“You are my sister, madam,” he said, and with no more than an instant’s hesitation, added, “and I’m glad of that. But you’re not my mother. In fact, I’m not stupid, and neither is John Cinnamon.” He paused for an instant, then added, “Thank you, though.”
“Good luck,” she said simply, and sat watching as he turned and rode away.
BRIANNA DIDN’T LEAVE the alley at once. She watched William ride out, back stiff with determination, the boy clinging to his waist. From the looks of it, the child had never sat on a horse before, was terrified, and was damned if he’d admit it. Between him and William, she thought John Cinnamon might have chosen worse, in terms of allies. She quivered with the urge to follow William, not to let him go alone, but he was—damn him!—right. She couldn’t risk something happening to her, not with Jem and Mandy …
She gathered her reins and clicked her tongue; more people were coming through the square, toward the church. Soberly dressed, walking close together. This church had no bell, but one was ringing, tolling, somewhere across the city. More funerals, she thought, and her heart squeezed tight in her chest. Slowly, she rode out among the mourners and turned up Abercorn Street.
How many people can you worry about at once? she wondered. Jem, Mandy, Roger, Fanny, her parents, now William and John Cinnamon … She was still shaken by the dead children and their mother; this, on top of a night spent in the marshes with Casimir Pulaski, made her feel as though her skin were about to peel off. A sudden memory of her last sight of the general surged into her mind, and a high, completely unhinged giggle escaped her. Just as suddenly, bile rose in her throat and her stomach turned over. “Oh, God.”
She fought down the surge of nausea, but saw that people were staring at her and realized that, in addition to laughing like a loon, she was still clutching her tricorne in one hand, her hair blowing loose, and her legs scratched and mosquito-bitten, bare from knees to absurdly elaborate shoe tops—she’d taken off her wet stockings the night before and forgotten to find them in the morning. Suddenly embarrassed by the sidelong glances and whispers, she straightened up defiantly, shoulders back. A big hand clutched the bare calf of her leg, and she yelped and swatted whoever it was with her hat, making the horse shy violently.
Who it was was Roger, who shied violently, too.
“Christ!”
“Shi— I mean S-word!” she said, grappling her horse back under control. “What did you do that for?”
“I called, but ye didn’t hear me.” He slapped the horse companionably on the withers and reached up a hand to her. He looked tired, and his eyes were creased with worry. “Come down and tell me what the devil’s been happening. Did ye go to the American camp? I shouldn’t have asked ye to— God, ye look like death.”
Her hands were actually shaking, and in fact, she realized, she felt rather like death. When her feet touched the ground, she nearly fell into his arms, hugging him, and began to live again.
98
Minerva Joy
LORD JOHN RETURNED FROM a visit to the local hospital, where the British wounded—along with those Savannah inhabitants injured by flying splinters or house fires—were being treated, to find his brother sitting at his desk in the study, looking as though he’d been struck by lightning.
“Hal?” John said, alarmed. “What’s happened?”
Hal’s mouth opened, but only a small wheezing noise came out. There was an opened letter on the desk, looking as though it had traveled some distance through rain and mud, and possibly been trampled by a horse along the way. Hal pushed this wordlessly toward him, and he picked it up.
Friend Pardloe,
I write in torment of mind and spirit, which is increased by the knowledge that I must oblige thee now to share it. Forgive me.
Dorothea gave birth to a healthy girl, whom we named Minerva Joy. She was born within the precincts of the prison at Stony Point, as I was confined there and I would not trust Dorothea’s welfare to the local midwife, whose competence I doubted.
Mina (as we called her) thrived and bloomed, as did her mother. There was an outbreak of fever within the prison, though, and fearing for their health, I sent them into the town, where they took refuge with a Quaker family. Alas, no more than a week after their departure, I received a note from the husband of this family, with the dreadful news that two members of his own family had fallen ill with a bloody flux, and that my own dear ones showed signs of the same disease.
I sought leave at once to go to treat my family, and was (reluctantly) granted a temporary parole for the purpose. (The prison’s commander, valuing my services to the sick, did not wish me gone for long.)
I was in time to hold my daughter through the final hours of her life. I thank God for that gift, and for the gift that she was to her parents.
Dorothea was desperately ill, but was spared by the mercy of God. She is still alive, but is sorely oppressed in both body and mind—and there was still much sickness in the town. I could not leave her.
I know thy sense of military honor, but Friends do not hold the laws of man to be above those of God. I buried my child, and then broke my parole, taking Dorothea to a place of greater safety, where I might, with the goodness of God, try to heal her.
I dare not write the name of the place where we are, for fear that this missive may be intercepted. I have no notion what penalty I might suffer for having broken my parole if I am captured—nor do I care—but if I am taken or hanged or shot, Dorothea will be alone, and she is in no condition to be left alone.
I know thy love for her and therefore trust that thee will send what help is possible. I have a friend who knows of her whereabouts and has been of the greatest assistance to us. Thy brother, I think, will discern his name and direction.
Denzell Hunter
John dropped the letter as though it were on fire.
“Oh, Jesus. Hal …”
His brother had risen from the desk and was swaying, his face blank with shock and the same grimy, crumpled white as the letter.
John seized his brother, holding him as hard as he could. Hal felt like a tailor’s dummy in his arms, save for a deep shudder that seemed to pass through him in long, rolling waves.
“No,” Hal whispered, and his arms tightened round John’s shoulders with a sudden, convulsive strength. “No!”
“I know,” John whispered. “I know.” He rubbed his brother’s back, feeling the bony shoulder blades under the red broadcloth, repeating, “I know,” at intervals, as Hal shuddered and gasped for breath.
“Shh,” John said, rocking slowly from foot to foot, taking his brother’s reluctant weight with him. He didn’t expect Hal to shush, of course; it was just the only vaguely soothing thing he could think of to say. The next natural thing would have been to say, “It’ll be all right,” but naturally, it never would.
He’d been here before, he thought dimly. Not in a cluttered office; it had been in the sala of an old house in Havana, a painted angel with spread wings fading on the plaster wall, who watched with compassion as he held his mother as she wept over the death of his cousin Olivia and her small daughter.
His throat had a lump the size of a golf ball in it, but he couldn’t give way now, any more than he had done in Havana.