Turncoat

by Deborah Chester

  I am evil, he thought, focusing on all the old hatred to bring it back. I am dark. I am wicked. I take pleasure in destroying what others want. And, Perkins, I am worse than you!

  He raised up, lifting himself by sheer effort of will. And he aimed all the blackened rot of himself at Perkins.

  The man stopped in the act of kicking him again. His eyes went very wide and glassy. The knife dropped from his fingers. He staggered back, making a choking sound. Then he dropped dead.

  Panting, Leon sagged to his knees. Great drops of sweat rolled off his forehead and splattered on the ground. He gulped in lungful after lungful of air, but as the tumult inside him quieted, he began to smile just a little to himself. That final moment of panic in Perkins’s breast…how sweet to savor.

  Leon flung back his hair from his eyes and staggered to his feet. Only then did he scowl with annoyance. For his hands were still tied, and Perkins was dead. Well, no matter. He had the knife. He would manage.

  And he did.

  After that it was agony, pacing about and swearing to himself as the circulation returned slowly to his swollen hands. He splashed his way into the stream and plunged his hands into the icy cold water. Gradually the swelling went down, and he was able to wiggle his fingers without discomfort. His skin resumed its normal color.

  Leon then set to work. He changed his red uniform for Perkins’s blue one. He examined Perkins’s grimy papers and kept those too. With his British uniform rolled up and stowed in the saddlebags, he now had two identities. He started to untie the horse, then paused with his head cocked to one side.

  He was remembering all the threats he had heard through the long night. He was remembering how Perkins had threatened to scalp him. He was remembering how they planned to hang him, gibbering and wetting himself in his terror.

  Leon’s lips drew back from his teeth. Why not give these barbarians a taste of something really scary?

  He walked back to the corpse and lashed the feet together. For a moment he considered scalping what was left of Perkins’s greasy hair, but that seemed far too tame. Instead, he decapitated the body. With a rope that he found in the unburned part of the mill, he hung the body upside down from a walnut tree. Blood began to sluggishly drain onto the ground. The head he tossed into the stream and watched as it bobbed and rolled in the water, carried away to shock some unsuspecting farmer downstream. With a stick he scratched Perkins’s name in the dirt to help the man’s friends identify him.

  Smirking to himself, Leon drove his new knife into the ground several times to clean it. Then as he mounted the horse and rode away, he tipped back his head with a shout of laughter. Let these rustic buffoons have a taste of real atrocity and see how they liked it.

  After nearly two weeks of roaming the countryside, robbing travelers and robbing homes, Leon was ready for a different kind of amusement. It was easy enough to ride up to a farm, scan the minds inside to see if they were sympathetic to the American or the British cause, don the appropriate uniform, and be greeted with an invitation to supper. But there was no challenge in that. He had discarded the idea of returning to Major Burton. Playing soldier had become a bore. Especially since Noel had interfered with his plans.

  He did not think of Noel often, but when he did it was with a laugh. His stupid twin had not wanted to believe that they were finally entrenched in the past, but it was true. Leon had never stayed anywhere this long. Unlike before, Noel had not turned up to stop his activities. It was most liberating.

  But it was becoming a bore too.

  Leon had begun to wonder in the back of his mind if jumping from time to time wasn’t more exciting than plodding along every day in the same stretch of backward culture.

  But he wasn’t ready to admit it and he decided to invent a different kind of game for himself.

  Noonday found him stretched out atop a knoll with his hands cupped around his eyes to shield them from the sun. He watched a small train of supply wagons laboring along a muddy road. Continental troops rode guard. They looked nervous, as well they should, slinking through country that was primarily British controlled.

  Leon mounted and rode down the hill behind them. Instead of catching up with them, he circled a half mile or so around and got ahead of them. Then swinging onto the road, he kicked his horse to a brisk trot and met the vanguard.

  The officer in charge was young and handsome, with a plume in his tricorne and a crimson sash to hold his sword. He threw up his hand and halted the company before riding ahead a few paces to meet Leon.

