Law, Susan Kay (26 page)

Reaching out warily, she took the paper. It was folded in
quarters, a mellow ivory square. On one side, in black ink, big, blocky letters
spelled out
Beth.

Closing her eyes, she pressed the letter to her chest.
Jon.
It
had to be Jon. Who else would address a letter simply to Beth?

"Where did you get this?"

"Boston. I was tryin' to make a bit off those bloomin'
British. Huh. Ain't interested in buying much but rum. Their womenfolk, now,
they're good cust—"

"Who gave it to you?" she asked impatiently.

"Don't know. Big fellow. Not too swift in the upstairs, if
you know what I mean. Paid me good, though, to get a letter to the tavern
keeper's daughter in New Wexford an' not tell anyone else about it."

"Well, you found me."

"Ain't you gonna read it?"

She opened her eyes. The peddler hopped from foot to foot. She
wanted to be rid of him, quickly. Although her first instinct was to open the
letter immediately, it somehow seemed wrong to do so in front of someone else.

"Was there something else you wanted?"

"Well." He scrunched up his nose. "I thought mebbe
you'd want to look at some of my wares. They're fine ones, that."

"No."

"Couldn't interest you in anythin'?" he wheedled.

"Perhaps. Are you going back to Boston soon? Could you get a
reply through?"

Scratching at his gray-stubbled chin, he replied, "Naw.
'Tain't worth it. Gettin' dangerous around there, ain't ya heard?"

"Yes, I'd heard. Well, I won't keep you then. Thank you for
your service."

"Pleasure, miss." It seemed to take him forever to
repack his bag to his satisfaction, lift it to his shoulder, and shuffle his
way out the door. She resisted the urge to hurry him on his way, suspecting it
wouldn't do any good anyway.

Thank heavens. He was halfway out the door. Then he paused and
turned back to her, deep creases crinkling around his eyes as he grinned cheerfully.
"You enjoy that letter now, you hear?"

"I will." I hope, she thought. She didn't know why Jon
would have gone to so much effort to get a letter to her. Trouble, perhaps? He
was injured, he wanted to warn her—or her family—about something?

Rounding the corner of the Eel, the peddler was out of sight at
last. Bennie scrambled up the ladder to the loft, not even thinking about why
she sought out that place.

She'd been up in the loft several times since Jon left, getting
fodder for the horses, but she'd never really looked at it. On those days,
before the grass had grown long enough to sustain the horses, she'd simply
thrown the hay down and gotten out as quickly as she could.

This time she stopped and took it in. How different it seemed now
than it had that black, stormy April evening. Although it was dim, light poured
through the open window, burnishing the hay to mellow gold. Dust motes floated
lazily through the sunbeam.

Her violin was still there, packed away in its case where she'd
left it, on one corner of the brown blanket that was still spread over a pile
of hay. She hurried over and sat down.

Gently, she stroked the surface of the blanket. It was rough,
scratchy, and yet it had never abraded her that night—because her bare skin had
never touched it. Jon had protected her, had shielded her with his body, and
she was, irrationally, positive he had meant to do so.

Their lovemaking had been desperate, frenzied, and brief. Despite
how quickly it had ended, she remembered each instant with startling clarity,
for she'd relived it again and again. Each night, when the terrible, terrifying
blood and fire invaded her thoughts, she turned to him.

It no
longer mattered to her whether it had been wrong. She'd needed it.
She'd needed the feelings, she'd needed the thunder, and now she needed the
memory.

Taking a deep breath, she unfolded the paper. The writing was
sharp, angular, strong, and seemed perfectly suited to those big, powerful
hands.

My drst. Beth,

I hope this finds You. I am not good with Words or

Writing, so I paid a Printer here in Boston to write this Message
for Me. He assures Me He will correct my Mistakes & make it sound Proper.

