Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (11 page)

William eyed him skeptically, but there was something in it.

“Who steals my purse steals trash, sort of thing?”

The smile widened.

“
…But he that filches from me my good name / Robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed.
Yes, that sort of thing. Consider what gossip of the sort Zeke Richardson has in mind could do to your family, will you? And meanwhile, stop glowering at me and eat something.”

William reluctantly considered it. His nose had quit bleeding, but there was an iron taste in the back of his throat. He cleared it and spat, as politely as possible, into the rags of his handkerchief, keeping Denys’s more substantial contribution for mopping up.

“All right. I see what you’re saying,” he said gruffly.

“A friend of your father’s—a Major Bates—was convicted of sodomy and hanged, some years ago,” Denys said. “Your father chose to be present at the hanging; he clung to the major’s legs to hasten his death. I don’t suppose he would have mentioned that incident to you, though.”

William made a small, negative motion of the head. He was momentarily too shocked to say anything.

“There is a death of the soul, as well as death of the body, you know. Even if he were not arrested, nor tried and convicted…a man so accused might well lose his life as it presently exists.” This was said quietly, almost offhandedly, and Denys followed this remark by sitting up straight, picking up a spoon, and placing before William a pewter plate piled with slices of roast pork, fried squash with corn, and several thick slices of corn bread, then pouring a generous cup of brandy to go with it.

“Eat,” Denys repeated firmly. “And then”—with an eye toward William’s general bedragglement—“tell me what in the name of God you’ve been doing. What made you resign your commission to begin with?”

“None of your business,” William said brusquely. “As to what I’m doing…” He was tempted to say that
that
was none of Denys’s business, either—but he couldn’t overlook Denys’s possibilities as a source of information. It was, after all, an intelligencer’s job to find things out.

“If you must know, I’m looking for some trace of my cousin, Benjamin Grey. Captain Benjamin Grey,” he added. “Of the Thirty-fourth Foot. Do you know him, by chance?”

Denys blinked, blank-faced, and William felt a small, surprising jolt in the pit of his stomach—the same feeling he got when a fish nibbled his bait.

“I’ve met him,” Randall said cautiously. “ ‘Trace,’ you said? Has he been…lost?”

“You could say that. He was captured at the Brandywine and held prisoner at a place called Middlebrook Encampment, in the Watchung Mountains. My uncle had an official letter from Sir Henry Clinton’s clerk, passing on a terse note from the Americans, regretting the death of Captain Benjamin Grey from fever.”

“Oh.” Denys relaxed a fraction of an inch, though his eyes were still watchful. “My condolences. You mean that you want to find where your cousin is buried? To, um, move the body to the family…er…resting place?”

“I had that in mind,” William said. “Only I
did
find his grave. And he wasn’t in it.”

A brief recollection of that night in the Watchung Mountains washed over him suddenly, raising the hairs on his forearms. Cold, wet clay clinging to his feet and rain soaking through his clothes, spongy blisters on his palms, and the smell of death coming up from the ground as his shovel grated suddenly on bone…He turned his head away, both from Denys and the memory.

“Someone else
was,
though.”

“Dear Lord.” Denys reached automatically for his cup and, finding it empty, shook himself briefly as though to dislodge the vision, then reached for the brandy bottle. “You’re quite sure? I mean, how long…?”

“He’d been buried for some time.” William took a long, burning gulp of the brandy, to purge the memory of the smell. And the touch. “But not long enough to hide the fact that the man in that grave had no ears.”

Denys’s evident shock gave him a sour satisfaction.

“Exactly,” he said. “A thief. And no, it wasn’t a mistaken identification of the body. The grave was marked with the name ‘Grey,’ and Benjamin’s full name was listed in the camp’s records of prisoner burials.”

Denys was twelve years older than William, but he looked suddenly older than thirty-three, his fine features sharpened by attention.

“You think it was deliberate, then. Well, of course,” he interrupted himself impatiently, “naturally it was. But by whom, and to what purpose?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If someone had murdered your cousin and sought to hide his death, why not simply bury
him
as a fever victim? No need for the substitute body, I mean. So, your first supposition is that he’s alive? I think that’s reasonable.”

William drew a breath tinged with relief.

“I do, too,” he said. “So then it’s one of two possibilities: Ben faked his death and managed to substitute the other body in order to escape without pursuit. Or someone did it for him, without his consent, and took him away. I can see the first possibility, but damned if I can think of a reason for the second. But it doesn’t matter that much; if he’s alive, I
can
find him. And I bloody will. The family needs to know, one way or another.” This was quite true. He was honest enough to admit to himself, though, that Ben’s disappearance had offered him a purpose, a way out of the morass of guilt and sorrow left by Jane’s death.

Denys rubbed a hand over his face. It was late in the day and his whiskers were starting to rasp, a dark shadow over his jaw.

