Turncoat

by Deborah Chester

  Noel swore under his breath for several seconds and cradled his aching hand against his chest. “LOC,” he said at last.

  It flashed, more dimly than before. “Acknowledged.”

  “Abandon shift attempts.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Scan for Leon. Your memory banks can supply you with the necessary data. If not, seek a man who is my duplicate. Give this function priority. Reroute other energy levels if necessary.”

  The LOC didn’t respond for several seconds, then it flashed faintly. “Acknowledged.”

  “Repeat my instructions.”

  The LOC did so. Noel nodded, satisfied for the moment.

  “If we’re lucky, he’ll show up. He usually does, but we’ve never encountered interference like this before. I can’t trust to chance.”

  “I am not programmed to respond to rhetorical statements.”

  “Just find Leon and do it fast,” said Noel.

  “Acknowledged.”

  The sound of hoofbeats sent Noel scurrying for cover. “Deactivate,” he whispered.

  Too much undergrowth had been cleared from beneath the trees for them to offer a hiding place. Noel glimpsed a horse and rider being pursued by two others, both wearing scarlet.

  “Hell,” said Noel and flung himself behind the half-constructed stone fence.

  The quarry was a civilian in breeches and top boots, wrapped in a stout woolen cloak, his head covered with a tall tricorne hat. Old or young, Noel could not tell. But the man’s fear and desperation were made plain by the way he kept whipping his lathered horse and glancing over his shoulder. His mount was clearly exhausted, for it stumbled frequently. Its nostrils flared scarlet, snorting forth its breath in white plumes.

  One of the soldiers fired a pistol. “Halt!” he shouted. “In the name of the king, I order you to stop!”

  The shot went wide, echoing across the hills. The civilian made no effort to obey. Instead, he crouched lower over the saddle and whipped his horse hard. He wrenched his mount off the road and came thundering across the field toward Noel’s hiding place.

  Furious with alarm, Noel crouched lower, unable to believe his bad luck. Why did they have to come this way? The ground was shaking from the galloping hooves. Mud flew into the air. The horse was making a groaning noise deep in its lungs, and the man astride it was sobbing in his fear.

  Despite his wish to avoid involvement, which in this case could end up getting him shot just because he was there, Noel’s sympathy couldn’t help but be touched by the man’s plight. Whatever he’d done or for whatever reason the soldiers were chasing him, two against one was hardly fair. Besides that, some surprising chord of patriotism suddenly gripped Noel. It was astonishing because had he even thought about it, he would have expected the span of centuries to be too great between his time and this, but there must be something genetic, some inherited national memory of the Revolution that had stuck despite the march of time. Or else he was just thinking about that first materialization in this century when the British soldier had shot him in the head.

  Either way, recklessness rose in Noel. He glanced around and picked up a pair of fist-sized stones, one for each hand.

  The horse was still coming straight at the fence. Stupid, thought Noel. The old guy was going to get cornered here.

  But the horse didn’t slow, for he was still being whipped, kicked, and urged on by the desperate cries of his rider.

  Noel realized they were going to jump, and right over where he was hiding. He tried to scuttle out of the way, but it was too late.

  The horse gathered itself with a final effort and sailed over both fence and Noel. He had a confused instant of its overwhelming size, the stench of horse sweat, the scarlet flare of the beast’s nostrils, and the white gleam of its eye. Lethal hooves were tucked up against the animal’s undercarriage, ready to strike. There was mud clinging to the soles of the rider’s boots. Noel could have reached up and touched the saddle girth.

  Then they were over, and Noel could draw breath again. But the horse stumbled and fell, going down in a violent tumble of animal and rider. There was no time to react; the redcoats were at the fence.

  “Ho!” yelled one, laughing. He swung his crop, and his horse rose at the fence.

  Shrieking like a madman, Noel bolted upright in front of the horse and waved his arms. The animal shied and tossed its rider. The other plunged to one side, snorting with fear. Shouting in surprise, the still-mounted soldier tried to regain control of his mount. Noel threw one of his rocks. His aim was true; it hit the man in the temple, knocking off his hat. A burst of crimson splashed across his face. He toppled from his saddle.