I wanted you to know I am well. Nearly half of the Citizens of
this fair City have left, so we have ample Quarters. Ships from England bring
steady Supplies. I have planted a small Garden in the Common, as have many of
My Fellow Men. The Turnips & Radishes look very well, although the Beans
are a bit slow.

I told You I am not good with Words. I wanted to tell You again that
I am sorry for any Pain I have caused You. Your Friendship is My most cherished
Possession.

I remain, always,

Your Devoted Servant,

Jon.

Bennie carefully folded the letter along its original creases and
tucked it safely into her pocket. She reached for her violin and, for the first
time in nearly two months, began to play.

God, he hated the smell of blood.

It clogged the back of his throat and filled his nostrils:
sickeningly sweet, cloying, pungent. There was no getting away from it, no
fresh breeze sweeping it away with the crisp warmth of early summer. It clung
to him, making him feel sticky and dirty, and he knew there wasn't enough water
in the world to wash it away.

Leaning wearily against a side-turned supply cart, Jon once more went
through the motions of cleaning his weapon. To his right, the water glittered
with deceptive cheerfulness, bright and gay with the late afternoon sun. To his
left sprawled the line of stone fences, fortified rail fence, and redoubt that
they'd spent the day trying to take.

Ahead of him lay the beach, a wide band that rimmed Charlestown,
littered with the remains of a day of fighting—torn clothes and spent powder
horns, crumpled bodies that lay like discarded rag dolls. Almost unbelievable
that those loose, pale, disjointed corpses, dressed in red and stained with
black, were real—except he could smell the blood.

Ramming the brush down the barrel of his musket, he methodically
dragged it in and out. The cardinal rules of soldiering: head down, follow orders,
keep your weapon clean.

Behind those fences the hill—Breed's? Bunker? Nobody seemed
entirely sure which—swarmed with Americans. Hard to tell how many, but they'd
dug in well over the night. The British command had determined that the
colonists couldn't keep that high ground, which would give their cannon a clean
shot down into the center of Boston where the British forces were clustered,
and so this morning they'd begun the attempt to drive the rebels from
Charlestown.

Sergeant Hitchcock dropped into the sand beside Jon. He pulled out
a rumpled cloth and mopped his forehead.

"Damn rough one today," he said.

Jon glanced at the sergeant, who looked much too frail to
withstand battle. Nevertheless, when they were engaged, he fought with
precision, discipline, toughness, and rock-steady control.

"Yes," Jon agreed.

"You did good today, son."

"No. Scared." It had been near to impossible, trying to
maintain the fiction that he couldn't shoot when all hell had been breaking
loose around him. "You?"

"Naw. Only afterwards. That's when I start to shake. Still,
ya done good. You're a big target. Kept your head down. Followed orders. I was
proud of you," Sergeant Hitchcock insisted, clapping Jon on his shoulder.

Oh, God. Jon clenched his musket barrel. When was the last time
someone had said that to him? Had anyone
ever
said that to him?

"Thanks."

"Ready to try it again?"

"Again?" They'd tried it twice today and been massacred
both times. There were companies of fifty-nine men that had only a few members
remaining. How could they possibly mount another assault with their depleted
forces? It was suicide.

"Yep. Word just came down. We're gonna roust those mohairs or
die trying."

***

Die trying.
Those words echoed through Jon's head as
the world exploded around him once again. He was bolstered behind a ridge of
sand, which was, in his opinion, clearly inadequate protection.

The roar of artillery and muskets thundered so loudly in Jon's
ears he could no longer tell if he was hearing the current fire or an echo of
fire that was already gone. It was steady, pounding, bursting in sharp shards
of pain inside his head.

Sweat trickled down his face, blurring his vision and tickling his
upper lip. He longed to wipe it away, but he couldn't seemed to make himself
release his rigid grip on his musket.

Fire. Pour in powder. Ram a ball down the barrel. Aim. Fire again.

There was a terrible, repetitive rhythm to his actions, a rhythm
that suspended time and submerged reality. Had ten minutes passed? An hour? Who
knew? Just fire, reload, aim. Fire.

