Ashes (25 page)

He shrugged. “Least I could do. I lost track of the number of times you saved my neck.”

An acorn bounced off the kettle, thrown by one of the lads following us. I turned to scold them, but they stopped and stared up at a tree, marveling loudly at a nest perched in its branches.

“Ignore them,” Curzon advised. “I saw Eben yesterday. He explained what happened with your papers, with Hallahan. How it was you came to the camp.”

“'Twas never my intention to seek you out,” I said in a rush. “I didn't know that Ebenezer–”

“He explained that you didn't want to involve me. But he knew that I'd listed you as my wife.”

The word seemed to explode like a cannon shot. We walked again in silence.

“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked quietly.

“I tried to that night in Williamsburg, but we lost our tempers and you called me . . .”

“I called you a muzzy-headed blatherskite.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “And you said I had a bizarre attachment to a cause that didn't give a damn about me.”

“I've not yet changed my mind about that.”

“Now who's the blatherskite? You're working for a company filled with black soldiers. We're treated the same as our white compatriots–same food, same risk, same tents.”

“I don't see any black generals giving the orders.”

“You will. Someday.”

I sneezed again, but before I could dig out my rag, Curzon produced a much cleaner sort from his own pocket and gave it to me.

“I apologize,” he said. “Shouldn't have signed you up without your knowledge and leave. I only did it to ensure your safety.”

“It is not natural for me to admit that I'm ever in the wrong,” I said, wiping my nose. “But I apologize for being so horrid that night. I'm happy you found us a place here. Grateful, again.”

I handed him his rag, but he shook his head.

“Sleeve's good enough for me. You hear that we're finally ready to start the digging and open the parallel tonight?”

“Hmm,” I grumbled. “Barmy idea, if you ask me.” The planned trench that Henry had described to me had been the only topic of conversating round the cook fire for days.

“Constructing parallels is an ancient part of the proper conduct of a siege. There is a military philosophy behind it all.”

“Barmy,” I repeated. “That trench won't be ready until Christmas.”

“We'll be digging all day and all night,” he protested. “Thousands of strong men armed with shovels.”

“Don't matter.”

He burst out laughing. “You're hardly an expert on the construction of siege parallels, Country.”

“No, but I'm an expert on getting fields ready for planting. Do you know how heavy the dirt will be with all this rain? It would take weeks even if you weren't being blown to bits by the lobsterbacks.”

He set down the kettle and scooped dirt from the road. “Put out your hand, please.”

I sighed but allowed him to take my hand in his. The warmth of his skin startled me. The three loobies, Isaac, Drury, and Tall Will, hooted with delight.

“Digging is hard work in the heavy mud of Rhode Island.” He poured a slow stream of damp, sandy soil into my palm. “But here the dirt is mostly sand, light as air. We'll have to work hard, but we can do this, you'll see.”

I let the sand fall between my fingers. “A fellow in Captain Bond's company was killed by a nine-pound cannonball yesterday.”

“We're at war, Isabel. Death is an ever-present danger.”

The rain suddenly fell harder, pattering on the leaves. We walked again, our pace quickened.

“Perfect weather,” Curzon said. “Harder for the British to see us tonight in mist and rain. We're supposed to work in silence to avoid detection.”

“Thousands of our soldiers–silent? Is that even possible?”

“You said ‘our.'”

“Yes, I said ‘our.' Have you walked through camp in the dark?” I asked. “Even asleep our soldiers sound like ten thousand monsters roaring.”

“No one will be sleeping whilst digging the parallel. What are you shaking your head about?”

“You always see the best of any circumstance, don't you? It's pouring down buckets of rain on our heads, and still you find sunshine.”

“Rain's going to fall, can't change that. The trick of it is to find the good in the rain, the aspect of positivity. Rains come and rains go, but the sun is always waiting to shine, waiting on the far side of the clouds.”

“What ho, Private Smith!” called Drury. He and the others stood a dozen paces behind us.

“Blasted bumpkins,” Curzon muttered.

“You are neglecting your sergeant's command in this matter,” Isaac said.

“What is he prattling on about?” I asked.

Curzon puffed out his cheeks with air, then exhaled noisily. “I must pretend to kiss you now, or we shall never hear the end of it.”

I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“They won't shut their gobs about my mistreatment of you, my lack of husbandly kindness. Sergeant agrees, God help us, which is why those cods are following us and leering like jack-o'-lanterns. I'm supposed to make up for my recent coldness to you. My apologies, Isabel. 'Tis not my intention to be disrespectful or offer you insult.”

Between the rain, my stuffed nose, and the unusual circumstance, I was not sure I understood what he was saying. “You want to kiss me?”

“They want me to kiss you.”

That clarified things somewhat. “But you don't want to kiss me?”

“Yes. No.” He shook his head in confusion. “Most of all I don't want to make you mad. I am uncommonly skilled at it.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. We both seemed unsure of this matter. “We require a ruse, methinks.” I wiped the rain from my face and took my shawl from my head. “Think of this as a shield for our privacy. Hold that corner of it.”

He did as I asked, then followed my motion as I raised the scarf until it fluttered in the rain like a curtain. Isaac, Drury, and Tall Will could not see if I was smiling or wiping my nose. “Bring your face in close to me. But don't you dare kiss me, if you value your life.”

He followed my orders.

“May I touch your shoulder?” I whispered. His face was so close to mine that my eyes crossed a bit, making it look as if he had three eyes, not two. “Seems a touch like that is the sort of thing a person might do whilst kissing.”

His mouth gaped open, then shut, like a fish flopping on a riverbank. “I do believe that is true.”

