Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (153 page)

Aboard the
Pallas

J
OHN GREY WAS ALLOWED
to exercise on deck twice a day—for as long as he liked, while they were at anchor. He was accompanied throughout by a powerfully built monoglot sailor whose sole apparent purpose was to keep him from leaping overboard and swimming for it and whose one language was neither English, French, German, Latin, Hebrew, nor Greek. He thought it might conceivably be Polish, but if it was, the knowledge wouldn’t help him.

The rest of the time, he was not only confined to his cabin but attached to it by means of a shackle round his ankle, this equipped with a long chain, this in turn attached to a ring set into the bulkhead. He felt like a limpet.

Reasonably adequate meals were provided, as was a chamber pot and a small pile of books, including several treatises on the evils of slavery. If these were intended to reconcile him to his presumably eventual fate, they had missed their mark by several miles, and he had pushed them out of the small port before settling down with a translation of
Don Quixote.

He’d been held captive before, but not often, thank God—and never for very long, though the night he’d spent—at sixteen—tied to a tree on a dark Scottish mountain with a broken arm had seemed endless.
Why think of that now?
He’d largely forgotten it in the confusion of circumstance that had attended his acquaintance with a man he’d thought he’d never see again, and good riddance. But Jamie Fraser was not a man to be easily forgotten, damn him.

He wondered briefly what Jamie would think of his present circumstance—or worse, of the circumstances of his eventual death—but pushed that out of his mind as pointless. He didn’t bloody mean to die, so why waste time envisioning it?

The one thing he was reasonably certain of, regarding Richardson and that gentleman’s singular motives, was that he, Grey, wouldn’t be killed until Richardson managed to locate Hal, as his life had value—to Richardson—only as a lever to affect Hal’s actions.

As to those…He scratched absently at his jaw. Richardson didn’t trust him with a razor; his beard was growing out and itched considerably.

Hal
had,
now and then, made intemperate remarks about the conduct of the war, and had, more than once, threatened to go to England and denounce Lord North to his face about the waste of lives and money. “There are things that need to be said, by God—and I’m one of the few who can say them” was the last such remark Grey had heard from his brother…when was it? Six weeks, at least, perhaps longer.

But John was morally sure that Hal had gone north to find Ben—a conviction supported by the fact that Richardson had so far apparently failed to find him in any of the southern ports. He knew as much from the comings and goings of Richardson’s shore agents; his cabin was directly below the big stern cabin, and while he couldn’t make out many words, the tone of frustration—with the occasional stamp of a boot overhead—couldn’t be mistaken.

How long might it take Hal to find Ben? he wondered. And what the devil would happen when he did? Knowing Hal, the only circumstance in which he would
not
find his errant son was if the damned boy actually
was
dead now, whether in battle or from illness—he remembered William’s description of Dr. Hunter’s vaccinating the populace of New Jersey for smallpox.

The wind had changed. It blew into the tiny room, lifted his hair, and prickled his skin. He closed his eyes instinctively and turned his face toward the port. Then he realized that it wasn’t the wind that had shifted; the boat had moved. He glanced up, then went to the door of his cabin, where a small latticed opening at the top provided occasional light from the hatchways. He pressed his ear against the opening and strained his ears. No. There was no sound of order and rapid feet and the rumble and snap of unfurling sails. Thank God, they weren’t about to up anchor and leave.

“I suppose it’s just caught a hatful of wind, as my old grandmother used to say about a stiff breeze,” he muttered, trying to ignore the spasm of alarm that had clenched his belly for a moment when he thought the ship might be about to sail.

Richardson had moved the ship several times, though not far. Grey had recognized the harbor at Charles Town, but there were two other, smaller ports that he didn’t know. Now they were back in Savannah; he could see the stumpy steeple of the small church near his house.

He’d tried not talking to himself, fearful that he might go mad, but he found that the effort not to was making him clench his jaws, so he allowed himself the odd remark. He also talked to the might-be Pole, which amounted to the same thing, but was less socially reprehensible.

Still, he found himself staring absently out of the port for increasing lengths of time, eyes following small boats, flights of pelicans, or now and then a fleeting sight of porpoises, sometimes one or two, sometimes dozens, who proceeded in a remarkably graceful fashion, leaping rather than swimming, but so smoothly that they seemed still part of the water.

He was engaged in this sort of mindless abstraction when he heard a key turned in the lock behind him and whirled round to see fucking Percy Wainwright.

Who, to add insult to injury, stood staring at him for a moment, openmouthed, and then dissolved in laughter.