  His dark eyes were intelligent and searching. They observed the lather on Leon’s horse, the mud splattered across Leon’s uniform.

  He frowned in quick concern. “Hello, Corporal. Something amiss?”

  Leon scanned the surface thoughts of the soldier’s mind rapidly. Ambush…weary horses…army pay to be protected… Leon couldn’t help but glance down the line. The next-to-last wagon held the payroll, the first script the Continental troops had probably been paid all winter. Everything else was blankets, food, and clothing…the usual boring supplies.

  “Something amiss?” repeated the officer.

  “Yes, sir,” said Leon urgently. He caught another layer of thought: First command…must look good…heavy responsibility…mustn’t fail the general. Leon almost smiled and stopped himself just in time. “Trouble ahead.”

  “I was afraid of that. Things have been going too well. I’m surprised you didn’t bring troops with you.”

  “That’s the trouble,” said Leon. “They’re holding the British at the next crossroads. I broke away to give you the warning.”

  The lieutenant frowned and tried his best not to look alarmed. “How much time?”

  “Not much.”

  “Good lord.” The lieutenant pulled a worn map from his saddlebags and spread it across his knee. “We’re here, I think.”

  Leon examined the map. It was full of crooked country roads, crisscrossing everywhere. He traced a route with his finger. “They’re here. My company can’t hold them long. I was given orders to turn you east, then north. You see? This way.”

  “Right,” said the lieutenant with decision. He turned around in the saddle and bawled orders.

  Within minutes the wagons were turning ponderously back the way they’d come, the large wooden wheels rolling with great smacking slurps of the mire. They were using oxen to draw them, instead of horses. The beasts lowed in complaint, and the drivers swore and cracked their whips.

  Leon trotted his horse up and down, making sure his orders added to the general confusion. When they were at last stretched out and going again, the payroll wagon was last in line, and the bulk of the troops riding guard had been positioned somewhere near the middle. Leon placed himself at the rear, constantly urging the men on and trying not to gloat.

  By dusk they were lost. The lieutenant was peering over his map by lantern light and two of his subordinates were arguing. Leon found the driver of his target wagon to be very dull-witted and almost impossible to reach. He simplified his suggestions.

  “You’re sleepy.”

  The driver yawned and scratched his belly.

  “Very sleepy.”

  The driver yawned so enormously Leon heard his jaws pop.

  “So sleepy you cannot stay awake. Better to let someone else hold the reins. Drop the reins. Drop the reins. Go to sleep.”

  Finally the driver’s head nodded. He snored.

  Leon wheeled his horse in front of the team. The oxen stopped willingly.

  The driver ahead glanced back. “Problem?”

  “No, but I think this man’s been drinking whiskey on the sly,” said Leon. “He’s passed out. I’ll take the reins.”

  Tying his horse to the wagon, Leon climbed onto the seat and urged the team forward. As the shadows lengthened and they lost the daylight, he let the wagon fall behind. He cast his mind at the men ahead of him.

  “The last wagon is right behind you. Close and safe. Don’t look back. We’re al
l close together.”

  Halting the team when it was too dark for them to see him, Leon jumped into the back and flipped back the tarp. He found bags of mail for the soldiers and kicked them aside with contempt. The money chest itself was too heavy to carry. Drawing his knife, he used the stout blade to pry open the lock. For a moment he thought he would break the blade, then the lock released and he threw back the lid.

  He had to explore by feel rather than sight. At first all he touched were order pouches, then paper. Disappointment welled up in his throat. The cheapskates. Small wonder they were losing the war if they used worthless paper for money. Then in the bottom he found hard coinage. He lifted out the clinking bags and tucked them into his pockets, breathing fast and chuckling to himself.

  When he had all he could carry, he heard a shout up ahead. Unwilling to press his luck further, Leon jumped from the wagon. The weight he was carrying made him fall. It took him a moment to lever himself upright. Then he staggered to his horse. He could not mount. The gold was holding him down. Swearing under his breath, he took out some of it and threw it on the ground.