“The words ‘needle’ and ‘haystack’ come to mind,” he said. “But theoretically, yes, you could find him, if he’s alive.”

“Definitely yes,” William said firmly. “I have a list”—he touched his breast pocket to make sure that he still did have it, but felt the reassuring wodge of folded paper—“of men belonging to two militia companies who were put on gravedigging detail in Middlebrook Encampment during a fever outbreak.”

“Oh, so that’s what you were doing with—”

“Yes. Unfortunately, American militia companies enlist only for short periods, and then scatter off to tend their farms. One of the companies was from North Carolina and one from Virginia, but the men last night weren’t—” He stopped abruptly, reminded. “The men last night…does Major Allbright actually intend to hang some of them?”

Denys shrugged. “I don’t know him well enough to say. It might have been meant only for effect, to frighten and scatter the rest. But he’s taken those three along with him, back to his camp. If his temper cools by the time he gets there, he’ll likely have them flogged and let them go. He’s got enough men under his command that hanging civilians out of hand would become a matter of record—not really what an officer with an eye to advancement wants, if he’s any sense. Not that Allbright gives one the impression that he has,” he added thoughtfully.

“I see. Speaking of having no sense—what the devil was that taradiddle about me planning to kidnap George Washington?”

Randall actually laughed at that, and William felt his ears grow warm.

“Well, not you, personally,” he assured William. “Just a
ruse de guerre.
It worked, though, didn’t it? And I had to think of some explanation for your
outré
appearance; being an intelligencer was the only halfway believable thing I could think of.”

William grunted and gingerly tried a mouthful of succotash, a fried and buttered mixture of diced squash and corn sliced from the cob. It went down well, and he attacked the rest of his meal with increasing enthusiasm, ignoring the minor discomfort of eating. Denys watched him, smiling a little as he ate his own meal but leaving him alone.

When the plates were empty, there was a contemplative silence between them. Not friendly, but not hostile, either.

Denys picked up the brandy bottle and shook it; a small sloshing noise reassured him and he poured out what was left into their cups, then picked one up and raised it to William.

“A bargain,” he said. “If you come across any news of Ezekiel Richardson, send word to me. If I hear of anything pertaining to your cousin Benjamin, I’ll send word to you.”

William hesitated for a moment, but then touched his cup firmly to Randall’s.

“Done.”

Denys drank, then set down his cup.

“You can send me word in care of Captain Blakeney; he’s with Clinton’s troops in New York. And if I hear of anything…?”

William grimaced, but there wasn’t a lot of choice.

“Care of my father. He and my uncle are with the garrison at Savannah with Prévost.”

Denys nodded, pushed back his bench, and stood up.

“All right. Your horse is outside. With your knife and musket. May I ask where you’re bound?”

“Virginia.” He hadn’t actually known that for sure until he said it, but the speaking gave him certainty. Virginia. Mount Josiah.

Denys groped in a pocket and laid two guineas and a handful of smaller coins on the table. He smiled at William.

“It’s a long way to Virginia. Consider it a loan.”

Fraser’s Ridge

BY MIDAFTERNOON, I’D MADE
great progress with my medicaments, treated three cases of poison ivy rash, a broken toe (caused by its owner kicking a mule in a fit of temper), and a raccoon bite (non-rabid; the hunter had knocked the coon out of a tree, thought it was dead, and went to pick it up, only to discover that it wasn’t. The raccoon
was
mad, but not in any infectious sense).

Jamie, though, had done much better. People had come up to the house site all day, in a steady trickle of neighborliness and curiosity. The women had stayed to chat with me about the MacKenzies, and the men had wandered off through the site with Jamie, returning with promises to come and lend a day’s labor here and there.

“If Roger Mac and Ian can help me move lumber tomorrow, the Sinclairs will come next day and give me a hand wi’ the floor joists. We’ll lay the hearthstone and bless it on Wednesday, Sean McHugh and a couple of his lads will lay the floor with me on Friday, and we’ll get the framing started next day; Tom MacLeod says he can spare me a half day, and Hiram Crombie’s son Joe says he and his half brother can help wi’ that as well.” He smiled at me. “If the whisky holds out, ye’ll have a roof over your head in two weeks, Sassenach.”

I looked dubiously from the stone foundation to the cloud-flecked sky overhead.

“A roof?”

“Aye, well, a sheet of canvas, most likely,” he admitted. “Still.” He stood and stretched, grimacing slightly.

“Why don’t you sit down for a bit?” I suggested, eyeing his leg. He was limping noticeably and the leg was a vivid patchwork of red and purple, demarcated by the black stitches of my repair job. “Amy’s left us a jug of beer.”

“Perhaps a wee bit later,” he said. “What’s that ye’re making, Sassenach?”

