“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.”
It did, another volley of defiant artillery, but the mules and horses merely danced and snorted this time, not taken by surprise.
“But?” she said, neatly returning to her place at his side. He gave her a sidelong smile.
“But they know the end is coming,” he finished. “But as for my knowledge of the situation, I will admit it’s more than observation. My fath—” A brief, fierce grimace crossed his face and disappeared. “Lord John told me about the battle. He wasn’t in any doubt as to the outcome, nor am I.”
“So the siege is about to lift?” she persisted, wanting certainty.
“Yes.”
“Oh, good,” she said, and let her shoulders slump in relief. He gave her an odd, interested look, but said no more and urged his horse into a faster walk.
CAPTAIN PINCKNEY WAS perhaps thirty and probably good-looking, though sleeplessness and defeat had made him haggard. He blinked as Bree alighted from her mule without assistance and turned to greet him; she topped him by four or five inches. He closed his eyes for an instant, opened them again, and bowed to her with impeccable courtesy.
“Your most obedient, Mrs. MacKenzie, and I am to give you the utmost compliments of General Lincoln and the troops. I am also to convey his deep sense of obligation and gratitude for your kind assistance.”
He spoke like an Englishman, though she thought there was a southern softness in his vowels. She didn’t try to curtsy, but bowed to him in return.
“I’m very glad to help,” she said. “I understand there may be some urgency in the … er … situation. Perhaps you could show me where General Pulaski is at the moment?”
Captain Pinckney glanced at William and John Cinnamon, who had dismounted and handed their reins to the orderly accompanying the captain.
“William Ransom, sir, your servant.” William bowed and, straightening, nodded at Cinnamon. “My friend and I have come to escort my sister. We will remain, and see her back when her errand is finished.”
“Your sister? Oh, good.” Captain Pinckney looked substantially happier at the revelation that he wouldn’t be solely responsible for her. “Your servant, sir. Follow me.”
The guns went off again, a ragged volley. This time, she didn’t jump.
THE DEAD GENERAL lay in a small, worn green tent on the riverbank, apart from the camp. This placement might have been a sign of respect, but there was a practical aspect to it, too, as Brianna discovered when Captain Pinckney removed a crumpled but clean handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to her before courteously raising the tent flap for her.
“Thank y— Oh, my God.” A few late flies rose sluggishly from the corpse, wafted on a rising stink that shrouded him more thoroughly than the clean sheet over his face and upper body.
“Gangrene,” William said behind her, under his breath. “Jesus.” John Cinnamon coughed heavily, once, and fell silent.
“I do apologize, Mrs. MacKenzie,” Pinckney was saying. He’d taken hold of her elbow, as though afraid she might either bolt or faint.
“I—It’s all right,” she managed, through the folds of the handkerchief. It wasn’t, but she stiffened her spine, tensed her stomach muscles, and edged up to the makeshift bier on which they’d laid Casimir Pulaski. William stepped up beside her at once. He didn’t say anything or touch her, but she was glad of his presence.
With a sidelong glance to be sure she wasn’t about to faint, Captain Pinckney drew down the sheet.
The general was pale, eyes closed, his skin faintly mottled with purplish undertones and a greenish tinge about the jawline. She’d have to adjust that; they might want a death portrait, but she was pretty sure they didn’t actually want him to look really dead—just … romantically dead. She swallowed and tasted the thick, sweetly nasty air, even through the cloth. She coughed, breathed out strongly through her nose, and moved closer.
“Romantic” is the word, she thought. He had a high brow (and a slightly receding hairline …), a small dark mustache, neatly waxed to make the ends turn up, and his features were an interesting mix of strength and delicacy. He had no expression; he must have lapsed into unconsciousness before he died (and a good thing if he did, poor man …).