I reached out with my free hand. Heat from his skin warmed his damp shirt. The muscles in his shoulder were hard as iron. I had the strangest sensation in my belly, like toads were hopping inside it again. I told myself this was a sign that my illness was moving from my nose to my innards.

I cleared my throat. “How long should we stand like this?”

“Bit longer,” he whispered.

“Make me a promise?”

“Anything,” he answered without hesitation.

“Stay clear of the cannonballs when you're digging that infernal trench.”

His easy smile reminded me of the boy he'd once been. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” I stepped back, jerked the shawl from his fingers, and spun it so that it again covered my head and shoulders. I walked away with my dignity, trying to ignore the applause from our rowdy audience and the sudden heat that rushed to my face.

[S
ARAH
]
TOOK HER STAND JUST BACK OF THE
A
MERICAN TENTS . . . AND BUSIED HERSELF WASHING, MENDING, AND COOKING FOR THE SOLDIERS, IN WHICH SHE WAS ASSISTED BY THE OTHER FEMALES.

–P
ENSION APPLICATION OF
S
ARAH
O
SBORN, WHO WORKED FOR HER HUSBAND'S UNIT, THE
T
HIRD
N
EW
Y
ORK
R
EGIMENT, AT
Y
ORKTOWN

G
ENERAL WASHINGTON OPENED THE TRENCH
. That is to say, he sank the first pickaxe into the ground. Normally, such a thing would have been done with banners waving and drums beating, but that would have drawn unwanted lobsterback attention. Thus, the general sank his pickaxe into the ground, bowed to a gentle applause, and stepped out of the way so the men could proceed with their task.

We could not see this work, of course. We stayed at the company campfire to keep it blazing high. The lads would need something hot to drink and would want to warm themselves when their night's work was done. Besides, it rained hard enough that we couldn't have seen the digging if we'd stood ten paces away.

The captain's tent was close to the fire, but we would have broken ten kinds of rules had we stayed dry and warm in there. I suppose no one would have raised a fuss if we'd stayed in the tent where Curzon slept, seeing as they all thought he and I were wed, but that was quite a distance from the fire, and we'd get twice as wet dashing back and forth to keep the flames alive.

Ruth and I erected a sad excuse for a hut in an attempt to provide ourselves with fireside shelter. We hammered long poles into the ground a pace in front of the woodpile, then draped a cast-off piece of canvas atop the pile and tied it to the poles so that it could behave as a roof for us. It was not much for behaving, letting in as much rain as it kept out.

“Fool notion,” Ruth grumbled as we huddled under the dripping canvas. “Being moles.”

“We're not moles,” I said. “Ducks mayhaps.”

“Not us. Them. Moles dig holes. Not soldiers.”

“Indeed.” I paused and waited for the echoes from two cannon blasts to die away. “Must be busy moles tonight. Safe moles, I hope.”

There was another long rumble. Thunder, not cannon fire.

“Quack,” Ruth muttered.

“Beg pardon?”

“We're ducks. Quack. Quack.”

It was a joke of sorts, but Ruth's smile was brief. She'd been troubled since we heard of the tales told by the latest British deserters. Conditions in Yorktown were dire, they said. Hundreds of the redcoats' horses had been shot because there was no food for them. Their bodies had been thrown into the river, in the hopes they'd be washed out to sea. The tide brought back the rotting corpses and deposited them on the riverbanks, where they remained. The soldiers were hungry too and limited to restricted rations. And now bilious fever had broken out.

She was heartbroken about the horses, of course, but her true concern was still for Aberdeen. I had hoped that her fondness for him would fade as she struck up new friendships in the camp, but it had not. He had been her friend for as long as she could remember. His absence weighed heavy on her heart, and I knew not how to ease her sorrow.

  *  *  *  

By the time the lads returned at dawn, filthy and soaked from hair to boots, we had the fire roaring despite the rain and served them fresh coffee and hot stew. Their voices fell over one another, teasing, boasting, hooting with laughter, as joyful as a group of boys who'd been chasing pigs for fun. To hear them tell it, the entire night had been one long game, each company trying to outdo the others in how much trench they could dig before dawn. The gloom and rain had indeed protected them from discovery. The false French attack on the western redoubts had helped too.

I finished serving out the stew but still had several bowlfuls in the kettle. I peered through the rain. I counted the men and came up short. Curzon and several others were missing.

And then he came running up the road, Isaac at one side of him, Henry on the other, all of them laughing. I sneezed again and shook my head in frustration. Staying awake all night in the rain was having a woeful effect on my health.

“All hail Lord Shellhawk!” crowed Drury.

“To Shellhawk!” The others lifted their cups in a toast directed at Curzon.

He grinned, abashed. “Enough of that. Let me eat.”

I ladled out his stew. “What did they call you?”

“Yer man earned himself a nickname last night,” Henry explained. “A shell flew in so quick upon the heels of a previous shot, no one could move fast enough, except for Lord Shellhawk there. He dove at the three lads in harm's way.”

“Crushing our tender bones into the earth!” exclaimed a fellow by the woodpile.

“Saved them from harm.”

“I need not have done it,” Curzon said sheepishly. “Blasted thing landed far enough away.”

“That's not the point,” Henry said. “You sought to protect them from mortal danger.”

“But how could a shell cause such harm?” I asked.

The men stared at me with astonished mortification.

“Beg pardon?” Henry said. “Do you not know what a shell is, missus?”

“I've held them in my hands, of course,” I said. “The sea casts up all manner of shells; they can be fashioned into buttons–”