A Refuge Assured

by Jocelyn Green

  Tears rolled down her face, and she wiped them away with the sleeve at her wrist. “You saw the heads?”

  “One of them was Papa’s.”

  “Oh, Henri!” A sob choked the whispered words. She enfolded him in an embrace that was both soft and strong at once, and he thought he smelled his mother on the fabric of her nightdress. But Maman had never held him so, had never rocked him against her, or kissed his hair, or comforted him in illness as Vivienne did now. Maman had parceled out those jobs to nurse and governess, and seemed out of her depth to be alone with him in America, though he pretended not to notice.

  “And I miss Louis-Charles!” Henri shook against Vivienne, and she laid her cool hand on his cheek. “He was my best friend. I never saw him again after that. Did you know, they didn’t let him take any clothes or anything with him when he left the Tuileries? Maman saved one of his collars before the public came in and went through everything. They ripped up whatever they didn’t take to wear themselves.” He twirled his finger in the end of Mademoiselle’s braid, which was just as soft as his mother’s satin ribbons. “Bucephalus really was a gift from Louis-Charles. He gave it to me one day when my legs were aching because he knew how that felt. He was kind like that. The best friend I ever had.”

  He closed his eyes, spent from the effort of so much talking. A log crumbled behind the grate, and a whoosh of warm air billowed over him. The fire was dying down, he could tell. Mademoiselle swiveled on the floorboards so that she faced it, which meant he, whom she did not release, absorbed all the heat from its flames. Her embrace was an oasis of warmth that covered and infused him completely.

  “And the signet ring, mon cher?” she whispered. “How came you to have it?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Just before the king was guillotined, he gave the ring to be delivered to the queen. And before the queen was killed, she smuggled it out of her prison and into my maman’s keeping, knowing that those who wished to steal it would be searching for it among more senior, higher-ranking ladies-in-waiting, or among relatives. Maman was neither. She was ordinary. Like me.”

  The air crackled. He listened to Vivienne’s heartbeat for several moments, lulled by its steady, comforting rhythm. And then, she said at last, “I believe you.”

  Henri forced himself to speak once more but kept his eyes shut tight. “I’m sorry for every hurtful thing I ever said to you. I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was.”

  Her arms came tighter about him. “I want you, Louis Henri. With all my heart.”

  Tension uncoiled inside him. Fear and dread, guilt and shame felt like arrows launched far away. Henri opened his eyes, to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  Harp strings of light fell through the cracks between the curtains. Vivienne kissed the top of his head, though she knew now that he was no king. “We made it through the night,” she whispered. “How are you feeling now?”

  Henri leaned back to smile up at her, the end of her braid still wrapped around his finger. “Better. I think now, at last, I can rest.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Forks of the Ohio, Pennsylvania

  November 13, 1794

  Liam awoke in the dead of night to the thunder of hoofbeats. Encamped west of the Allegheny Mountains, near the Monongahela River, he could see by the light of the moon that he was the only one left in the tent. Though fully dressed, chilblains burned in his fingers and toes as he slung his musket over his shoulder and burst outside. Cavalry galloped in three directions, pocking the freshly fallen snow.

  He bolted to Simpson, who was saddling his horse, and grabbed his mount’s bridle. “What are you doing?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Hamilton finally set us loose!”

  Liam cursed under his breath. Now that the Watermelon Army was west of the mountains and in the heart of the Whiskey Rebellion, he’d known the time to act was soon. But he had no idea orders would come in the dark. “Are you arresting the people on the lists? Now?” he asked Simpson. One list held the names of people who were within amnesty. The second carried names of those suspected of treason. The third listed material witnesses, also to be brought in. “Do you all have copies of them?”

  “No need.” Simpson put his foot into the stirrup and mounted.

  Liam held as fast to the bridle as he could. His hand had lost feeling near the freezing cold metal. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that the generals gave us discretion to arrest anyone we suspect might be guilty. Of anything. Regardless of whether their name is on a list.”

