Law, Susan Kay

by Traitorous Hearts

  "It always does."

  Betsy pursed her plump lips. "So far it has."

  "Why wouldn't it?"

  "Rufus said there may be a bit of trouble with the redcoats."

  "Trouble?" Bennie accepted the two mugs. "Because the captain told us not to hold the mustering? Oh, I'm sure it's nothing to be concerned about. After all, what could they really do?"

  "They're well-armed, well-trained soldiers." Betsy pinched her brows together. "I would think they could do rather a lot."

  "Soldiers under orders not to fire on any colonists without orders from a civilian authority," Bennie reminded her.

  "I hope you're right," Betsy said skeptically. "Orders can be changed, Bennie. Or disobeyed. Has Brendan heard anything about there being any potential trouble?"

  "Not that I know of." Bennie sipped her tea, shuddering slightly at the bitterness the sugar couldn't quite disguise. Pine needle tea might be better for her digestion, and it was certainly the patriotic thing to drink, but her tongue still preferred a good imported tea. "Not yet, at any rate. I'll go ask him now if he knows anything."

  Betsy caught Bennie's wrist, her grip nearly painfully tight. "Will you let me know if you hear anything?" Tension radiated from Betsy's round body. "My sons..."

  "I'll let you know. I promise," Bennie said, laying her hand consolingly over Betsy's.

  ***

  A tent, for God's sake. Field quarters. Tapping a folded ivory paper on the table in front of him, Captain Livingston glanced around in disgust. He couldn't believe he was in field quarters again. For all the disadvantages of being stationed in Boston, not the least of which was a hostile and abusive populace, at least they'd had decent quarters. Castle William wasn't exactly a palace, but it certainly was better than a cold, worn, and clearly well-past-its-prime tent.

  Winter was coming. He was stuck out here in the country, and he couldn't even commandeer a place to stay. There was no place within ten miles big enough to hold all his troops, so they'd been assigned to this sorry, half decayed excuse for a fort midway between Lexington and New Wexford. He'd taken one look at the place and known it would take his men weeks of work to make it marginally habitable—weeks that he was going to have to spend in field quarters.

  A gravelly voice outside called for admittance.

  "Come in." Livingston settled back in his chair.

  Sergeant Robert Hitchcock barely needed to duck to enter the tent. He gave a perfunctory but snappy salute, then dropped into the chair his captain indicated.

  The only word for Sergeant Hitchcock was rumpled; his face was rumpled, his hair was rumpled, and the uniform hanging on his spare frame was rumpled. No matter what time of the day or night, the sergeant always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after sleeping in his clothes.

  He was also the best sergeant that Livingston had ever had. Every inch of his small body was pure toughness, overlaid with a solid, impenetrable layer of undiluted loyalty. The man was Army, and that said it all. His loyalty was first to his men, his officers, and his company. His allegiance to his country and ruler came after his duty to his regiment; it might not have been the accepted order, but it made him one hell of a soldier.

  "Well? How are the repairs going?" Livingston asked.

  "Bloody slow, Cap'n." Hitchcock shoved a hand through the limp strands of his mixed gray and pale blond hair. Damn, he'd lost his hat again. "Goin' t'take at least two more weeks, probably more like three."

  Livingston's thin lips twitched. "As soon as possible, let's start transferring the troops into the parts of the fort that are completed. It'll be a bit crowded, but there's no reason to have every man freezing. Then we'll shore up the rest as well as we can." He traced the edges of the stiff linen paper with his fingers. "Not much we can do about it today, though. It's nearly time to go."

  Hitchcock's gaze dropped briefly to the paper. There was no curiosity in his expression, simply acknowledgment. He'd been in the army too long to indulge in curiosity. "Got the information, then?"

  "Yes. We received it this morning." The captain dropped the folded paper to the table. "I don't know where they got it, but they're bloody efficient."

  "How much time we got?"

  "Not much."

  "Exactly what're we supposed t' do about it?"

  "Good question. I believe they expect me to 'think of something.'"

