Where the Dead Talk (5 page)

"They’re patriots, known far and wide," Thomas said.

"Well three cheers and huzzah for them," Pomeroy said, raising the cup and then taking another long swallow of mead. He pointed to the door.

"But it’s dark," the boy said.

"It’s night, now snap to it. They’ll wander off otherwise."

Thomas hesitated still.

"Look," Pomeroy said, "I’ll be in the doorway, both pistols. We’re miles from your house, by horse, so have no fear."

He pulled the pistols from his belt.

"And bring Hawkes’s musket when you come back in," he said. He tapped the second cask and poured a cupful. Still the boy hesitated, eyeing the night beyond the doorway.

"To the horses, lad," he said.

"I was supposed to get my uncle and I was supposed to get Jonathon, but I couldn't get either," Thomas said.

"Is that all that’s bothering you? Don't let a trifle like letting people down bother you, boy," Pomeroy said, "I've made a veritable career of it – yet look at me now. An esteemed officer. Now the horses."

Thomas stepped outside and Pomeroy leaned in the doorway, pistols hanging down. The night around the cabin was alive with wind and crickets. Thomas dutifully rounded up the three horses and brought them to a small trough by the side of the cabin, then tied them to a pair of posts. The boy was frightened – and he'd also likely stand on his head if Pomeroy ordered him to, he had the feeling.

"Have no fear, young Tommy," he said, "you’re under the watchful eye of one of the finest officers of the King’s Own Regiment, a strapping young Major who’s risen through the ranks nearly as fast as his dear father could purchase his commissions."

Thomas struggled to pull down Hawkes’s musket. Pomeroy raised the pistols, admiring the shadow he cast in front of him.

"Beloved by his men, trusted and respected by his superiors, he represents the cream of British might. Why, even his own family was devastated to see him shipped off for his gallant postings – oh, how the tears must have flowed," Pomeroy said.

The boy came back to the door and Pomeroy stepped aside with a flourish. Thomas carried the musket, careful not to let it smack the door.

"Ah, you look a natural with that musket, young master Chase," Pomeroy said. The boy wasn’t looking at him, but that didn’t stop him, "A right Grenadier-to-be, and with my officerial brilliance to model, you’ll likely go far. Just ask Hawkes. Or Cooper and good Hutchinson."

Thomas put the musket down and started searching the cabin for food, coming across some potatoes and half a loaf of bread. Pomeroy put his pistols down on the table, locked the cabin door, and poured another cup of mead.

"Of course, it might have gone much worse without my leadership. And that, young Tommy, is precisely why I’m the type of officer to lead a secretive and dangerous powder-hunt, to catch the local militias unawares. So secret – now listen up, young master – so secret that not even his commanders knew about it."

Pomeroy winked at the boy and drained his cup yet again. The boy looked confused. Pomeroy shook the second cask – it was still two-thirds full.

Yes, this was more like it.

When he opened his eyes the next morning, he winced. It was cruelly bright. His back and neck were stiff from sleeping on the floor. He lifted his head and worked his mouth, his tongue as dry as velvet. The boy sat in front of the fireplace – and he held one of Pomeroy’s pistols, pointing it right at him.

"Put that down and tell me you haven’t fed that fire all night," Pomeroy said. His voice was plaster and rocks.

"You’re an officer. I’m taking you prisoner," Thomas said. "And we're going to get Pannalancet."

Pomeroy sat up with a groan. He reached over and took the pistol, grabbing it by the barrel and pulling it out of the boy’s hand with little resistance.

"Hardly," he said. He looked at the pistol – it hadn’t even been properly cocked.

"I could have shot you in your sleep."

"And I’d probably have felt better," Pomeroy said, setting the pistol to rights. "This is dangerous and you’re too young to go fooling with it, boy."

"I can shoot better than my brother."

"Well so can I," Pomeroy said, "And yet I’m here in these miserable Colonies while he enjoys the wine and women of Hampshire. Not to mention father’s wealth and hearth."

He cleared his throat and looked around the room. His head pounded. What a bloody mess. He got to his feet with a bit of care and went to the window. Mid-morning sunlight dappled the trees and meadow near the cabin. Pomeroy grabbed the water skins from the table and walked over to the boy.

