Текст книги "Written in My Own Heart's Blood"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 74 страниц)

He reined in and recognized Mr. Endicott, a well-to-do Philadelphia merchant, and his family. He’d been to dinner at their house and had danced with the two older Misses Endicott at several parties.

“Your servant, sir,” he said, sweeping off his hat with a bow and nodding in turn to the ladies. “And yours, Mrs. Endicott. Miss Endicott, Miss Sally … and your most humble and obedient, Miss Peggy.” Miss Peggy Endicott, aged nine, went pink as a young strawberry at being singled out, and her elder sisters exchanged raised brows over her head.

“Is it true, Lord Ellesmere,” Endicott said, “that we are closely pursued by the Rebels?” He was holding a large red-flannel handkerchief, with which he wiped a perspiring round face. “The … er … the ladies find themselves summat worried by the prospect.”

“The ladies have no cause for concern, sir,” William assured him. “You are under the protection of His Majesty’s army, you know.”

“Well, yes, we do know that,” Mr. Endicott said, rather testily. “Or so we hope, at least; certainly wouldn’t be here else, I can tell you. But have you any news of Washington’s whereabouts, is what I’d like to know?”

Visigoth shifted his weight and danced a little, eager to be off, but William pulled his head round, clicking his tongue in rebuke.

“Why, yes, sir,” he said respectfully. “We have had several deserters from the Rebel camp, come in last night. They say that Washington is gathering his troops, no doubt in hopes of catching up to us—but he has no more than two thousand regulars, with a few scrubby militia companies.”

Mr. Endicott looked somewhat reassured at this, but the girls and their mother didn’t. Mrs. Endicott plucked at her husband’s sleeve and murmured something. He flushed more deeply.

“I said I’ll deal with it, madam!” he snapped. He had taken off his wig because of the heat and wore a spotted silk handkerchief tied over his head against the sun; his grizzled hair was cropped short, and tiny bristles stuck out from the edge of the kerchief like the feelers of angry insects.

Mrs. Endicott’s lips pressed tight, but she stepped back, jerking her head in a small nod. Miss Peggy, though, emboldened by Captain Ellesmere’s particularity, scampered forward and seized hold of his stirrup. Visigoth, startled by the flying scrap of calico at the corner of his vision, shied violently; Peggy shrieked, stumbled back, and went flying. All of the Endicott ladies were shrieking, but William could do nothing about that; he fought the horse’s head round and held on grimly while Goth crow-hopped and whirled, then settled down gradually, snorting and jerking at the bit. He could hear passing infantrymen being profanely amused as their column swerved to go round him.

“Is Miss Peggy quite all right?” he inquired, breathing heavily as he finally brought the horse back to the verge. Miss Anne Endicott was standing near the edge of the road, waiting for him; the rest of her family had retreated, and he heard a loud howling coming from behind the handcart.

“Aside from being spanked by Papa for nearly being killed, yes,” Miss Endicott replied, looking amused. She drew a little closer, keeping a wary eye on Goth, but the horse was calm enough now, stretching his neck to grab a mouthful of grass.

“I’m sorry to have been the cause of her distress,” William said politely, and groped in his pocket, coming out with nothing but a crumpled handkerchief and a stray sixpence. He handed the coin down to Anne, smiling. “Give her that, will you, with my apologies?”

“She will be fine,” Anne said, but took the coin. She glanced over her shoulder, then drew a step closer and spoke rapidly, lowering her voice. “I … hesitate to ask, Lord Ellesmere … but, you see, the cart has broken a wheel, my father cannot fix it, he won’t abandon our belongings—and my mother is terrified that we will be overtaken and captured by Washington’s men.” Her dark eyes—very fine dark eyes—fixed on his with a brilliant intensity. “Can you help? Please? That was what my little sister meant to ask you.”

“Oh. What exactly is the trouble with—never mind. Let me have a look.” It would do Goth no harm to settle for a few minutes. He swung down and tied the horse to one of the saplings, then followed Miss Endicott to the handcart.

It was overflowing with the same higgledy-piggledy assortment of goods he’d seen on the docks two days ago—a tall clock stuck out of heaped clothing and linens, and a homely earthenware chamber pot was stuffed with handkerchiefs, stockings, and what was probably Mrs. Endicott’s jewel case. The sight of this particular mess gave him a sudden pang, though.

