Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (114 page)

Ben hit him. Hard, in the belly. He grabbed Ben by the arm and punched him in the nose. It broke with a satisfying crunch and hot blood spurted over his knuckles.

Ben was shorter and slighter, but he had the Grey family’s inclination to fight like badgers and count the cost later. William crashed backward onto one of the big guns, Ben at his throat, and heard the blue coat rip as his cousin tried seriously to throttle him. William was furious; Ben was insane.

With difficulty, William got a knee up between them and managed to break Ben’s grip long enough to rabbit-punch him in the back of the neck. Ben made a noise like a gut-shot panther, and lowering his head, butted William in the chest, knocking him over, then fell on him with both knees in William’s stomach. They were crushed together, wrestling in the narrow space between two gun carriages, and William’s knuckles were barked from hitting wood and metal as much as from hitting Ben in the mouth.

There was one moment, when he caught sight of his cousin’s face in a ray of light, when he truly believed that Ben meant to kill him.

Then, suddenly, the flurry of punches stopped and the weight lifted. Ben was standing up, swaying over him, dripping blood, and William realized, through the daze of fighting and the shadows of the cannon, that the light was coming through the open door of the shed, and there were voices.

“A saboteur,” Ben rasped, and spat blood. It struck one of the cannon and dripped slowly down the cold iron curve, falling onto William’s wrist. “Take him to the stockade. He’s to speak to no one. Take him, I said!”

WILLIAM WAS NOT
a fussy eater, by any means, and the lukewarm beans and dry corn bread offered him after a very cold night in the stockade were ambrosia—and not too hard to chew, even with a sore jaw.

It really
was
a stockade, though a small one, with a block containing half a dozen brick-built cells inside a palisade fence and a guardhouse outside. There was no more than a six-inch hole in the bricks to provide light and air, and the cell might have been sunk in a wintry sea, the air cold, dim, and damp, swirling with mist that seeped in from the outer world. He swiped the last bit of corn bread round his wooden trencher and then licked the last of the bean juice off his fingers. He could have eaten three times as much, had it been available, but as it was, he washed it down with the quart of very small beer he’d been given, belched, tightened his belt, and sat down to wait on the wooden bench that composed the sole furniture of the cell.

He had bruises and scrapes aplenty, and his ribs hurt him when he breathed, but he’d slept the night through from sheer exhaustion and washed his face from a bucket this morning without flinching, though he’d had to break a solid half inch of ice on it first. The small injuries were nothing to bother him much. Other than as a reminder of his cousin Ben.

Logically, Ben should have William executed as a saboteur. This was obvious, as the only certain way to keep him from revealing the sordid truth about Brigadier Bleeker—to Uncle Hal, Aunt Minerva, Ben’s regiment, the London papers…?

Well, not the papers, no. Letting it become an open scandal would—as he’d told Brigadier Bleeding Bleeker—destroy the whole family.

He hadn’t been overstating it when he’d told Ben that he’d get Adam into trouble, either. Wait ’til Sir Henry found out that Adam had been conversing on the quiet with an enemy combatant! Because he would find out if they kept doing it, and the fact that said enemy was Adam’s brother would just make it worse. If
that
was known, it would be assumed by everyone that Adam was a turncoat as well, passing information to his brother.

He had a dim memory of his father telling him that a secret remained a secret only so long as just one person knew it.

The memory came with a vision of a deep, deep lavender sky, and Venus a bright jewel just above the horizon. That was it; they’d been lying on the quay at Mount Josiah, watching the stars come out while Manoke cleaned and grilled the fresh fish they’d just caught.

He breathed in nostalgically, half expecting to smell the dusty scent of flax and the mouthwatering richness of fish rolled in cornmeal and fried in butter. The lingering taste of the corn bread gave it to him for a moment, before withdrawing and leaving him with the smell of the slop bucket in the corner of his cell. He got up and used it, then straightened his clothes and splashed another handful of water onto his face.

The only thing he was sure of was that he wouldn’t have to wait too long. Ben wouldn’t dare keep him for long where people could become curious.

“And you couldn’t think of anything better than to call me a saboteur,” he said aloud to his cousin. “That’ll make
everybody
curious, you nit.”

William was curious, too, about what might happen next—but in fact not really worried that Ben would have him formally executed, much as he might like to. William’s mind paused on the picture of Ben’s face when Amaranthus had entered the conversation. Yes, he definitely had wanted to kill William right then and undoubtedly still did.