  Confusion throbbed between Liam’s temples. “You mean to tell me you can grab anyone you please?”

  “Lighten up, Delaney. We’re using our discretion. If we think someone might have tarred and feathered a tax collector, or refused to pay the tax, or harassed someone who did pay the tax, then we are to arrest him.”

  “And what if you think someone might have raised a liberty pole, or published something in the paper that was disrespectful to the government, or attended a meeting with the rebels?”

  “Fair game, all of it,” replied Simpson. “Plus those who might have been witness to any of these events. They’re all to be captured, and this order comes from the top.”

  “Hamilton.”

  “Friend of yours, isn’t he?” Simpson beamed.

  Liam glowered.

  “And I, for one, have been waiting for this for weeks. Hyah!”

  The horse ripped from Liam’s numbed hands.

  Liam charged toward Shadow and saddled him as fast as he could with fingers almost too cold to cooperate. He may have come out here as one of Alex’s personal guards, but right now it wasn’t the secretary’s safety that concerned him. The locals had already reported that about two thousand men had fled west. Those were the men they’d come for. With them gone, who was left but those whose consciences were clear?

  After mounting his horse, Liam kicked his heels into Shadow’s sides and followed a stream of cavalry headed for Mingo Creek.

  Time’s boundaries erased as he rode. Heart pounding to the beat of Shadow’s hooves, he watched memories drift across his mind like the snow snaking over the road ahead of him. He remembered this feeling, this surge of energy coursing through his veins. Once it was accompanied by a rush of patriotism, a devotion to America so strong he was willing to die for it. Was he still willing to die for a government that raided civilian homes in the middle of the night? His head ached with cold and bewilderment.

  Houses came into view, their silhouettes darker shades of the moonlit night. There were no lights in the windows at one in the morning. Frail wisps of smoke spiraled from a few chimneys. About a dozen cavalry neared the humble log cabins and drew rein. So did Liam.

  As he dismounted, frantically preparing in his mind an argument against this madness, the whooshing slide of steel pricked his ears. He turned. They were clicking their bayonets into place.

  “Stop!” he cried, all hope of eloquence vanished. “Stop! Do you even know who lives here?”

  “Shut up, Irisher!” came a hoarse whisper. The soldiers broke into pairs, bayonets thrust forward, gleaming silver between stars and snow, and made tracks toward separate homes.

  They didn’t knock. Boots kicked in doors. Women screamed and children wailed, jolting Liam from inaction. Musket in hand, he ran through the snow to the nearest home in time to see two soldiers pointing their bayonets at an old man in his bed.

  “Stand down!” Liam shouted with no more authority than that of his conscience.

  “We’re following orders!” It was Cooper, clearly recovered from his dysentery and eager to redeem his indignity. With the tip of his weapon, he snagged the bedsheets and swung them off the trembling man, clothed only in a pair of trousers. “Out with ye, now! You’re under arrest!”

  “On what charge?” Rage licked through Liam. His breath plumed white in front of his face, then disappeared.

  “On the charge of you shut up!”

  A scrubby-faced so
ldier who had misbuttoned his coat poked his bayonet at the man’s bare chest. With a pitiful cry, the old man crept from his bed, hands up, and went barefoot into the snow while his wife wept.

  A hand wrapped around Liam’s wrist. “Where are they taking him? Why?” the wife shrieked, and her plaintive cry was echoed from house to house.

  “I aim to find out.”

  “Please!” She pulled at him. “He’s done no wrong!”

  Liam didn’t doubt it. He peeled her fingers from his wrist and ducked out of the house.

  Four soldiers were guarding chained prisoners in the center of the road. Another two civilians had joined the old man, and more were being marched at point of bayonet in their direction. None of them were dressed in more than nightclothes.

  “No! You can’t take my brother, you just can’t! What’ll I do without my brother?” A little girl, about six years old, chased after the soldier corralling her brother toward the guards. Two braids streamed behind her as she ran.

