Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (103 page)

“As for thee, I expect thy
other
children will comfort thee,” Silvia said, in as nasty a tone as Ian had ever heard from her. She rubbed a hand over her face, hard, also striving for calm. “No. Thee is right in that, at least. I do know how much they love thee and I will never say anything to them that would blacken thee in their eyes. I think thee should tell them, though, about thy children here. They will understand that, but they will
not
understand why thee would keep the truth from them—and they are bound to find out sooner or later, though not from me.”

Gabriel had moved into the light as well, shuffling his lame foot. He had assumed an odd, mottled appearance, like an old birch tree whose bark is peeling off.

“I will not go and leave them here,” Silvia said, having regained some control of her emotions. “But I will write to thee when we have found a home, and thee may come to visit them. I will help them to write to thee, and perhaps they may come here to see thee again, if it seems safe.” She straightened her back and smoothed her pinafore.

“I forgive thee, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “But I will never be wife to thee again.”

Savannah

September 30, 1779

ALFRED BRUMBY DIDN’T
LOOK
like a smuggler, or at least not like Brianna’s notion of one. On the other hand, she was forced to admit that the only people she knew who were or had been professional smugglers were her father and Fergus. Mr. Brumby was a comfortably solid and beautifully dressed gentleman of medium height who, upon meeting her, had tilted his head back, shading his eyes as he looked up at her, and then laughed and bowed to her.

“I see that Lord John knows the value of a good artist,” he said, smiling. “Do you scale your commission by the inch, madam? Because if so, I may be obliged to sell my carriage in order to afford you.”

“I do indeed charge by the inch, sir,” she’d told him politely, and nodded at his diminutive wife. “But the basis would be the size of the painting, rather than the artist.”

He’d laughed heartily, and so had his very young wife—
My God,
Brianna thought,
she’s barely eighteen, if that!
—and then had turned to Roger, shaking hands and engaging him in lively conversation, while his wife, Angelina, knelt on the floor, careless of her fine dress, and talked to Mandy and Jem, then scrambled to her feet and invited them to come along and see their mother’s studio.

The arrangement offered by the hospitable Mr. Brumby was that the MacKenzies would live in his household during the length of Brianna’s commission and be treated as members of the family. By suppertime, everyone had been seamlessly absorbed into the Brumby household, which was a large and cheerful one, with many servants, an excellent cook, and Henrike, a large and very capable German maidservant who had been Angelina’s nurse and had insisted upon coming with her upon her marriage to Mr. Brumby.

“And how do you propose to pass your time, Mr. MacKenzie, while your wife is employed in painting?” Mr. Brumby asked over a delicious pork roast with brandied applesauce.

“I have various commissions to fulfill, sir,” Roger said. “On behalf of the Presbytery of Charles Town, who have entrusted me with various letters to deliver—and also a few small errands to perform on behalf of my father-in-law, Colonel Fraser.”

“Oh, indeed.” Mr. Brumby’s eyes grew bright through his spectacles. “I’ve heard of Colonel Fraser—as who has not? I was unaware that he makes whisky of such quality, though.” He nodded at the bottle Roger had presented to him before dinner; he’d brought it along to the table and continued to take small sips from a silver cup that the butler replenished—frequently—in the course of the meal. “Should he be interested in selling it to a wider market…”

Roger smiled and assured Mr. Brumby that Jamie made whisky only for his own personal use, causing Mr. Brumby to laugh loudly and give Roger an exaggerated wink and a finger alongside his nose.

“Very sensible,” he said, “very sensible indeed. Customs and excise taxes being what they are, it would hardly pay to offer it commercially, save at an extortionate price—and that, of course, has its own difficulties.”

Brianna enjoyed the dinner and was delighted by the house, which had been built by a fine architect. The effort of nodding appreciatively at each of the Brumbys in turn—for both of them talked incessantly, and frequently at the same time—was wearing her down, though, and she took the entrance of cigars and brandy for the gentlemen as her cue to rise and excuse herself to go and see that the children were still where she’d put them.

They had been tucked into trundle beds that had been set up in the commodious dressing room attached to the well-appointed guest room that had been assigned to the MacKenzies, and when looked in upon, they were both clean and sound asleep, having been fed earlier by the cook, Mrs. Upton.