“I’m going to make up some gallberry ointment for Lizzie Beardsley, and then some gripe water for her little new one—do you know if he has a name yet?”

“Hubertus.”

“What?”

“Hubertus,” he repeated, smiling. “Or so Kezzie told me the day before yesterday. It’s in compliment to Monika’s late brother, he says.”

“Oh.” Lizzie’s father, Joseph Wemyss, had taken a kind German lady of a certain age as his second wife, and Monika, having no children of her own, had become a stalwart grandmother to the Beardsleys’ growing brood. “Perhaps they can call him Bertie, for short.”

“Are ye out of the Jesuit bark, Sassenach?” He lifted his chin in the direction of the open medicine chest I’d set on the ground near him. “Do ye not use that for Lizzie’s tonic?”

“I do,” I said, rather surprised that he’d noticed. “I used the last of it three weeks ago, though, and haven’t heard of anyone going to Wilmington or New Bern who might get me more.”

“Did ye mention it to Roger Mac?”

“No. Why him?” I asked, puzzled.

Jamie leaned back against the cornerstone, wearing one of those overtly patient expressions that’s meant to indicate that the person addressed is not being particularly bright. I snorted and flicked a gallberry at him. He caught it and examined it critically.

“Is it edible?”

“Amy says bees like the flowers,” I said dubiously, pouring a large handful of the dark-purple berries into my mortar. “But there’s very likely a reason why they’re called gallberries.”

“Ah.” He tossed it back at me, and I dodged. “Ye told me yourself, Sassenach, that Roger Mac said to ye yesterday that he meant to come back to the ministering. So,” he went on patiently, seeing no hint of enlightenment on my face, “what would ye do first, if that was your aim?”

I scooped a large glob of pale-yellow bear grease from its pot into the mortar, part of my mind debating whether to add a decoction of willow bark, while the rest considered Jamie’s question.

“Ah,” I said in turn, and pointed my pestle at him. “I’d go round to all the people who’d been part of my congregation, so to speak, and let them know that Mack the Knife is back in town.”

He gave me a concerned look, but then shook his head, dislodging whatever image I’d just given him.

“Ye would,” he said. “And maybe introduce yourself to the folk who’ve come to the Ridge since ye left.”

“And within a couple of days, everyone on the Ridge—and probably half the brethren’s choir in Salem—would know about it.”

He nodded amiably. “Aye. And they’d all ken that ye need Jesuit bark, and ye’d likely get it within the month.”

“Are ye in need of Jesuit bark,
Grand-mère
?” Germain had emerged from the woods behind me, a pail of water in one hand, a bundle of faggots clutched to his chest with the other, and what appeared to be a dead snake hanging round his neck.

“Yes,” I said. “Is that a—” But he’d forgotten me, his attention riveted on his grandfather’s macerated leg.

“Formidable!”
he said, dropping the wood. “Can I see,
Grand-père
?”

Jamie made a gracious “feel free” gesture toward his leg, and Germain bent to look, eyes round.

“Mandy said that a bear bit your leg off,” he said, advancing a tentative forefinger toward the line of stitches. “But I didn’t believe her. Does it hurt?” he asked, glancing at Jamie’s face.

“Och, nay bother,” Jamie said, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I’ve a privy to dig later. What kind is your wee snake, then?”

Germain obligingly removed the limp serpent and handed it to Jamie, who plainly hadn’t expected the gesture, but gingerly accepted it. I smiled and looked down into my mortar. Jamie was afraid of snakes but manfully disguised the fact, holding it up by the tail. It was a big corn snake, nearly three feet of orange and yellow scales, vivid as a streak of lightning.

“Did you kill it, Germain?” I frowned at the snake, pausing in my mashing. I’d explained repeatedly to all the children that they ought not to kill any non-venomous snake, as they helpfully ate mice and rats, but most adults on the Ridge considered that the only good snake was a dead one, and it was an uphill battle.

“Oh, no, Grannie,” he assured me. “It was in your garden and Fanny went for it with a hoe, but I stopped her. But then your wee cheetie sleeked through the fence and jumped on it and broke its…” He frowned at the snake. “I dinna ken whether it was its back or its neck because how could ye tell, but it’s dead all right. I thought I’d skin it for Fanny,” he explained, glancing back over his shoulder toward the garden. “To make her a belt, maybe.”

“What a lovely idea,” I said, wondering whether Fanny would think so.

“Do ye think I might be able to buy a buckle for it from the tinker?” Germain asked Jamie, taking back his snake and redraping it round his neck. “The belt, I mean. I’ve got twopence and some wee purple stones to trade.”

“What tinker?” I stopped mashing and stared at him.

