Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (107 page)

“And who are you, may I ask?” William was frowning at the lieutenant’s blue-and-buff uniform. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Bree cleared her own throat, loudly.

“Lieutenant Hanson came to fetch me for an urgent commission,” she said. “I—he’s right. We need to leave, as soon as I’ve packed my things and changed clothes. Told the children. Will you…come with me, back to my studio? We can talk while I put things together.”

BY UNSPOKEN CONSENSUS,
William came alone, leaving his friend and Lieutenant Hanson to the tender mercies of Angelina and Henrike, who were already twittering about cakes, coffee, and perhaps slices of cold ham…

Brianna’s stomach gurgled at the thought of ham sandwiches, but she suppressed it for the moment and turned to William.
My brother.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said at once, closing the door and standing with her back against it. “When we first met. Do you remember? On the quay in Wilmington. Roger—my husband—was with me, and Jem and Mandy. That was—I wanted you to meet them, see them, even if you didn’t know we were…yours.”

He looked away and put a hand on the table, touching the wood only with his fingertips. She felt the solid door against her shoulder blades and understood the need of physical support.

“Mine?” he said softly, looking down at the scatter of papers and brushes on the table.

“I should probably say something polite about ‘only if you want us,’ ” she said. “But it’s—”

“A bit late for that,” he finished, and looked up at her, his eyes wary but direct. “To lie about the truth, I mean.” His mouth turned up a little at one side, but she wasn’t sure it was a smile. “Particularly when it’s as plain as the nose on your face. And mine.”

She touched her own nose by reflex, and laughed, a little nervously. His nose
was
hers, and the eyes, too. He was tanned, though, with dark-chestnut hair clubbed in a queue, and while his face was very like her—their—father’s, his mouth had come from somewhere else.

“Well. I do apologize, though. For not telling you.”

He looked at her, expressionless, for the space of four heartbeats; she felt each small thud distinctly.

“I accept your apology,” he said dryly. “Though in all honesty, I’m glad you didn’t tell me.” He paused, then, apparently thinking this might sound ungracious, added, “I wouldn’t have known how to respond to such a revelation. At the time.”

“And you do now?”

“No, I bloody don’t,” he said frankly. “But as my uncle recently pointed out, at least I haven’t blown my brains out. When I was seventeen, I might have.”

A hot flush rose in her cheeks. He wasn’t joking.

“How flattering,” she said, and to avoid looking at him she turned and resumed the ordering of her sketchbox. She heard him snort a little, under his breath, and then his footsteps, close behind her.

“
I
apologize,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean that with any derogatory reference to—to you, or your family…”

“
Your
family, you mean,” she said, not turning round. The silverpoint pencil? No, charcoal and graphite; silverpoint was too delicate for this.

He cleared his throat. “I meant it solely with regard to my own situation,” he said formally. “Which has nothing whatever to do with—”

He stopped abruptly. She swung round to look at him and found him staring at the portrait of Jane, propped against the wall, as though he had quite literally seen a ghost. He’d gone pale under his tan and his hands were half clenched.

“Where did you get that?” he said. His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat violently. “That picture. That…girl.”

“I made it,” she said simply. “For Fanny.”

He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them, still fixed on the painting. He turned away, though, and she caught the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, hard.

“Fanny,” he said. “Frances. You know her, then. Where is she? How is she?”

“She’s fine,” Bree said firmly, and, crossing the few feet of floor between them, laid a hand on his arm. “She’s with my parents, in North Carolina.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Yes, of course—though actually, I haven’t seen her since early September. We stopped for a bit in Charleston—Charles Town,” she corrected, “to visit my…well, I suppose he’s my stepbrother, and Marsali, well, she’s sort of my stepsister, but they’re not exactly…”

The wariness had come back into William’s eyes. He didn’t pull away from her, though, and she felt the warmth of his arm through the cloth of his coat.

“Are these people also my relations?” he asked, as though fearing the answer might be yes.

