Law, Susan Kay (19 page)

"It must have been a small band, Cap'n. Any more, an' the
sentries woulda noticed em,"

"They should have 'noticed' them anyway."

"Yes."

"Why didn't they?"

"Gettin' soft, I guess, Cap'n. These younger ones ain't never
been in a war, ain't never been in danger. Don't know how easy it is to die
when you ain't payin' attention."

"It's your job to teach them, Sergeant."

Hitchcock straightened proudly. He'd never been one to flinch from
his duty, or from his mistakes. "Yes, Cap'n."

"Double the watch, and the sentries' time on it. Perhaps
they'll learn to be more alert."

"Yes, sir."

Livingston strolled slowly around the fire. Although they were out
in the open, they were as good as alone; no one came within twenty yards of
them. At least the men had enough sense to stay out of the captain's way just
now.

"It's better than they deserve," Captain Livingston
said. "I should discipline them more strictly." He watched the smoke
curl up from the smoldering remains of fully half the camp's tents. He'd told
his men, time and again, not to trust the deceptive quiet of the region.
Colonials were unpredictable and reckless, given to violence and more than
willing to put themselves in danger to inflict it. It was difficult for a calm,
reasoned man to predict their actions.

He'd known from experience that sooner or later something was
going to happen. He'd warned his troops, and they'd not had the wit to listen
to him. Well, now their punishment would be the cold, the crowding, and the
work necessary to make the fort comfortably habitable. That should prove enough
incentive for them never to be so careless again.

"How much damage?"

"Not as much as it appears." Hitchcock ticked off his
report on his fingers. "The horses were scattered, but all but a couple
found their way back as soon as the fire died down. I expect the rest'll show
up tomorrow. We lost lots of the soft goods—tents, blankets, an' stuff— but we
can move into the fort immediately. It's not ready, but it's close enough.
Ain't gonna be comfortable, but better'n a lotta places I've been stationed.

"They got into the food stores. Dumped a lot, poisoned a
bunch more. Luckily, there weren't all that much there anyway. We're expectin'
a new shipment next week. Worst of the lot was losin' so much powder. Nothin'
for it 'cept order some new, an' who knows when that'll get here? We'll be
short until then. No problem, unless war breaks out in the next few
weeks."

Livingston reached up and clamped his hat more firmly on his head.
He'd lost his wigs, damn it, and the hats just didn't fit quite right without a
wig. Still, he didn't feel worthy of command without some sort of headwear.
"Nothing to be done, then, but write a report for headquarters. If you
would assemble a list of necessities, I will get it off first thing
tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Hitchcock paused, glancing around quickly to
assure himself no one was near. "What do you think they'll do,
Cap'n?"

"They'd better not do anything but send up new supplies.
After all, they're the ones who are supposed to have such a bloody good source.
Well, it wasn't good enough to tell us we were going to be assaulted in our
sleep, was it?"

"No." It sounded reasonable enough. But, in Hitchcock's
experience, command wasn't always entirely reasonable.

"Now then." Livingston turned to face his sergeant, and
Hitchcock was struck by the uncharacteristic fire in his captain's eyes. 'Cor,
the captain actually looked right pissed. In Hitchcock's mind, he had a right
to be, but the sergeant really hadn't expected the captain to bother with
getting mad.

"Any idea who it was, Hitchcock?"

"Well." The sergeant hesitated, unwilling to present
anything he couldn't substantiate. Besides, he rather liked the girl.

"Out with it, man."

"One of the guards thought he saw somethin', before he got
knocked over the head."

"What was it?"

"Who, Cap'n. He saw that girl."

"Girl?"

"The one from the tavern. The one you—"

"Ah, yes. The Jones girl. Did he see her do something?"

"No, sir. Jes' watchin', he said. He weren't none too
clear—still a little knotty-headed, if you ask me."

Livingston picked up a long stick and poked at the fire.
"Sergeant, what is your opinion about the action we should take in
response to this unwarranted attack?"

"Well, sir, I guess ya got a coupla choices. Y'can go detain
the girl, question her, try and find out what she knows. If'n we're forceful
enough, mebbe she'll tell us somethin'. Then again, mebbe she doesn't know
nothin'. She coulda jes' been meetin' a lover."

He sneaked a peek at Livingston, wondering if he'd react to that.
The captain had sure seemed interested in the girl when he'd first met her.
Would he use this opportunity to put a little pressure on her? In the
sergeant's mind, it was unlikely it was going to do much good. These colonials
stuck together, especially if they were family. And after all, you couldn't
torture a woman, especially when you had no real evidence. Nope, they weren't
going to get anything useful from her.

The captain continued calmly prodding the fire. "What
else?"

"We could do nothin', for the time bein', anyway. Jes' keep
our eyes and ears open, an' if anybody tries anythin' again, make sure we're
waitin' for 'em this time."

"Yes." Livingston dropped his stick and straightened,
brushing his hands together. "Then again, perhaps we have one more
option."

"What's that?"

Livingston nodded grimly. "We know where their guns
are." Determination flattened his voice.

The captain had a plan, Hitchcock realized. "But how—"

"Captain! Sergeant!" The eager voice interrupted them.

"Jon," the captain said. Lieutenant Leighton lumbered
toward them, tripping several times in the dark. "Where have you been? I
don't believe I've seen you in all the excitement."

"Was here when it started. Thought I saw something in the
woods—"

"You saw something?" Livingston asked sharply.

"Thought so. Followed it."

"Who was it?"

"Don't know." Jon shrugged. "Disappeared in the
woods. Spirit, maybe."

"A spirit," the captain repeated in disbelief.

Jon nodded. "Got lost then."

"You got lost." Livingston rubbed his temples, a habit
he often adopted when he was trying to talk to Leighton.