“Jo Beardsley told me he’d met a tinker in Salem two days ago, and he reckoned the man would be here sometime this week,” Germain explained. “He said the tinker’s got a sackload o’ simples, so I thought if ye needed anything, Grannie…”

I cast a quick, greedy glance at my medicine chest, depleted by a planting season rife with ax and hoe injuries, animal and insect bites, an outbreak of food poisoning, and a strange plague of respiratory illness among the MacNeills, accompanied by low fever, coughing, and bluish spots on the trunk.

“Hmmm…” I patted my pockets, wondering what
I
had to trade, come to think of it…

“There are two bottles left of the elderberry wine,” Jamie said, standing up straight. “Ye can use those, Sassenach. And I’ve got a good deerskin, and half of a wee barrel of turpentine.”

“No, I want to keep the turpentine,” I said, adding absently, “Hookworms, you know.”

Jamie and Germain exchanged a cynical glance.

“Hookworms,” Jamie said, and Germain shook his head.

Before I could enlighten them about hookworms, though, a shout came from the direction of the creek, and Duncan Leslie and his two sons appeared, one of the sons with a large ham tucked under one arm.

Jamie stood up to greet them, and they all nodded politely to me but didn’t seem to expect me to stop what I was doing in order to chat.

“I shot a good-sized pig last week,” Duncan said, motioning the son with the ham forward. “There was a bit to spare, and we thought ye might use it, what with your family come, and all.”

“I’m much obliged, Duncan,” Jamie said. “If ye dinna mind eating under the sky, come and share it with us…tomorrow?” he asked, turning to me. I shook my head.

“Day after tomorrow,” I said. “I have to go up to Beardsleys’ tomorrow and I won’t be back in time to make much more than sandwiches.” If Amy had made bread and had some to spare, I added silently to myself.

“Aye, aye,” Duncan said, nodding. “My wife will be happy to see ye, Missus. So, Jamie,” he added, tilting his head toward the foundation, “I see ye’ve got a fine big house laid out—twa chimneys, eh? Where’s the kitchen to be, then?”

Jamie rose smoothly to his feet, gave me a brief “See?” look over his shoulder, and led the Leslies off to tour the foundation, limping only slightly.

Germain laid the snake on my table and, saying, “Look after it for me, will ye, Grannie?” hurried to join the men.

BRIANNA PAUSED AT
the top of the trail and blotted sweat from her face and neck. The cabin before them was tidy and neat—very neat. There were whitewashed stones lining the path that led to the door, and the paned-glass windows—
glass
—were so polished that she could see herself and Roger in them, tiny cut-up blobs of color amid the green flicker of the reflected forest.

“Who whitewashes
rocks
?” she said, instinctively lowering her voice, as though the cabin might hear her.

“Well, it can’t be someone with a lot of time on their hands,” he said, half under his breath. “So it’s either a frustrated landscape designer or someone with a neurotic need to control their environment.”

“I suppose there’s no reason why you wouldn’t find control freaks in any time,” she said, shaking dust and leaf fragments off her skirt. “Look at the people who designed Elizabethan mazes, I mean. What was it Amy said about these people? Cunningham, is that the name?”

“Yes. ‘They’re Methodists. Blue Light,’ ” Roger quoted, “ ‘be careful of thon people, Preacher.’ ” And with that, he straightened his shoulders and set foot on the path that led between the whitewashed stones.

“Blue
Light
?” she said, and followed, poking hastily at her broad-brimmed straw hat, worn sedately over a cap. God forbid the preacher’s wife should give scandal to the faithful…

The door swung open before Roger could set foot on the step, and a small, bristly man with shaggy gray eyebrows stood eyeing them with no particular look of welcome. He was neatly dressed in butternut homespun breeches and waistcoat, and his linen shirt, while slightly yellowed with age, had been recently ironed.

“Good day to ye, sir.” Roger bowed, and Brianna made a brief bob of respect. “My name is Roger MacKenzie, and this is my wife, Brianna. We’ve come just lately to the Ridge, and—”

“I’d heard.” The man gave them a narrow look, but apparently they passed muster, for the man stepped back, gesturing them in. “I am Captain Charles Cunningham, late of His Majesty’s navy. Come in.”

Brianna felt Roger draw a deep breath. She smiled at Captain Cunningham, who blinked and looked sharply at Roger to see if he approved of this.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, as charmingly as possible, and stepped past Roger and over the threshold. “You have a most remarkable house—so beautiful!”

“I—why—” the captain began, flustered. Before he could rearrange his thoughts, though, a dark Presence manifested itself before the hearth. Now it was Brianna’s turn to blink.

“The preacher, are ye?” said the woman, looking past Bree. Yes, it was certainly a woman, though one nearly as tall as Brianna herself and dressed entirely in black, save for a starched white cap, one of the severe kind, with ear lappets. She was old, but no telling
how
old; her face was bony and sharp-eyed, and Brianna thought at once of the she-wolf who had suckled Romulus and Remus.