“I suppose so. Da adopted Fergus—he’s French, but…well, that doesn’t matter. He was an orphan, in Paris. Then later Da married…well, that doesn’t matter, either, but Marsali—she’s Fergus’s wife—and her sister, Joan, they’re Da’s stepdaughters, so…um. And Fergus and Marsali’s children—they have five now, so they’d be…”

William took a step back, detaching himself, and put up a hand.

“Enough,” he said firmly. He pointed a long forefinger at her. “You, I can deal with. Nothing else. Not today.”

She laughed and picked up the ratty shawl she kept in the studio for work during the chilly hours of the morning.

“Not today,” she agreed. “I have to go, William. Shall we—”

“Your commission,” he said, and shook his head as though to settle his wits. “What is it?”

“Well, if you must know, I’m going to the American siege camp to draw pictures of a dead cavalry commander.”

He blinked—and then she saw his eyes lift, his gaze going to the portrait of Jane. The sun had moved, and the picture stood in shadow. She stopped, shawl halfway around her shoulders, startled by the look on his face. It lasted no more than a moment, though, and then he turned and picked up her sketchbox, tucking it under his arm.

“Are portraits of the dead a specialty of yours?” he asked, with a slight edge.

“Not yet,” she replied, with an equal edge. “Give me my sketchbox.”

“I’ll carry it,” he said, and reached to open the door for her. “I’m coming with you.”

THE FOG OFF THE
river had finally lifted, and the sun was warm.

To her relief, the mule Lieutenant Hanson had brought for her was tall and rangy; rawboned and rabbit-eared, but of a friendly disposition. She’d had visions of herself riding a wizened donkey, her feet dragging in the dust, surrounded by large men on big horses, towering above her. As it was, William and John Cinnamon both possessed sound but unremarkable geldings, and the lieutenant himself rode another, smaller mule. The lieutenant wasn’t happy.

“I am not allowing my sister to go unaccompanied into an army camp,” William had said firmly, untethering his own horse outside the Brumbys’ house.

“Mais oui,”
Mr. Cinnamon said, and bent to give Brianna a foot up into her saddle.

“But—
I
will be escorting her! General Lincoln is expecting me to bring him Mrs. MacKenzie!”

“And Mrs. MacKenzie he will get,” she assured the lieutenant, settling her skirts and taking up the reins. “Though apparently with outriders.”

Lieutenant Hanson had given William a look of deep suspicion, and no wonder, she thought. William sat tall and easy in the saddle, and wore a shabby, travel-stained suit that hadn’t been fashionable to start with, but someone with much less experience than Lieutenant Hanson would have recognized him at a glance as a soldier—and not only a soldier. An officer accustomed to command. The fact that William’s accent and bearing were at odds with his very commonplace dress was probably even more upsetting.

The lieutenant’s thoughts were clear to her—and, she thought, probably to William, too, though his face was politely impassive. Was he a British soldier in mufti? A spy? Was he a British soldier looking to turn his coat and take up a commission with the Continentals? She saw Mr. Hanson’s gaze dart to the bulk of John Cinnamon, and away. And what about
him
?

But there was no choice; Lieutenant Hanson had been sent to fetch an artist, and couldn’t well come back without her. Shoulders hunched around his ears, he turned his mule’s head toward White Bluff Road.

“Tell me about General Pulaski,” Brianna suggested, coming up beside him. “It was only this morning that he was killed?”

“Oh. Er…no, ma’am. That is to say,” Hanson said, obviously striving for exactness, “he did
die
this morning, on the ship. But he—”

“What ship?” she asked, startled.

“The
Wasp,
I think it’s called.” Hanson cast a quick look over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The general was shot up two days ago, runnin’ his cavalry in betwixt two batteries, but—”

“He led a cavalry charge…into cannon?” Evidently Lieutenant Hanson hadn’t lowered his voice quite enough, for the question came from William, riding close behind. He sounded incredulous and slightly amused, and Bree turned round and glared at him.

He ignored the glare, but urged his horse up toward Hanson’s mule. The lieutenant was carrying his flag of truce, and at this, moved it instinctively, pointing it at William in the manner of a jousting lance.

