by P. N. Elrod
“Entschuldigen Sie. Your commander, where is he?”
Alas, I discovered that what my tutor, Rapelji, had taught me was true: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. My brusque though friendly greeting was violently met. The man whipped around, gaped wild-eyed, then let forth with as bloodcurdling a shriek as had ever been my misfortune to hear. Before I could do or say aught else, he backed away, his mouth hanging open. Though he’d lost breath for further screams, he was yet capable of an awful gasping and gagging. I thought he was having some sort of fit and stepped toward him, reaching out.
“Nein! Nein!” came his hoarse reaction as he backed off even farther.
He seemed to perceive me as some sort of threat. Before I could make an attempt to reassure him otherwise, he rushed around the corner of the barn, yelling incoherently.
Damnation again. I went after him—and got my second shock of the evening as I was met by a phalanx of nervous-looking Hessians with their firearms leveled and pointing at me. Instantly, I raised my hands high.
“Freund!” I yelped. “Ich bin ein Freund! Freund!” The words for “Don’t shoot” were unfortunately not a part of my limited German vocabulary.
My babbling gave them pause, though, for those first few critical seconds and they did not turn me into a sieve with their rifle balls.
While they hesitated, I added, “Where is your commander?”
That struck a nerve. They were apparently disciplined enough to cleave to the military virtue of passing any difficult decision over to a higher authority. Some wavered, relaxing their tight hold on their weapons and looking to their left for guidance. Not turning my head from them, I let my gaze travel in that direction. There were several lighted lanterns about, making no difference to my vision, but helpful to their own. Standing in one such puddle of light in the doorway of the barn was a stocky man in an officer’s florid uniform. I was not familiar with the trappings of Germanic rank—he could have been a lieutenant or a general for all I knew—but hopefully he would take charge now and persuade his men to calmness.
“Good evening, sir,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
He looked me up and down as though I were some lunatic on display in a town marketplace and made no reply. Like most of his men he wore large, drooping and fierce-looking moustaches, made the more fearsome by liberal use of boot-blacking. It made a strange contrast against his weather-reddened skin and was at odds with his pale wig.
“My name is Barrett. I live here.”
His brows lowered and his full lips pushed out into a truly terrifying pout.
“This is my land,” I clarified pointing downward.
The soldier that I’d first encountered hesitantly stepped up and saluted. The smartness of the gesture was somewhat diluted by his twisting around to keep me in sight. The officer fixed his chill gaze on him and gave a brief, guttural acknowledgment, apparently permission to speak. There followed a quick burst of wordage, accompanied by gestures, as the fellow accounted for himself. He pointed at me quite a lot, and at the interior of the barn.
Oh, dear. The reason for the uproar suddenly dawned in my brain. Oh, dear, oh, dear, and damnation again and again and . . . .
“You!” The officer addressed me. “Come here.”
Experimentally, I lowered my arms. His men did not fire. I walked over slowly, trusting that they feared him more than me. When close enough, I made a formal bow and reintroduced myself, this time with more dignity and less haste, and inquired after his own identity.
“Muller,” he said, adding in something about his rank that was too quickly spoken for me to catch. He gave a curt sketch of a bow, then jerked ramrod straight, the better to look down his nose at me.
I asked him, as politely as I could, why he was here.
He countered with the same question.
I repeated that this was my land, that I lived here.
“You live in a—”
“Bitte?” I did not know the last word.
He pointed meaningfully at the barn.
I looked insulted and told him that my home was elsewhere on the property and gestured in the general direction of the house.
“Why were you in the barn?” he demanded.
My explanation that I’d had a long day of walking and had stopped for a rest did not sit well with him.
“He was dead,” put in my former guard, somewhat fearfully.
“Asleep,” I corrected firmly, keeping a bland face.
“Dead,” the man argued back, raising some heat from his fear. He did not suffer contradiction well.
I shook my head and shrugged, trying to give the impression that the man had lost his senses. The others seemed unwilling to give up what must have been a vivid first impression of me. Several nodded agreement with the guard and made surreptitious gestures with one hand that supposedly protected one against the evil eye. These may have been the same men who had first entered the barn and found my lifeless corpse, probably not the first they’d encountered in their military ventures, but certainly the first that had ever revived.
“Why are you here, sir?” I asked the officer.
But he was not to be distracted into going on the defensive and demanded a further accounting to justify my own presence. “My German is poor, sir. Do you speak the English?”
“Nein,” he said flatly, as though I’d insulted him.
“The French?”
“Nein.” This time it was a sneer.
Sighing, I decided to forgo asking after his skill at Italian or Latin, then an idea flashed up. “Do you know Lieutenant Nash of the British? He is my friend.” Well, that was exaggerating things a bit, but perhaps a familiar name might improve this fellow’s disposition.
“Nein. What are you doing here?”
I repeated myself.
“He was dead,” insisted the guard. The other men nodded.
The officer glared at him.
