Law, Susan Kay (9 page)

"Huh?"

"We could have a bit of a competition. That is, unless of
course, our last contest put you off wagers entirely."

"That was a fluke. How was I to know you had the biggest ox
around in your company? It had nothing to with skill or strategy, as a real
battle does." Cad stroked the barrel of his trusty musket. "What did
you have in mind?"

"Shooting. Knives. It matters little. I'm certain my men can
both shoot and throw straighter than yours. After all, we are professional
soldiers, not merely a collection of farmers who get together a few times a
year to play make believe."

Cad's eyes narrowed. "A contest it is, then."

"Agreed."

"Ah, Captain?" At the question, Cad and Livingston
turned to Jon. He was awkwardly struggling to his feet, sunk knee-deep in muck,
his right arm still wrapped around the chubby body of the pig. "Can I let
him go now?"

***

Waiting in line for his turn to shoot, Jon discreetly shook his
rump, trying to dislodge the clammy leggings sticking to his private parts.
After his disaster in the pig wallow, Sergeant Hitchcock, kind soul that he
was, had taken pity on him and dumped two buckets of water over his head. It
had washed away the worst of the mud, but it had left his clothes wet, clingy,
and distinctly uncomfortable.

What a mess. He should be satisfied. Poking the pig and setting it
on its wild run through the troops had been a last ditch effort to avert—or at
least postpone— disaster. It had worked even better than he'd imagined, but it
had made him, once again, look like a fool.

Why did it even matter? He'd always rather enjoyed his part, an
actor whose stage was the world, and for whom a bad review could mean death. It
had been a challenge, being continually on guard, fooling everyone, creating
the illusion that allowed him to do his job.

An illusion. His gaze was drawn to Beth, standing quietly to one
side of the meadow, watching as man after man shattered the bottles placed on
the stone wall. She was serene, placid, a calm, still pool with nary a ripple
showing on the surface. Why was he so sure it was an illusion?

It had been all he could manage to stay away from her all week,
and he congratulated himself on his success. Well, near success. Once, unable
to resist any longer, he'd followed her to her family's stable, staying out of
sight, and listened to her play. Just listened.

He'd leaned outside the door, pushing it open a crack so he could
hear better, and closed his eyes. Her music had been different that day; muted,
haunting, echoing... lonely. Almost desperate.

It called to his soul, a soul that had been buried so deep he
wasn't even sure he still had one. But somehow she found it, dredged up the
tattered remnants of it, and made him feel.

He hadn't seen her play then. He hadn't needed to.

Crack.

The sharp report of another musket brought him back to the matter
at hand.

It was nearly Jon's turn to shoot. Another one of the Jones
boys—what was this one's name?—was firing now. One of the middle brothers, Jon
thought, but it didn't seem to make much difference; they all could shoot. They
fired rapidly, with swaggering confidence and surprising accuracy—except for
Brendan, who shot deliberately, almost contemplatively, but with even greater precision.
He was quite possibly the best shot Jon had ever seen.

Another shot, and another bottle shattered. If there was any
glassware left in the village after this afternoon it would be a miracle.

"These colonists are right fine shots." Sergeant
Hitchcock stood near Jon, watching the competition with his captain.
"Better'n I would've thought."

"Mmm." Captain Livingston rocked back on his heels and
pursed his lips. He was growing weary of watching his soldiers getting outdone.
They were supposed to be professionals, for God's sake. Why couldn't they shoot
better than a bunch of bumpkin farmers? "It seems that we definitely need
to step up our target practice."

"Hungry."

"Hmm?" The captain peered at Jon. "No, no, Jon,
we'll get you something to eat later. When this is over."

"Not that." Jon jerked his thumb toward the colonial
troops. "They shoot for food. Squirrels, rabbits." He waved his hands
through the air, mimicking a tiny animal scurrying to escape its hunter.
"Little animals. Fast. To feed their children. So, good shots."

"Ah." Livingston hadn't thought of that: the Americans
had to be good shots, it meant food on their tables. After chasing small game,
bottles were easy targets.

For his own men, shooting had simply become part of the job. It
was up to him to impress upon his troops the fact that their lives would depend
on their skill with their muskets. That should take care of the matter.

"Well." Hitchcock sucked his teeth. "I hope I don't
end up 'cross a battlefield from 'em anytime soon."

Livingston sniffed. "I wouldn't be concerned about it,
Sergeant. They have no discipline, no training. They elect their officers, for
God's sake. How can an elected officer make the difficult, necessary decisions?
He'll be too busy protecting his friends and family."

"Think it's goin' t'come to that, Cap'n?"

"Bah! They are like children, these colonists. They cannot
hear the wisdom of their mother country. They can only hear the siren call of
rebellion."

"Next!" a man bellowed. The bottles were being reset.

"Me!" Jon checked the loading and shouldered his musket.

Captain Livingston winced and took two rapid steps away. "Ah,
Jon, could you try not to wing anybody this time? I wouldn't want you to
accidentally start a war by killing someone."

"Not t'worry." Sergeant Hitchcock whacked Jon
companionably on the back. "We been practicin', ain't we, Jon? He'll do
just fine."

Jon bobbed his head. "No problem, sir."

The three bottles he was to shoot were carefully arrayed on a low
stone fence at the far side of the pasture. They were perhaps seventy-five
yards away, nearing the edge of a musket's accurate range. Off to his right was
a stone barn; to his left, wrapping around the back of the fence, a tangled
mass of thick forest.

Jon turned around, noting everyone's location. He didn't care to
shoot anyone accidentally either. There were two clumps of people: the small,
orderly, red-coated group that was his compatriots and the larger,
disorganized, cheerful collection of colonists, women and children mingled
among the militia.

