Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (134 page)

“Is he Polish, by chance?” he asked, and Denys choked on a clam.

“Oh, he is.” William raised a hand toward the barmaid and pointed at his empty bowl with a gesture indicating that he’d like it refilled. “How did he escape being executed in New York?”

Denys coughed, gagged, and coughed explosively, scattering the tabletop with bread crumbs, soup droplets, and a large chunk of clam. William rolled his eyes, but reached for the beer pitcher and refilled their mugs.

Denys waited until the fresh chowder had been brought and his eyes had stopped watering, then leaned over his bowl, speaking in a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the banging of cannikins and blustering talk in the taproom.

“
How
in God’s name do you come to know that?” he said.

William shrugged. “Something my uncle said. A Polish Jew, and he’d been condemned to death as a spy in New York. He was rather surprised to hear of him alive, and here. So,” he added, taking a dainty spoonful of chowder, “if that’s who your little friend is—and rather plainly he
is
—then I’m rather wondering just who—or rather, what—
you
are, these days. Because Herr Weber is plainly not in the employ of His Majesty.”

Denys drank the rest of his beer deliberately, brows knitted as he considered William.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter that you know; he’s already out of reach,” he said at last. He belched slightly, said, “Excuse me,” and poured more beer, while William waited patiently.

“Mr. Salomon is a banker,” Denys said, and having evidently made up his mind to tell William more or less the truth, went on. Born in Poland, Salomon had come to New York as a young man and made a successful career. He had also begun to meddle—very cautiously—in revolutionary politics, arranging various financial transactions for the benefit of the new Congress and the emergent revolution.

“But he wasn’t as cautious as he thought, and the British
did
catch him and he was indeed condemned to death—but then he got a pardon, though they put him on a hulk in the Hudson and made him teach English to Hessian soldiers for eighteen months.” He took another gulp of beer. “Little did they know that he was urging them all to desert—which a good number of them actually did, apparently.”

“I know,” William said dryly. A group of Hessian deserters had tried to kill him during Monmouth—and came bloody close to doing so, too. If his wretched Scottish cousin hadn’t found him in the bottom of a ravine with his skull cracked…but no need to dwell on that. Not now.

“Persistent fellow, then,” he said. “So now he’s here, and as there don’t seem to be any Hessians around to be traduced, I assume he’s gone back to his financial tricks?”

“So far as I know,” Denys said, now all nonchalance. “Good friend of General Washington’s, I hear.”

“Good for him,” William said shortly. “And what about
you
? As you’re sitting here telling me all this, am I to assume that you also are now a personal chum of Mr. Washington’s?” William was, in fact, not really surprised to be hearing these things.

Denys drew out a handkerchief and patted his lips delicately.

“Not me, so much as my stepfather,” he said. “Mr. Isaacs is a good friend of Mr. Salomon’s and shares both his political sentiments and his financial acumen.”

“
Is
?” William said, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t you tell me that your stepfather had died and that’s why you’d dropped the ‘Isaacs’ from your last name.”

“Did I?” Denys looked thoughtful. “Well…a good many people
believe
he’s dead, let’s put it that way. It’s often easier to get certain things done if people don’t know exactly who they’re dealing with.”

The fact that he, William, plainly didn’t know whom
he’d
been dealing with was becoming painfully obvious.

“So…you’re a turncoat, but you haven’t bothered actually taking it off and turning it inside out, is that it?”

“I think the actual term might be
intrigante,
William, but what’s in a word? I began working with my stepfather when I was fifteen or so, learning my way around the worlds of finance and politics. Both those threads weave through war, you know. And war is expensive.”

“And sometimes profitable?”

Something that might be offense rippled under Denys’s placid expression, but vanished in a small gesture of dignified dismissal.

“My real father was a soldier, you know, and he left me a comfortable sum of money, with the stipulation that I should use it to buy a commission—if I should turn out to be a boy, that is. He died before I was born.”