These were remnants of a real home, one he’d been a guest in—the rubbish and treasures of people he knew … and liked. He’d heard that very clock, with its pierced-work crown, strike midnight just before he’d stolen a kiss from Anne Endicott in the shadows of her father’s hallway. He felt the mellow bong, bong now, deep in his vitals.

“Where will you go?” he asked quietly, a hand on her arm. She turned to him, flushed and harried, her dark hair coming out of her cap—but still with dignity.

“I don’t know,” she said, just as quietly. “My aunt Platt lives in a small village near New York, but I don’t know that we can travel so far, as we are …” She nodded at the unwieldy cart, surrounded by bags and half-wrapped bundles. “Perhaps we can find a safe place closer and wait there while my father goes to make … arrangements.” Her lips pressed suddenly tight, and he realized that she was holding on to her composure by dint of great effort. And that it was unshed tears that made her eyes so bright. He took her hand and kissed it, gently.

“I’ll help,” he said.

Easier said than done. While the axle of the cart was intact, one wheel had struck a jagged rock and not merely popped off but had in the process lost the flatiron tire that encircled the felloes—which in consequence had come apart, being badly glued. The wheel lay in pieces in the grass, and a gaudy orange-and-black butterfly perched on the disjunct hub, lazily fanning its wings.

Mrs. Endicott’s fears weren’t unfounded. Neither was Mr. Endicott’s anxiety—which he was attempting with little success to disguise as irritability. If they were stranded for too long, and left behind … even if Washington’s regular troops were moving too fast for looting, there were always scavengers on the outskirts of an army—any army.

A respectful period of inspection allowed Mr. Endicott, still red-faced but more settled, to emerge from his domestic imbroglio, followed by Peggy, also red-faced and downcast. William nodded to the merchant and gestured, summoning him to join in contemplation of the wreckage, out of hearing of the women.

“Are you armed, sir?” William asked quietly. Endicott’s face paled noticeably, and his Adam’s apple bobbed above his dirt-grimed stock.

“I have a fowling piece that belonged to my father,” he said, in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible. “I—it’s—not been fired in twenty years.” God, William thought, appalled. William felt himself naked and edgy without weapons. Endicott had to be fifty, at least, and alone here with four women to protect?

“I’ll find you help, sir,” William said firmly. Mr. Endicott drew a deep, deep breath. William thought the man might sob if obliged to speak, and turned without haste toward the women, talking as he went.

“There will be a cooper or wainwright somewhere along the column. Ah, and here’s the water carrier coming!” He extended a hand to Peggy. “Will you come with me to catch him, Miss Margaret? I’m sure he’ll stop for a pretty face.” She didn’t smile, but she sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, drew herself up, and took his hand. The Endicott ladies were nothing if not courageous.

A bored-looking mule pulled a cart with several barrels of water, passing slowly down the column, the driver pausing when hailed. William waded determinedly into the fray, lifting Peggy in his arms for safety—to her evident delight—and deflected the carrier to the Endicotts’ service. Then, with a sweep of his hat to the ladies, he mounted again and made his way down the road in search of a cooper.

The army traveled with the equivalent of several villages’ worth of artisans and those men called “supportives”: coopers, carpenters, cooks, smiths, farriers, wainwrights, drovers, hauliers, orderlies. To say nothing of the vast swarm of laundresses and sempstresses among the camp followers. It wouldn’t take long to find a cooper or a wainwright and persuade him to deal with the Endicotts’ trouble. William glanced at the sun; nearly three.

The army was proceeding briskly, but that didn’t mean it was moving at any great rate of speed. Clinton had given orders to march an additional two hours per day, though, a strain in the increasing heat. Another two hours before they made camp; with luck, the Endicotts might be whole again by then and able to keep up tomorrow.

A rumble of hooves and catcalls from the infantry caught his attention and made him glance over his shoulder, heart speeding up. Dragoons, plumes fluttering. He reined up and rode Goth straight at them, glancing from face to face as he passed down their double line. Several of them stared at him, and an officer made irritated motions at him, but he ignored that. A small voice in the back of his mind inquired what he meant to do if he found Harkness among them, but he ignored that, too.

He passed the end of the company, circled to the rear, and rode up the other side of the column, looking back over his shoulder at the rank of puzzled faces staring at him, some affronted, some amused. No … no … no … maybe? Would he even recognize the fellow? he wondered. He’d been very drunk. Still, he thought Harkness would recognize him… .