  He had hauled himself halfway into the saddle when he heard hoofbeats coming fast. Swinging his leg over, he sawed at the reins, making his horse rear, and reached for his pistol.

  A lantern was opened, casting light suddenly into his eyes. Blinded, Leon wheeled his horse around. Another lantern shone at him.

  “Stand where you are!” said the lieutenant in ringing tones. “What’s this wagon doing so far behind? Why is the driver unconscious?”

  The light shone closer. Leon squinted and slipped his thumb across the hammer of his pistol.

  “Bring your hands out where we can see them,” said the lieutenant.

  “It’s the payroll wagon, sir,” said the sergeant grimly. “He’s somehow switched it to the rear. While we were maneuvering. I’ve no doubt.”

  “Nor I,” said the lieutenant. He gazed at Leon with eyes of steel. “Dismount, Corporal, and turn out your pockets.”

  “The hell I will,” snarled Leon and fired.

  Almost simultaneously someone shot back. Leon missed, and a streak of fire branded his arm. He gasped and reeled, clutching himself. There was blood, his blood, flowing freely. He could feel the heat of it upon his fingers. The salty wetness of it stank in his nostrils.

  “Get him down,” said the lieutenant angrily.

  Rough hands pulled Leon off his horse and held him fast. They searched him, pulling out the gold.

  “The penalties for robbing army payroll are very severe, Corporal,” said the lieutenant. “Did you really think you could pull off something like this?”

  Leon squinted up at him with contempt. “Nearly did it, didn’t I?”

  The sergeant struck him. “You will address the lieutenant with respect.”

  Leon touched his sore lip with the tip of his tongue. “Sir,” he added with more insolence than ever.

  “Sergeant, here’re his papers,” said one of the men who searched him.

  The sergeant examined them, then passed them to the lieutenant.

  “Corporal Edward Perkins,” he said.

  “Naw!” said a voice in rough protest.

  Leon jerked against the hands holding him, but his guards only tightened their grip. A private pushed his way forward and spat.

  “That ain’t never Ned Perkins.”

  “You know the man?” asked the lieutenant in astonishment.

  “Aye, sir. That I do. Served with him against the injuns. And him a scurvy, pox-ridden scoundrel as ever was.”

  The sergeant glared at Leon. “Seems to describe this man well enough.”

  “Well, he ain’t Perkins. Ain’t I just been saying so?’

  The lieutenant frowned. “What is your true name?”

  Leon said nothing.

  “Where did you get these papers?”

  Again Leon said nothing. He tried to touch the lieutenant’s mind, but now it was closed tight against him with anger and steely contempt.

  “A deserter most like,” said the sergeant.

  They went through the saddlebags, and the sergeant whistled. “Look at this, sir! A British uniform.”

  The scarlet cloth looked like blood in the lantern light. The lieutenant examined Leon’s British papers. “A commissioned lieutenant in His Majesty’s army, Leon Nardek.” He glanced up, his eyes searching and hard. “Is that your true name?”

  In spite of himself Leon nodded.

  The men holding his arms gave them a twist that made him gasp. “A bloody redcoat.”

  “Worse, a spy and a thief. Perhaps a murderer as well,” said the lieutenant grimly. “It’s certain you didn’t come honestly by the uniform you’re wearing.”

  “Now, Lieutenant,” said Leon placatingly, seeking a sliver of an opening, any hint of an opportunity to strike the young officer’s thoughts, “surely we can—”

  “Take this man away and put him in shackles,” said the lieutenant. “He is the worst kind of villain, and will be dealt with as soon as we reach headquarters. Sergeant, turn these wagons around.”

  “And what of the British trying to waylay us, sir?”

  The lieutenant’s face was a grim mask. He gazed at Leon with absolutely no mercy. “I believe that was only a ploy to delay and confuse us. Turn the wagons, now, and be sharp about it!”