  A pistol ball whizzed a scant inch over Noel’s head. He whirled, his heart thudding, and faced the other soldier.

  The man was on his knees, covered with mud, and holding the smoking pistol. “You—”

  Noel hurled his remaining rock and hit the soldier in the chest. He fell back with a surprised look on his face and writhed about, wheezing for air. Noel rushed to him and knocked him out.

  Then all was suddenly, shockingly quiet. Breathing hard more from adrenaline rush than from actual exertion, Noel wiped the sweat from his face and stepped back. The scene had gone from a newly cleared pasture to a miniature battlefield in a matter of minutes. The two British horses trotted around with their reins dangling, too well trained to run away entirely, but still snorting and rolling their eyes in alarm. The civilian horse lay where it had fallen. Whether it had broken a leg or burst its heart, Noel couldn’t say. It looked dead to him, and the civilian lay unmoving beside it.

  Noel took the pistols from the redcoats. Both weapons were still slightly warm to the touch and the reek of gunpowder smoked lightly in their muzzles. One was finely made of walnut and chased silver. Although he had no ammunition for either, Noel stuck the pistols in his pockets and felt better. His little David and Goliath act had succeeded, thanks to the natural skittishness of horses and the element of surprise, but he’d rather have a gun in his hand than a rock any day.

  Approaching the civilian warily, Noel stared at him for a moment. He was lying facedown and didn’t stir even when Noel prodded him gently with his foot. His hat had fallen partially across his face, twisting his wig awry, and both his hands were in sight. Noel crouched beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said. “Are you able to hear me? Wake up.”

  He shook the man, who groaned and made a feeble movement with one hand before falling still again.

  Concerned, Noel rolled the civilian onto his back and pulled the tricorne and wig away. The man’s face was ashen against the trampled snow and mud, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

  Noel felt for broken bones and found a spongy place in the man’s side. When he pressed there, the man groaned and opened his eyes. They were wild with fear and pain.

  “Easy,” said Noel. “You’re hurt inside. Don’t try to move.”

  The man started coughing blood, and Noel hastily sat him up so he could breathe. Close up, he looked to be in his middle forties, going soft along the jaw and in the paunch. His clothes were of good quality, although not flashy.

  “Tyrants,” he muttered. “Oppressors—”

  “Don’t try to talk,” said Noel. “You need all the breath you can get.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened again. They were blue and clouded with shock. “Not British—”

  “Nope, I’m your fairy godfather,” said Noel with a flippancy that didn’t cover the worry growing inside him. What was he going to do with this man? For all he knew the fellow was supposed to be shot and hanged by the British, but here he was tampering with history again. And how was he going to get the man medical assistance? With these questions running through his mind, he pressed a reassuring hand to the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m a patriot too. I’m on your side.”

  “God be praised,” whispered the man in simple relief. He slumpe
d.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said Noel. “Come on. Keep awake. Do you live near here? Do you have neighbors?”

  The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and his expression went slack, but Noel gave him a shake that brought him back to consciousness. “Talk to me,” said Noel sharply. “Do you live around here? Where can I get help for you?”

  “Sally,” the man whispered, then began coughing again. “Must tell her the—must tell—”

  “Sally,” said Noel. “Where’s Sally?”

  The man’s eyes were losing focus. He flung out one hand and lapsed into unconsciousness. Frustrated, Noel felt his pulse and found it racing. His skin felt clammy and cold, too cold even for having lain on the ground. But it seemed he had tried to point the direction. Noel squinted that way. No houses were in sight, but he remembered he had seen smoke earlier. Someone had to live fairly close by.

  Easing the man to the ground, he scrubbed the blood off his hands and set himself to catch one of the British horses. One shied off completely, but the other one let him approach. He stroked its neck, making soothing noises, and the animal tossed its head. As soon as he grasped the dangling reins, the animal nuzzled him affectionately and snorted all over his shoes.