They were all staring at him by this time, but none with an aspect either of alarm or violence. Their colonel reined up a little and called to him.

“Ho, Ellesmere! Lost something, have you?”

He squinted against the sun and made out the vivid face of Ban Tarleton, red-cheeked and grinning under his flamboyant plumed helmet. He jerked his chin up in invitation, and William wheeled his horse and fell in beside him.

“Not lost, exactly,” he said. “Just looking for a dragoon I met in Philadelphia—named Harkness; you know him?”

Ban pulled a face.

“Yes. He’s with the Twenty-sixth. Randy bugger, always after women.”

“And you aren’t?” Ban wasn’t a close friend, but William had been out on the randan with him once or twice in London. He didn’t drink much, but he didn’t need to; he was the sort of man who always seemed a little intoxicated.

Tarleton laughed, face flushed with the heat and red-lipped as a girl.

“Yes. But Harkness doesn’t care about anything but women. Known him to have three at once, in a brothel.”

William considered that one for a moment.

“All right. I can see a use for two, maybe … but what’s the third one for?”

Ban, who was maybe four years older than William, gave him the sort of pitying look reserved for virgins and confirmed bachelors, then ducked back, laughing, when William punched him in the arm.

“Right,” William said. “That aside, I’m looking for a wainwright or a cooper. Any close by?”

Tarleton straightened his helmet and shook his head.

“No, but there’s bound to be one or two in that mess.” He gestured negligently at the train of baggage wagons. “Which regiment are you with, these days?” He frowned at William, seeming to realize that something was amiss with his dress. “Where’s your sword? And your gorget?”

William gritted his teeth—and they really did grit, there being so much coarse dust in the air—and apprised Tarleton of his situation in the minimum number of words. He didn’t mention where or under what circumstances he had lost his gorget, and with a brief salute of farewell to the colonel, reined round and went down the column again. He was breathing as though he’d run the length of London Bridge, and pulses of electricity were running down his arms and legs, jolting at the base of his spine.

His anger over his situation had been rekindled by his conversation with Tarleton and—unable to do any bloody thing about any of it—turned his mind to what he wanted to do to Harkness, should he meet the 26th Light Dragoons. He touched his chest by reflex, and his sudden urge to do violence changed at once to an equally sudden rush of desire that made him light-headed.

Then he recalled his original errand, and hot blood washed through his face. He rode more slowly, calming his mind. Harkness could wait. The Endicotts couldn’t.

Thought of the family pained him—and not only because he was ashamed of letting himself be distracted from their difficulty. But in recollecting them now, he realized that for those few moments with the Endicotts, concerned with their troubles, he’d forgotten. Forgotten the burden he’d been carrying like a pound of lead in his chest. Forgotten who he really was.

What would Anne Endicott have done, if she knew? Her parents? Even … well, no. He smiled, despite his disquiet. He didn’t think Peggy Endicott would mind if he told her he was secretly a cutpurse or a cannibal, let alone a—

Everyone else he knew, though … The Endicotts were only one Loyalist family who’d welcomed him into their home, and he’d not taken proper leave of any of those who chose to stay in Philadelphia, too ashamed to see them, knowing the truth.

He looked back over his shoulder; the Endicotts were barely visible, now sitting in the grass in a companionable circle, sharing food of some kind. He felt a keen pang at the sight of their companionability. He’d never be part of a decent family, couldn’t ever marry a woman even of such modest origins as Anne Endicott.

Her father might well be ruined, might have lost his wealth and business, the family might descend into poverty—but they would remain who they were, firm in their courage and the pride of their name. Not him. His name didn’t belong to him.

Well … he could marry, he grudgingly admitted to himself, making his way gingerly through a group of camp followers. But only a woman who wanted nothing but his title and money would have him, and to wed under such circumstances, knowing that your wife despised you … and to know that you passed the taint of your blood to your sons …

This morbid train of thought stopped abruptly with the appearance of a small group of artisans, trudging beside a large wagon that undoubtedly held their tools.

He came down on them like a wolf on a flock of startled sheep and ruthlessly cut out a fine, fat wainwright, whom he persuaded by threats and bribery to mount behind him and thus carried his prey back to the Endicotts.

With his spirit soothed by their gratitude, he turned northward again, toward the head of the army, camp, and his supper. Absorbed in thoughts of roast chicken and gravy—he ate with Clinton’s staff, and thus ate very well—he didn’t notice at once that another horseman had come up alongside him, matching his pace.

