Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (133 page)

“Haha,” said his father, politely. “William—if she
is
going to Ben, and she gets to him…don’t—I repeat,
don’t
make any effort to take her away from him. Next time—if there is a next time—he probably will kill you.” There was enough blunt finality in that opinion that decided William not to argue with it, though his pride thought strongly otherwise.

“I won’t,” he said briefly, and patted his father’s shoulder, smiling. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

A MONTH PAST THE
fall of Charles Town, and the place still looked like an anthill that someone had kicked over. All the citizens of the place appeared to be outside, carrying stones and lumber and baskets of dirt and buckets of paint, and those not occupied with cleaning and repair were shouting and selling: meat and fruit, vegetables and poultry and hams, cockles and mussels, shrimps and oysters, and every other damned thing you could pull out of the sea and eat. The thought of eating, coinciding with the drifting smell of broiled fish, made William’s mouth water.

The seller of the savory fish was unfortunately surrounded by a company of soldiers, all pushing for attention as the woman and her daughter shuffled small, sizzling fish off hot bricks and into scraps of old newspaper as though they were dealing cards, while a small boy squatted beside them over a dented pot, taking coins from the soldiers and firing each one into the pot to make it ring.

Not willing to draw attention to himself by using his captain’s uniform to push his way into the mob, he turned toward the docks, where he’d certainly find food, and doubtless drink as well, at one of the numerous taverns.

What he found, though, was Denys Randall, walking idly up and down a narrow quay, apparently waiting for someone.

“Ellesmere!” Randall exclaimed, spotting him.

“Ransom,” William corrected. Denys waved a hand, indicating that it was all one.

“Where have you sprung from?” he asked, taking in William’s uniform at a glance. “And why?”

“I’m looking for Ban Tarleton. Seen him recently?”

Denys shook his head, frowning. “No. I suppose I could ask around, though. Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere, at the moment. Are there any decent places?” He glanced round at a line of shirtless men, gleaming with sweat as they moved baskets and barrows and wooden pallets of rubbish down to the shore. “What do they mean to do with all that? Build a seawall? Or repair it, rather.” There was an untidy ramble of fortifications outside the remains of the extant seawall, which had suffered much from the siege bombardments.

“They should do, but I daresay they’ll just shove that lot into the water and be done with it. As to a sleeping place, try Mrs. Warren’s, on Broad Street.” Denys picked up his hat and gave William a quick wave of the hand. “I’ll ask about Tarleton.”

William nodded in acknowledgment and pushed off in search of Broad Street, Mrs. Warren, and food—not necessarily in that order. He found food quickly, in the form of rice and red beans cooked with sausage, at a stall near the parade ground. No troops were drilling, but as usual with an army nearby, there were plenty of the civilians—sutlers, laundresses, food vendors, prostitutes—who fed off the army like a horde of voracious lice.

Well, turnabout’s fair play,
he thought, returning his bowl to the rice-and-beans proprietor for a second helping. Eating this one somewhat more slowly, he scanned the passing crowds for any trace of Amaranthus, or Banastre Tarleton, but no trace did he see—and he thought he would instantly have perceived either one, both having a taste for vivid dress.

Replete, he walked slowly round the city, up and down the major streets, peering into shops and banks and churches as he went. He had no idea whether either Amaranthus or Ban was religious—somehow, he doubted it—but the churches were cool, and it was good to sit down for a few moments and listen to the silence, as a respite from the city’s noise.

He reached Mrs. Warren’s house just before sunset, and after a very decent fish supper went to bed, dog-tired and low in spirit.

These conditions were reversed in the morning, and he sprang from bed with mind and body renewed, determined in spirit. He’d go first to Cornwallis’s headquarters; he’d seen the house, with its regimental flags, on his peregrinations the evening before. Someone there would doubtless know at least where Banastre Tarleton was
supposed
to be.

Someone did. The news, however, was not encouraging: Colonel Tarleton had taken a company of his British Legion southward two weeks before, in pursuit of a body of fleeing American militia. A messenger had come back to report the outcome of a small but nasty fight near a place called Waxhaws; Tarleton’s troops had overcome the Americans, killing or injuring most of them and taking the rest prisoner. However, Colonel Tarleton had been injured by reason of his horse falling on him, and had not yet returned to Charles Town.

All right, that crossed Ban pretty definitively off William’s list. Tarleton couldn’t possibly have been lending Amaranthus aid in her escape. What next?

The docks, of course. He’d begun searching there last night, before his stomach had had other ideas. But if she
was
heading for Philadelphia, as she’d said, and had not taken a ship from Savannah—which she hadn’t, he’d checked—then Charles Town was the next large port from which she might reasonably have done so. And surely a young woman traveling alone (God,
was
she alone? Might she have eloped with someone? Surely not…) would find ship travel safer, as well as more comfortable, than risking travel on roads swarming with soldiers, sappers, ex-slaves, and commercial wagons.

It was a beautiful day, and he began his search with diligence, starting with the harbormaster’s office for a list of ships sailing within the last week for Philadelphia or New York (
just in case she
is
heading for Ben…
) and manifests for those who had posted them. Her name was not on any of the lists—but then, he argued with himself, she wouldn’t necessarily be; if she’d sailed as a private passenger on a small boat, she wouldn’t be listed anywhere…

In the end, it came down to what he’d already known it would: a slog through the docks on foot, asking questions of everyone he came across. After an hour of this, the beautiful day was beginning to dim, as a fogbank moved in. He decided to slake his thirst and began walking up the quay—a small one that docked fishing boats and smaller commercial ships—toward shore. What he found, though, was Denys Randall. Again.

