The Pursuit Of…: A Worth Saga Prelude

by Milan, Courtney

  John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”

  “John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”

  He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.

  He would never see the man again.

  In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.

  “I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”

  Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.

  John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

  “John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”

  “I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.

  Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.

  * * *

  Some days later…

  Henry Latham knew that time was running out.

  Well. Not in the literal sense. Time never ran out. It only ran on, continuing at its own inevitable pace. But in a little while the Continental Army would be on the move again, following the inevitable peace accords. The time it would take him to find John would be massively increased once that happened.

  In addition, there was the problem of Henry himself. Some men prided themselves on remembering and repaying every obligation. Henry…well. He always intended to pay his debts, but then…he forgot. He could never keep any one thing at the forefront of his mind long enough to concentrate on it. This time, though, it would be different. This was New Henry, and New Henry was…

  New Henry was confused, baffled, and on the run from the British Army. That made him exactly like Old Henry, except he’d overtly committed treason and absconded in the heat of battle.

  Technically, it had been after the redoubt was surrendered, but not by much. If that wasn’t the heat of battle, it was perhaps the warmth of it.

  The good thing about war was that it had proven all too easy to sell a few items of personal jewelry for funds—so many others were fleeing—without drawing much attention. New Henry had money. New Henry had clothing. New Henry just needed a plan. His started like this:

  1. Find John. By his uniform, he was a corporal, most likely in the Rhode Island Regiment, although Henry had not been able to verify that for certain. Family name? Hometown? All unknown, but that was no reason to discard a perfectly good first step, especially when the remainder of his plan looked like this.

  2. …?

  3. …!?

  4. …

  5. Cheese? Maybe cheese. Cheese was good.

  Taking John’s jacket and running off had been undoubtedly the most impulsive decision he had ever made in a life predicated upon what his father called rash whim and unpremeditated fancy.

  As it was, he had a name—John—and a face and a rank. He’d made inquiries—not careful ones; nothing Henry did could ever truly be called careful—and found that there had been black soldiers under the First Rhode Island Regiment, and as the Rhode Island forces had been decimated, the resulting Rhode Island Regiment been pulled piecemeal into the assault on Yorktown. It was a start.

  John, maybe from Rhode Island. He could wait years and lose all hope of the trail, or he could do what he was doing now: He could walk up to the enemy encampment with nothing more than a smile and a pack containing his secret weapon.

  He sauntered up to the soldiers standing guard at the entrance to the camp and smiled as if he belonged.

  “A good day to you, gentlemen.”

  They exchanged suspicious glances.

  Ah, damn. The accent. Henry’s accent marked him as a creature of exclusive British public schools and that terrible year at Oxford before everyone—from his father to the dean to the unfortunate brace of goats that he really hadn’t meant to send down the Cherwell on a barge—agreed that further schooling was probably not in anybody’s best interests.

  But Americans came from Britain, too.

  The two soldiers frowned at him.

  Henry just smiled at them. “If I could impose on you for some assistance, I would be deeply in your debt.”

  The men continued to stare at him without blinking. How they managed to do that, Henry would never know. It was a useful skill, not blinking. Did their eyes not dry? How did they accomplish that?

  Oh. No. The one on the right blinked. Ah, well. So much for that theory.

  “I am a cheesemonger,” Henry said. It was a complete lie, but the story almost didn’t matter. “Cheese is my livelihood. I am here for the purpose of purveying cheese.”

  The men exchanged confused glances and Henry made a mental note: Next time, less emphasis on cheese.

  “We don’t want any cheese,” one finally said. “Move along.”

  “Oh, ha! I’m not here to mong my cheese at you.”

  Blank stares met this.

  Was mong even a verb? It had to be; what else did a monger do, if not mong?

  “I encountered a soldier of your company in town,” Henry said. “He coveted my cheese—my delicious, crumbly, fragrant cheese.” Emphasis on fragrant. Henry had smelled infantrymen five months from a bath who reeked less than the cheese wrapped in his pack. “He wanted a bit for his journey home and asked me to bring a goodly amount by.”

  The two men softened incrementally.

  “I’d hoped you might be able to direct me in his…ah, direction.”

  “Who is it?”

  “John,” Henry said brightly. “He’s a corporal!”

  “John. Which John? What regiment?”

  “Ah… I’ve forgotten his family name.”

  Oh, that made the story so believable. Who introduced themselves as only John? What a mess.

  Henry went on brightly. “He’s an inch or so taller than I am. Muscular.” Henry still had bruises. “Deep voice. In the Rhode Island Regiment, I believe. He’s one of the Negro soldiers.”

  Their faces changed on that last word, closing even more than they’d already closed before.

  “One of the Black Regiment, then.” The one on the right gestured. “They’re over there. We wouldn’t know any of them by name.”

  Henry thanked them and left.

  He wondered, briefly, how they managed the headaches that must plague them with that attitude. He’d struggled with his own confusion for long enough before coming to his not-so-ideal strategy, but then, he was no great intellect.