  “It’ll be all right, Libby, but you have to stay in the house with George!” a young man with a clubfoot called to her. Then he snarled something to the soldier, which earned the butt of a musket in his gut. He doubled over.

  The soldier shoved him forward with a laugh. “We ain’t keeping you forever. Unless you give us a reason. You an anarchist? Like them Frenchies?”

  “I can’t take care of him all by myself, Adam! Please! Please don’t take him!” The girl sobbed until she tripped and fell in the street.

  Liam ran to help her up, and she screamed at the sight of him. He threw down his musket and held up his hands, palms facing her. “See? I won’t hurt you, darlin’.” He scooped her up, brushing slush and snow from her nightdress and bare feet. “I’ll see what I can do for your brother, but you best get back inside before you freeze. Which one’s your home?”

  The girl pointed, and Liam carried her there, dismayed by the wailing that came from within. “Let me guess,” he said. “George?”

  “He screams awful loud, don’t he? He’s just a young ’un, I know, but I can’t hardly stand his hollerin’!” She put her hands over her ears to demonstrate.

  “Don’t you have someone to help watch him?”

  “Ma died.” She wiped her face with the cuff of her sleeve. “And Pa ran off as soon as he heard you were coming. It’s just Adam taking care of me and the baby now.”

  “I see.” Liam clenched his jaw. “Well, you stay right here out of the cold, at least. We don’t want Adam coming home to find your toes frozen off.”

  “All right, mister.” She hiccuped with the last of her sobs. “But can you get him back?”

  “I can try.” Awkwardly, he patted the top of her head and turned back toward the motley group of prisoners growing larger by the moment. Feeling only the heat of his anger now, he marched up to the guards circling Adam and the rest of the civilians.

  “You got an issue, Delaney?” Simpson asked.

  “I do. I take issue with how you’re carrying out whatever order you think you heard. This can’t be right. Let these civilians go back to bed where they belong.”

  “Well, it’s you against the generals. And I’m siding with the generals on this one. They said to round these fellows up and stick ’em in town jails, stables, cattle pens—anything will do while they await interrogation by Hamilton. And you ain’t got no authority to tell us different.”

  Another scream split the night, and Liam wheeled to find a woman pulling on the arm of her husband’s captor. The soldier cursed at her, but she hung on tight. She spit in his eye, and he slapped her across the face.

  “Stand down, soldier!” Liam met them in the street. “You call yourself a friend of order? You are tearing apart this town!”

  The soldier turned his bayonet on Liam. “I’ve had about enough of your bellyachin’. If you’re so fond of these whiskey rebels, how about you spend a little more time with them? Chains are on the house.” He jabbed his weapon at Liam’s middle.

  Liam dodged it and stepped sideways, gaze trained on his foe.

  “Pick up your musket, you fool, and we’ll have ourselves a fair fight.”

  “Believe me,” Liam breathed, “you do not want a musket in my hands right now.”

  “Is that so?” The soldier lunged again, and once more Liam sidestepped. Cheers from the other soldiers filled the crackling cold air. He knew they weren’t for him.

  His opponent smiled and half turned toward the attention, and in that moment of unguardedness, Liam grabbed the bayonet and twisted it from the soldier’s grip. Blood dripped from his hands as he clutched the blade, but he felt no pain thanks to the numbing cold. Throwing the weapon on the street, he reeled his fist back and pummeled the surprise right off the soldier’s face.

  In the next moment, he heard the singing of a bullet as it raced past him. Fire seared his cheek and combusted in his ear. Rounding on the shooter, he covered the flaming pain on the side of his face, and his hand came away soaking wet. A metallic smell filled his nose. He’d been shot by his own comrade. Mere inches from certain death.

  Then a blow to his skull from behind, and the stars faded from the night.

  When Liam awoke, it was to a headache that swelled beneath skin and bone, and to the firm conviction that his left ear was caught in a vise. His hand went to the pain and found a bandage. A swath of his left cheek burned, and the ginger touch of his fingertip found the skin torn away and a scab beginning to form. He opened his eyes to find himself back in his tent by the Monongahela River. The flap opened to sunlight made blinding by the snow.

