by C. C. Finlay
Proctor stood at attention just as if he were at militia drill. He said, “I can’t promise that. But I am willing to do my part for the patriotic cause.”
“Honestly spoken,” Washington said. A slight smile played at the corner of his lips. He tipped his hat to Deborah, “Ma’am.”
They watched him head away toward the rear guard that protected their retreat. Proctor knew that the situation was quite grim. Still, Washington’s manner was infectious—he made you want to be as calm as he was calm, as confident as he seemed to be.
“Is there anything you need?” their soldier-guide asked. He looked at Proctor differently now.
“Clean water,” Proctor said. “And a bite to eat.”
He knew it was a lot to ask for under these conditions, but the guide promised to see to it immediately and ran off. A short while later he returned with half a canteen of fresh water and two dry oatcakes.
“I’m sorry we can’t spare more,” he said. “If that covers it, then I best go back where I’m needed.”
“Thank you,” Deborah told him.
“Yes,” Proctor said, downing a sip of water. “Thank you.”
“The honor is mine,” the soldier said. He saluted Proctor, and then, without waiting for a response, turned back to the ramparts. He used the butt of his musket to steady himself as he climbed the slippery hillside. The ghost riding his shoulder turned its head and watched Deborah and Proctor as he left.
“What is that about?” Deborah said.
“I’m not sure,” Proctor admitted.
“Do you think Revere told him about The Farm?”
Proctor shrugged. “Maybe he just told him about what I did at Lexington and Concord, and at Bunker Hill.” The truth was, he was proud of his service with the militia. He knew that what they did now was important too, maybe more important. But it galled him sometimes not to be able to serve with the other soldiers.
They went and sat against one of the abandoned cannons, tearing off pieces of the cake and chewing slowly. They passed the canteen back and forth to wash down the dry mouthfuls. If he did not exactly feel his strength returning, Proctor no longer felt so weak. Another group of boats departed, but there were thousands of soldiers still waiting their turn, including Washington and his officers and all the rear guard.
“Deborah?”
“Yes?”
Her voice was distracted. Now that they no longer had to concentrate to keep themselves going, would she collapse again? Would he? “Can we do something?”
She looked up at him, as if this was exactly the question she had feared. “I don’t know what we can do.”
“It has to be clear what the strategy is.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Covenant places this curse on the army at night. The men are filled with fear, demoralized. At daybreak, the British mean to charge over the ramparts and defeat them.”
She nodded her head to the shore, where the men stood in patient, orderly lines. “They don’t look filled with fear or demoralized to me.”
“You know that’s only temporary. They’re so exhausted by the rain and the battle, they can’t sink any lower. And Washington hasn’t rested a moment. He’s everywhere, making sure the men see him, setting an example that they want to follow. The moment he’s out of their sight, the ghosts will do their work.”
She looked away from him, so he stood and walked in front of her.
“You see how long those lines are, how slow they’re moving. Morning will come and British ships will sail up the river, and British troops will march over those walls, and Washington and all his best men will be caught and killed. Can’t we make it rain again? Bring down another storm, just long enough to cover the rest of the retreat? One or two hours is all they need.”
She turned her body away from Proctor. “I’ve got nothing left in me.”
“Tell me how to do it.”
“I … I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He looked at the men waiting in line, the men who were fighting when he didn’t. “I’ll take the risk, whatever it is.”
She shook her head and moved away. When he advanced again, she put up her in hands, prepared to push him away. Some of the soldiers around them were watching closely.
“What are they going to think?” she said to Proctor, indicating the soldiers. “You don’t want to draw attention to us. You don’t want to do that.”
“I want to do something.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing we can do.”
Proctor paced up and down the beach, the mud sucking at his feet. Boat by boat, the soldiers were slowly ferried to safety, but the night was passing rapidly and dawn would come early in the clear skies. The east was starting to brighten. Across the ramparts, from the British lines, came the distant sounds of morning drums. He went back to Deborah. “It’s not enough—they’re not all going to make it.”
She held her hands open, helplessly. “I’ve tried everything I know how to try. I have nothing left inside me right now.”
A low voice whistled behind them. “Hallelujah.”
The speaker was instantly ordered to silence, but his sentiment was shared by others.
A mist was rising. Out on the water, over the boats, settling in around the men waiting their turn. It grew thicker as he watched, until the shore disappeared from Proctor’s view.
A splash sounded as someone missed a step getting into his boat. It was followed by quieter splashes as the boat moved away from shore.
The soldier who had spoken to them before came by. “We’re leaving the wall now, last troops to go,” he whispered, his voice hushed even more by the fog. “It’s a miracle. There wasn’t enough night, but this will keep Black Dick’s ships at anchor and give us a chance to get away.”
Boats ran ashore unexpectedly, several of them at the same time, and voices sorted out positions and began boarding. Proctor and Deborah drifted toward them.
“This is not a natural fog,” Proctor said softly. It was clammy on his skin and made his heart race.
“No, it isn’t,” she agreed.