“I meant no insult to the general,” William said mildly, raising one hand in negligent defense. “It sounds a most dashing and courageous maneuver.”

“It was,” Hanson replied shortly. He raised his flag a little and turned his back on William, leaving brother and sister riding side by side, John Cinnamon bringing up the rear. Bree gave William a narrow-eyed look that strongly suggested he should keep his mouth shut. He eyed her for a moment, then looked away with a patently bland countenance.

She wanted to laugh almost as much as she wanted to poke him with something sharp, but lacking her own flag of truce, she settled for an audible snort.

“À vos souhaits,”
Mr. Cinnamon said politely behind her.

“Merci,”
she said, with equal politeness. William snorted.

“À tes amours,”
Mr. Cinnamon said, sounding amused. Nothing more was said until they arrived a few minutes later at the edge of the city. A detachment of Scottish Highlanders was guarding the end of the street, even though the street itself was guarded by a couple of large redoubts dug by the British, visible on the side toward the river. The sight of the kilted soldiers, and the sound of their voices speaking Gaelic to one another, gave her a peculiar twisting sensation inside. A camp kettle was boiling over a tiny fire, and the scent of coffee and toasted bread made her mouth water. It was a long time since breakfast, and in the haste of leaving, they’d left behind Henrike’s packet of food.

She must have been gazing hungrily at a few men eating by the fire, for William nudged his horse nearer and murmured, “I’ll see you’re fed as soon as we reach the camp.”

She glanced at him and nodded thanks. There was nothing amused or offhand in his manner now. He sat relaxed in his saddle, reins loose in his hand as Lieutenant Hanson talked to the Scottish officer in command, but his eyes never left the soldiers.

They passed through the checkpoint in silence. She could feel the eyes of the soldiers on her skin, and the hair prickled on her scalp.
The enemy…

The American siege lines lay no more than a quarter mile away, the camp perhaps a half mile beyond, but Lieutenant Hanson led them immediately inland, in order to circle the American redoubts and the French artillery, dragged overland from the ships. The guns were silent—
thank God
—but she could see them plainly, dark shapes beginning to emerge from the morning’s fog, still thick here near the river.

“You were telling me about General Pulaski,” she said, pushing up beside the lieutenant. She didn’t want to look at the cannon and think of Jem and Mandy in the city—or the holes and burnt roofs she’d seen in the houses of Savannah nearest the river. “He was on a ship, you said?”

The lieutenant had relaxed a little, once out of Savannah, and was pleased to tell her of the dreadful but gallant death of Casimir Pulaski.

“Yes, ma’am. ’Twas the
Wasp,
as I said. When the general went down, his men got him back directly, of course, but ’twas plain he was bad hurt. Dr. Lynah—he’s the camp surgeon, ma’am—took the grapeshot out of him, but then General Pulaski said as how he wanted to go aboard ship. I don’t know why—”

“Because the French aren’t going to hang about much longer,” William interrupted. “It’s hurricane season; D’Estaing will be nervous. I imagine Pulaski knew that, too, and didn’t want to risk being left behind, wounded, if—when, I mean—the Americans abandon the siege.”

Hanson turned in his saddle, pale with rage.

“And what would
you
know of such matters, you—you dandy prat?”

William looked at him as he might regard a humming mosquito, but answered politely enough.

“I have eyes, sir,” he said. “And if I understand aright, General Pulaski is—was—the Commander of Horse for the entire American army. Is that right?”

“It is,” Hanson replied, between gritted teeth. “So what?”

Even Bree could tell that this was purely rhetorical, and William merely lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“I want to hear about the general’s cavalry charge,” John Cinnamon said, interested. “I’m sure he must have had a good reason,” he added tactfully, “but why did he do that?”

“Yes, I’d like to hear that, too,” Bree put in hastily.

Lieutenant Hanson glared at William and John Cinnamon, but after a muttered remark in which she caught only the words “…fine pair of backgammon players…” He stiffened his shoulders and fell back a little, so that Brianna could ride up alongside him on the narrow road. The countryside here was flat and open, but the earth was sandy and thickly grown with a sort of coarse, rough-edged grass that caught at the horses’ feet.