To his left, Sergeant Hitchcock, hunched low, scrambled across the
beach like a hermit crab, scuttling along behind the ridge of sand. He ducked
lower as a ball whined over his head and threw himself prone next to Jon.

"You doin' all right, son?" he hollered.

"Yeah." Jon fired again, at a beautiful indigo patch of
sky a good five feet above the abutment.

"I'm going over."

"What?" Unable to hear above the thundering weapons, he
turned to the sergeant. It was sometimes easier to understand when he could
watch his lips and connect the movement to the snatches of words he managed to
catch.

"I'm goin' over. Already told the cap'n. Want you and the
rest of the company to cover me, then follow as quickly as ya can."

"Can't do that!" Jon protested. "Too dangerous."

"We sure as hell ain't gettin' nowhere down here." The
sergeant scanned the ridge. "The firin's lighter, Jon. Ain't ya noticed,
son?"

"Noticed."

"I figure some of 'em left, or they're gettin' low on shot.
Maybe both. Best try and take 'em before reinforcements arrive."

"Maybe." And then again, maybe the Americans were
setting them up, just waiting for the regulars to rush the barricades. They'd
be pigs sitting in a fenced yard, waiting to be picked off. However, he didn't figure
that scenario was one "Jon" should be clever enough to think of, so
he bit his tongue and didn't object.

A small geyser of sand spewed no more than six inches from his
thigh as a ball plowed into the beach. Then sudden, blessed silence, perhaps
ten seconds' worth, so quiet after the thunder and firing that he almost didn't
believe it.

"Now!" Hitchcock shouted, jumping to his feet and
plunging forward. A hail of shot followed his ascent, all the gates of hell
burst open at once, and his small, wiry body seemed pitifully fragile against
the fury.

"No!" Jon's voice was lost against the volley of shots.
He took careful aim this time, following the path the Sergeant was taking,
trying to provide some cover. Swearing, he rushed after Hitchcock, trying to
reload as he ran, only dimly aware that the rest of his company were fighting
their way up the slope too.

He no longer flinched when a ball flew by his ear. It was useless;
the fire was everywhere, anyway.

Hitchcock dived over the reinforced fence. Jon angled in that
direction, keeping his gaze fixed on the spot where his sergeant had
disappeared. Twenty yards, fifteen. Bushes whipped by in his peripheral vision;
sand disappeared beneath his feet. Why, then, did it seem he was going so
slowly, each second stretched to the limit of human tolerance?

Smoke, acrid and hot, stung his eyes and burned his nose. His ears
rang with screams, shouts, and the crack of muskets; the sharp tang of battle
filled his mouth. Ten... five. Bushes. Piles of hay and mud, clumps of timber
and dirt. The fence.

He was over. He glanced around quickly for a barrel, a mound of
earth, anything to provide some protection. A waist-high, naked bush made poor
cover but he dived for it anyway. He crouched by the thin trunk and frantically
gulped air. How long had it been since he'd breathed?

The Americans were in retreat. No uniforms, their lines ragged,
but still fighting fiercely as they slipped back across the high ground.
Returning fire, Jon wished, once again, for better cover. He was too big; too
many pieces of his body—pieces he didn't care to lose—were exposed. Looking for
a better position, he shrank closer to the bush and glanced around again,

Not far off a crumpled heap of red and dirty white lay on the
ground—Sergeant Hitchcock.

Jon ducked his head and headed for Hitchcock. A sharp pang along
his side was nothing; all his focus was on the body lying on the dusty ground.

No time for niceties. Jon grabbed a handful of coat and dragged
Hitchcock back behind the bush, now grateful for the meager cover.

Jon shoved his rifle aside and rolled Hitchcock over, taking the
sergeant's head in his lap. Hitchcock's face was pale and slack, his eyes
closed. Jon groped along the loose folds of Hitchcock's neck, searching for a
pulse. There. Unsteady, thin, but there.