“I could get used to this,” Roger said, yawning as he came in later, stripping off his coat. “You wouldn’t think there was an armed siege going on outside, would you?” The Brumbys’ house stood in Reynolds Square, opposite the filature—a facility for raising silkworms—and the plentitude of trees, including the large grove of white mulberry trees required for the diet of said silkworms, gave it a sense of enclosure and pastoral peace.

“You’re keeping track of the calendar, aren’t you?” Bree pulled her sleeping shift over her head, noting from the smell that she should talk to the Brumbys’ laundress tomorrow. “
How
many days until all hell breaks loose?”

“Less than three weeks,” he said, more soberly. “Your father didn’t give much detail on the battle, but we know the Americans will lose. The siege will be lifted on October the eleventh.”

“And you’ll be here and safely inside, right?” She raised her eyebrows at him, and he smiled and took her hand.

“I will,” he said, and kissed it.

Savannah

October 8, 1779

ROGER HAD DRESSED FOR
his occasions. Luckily, the same black broadcloth suit, long-coated and pewter-buttoned, would do for both, since it was the only one he possessed. Brianna had plaited and clubbed his hair severely, and he was so clean-shaven that his jaw felt raw. A high white stock wrapped round his neck completed the picture—he hoped—of a respectable clergyman. The British sentries at the barricade on White Bluff Road had given him no more than a disinterested glance before nodding him through. He could only hope the American sentries outside the city felt the same lack of curiosity about ministers.

He rode out a good distance from the city before turning east and beginning to circle back toward the Americans’ siege lines, and it was just past noon when he came within sight of them.

The American camp was rough but orderly, an acre or so of canvas tents fluttering in the wind like trapped gulls, and the amazingly big French warships visible in the river beyond, from which every so often a volley of cannon fire would erupt with gouts of flame, setting loose vast clouds of white smoke to drift across the marshes with the scattered clouds of gulls and oystercatchers alarmed by the noise.

There were pickets posted among the yaupon bushes, one of whom popped up like a jack-in-the-box and pointed a musket at Roger in a business-like way.

“Halt!”

Roger pulled in his reins and raised his stick, white handkerchief tied to its end, feeling foolish. It worked, though. The picket whistled through his teeth for a companion, who popped up alongside, and at the first man’s nod, came forward to take his horse’s bridle.

“What’s your name and what d’you want?” the man demanded, squinting up at Roger. He wore a backwoodsman’s ordinary breeches and hunting shirt, but had army boots and an odd uniform cap, shaped like a squashed bishop’s mitre. A copper badge on his collar read
Sgt. Bradford.

“My name is Roger MacKenzie. I’m a Presbyterian minister, and I’ve brought a letter to General Lincoln from General James Fraser, late of General Washington’s Monmouth command.”

Sergeant Bradford’s brows rose out of sight beneath his hat.

“General Fraser,” he said. “Monmouth? That the fellow that abandoned his troops to tend his wife?”

This was said with a derisive tone, and Roger felt the words like a blow to the stomach. Was this how Jamie’s admittedly dramatic resignation of his commission was commonly perceived in the Continental army? If so, his own present mission might be a little more delicate than he’d expected.

“General Fraser is my father-in-law, sir,” Roger said, in a neutral voice. “An honorable man—and a very brave soldier.”

The look of scorn didn’t quite leave the man’s face, but it moderated into a short nod, and the man turned away, jerking his chin in an indication that Roger might follow, if he felt so inclined.

General Lincoln’s tent was a large but well-worn green canvas, with a flagstaff outside from which the red and white stripes of the Grand Union flag fluttered in the wind off the water. Sergeant Bradford muttered something to the guard at the entrance and left Roger with a curt nod.

“The Reverend MacKenzie, is it?” the guard said, looking him up and down with an air of skepticism. “And a letter from General James Fraser, have I got that right?”

Christ.
Did Jamie know of the talk about him? Roger remembered the moment’s hesitation when Jamie had handed him the letter. Perhaps he did, then.