  “You were lucky.”

  “Alex.” Liam’s voice sounded too loud in his head. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Two days, with a little help from laudanum. I’d offer you more, but we’re rationing it. The rebels got a piece of you, didn’t they? Better you lend them your ear than they take your head.” Alex smiled wryly at his own wit, and Liam knew he was holding back from another comparison to the French guillotines.

  “It wasn’t a whiskey rebel or Jacobin, and I suspect you know that.” Grimacing in pain, Liam turned onto his side, uninjured ear to the ground. “One of your soldiers shot me. I won’t ask whether he was relieved or disappointed not to have killed me.”

  Alex said something, but Liam couldn’t hear him. Nor did he really care. Slowly, the events of that night drifted back to him. “Tell me it isn’t true, Alex. Tell me you didn’t say they could arrest anyone, even if they weren’t on those blasted lists.”

  The words were muffled, but Liam could hear in the cadence of his reply that Alex was justifying his decision. Ever haunted by the hobgoblins of disorder, Alex was in his element now. On a witch hunt for both rebels and martial glory.

  “I’m sickened to be a part of it.” Liam pushed himself up and felt the blood pounding in his skull. He went to the washstand set up in the tent and picked up the handheld looking glass, his breath fogging the cloudy surface. In front of his bandaged ear, the wound on his cheek reminded him of Indian war paint. After pouring fresh water into the basin, he soaked a towel and did his best to clean himself up.

  Light flashed into the tent, signaling that Alex had lifted the flap to leave. Camp smells of coffee, bacon grease, and horse manure took his place.

  Liam turned his head toward the opening and listened. Hoofbeats. Were they breaking camp and heading east? He ducked outside to see for himself.

  Chilblains again aching in his fingers, he folded his arms and watched the parade before him. The Philadelphia Horse Guard formed two rows as its members escorted prisoners between them. Neat and trim in blue broadcloth uniforms, the guards sat astride huge bay horses, so perfectly matched and powerful they could pull coaches belonging to the urban elite. The bare winter sun gleamed on silver bridles and stirrups, and on the swords the guards held pointing straight up.

  Between these long lines of soldiers came pairs of prisoners bound for Fort Fayette in Pittsburgh. Liam watched them with the sinking fee
ling that the army had arrested the wrong men. They looked as cold and hungry as he felt and rode horses of every size, color, and condition. The lucky ones had saddles.

  Liam’s gaze settled on a man of middling years riding bareback, his body swaying with the horse’s movements. With purpled cheek and his arm in a makeshift sling, he’d clearly not been taken without a fight. Beneath the brim of his weathered hat, a scowl slashed across his face. He looked at Liam with one eye, the other swollen shut.

  No. That eye wasn’t shut. It was gone.

  Comprehension slammed through Liam as he beheld Finn O’Brien, beaten and captured, his eyepatch gone. Liam’s mouth went dry, too dry to speak. The world was upside down, the revolution turned inside out.

  The columns rattled past him and out of camp, leaving churned slush and mud in their wake.

  Chapter Twenty

  Philadelphia

  Late November 1794

  Weeks had passed since Vivienne told Sebastien about Henri’s confession, and he still would not believe it. “A clever tale,” he had said, “but it is not enough to keep him safe. He must not leave the pension at all.” New pensioners moved in and aroused Sebastien’s suspicion. “They could be Jacobins,” he said. Or informants, which were just as dangerous.

  Even if Henri was not king, the fact that people believed otherwise was all that mattered. A misunderstanding threatened his life. And so Henri was trapped.

  This was no way for her boy to live.

  After completing her morning work in the Four Winds Tavern kitchen, she walked up to the second-floor dining room for a private meeting. Noise from the Saturday lunch crowd strained up from the floor below her.

  “Vivienne!”

  Sebastien waved at her from a booth, and she quickly slipped in opposite him.