"Yes. Couldn't find my way back for a long time."

The captain sighed. "I want you to think very carefully,
Lieutenant. Did you see anything else beside your... spirit? One of the men—who
was it, Hitchcock?"

"Walters."

"Walters was assaulted in the woods, and perhaps you saw
something that could help us find his attacker."

"Walters? Was he hurt?"

"Not seriously."

Jon allowed himself to feel a brief moment of relief. He hadn't
wanted to hurt the boy, not really, but if that was what it had taken to
protect Beth, he would have done it. Not without a bit of regret, but that
wouldn't have stopped him. He'd long ago learned to get past such trivialities
as relief and regret.

"Didn't see anything. Must have been the spirit too."

"The spirit again. Jon, why don't you go ahead and go back to
your—no, I don't think you have a tent anymore. Wherever you plan to spend the
night."

"Maybe I'll go see Walters. See if spirit hurt him bad."

"Ah, he's in the medical tent, Jon. It wasn't damaged,"
Hitchcock said, ushering Jon in the proper direction. The sooner he was out of
the captain's sight, the better.

"Why don't you do that, Jon," Livingston said tiredly.
"You go tell ghost stories for a while."

"Yes, sir. I have a good story."

"I'm quite certain that you do."

Jon's big form faded into the darkness as he stumbled away.

***

The traitor had known about the little raid, of course. Had those
boys really thought they could keep it a secret? Nothing that happened in New
Wexford was ever a secret to him. All one had to do was watch, listen, and pay
attention, and one could find out everything that was happening in this small
village.

His contacts had no idea he'd known something he'd chosen not to
tell them. What good would it have done? It wasn't important—boys just playing
at war. And he hadn't gotten into this to put anyone he knew in danger; he was
trying to stop the conflict from getting any worse. If he and his contacts
didn't agree on the best way to do that, well, he'd always been able to make
his own decisions. He wasn't planning on changing now.

Oh, they'd be upset if they found out he'd been withholding
information. But what could they do? There was really no way they could ever
know, and even if they did, they needed what he could give them.

So, this little bit of information, he'd kept to himself.

***

The sky was just beginning to show the faint paling that signified
the approaching dawn as Jon ducked into the hospital tent. He made sure he
conked his head on the frame as he entered, shaking the tent violently and
earning himself a sharp rebuke.

"Hey, watch it! I don't want this coming down around our
ears."

"Sorry." Jon spared an apologetic glance for the jowly
medic.

Ben Walters was sprawled on a cot in one corner of the tent,
holding a sack of ice to his temple. His nightshirt was tucked securely around
him. His face was shadowed in the weak lantern light, and he looked a little
sickly but not seriously hurt.

"Ben." Jon knelt beside the cot. "Heard you got
hurt."

The young man opened one eye. "Somebody coshed me on the
head."

"Who?"

"Dunno."

"Oh." So Ben hadn't seen him after all. Jon hadn't
thought so, but he hadn't been entirely sure; there'd been a chance. He'd told
Beth he was certain only because she would worry too much if she thought he
might have been discovered. "Any ideas?"

"Some friend of that woman, most likely."

"Woman?"

"One of those Joneses, from town. Must o' been her and her
brothers who set the fire."

"Saw them?"

"No. Only her."

"Oh. Tell Captain?"

"Yes, I told the cap'n. Didn't seem like he was goin' t'do
much about it, though."

"Maybe not sure enough?" Jon suggested helpfully.

"I'm sure. Cap'n's just got kinda a weak spine, if you ask
me. Well, they're not goin' t'get away with it, if I can help it."

"What you going to do?"

"Tell some o' my buddies. We'll make sure they're sorry for
ever coming near our camp."

"Mm." Jon tapped his fingers on the rough blanket spread
over the cot. "Tell 'em you caught a spy, huh?"

"Well." Ben winced and readjusted the sack of ice he
held against his head. "Maybe she wasn't a spy, actually. But I caught
her."

"Tell your friends you let girl get away, huh?"

"Maybe." Ben pondered that for a minute. "Didn't
let her get away, exactly. I was attacked."

"Anybody see? Maybe girl hit you."

"She did not," he protested. "No girl could knock
me out, not even that giant one."

"Yeah. Friends will understand."

"'Course they will."

"Sure. Cap'n won't mind you questionin' people without
orders, either. Your head, after all."

"Yeah. He'd understand, wouldn't he?"

"Sure."

Ben frowned. "Maybe I'll just let it go for now, after
all."

"Why? Got to punish girl who hurt you."

"Can't go around botherin' girls. She didn't do nothin' to
me."

"Ah, a gentleman."

Ben closed his eyes. "I am, ain't I?"

Jon hastily left the tent before Ben could talk himself back into
taking his revenge. More tired than he could recall being, Jon crawled into a
nearby supply wagon, hoping to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before someone
found him and set him to work hauling away the wreckage from the fire.

It had all worked, thank God. Beth was home, safe and sound, and
it didn't look likely that she was going to be questioned anytime soon. It had
been touch and go for a while, but he'd managed to pull it off, and one of the
longest nights of his life was over.

And, damn it, it hadn't occurred to him until now that it was all
completely unnecessary. If he'd been in his right mind, he would have stayed
out of the whole thing. It wasn't any business of his; it had no bearing on the
job he had to do. His task was simply to gather information, certainly not to
endanger his cover by playing knight-errant to a colonial woman. He'd never,
ever— not once since he'd begun this charade—let emotion get in the way of his
job. He'd watched events unfold around him with a detached disinterest that was
absolutely crucial to his effectiveness; he'd never felt even the slightest
urge to help those who were unwittingly caught in the mess. Certainly, he'd
never come close to acting on their behalf.