“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel,” Bellamy said, then turned to Hickinbottom. “Your witness, Colonel.”
The prosecutor rose to his feet and straightened the stack of papers on the table in front of him before turning his full attention to Geoffrey. “I really have just one question for you, Lieutenant Colonel. You have claimed you were struck on the back of the head by one of our own men, though you don’t know who that might have been. You have claimed you were found injured and unconscious by the woman who is now your wife, and that you have no memory of events after the evening of September ninth.
“But why should this court believe you were not the Americans’ informant? You admit you do not know what happened on the night in question. How can we be certain you have not simply forgotten that you walked across the river and sold out your fellow officers for some reason even you are not aware of? More to the point, how can you?”
There was a ripple of reaction in the courtroom as all the onlookers seemed to draw a sharp breath at once. Fortunately, Bellamy had prepared Geoffrey for a question like this one, and he knew exactly how to answer.
“You are correct that I cannot testify as to my actions on the night of September ninth. I can state that I can imagine no incentive that would induce me to betray my men or my country, but that is neither here nor there. I was under the impression that the standard for convicting a man is reasonable certainty of his guilt, not a sliver of doubt as to his innocence.” Here, Geoffrey turned and addressed the judge advocate directly. “Has this changed in my brief absence from the British Isles?”
Acton’s age-lined features remained sober, but a deepening crinkle at the corner of his eyes gave away his amusement. “It has not,” he said. “Perhaps you might want to restate your question, Colonel.”
Hickinbottom’s lips compressed into a tight line, but he nodded. “Very well, then. Lieutenant Colonel Langston, your description of your injury and subsequent memory loss is certainly harrowing and quite affecting, but it is rather convenient, is it not?”
“I have not found it so,” Geoffrey responded, raising a few chuckles from the audience.
“But it is the basis of your defense. You claim you were attacked, cannot remember by whom, and this provides reasonable doubt that you committed both of the crimes with which you are charged.”
Geoffrey waited for the prosecutor to elaborate further, but the silence stretched. “I apologize, sir, but is that a question?”
“The question is simple.” Hickinbottom narrowed his gaze on Geoffrey and, enunciating each syllable with vicious precision, said, “Didn’t you fabricate the entire story about being attacked and losing your memory in the hopes that this court would acquit you of crimes you know full well you committed? You know full well you are guilty, don’t you?”
Another hush descended over the courtroom, anticipation buzzing in the air like a swarm of invisible bees. But if they hoped Geoffrey would be rattled by the directness of the accusation, they were about to be disappointed.
“No, I did not, and no, I do not,” he said, his voice calm and firm.
“So you say, Lieutenant Colonel. So you say.” Then the prosecutor turned to the panel and delivered what he undoubtedly hoped would be the coup de grace. “But the facts say otherwise, don’t they? You were seen walking toward the river on the night of the ninth, and you never returned. The simplest and most obvious explanation for these facts is that you crossed that river and defected to the American side. That you committed both treason and desertion. Given that, what actual evidence do you have to prove your claim that you were attacked and left for dead is true?”
Geoffrey blinked in surprise. Did the prosecutor have no concept at all of just how lacking in evidence his own case was? Geoffrey glanced at Bellamy, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Yes, it’s a mistake. Take advantage of it.
“My lord, I have exactly as much evidence to prove my claim that I was attacked as Major Shelley had to prove his claim that he saw me walking toward the river on the night of the ninth. Which is to say, none at all except my word as an officer and a gentleman.”
The courtroom erupted into chaos.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“That was very well done, Langston,” Bellamy said gruffly. “I would not wish to say you made the case, but it has to be clear to the judges now that if they vote to convict on the treason charge, they do so on nothing more than one man’s say-so. They might not wish to believe your testimony, but they have no better reason to believe Shelley’s, and there’s no way they can pretend otherwise.”
General Acton had been forced by the unruliness of the audience to adjourn the court proceedings for the remainder of the day, and the three of them—Geoffrey, Laura, and the solicitor—had retired to a small private room in the same building with the courthouse.
Geoffrey shrugged. “It seemed the obvious answer.” Shaking his head, he added, “But you didn’t prepare me for that question, Bellamy.”
“I didn’t see it coming. Largely because it was a foolish question for a man whose entire case rests upon the unsubstantiated testimony of a single witness to ask. I thought Hickinbottom was more competent than that.”
“He might still be competent enough to get me killed,” Geoffrey observed in as mild a voice as he could manage. Despite the glimmers of sympathy he’d seen during his testimony, he had been watching the judges’ faces over the past day and a half. They wanted to hold someone responsible for what had gone wrong at Plattsburgh, and Geoffrey was still the only viable suspect. “Realistically, Bellamy, what do you think are the chances they will acquit me of treason?”
The solicitor’s normally truculent features grew pensive. Finally, he sighed and said, “I think Acton and four or five are leaning toward acquittal on both charges. The others appear evenly split between those who want to convict on both charges and those who will probably acquit on treason but not desertion. My best guess is it could go either either way on the treason charge.”