“I am, it is, and you do,” Roger said firmly. “Is General Lincoln able to receive me?” He’d been meaning to leave the letter and come back for the reply—if there was one—after he’d spoken to Francis Marion, but now he thought he’d better find out whether Benjamin Lincoln shared this apparent negative view of Jamie’s actions.

“Wait here.” The soldier—he was a Continental regular, a uniformed corporal—ducked under the tent flap, kept closed against the chilly breeze. Through the momentary gap, Roger caught sight of a large man in uniform, curled up on a cot, his broad blue back turned to the door. A faint buzzing snore reached Roger’s ears, but apparently the corporal had no intention of trying to wake General Lincoln, and after a minute’s delay—for the sake of plausibility, Roger assumed—the corporal reappeared.

“I’m afraid the general’s engaged at present, Mr….?”

“Reverend,” Roger repeated firmly. “The Reverend Roger MacKenzie. As General Lincoln isn’t available, could I speak with”—
shit, what’s Marion’s rank now?
—“with Captain Francis Marion, perhaps?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Marion, I expect you mean.” The corporal corrected him matter-of-factly. “You’ll maybe find him out by the Jewish cemetery; I saw him go that way with some
chasseurs
a while ago. You know where it is?” He gestured toward the west.

“I’ll find it. Thank you.” The guard seemed relieved to be rid of him, and Roger made his way in the direction indicated, holding his broad-brimmed hat against the tug of the wind.

The busy atmosphere of the camp was much at odds with the brief vision of its sleeping commander. Men were moving to and fro with purpose; in the distance, he saw a great many horses—cavalry, he realized with interest. What were they doing?

Forming up.
He felt as though Jamie had spoken in his ear, matter-of-fact as always, and his stomach contracted.
Getting ready.

This was October 8. According to Frank Randall’s book, the siege of Savannah began on September 16 and would be lifted on October 11.

For all the good that’s likely to do you, blockhead.
For the thousandth time, he castigated himself for not knowing more, not having read everything there was to read about the American Revolution—but knowing, even as he reproached himself, that the chances of any book knowledge ever resembling the reality of his experience were vanishingly small.

A small squadron of pelicans dropped low in unison over the distant water and sailed serenely just above the waves, ignoring ships, cannon, horses, shouting men, and the rapidly clouding sky.

Must be nice,
he thought, watching them.
Nothing to think about but where your next fish is coming—

A musket went off somewhere behind him, a cloud of feathers burst from one of the pelicans, and it dropped like a stone, wings loose, into the water. Cheers and whistles came from behind him, these cut off abruptly by a furious officer’s voice, castigating the marksman for wasting ammunition.

Okay, point taken.

As though backing up the rifleman, there was a distant boom, followed by another.
Siege cannon,
he thought, and an uncontrollable shiver of excitement ran down his spine at the thought.
Getting the range.

He lost his way briefly, but a passing corporal put him on the right path and came with him to the cemetery, marked by a large stone gateway.

“That’ll be Colonel Marion, Reverend,” his escort said, and pointed. “When you’ve done your business with him, one of his men’ll bring you back to General Lincoln’s tent.” The man turned to go, but then turned back to add a caution. “Don’t you be a-wandering about by yourself, Reverend. ’Tisn’t safe. And don’t try to leave the camp, either. Pickets got orders to shoot any man as tries to leave without a pass from General Lincoln.”

“No,” Roger said. “I won’t.” But the corporal hadn’t waited for an answer; he was hurrying back into the main body of the camp, boots crunching on white oyster shell.

It was close—a lot closer than he’d thought. He could feel the whole camp humming, a sense of nervous energy, men making ready. But surely it was too early for…

Then he walked through the high stone gate of the cemetery, its lintel decorated with the Star of David, and saw at once what must be Lieutenant Colonel Francis Marion, hat in hand and a blue-and-buff uniform coat thrown loose over his shoulders, deep in conversation with three or four other officers.

The unfortunate word that popped into Roger’s mind was “marionette.” Francis Marion was what Jamie would call a wee man, standing no more than five foot four, by Roger’s estimation, scrawny and spindle-shanked, with a very prominent French nose. Not quite what the romantic moniker “Swamp Fox” conjured up.