“What?”
John snapped, and Percy stopped laughing, though his mouth still twitched. He hadn’t seen Percy in weeks. Evidently Percy had served his purpose, and was allowed ashore.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said. “I didn’t expect—I mean…” He giggled. “You look like Father Christmas. I mean—a very
young
Father Christmas, but—”

“God damn your eyes, Perseverance,” John said crossly. He touched his beard, self-conscious. “Is it really
white
?”

Percy nodded and edged closer. “Well, not
entirely
white; it’s just that your hair is so fair anyway that it, um, blends in, rather.”

John made a gesture of irritation and sat down.

“What are you doing here, anyway? I take it you haven’t come to liberate me.” Someone had accompanied Percy; he’d heard the key click in the lock again when the door closed behind his visitor.

“No,” said Percy, suddenly sobered. “No. I would if I could, John. Please believe me.”

“If it helps you to sleep at night, I believe you,” John said, with as much vitriol as he could put into the words, and had the bleak satisfaction of seeing Percy’s face fall. John sighed.

“What the devil do you want, Perseverance?”

“I—well.” Percy steeled himself enough to look up and meet John’s eyes directly. “I wanted to say two things to you. First…that I’m sorry.
Truly
sorry.” John stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

“All right. I believe that, too, for what it’s worth. Which is not all that much, as I’ll likely be dead soon, but still. And the second.”

“That I love you.” The words came softly, seeming to be addressed to the tabletop rather than John, but he heard them and was both shocked and annoyed to feel a small lump in his throat. He looked down, too, not answering. The sounds of the river and the marsh and the distant sea washed through the tiny room, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his fingertips where they rested on the rough wood.

I’m alive. I don’t know how to be anything else.
He cleared his throat.

“Why do you suppose pelicans don’t call out?” he said. “Gulls scream and cackle like witches, all the time, but I never hear the pelicans make any sort of noise.”

“I don’t know.” Percy’s voice was stronger now, though he also had to stop to clear his throat. “I—that’s all I wanted—all I
needed
to say to you, John. Have you…anything to say to me?”

“God. Where would I start?” But he didn’t say it unkindly. “No. Or—no, wait. There’s one thing.” The notion had just come to him, and he doubted that it would be of any help; Percy was a coward and always would be. But maybe…He straightened up and leaned toward Percy, the chain rattling on the floor.

“Richardson doesn’t allow me paper or ink—probably thinking I’ll try to toss a message to some passing boat below. I can’t write to anyone—last words, I mean, or farewell, or what-have-you. I gather you have some freedom, though.” He’d seen, from his port, Percy being rowed ashore now and then, presumably doing errands for Richardson. “If you can, will you at least go to my house—it’s Number Twelve Oglethorpe Street—”

“I know where it is.” Percy was pale, but his face had settled on its bones.

“Of course you do. Well, if you meant what you just said, then for the sake of any love you’ve ever had for me—go and tell my son that I love him.” He badly wanted to shout,
“For God’s sake, tell Willie what’s happened! Tell him to go to Prévost and get help!”
But Percy was terrified of Richardson—
and everything else in the world,
he thought with an exhausted pity—and to ask him to risk something like that was likely to make him run away, get drunk, or cut his own throat.

“Please,” he added, gently.

It was a long moment, and he imagined he heard the wingbeats of the pelicans passing soberly over the river below, but Percy nodded at last and stood up.

“Goodbye, John,” he whispered.

“Goodbye, Perseverance.”

WILLIAM CAME BACK TO
the house after yet another unfruitful search of the docks and the taverns on the roads leading out of Savannah, to find Amaranthus pacing to and fro in the front garden.

“
There
you are,” she said, in a tone mingling accusation and relief. “A man’s come; I saw him at Mrs. Fleury’s tea, but I don’t know his name. He says he’s a friend of Lord John’s and he knows you. I’ve put him in the parlor.”

He found the man who’d been introduced to him at Mrs. Fleury’s as the Cavalier Saint-Honoré in the parlor. He’d picked up one of Lord John’s treasured Meissen plates from the sideboard, and was running a finger gently round the gilt edging. Yes, it was the same man, a Frenchman; he’d seen him briefly at Madame Prévost’s luncheon, too.

“Your servant, sir.
Puis-je vous aider?
” William asked, in as neutral a voice as he could manage. The man turned round and his face changed as he saw William, going from exhaustion and strain to something like relief.

“Lord Ellesmere?” he said, in a thoroughly English accent.

William was too tired and in much too bad a temper to make either inquiries or explanations.

“Yes,” he said brusquely. “What do you want?” The fellow was much less
soigné
than when last seen; minus his wig, his hair was short and curly, frosted with gray and matted with sweat, and his linen was soiled, his expensive suit crumpled.

“My name is—Percy Wainwright,” the fellow said, as though not quite sure that it was. “I am…I
was
…well, I suppose I still am, come to think…I’m Lord John’s stepbrother.”