“Did you do this? By accident, perhaps?”
“No,” she said. “The Covenant did it.”
When she said it, he saw what she meant. The rowboats full of soldiers took a cargo of ghosts with them every time they crossed. The cold from all those spectral bodies drew up fog from the water. The magic itself was drawing up the mist.
“We are saved,” he whispered to Deborah. “And at the same time we are cursed.”
“We can’t cross,” she said.
“Why? Because of the mist?”
“No, because of the curse. We have to stay, we have to find the orphan, and we have to break this curse. This is evil, Proctor. This is evil twice, because it does wrong to the souls of the dead as well as the spirits of the living.”
“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll find the orphan and break the spell.”
Down on the shore, Washington climbed aboard one of the last ferries to leave Brooklyn. He beckoned Deborah to him.
“Here is the seat I promised you,” he said.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” Deborah said. “But my brother and I have decided to stay behind. We have a relation here. Seeing all this death, it only firms us in our conviction to remove our relative from harm. We are sorry if we troubled you tonight.”
She had her arms wrapped tight around her chest. Despite wearing Proctor’s jacket, she shivered so much her teeth chattered.
“Are you sure you wish to remain behind?” Washington asked.
“We are,” Deborah said.
“Then keep an eye out for the British,” Washington said. He regarded Proctor deliberately. “If you’re the patriot I think you are, I’ll expect you to find me and report after you rescue your relation.”
Proctor fought the urge to snap to attention, salute, and say yes, sir. “I’ll do what I can.”
Washington gave him a nod that felt like a salute. With unhurried grac
e, he turned to the boat and spoke with similar deliberation to each man there. A slave in a red turban, a short dark-skinned man built like a cannonball, rode his horse toward the ferry, leading Washington’s sorrel behind. He dismounted on the run, rolling into a smooth walking motion, and led both horses aboard without breaking stride.
It was an amazing feat of horsemanship, Proctor thought. Washington laughed to see it, and the slave returned his laughter with a grin.
The Massachusetts sailors pushed off from shore and began their silent journey across the river.
Deborah stepped close to Proctor, still shivering. “Let’s move away from the water,” she said. “It’s too chilly here for an August morning.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“To break this curse?” she said. “I think we start in Gravesend.”
Gravesend was a collection of houses on a long, low slope overlooking the ocean on the southern shore of the island. When they reached town that day, Proctor and Deborah split up to search for the orphan.
“The best thing we can do is find him within the hour and be on our way,” Proctor said.
“I’ll call on the Lakes,” Deborah said, referring to the Quaker family that had connections with her father. “Maybe I can arrange passage home for us using the highway.”
Hours later, they met again in the main street outside the church. Deborah sat by the side of the road, looking tired and worried. Proctor was worried for her. She lifted her head as he approached. “Did you have any luck?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Proctor said. “Were you able to find your friends the Lakes?”
“No, they’ve left town because of the fighting.” Her face was drawn and desperate. “There’s no one here we can turn to for help.”
“I’m sorry,” Proctor said. He wanted to say something reassuring, but he couldn’t think of anything.
She pushed herself wearily to her feet. “I did find something interesting. Walk down this street with me.”
He followed her down the street to an empty lot. “What am I looking for?”
She reached up and held his head straight. Suddenly a squat two-story house with a porch across the front and three dormer windows up above appeared in front of him. He could have sworn it wasn’t there a moment before.
“That’s Van Sicklyn’s house,” she said. “It’s being used by a German lord who’s here as an adviser to the Hessians.” She pointed to another house across the street, a mansion with red and blue regimental colors hanging out front. “Those are the headquarters of Colonel Johann Rall, commander of the Hessian grenadiers.”
“You think the German lord is our man? The source of the curse?”
“What do you think?”
He looked again and the house was gone. “Um.”
“People become very vague when I ask about it—as soon as they begin to speak about the Van Sicklyns, or their house, or this German lord, they forget what they’re saying.”
Proctor nodded. “How did you get them to point out the house? Is there a spell that returns memory? Or—”
“I convinced an old midwife to walk down the street with me,” Deborah said. “I asked her to tell me about the babies delivered in each house, and I settled on the spot that seemed invisible to her.”
“Ah.” Deborah was very clever. “How do we get inside to check?”
The door slammed open and a ratty-haired boy of about ten ran out. Proctor grabbed Deborah’s arm and pulled her back behind a tree. This could be their orphan, but it would be a mistake to act too quickly until they knew for sure.
The boy stumbled to a stop at the edge of the yard, just like a dog on an invisible leash. His pants were too short, riding well up his shins, and his feet were bare. His shirt was too big, with the sleeves rolled up to free his hands.
The door opened a second time, and a rail-thin black woman in a simple check dress walked calmly after the boy. She stopped at his side and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Lydia,” Proctor whispered.
Deborah nodded.
Lydia had studied magic with them on The Farm. She was the slave of Cecily Sumpter Pinckney, and a source of magic for the other woman. She appeared drained, exhausted even worse than Deborah.