  The sergeant snorted. "Somethin' that doesn't involve shootin' anyone, I suppose."

  "That was one of the requirements, yes."

  The sergeant mentally ran through his impressive vocabulary of oaths. One of the frustrations of army life was that the men who gave the orders often didn't know or had forgotten what it was like out in the field. As a result, the orders they gave were frequently impossible to follow to the letter.

  The captain wasn't a bad sort, as captains went, Hitchcock thought. Oh, he wore his wig just a little too tight, but what officer didn't? At least he didn't whip a man half to death for dropping a little swearword now and again. And he'd somehow picked up a good, practical grasp of military tactics. Seemed to be able to move all the troops around in his head and figure out where they should go.

  Hitchcock decided it was going to take most of the captain's overeducated brains to figure out this one. "So what are we goin' t'do, Cap'n?"

  "Good question." Livingston wasn't entirely sure himself. He'd been ordered to stop any and all military drills and maneuvers by the local militia. At the same time, he'd been reminded in no uncertain terms he was not allowed to fire on civilians without civil authority.

  He'd been here long enough to know things didn't always work precisely as his superiors planned. He'd been among the first thousand troops sent to Boston in 'sixty-eight. A newly frocked lieutenant, he'd been shocked when seventy soldiers deserted in the first two weeks, lured by the freedom and vice of the colonies.

  He'd been equally surprised at the Bostonians' treatment of the soldiers: he'd had rocks, chunks of ice, rotten vegetables, and various unidentifiable types of animal dung flung at him on a regular basis. There'd been little he could do in retaliation.

  And now this. What did it really matter if the colonists played around in the square with their guns and their bayonets? It didn't make them soldiers. One afternoon of drilling would never make a crack unit—it wouldn't even make a lamentable unit. If he'd been giving the orders, he would have seen it as an opportunity to discover just what kind of shape the colonists' defenses were in.

  But he wasn't giving the orders. Not yet, at any rate. And the only way he would ever get that opportunity was to continue to do his job flawlessly. He had no doubt he would do precisely that. Then he'd receive his promotion. Perhaps if these little squabbles with the colonies were settled once and for all, he'd finally be sent back to blessed England, where he belonged.

  "Tea, sir!"

  "Enter."

  Jon bent over nearly double as he came in, carrying a precariously balanced tray laden with cups, a steaming pot, and a large assortment of tiny cakes.

  Livingston held his breath as Leighton served him, hoping that—this time—he'd get his tea without getting drenched, scalded, or otherwise injured in the process. But there were few jobs the man was at all suited for, and he seemed to be especially proud of doing this one.

  The tea was served without incident. Livingston took a careful sip of his, sighing with pleasure. A strong, lovely Ceylon blend.

  His gaze fell on the paper on his desk. "What am I going to do? Well—"

  "Er, Cap'n?"

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  Hitchcock cocked a ragged brow at Jon, who was trying to stand rigidly at attention with his back bent at what surely must have been an extremely uncomfortable angle.

  "Lieutenant, why are you still here?" Livingston asked.

  "Didn't say I could go, sir."

  "You are dismissed, Leighton."

  "Yes, Cap'n." The lieutenant ducked his head and clomped out the door.

  Livingston tsked an
d shook his head. "He's hopeless, Hitchcock."

  "Yes, sir." Hitchcock hid his grin behind his teacup. "But he does make one helluva cuppa tea."

  "True. Now, then," Livingston said, returning his attention to business. "What else can we do?" The captain rose from his chair, and Hitchcock scrambled to his feet. "We will gather the troops. And we will stop the mustering."

  ***

  Brendan's printshop was in a small trim brick building next to Grout's store. Carefully holding both cups, Bennie pushed the door open with her elbow.

  "Hello? Brendan?"

  "A moment, please. I'll be right with you," he called from the back room.

  Three shelves just inside the door held a sparse selection of merchandise: writing utensils, ink, chocolate, coffee, a few assorted bottles. Setting down the tea, Bennie picked up one bottle.

