He whipped off his hat, pressed it to his heart, and bowed his head. To his astonishment, Brianna did the same.
There were no coffins; this was a funeral of the poor. Two small bodies wrapped in rough shrouds were borne out on planks and gently lifted into the wagon.
“No! No!” A woman, who must be the children’s mother, broke from the arms of her supporters and ran to the wagon, trying to climb in, screaming, “Noooo!” at the top of her voice. “No, no! Let me go with them, don’t take ’em away from me, no!”
A wave of horrified, stricken friends closed round the woman, pulling her back, trying by sheer force of compassion to quiet her.
“Oh, dear God,” Brianna said in a choked voice. William glanced at her and saw that tears were running down her face, her eyes fixed on the pitiful scene, and he recalled with a shock the children he had heard playing outside the Brumby house—hers.
He reached out a hand and grasped her arm—she let go of the reins with that hand and seized his as though she were drowning, clinging for dear life, remarkable strength for a woman. Several men had come to take up the shafts, and the wagon’s wheels creaked into motion, the small procession beginning its mournful journey. The mother had ceased wailing now; she moved as though sleepwalking after the wagon, stumbling as her knees gave way every few steps in spite of the support of two women who held her up.
“Where is her husband?” Brianna whispered, more to herself than to William, but he answered.
“He’ll likely be with the army.” Much more likely, he was dead as well, but his sister probably knew that as well as he did.
Her own husband … God knew where he was. She’d avoided answering him when he’d asked, but it was apparent that MacKenzie was a rebel. If he’d been in the recent battle—but no, he’d survived that, at least, William reminded himself. She didn’t ask about him, while we were in camp … why the devil not? Still, he could feel a small constant tremor running through his sister’s hand, and he squeezed back, trying to give her reassurance.
“Monsieur?” A high-pitched voice by his left stirrup startled him and he jerked in the saddle, making his horse shift and stamp.
“What?” he said, looking down incredulously. “Who the devil are you?”
The small black boy—Christ, he was wearing the remnants of a dark-blue uniform, so he must be, or recently had been, a drummer—bowed solemnly. His face, ear, and hand were black with soot on one side, and there was a deal of blood on his clothes, but he didn’t seem to be wounded.
“Pardon, monsieur. Parlez-vous Français?”
“Oui,” William replied, astonished. “Pourquoi?”
The child—no, he was older than he looked; he stood up straight and looked William in the eye, maybe eleven or twelve—coughed up a wad of black phlegm and spat it out, then shook his head as though straightening his wits.
“Votre ami a besoin d’aide. Le grand Indien,” he added as an afterthought.
“Is he saying something about John Cinnamon?” Brianna asked, frowning. She brushed at the tears streaking her face and sat up straight, gathering her own wits.
“Yes. He says—I take it you don’t speak French?”
“Some.” She gave him a look.
“Right.” He turned to the boy, who was swaying gently to and fro, staring at something invisible, plainly in the grip of exhaustion. “Dites-moi. Vite!”
This the boy did, with admirable simplicity.
“Stercus,” William muttered, then turned to his sister. “He says a press-gang from the French ships heard Cinnamon speaking French to someone on the shore; they followed him and tried to take him. He got away from them, but he’s hiding—the boy says in a cave, though that seems unlikely … anyway, he needs help.”
“Let’s go, then.” She gathered up her reins and looked behind her, judging the turning space.
He’d almost given up being surprised by her, but evidently not quite.
“Are you insane?” he inquired, as politely as possible. “Steh,” he added firmly to his own horse.
“What language are you speaking now?” she said, seeming impatient.
“‘Steh’ is German for ‘stand still’—when talking to a horse—and ‘stercus’ means ‘shit,’” he informed her crisply. “You have children, madam—like the ones you have just been weeping over. If you don’t want yours to be similarly afflicted, I suggest you go home and tend them.”
The blood shot up into her face as though someone had lit a fire under her skin and she glared at him, gathering up the loose ends of her reins in one hand in a manner suggesting that she was considering lashing him across the face with them.
“You little bas—” she began, and then pressed her lips together, cutting off the word.
“Bastard,” he finished for her. “Yes, I am. Go home.” And turning his back on her, he reached down a hand to the boy and lifted him ’til he could get a foot on the stirrup and scramble up behind.
“Où allons-nous?” he asked briefly, and the boy pointed behind them, toward the river.
A large feminine hand grabbed his horse’s bridle. The horse snorted and shook his head in protest, but she held on.
“Has anyone ever told you that being reckless will get you killed?” she asked, imitating his polite tone. “Not that I care that much, but you’ll likely get this kid, as well as John Cinnamon, killed too.”
“Kid?” was all he could think of saying, for the collision of words trying to get out of his mouth.
“Child, boy, lad, him!” she snapped, jerking her chin toward the little drummer behind him.
“Quel est le problème de cette femme?” the boy demanded indignantly.
“Dieu seul sait, je ne sais pas,” William said briefly over his shoulder. God knows, I don’t.
“Will you bloody let go?” he said to his sister.
“In a minute, yes,” Brianna said, fixing him with a dark-blue glare. “Listen to me.”
He rolled his eyes but gave her a short, sharp nod and a glare in return. She sat back in her saddle a bit but didn’t let go.
“Good,” she said. “I walked up and down that shore nearly every day, before the Americans showed up, and my k—my children poked into every cranny in those bluffs. There are only four places that could possibly be called caves, and only one of them is deep enough that somebody Cinnamon’s size could have a hope of hiding in.”
She paused for breath and wiped her free hand under her nose, eyeing him to see if he was paying attention.
“I hear you,” he said testily. “And?”
“And that one isn’t a cave at all. It’s the end of a tunnel.”
The flush of temper left him abruptly.
“Where’s the other end?”
She smiled slightly and let go of the bridle.
“See? You may be reckless, but I knew you weren’t stupid. The other end is in the cellar of a tavern on Broad Street. They call it the Pirates’ House, and so far as I know from the talk in town, there’s a good reason for that. But if I were you—”
He snorted briefly and gathered up his reins. The end of the alley was clear now, emptied of wagon, mourners, and small shrouded bodies.