“And if you’d been a girl?” William began suddenly to wonder whether Denys might have a loaded pistol in his lap, under the table.

“The money would have been my marriage portion, and doubtless I’d now be the wife of some rich, boring merchant who beat me once a week, fucked me once a month, and otherwise left me to my own devices.”

Despite his wariness, William laughed.

“My mother wanted me to be a clergyman, poor woman.” Denys shrugged. “As it is, though…”

“Yes?” William’s calves tightened. His left hand was under the table, still holding the spoon from his chowder, the handle jutting out between the clenched fingers of his fist. It wasn’t the weapon he’d have chosen, but if necessary, he was prepared to jam it up Denys’s nose. A conversation like this could have only one end: to invite William to join Denys in his intrigue.

He was halfway amused at the situation. Also somewhat annoyed, but cautious with it. If Denys did issue such an invitation and if William refused point-blank—Denys might consider it dangerous to leave William at large to repeat all this.

“Well…” Denys eyed his uniform. “You did tell me you’d resigned your commission.”

“I did. This”—he waved his free hand down the front of his red coat—“is just to give me countenance—and safe passage—while I look for my cousin’s wife.”

Denys’s eyes widened.

“This is the girl you’re after? Is she lost?”

I notice that you don’t ask which cousin.
“No, she’s not lost; she had a falling-out with her husband”—
to say the least
—“and decided to go to her father’s house. But my uncle became concerned about her safety on the road and sent me to see that she reached her destination safely. I thought that if she passed through Charles Town—which she likely would—she might call upon Ban Tarleton for any assistance; she and her husband are acquainted with him.”

“Unfortunately, Major Tarleton isn’t in Charles Town.” The voice spoke behind him, an English voice that his body recognized before his mind did, and he turned round fast, spoon clenched hard.

“Good day, Captain Lord Ellesmere,” said Ezekiel Richardson. He glanced indifferently at the spoon and bowed slightly. “I trust you’ll pardon the interruption, gentlemen. I happened to overhear Major Tarleton’s name. He and Major Ferguson are, in fact, in hot pursuit of several groups of retreating American militia, running south.”

William hesitated for a moment, torn between curiosity—leavened by indignation—and expedience. But it was an instant too long; Richardson pulled up a stool and sat down at the small, round table, between William and Denys. Well within grabbing—or shooting or stabbing, for that matter—distance.

“Has Herr Weber left us in good order?” Richardson asked, presumably of Denys, but his eyes were fixed on William.

“Rather jumpy,” Denys said, “but quite intact. Our friend William was most helpful in keeping him from jumping off the dock and swimming home whilst I went and made the final arrangements.”

“We’re most obliged to you, Lord Ellesmere.”

“My name is Ransom, sir.”

The sparse eyebrows rose.

“Indeed.” Richardson, who was not in uniform, but wearing a decent gray suit, darted a quick glance at Denys, who shrugged slightly.

“I think so,” he said obliquely.

“If what you think is that I will choose to join you in your treasonous games, gentlemen,” William said, pushing back from the table, “I must disabuse you of the notion. Good day.”

“Not so fast,” Richardson said, clamping a hand on William’s forearm. “If you please—my lord.” There was a slight mocking inflection to that “my lord”—or at least that’s how it sounded to William, who was in no mood for trifling.

“No commission, no rank, and not ‘my lord.’ Be so kind as to remove your hand, sir, or I shall remove it for you.” William made a slight gesture with his spoon, which was flimsy but made of tin and whose handle came to a triangular point. Richardson paused, and William’s muscles tightened. The hand lifted, though, just in time.

“I suggest you consider Denys’s suggestion,” Richardson said, his tone light. “Resigning your commission has doubtless caused some gossip in army circles—and if you are declining to be addressed by your title, it will cause more. I do think, though, that you might hesitate to cause the sort of gossip that will be unleashed if the reason behind your actions were to be made public.”