  Tying the horse to a tree, Noel kept a wary eye on the two unconscious soldiers and unsaddled the horse quickly. It took some effort to pull the civilian’s saddle off the dead horse, but he finally managed to drag it free. Putting it on the British horse, he then struggled to heave the civilian across it. There came no sound, although he was rougher in handling the fellow than he meant to be. Noel patted his back in apology.

  Unlacing the civilian’s saddlebags, Noel dug through a few personal effects, finding an extra pair of gloves that he drew on gladly, a purse of money, which he appropriated, and a hunk of bread and cheese swathed in a clean cloth. Munching on this, Noel almost overlooked a thin packet wrapped in oilskin. Inside there was a letter written in florid copperplate on heavy parchment paper. It was a note of safe conduct, and it was signed by Benjamin Franklin of the Continental Congress. The second sheet contained a list of dates and names that meant nothing to Noel, but he suspected this was dangerous information for anyone to be carrying across a country at war.

  No wonder his civilian had been pursued by soldiers.

  Don’t get into this, warned a small voice in Noel’s head. You have your own agenda.

  Sighing, Noel wrapped up the papers once again in the oilskin and made a swift cut in the saddle pad. He crammed the packet inside and pulled some of the stuffing to the edge of the cut to conceal what lay inside it. Then he led the horse and its unconscious burden toward help.

  The house over the hill was no mansion, but it was finer than an ordinary farmstead. Built of gray stone with a sloped slate roof and large windows, it stood partway up a rise of ground, with a small pond in front of it and a snug set of barns and outbuildings to the rear. There was a walled garden at the side, and Noel came walking through an orchard on his way to the house.

  Geese were the first to sound the alarm at his approach. Hissing and honking, they waddled forward, only to be scattered by a pack of barking dogs. Having no desire to get his leg bitten, Noel stopped where he was and tightened his grip on the nervous horse’s bridle.

  “Hello!” he shouted.

  A shout echoed back to him. In a moment a boy of about fourteen, clad in a leather jerkin and linen shirt, came out from behind the house with an axe in his hands. He stopped beside the picket fence enclosing the front garden.

  “Is Sally about?” asked Noel, taking a gamble.

  The boy’s stance relaxed. “Oh, aye,” he said and cupped his hand to his mouth. “Ho! Sally, come out!”

  “Call off your dogs,” said Noel.

  “Bouncer! Lad! Tulip! Come away,” said the boy.

  At once the dogs scattered and trotted off, losing interest in Noel at once. The geese, however, were not so easily mollified. Noel kicked his way through them, aware that the boy was amused by how the gander stretched his neck and spread his wings aggressively. The birds’ hissing did not amuse Noel, who expected to have a plug nipped from his hide at any moment.

  By the time he reached the front of the house, a young woman with her blond hair swept up becomingly and a shawl tied about her shoulders had appeared on the front steps. She hastened forward at the sight of him.

  “What’s happened?” she cried. “You left us not an hour ago, and here you are come again. And in such clothes as these. Is it a spy you’ve become, Lieutenant Nardek?”

  At the name, Noel’s blood congealed in his veins. He stood there a moment, then took a half step forward. “You know—”

  “And who’s this you’ve brought in all bloody?” she asked, unheeding.

  The boy, equally blond and blue-eyed, was obviously her younger brother. He lifted the unconscious man’s head and gasped. “Lord, Sally! It’s Peterson.”

  “Peterson!” she echoed. The color left her cheeks and she cast Noel an odd, frightened glance before glaring at the boy. “Hush, Robert, of course it’s not. You’re mistaken. We don’t know this man at all.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Noel. “He told me to seek out a Sally. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  She flinched, her eyes staring at him with a look that was agonizing to see. “In God’s name, don’t toy with us like this.”

  “Do you know him or not?” persisted Noel. He glanced at the boy, who was looking nearly as frightened as the girl. “Look, forget your politics for a moment. The man’s badly hurt. He may die.”