“Hoy!” William said loudly, coming up behind Denys and clapping him on the shoulder. “Do you
live
on the docks?”

“I might ask the same of you,” Denys said shortly, and William now perceived that he wasn’t alone; he was trying to shield a small man, whose lined face made him look like a Christmas nutcracker, from William’s view. “Who are you looking for now?”

“A young woman,” William said mildly. “Who’s your friend?”

Denys was for once deprived of his air of light mockery and self-composure. William thought he presently resembled nothing more strongly than a cat on hot bricks. Denys glanced swiftly at his companion, whose resemblance to a Christmas nutcracker was becoming more pronounced by the moment, then turned back to William, a pulse throbbing visibly at the side of his jaw.

“I must go and speak to someone,” he said. “Quickly. This is Herr Weber; keep an eye on him. I’ll be back, quick as I can.” And with that, he vanished down the quay toward the water, nearly running in his haste.

William hesitated, not sure what to do. He was somewhat afraid that Denys might have taken fright—well, clearly he
had,
but fright at what?—and abandoned his German companion altogether. In which case, what was he to do with the fellow?

Weber was staring down at the planks of the quay, brow slightly furrowed. William cleared his throat.

“Would you care for a drink?” he asked politely, and nodded toward an open-fronted shanty on the shore, where a couple of large barrels and the presence of a sailor lying on the ground insensible probably indicated an establishment that sold liquor.

“Ich spreche kein Englisch,”
the man said, spreading his hands in polite apology.

“Keine Sorge,”
William said, bowing.
“Ich spreche Deutsch.”
He might have informed Herr Weber that his breeches were on fire, rather than making a simple statement to the effect that he, William, spoke German. Alarm convulsed the nutcracker’s features and he turned wildly, looking for Denys, who had by now disappeared.

William, afraid that Weber was about to flee, grasped him by the arm. This resulted in a sharp cry and a blow to William’s stomach. Considering Weber’s size, it wasn’t a bad try, but William grunted at the impact, let go Weber’s arm, grabbed the man by both shoulders, and shook him like a rat.

“Still!”
he said.
“Ich tue Euch nichts!”

The statement that he meant Weber no harm seemed not to soothe the gentleman, but the shaking at least stopped him struggling to get away. He went limp in William’s grasp and stood gasping.

“What’s going on?” William demanded sharply, in German. He nodded down the quay. “Is that man keeping you prisoner?”

Weber shook his head.

“Nein. Er ist mein Freund.”

“Well, then.” William let go and stepped back, hands spread in token of harmlessness.
“Meiner auch.”

Weber nodded warily and straightened his waistcoat, but declined further conversation, resuming his wooden impassiveness. A fine tremble passed through his person at intervals, but his face showed nothing, though he glanced now and then toward the deepening fog at the end of the quay. William could see shapes—mostly masts that poked suddenly out of the mist as the air shifted—and the thick air carried random shouts that sounded eerily distant one moment and startlingly close at hand the next. The fog was deepening, creeping over the quay, and he had a sudden sense of disorientation, as though the world were dissolving under his feet.

And then Denys was suddenly there, with no warning. His face was still anxious but bore a set resolution. He seized Weber’s arm, glanced at William, and said briefly,
“Kommt.”
William wasted no time in argument, but seized the gentleman’s other arm, and between them, he and Denys rushed the little man into the fog and up a gangplank that suddenly appeared in front of them.

A tall man in a blue coat manifested himself on deck, flanked by two sailors. He looked closely at Denys, nodded, then, catching a glimpse of William, started back as though he’d seen a demon.

“
One
soldier,” he said sharply to Denys, catching him by the sleeve. “One, they said! Who’s this?”

“I’m—” William began, but Denys kicked him in the ankle. “His friend,” William said, nodding casually at Denys.

“There’s no time for this,” Denys said. He reached into his breast and withdrew a small, fat purse, which he handed over. The captain, for so he must be, William thought, hesitated for a moment, glanced suspiciously at him again, but took it.

The next instant he was hurtling back down the gangplank, propelled by an urgent shove in the back from Denys. He hit the quay staggering, but regained his balance at once and turned to see the ship—it looked like a small brig, from what he could see through the mist—draw back the gangplank like a sucked-in tongue, cast off a final line, and with a rattle of shrouds and a snap of filling sails move slowly away from the quay. In moments, it had disappeared into the grayness.

“What the devil just happened?” he asked. Rather mildly, all things considered. Denys was breathing like he’d run a mile under arms, and the edge of his neckcloth was dark with sweat. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure that the ship had gone, and then turned back to William, his breath beginning to slow.

“Herr Weber has enemies,” he said.

“So does everyone, these days. Who
is
Herr Weber?”

Denys made a sound that might have been an attempt at a wry laugh. “Well…he’s not Herr Weber, for starters.”

“Are you planning to tell me who he
is
?” William said impatiently. “Because I’ve got business elsewhere, if you haven’t.”

“Besides looking for a girl, you mean?”

“I mean supper. You can tell me who our recent friend is on the way.”

“HE HAS A
few aliases,” Denys said, halfway through a bowl of chowder, thick with clams. “But his name is Haym Salomon. He’s a Jew,” he added.

“And?” William had eaten his own chowder in nothing flat and was wiping the bowl with a chunk of bread. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t think why it should.
Salomon. Haym Salomon…
It was the word “Jew” that supplied the missing link of memory.