  “Wait,” said Leon. “Lieutenant, we should discuss this like civilized men.”

  “I don’t believe you know the meaning of the term,” said the lieutenant icily.

  And Leon was taken away.

  Chapter 15

  Bright, uncomfortable sunlight on Noel’s face awakened him. Squinting, he shifted his head to avoid it, and found the pillow lumpy and full of quills that tried to stick him through the cloth.

  “Feathers,” he said, very distinctly, and opened his eyes wide.

  He saw that he was in a bed, tucked beneath a low ceiling. Sally, dressed in frumpy brown homespun, sat beside him. She had been reading, but when he spoke she dropped the book and stared at him with a dawning smile.

  “You’re awake,” she said. “Do—do you know me?”

  He smiled back. His facial muscles felt stiff as though they hadn’t moved in a long time. “Sally Crewe,” he said in a voice that sounded like a rusty hinge.

  “Praise God,” she said. “Let me get you some water.”

  She bustled around him then, turning his pillow and smoothing out the lumps. She fetched him a glass of water and supported his head while he drank it. She pulled open the curtains and let even more sunlight in. She took his hand in hers and held it.

  “Oh, yes, your skin is cool. The fever is gone, and your breathing is much easier. Are you hungry?”

  He realized that he was ravenous. He nodded.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Kinkiddie. Just rest and I’ll be back right away.”

  She rushed out.

  Noel frowned at the room. He’d never seen it before, and couldn’t imagine how he’d come here. Things seemed a little crooked, a little out of perspective. He felt as though he’d been away a long time.

  Slowly he sat up, although his arms were absurdly weak and trembled when he tried to support himself. His face was covered with beard, and that shocked him. How long had he been here? Travel slowed beard growth. Most of the time, shaving was never necessary at all. For that effect to have worn off, he must have been here…

  He flung back the covers. Beneath his nightshirt, his legs were skeleton thin and pale. He could count every rib. Naturally lean, he had dropped weight to skin and bones.

  Outside birds were singing merrily. He stared at the window, frowning for a long time before his conscious brain registered what his senses were telling him.

  There were green leaves outside the glass.

  Green leaves.

  Not buds, but leaves. How many days, how many weeks had he lain here? It wasn’t possible.

  He pushed himself out of bed and tottered two steps before he fell. Slowly
he righted himself again and stood there clinging to the bedpost.

  “Sir, you’re up!” called out Robert in surprise.

  The boy came charging in with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his jerkin covered with dust. A huge grin covered his face. “Sally said you were awake, but I didn’t expect to see you out of bed. Don’t you think you’d better get back in?”

  “No,” said Noel. “How long have I been here?”

  “Going on three weeks, and fair worried we’ve been, I can tell you. Jupiter, you’ve been sick. We thought you were going to die.”

  “Oh?” Noel put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and let him help him back to bed. “That sounds familiar.”

  “Well, you talked about dying a lot. I guess you were upset about your brother.”

  Noel frowned. “Leon.”

  “Yes, well, anyway,” said Robert, hurrying past that subject, “the way you raved when the fever had you—you said the most fantastic things.”

  “What things?” asked Noel worriedly. He was prohibited from using modern terminology that might betray his origins.

  “Well, you talked of elephants, sir.”

  Noel grinned. “Did I?”

  “And there was a man that you talked to. I don’t think you liked him much for you were always telling him to go away. Sometimes you would strike out at him. And swear.”

  “Did I scorch your sister’s ears?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Robert with a grin. “She can swear pretty good herself if she’s mad enough.”

  “What else?”

  “None of the rest made any sense at all. You were reliving old memories sometimes, bad ones, some of them.”

  Noel nodded and leaned back against his pillows. “Three weeks,” he said, still amazed. But there was a hollowness growing inside him. He must be completely cut off from all contact with the time portal. He had dropped into the past beyond the Institute’s reach.

  He looked down at his hands. His LOC was missing. He clenched his fingers. “My LOC!” he said in horror.

  “What? Your locket, did you say?”