  "'Elixir Vitriol,'" she read. "'Miraculous remedy for fever.'" The next bottle was dark and irregularly shaped. "'Dr. Walker's Jesuit Drops.' What are they for?"

  "Never you mind what they're for." Brendan plucked the bottle from her hand and returned it to the dusty shelf.

  "Do you always have to sneak up on people, Brendan? It startles me every time. I never hear you coming."

  "Can I help it if you're not observant?"

  "I'm extremely observant. For instance, I observe that you don't want to tell me what that remedy is for."

  "Not to worry." He wiped his stained fingers on his equally inky apron. He certainly wasn't going to tell her it was for any one of a variety of diseases a man could pick up from a loose woman. "It's nothing you'll ever need to know."

  "Oh." Bennie picked up his cup of tea and offered it to him. "A manly thing, huh?"

  "Ah, she comes bearing gifts." He accepted the tea. "My thanks. And yes, it is something for men."

  "I'm going to find out eventually, you know. One of you always lets it slip."

  "It's not going to be me. Not this time, at any rate."

  "It's never you." She gave him a mock scowl. "What do you keep all this stuff here for, anyway?" Bennie gestured at the decrepit shelves of dusty merchandise, most of which had been there for years. "You never sell any of it."

  Brendan rolled the mug between his long, elegant fingers. "People expect it."

  "And of course you always do what people expect."

  His grin flashed suddenly. "Absolutely."

  Bennie dragged her forefinger along the edge of a shelf and frowned at the grime that darkened her fingertip. "Business is good, then?"

  He shrugged noncommittally. "About the same as always. Paper is still hard to come by. People seem to find other uses for their old linen than sending it to the paper mill."

  Drawing her brows together, Bennie contemplated her brother. Along with printing contracts, deeds, and other legal papers, he produced The New Wexford Journal and Weekly Advertiser. In this capacity, he often learned of any news, controversies, or legal problems, both in and out of New Wexford, before anyone else in the village.

  "Have you heard anything lately?"

  "About what?" Brendan reached behind his back and untied his spattered apron.

  "The mustering, the British. Whether there will be trouble."

  "If you ask me, there's almost bound to be." He yanked off the apron and tossed it over the counter.

  "But the redcoats have orders. They can't fire."

  "Elizabeth, any time you get that many men with that many guns and that much anger in one place, I'd be more surprised if there wasn't trouble than if there was."

  Suddenly cold, Bennie rubbed her arms to warm herself. "Things have been strained between the Crown and the colonies for such a long time; sometimes worse, sometimes better but never here, Brendan. And never now. It could all fall apart, couldn't it?"

  "I think you should be prepared for it," he said evenly.

  Bennie stilled. The threat had always seemed distant and vague; there seemed no chance of its ever touching her. But now it was taking on form and substance. "I don't understand why Britain can't just leave us alone."

  "Elizabeth, think." Brendan lifted a leather jerkin from its hook on the wall and shrugged into it. "The Crown made a huge investment in the colonies. They fought the French for years to protect these territories. From their perspective, are they asking so much? A few pence in taxes?"

  "Taxes we had no voice in, Brendan. No control over."

  He frowned, his eyes dark and remote. "How much in this life do we really have control over? Or, perhaps I should ask, how little?"

  Bennie drifted her fingers lightly over the odd collection of bottles, their smooth curves and familiar solidity strangely reassuring. "You think it is wrong for us to want our independence?"

  "Not wrong, Elizabeth. Foolish, perhaps. I'm not sure we've really thought through how slim the chances are of our winning it by force, nor that we've understood what the price will be. I don't like waste, and I don't relish the thought of any of us dying for nothing." He took his powder horn from the hook and slipped it over his shoulder.

  Bennie blanched. "Dying?" she repeated softly.

  Against his thigh, his hand clenched. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I didn't mean to... I really don't think anything is going to happen today. It wouldn't be worth it, not for either side. I just want you to be prepared for the possibility—the probability—that something soon will."