The thought of Amaranthus summoned her as though she stood before him physically, blue-gray eyes creasing with her smile. Tall and buxom, smelling of grape leaves, with a faint sweet aroma of rice powder and baby poo. And her long, slender, water-cool fingers touching his…

He squared his shoulders and blew out his breath. Time enough to deal with
her
when he was out of this place.

If Ben hadn’t had him shot at dawn, he wasn’t going to kill him. Aside from the fear that William would start shouting incriminating things on his way to the firing squad, there was Dottie. William had no doubt that she loved Ben and Adam and Henry; it was a close-knit family. But Dottie was fond of
him,
too—and beyond that, she was a Quaker now. Having spent some time traveling with Rachel and Denzell Hunter, William had considerable respect for Quakers in general, and while Dottie was what he thought was called a professed Friend rather than a born one, she certainly possessed enough native stubbornness to give any born Quaker a run for his or her money.

He was therefore not surprised when a guard abruptly opened the door to his cell an hour later and Denzell Hunter walked in, his scuffed physician’s bag in hand.

“I trust I see thee well, Friend,” he said. His voice was pleasant, neutral—but his eyes were warm behind their spectacles. “How does thee do this morning?”

“I’ve done better,” William said, with a glance at the door. “I’m sure a drink of brandy and a bit of Latin will fix me right up, though.”

“It’s a bit early for brandy, but I’ll do my best. Take off thy britches and bend over the bench, please.”

“What?”

“I mean to give thee a clyster to settle thy humors,” Denzell said, jerking his head toward the door. “Of course, ice water is not the
best
medium for the purpose…” He walked to the door and rapped sharply. “Friend Chesley? Will thee fetch me a bucket of warm water, please?”

“Warm water?” The guard had, of course, been standing just outside the door, listening. “Er…yes, sir…I suppose…you’re sure as you’re safe in there with him, sir? Maybe you’d best step out here while I get the water.”

“No, Friend, there is no danger,” Denzell said, motioning William to lie down on the bench. “He is suffering from an injury to the head, among other things; I doubt he can stand.”

There was a scraping noise as Chesley unbolted the door and peered suspiciously in. William emitted a faint moan and swooned, one hand pressed to his brow, the other trailing off the bench in a languishing sort of way.

“Ah,” said Chesley, and closed the door again. Footsteps crunched away.

“He didn’t bolt it,” William whispered, sitting up abruptly. “Shall I run for it now?”

“No, thee wouldn’t get far and it’s not necessary. Dottie is giving Benjamin his breakfast and convincing him that the best thing to do is to give orders for thee to be taken to General Washington’s headquarters; that’s the Ford house in Morristown. I am meant to be administering smallpox inoculations at the church this afternoon; I will therefore insist upon accompanying thee to Washington, to support thee in thy infirmity.” Here he paused to look William over, grinned briefly, and shook his head. “Thee looks convincingly battered. I think thee might suffer an effusion of blood to the brain and unfortunately die as a result before we reach the general.”

“A fine physician
you
are,” William said. “Ought I to have a fit and foam at the mouth, to be convincing?”

“Moaning loudly and soiling thyself will be adequate, I think.”

THE ROADS WERE EITHER
half-frozen slush or knee-deep mud, and the trees held their brown sticky buds tight to their twigs, refusing to let a single leaf poke its tender head out into this inhospitable climate. Still, William could feel the restlessness of the air; a sense of something alive and wild moving in the air between the soft, fat flakes of snow.

After parting from Denzell in Morristown, he’d resisted the strong impulse to go to Mount Josiah when he reached Virginia. He didn’t need solitude or contemplation now, though; the choice was clear enough, and all the thinking he needed to do could be done on horseback.

He’d had nearly four hundred miles and three weeks of riding to make up his mind, and it wasn’t nearly long enough.
Good thing I’ve got another four hundred miles to think,
he thought, grimly dismounting and picking up the horse’s mud-clogged left fore. Betsy had pulled up lame, and William hoped it was just a stone, and not a strain or a hairline crack in the bone. The thought of having to shoot her and leave her for the wolves and foxes was worse than the thought of walking for another thirty miles through ice and mud—but not by much.

Betsy was an obliging horse and let William squeeze her leg, feel his way down the cannon bone, and gently work her pastern joint. So far, so good. His fingers burrowed through the frozen mud caked thick around the mare’s hoof, his thumbs working into the frog—and there it was. A sharp stone, wedged solid beneath the edge of his shoe.

“Good girl,” he said, relief puffing out with his breath. He got the stone out, eventually, and walked Betsy for a bit, but the mare seemed sound, and they resumed their usual pace, going as fast as the road allowed. Weary of thinking, and hungry, William shoved all concerns beyond reaching a village before nightfall out of his head.

