One of the men smoked corn silk from a corncob pipe and coughed with each draw. Tobacco was a distant memory here. Finally, he tapped it out on the end of the log they were sitting on and stuffed the pipe back into his pocket.
As he ate, Jack kept an eye out for Burgess, but he didn’t magically appear, and Jack knew they’d have to go looking.
After he had finished his meal, making sure to soak up every last drop of stew he could, Jack and Teddy walked to a nearby creek to wash their plates and utensils.
“We should make the rounds of the camp now before it gets too dark,” Jack said as he crouched down on at the edge of the brook. The water was freezing, or near to it. His hands were numb by the time he finished. He tucked his plate under his arm, cupped his hands and blew on them to try to get the feeling back.
Teddy looked up at the darkening sky. “The storm is here.”
Jack took off his hat; he’d chosen a farmer’s brown wool hat with one side cocked, while Teddy had opted for the traditional tricorn look. He glanced up into the sky to check Teddy’s weather report and was greeted by a big fat raindrop right in his eye. It was quickly followed by another and then another.
Jack put his hat back on. “Great.”
Teddy stared up at the sky. “It will get much worse.”
“You must be fun at parties.”
“I don’t get invited to many parties,” Teddy said solemnly.
Jack frowned and then clapped Teddy on the shoulder. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“Me.”
Jack laughed. “Right.”
He turned up the collar on his coat and wished he had one of those fancy officer’s capes right now.
The rain came down even harder. “We’d better get moving before we get washed away.”
Teddy looked anxiously at the little stream then followed closely behind.
As the sun disappeared, the rain turned to sleet. They walked the camp as best they could, but if Burgess was there, and he was—somewhere—he was probably safe and dry inside and not traipsing about like a certain pair of idiots.
Finally, when darkness came, they had to retreat to their tent. Sullivan regaled them and the others with stories of his adventures in the French and Indian war when he was just a boy.
Evening turned to night, and slowly the camp settled down to sleep. Jack was restless, though. It wasn’t just that he was lying cheek to cheek with five other men who hadn’t bathed in months in a space barely big enough to hold his bed back home, it was knowing what was to come. The others slept on, somehow, snoring even as the rain and sleet pelted the canvas above.
The upcoming battle had so much at stake. Not just the victory itself, but the men who would fight it. In addition to George Washington, two other future presidents of the United States would fight—James Madison and James Monroe. Alongside them, a future Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, John Marshall, and Hamilton’s future rival, Aaron Burr. The repercussions of losing the battle were immense.
It all made Jack very restless.
Careful not to wake the men next to him, he sat up and stared out at the darkness through the flaps of the tent. The fire outside popped and fizzled as it tried to stay alive. He stared at nothing and thought about tomorrow.
A few minutes later he felt Teddy stir next to him. He looked back as Teddy sat up.
“Okay?” Teddy whispered.
Jack nodded. “Fine.”
“What time is it?”
Jack frowned but dug into his pocket for his watch. He tilted it toward the little bit of light from the fire. “One thirty. We should try to get some sleep.”
Jack lay back down. Teddy rolled onto his side and, even in the darkness, Jack could see him smiling. He wasn’t sure what there was to be so happy about, but if he’d learned anything about Teddy Fiske, it was that he could mine a nugget of happiness from the deepest caverns.
“What?” he asked quietly.
Teddy’s grin grew. “Merry Christmas.”
Chapter Thirteen
SEPTEMBER 27, 1774 - LONDON, England
“That is going to take some getting used to.”
Elizabeth’s eyes burned and her stomach threatened to revolt. It wasn’t the time travel or her pregnancy that was to blame, though; it was London.
“Good Lord.” Simon covered his nose and mouth with his hands before bravely lowering them and taking an unfiltered breath of the wretched, sooty, filthy air that was 18th Century London. It made him cough and cover his face again.
They’d arrived near the Thames, in what they hoped was a secluded spot. But there didn’t seem to be a secluded spot anywhere in the city. People moved about on horseback, in carriages, sedan chairs, wagons and on foot.
Horses’ hooves clattered loudly on the cobblestones, axles squeaked, coachmen yelled, and costers cried out their wares. Throw in a few barking dogs and crying children and the sounds of London were almost as powerful as the smells.
Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Maybe something more sedate and genteel? This was anything but that. This was the hustle and bustle of a major city in spades.
Simon slipped their time travel key into a pocket of his waistcoat and marked the time. “Half past two.”
Elizabeth nodded and wrinkled her nose, as the stink seemed to have taken up residence there. They stepped away from their landing spot in a small alcove and out into the fray.
If it was even possible, the river was more crowded than the streets. The wharves were packed with ships of every size. Masts stood out against the gray sky like a forest of naked trees. Barrels were rolled, lifted, stacked and stood upon. The river was the heart of transport and commerce for London, and people bought and sold, shipped and received everything imaginable there.
After the quiet and solitude of Teddy’s, she felt like the country mouse being plopped into the middle of Times Square.