“It’s true! We found his—”
Again, I had no understanding of this last word, but could guess that it meant “corpse” or “body.” His gestures were eloquent as the man babbled on, anxious to prove his case that I was, indeed, deceased. His allies offered agreement whenever he paused for breath, then Muller had enough and cut him off with a sharp order. He was good at glaring, and liberally demonstrated this talent to us. The men came to attention. When things were quiet again, Muller growled at the guard, who saluted and went into the darkness of the barn.
When he emerged a moment later, he led another man with him, not a soldier. The poor fellow staggered; his hands were bound and there was a rough sack over his head, but I instantly recognized him, and the sight filled me with horror and fury.
“Jericho!” What in God’s name had they done to him?
Heedless of their threat, I rushed over and tore away the sack. Jericho’s face was covered with an uncharacteristic sheen of sweat, and he was rather white around the pupils. His lip was split, with a bad bruise swelling one eye shut. His clothes were covered with dust and torn, his movements slow, a silent and plaintive indication of his ill treatment.
I turned to Muller, so hot with outrage that I was unable to speak. Apparently my expression was eloquent enough, for this stone of a man actually flinched before recovering himself.
“Who did this?” I snarled, forgetting myself and using English, but Muller seemed to comprehend my meaning.
“Keiller,” he said to the guard.
Keiller responded with another rapid explanation, clearly affronted since he had been correctly carrying out his duties. I didn’t bother following it, having no interest in excuses. Instead, I found my penknife and began cutting away Jericho’s bonds.
Muller started to object, but I rounded on him, snarling. “Away with you or I’ll cut your throat!”
Even if he did not unders
tand the words, it was clear he was more impressed by the ferocity of my tone than the threat of my penknife. I stared a moment more, then resumed slicing at the rough rope they’d used.
“Are you badly hurt?” I asked Jericho in a softer voice.
“I shall be able to walk home,” he said. “And failing that, then I shall certainly crawl.”
“You won’t crawl. What happened?”
He rubbed his wrists. His hands shook. He shook all over with rage. “You came out to check on me, is that it?” I prompted.
He nodded. “It was getting on to dark. I was waiting for you to wake up when they came. They . . . .” He gulped, clearing his throat. “Upon finding a Negro man with a dead white man, they concluded that I had killed you.”
“Oh, my God.”
“They were . . . their reaction . . . was not gentlemanly. They were—” He swayed.
“Sit down, man,” I said taking his arm.
“No. Not before them, I won’t.” He straightened with a glare every bit as formidable as Muller’s. “They were going to hang me, Mr. Jonathan. Kept waving a noose under my nose and laughing as though it would be great sport. Perhaps it might not have happened, but I am most pleased that you woke when you did.”
I was once more at a loss for words. The situation was beyond speech, yet somehow I found words and thrust them upon Muller.
“You barbaric son of a whore . . .” I began. Muller flushed, again taking sense from my tone well enough.
“Mr. Jonathan, now is not the time to antagonize the man,” Jericho cautioned.
“He and his lot should be flogged for what they’ve done to you.”
“Agreed, sir, but presently they have the numerical advantage.”
I had more, much more, invective in me, but Jericho’s reasoning had penetrated the anger clouding my thoughts. When I was once more my own master, I saw that the best course of action for us was to get away as quickly as possible. Muller would doubtless object, but that was something easily overcome.
“Herr Muller, we are going home now.” I stated this as inarguably as possible, looking directly into his eyes. “You will excuse us.” It was polite, not in tune to my hot feelings, but polite German was all I had. Fortunately, it served. I did not know Muller well enough to read any subtle changes in his otherwise stern expression, but my influence must have worked. He made no objection when I put a supportive arm around Jericho and led him away. His men, taking this as assent, parted before us. Some were anxious to keep a goodly distance.
“By God, this is enough to turn me into a rebel myself,” I growled as we left them behind.
“I would not recommend it, sir.”
“Damnation to the bastards. Why not?”
“Because if this is how our friends treat us, how much worse might we receive from our enemies?”
“I’m so sorry, Jericho. This is my fault.”
“Hardly, Mr. Jonathan.” He paused in his walk, gasping a bit. “May I ask to simply lean on your arm, sir? I fear your well-intentioned assistance is somewhat painful to my ribs.”
I let go of him and made to carry him—which he refused with much mortified chagrin. Then I offered to run ahead and fetch the carriage and Dr. Beldon, but Jericho insisted that we could be home by the time I’d returned with help, and so it proved. With him holding to me for balance, we shuffled up one of the graveled paths to the house. When we were close enough, my shouts brought forth one of the stable lads and all of the dogs. The noise attracted more people, more help, and finally Dr. Beldon arrived to assume his duties as a physician. I was glad to turn the responsibilities of care-taking over to him. Jericho’s protests went unheard as four of the lads enthusiastically boosted him up and bore him heroically away. Jericho was well-liked in the household, and besides, a good story was clearly in the offing.