A small blond woman followed Lydia out the door. She wore an elaborate yellow velvet dress more suited to some governor’s mansion than a farmhouse in a small town. Cecily. That southern woman. Someone they had trusted as a fellow witch, and a necromancer who’d tried to kill them. Her face was beautiful in its composition and terrifying in its wrath. Proctor winced as a halo of spiked fire seemed to form around her head.
He was not the only one to notice. Lydia flinched and dropped her head between her shoulders. The little boy covered his ears and screamed. Pebbles trembled on the ground near the boy’s feet, then rose in the air.
Proctor braced to see them fly at Cecily.
Cecily held up her hand, delicate lace trailing from her wrist. She made a gesture with her fingers, and the pebbles fell to the ground. Then she closed her hand in a fist.
The boy fell silent instantly. He began clawing at his throat, trying to breathe. Proctor pressed through the bushes, ready to bolt forward, but Deborah pulled him back.
“Not yet,” she whispered.
Cecily opened her hand and the boy gasped for air. The second he started to cry, she shut it again, cutting off his breath and his voice.
Lydia, her face a mask of sad acceptance, stroked the boy’s hair while he choked and started to turn blue. She bent and whispered to him. Proctor couldn’t tell what she said, but he thought she was telling him not to struggle.
“We’re not ready,” Deborah whispered, her eyes locked on Cecily. “I’m not ready.”
Cecily opened her fist, and the boy dropped to his knees, gasping for air. Lydia knelt beside him, slipping her hands under his arms and helping him to his feet. Together they walked back toward the house, the boy hiding behind Lydia as they passed Cecily.
When they had gone inside, Cecily turned and looked up and down the road. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the spot where Proctor and Deborah were hiding. It felt like a thousand ants were crawling across Proctor’s skin, and he and Deborah both ducked their heads, hoping to remain hidden. Cecily called into the house.
A soldier in a green jacket came out. A pistol was tucked in his waist along with a large fascine knife.
Proctor recognized him as well. It was the man called Jolly, who had attacked them on The Farm and then worked for the widow Nance before Deborah killed her.
Deborah’s grip on Proctor’s arm, which had not lessened, now bit deeper still. He took her hand in his and pulled her away, creeping along the shadow of the hedge until they could turn the corner and conceal themselves behind another farmhouse.
“Did you recognize—?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he answered. “Cecily, Lydia, the orphan, Jolly—it’s all our enemies and everyone we ought to rescue, all in one spot. Cecily must have replaced the widow.”
Deborah shook her head. “Cecily doesn’t have enough power to put that kind of curse on Washington and the whole Continental army.”
Proctor opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.
“See,” Deborah said. “You know I’m right.”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “Even drawing on Lydia’s magic, and the boy’s too, she didn’t have that kind of power. The widow did, and you could feel it.”
“Exactly,” Deborah said, glancing back over her shoulder to see if they’d been followed. She stopped. “I’m guessing it’s that German lord that people meet then get vague about. He’s the key to the curse.”
“Can’t we just free Lydia and the orphan? Won’t that break the curse?”
“It’s a curse—he only had to draw on their power to create it. Now it has a life of its own. But unless we free them too, our work will be wasted. Even if we break the curse, he’ll just perform the ritual and set it again.”
<
br /> Proctor shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. “What are we going to do then?”
“First we have to find this German,” Deborah said. She slumped down in the grass and buried her face in her hands.
Proctor knelt beside her. Softly he said, “First, we have to help you regain your strength.”
Deborah looked up at him. “What?”
“It makes strategic sense,” he said. “Nobody can discover anything in a small town until they have a place in it. Our place will be servants, refugees from the war. And it’ll mean food and a place to stay.”
Her shoulders lifted hopefully. “Food and a place to stay will be good.”
“If you want food, we’ll have to take it out of your wages, and it won’t be cheap, not with all the British soldiers who need feeding,” the farmer said.
His name was Stymiest. He had a narrow face with a high forehead and ears that looked like they’d been grabbed and twisted often in his childhood. He looked at Proctor, who was standing at his doorstep with Deborah.
“And the only place I could offer you to stay is quarters in the barn,” he added.
Proctor had almost grown accustomed to barns. “That’ll do just fine,” he said. “What about my sister?”
“She would have to sleep on the floor in the loft with the children,” Stymiest said, scowling.
“That will be fine,” Deborah said wearily.
Stymiest turned to his wife. “No,” he said. “No, I just don’t think we can do it. It just won’t work.”
“But they’ve agreed to everything,” she said. Her hair and clothes were indecently unkempt, as if it was simply too much work to keep up with everything. “I need help with the children. You need help with the harvest.”
“The British haven’t come this far out of town yet, but they will,” he said. “They’re quartering troops in everyone’s homes. There’s no way we can provide room and board for troops, and room and board for servants too.”
That was the crux of the problem. Proctor and Deborah had been turned away from every house and farm they called on because people felt the strain of quartering the British troops and their Hessian allies.