  He’d thought maybe in the infantry, it would be different. After all, these men were fighting for their ideals. It wouldn’t, he’d told himself, be like the British Army, with its rules and regulations and safeguards.

  It seemed exactly like the British Army, down to the sneers. Maybe sewing stars and stripes atop a flawed fabric didn’t change the cloth. But there he went again. He was going to give himself a headache trying to puzzle it out. Henry shook his head and made his way in the direction the two men had indicated.

  “I’m looking for John,” he said, when he’d found the encampment of black soldiers. “This tall”—he gestured—“strong, taciturn, participated in the assault on Redoubt Ten, from…the Rhode Island Regiment?”

  A fellow stood. “What do you want with John?”

  “I’m a cheesemonger.” Henry considered the rest of his speech. “He asked to buy some of my cheese.”

  The man looked at one of his fellows. “Huh,” said the one who was sitting, examining boots that were as much
hole as leather. “Cheese. I hadn’t thought…”

  “It’s very excellent cheese,” Henry assured him. “And I promised him a discount.”

  “What can it hurt?” one of them said. “Hunter is heading out. It’s not impossible. I’ll take you to him.”

  Hunter. Hunter. He was John Hunter. Excellent.

  “Cheese,” one of them muttered.

  They conducted Henry through the darkening camp to a fire at the edge where a few men sat.

  “John, this man—”

  John looked up. In the days since the assault, Henry had tried to remember what his… benefactor? enemy? looked like. Tall, he remembered. He could have drawn the line of the other man’s profile, the prominent, chiseled ridges of the eyebrows, the shape of his nose.

  This was the first time Henry had seen him in daylight, fading though it was. John, last name previously unknown, learned and…drat it, immediately forgotten again. Their eyes met, and Henry felt a current sweep through him. Him, Henry thought, one hand going to his heart. Him.

  This man. There was a scar down his cheek—not prominent, just a line of darker brown slashed across his face. His eyes narrowed.

  They’d talked that night—well, to be fair, Henry had talked. Still, fucking was the only thing more intimate than fighting. He’d seen something even in the darkness. In daylight it was more obvious.

  John was utterly, bewitchingly lovely, and Henry had been already predisposed to bewitchment. His cheekbones were high. He wasn’t as tall as Henry remembered—something about a man trying to kill you made him loom in the imagination—but he was well muscled. John’s arm was bound with some kind of cloth in a sling, holding it against his chest. His lips pressed into a thin line as he looked at Henry.

  Something deep in Henry’s gut awoke in that moment. It felt like a fundamental shift in his makeup. It was like the circular all over again. He changed again now, his breath cycling through him. He would never be the same.

  Henry forgot everything he was going to say.

  “John,” the man beside him said. “This fellow says you’re buying his cheese.”

  “Cheese?” John frowned. “I didn’t want any cheese.”

  “Cheese?” Henry said, momentarily forgetting his own story. “What cheese?”

  The man who had brought him looked at him. “What do you mean, ‘what cheese’?”

  “Oh. Cheese. Right. Never mind the cheese. John, it’s Henry Latham.” There were various other titles and whatnot that people often insisted on adding to his name, but they were all embarrassing and irrelevant in the moment.

  John wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Who? I don’t know a Henry Latham. What do you have to do with cheese?”

  “The cheese is a lie,” Henry explained brightly.

  “What the hell?” the man muttered behind him. “I knew something was amiss. Wait. I recognize him. John, this man is a British officer. I’ve fought him before. I told you about him.”

  John looked up. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at Henry in something like astonishment.

  “Nonsense,” Henry said brightly. “If I were a British officer, I certainly wouldn’t be waltzing around over here out of uniform, would I?”

  John stared at him.

  “You remember me, don’t you? We met outside Yorktown. We talked about imperialism?”

  “My God,” John said slowly.

  “You actually know him?” That was from the man in the back. “Are you sure he’s not a British officer?”

  “I do.” John swallowed. “I suppose that if he says he’s not a British officer, he’s not a British officer. How curious, though. He’s shorter than I remember.”

  Henry couldn’t help but smile. “I knew you’d not have forgotten! And how could you doubt me? I told you I would find you, didn’t I? And here I am.”

  John just looked at him. He did not look delighted. He looked surprised and suspicious. “Here you are,” he repeated. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Chapter Two

  John had not thought of that bizarre conflict since the battle. There had been no point. The entire encounter felt like a dream, possibly a nightmare. The scene from his memory was tinged with the dark blue of midnight, with a sense of confused detachment from reality.

  Did that really happen? He wasn’t even sure, now, with the man standing directly in front of him.

  But the man was here and he had a name. In daylight, he made less sense than he had at night. He was tall—but not, as John seemed to remember, taller. His hair was not blond; it stood up in little tufts that were not quite orange, not quite yellow. His eyes darted about with a sense of curiosity reflected in the nervous energy he radiated.

