You knew me right off, didn't you? Thought I'd never let you up. Had a mind not to, o' course, but then I pictured you swinging from a gibbet, and damn, if that didn't look good to me."
Zach's eyebrows rose, not quite believing his good fortune. "Smith? The Smith? That's who we've got, then?"
"The very one. Ain't that right, Smith?" Dugan poked Jericho with his weapon again and smiled malevolently. "Or do you prefer Geoffrey Hunter-Smythe? As I recall, there was a time you swore that was your name."
"I think I swore I was the Earl of Stanhope, too," Jericho said easily, as if there was no pain in remembering what he wished to forget. "No one believed that, either."
Zach whistled under his breath. "Here, what's this he's saying, Dugan? We've got ourselves a doodle spy who's a bloody lord to boot?"
"Don't start marching in the parade now," Dugan warned him impatiently. "This bloke's no more quality than we are, though he can spin you a pretty tale. We've still got to get 'im back to camp, and 'e's quick as a bead of mercury. 'E's the one wot took my ear all those years ago. 'E don't fight fair."
"Let's put the question to Zach," Jericho said, pretending to ignore Dugan for the moment. "Was an ear too much to take from a man who wanted to bugger me? Has he abandoned young sailors in favor of drummer boys these days?" Jericho's words were calculated to cause confusion, and they succeeded beyond his hopes.
Zach's musket fell to the ground as surprise brought him up sharply, while Dugan forgot caution and lunged at his captive. Jericho sprang aside and grabbed the musket, using the force of Dugan's leap to throw him to the ground and wrest the weapon from him. Zach was bending to recover his musket, opening his mouth at the same time to shout a warning to the camp below, when Jericho clubbed him on the side of the head. He toppled soundlessly to the ground, a narrow streak of blood forming at his temple. Jericho spun as he heard Dugan get clumsily to his feet and try to tackle him. He eluded the heavier man easily, but he feared their noise in the brush would alert more redcoats. He tossed the musket out of Dugan's reach and went for his knife.
"You've slowed a bit," Jericho taunted him. "There was a time when you could have nearly had my ear... and a lot more besides."
"You were a snotty young pup fifteen years ago," Dugan breathed heavily, touching his missing lobe. "You 'aven't changed." He studied Jericho's stance, trying to anticipate his moves, and in his mind's eye he saw the slender youth Jericho had been, dancing before him, eluding him with lightning steps, making a fool of him in front of his mates, who all knew why he wanted the lad. No one really cared that he wanted the boy in his bunk; their thinking was that if he could get Jericho, he could have him. The humiliation of losing his ear had come when he had tried to corner his quarry. Jericho had jumped ship not long after that, and in all the years since Dugan had never been certain what had happened to the boy who had once sworn he was the heir to Stanhope—until now.
As Jericho and Dugan drew wary circles in the undergrowth, Jericho maneuvered his opponent closer to the trench. Uppermost in Jericho's mind was to end the confrontation quickly. Every second delayed meant someone on the fringes of the camp was more likely to glance toward the grassy parapet and see him. He fanned his weapon in front of him, pushing Dugan backward until he teetered on the edge of the trench. Dugan's arms flapped uselessly as he tried to right himself, and Jericho took advantage of his soft, unprotected middle by landing a kick there that drove the breath from Dugan's lungs.
Loose dirt flew from the trench as Dugan's body filled the space with a heavy thud. Before he could recover, Jericho jumped on top of him, straddling his huge belly, and held his knife to Dugan's throat. He hesitated while Dugan blinked helplessly, too stunned to scream for help.
"Awww, what the hell," Jericho muttered, and rather than giving Dugan the steely edge of his knife, he surprised them both by roundhousing his empty fist on the vulnerable area above the man's scarred ear. Dugan blinked once more, then his dazed eyes closed and his head drifted to the side. "I'm gettin' too damn soft," Jericho told himself as he put away the knife. With swift, economical motions, he stripped both men to the uniforms they were born in, covered himself in what he thought would fit best from each man, took back his musket and damaged theirs, and finally buried the remaining clothes. Slipping the map into an inside pocket in his red coat, he said a fond farewell to his discarded cocked hat and tossed it deep into the woods. "Certainly these are the times..."
Whistling softly to himself, Jericho Smith left the edge of the woods and moved freely among the lobsterbacks in Cornwallis's camp. He inspected the earthworks and trenches, observed some of the units drilling, and even availed himself of a little food from the mess. He was still able to leave the camp unnoticed some thirty minutes before two soldiers strode buck naked from the forest and demanded to see Cornwallis himself.
While Dugan and Zach were relating their tale and wrestling with their embarrassment, Jericho found himself in a similarly awkward position. He had waited too long to shed the incriminating red coat, and now three militiamen were marching him triumphantly into the Marquis de La
fayette's headquarters not far from the Cornwallis camp. They had been quick; he'd give them that. He hadn't known they were following his route until they had leaped on him from behind, relieved him of his musket and knife, and upbraided him mercilessly for thinking he could not be seen in a uniform that was a marksman's dream and a soldier's nightmare. His explanation fell on deaf ears, and though part of him was relieved the men did not believe his outrageous adventure, it was nonetheless damn humiliating.
Still, the humor of the situation struck him when he was brought to Lafayette's tent. Jericho had met Washington's trusted major general not long after he had arrived in the colonies. Lafayette was hardly unaware of Jericho's service these last seven years. The young French commander took one look at him trapped neatly between three Yankee ruffians and laughed uproariously.
"Come," he commanded, smiling hugely. "Sit. I must hear zee way of it. Zee general will want to know how it is we captured zis infamous spy. Zen we shall see about zee hanging."
Chapter 6
"'Zen,' he says, 'we shall see about zeeee hanging.'" Jericho finished, grinning at the man across the table. He lifted his tankard of ale to toast the absent marquess, then drank deeply. "I can tell you, Gareth, I wanted to crawl away with my tail between my legs." Jericho supposed the Raleigh Tavern had heard stranger confessions from the planters who had stayed there while Virginia's General Assembly was in session. Of course, it had been a while since the Raleigh had been privy to such stories. Governor Jefferson had made Richmond the capital two years ago. Richmond was a prudent choice, safe and central, as Jefferson said, but it was Williamsburg that had accommodated the beginnings of a revolution. That counted for something with Jericho Smith.