“What?” By reflex, William grabbed the Meissen plate before the fellow could drop it, and set it back on the sideboard. “What the devil do you mean, stepbrother? I’ve never heard of a stepbrother.”

“I don’t suppose you would have.” A faint grimace that might have started as a smile faded, leaving Wainwright’s face pale and exhausted.

“The family no doubt did their best to expunge me from memory, after…well, that’s of no account. There was a rupture, and a parting of ways—but I still consider John my brother.” He swallowed, swaying a little, and William thought the man was unwell.

“Sit down,” he said, grabbing one of the small armchairs and turning it round, “and tell me what’s going on. Do you know where Lord John is?”

Wainwright shook his head.

“No. I mean…yes, but he’s not…”

“Filius canis,”
William muttered. He glanced round and saw Amaranthus, lurking curiously just outside the door, and jerked his chin at her as though she were the maid. “Get us some brandy, please.”

He didn’t wait for it to arrive, but sat down opposite Wainwright. His stomach had curled up into a ball, tight with apprehension and excitement.

“Where did you last see him?” he asked, hoping to restore Wainwright to coherence by means of simple, logical questions. Rather to his surprise, it worked.

“Aboard a ship,” Wainwright said, and straightened up a little. “An—an Indiaman, called the
Pallas.
A Greek name, I mean—a god of some kind?”

“The god of battle,” Amaranthus said, coming in with a glass of brandy on a tray. She eyed Wainwright narrowly, then glanced at William, lifting a brow. Should she stay or go? He gestured briefly to another chair and turned back to Wainwright.

“A ship. All right. Where is this ship?”

“I don’t know. They—they move it. They were lifting anchor as I—as I left. I didn’t abandon him!” he cried, seeing William’s frown. “I—I would never have left him, but I could do him no good, and I thought—well, he told me, in fact. He told me to go and to find you.”

Amaranthus made a small hum, expressing doubt. William shared it, but no choice but to go on and hope the man could be encouraged to make more sense.

“Of course,” he said, trying to be soothing. “And what did he tell you to say when you did find me?”

“He didn’t…say…exactly. I mean, there wasn’t time for a message, they were getting ready—”

“More brandy?” Amaranthus asked, getting her feet under her.

“Not yet.” William raised a hand and she sat down, her eyes fixed warily on Wainwright, who was looking more wretched by the moment. All three of them were silent, while Lord John’s clock ticked peacefully on the mantelpiece, the cloisonné butterfly within its dome slowly raising and lowering its blue and gold wings. At last Wainwright looked up from his tight-folded hands.

“It’s my fault,” he said. His voice trembled. “I didn’t know, I swear it. But—” He licked his lips and squared his shoulders. “Lord John has been kidnapped and is in the hands of a madman. He is in great danger. And yes, please, more brandy.”

“In a moment,” Amaranthus said, sitting forward on the edge of her seat. “Tell us who this madman
is,
if you please.”

Wainwright looked at her and blinked.

“Oh. His name is Richardson. Ezekiel Richardson.”

“Jesus fucking
Christ
!” William was on his feet and had jerked Wainwright out of his chair by his shirtfront in an instant. “What the devil does he want with my father? Tell me, God damn it!”

“Oh,” said Amaranthus, rising. “So he really
is
a madman? Maybe you’d best put Mr. Wainwright down, William; he can’t talk like that.”

William reluctantly did so. The blood was pounding through his temples, and he felt as though his head would explode any minute. He let go of Wainwright and stepped back, breathing as evenly as he could.

“Tell me,” he said again. Wainwright was trembling all over now, and sweating heavily, but he nodded, jerky as a puppet, and began to talk.

It took several minutes to get it all out, but Wainwright gradually calmed as he spoke and at last fell silent, staring at the green figured carpet under his feet. William and Amaranthus exchanged glances over his bowed head.

“So this gentleman—well, this
person,
” Amaranthus said, mouth pursed as though to spit, “wants the duke
not
to go to England and tell Lord North things about the war, and so he’s kidnapped Lord John and is threatening to kill him unless your uncle acquiesces?” She sounded incredulous, William thought. Richardson’s letter
had
been hard to believe, but to hear the facts like this…Wainwright was nodding.

“That’s it,” he said, dully. “He—has his own reasons for wanting the war to continue, and he thinks Pardloe might be able to convince the prime minister otherwise.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be the only one with an interest in the war continuing,” William said, beginning to get hold of himself. “War is an expensive business—and that means the men who supply it are making a lot of money. I can think of two or three who might want to stop the duke from spreading notions to the contrary around England. But Richardson—” He eyed Wainwright narrowly, but the man gave no sign of deliberate deception—or of anything, really, save profound distress.