She could see that the road, though, had been heavily used of late. Hoofprints, footprints, horse droppings, wagon wheels…the road was churned and muddy, the verges trodden down by marching troops, moving fast. A sudden shiver went up her back as the wind changed and she caught the scent of the army. A feral smell of sweat and flesh, metal and grease, tinged with the stink of lye soap, manure, half-burnt food, and gunpowder.

Mr. Hanson had relaxed a little, seeing that he had his audience’s full attention, and was explaining that the Americans and their French allies had planned and executed an assault on the British forces at the Spring Hill redoubt—“You can see that from here, ma’am,” pointing toward the sea. As part of that assault, General Pulaski’s cavalry was to follow the initial infantry attack, “so as to cause confusion, d’you see, amongst the enemy.”

The cavalry charge had evidently accomplished that modest goal, but the overall attack had failed, and Pulaski himself had been cut down when caught in the crossfire between two British batteries.

“A great pity,” William said, with no sense of sarcasm whatever. Lieutenant Hanson glanced at him, but accepted the remark with a brief nod.

“It was. I heard that the
Wasp
’s captain meant to bury the general at sea—but one of his friends who’d gone aboard with him said, no, they mustn’t, and came ashore with his body just after dawn this morning, in a longboat.”

“Why would his friend not want him to be buried at sea?” she asked, careful not to imply any criticism with the question.

“His men,” William said, before Lieutenant Hanson could answer. He spoke with a sober certainty. “He’s their commander. They’ll need to bid him farewell. Properly.”

The lieutenant had risen slightly in his stirrups, ready to be indignant at the interruption, but hearing this, subsided and gave Brianna a brief bow.

“Just so, ma’am,” he said.

PAST THE ARTILLERY,
they wound their way through an acre of so of mud-spattered tents and soldiers, the air around them a strange combination of sea tang, the acrid ghost of gunpowder, and a breath of autumn rot from the harvested fields beyond. Brianna took a deep, inquisitive breath and let it out hastily. Latrine trenches.

They were headed toward a cluster of large tents—this must be General Lincoln’s field headquarters—that billowed and moved gently in the morning air, like a group of friends with their heads together, talking. This pleasant illusion was shattered in the next instant, as a battery of cannon went off behind them.

Brianna started and jerked at the reins. Her mule, evidently used to this kind of thing, jerked impatiently back with a toss of his head. Lieutenant Hanson’s mule and the horses were less phlegmatic about the noise and shied violently, nostrils flaring.

“Getting rather a late start this morning, aren’t you?” William said to Hanson, bringing his horse round in a circle to calm it.
And who taught you to ride, brother?
she thought, seeing him. Lord John was a good horseman, but Jamie Fraser had been a groom at the estate where William had grown up.

“The fog,” Hanson replied shortly. “Cannon fire disperses it.” He turned his mule’s head toward one of the large tents. “Come. You’re to see Captain Pinckney.”

She found herself next to William, as they resumed their plodding advance, and leaned close to speak to him quietly.

“You said they’d left it late—the artillery firing, you meant?”

“Yes.” He glanced at her, one dark eyebrow raised. “You needn’t worry; it’s only a gesture.”

“I wasn’t—” she began, but stopped. She
was
worried, worried that perhaps her father had been mistaken, that the siege would continue…“Well, all right, I was,” she conceded. “What do you mean, a gesture?”

“They’ve lost,” William said, with a quick glance toward Lieutenant Hanson. “But they haven’t lifted the siege officially. Likely General Lincoln is arguing with D’Estaing about it.”

She stared at him.

“You seem to know a bloody lot about it, for a guy who just rode into town.”

“A guy?” The brow flicked higher, but relaxed as he dismissed this. “I
was
a soldier, you know. And I know what a military camp feels like, what it should feel like. This one is…” He lifted a hand toward the ragged rows of tents. “They aren’t admitting it—hence the bombardment—but…Tighten your rein; it’s coming again.”