  She drew an unsteady breath and gripped her hands together against her stomach. “What happened to him?”

  “His horse threw him,” said Noel, deciding not to mention the soldiers just yet. “I happened to be on the spot and thought he’d better have help. Is there a doctor in these parts?”

  “Aye,” said the boy, looking puzzled. “But seeing as you played whist with Dr. Selincourt last night here in our own parlor, I wonder why you ask such a question.”

  “Never mind,” said Sally, throwing Noel yet another worried look. “Let’s get him into the house as quick as we can. Have Silas help you, Robert. Lieutenant, will you—”

  “You’d better send the boy for the doctor as fast as he can ride,” said Noel. “I’ll help get Peterson inside.”

  “Very well. Take the chestnut when you go, Robert. He’s the fastest. And mind you bundle up well. The wind is still sharp.”

  Still looking frightened, she gave Noel a perfunctory smile and hastened into the house. He heard her calling for servants. By the time he managed to drag Peterson off the horse, a large black man in homespun appeared to help carry the injured man inside. Between them they got him upstairs and into a cold bedchamber with a sloped ceiling.

  “I’ll get a fire started,” said Silas.

  By then Sally appeared with a strip of bandages in her hands. “The water’s heating,” she said without preamble.

  Noel wanted to explain to her that he was not his twin, with whom she was obviously already well acquainted. But it didn’t seem to be the right moment for awkward explanations.

  “I’ll see to the horse,” he said.

  She nodded, but he noticed how she avoided looking directly at him. Her hands, as she unfastened Peterson’s coat, were shaking.

  He returned outside and led the horse into the barn. Finding a stall, he stripped off saddle and bridle and gave the horse some water. Slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder, he walked back inside the house.

  It was a rambling, comfortable place. He glimpsed a rather grand parlor filled with formal wingback chairs and mahogany tables. Past the imposing curve of the staircase lay a hall leading to the rear of the house. Exiting, he stepped along a path of flagstones to a humble log structure. It was there that the woodsmoke was rising from a brick chimney. Delicious smells of baking bread made his mouth water.

  Following his nose, and his growling stomach, Noel entered the kitchen. />
  A thin woman with red hair twisted on top of her head was bustling between open fire, brick oven, and a huge table filled with preparations. A child of about three clung to her skirts, and a younger one waved a wooden rattle from where he’d been tied in a chair with a dishcloth.

  “Hello,” said Noel quietly, not wanting to startle her. “Any chance of a bite?”

  She whirled just the same, and her face grew pinched at the sight of him. “You, is it?” she said with open insolence. “Well, you came back speedily enough, and in a new suit of clothes too. Did you decide to sell out your colors, Lieutenant, or are you playing spy today?”

  The idea that Leon had been here earlier was frustrating. Noel didn’t answer her question. Instead he looked around with longing. “That coffee smells good.”

  “And if you expect to get any, you may think again. I’ve too much to do to be wasting my time with the likes of you. Miss Sally may tolerate you for the major’s sake, but you’re no better than you should be. Now clear out of my kitchen before the pastries are burned.”

  “Hannah!” said a soft voice, sounding shocked. “How roughly you speak to our guest, to be sure.”

  Noel turned and found himself face-to-face with Sally. Up close, she was lovely indeed, with the kind of bone structure that would retain beauty all her life. A clear milk-and-roses complexion, intelligent blue eyes, slim arched brows, and hair like spun gold were enough to make his senses spin. She also possessed a figure curved and full in all the right places, slim everywhere else. Her dress was fashioned of a soft, plain blue wool with a cut and sophistication that said it must have been ordered from London. She wore a filmy white fichu crossed over her bosom, and her shawl hung from her elbows.

  He realized he was staring, flushed, and scrambled to find his manners. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  But she was staring back with an arrested expression in her eyes. A tiny frown appeared between her brows. She raised one slender hand to silence him and said, “You aren’t Lieutenant Nardek, after all. I thought you were at first, in all the excitement. But you aren’t.”