Laura gasped. “Surely the odds are better than that. Anyone can see that it’s just Shelley’s word against—”
“Against no one’s,” Bellamy interjected gently. “Which is not to say your husband’s testimony was worthless, merely that it is not an alternate version of the events Shelley recounted. Both he and Shelley could be telling the truth, and there would be no obvious contradictions in their stories. Although it is somewhat unlikely the lieutenant colonel would have been attacked by the Americans after he spoke to Macomb, he could have fought with the Americans after joining their side and been injured in the battle. Nothing he can testify to proves that Shelley is lying.”
Geoffrey grimaced. “He is lying. Perhaps not about seeing me down by the river, but about his reasons for being there. I’m as sure of it as I am of my own name.”
Bellamy patted Geoffrey’s shoulder. “We can only work with what we have, and unfortunately, we have nothing that falsifies any of the claims Shelley has made. That means we just have to keep pointing out the fact that even if Shelley’s account is true, it’s nothing but conjecture and innuendo. And if they do vote to convict you on the treason charge, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I haven’t given up yet.”
Laura rested her head against Geoffrey’s other shoulder. “Neither have I. And I never shall.”
* * *
Geoffrey and Laura didn’t attempt to sleep that night. When they weren’t making love, they simply lay in one another’s arms, talking about anything they could think of except what the morrow might bring. But eventually, Geoffrey did fall asleep, because when he became aware of his surroundings again, Laura was no longer beside him in the bed, and light seeped in through the gaps in the drapes. The brightness of the illumination suggested it was approaching eight o’clock.
Sitting up, he looked around the bedchamber. Seeing no sign of his wife, he rolled out of bed and drew on his drawers before wandering out into the adjoining sitting room. She wasn’t there, either.
And t
hen he heard it. A scream? No, more of a shout, though definitely too high-pitched to have been emitted by any of the men in the household. And there was definitely nothing fearful in the sound. It was…excited. Gleeful and triumphant, even.
He dashed back into the bedchamber to find some clothes, but before he’d put the second leg into his trousers, the main door to the chamber burst open, and Laura all but flew through it and flung herself into his arms.
“It came! It came!” And then, bursting into tears, she thrust several sheets of partially crumpled paper into his hand.
Geoffrey sank into the closest chair, his wife cradled in his lap, and tried to smooth the papers and sort them in the proper order. When he found the page that began with the salutation “Dear Mrs. Farnsworth,” he frowned down at his wife. "Who the devil is this from?”
“Macomb,” she answered on a hiccoughing breath. “It’s from Major General Alexander Macomb.”
Macomb? Now Geoffrey was even more baffled than before. “Why would he write you a letter, let alone send it here?”
“Because I wrote to him before we left New York and asked that he send any reply to Langston House in Mayfair, London.”
Geoffrey pushed her into a more upright position so he could study her face. She positively beamed with joy and triumph. “Why did you not tell me about this before now?” His voice was somewhat harsher than he intended.
“Because I was not sure he would respond. Or that, if he did respond, the answer would be useful. But he did, and I believe it is useful.” She searched his eyes, her happiness fading into apprehension. “Are you angry with me for not telling you?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you! But you had so many things to worry about already. I did not want to add yet another uncertainty to your burdens. And after so many years alone, I am accustomed to making decisions without consulting others and then waiting to see whether they turn out well or badly.” She bit her lip and bowed her head. “It is a very bad habit. I did it when I realized I was with child, too, didn’t I?”
He stroked his hand along her back and sighed. “I understand your reasons. Then and now. But we are married. From now on, let us try to carry all of our burdens together.”
She sniffled and nodded.
And now, he had to tell her that she’d tried to protect him for no reason at all. “I appreciate what you tried to do here, my love, but a British military court is not likely to accept a letter from the commander of the opposing army as evidence of my innocence. They will say that of course he would deny I was his informant and it means nothing.”
Looking back up at him, she smiled knowingly. “That’s why I did not ask him about you and why I wrote to him as Mrs. Farnsworth rather than Mrs. Langston. Instead, I simply asked if he could tell me whether he had ever seen his informant in the United States after the battle. And he says there, in his reply, that he did not.”
That had certainly been an adroit way to ask the question and minimize the risk of direct denials of his responsibility that could easily be seen as mendacious. Still… “That is hardly enough to demonstrate my innocence. Even if you did not say we were married, Macomb knew the second we met that I was a British Army officer, and he is too smart a man not to realize what it means that you wanted him to reply to London.”
She sobered a bit. “That is true, but I was desperate to do something…anything that might help. And if the letter only said that he never met his informant again, then I do not suppose it would be much help. But there is more in his response, and I think—” Breaking off in mid-sentence, she grabbed the top end of the papers and wiggled them for emphasis. “Just read the letter, and you’ll see.”
Nodding, he did as she asked.
Dear Mrs. Farnsworth,
I do, of course, remember you from our meetings at the Plattsburgh church last September. I could hardly forget a lady of such estimable qualities as yourself. You did make quite an impression on me.