He succeeded, and it wasn’t until he’d looked after Betsy, eaten a decent supper, and retired to a fireless room and a cold, damp bed with a mattress stuffed with moldy corn husks that he resumed his cogitations.

Who first?

Every day he’d gone back and forth, back and forth in his mind, until his head buzzed and the road blurred before his eyes.

He was going to have to talk to all of them, but whom should he tell first? By rights, it should be Uncle Hal. Benjamin was his son; he had to know. But the thought of telling his uncle, of seeing realization wash over his haggard face…William had heard more than one English father declare fiercely that he should rather his son be dead than a coward or a traitor. How many of them really meant that, he wondered—and was Uncle Hal one of those who would?

His strong urge was to go to his own father first. Tell Papa everything, seek his advice, and…he smacked his fist into the squashy mattress. Whom was he trying to fool? He wanted to hand the burden of his knowledge over to Papa and let
him
tell Uncle Hal.

“Coward,” he muttered, turning restlessly over. He’d gone to bed fully dressed and in his greatcoat, only removing his boots, and moving destroyed the fragile layer of warmth he’d managed to build up.

Coward.

Without his consciously making a choice, it had gradually become clear to him, and now, in this clammy, dark, fireless room smelling of frozen sweat and burnt meat, that word at last gave him his answer.

Her. It had to be her.

He tried telling himself that this was the fair thing to do: Amaranthus needed to know first that he’d discovered Ben, in order to take whatever action she could to protect herself once the truth was known. But he’d had enough of lies and lying, and he’d be damned if he lied now to himself. She’d made a fool of him and damn near dragged him into her web.

He wanted to tell Amaranthus because he wanted to see the look on
her
face when he did.

Decision made, he went to sleep and dreamed of beetles with tiny red eyes.

WILLIAM TOOK HIS
greatcoat off for the first time when he reached New Bern. It was raining, but it was a soft rain that smelled of spring and his skin yearned for air and freshness, and his limbs for a good stretch. It would need to be a good deal warmer before he took much else off, but he did find an inn with a stable for Betsy, and once having seen to the horse’s needs, he walked down to the shore, shucked his boots and filthy stockings with a sigh of relief, and walked out onto the cold, wet sand above the tide.

It was twilight and there was no one on the beach here, though he could smell a wood fire and boiling crabs from a distant cluster of shacks. His belly rumbled.

“I must be thawing out,” he said aloud, his voice sounding rough and cracked to his ears. He hadn’t consciously thought of food since recovering from the bang on the head in Morristown. Denzell Hunter had fed him then, insisting he eat something before setting out on the road home. He had tried to refuse, knowing that it was likely Denzell’s entire ration for the day—but hunger and Hunter’s insistence had won out. He’d eaten now and then, of course, on his way south, but without much noticing what.

He wished he had been able to persuade the Hunters to come back with him, but at least Dottie had written a letter for her parents. He touched the inner pocket of his coat and was reassured by the crackle of paper.

The wind had dropped, and there was no sound but the soft hiss of the tide coming in.

Thought of Dottie’s letter brought Uncle Hal to mind—not that he’d been far distant. The feel of sand underfoot and the sight of his own footprints, long and high-arched, like a series of commas following him down the beach, brought back again that conversation by the marsh in Savannah.
Treason.

“At least there’re no bloody alligators,” he muttered, but looked over his shoulder by reflex, then snorted and laughed at himself. What with one thing and another, he’d given the quandary of his earldom not a single thought in weeks, and realized with some surprise that he felt at peace with himself and was reluctant to pick that burden up again. He didn’t care who he was—but he wasn’t the Earl of Ellesmere. He’d have to do something about that, but not now.

At least Amaranthus’s suggestion is right out.
Not, he assured himself, that he would have taken her up on it in any case, but knowing that her husband was still alive quashed the notion out of hand.

The hand in question closed involuntarily, wet with rain, and he rubbed his fingers against his palm, erasing the memory of the kiss she’d left there, with a tiny warm touch from the tip of her tongue.

Damn Ben. Selfish sod.

A sudden rush of seawater surged up about his ankles, the cold running through his body like the electric shock from a Leyden jar, the water sucking the sand out from under his feet. He staggered back, blinking rain from his lashes and realizing that his shirt was damp and the shoulders of his jacket wet.

A lift of the air brought him once more the smell of food, and he left the beach, his footprints disappearing behind him as the tide came in.