“You know nothing of my reasons, sir.” William stood up, and so did Richardson.

“We know that you are the bastard son of one James Fraser, a Jacobite traitor and present rebel,” he said pleasantly. “And one look at the two of you—drawn side by side in the newspapers?—would be enough to convince anyone of the truth.”

William uttered a short laugh, though it came out as a hoarse bark.

“You say what you like, sir, to whomever it pleases you to say it. Go to the devil.”

And with that, he stabbed the spoon, handle first, into the table, and turned to walk away. Behind him, Richardson spoke, his voice still pleasant.

“I know your sister,” he said.

William’s shoulders tensed, but he kept on walking until the docks of Charles Town lay far behind.

July 4, A.D. 1780

To Colonel James Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge

From John Sevier

Mr. Fraser—

I write first to thank you for the Gift of your most excellent Whisky. I had Occasion to visit Mrs. Patton recently and shared with her a small Bottle that I had upon my Person. Judging from her Demeanor, I believe your Custom will be welcome at her Mill at any Time you wish, provided you come armed with the right Sort of Currency.

I write also to tell you that Nicodemus Partland, while inadvertently responsible for my Enjoyment of your Whisky, is otherwise no Gift to a liberal Society. Mr. Cleveland, in his Capacity as Constable, imprisoned Mr. Partland and three of his Companions, on Charges of disturbing the Peace. He kept them for three Weeks in his Barn, and then released them separately, one each Week, for the succeeding three Weeks, thus ensuring that Mr. Partland would not be greeted by a large Group of Followers upon his eventual Reappearance.

I have kept an Ear out, but have heard Nothing of any new Effort to raise a Party of Aggression (for I will not call such a Body a Committee of Safety, as the Term is often much abused) near the Treaty Line.

If the Cherokee Lands lie quiet, other Places do not. I have had Word of a Major Patrick Ferguson, who in the Midst of the Siege of Charles Town was sent to the South with Major Tarleton (for I know you are familiar with this Gentleman’s Name) and his Loyalist British Legion, whence they ousted an American Force at Monck’s Corner, near Charles Town. You had asked me if I knew of Major Ferguson, and now I do. I shall watch out for any further News of him.

Yr. Obt. Servant,

John Sevier

July 10, 1780

THERE HAD BEEN THUNDERSTORMS
on the mountain all week and the day had begun with a brief rattle of rain against the shutters an hour or so before dawn and a blast of cold wind that shot down the chimney, hit the smoored embers, and spewed hot ashes all over the bedroom floor. Jamie leapt out of bed and sloshed water from the ewer across the hearth rug, stamping out stray sparks with his bare feet and muttering sleepy execrations in Gaelic.

He poked up the remaining embers, stuffed a couple of chunks of fat pine and a longer-burning hickory log in among them with a bit of fresh kindling, and stood there in his shirt, arms folded tight against the chill of the room, waiting to be sure the fresh wood had caught. Still snug in bed, I blinked drowsily, appreciating the sight of him. The rising light of the new fire glowed behind him and flickered on the stones of the mantel, making the shadow of his long body visible through the linen. The touch of that body was still vividly imprinted on my skin, and I began to feel somewhat less sleepy.

When he was sure the new fire was well underway, he nodded and muttered something—whether to himself or the fire, I couldn’t tell; there
were
Highland fire charms, and he undoubtedly knew a few. Satisfied, he turned, crawled back into bed, wrapped his long cold limbs around me, sighing as he relaxed into my warmth, farted, and went blissfully back to sleep.

By the time I woke up again, he was gone, and the room was warm and smelled pleasantly of the ghosts of turpentine and fire. I could hear the wind whining round the corners of the house, though, and the creak of the new timbers and lath of the third-floor walls just above us. Another storm was coming; I could smell the sharp scent of ozone in the air.