  “Why the devil are you here?” It made no sense, and John didn’t trust things that made no sense.

  “I told you I’d search you out.”

  “Neither of us believed that.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Latham gave him a brilliant smile. “I owe you my life. You may think that’s a debt of little value; I have another view on it.”

  “He’s not selling cheese?” Elijah, standing behind Latham, frowned. “John, do you want us to…?”

  “He’s harmless.” At least, he was unlikely to do harm at this point. John would shake his hand, or whatever the man expected, and see the last of him. In fact, there was one sure way to drive the man off—invite him to sit with the black soldiers. “Here,” John said with a casual solicitousness. “Sit down. Share a campfire. Stay for supper. What was your name again?”

  “Latham.” The man set his pack down and sat cross-legged on the ground. “Henry Latham. Can I offer anything for the common pot?”

  Behind him, Elijah shrugged in confusion. And no surprise—even the most committed abolitionists often balked at sharing food with black soldiers. Then again, Latham had already proven himself to be more than a bit unusual.

  He was rummaging in his pack. “I’ve a bit of bread and butter, if that wouldn’t go amiss, and rather a lot of cheese. I don’t recommend the cheese. It’s a decoy.”

  “What is decoy cheese?” Marcelo had enlisted alongside John—not for the exact same reason, but for a very similar one.

  Latham reached into his pack and brought out a heavy block wrapped in waxed paper. “I’m warning you.” He had an easy smile—too easy to trust. His fingers were long and lithe, and they undid the paper with ease.

  The first whiff of the cheese was the worst. It brought to mind old socks, or perhaps corpses rotting in airless caves. John choked.

  Marcelo pinched his nose shut. “Damn, man. That is rank.”

  John managed a second whiff, and discovered that the cheese was indeed a lie. His second sniff of the cheese was even worse than the first, and how that was possible, he didn’t know.

  “Isn’t it terrible?” Latham grinned, and picked up a knife. “It’s the most useful disgusting cheese I’ve encountered. Tell people you’re selling cheese, produce this, and suddenly everyone’s eager to have you on your way. They don’t even pay attention to your questions.”

  “Are you a liar, then?”

  Latham shrugged. “Maybe. Probably? Not so much. I suppose it depends on your particular point of view.” He cut a thin sliver of cheese and held it out. “Here. Want some?”

  “Tastes better than it smells, does it?”

  “The man I bought it from told me it was an acquired taste,” Latham said. “I’ve yet to acquire it. I have been trying, though.” He paused. “Anyone else?”

  Heads shook around the fire. John made the sign to ward off the evil eye, but Latham just chuckled and carefully wrapped the cheese back up, tucking the ends of the paper into the folds.

  “Here’s the question,” Latham said. “When I tell myself this is the most delicious cheese in the world, that I’m going to absolutely love it—am I lying? Or am I hoping?”

  “Fantasizing,” John muttered.

  Latham slid the cheese in his mouth. His nose scrunched. “S
till terrible. I’ve not acquired the taste for it yet, I see. No worries; I’ve six pounds of the stuff to go.”

  All British were odd, John reminded himself. They might seem rational, but why else would they fight so many wars, just for the dubious pleasure of ruling the ungrateful?

  John shook his head and divided the soup into bowls. The bread Latham produced was good, at least—soft on the inside with a crisp, flaky crust.

  For a while, they didn’t speak—a while being approximately ninety seconds, during which their mouths were occupied with spoons and soup.

  Then Latham snapped his fingers. “Bugger it,” he said. “I’ve spent days thinking of this moment, and the instant it arrives, all I can talk about is cheese, cheese, cheese. Good heavens; what is wrong with me?”

  It was a very good question. John had no idea.

  Latham turned to him. “You saved my life. I am in your debt. How can I ever repay you?”

  John was not going to roll his eyes at this particular specimen of drama. Who said that sort of thing to another human?

  Latham apparently thought the same thing, because he frowned, tapping one forefinger against his thin, pale lips. “You know,” he mused, “in all the stories, they never mention how utterly awkward it is to say such a thing. It sounds terribly pretentious, actually. I assure you, I have very few pretensions. Maybe one of them. Two of them. I am a regular bundle of anti-pretension, in fact.”

  John raised a single eyebrow. With that accent? Unlikely. Pretty British officers like him undoubtedly had more than a few pretensions.

  “I’m making things worse, aren’t I?”

  John nodded.

  “Well, then. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  It was, perhaps, irrational to feel angry under the circumstances. Here was this man, with his cheese and his smile, sitting before him, offering his help.

  It wasn’t as if John didn’t need help; he did, in fact, a thousand times over. His last letter from his sister, Lizzie, six months past, had spoken of trouble at home. Now that Noah’s freed, people don’t want us here. Every week in which no further correspondence arrived diminished his ability to make excuses. Something was wrong, and the only reason John wasn’t in a tearing panic was that tearing panics had never accomplished a damned thing. Here he was, in Virginia, with his sister and mother five hundred miles away.