As if sensing her discomfort, Simon glanced down at her. She gave him a reassuring smile and took his arm. He covered her hand with his and led her to the edge of the sidewalk.
She looked suspiciously at the road. It was caked with mud and not-mud. Judging from the stench, it was waste—both human and other. She wrinkled her nose again and looked down at her skirts. They were never going to stay clean. Even a little.
A carriage passed by across the street and dipped into a pothole, splashing the city’s lethal cocktail of raw sewage and offal into the air. Elizabeth’s stomach turned. Was there a way to stay on this side of the street for the duration?
A row of carriages sat across the street—a nascent cab stand waiting for people to arrive by ship at the docks. Simon waved to one of them, and they cut across traffic, nearly colliding with a large wagon but somehow managing to make it safely across.
The driver tipped his top hat and hopped down from his perch. “Sir. Madam.”
“Our bag is over there,” Simon said, gesturing to their ridiculously heavy wood and leather-domed trunk.
The man tipped his hat again. “Very good, sir.”
Simon opened the door to the coach. Elizabeth gathered her voluminous skirts and wedged herself inside. It was a good thing this wasn’t twenty years earlier or her pannier would have been so wide it would have stuck out through both sides of the carriage. Fashion had mercifully shrunk the size of women’s silhouettes from the absurd “you could house a family of six under there” to “it might be a nice timeshare in Boca.” Even so, it was a little like wearing the rings of an apple barrel around her hips with piles of fabric on top to make it that much more unwieldy.
She gathered and shoved and squished herself into the carriage seat in a most unladylike way. Simon tried unsuccessfully to hide his smirk as he joined her.
“One word,” she warned.
He smiled genuinely. “I think it’s most becoming.”
She pushed down on a billowing bit of fabric. “Becoming what—is the question.”
He laughed and closed the carriag
e door behind him.
Elizabeth felt the cab dip backward as the heavy trunk was placed on the rack at the back. The driver appeared shortly after at the window. “Where to, sir?”
“A good inn.”
He smiled and touched the brim of his top hat. “Right you are.”
The ride to the inn was bouncy and rough. The steel covered wheels rolled unforgivingly along the cobblestones. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of one of the ubiquitous carriage inns of London.
The driver opened the door and Simon peered out. He paused halfway and then turned to the driver. “I said a good inn.”
Elizabeth looked out the small window. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with this one, not that there was anything particularly right about it either. It looked like just about every other building on the street.
The driver nodded and turned toward someone standing near the entrance. He shrugged and hopped back onto his driver’s perch.
“What was wrong with it?” Elizabeth asked.
“Probably nothing, but I’m feeling contrary.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to laugh. Poor Simon. He was ten times more himself than he had been that first day, but he still had a long way to go. Under the best of circumstances, he was tense when they traveled. Now, after all they’d been through, he was wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.
It took them another twenty minutes to arrive at their destination; one Simon actually approved of. The Golden Cross Inn at the center of Charing Cross looked almost like a hotel. Of course, it wasn’t. Not technically. London didn’t have any hotels yet. Or restaurants. Travel was reserved for business, both personal and private. The idea of leisure travel was something only the very rich did and with good reason. It was a huge pain—expensive, time-consuming, and arduous in the extreme. Heck, just traveling across London was an adventure.
Their rooms were small but clean. They had a nice sitting room and bedroom. Bathrooms were another luxury yet to appear. Their chamber pot and wash basin would have to do.
Once their trunk was delivered, Elizabeth took out the clothes to ease the wrinkles and opened the small door in the domed portion of the lid to remove the smaller bits and bobs they’d brought along, including her pre-natal vitamins. It was one of the many things Simon had insisted upon. Travers reminded him how dangerous it was to bring anomalous items into the past, but this was one area on which Simon would not budge. Non-negotiable, he’d said.
It was silly. They’d only be here a few days and skipping them wouldn’t be the end of the world, but Simon was adamant. She understood. It was a small thing, but it was something he could control. In a time when he felt he had so little, it was easy enough to convince Travers to let this one slide.
Bringing them here was a small risk compared to the ones they were taking. Just being here was a risk, but it had to be done. And the sooner they got to the doing the better.
She put her hairbrush, pins and powder on the small vanity and rejoined Simon in the sitting room.
He smiled as he saw her and tugged on the frilly cuffs of his shirt from beneath the sleeves of his frock coat.
He looked almost royal, although he wasn’t all duded-up in silks like someone going to court. He wore a blue wool frock coat with gilded embroidery and matching breeches. His long waistcoat was tan silk, adding just a touch of showy wealth.
Even in this outfit, he managed to look at home and, honestly, pretty damn sexy. And that was saying something. Breeches and stockings were inherently not sexy, but Simon somehow pulled it off.
She walked over to him and straightened one of the folds of his white cravat. He looked down at her with the mixture of love and worry he’d worn for the last few days.
“So, what’s first on the hit parade?” she asked.
He put his arms around her waist and pulled her closer.
She was about to remind him that they had work to do but didn’t. He knew that as well as she did. If he needed a moment first, a hundred moments, she’d give them to him.