  She closed her eyes and swallowed against the sudden thickness in her throat. Her life had been so simple. There had been her music, and there had been her family. She hadn't wanted anything else, hadn't needed anything else. But, oh, how she needed that. She couldn't lose part of her family, had never even seriously considered that she might. Her father, her brothers, even her steel-under-softness mother, all had seemed indestructible. They'd always been there, and always would. Even when she'd been a child, and her oldest brother and, briefly, her father, had gone off to fight the French, she'd known they'd come home safely. Of course they would. They were Joneses; they'd come home without a scratch.

  But this would be different. It was too big, it was too much.

  It couldn't happen. She didn't want it to happen, wouldn't let it happen, and so it wouldn't.

  "Elizabeth?"

  "Yes?" Bennie squared her shoulders and opened her eyes, forcing the disturbing thoughts away. Today would be wonderful, her family was safe, and everything would go on as always.

  "Did I tell you're looking especially pretty this morn?"

  She glanced down at her new dress; her mother had prevailed, after all. Bennie liked the deep, forest green color; it reminded her of the few rare pines hidden in Finnigan's Wood. The dress was more fitted than she was used to, snug at the waist, close over her chest. It made her feel exposed, but she couldn't very well not wear the thing after her mother had gone to the trouble of making it.

  "A stork in peacock feathers," she scoffed. "Why don't you buy me something to eat before the mustering?"

  "Can't." Brendan grinned. "I can't afford it."

  Bennie frowned at him in mock severity. "I don't eat that much."

  "Uh-huh—compared to a horse, maybe. Or Adam. But compared to the rest of the world—"

  "Three sweet buns at most. I promise."

  "I really can't, Elizabeth. It's almost time for the mustering."

  She glanced out at the square; several dozen men were already milling about in loose groups. "But it's scarcely noon. The mustering never starts before two o'clock."

  "It does this year." He grabbed the musket leaning against the wall near the door.

  "But why?" His grim look was all the answer she needed. "Oh, in case the British decide to show up?"

  "We'll be all done."

  "Why didn't someone tell me?"

  "We didn't tell anyone who didn't need to know." He opened the door and motioned her through. "Let's go."

  ***

  The Jones women stood together at the mustering. Bennie, Mary, and the wives of the four married sons all watched with pride puffing up
their breasts and bringing broad smiles to their faces. There was no question that the Jones men were the finest of the lot.

  Cadwallader strode up and down the raggedy rows of soldiers, his silver-gilt head high as he performed his last inspection as the elected captain of the troops. After today, Adam would take over as leader. It was time.

  But that didn't mean Cad was any easier on the men on this occasion. Though they were clothed in a wide-ranging conglomeration of tans, rusty reds, browns, dark greens, and even an occasional purple, it didn't matter. They might not be garbed like soldiers, but they had the equipment.

  Each man was required to present his flintlock musket for inspection. Cad made sure it was perfectly oiled and ready to fire; if not, he made sure the man was out of the line until it was. Each man also had to deliver two spare flints, a priming wire, and a brush. They knew Cad would never let them get away without having all the proper tools, so they all did.

  At the same time Cad was marching up and down the rows, the selectmen were presenting the other officers with money for the military banquet.

  Banquet, hah, Bennie thought. It was simply an excuse to seriously deplete the stores of the Dancing Eel.

  Her father stopped dead between the rows, an oddly questioning look on his face. Something was wrong. Bennie began to go to him but paused, seeing his brows draw together and his eyes darken with rage.

  The relaxed men suddenly drew together, their hands tightening on their weapons. Cad looked at Adam, seeming to find satisfaction in his answering nod.

  What was it? Bennie wondered in bewilderment.

  Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.

  Drums. But all the towns expected were already here.

  Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.

  Relentless, rhythmic, unstoppable. Almost eerily regular. The drums of soldiers marching to battle.

  Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.

  Louder. Closer. A drumming that seemed to set the pace of her painfully pounding heart.

  Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.

  They were coming.

  CHAPTER 5

  There weren't as many of them as she'd first thought.

  Bennie huddled a little closer to the other silent women. All around the square, small groups of women and children drew together, quiet and watchful, as their men were confronted by the redcoats.