Fanny and Agnes were up; I could hear the muffled sound of their voices down in the kitchen, amid heartening sounds of breakfast being made. Agnes had agreed, with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, to go to Charles Town with the Cunninghams, and then to London, by which time she would theoretically have made up her mind as to which of the two lieutenants would be her husband. The captain had survived, but had had a setback that delayed their departure. He had rallied but was still in fragile health, and Jamie had told him that he was welcome to stay until the roads were safer. There was no chance of his riding; his legs were still paralyzed, though he did have sensation in his feet and I
thought
I’d seen a faint twitch of his left toe.

Silvia and the girls were up, too, though only a faint murmur of voices reached me from the heights of the third floor. Jamie had considered giving them one of the Loyalists’ forfeited cabins, but he, Jenny, and Ian had all thought it might be bad luck for Quakers to inherit the spoils of war, as it were. He and Ian and Roger would build them a new cabin, before the winter came. As for me, I was more than happy to have three more females able to cook on the premises, though the Hardmans’ expertise didn’t extend to much beyond roasting potatoes and making stews.

I wasn’t picky. I was still reveling in the novelty of having several someone elses who would deal with the constant juggling act of turning food into meals, to say nothing of helping with things like soap and candle making. And laundry…

Roger and Bree had gone to Salem with the wagon, to trade for pottery and woven cloth—Bree hadn’t yet had time or space to begin building a loom—but there were plenty of willing hands available for the domestic chores.

I splashed my face with cold water, brushed my teeth, and got dressed, feeling more alert as I started planning the day. Jamie hadn’t gone hunting this morning; I could hear his voice downstairs, exchanging pleasantries with the girls. If he meant to spend the day at home, perhaps I could induce him to retire with me for a short rest after lunch…

How did he do that? I wondered. How could just the sound of his voice, no words, just a soft rumble, make me recall the warm dark of our predawn bed?

I was still thinking about it, in a vague sort of way, when I reached the kitchen, to find him licking the last drops of milk off his spoon.

“How dissipated of you,” I said, sitting down opposite him with a small pot of honey and half a loaf from the pie safe. “Milk on your parritch?” Most Highland Scots turned up their long noses at such indulgence, preferring the stern virtue of oatmeal unadorned by anything more than a pinch of salt. “Jenny would disown you.”

“Likely,” he said, undaunted at the prospect. “But wi’ Ban and Ruaidh both in calf, we’ve milk to spare and it wouldna be right to let it go to waste, now, aye? Is that honey?” His eyes had focused on the honey pot as soon as I set it down.

I broke off a small chunk of bread, carefully spread a dab of the pale honey onto it, and handed it to him.

“Taste that. Not like that!” I said, seeing him about to engulf the bite. He froze, the bread halfway to his mouth.

“How am I meant to taste it, if I’m not to put it in my mouth?” he asked warily. “Have ye thought of some novel method of ingestion?” Fanny giggled behind me. Agnes, setting a platter of fried bacon at his elbow, squinted at “ingestion,” but didn’t say anything. He lifted the morsel to his nose and sniffed it cautiously.

“Slowly. You’re meant to savor it,” I added reprovingly. “It’s special.”

“Oh.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Well, it’s got a fine, light nose.” He raised his eyebrows, eyes still closed. “And a nice bouquet, to be sure…lily o’ the valley, burnt sugar, something a wee bit bitter, maybe…” He frowned, concentrating, then opened his eyes and looked at me. “Bee dung?”

I made a grab for the bread, but he snatched it away, stuffed it in his mouth, closed his eyes again, and assumed an expression of rapture as he chewed.

“See if I ever give
you
any more sourwood honey!” I said. “I’ve been saving that!”

He swallowed, blinked, and licked his lips thoughtfully.

“Sourwood. Is that no what ye gave Bobby Higgins last week to make him shit?”