“Penny for your thoughts?” said a pleasant, half-familiar voice, and he turned to find himself looking into the smiling face of Denys Randall-Isaacs.



WILLIAM REGARDED Randall-Isaacs with something between annoyance and curiosity. The man had to all effects abandoned him in Quebec City a year and a half before and vanished, leaving him to spend the winter snowbound with nuns and voyageurs. The experience had improved both his French and his hunting abilities, but not his temper.

“Captain Randall-Isaacs,” he said in acknowledgment, rather coldly. The captain smiled sunnily at him, not at all put off by his tone.

“Oh, just Randall these days,” he said. “My father’s name, you know. The other bit was a courtesy to my stepfather, but as the old man’s passed on now …” He lifted one shoulder, leaving William to draw the obvious conclusion: that a Jewish-sounding surname couldn’t be an asset to an ambitious officer.

“Surprised to see you here,” Randall went on, chummy, as though they’d seen each other at a ball last month. “You were at Saratoga with Burgoyne, weren’t you?”

William’s hand tightened on the reins, but he patiently explained his peculiar status. For possibly the twentieth time.

Randall nodded, respectful.

“Certainly better than cutting hay in Massachusetts,” he said, with a glance at the marching columns they were passing. “Thought of going back to England, though?”

“No,” William said, somewhat startled. “Why? For one thing, I doubt I can, by the terms of parole. For another—why should I?” Why, indeed? he thought, with a fresh stab. He’d not even begun to think about what awaited him in England, at Helwater, at Ellesmere. In London, for that matter … oh, Jesus …

“Why, indeed?” Randall said, unconsciously echoing him. The man sounded thoughtful. “Well … not much opportunity for distinguishing yourself here, is there?” He glanced very briefly at William’s belt, bare of weapons, and away again directly, as though the sight was somehow shameful—which it was.

“And what is it you think I could do there?” William demanded, keeping his temper with some difficulty.

“Well, you are an earl,” Randall pointed out. William felt the blood rise up his neck, but couldn’t say anything. “You have a seat in the House of Lords. Why not use it to accomplish something? Take up politics. Doubt your parole says anything about that—and as long as you weren’t going back to rejoin the army, I shouldn’t think the travel itself would be a problem.”

“I’d never thought of it,” William said, striving for politeness. He couldn’t think of anything he’d less rather do than be political—unless it was be political while acting a sham.

Randall tilted his head amiably to and fro, still smiling. He was much as he’d been when William had seen him last: dark hair tied back without powder, good-looking rather than handsome, slender without being slight, graceful in movement, with a constant expression of sympathetic geniality. He hadn’t changed much—but William had. He was two years older now, much more experienced, and was both surprised and a little gratified to discover that he realized that Randall was playing him like a hand of bezique. Or trying to.

“I suppose there are other possibilities,” he said, guiding his horse around an enormous puddle of muddy urine that had collected in a dip in the road.

Randall’s horse had paused to add to it. Randall sat as composedly as one can in such a situation, but didn’t try to raise his voice over the noise. He picked his way out of the mud and caught William up before continuing the conversation.

“Possibilities?” He sounded genuinely interested, and probably was, William thought—but why? “What were you thinking of doing?”

“You recall Captain Richardson, of course?” William asked casually, but with an eye on Randall’s face. One dark brow rose a bit, but otherwise he showed no particular emotion at hearing the name.

“Oh, yes,” Randall replied, as casual as William. “Have you seen the good captain recently?”

“Yes, a couple of days ago.” William’s temper had abated, and he waited with interest to see what Randall might have to say to this.

The captain didn’t look taken aback, exactly, but his air of pleasant inconsequence had definitely sharpened into something else. William could actually see him wondering whether to ask bluntly what Richardson had wanted or to take another tack, and the perception gave him a small thrill.

“Is Lord John with Sir Henry?” Randall asked. That was enough of a non sequitur to make William blink, but there was no reason not to answer.

“No. Why should he be?”

The brow lifted again.

“You didn’t know? The Duke of Pardloe’s regiment is in New York.”

“It is?” William was more than startled by that, but hastened to collect himself. “How do you know?”

Randall waved a well-manicured hand, as though the answer to this was irrelevant—as perhaps it was.

“Pardloe left Philadelphia this morning with Sir Henry,” he explained. “As the duke has recalled Lord John to duty, I thought—”

“He what?” William’s horse jerked his head and snorted at the exclamation, and William stroked the big neck, using the gesture to avert his face for a moment. His father was here?