“I told you, I know this Richardson,” William said abruptly, turning to Amaranthus. “And God help me, I think he likely
is
mad. Some of the things he’s done…” He shook his head.

“Wait here,” he said to Wainwright, and put out a hand to Amaranthus. “Come with me for a moment.”

THE HOUSE WAS
quiet; Moira had gone to market and Miss Crabb was lying down. Even Trevor was asleep, thank God. Still, William guided Amaranthus out into the garden, just in case. Sight of the little grape-bower made him think vaguely that neither of them had mentioned his proposal since their return, but the thought vanished like smoke.

“What do you think?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the house.

“I think there must be more truth to the letter this Richardson sent than we even thought. Mr. Wainwright seems more or less sane, but I don’t know about Captain Richardson—is that his rank, captain?”

“Well, it was when he was on
our
side,” William said with a shrug. “He’s turned his coat now, and I think the Americans may have given him a major’s commission, or even a colonelcy of some kind; they poach officers from European armies with rank because they haven’t got any money. The Americans, I mean.”

“So this Richardson is a turncoat
and
a madman? The Americans seem not to be very choosy, do they?”

“I gather they made James Fraser a general, if that tells you anything.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“I do hope
he
isn’t mad,” she said, and looked at William speculatively. “I don’t believe that treason shows up in the blood, necessarily, but I’m reasonably sure madness is inheritable. Look at the King, I mean.”

“No,” William said. “Mr. Fraser may be a good many things, but he’s not mad. And I agree with you about Mr. Wainwright. He may be telling the truth about being Papa’s stepbrother; my grandmother Benedicta married a widower, and he may well have had a son. But his being Papa’s stepbrother is just an explanation for his concern, isn’t it?”

“You mean he might have another reason for coming to find you?” Amaranthus leaned to the side, looking round William toward the house.

“Maybe.” William dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “But the basic facts are—according to him
and
the letter, now—these: one, Papa is actually in the hands of Richardson, who is bloody dangerous. Two, Richardson apparently is holding him hostage in order to compel Uncle Hal to do—or rather,
not
do something. And three, no matter whether it’s possible for anyone whatever to compel Uncle Hal to do anything whatever—he bloody isn’t here to do it, anyway.”

“Well, but that’s good, isn’t it?” Amaranthus objected. “Presumably, if the only reason this Richardson is keeping your father is to make the duke do what he wants, then Lord John is safe, as long as the duke can’t be found. Isn’t he?”

“Mmphm,” William said, in dubious agreement. “I don’t know; Wainwright says my father’s in danger, and he must have reason for thinking that. Regardless, I have to find him, and as quickly as possible. If Richardson is truly mad, then he’s unpredictable; he might take a sudden whim and toss Papa overboard in the middle of the sea—or sail away to the West Indies.” The thought struck him like an ice pick in the heart. In the shock of Wainwright’s appearance, he’d momentarily forgotten the most important thing the man had said.

“He said they were preparing to move it just as he lef—” He seized her arm so suddenly that she yelped. “I have to go to the docks! If they haven’t sailed—”

“But they have! He said they were lifting the anchor—they’ll be gone by now!”

“Come on, I need to find out where that ship is—or was!” He let go of her arm and, turning, ran toward the house, Amaranthus hard on his heels.

William hit the corridor at a dead run, scaring Moira, who was coming down it with her huge shopping basket overflowing with fish and loaves of bread. She leapt out of the way but lost her grip on the basket. William heard feminine cries behind him but didn’t stop.

The door to the parlor was standing ajar and he was vaguely conscious of a smell as he shoved it open. Brandy. And…vomit.

The source of both was Percy Wainwright, who was lying on the floor, curled up like a hedgehog, his back heaving as he retched. He’d thrown up profusely already, but the smell was overlain by the stronger reek of spilled brandy.

“Jesus,” William said, swallowed, and knelt to grab Wainwright by the shoulder. “Moira!” he shouted, seeing the man’s face. “Amaranthus! Get a doctor! Bring some water and salt, quick!”

Wainwright was conscious, but his face was clenched like a baby’s fist, all lumps and lines. His lips were blue—actually blue. William hadn’t seen that before, but he knew it wasn’t good.

“What happened?” he asked urgently, trying to unfold Wainwright and get him into a more comfortable position. “What’s the matter with you?”

Wainwright heard him. He brought one trembling hand to his chest, pressed hard in the middle.

“It’s…it won’t…I can’t…”

William had seen Mother Claire take someone’s pulse, more than once, and he hastily pressed his fingers at the side of Wainwright’s neck. He didn’t feel anything, moved his fingers, nothing…there. He’d felt a single throb. And then another. One more—then a light, rapid tapping—but this was nothing like the way a heart should beat.