It seemed ludicrous to approach Marion with his questions under these circumstances, but the man had spotted him and lifted his chin inquiringly. Not much choice but to say hello, at least.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “I apologize for interrupting you. I can see that—” Lacking any sufficient words, he waved a hand toward the distant camp.
Marion laughed, a low sound of honest amusement.
“Well, yes,” he said, in an accent that seemed faintly tinged with the French he’d just been speaking. “It’s clear, isn’t it? I take it you didn’t know, though, or—?” One eyebrow quirked up.
“Or I wouldn’t be here,” Roger finished. Marion shrugged.
“You might have come to volunteer. The Continental army isn’t choosy, though I have to say that the occasional minister we get usually doesn’t wear his best clothes to fight in.” The look of amusement deepened as he looked Roger up and down. “So—why are you here, sir?”
“My name is Roger MacKenzie, and I am the son-in-law of General James Fraser, late of—”
“Really.” Both eyebrows were raised as high as they could go. “Fraser’s sent you as an envoy to General Lincoln, and they sent you to me because Benjamin’s asleep?”
“Not exactly.” He’d best just put it baldly. Whatever Jamie’s reputation with the Continental army was, his business with Marion was straightforward enough.
“I take it you know that General Fraser resigned his commission following the Battle of—”
“Monmouth, yes.” Marion shifted his scrawny buttocks on the stone. “Everyone knows by now, I should think. Is it true that he wrote his letter of resignation on the back of an ensign and sent him to Lee with a muddy shirt?”
“It was written in his wife’s blood,” Roger said, “but yes.”
That took the look of amusement out of Marion’s eyes. He nodded a little, the meager pouf of graying hair on top of his head stirring in the rising breeze, as though disturbed by the thoughts beneath it.
“I don’t know Monsieur Fraser as a man,” he said, “but I’ve talked with those who do.” He eyed Roger, head on one side. “What does he want with me?”
“He’s assembling a militia,” Roger replied, just as bluntly. “A partisan band. He doesn’t want to have anything further to do with the Continental army—and I imagine the feeling is mutual—but he does intend to fight.”
“I suppose he’ll have to.” It was a statement of fact, made with no emotion at all, but spoken here, with the air around them live and dangerous as a lightning storm, it struck Roger like a blow in the chest.
“Yes.”
“And he wants a—a liaison with the army, perhaps? A connection, but not a formal connection. Just so.” Marion’s lips were thin and bloodless; pressed tight together, they disappeared, making him look like a marionette with a hinged, carved jaw.
“He knows of you, too,” Roger said carefully. “That you have experience in forming militia units and … employing them effectively in a … a formal military context?”
“It’s much more effective to employ them outside that context,” Marion said, glancing toward the cemetery wall. There was a rising noise of horses and men, audible now that the guns had fallen silent. His large dark eyes turned back, focusing on Roger’s face. “Tell him that. He should keep his distance from the army. They will use his militia, certainly, they need every man they can get. But the risk to him—him, personally—is very great. If it had not been for Lee’s trial and La Fayette’s good word, Fraser would have been court-martialed himself after Monmouth; perhaps even hanged.”
Marion spoke casually, but Roger felt the scar on his throat tighten and burn beneath the concealment of his high white stock, and he had the sudden uncontrollable urge to fling his arms out, burst the memory of rope and helplessness.
He gulped air and tried to speak, but no words came. Instead, he turned violently on his heel, seized a stone from the ground, and flung it at the stone wall. It struck with a crack like a bullet, and a gull that had been sitting on the wall rose with a shriek and flapped away, dropping a large wet splatter of feces on the ground between the two men.
Marion looked at him with concern.
Roger cleared his throat and spat on the ground. He didn’t apologize; there wasn’t anything he could say.
“I’ll tell him,” he said, hoarse and formal. “Thank you for your advice, sir.”
He was trembling. The sense of something coming hadn’t gone away; it was growing. The ground seemed to be vibrating, but it must be only him.
A young lieutenant came through the gate beneath the Star of David, face lit with fear and excitement.
“They’re waiting for you, Colonel.”
Marion nodded to the boy and stood up.
“You can’t leave, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically to Roger. “It will begin soon. Do you want to fight? I can give you a good rifle.”
“I—no.” Roger touched the stock at his throat. Marion’s attention was focused on the sounds behind the cemetery wall. No, it wasn’t his imagination; the ground was vibrating. Horses. The horses … “But I—I’d like to help. If I can.”
“Bon,” said Marion softly, almost absently. He slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and hitched it up on his shoulders, fingers twitching the lower buttons into place without looking. But his attention came back to Roger, just for a moment.
“Go back into camp, then,” he said. “And wait. If things go wrong, you can help bury us. Or if they go right, I expect.”
Marion looked toward the gate and shook his head slightly.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this, no,” he said, as though to himself, and went off, the young lieutenant falling into step behind him.
Roger hesitated for a split second, then followed, stretching his legs to catch up.
“I’m no good with a rifle,” he said. “But if you can give me a sword, I’ll go with you.” Marion cast him the briefest of glances, nodded, and made a small gesture to the lieutenant.
“Bon,” he said. “Come on, then.”
91
Besieged
BRIANNA WAS CUTTING UP a bit of fried chicken in the kitchen for Mandy when she heard a tapping at the window. She looked up in surprise to see Lord John outside, in uniform. He grimaced and nodded, indicating that he would like to come in out of the rain.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, opening the door into the back garden. She’d had tea with him twice since their arrival, but hadn’t expected an informal visit.
“I wanted to see you for a moment,” he replied, stepping in and taking the towel she offered him, “but I can’t spare the time for civilities with Mr. or Mrs. Brumby. Thank you, my dear.” He took off his hat, wiped his face, and brushed at the shoulders of his blue cloak, then handed back the towel.
“I came to tell you that the siege will shortly be at an end,” he said carefully, glancing at Jem, Mandy, and Mrs. Upton, the cook.
“Really? That’s—” she stopped abruptly, seeing his face. “What … makes you think so?” she asked carefully, and he gave her a brief smile.