“I stopped at his lordship’s house in Philadelphia yesterday,” Randall explained, “and a rather odd Scotchwoman—she must be his lordship’s housekeeper, I collect?—told me that his lordship had been gone for several days. But if you haven’t seen him …”

Randall raised his head, looking ahead. A haze of woodsmoke was already showing above the trees, cook fires, wash fires, and watch fires all marking the growing camp, their tang a pleasant spice in the nostrils. It made William’s stomach growl.

“Hup! Hup! At the double, quick … march!” A sergeant’s bellow came from behind them, and they pulled aside for a double column of infantry, who hadn’t needed the exhortation; they were eager for their dinner and the chance to lay down their arms for the night.

The pause gave William room for a moment’s thought: ought he to ask Randall to sup with him later, try to draw him out? Or get the hell away from the man as quickly as possible, using his need to wait on Sir Henry as excuse? But what if Lord John really was with Sir Henry right this moment? And bloody Uncle Hal—all he needed in the present circumstance!

Randall had evidently used the pause for thought, as well, and come to his own decision. He came up close beside William, and after a quick glance to be sure no one was near them, leaned close and spoke in a low voice.

“I say this as a friend, Ellesmere—though I grant you’ve no reason to trust me, I hope you’ll listen. Don’t, for God’s sake, engage in any enterprise that Richardson suggests. Don’t go with him anywhere, no matter what the circumstances. If you can avoid it, don’t even talk to him again.”

And with that, he reined his horse’s head around, spurred up abruptly, and was off down the road at a gallop, heading away from the camp.



SCROUNGING

GREY WOULDN’T MIND, if it weren’t for the headaches. The ache in his side had faded to something tolerable; he thought a rib might be cracked, but as long as he didn’t have to run, that wouldn’t be a problem. The eye, though …

The injured eye stubbornly refused to move but jerked in its socket, pulling against whatever obstruction held it—an orbicularis muscle? Was that what Dr. Hunter had called it?—in an attempt to focus with its fellow. This was painful and exhausting in itself but also led to double vision and crushing headaches, and he found himself often unable to eat when they halted, wanting only to lie down in darkness and wait for the throbbing to cease.

By the time they stopped to make camp on the evening of the second day of march, he could barely see out of his good eye, and his stomach was heaving with nausea.

“Here,” he said, thrusting his hot journeycake at one of his fellows, a tailor from Morristown named Phillipson. “You take it. I can’t, not just …” He couldn’t go on, but pressed the heel of his hand hard against his closed eye. Green and yellow pinwheels and brilliant flashes of light erupted behind his eyelid, but the pressure eased the pain for a moment.

“You save it for later, Bert,” Phillipson said, tucking the journeycake into Grey’s rucksack. He bent close and peered at Grey’s face in the firelight. “You need a patch for that eye,” he declared. “Keep you from rubbing at it, at least; it’s red as a whore’s stocking. Here.”

And with that, he took off his own battered felt hat and, whipping a small pair of scissors from his bosom, cut a neat round patch from the brim, rubbed a bit of spruce gum round the edge to make it stick, and then bound it carefully in place over the injured orb with a spotted handkerchief contributed by one of the other militiamen. All of them clustered round to watch, with the kindest expressions of concern, offers of food and drink, suggestions as to which company had a surgeon that might come to let his blood, and so on. Grey, in the weakness of pain and exhaustion, thought he might weep.

He managed to thank them all for their concern, but at last they left off, and after a swig of something unidentifiable but strongly alcoholic from Jacobs’s canteen, he sat on the ground, shut his good eye, leaned his head back against a log, and waited for the throbbing in his temples to lessen.

Despite his bodily discomfort, he felt comforted in spirit. The men with him weren’t soldiers, and God knew they weren’t an army—but they were men, engaged in common purpose and mindful of one another, and that was a thing he knew and loved.

“… and we bring our needs and desires before thee, O great Lord, and implore thy blessing upon our deeds …”

The Reverend Woodsworth was conducting a brief service of prayers. He did this every evening; those who wished might join him; those who didn’t occupied themselves in quiet conversation or small tasks of mending or whittling.

