“Did he—does he have a wife?” she asked, remembering her own feelings when she’d thought for an instant that Roger—
“No,” Pinckney said. His eyes were fixed on Pulaski’s face. “He never married. No money, of course. And no interest, really, in women.”
“His family in Poland?” Brianna ventured. “Perhaps I should make a likeness for them, as well?”
Captain Pinckney lifted his gaze then, but only to exchange a brief glance with Lieutenant Hanson.
“He didn’t speak of them, ma’am,” the lieutenant said, and bit his lip, looking down at the dead man. “He—” He swallowed, audibly. “He was kind enough to say that we—we were his family.”
“I see,” she said quietly, and did. “For all of you, then.”
She glanced down at the body, absently noting the details of the clean dress uniform in which they’d clothed him and wondering morbidly exactly where and how he’d been wounded. Could she ask?
There was a deep gash in Pulaski’s head, starting just above one temple, the wound a reddish black, with tiny crumbs of blackened skin along its edges. Looking closer, where the gash disappeared under the general’s hair, she thought she perceived … without thinking, she put out a finger and felt the cold skull give under her touch, light as it was. She heard Captain Pinckney draw in a sharp breath and hastily removed the finger.
“Grapeshot?” William asked, sounding mildly interested.
“Yes, sir,” Captain Pinckney replied, with an air of somber rebuke that she felt was aimed at her. “He was struck in several places—in the body and head.”
“Poor man,” Brianna said softly. She felt a strong urge to touch him again—to lay a hand gently on his chest, covered by the silver-banded red facing of his uniform—the uniform had a high collar, made of some kind of white fur … no, it was lambswool, lined with grubby pink velvet—but felt she couldn’t, under the censorious gaze of the captain.
“The doctor—our doctor—thought he might be saved.” Pinckney had lowered his voice discreetly, talking directly to William. “He was conscious, speaking … but he insisted upon being taken aboard the Wasp, and the navy doctor …” He cleared his throat explosively and took a deep breath. “It was the wound in his groin that went bad, or so I was told.”
“A great shame, sir,” William said, and clearly meant it. “A very gallant gentleman.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said, and she could tell that he had warmed toward William.
“I understand that my sister is to make a likeness of the general,” William said, and she looked up. He nodded to her, then tilted his head toward the captain. “Would you tell Captain Pinckney what things you require for the task, sister?”
Hearing the word “sister” in his voice again gave her an odd little bloom of warmth in the middle of her chest.
“And while things are being prepared,” he added, before she could speak, “perhaps she might be given something to eat—we came at once in answer to General Lincoln’s request.”
“Oh. Of course. Certainly.” The captain looked over his shoulder. “Lieutenant Hanson—will you see to finding something for the lady and her escorts?”
“To be eaten somewhere else,” William said firmly.
LIGHT. THAT WAS the first thing. And somewhere to sit. A place to set her implements. A cup of water.
“That’s really all I need,” she said, with a glance back toward the silent tent. She hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know whether you were thinking that you’d like—eventually, I mean—like a painting of the general, or—or were you thinking just a drawing, or drawings? The message just said a likeness, I mean, and I can do whatever you like, though all I can do today is to make sketches and notes for a … more formal likeness.”
“Oh.” Captain Pinckney drew a deep breath, frowning, and she saw his eyes slide sideways for an instant, then back to her. He straightened his shoulders. “I don’t believe that has been decided as yet, Mrs. MacKenzie. But I do assure you that—that you will be compensated adequately for whatever … form the likeness may take. I will guarantee that personally.”
“Oh. I wasn’t worried about that.” She flushed slightly with embarrassment. “I hadn’t expected to be paid—er … I mean … I intended from the start to do this just as a gesture of … goodwill. In support of the—the army, I mean.”
All four men stared at her, with varying degrees of astonishment. Her flush grew hotter.
It hadn’t occurred to her that Lord John hadn’t told William she was a rebel. Dr. Wallace undoubtedly knew her political allegiance, but perhaps had thought it more discreet not to mention it. And she’d been staying in a Loyalist household in a city under British occupation, employed by a very prominent Loyalist.
Well, the cat was out of the bag now. She gave William a level look and raised one brow. He raised one back at her and looked away.
It was midafternoon; the light was going already; it would be dark in a couple of hours. There would be candles, Captain Pinckney assured her, as many as she wanted. Or a lantern, perhaps?
“Perhaps,” she said. “I’ll make as many sketches as I can. Er … how long …?” Given the stench of the dead man, she imagined they must be wanting to get him underground as quickly as possible.
“We’ll bury him with the proper honors tomorrow morning,” Captain Pinckney said, correctly interpreting her question. “The men will come this evening, after supper, to pay their respects. Um … will that be all right?”
She was taken aback, but only for a moment, imagining this process of visitation.
“Yes, perfectly all right,” she said firmly. “I’ll draw them, too.”
95
Pozegnanie
SHE SAT, UNOBTRUSIVE IN the shadows. Head bent, the soft shush of her charcoal lost in the clearing of throats, the rustle of clothing. But she watched them, in ones and twos and threes, as they ducked under the open tent flap and came to the general’s side. There each man paused to look on his face, calm in the candlelight, and she caught what she could of the drifting currents that crossed their own faces: shadows of grief and sorrow, eyes sometimes dark with fear, or blank with shock and tiredness.
Often, they wept.
William and John Cinnamon flanked her, standing just behind on either side, silent and respectful. General Lincoln’s orderly had offered them stools, but they had courteously refused, and she found their buttressing presences oddly comforting.
The soldiers came by companies, the uniforms (in some cases, only militia badges) changing. John Cinnamon shifted his weight now and then, and occasionally took a deep breath or cleared his throat. William didn’t.
What was he doing? she wondered. Counting the soldiers? Assessing the condition of the American troops? They were shabby; dirty and unkempt, and in spite of their respectful demeanor, few of the companies seemed to have any notion of order.
For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder just what William’s motive in coming had been. She’d been so happy at meeting him that she’d accepted his statement that he wouldn’t let his sister go unaccompanied into a military camp at face value. Was it true, though? From the little Lord John had said, she knew that William had resigned his army commission—but that didn’t mean he’d changed sides. Or that he had no interest in the state of the American siege, or that he didn’t intend to pass on any information he gained during this visit. “I was a soldier,” he’d said. Clearly he still knew people in the British army.