Beth was still there, of course, in her green dress that looked
like a piece of the forest. He'd nearly swallowed his tongue when he'd first
seen her in it, looking so pretty he couldn't believe every unmarried man in
the square wasn't clustered around her. When she noticed him looking at her,
she smiled, like sunshine and light, all warmth and encouragement and pride. A
smile like that could make a man want to beat the world.

Instead, she was going to see him look like an idiot. Again. Like
he'd looked in that cold, stinking pig wallow. He wondered if she'd laughed at
him, with everybody else. Somehow he was sure she hadn't.

If he was still Jonathan Schuyler Leighton, he could try to
impress her. He could talk in words of more than one syllable, and he could walk
without tripping over his gaiters. But he was Lieutenant Jon now, and he had to
be a fool. He gritted his teeth and his jaw ached with the effort to keep that
stupid grin on his face. He turned away abruptly, unable to watch her anymore.

"Sergeant? What do I do?"

"You jes' try t'shoot the bottles. Jes' like we practiced,
Jon," Hitchcock said encouragingly. "Start with the left one."

Jon forced his face into an expression of blank bewilderment.

"Ah, the brown one, son. Over there."

"Yes." He lifted his musket and aimed at the brown
bottle, perched temptingly on the fence across the meadow. And suddenly he was
angry. Angry that he so seldom had a chance to test his skills at anything
besides acting like an idiot. Angry that he couldn't go to a woman and smile at
her without worrying if it would give him away. Angry that he couldn't allow
himself to blow that damn bottle to smithereens.

He fired. The right bottle shattered.

"Lieutenant!" The sergeant whacked him on the back in
exultation. "You did it! But, ah, I told you t'aim for the left one."

Jon tapped another ball into his musket. "I did."

"Oh." Hitchcock swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple
bobbing. "Still, that weren't bad, son. Right height and all. Now all you
gotta do is aim about six feet more to the left."

Jon lifted his weapon slowly, trying to appear as if he was taking
careful aim, and frowned. At the last minute, he jerked, dropping his right
shoulder. The dark iron rooster weather vane fixed to the top of the barn spun
crazily, like a child's top gone amok.

"Cor!" the soldier behind him said in amazement.
"Who coulda hit that if'n they tried?"

The devil was in him now. He was taking a terrible risk, leaving
himself open to suspicion if anyone was alert enough to put it all together.
Still, he didn't seem to be able to stop.

He reloaded and leveled his gun at the fence one more time.

The pine tree was a good fifteen paces beyond the fence. He fired.
The top spike snapped off cleanly and tumbled merrily to earth.

And Jon hoped to God no one ever realized how good a shot he
really was.

"Thank ye, lieutenant." Pocketing his coins, the peddler
flashed a gap-toothed smile.

And well he should smile, Jon thought. He's gotten at least double
the going price. But Lieutenant Jon was a gullible fool, not a hard-nosed
bargainer.

A fool. He
was
being a fool. Jon ran his fingers slowly
over the strand of Job's tears. The seeds were hard, translucently white, and
waxy, an inexpensive substitute for those who couldn't afford pearls.

Why had he bought them? It was frippery, a worthless frill.
Foolishness. And he still wished they were pearls.

He shoved the necklace into the leather pouch attached to his
belt, grimacing at the cold dampness. His clothes had, for the most part, dried
out by now, but the leather remained moist. His shoes squished when he walked.

A gun boomed, the sound only partly muted by the distance. The
common was nearly deserted; everyone was still out at the meadow, watching the
shooting competition. Jon took advantage of the quiet to walk slowly through
the town. Much as he needed to rejoin his company, he was strangely reluctant.

Was she still there? He'd looked at her after his final shot.
She'd still been smiling at him, but not with encouragement and joy. With pity.

Pity, damn it!
See?
her eyes seemed to say.
That wasn't
too bad. You almost did it. Next time you'll be closer.
It was probably the
same way she looked at her favorite puppy when it pissed on her shoes.
That's
all right, darling. Next time you'll get it right.

He clenched his fists, his nails biting painfully into his palms.
Somehow he had to rid himself of this compulsion about Beth. He was supposed to
be gathering information. Plotting strategy. Looking for traitors. Not mooning
around like a lovestruck adolescent in the grip of his first passion.

Jon slowed his steps by the hollow near the schoolhouse. The pigs
were still wallowing away, grunting happily, munching on a pile of corn someone
had given them, apparently to keep them out of the way for the day. They
squealed merrily and twitched their mud-caked, spiral tails.

"Well, at least someone's having a good time," Jon
mumbled under his breath, continuing on around the school. He paused when the
sound of voices drifted to him; childish voices, taunting, calling, jeering.
And one young voice desperately pleading. He slipped quietly around the corner,
knowing it was none of his business but unable to help himself, remembering too
well what it was like to be the one against many.

A slender young girl was surrounded by half a dozen jumping and
capering small boys. She was tall, gawky, with a mop of brilliantly red hair
completely unrestrained by the two blue ribbons tied in it. Her nose was nearly
the color of her hair, and Jon could tell she was on the verge of tears as she
twisted and turned, trying to snatch something away from the nearest boy.

"Give her back!"

"You want her?" the boy, his own hair so blond it was
almost white, jeered. "Then use those long sticks of arms and get
her." He tossed a gray ball to the other side of the circle.

The girl nearly stumbled over her feet as she whirled and ran
toward the boy who'd caught the ball.

"I hear cats always land on their feet." The second boy
tossed the tiny puff of fur into the air again. "How high do ya think we
can throw her before she don't make it?"

"Please, just give her back," the little girl pleaded,
her voice choked.

"Yeah?" The boy held the kitten in one hand high above
his head. "How you gonna make me, carrot?"