His appearance was made more arresting by a novel tonsorial arrangement, featuring thin strands of hair combed into a careful puff atop a balding pate and two rather larger puffs on either side of his head, like earmuffs. Roger was consumed by curiosity as to what the man’s ears must look like, to require this sort of disguise, but he dismissed this with an effort of will and waited patiently for the lieutenant-colonel to finish his business.

Chasseurs,
the corporal had said. French troops, then, and they looked it, very tidy in blue coats with green facings and white smallclothes, with jaunty yellow feather cockades sticking up from the fronts of their cocked hats like Fourth of July sparklers. They were also undeniably speaking French, lots of them at once.

On the other hand…they were black, which he hadn’t expected at all.

Marion raised a hand and most of them stopped speaking, though there was a good deal of shifting from foot to foot and a general air of impatience. He leaned forward, speaking up into the face of an officer who topped him by a good six inches, and the others stopped fidgeting and craned to listen.

Roger couldn’t hear what was being said, but he was strongly aware of the electric current running through the group—it was the same current he’d sensed running through the camp, but stronger.

Jesus Christ Almighty, they’re getting ready to fight. Now.

He’d never been on a live battlefield but had walked a few historical ones with his father. The Reverend Wakefield had been a keen war historian, and a good storyteller; he’d been able to evoke the sense of a muddled, panicked fight from the open ground at Sheriffmuir, and the sense of doom and slaughter from the haunted earth of Culloden.

Roger was getting much the same feeling, rising up from the quiet earth of the cemetery through his body, and he curled his fists, urgently wanting the feel of a weapon in his hand.

The air was cool but humid, with a faint rumble of thunder over the sea, and sweat was condensing on his body. He saw Marion wipe his own face with a large, grubby handkerchief, then tuck it away with an impatient gesture and step closer to the
chasseur
officer, raising his voice and jerking his head toward the river behind them.

Whatever he’d said—he was speaking French, and the distance was too far for Roger to make out more than a phrase here and there—seemed to settle the
chasseurs,
who grunted and nodded amongst themselves, then gathered behind their officer and set off at a jog-trot toward the ships. Marion watched them go, then sighed visibly and sat down on one of the tombstones.

It seemed ludicrous to approach Marion with his questions under these circumstances, but the man had spotted him and lifted his chin inquiringly. Not much choice but to say hello, at least.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “I apologize for interrupting you. I can see that—” Lacking any sufficient words, he waved a hand toward the distant camp.

Marion laughed, a low sound of honest amusement.

“Well, yes,” he said, in an accent that seemed faintly tinged with the French he’d just been speaking. “It’s clear, isn’t it? I take it you didn’t know, though, or—?” One eyebrow quirked up.

“Or I wouldn’t be here,” Roger finished. Marion shrugged.

“You might have come to volunteer. The Continental army isn’t choosy, though I have to say that the occasional minister we get usually doesn’t wear his best clothes to fight in.” The look of amusement deepened as he looked Roger up and down. “So—why
are
you here, sir?”

“My name is Roger MacKenzie, and I am the son-in-law of General James Fraser, late of—”

“Really.” Both eyebrows were raised as high as they could go. “Fraser’s sent you as an envoy to General Lincoln, and they sent you to me because Benjamin’s asleep?”

“Not exactly.” He’d best just put it baldly. Whatever Jamie’s reputation with the Continental army was, his business with Marion was straightforward enough.

“I take it you know that General Fraser resigned his commission following the Battle of—”

“Monmouth, yes.” Marion shifted his scrawny buttocks on the stone. “Everyone knows by now, I should think. Is it true that he wrote his letter of resignation on the back of an ensign and sent him to Lee with a muddy shirt?”

“It was written in his wife’s blood,” Roger said, “but yes.”

That took the look of amusement out of Marion’s eyes. He nodded a little, the meager pouf of graying hair on top of his head stirring in the rising breeze, as though disturbed by the thoughts beneath it.

“I don’t know Monsieur Fraser as a man,” he said, “but I’ve talked with those who do.” He eyed Roger, head on one side. “What does he want with me?”

“He’s assembling a militia,” Roger replied, just as bluntly. “A partisan band. He doesn’t want to have anything further to do with the Continental army—and I imagine the feeling is mutual—but he does intend to fight.”