"What did you say your name was?" Pomeroy said.

"Thomas."

"Have you heard of a tavern by the name of Brewster’s, Thomas?"

"It’s in the village, next to my father’s printing shop."

At least that was something. Pomeroy held out the water skins.

"Well then, Thomas – go fill these in the stream," he said, "We have things to do."

Thomas looked at the skins without moving. Pomeroy tossed them and Thomas caught them.

"Look, if this is about me being an officer and you being from a family of rabble-rousers, then don’t get too knickered up about it," Pomeroy said. "You’ll show me the way to town, show me the way to the local physician, and then the tavern – and that’s it. I’m hardly about to drag you around by way of an example of the King’s might."

The boy still didn’t look convinced.

"I can hang a sign around your neck reading ‘Not Colluding’ if you’ll just get the water."

With a look of resignation, the boy left. Perhaps he’d simply run off now – though the fact that he hadn't during the night when he could have danced a jig an inch from his own mead-filled head and not woken him made him suspect that the boy was either very frightened or very confused. In any event, Pomeroy assumed he could find the way to the heart of the village without too much trouble on his own. He turned and walked over to the bed.

"And what about you, Hawkes?" he said. He tapped the leg of the bed. Hawkes didn’t stir. Pomeroy bent down and gave his shoulder a nudge, but he still didn’t wake. He held his hand in front of the Private’s nose and felt breath. The man’s forehead was hot and the blankets were soaked through with sweat.

"The unstoppable Royal Grenadier," he said.

He’d have to deal with this. Too much mead, too little thought. Not much had gone right on this ‘powder hunt’. He frowned, thinking about the farmhouse. Cooper and Hutchison. The boy came running in, breaking his train of thought.

"Where are the water skins?" Pomeroy said. The boy’s hands were empty.

"Come look," Thomas said. He spun and ran back outside.

Pomeroy looked at the open door for a moment and then followed him, not bothering to put his boots on. As he jogged after the boy, he grunted; it felt as if the inside of his head was full of broken crockery. And if the sunlight coming in through the window had been bad, being outdoors in the morning was simply brutal. Thomas led him over to where the brook cut across a strip of cleared land. The water ran fast over the stones, a foot deep in places and two strides wide. Stepping down to the very edge of the water, Thomas went upstream, to a point where the brook widened into a slower moving pool, where the water filtered the sunlight into waving bands of gold on the bottom. Maple trees hung over the left side, while a large elm marked the start of a clump of woods on the right. Thomas stepped along the large rocks at the edge and pointed to the bank. Pomeroy followed, his feet slipping into the cold water.

"Now I’m awake," he said.

He didn’t see anything at first. The bank was thick with roots from the elm and mossy stones. He looked more carefully. A bit of white sleeve and the brown of homespun breeches nestled underneath the earth and twisted roots. With a splash, he stepped further into the water, his feet sliding on the smooth rocks on the bottom. It was a man, arms folded across the chest and the legs crossed – as if he’d decided to take a leisurely nap among the roots by the brookside. Blood caked the back of his head. The body was wedged in good, and quite dead – the skin was a drained white gray, cold to the touch. Pomeroy turned to the boy.

"Do you know who he is?" he said.

Thomas watched his mouth and then shook his head. Pomeroy turned back and grabbed some of the man’s shirt near the shoulder and gave it a careful pull. The arm was stiff. With a grimace, Pomeroy pulled harder, until the body began to slide free. The head hung back, matted hair pointing out in several directions. Thomas splashed in closer behind him. The man had been in his thirties and thin. Several of his teeth were missing. Around his nose and mouth was a black substance, caked on. Pomeroy reached up and grabbed a twig from the bank, and then scraped some of the black matter from the face. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled of rot and clay and made the back of his neck tighten. He tossed the twig into the water. Lifting the shoulder, he bent and looked underneath. Absolutely lovely. The back of the man’s head was shattered, a mess of skin, bone, hair, and dry blood. He lowered the body and pushed it back in until it was nearly where it had been when the boy had found it. He stood up.