“Jonathan?” My father came striding over even as Beldon supervised Jericho’s removal into the house for treatment. “What in God’s name is going on?”
* * *
After several unavoidable repetitions as others of the household came by to listen, I concluded my account to Father in the library. He had already heard from Elizabeth the purpose of my daytime visit to the barn, and neither of them offered any objection to my slightly expurgated version of the facts (that I had taken a walk, stopped for an afternoon nap and overslept). The important issue for us was that there were uninvited and unwelcome Hessian soldiers squatting on our land, almost on our doorstep.
“Beasts,” said Elizabeth, in reference to Jericho’s beating.
“You shouldn’t have been out there to start with,” said Mother, sniffing. “Perhaps next time you’ll stay home.”
Since her comment added nothing of merit to the conversation, I readily ignored it, as did everyone else. Perhaps we’d gotten used to them, making the task easier.
“Samuel, tomorrow you will immediately see to having them removed from the property,” she said. “This is intolerable. Next thing you know they’ll be begging for food.”
“It’s more likely that they shall simply take it where it stands in the fields,” he said.
“Then you will find a way to prevent that. They’re here to fight the rebels, not steal from the King’s loyal subjects. If they want food, they can take it from the seditionists but not from us.”
“I’ll do what I can, Marie.”
“Indeed you will.” Argument with his wife was both aggravating and futile, so once more my father refrained from doing so. She turned a cold eye on me. “And this time you will help him, Jonathan Fonteyn. You’ve no illness or injury to excuse you from an honest day’s work. This constant shirking is to end. I didn’t spend money on your education for you to lie about the place doing nothing. What would people think?”
I considered that other people would find my apparent inactivity to be wholly uninteresting, but kept that opinion to myself. “I’ll do what I can, madam,” I said, assuming Father’s acquiescence. It seemed the wisest course.
Her expression was such as to indicate she found my response irritating, but not to the point of upbraiding me for it.
Dr. Beldon came in just then. “Your man is going to be all right, Mr. Barrett,” he told me. “There’s some extensive bruising and a couple of cracked ribs. He is in discomfort and will be for some time, but he should make a full recovery.”
“Thank heaven for that. And thank you for your kind help, Doctor.”
“To be sure, I am only too happy to—”
“That’s another mistake that should be corrected,” Mother interrupted.
Beldon cut himself short. He’d had much practice at it in her company. The toady in him dictated that he tender absolute respect and deference to his benefactress. Were it not for Mother’s good will, Beldon and his sister would still be in strife-torn Philadelphia. Though the war seemed to be encroaching upon our island haven as well, it was still better to be here than there.
The corners of Mother’s mouth turned down more deeply than usual as she looked at me. “If you’d sold that pretentious creature off and hired a proper English servant as I told you to do, none of this would have happened.”
I took in a sharp breath and glanced at Father. He shook his head ever so slightly and I relaxed. That particular conflict had long been put to rest. Jericho was my legal property now, not Mother’s, so she could not dictate his disposal; she spoke only to hear the sound of her own voice. She was overly fond of it, I judged. There was no reply I could make that would not bring about a lengthy repetition of my countless shortcomings from not listening to her advice in the past. I cast my gaze downward in the hope she would take it as tacit agreement and cease.
“Well,” said Father, standing up. “There’s naught to be done about any of this tonight, so let’s try to forget about it for a few hours. Marie, would you partner me at cards against the doctor and Mrs. Hard
inbrook?”
Good God, but he was anxious to distract her to make such a proposal. “Not yet, Samuel. I’ve some news of my own.”
He tried to put on a friendly, interested face, and almost succeeded.
Mother’s idea of news often turned out to be disappointingly trivial.
“I received a letter today from one of my cousins in Philadelphia. She says that conditions there are perfectly horrifying. The streets are awash with traitors, and their treatment of loyal subjects is a disgrace. She has wisely accepted my invitation to stay here until things are put right again.”
“Really?” said Father, sounding a touch faint. “Which cousin might that be?”
“Cousin Anne Fonteyn, of course,” she said impatiently, as though Father should have somehow divined her thoughts and known.
“Cousin Anne?” he echoed.
“Yes, my father’s youngest brother’s daughter. You know her.”
“Yes, I seem to recall . . . .”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Samuel, if you don’t remember her, then say so, I can’t abide it when you dither like that.”
Father’s expression froze.
Other men might roar anger at such insult from their helpmates, or even be reduced to violence, but Samuel Barrett bore up in silence.
Elizabeth’s gaze met mine, silently communicating her anger and sympathy for his plight. I could almost hear a refrain of her previous night’s declaration: she’s getting worse. To some extent I could agree with her, but though that Mother was not worsening, only growing less inhibited in expressing her casual cruelties. It was when those expressions were questioned that she became truly unreasonable.
“They’ll be here any time, now, I’m sure,” Mother continued.