Grey had no real idea where they were, save somewhere to the northeast of Philadelphia. Messengers on horseback met them now and then, and confused bits of news and speculation spread like fleas through the group. He gathered that the British army was heading north—clearly to New York—and that Washington had left Valley Forge with his troops and was intending to attack Clinton somewhere en route, but no one knew where. The troops were to muster at a place called Coryell’s Ferry, at which point they might, possibly, be told where they were going.

He didn’t waste energy on thinking about his own position. He could escape easily enough in the darkness, but there was no point in doing so. Wandering around the countryside in the midst of converging militia companies and regular troops, he ran more risk of ending up back in the custody of Colonel Smith, who would probably hang him out of hand, than he did in remaining with Woodsworth’s militia.

The danger might increase when they did join Washington’s troops—but large armies really couldn’t hide from each other, nor did they try to avoid notice. If Washington got anywhere near Clinton, Grey could at that point easily desert—if one considered it desertion—and cross the lines into British hands, risking only being shot by an overenthusiastic sentry before he could surrender and make himself known.

Gratitude, he thought, hearing Mr. Woodsworth’s prayer through a haze of growing drowsiness and fading pain. Well, yes, there were a few more things he could count on his list of blessings.

William was still on parole and thus a noncombatant. Jamie Fraser had been released from the Continental army to escort Brigadier Fraser’s body back to Scotland. Though he’d returned, he was no longer in the army; he wouldn’t be in this fight, either. His nephew Henry was healing, but in no way fit for combat. There was no one likely to be involved in the coming battle—if there was one—over whom he need worry. Though come to think… . His hand found the empty pocket of his breeches. Hal. Where the bloody hell was Hal?

He sighed, but then relaxed, breathing in the scents of woodsmoke, pine needles, and roasted corn. Wherever Hal was, he’d be safe enough. His brother could take care of himself.

The prayers over, one of his companions had started to sing. It was a song he knew, but the words were quite different. His version, picked up from an army surgeon who’d fought with the Colonials during the French and Indian war, went:

Brother Ephraim sold his Cow

And bought him a Commission;

And then he went to Canada

To fight for the Nation;

But when Ephraim he came home

He proved an arrant Coward,

He wouldn’t fight the Frenchmen there

For fear of being devour’d.

Dr. Shuckburgh hadn’t had much opinion of the colonials, and neither had the composer of the newer version, used as a marching song. He’d heard that one in Philadelphia and hummed along under his breath.

Yankee Doodle came to town,

For to buy a firelock,

We will tar and feather him,

And so we will John Hancock!

His present companions were now singing—with gusto—the latest evolution:

Yankee Doodle went to town

A-riding on a pony,

Stuck a feather in his cap

And called it Macaroni!

He wondered, yawning, whether any of them knew that the word dudel meant “simpleton” in German. He doubted Morristown, New Jersey, had ever seen a macaroni, those affected young men who went in for pink wigs and a dozen face patches.

As his headache eased, he began to appreciate the simple pleasure of reclining. The shoes with their makeshift laces fit him badly and, as well as rubbing his heels raw, gave him shooting pains in the shins from the effort of constantly clenching his toes in order to keep the bloody things on. He stretched his legs gingerly, almost enjoying the tenderness in his muscles, so near bliss by contrast with walking.

He was distracted from his catalog of meager blessings by a small, hungry gulp near his ear, followed by a young, low voice.

“Mister … if ye’re not meanin’ to eat that journeycake yourself …”

“What? Oh … yes. Of course.”

He struggled to sit up, one hand pressed protectively over his bad eye, and turned his head to see a boy of eleven or twelve sitting on the log just beside him. He had his hand inside his sack, rummaging for the food, when the boy let out a gasp, and he looked up, vision wavering in the firelight, to discover himself face-to-face with Claire’s grandson, fair hair in a tousled halo round his head and a look of horror on his face.

“Hush!” he said in a whisper, and grabbed the child’s knee in such a sudden grip that the boy gave a small yelp.

“Why, what’s that you’ve got there, Bert? Caught you a thief?” Abe Shaffstall, distracted from a desultory game of knucklebones, looked over his shoulder, peering shortsightedly at the boy—Christ, what was his name? His father was French; was it Claude? Henri? No, that was the younger boy, the dwarf… .

“Tais-toi!” he said under his breath to the boy, and turned to his companions. “No, no—this is a neighbor’s son from Philadelphia—er … Bobby. Bobby Higgins,” he added, grabbing at the first name that offered itself. “What’s brought you out here, son?” he asked, hoping that the boy was as quick-witted as his grandmother.