The question you have asked me is obviously one of some delicacy. I would not want to put the man whose information assisted us in preparing our defenses in jeopardy by my answer. On the other hand, I would equally dislike knowing that another man took the blame for something he did not do, especially given the severity and permanence of the penalty for treason. As such, I will provide an answer I hope will clear the latter whilst not directly betraying the identity of the former.
I met the informant once, on the night of the ninth of September, and never again. Indeed, had I seen him again, I would have been quite unable to disguise my surprise in so doing, since he expressed his desire to return to "civilization”—by which he clearly meant England—as quickly as possible.
Whether this helps or hinders your cause, I do not know, but I hope this letter reaches you in time to be of some use.
Best Regards, Major General Alexander Macomb
Stunned, Geoffrey lost his grip on the three small sheets of paper, which fluttered to the floor. Not because the letter exonerated him. Oh, Macomb’s description of the traitor’s motive certainly put in a pin in the prosecution’s contention that Geoffrey’s disappearance was evidence of his guilt, and that might be of some help if the judges were inclined to take the general’s word for it. But the real reason Geoffrey sat there, dumbfounded, was that the word “civilization” brought it all flooding back to him.
He remembered.
Everything.
Or at least everything up until the lights went out.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
September 9, 1814 – Plattsburgh, New York
As he made his usual nightly inspection of the encampment, Geoffrey had trouble suppressing his irritation.
They were giving the enemy too much time to prepare. One would think the British hadn’t learned anything from the last war they’d fought on American soil. Yes, British forces outnumbered the Americans almost five to one, and so what? The Americans wouldn’t fight fair, and not only that, they would fight harder than the British because they had more to lose.
But Prévost was right about one thing. There was nothing to be done but wait until Downie’s squadron could attack. Without access to the waterways, the British would not be able to press any further, and gaining Plattsburgh would be a meaningless victory.
Still, this action was going to be a disaster. Geoffrey could feel it in his bones.
For tonight, however, everything seemed right enough. The men he’d assigned the first watch were patrolling their routes. Those not on watch had retired to their tents, and only a few scattered lights were still visible. Most of the men had turned in for the night.
Reaching the southern edge of camp nearest the Saranac, he noticed something odd out of the corner of his vision. A light flickered in the distance, as if moving in and out of the trees that lined the riverbank. Bloody hell. Either one of his men was walking alone along the riverbank, or some of the Americans had slipped across, likely with no good in mind.
He debated with himself for a few seconds. Should he go grab a few of the lads and bring them back with him? If the source of the light was a group of American soldiers preparing a sneak attack of some kind, he shouldn’t confront them alone. But it was more likely than not that it was just one person—he could only distinguish one light, and it seemed unlikely a group of any size would be trying to navigate through the dense foliage with only one lamp—and if so, he could handle that. Moreover, if it was one of his own men, he could remonstrate the soldier without having to put the incident on record.
He would just have a closer look before deciding how to proceed.
Holding his own lamp behind his back to mute its glow, he picked his way through the brush down the slope toward the river. When he was about ten feet from beginning of the tree line, the light popped into plain view as the man carrying it strode into plain view. His face was clearly visible.
Major Martin Shelley strolled jauntily up the rise along what must be a we
ll-traveled path through the scrub, straight toward Geoffrey. As though they had planned a rendezvous. Geoffrey had barely enough time to register that this was odd and to notice the other man’s trousers were wet from just below the knees to where they disappeared into his Hessians before Shelley’s expression transformed from cheerful anticipation to wary resignation.
The other man came to a halt about fifteen feet from where Geoffrey stood. “Evening, sir,” Shelley said with a respectful salute.
So that’s how he’s going to try to play it. "Just out for a stroll; nothing to see here.” “Evening, major. What brings you down here?” Not that Geoffrey expected an honest answer.
Shelley shrugged casually. “Oh, just wanted to have a look. Scout the terrain.”
And you waded across the river to do it. Right.
Damn it, this was the one scenario Geoffrey hadn’t considered when he’d come to investigate the source of the light. He should have gone back for a few of the lads. Idiot. Now he had a dilemma on his hands. One he wasn’t sure he could get out of alive.
He could profess to accept Shelley’s explanation, but he didn’t suppose the other man would believe him if he did. Such a pretense might gain him a little time, but the end result would be the same. There was only one reason for Shelley to have waded across the river at night. He was supplying information to the Americans. Committing treason. And it was easy to imagine the major doing just such a thing if he saw a benefit to himself. Shelley was only ever interested in his own gain. Which meant, having been caught in the commission of a traitorous act, he had to find a way to get away with it. To do that, he would have to kill Geoffrey.
But whether Geoffrey lived or died in the impending struggle, he wanted the answer to just one question. “Why?”
For a heartbeat, Shelley hesitated, as if considering whether to continue feigning innocence, but the futility of the exercise must have been as apparent to him as it was to Geoffrey.
Sleeping with the Enemy: Lords of Lancashire, Book 4 Page 22