“That’s the leaves.” I waved at a tall jar on top of the simples cabinet. “Sarah Ferguson says that sourwood honey is monstrously good and monstrously rare, and that the folk in Salem and Cross Creek will give you a small ham for a jar of it. I sent some with Bree.”

“Will they, so?” He eyed the honey pot with more respect. “And it’s from your own wee stingards, is it?”

“Yes, but the sourwood trees only bloom for about six weeks, and I’ve only the two hives set near them, so far. I took this as soon as the trees stopped blooming. That’s why it’s so—”

A thunder of feet coming onto the porch and in the front door drowned me out, and the air was filled with excited boys’ voices shouting, “Grandpa!”
“A Mhaighister!”
“Mr. Fraser!”

Jamie stuck his head out into the corridor.

“What?” he said, and the running feet stumbled to a ragged halt in a storm of exclamations and pantings, in the midst of which I picked out one word: “Redcoats!”

JAMIE DIDN’T WAIT
to hear more. He got up, pushed the boys out of the way, and headed for the front door.

I ran into the surgery, snatched a big, curved amputation knife from the cupboard, and rushed after Jamie and the boys. Jem, Aidan, and two friends were still panting and explaining, in a confused gabble. “There’s two of ’em!” “No, there’s three!” “But t’other one, he’s not a soldier—he—” “He’s a black man,
a Mhaighister!
”

A black man? That would be nothing notable anywhere in the Carolinas—save in the high mountains. There were a few free blacks in Brownsville, and small settlements that included people of mixed blood, but—a black man in a red coat?

Jamie had left his rifle standing beside the door the day before, and now grabbed it, his face set and wary.

“Bidh socair,”
he said briefly to the boys. “Go to the kitchen, but stay inside and keep your lugs open. Ye hear any kind of a stramash, take the women out the back and put them up a tree. Then go fetch your fathers, quick.”

The boys nodded, breathless, and I pushed past them with a brief look strongly suggesting that they’d best not even
think
of trying to haul me out the back door and shove me up a tree, no matter
what
happened. They all looked shifty, but hung their heads.

Jamie yanked the door open and cold air
whoosh
ed down the hall, whipping my petticoats up in a froth round my knees.

The men—three of them, on horseback—were riding slowly up the rise toward the house. And just as the boys had said, all three were red-coated British soldiers, and the third, the man in the lead, was indeed a black man. In fact…they all were.

I saw Jamie glance round at the woods and surrounding landscape—were they alone? I peered anxiously past his elbow, but couldn’t see or sense anything amiss. Neither did he; his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he checked his rifle to be sure it was primed—it was always kept loaded—and set it carefully back behind the door, then stepped out onto the porch. I wasn’t letting go of my knife, but did hide it in the folds of my skirt.

The oncoming men saw us on the porch; the leader checked his horse for a moment, then raised a hand to us. Jamie raised a hand in reply, and they came on.

Dozens of possible reasons for such a visitation were darting through my head, but at least they didn’t look overtly threatening. The leader halted by our hitching post, swung down, and dropped his reins, leaving his horse to the other soldiers, who remained mounted. That was vaguely reassuring; perhaps they’d come only to ask directions—so far as I knew (and devoutly hoped), the British army had no present business with us. Plainly this wasn’t Major Patrick Ferguson.

I had an odd feeling between my shoulder blades, though. Not fright, but something uneasy. Something seemed very familiar about this man. I felt Jamie take a deep breath and let it out again, carefully.

“I bid ye welcome, sir,” he said, his voice pleasant, but neutral. “Ye’ll pardon my not using your surname; I never kent what it was.”

“Stevens,” said our visitor, and taking off his laced hat, bowed to me. “Captain Joseph Stevens. Your servant, Mrs. Fraser. And…yours, sir,” he added, in a distinctly ironic tone that made me blink. He was wearing a military wig, and suddenly I saw him as I’d known him before, in a neat white wig and green livery, at River Run plantation.

“Ulysses!” I said, and dropped the knife with a loud
thunk.