“Have I told you lately how very much I love you?” he said.
She nodded. “Just this morning as a matter of fact.”
“Hours ago. Far too long.”
“A hundred and fifty years actually.”
He chuckled and then sobered. “You will be extra careful, won’t you? I know you’re quite capable of—”
“I will,” she said. “I promise.”
She pushed herself up to kiss the corner of his mouth. She could tell he considered reminding her yet again but decided against it. He had to save some admonitions for later anyway.
He caressed her cheek with his knuckles and nodded. “All right then. First stop, I think, should be the London Coffeehouse. Paine was a frequent visitor there.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Do you think they have decaf?”
“Somehow I doubt it.”
~~~
December 4, 1777 - 8 Miles from Paris, France
“The Huguenots are, of course, fine artisans in their own right. Not to take anything away from them. No. But I do find the silks from Lyon superior. However, it takes a trained eye to see the nuance of the weave.”
Victor eyed Mr. Spragg tiredly. He’d been talking non-stop since they’d gotten on the coach that morning at Versailles. Three very, very long hours ago.
Spragg was a heavy-set English merchant on his way to Paris to purchase goods. It was his first trip and to say he was excited was an obscene understatement. The man sitting on the seat next to him, as if to balance out the scales, had not uttered one word. Despite that, Victor knew his name and more. He was a merchant named Austin from America on a much more important mission than purchasing textiles. For his part, Travers sat silently and merely observed the scenery through the carriage window.
Miraculously, Spragg actually paused in a blessed silence, and Victor dared hope the man had finally said all there was to be said about silk. On the seat next to him, Travers glanced at Victor, his eyebrows raised in the same hope.
Victor closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the padded wall of the fine diligence coach.
“It’s all in the loom, you see,” Spragg went on, drawing out the “ooo” syllable and Victor’s patience.
Victor opened his eyes, ready to tell the man to be quiet, when the sound of a gunshot came from outside the carriage. It was quickly followed by the dull thud of a lead ball burying itself into the leather and wood of the coach seat next to Travers’ head. Spragg cried out with a girlish scream.
The coach lurched forward as both driver and horses spurred ahead.
Travers’ eyes went round as he turned and gaped at the bullet hole. He stuck his finger all the way in and looked stupidly at Victor. This man was going to be no help at all, Victor thought as he reached for the gun in the waist of his breeches.
Victor glanced through the window of the coach and saw two men on horseback, pistols out—highwaymen, or worse.
As Travers sat numbly, Spragg threw himself onto the floor of the coach.
“Move,” Victor demanded and gave him a shove with the toe of his shoe for emphasis.
Spragg crawled back up onto his seat, pulled the small wooden chest from under the seat and held it protectively on his lap like a small child as he recited the Lord’s Prayer.
Austin already had his pistol out as he joined Victor by the window. “How many?”
“Two that I can see.”
“How many guns do we have?”
“Three,” Victor said. “Four if you count the driver.”
Just then another shot rang out and a large mass flew past the window.
Victor watched the driver’s body tumble as it hit the road. “Make that three.”
“Was that the driver?” Travers asked.
Victor couldn’t see the men on horseback now. They must have dropped back behind them. “Unfortunately.”
“Then who’s driving?”
Victor gave him a blank look a
nd Travers went a whiter shade of pale. The horses did not slow.
“Your gun,” Victor commanded Travers.
It took him a moment, but Travers nodded and fumbled into his pockets. He pulled out a small handgun and held it uneasily in front of him.
“That is the one you chose?”
Travers’ eyes flashed with impatience. “Can’t we talk about this later?”
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want ….”
“Yes, yes.” Victor held out his hand and Travers gave him the small pistol. “All right.” He turned to the other man. “Shoot them if you can.”
Austin frowned. “What are you going to do?”
Victor tucked both guns into his waistband. “Something very stupid.”
Victor opened the coach door. Despite the size of the carriage, they were going fast. Far too fast. The rough ground ran away beneath them.
He leaned out but couldn’t see the highwaymen. He looked toward the front of the coach. The driver’s box was empty and beyond it, the horses raced on wildly, aimlessly.
He planned out a path to climb up to the empty driver’s seat, but just as he was about to start his ascent, the carriage hit a large hole in the road.
Victor’s foot slipped as the carriage lurched and jumped. He held onto the door as it swung out wildly. His feet dangled just above the rocky ground.
Austin reached out and managed to grab hold of the door and swing it and Victor back in.
Victor was breathless. “Merci.”
Austin gave him a crisp nod of acknowledgment.
Spragg lay in a quiet heap, leaning against the wall of the coach. He must have been thrown up in the air and hit his head on the ceiling. At least he was silent now.
Travers checked the man’s pulse, and apparently satisfied with whatever he found, took position as lookout on the other side of the cab.
Victor knew he had no time to waste and started his climb again. With Austin’s help, he managed to get a foot into the window of the door and leverage himself up onto the roof of the carriage.
Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10) Page 12