"As good a place as any," he said, wiping his hands on his breeches. "I certainly have no inclination to wrestle him out and lug him around until we find a better place. Being in the roots and stones is the least of that fellow’s problems."

Leaning over, he splashed his hands in the water, forcing himself to splash his face as well. He climbed back to the grass. Thomas stared at the body for a moment longer, then turned and followed. He was nearly tripping over Pomeroy’s heels in a effort to stay nearby. Pomeroy was queasy and weak, but tried not to show it. Back at the cabin, he gathered his boots and started dressing. Thomas stood looking down at Private Hawkes.

"Is he alright?" Thomas said. He turned to look at Pomeroy.

"No, he’s not alright," Pomeroy said, pulling on a boot. "In fact, I think he’s quite a bit closer to our friend out by the stream there than he is to us. Private Hawkes fell from a tree he’d climbed to take a peek around."

Thomas lifted the damp sheet and his jaw fell. The soldier’s right leg was sickeningly swollen and discolored, the toes nearly black.

"What are you going to do?" Thomas said.

Pomeroy got his other boot on and stood up.

"Well," he said, "I’m going to wait right here while you fetch those water skins. Then, we’re off to fetch this lovely rural hamlet’s physician. I will then press him into service of the King’s Army so that he can take care of Hawkes here. You will show me the way."

He looked at Thomas.

"Now scoot along. Private Hawkes is waiting for us."

Thomas looked at the private, looked at the Major, and then looked at the fireplace, which was down to shifting embers again. He nodded his head and ran outside.

They made their way across meadows until reaching a road that led west, crossing stone walls and low fences in the warming April sunlight. The roads were empty and often in shadow from the overhanging trees. The boy turned in the saddle to see Pomeroy’s face.

"There’s someone who can help," he said.

"Hawkes?" Pomeroy said.

"No. Us. His name is Pannalancet and he knows my father and watches over my brother and I, and he lives north of the –"

"Is he a doctor?"

"Not exactly, but he’ll know what to do about what’s happening."

"As will our good doctor, lad."

"But if we go the other way, we can look for Pannalancet."

"The doctor, and then the tavern," Pomeroy said. "Everything else will wait."

And not be my problem, he thought. They crossed a wooden bridge over a stream. A white steeple came into view along with a handful of buildings. The center of the village lay to the left, but the boy pointed to the right, where a rutted lane wound through tall trees. A white house came into view, dark green shutters open on the many windows.

"This is the one?" Pomeroy said.

The boy nodded. The house was enormous and well-kept. They rode up to the front. A carriage was parked off to the side, next to a low carriage house. Pomeroy dismounted and tossed the reins to the boy.

"Hold," he said. He walked to the front door and swung the brass knocker twice, two quick taps. He straightened his hat. The door opened and a young woman looked out. She wore a dress of quality cotton, trimmed with deep blue. Her eyes were the grey of a London sky.

"Dr. Bucknell, if you would," Pomeroy said.

"And you are?"

"Major Pomeroy, 5th Regiment of Foote. The King’s Own is in need of the good doctor’s services."

She looked at him, up and down.

"And did the ‘King’s Own’ just crawl through a swamp?" she said.

He was aware that his uniform had developed an aroma that was somewhat noteworthy. Like all soldiers in the King’s service, he was obliged to maintain several sets of breeches and shirts, and to keep them fresh. He’d left them back at the regiment on the night that he’d taken the men and headed north – the fortitudinous haze of rum having obscured such details.

"Well if spotless silken finery is more to your tastes," he said, "we regrettably weren’t able to bring along the regimental tailor."

She looked past his shoulder.

"Thomas Chase?" she said. It was an accusation. She pushed out the door and past him, down the gravel path to where the horses were. She stopped in front of the boy.

"What are you doing here? Have they forced you to do this – and where are Jonathon and your father?"

Thomas frowned. Forget her and forget all the traitors. Treachery.

"He told me what your father did," he said.

"What my father did?"

"Told the British of the powder store, and Nathan died because –"

Pomeroy walked down to them, a bit irritated.

"This is all quite interesting," he said, "but I’m here for your father – not for you to harangue my young companion."

"His family is no friend of the King’s Army, sir," she said, "and will not take kindly to his being pressed into your service."