Hal was starting to wheeze in earnest; John could hear the gasp of his inhaled breath, the faint whistle as it went out.
“Sit down,” John said, and steered him to a chair. “You’ve got to stop now. Any more and you won’t be able to breathe and I bloody don’t know what to do about that. So you just bloody have to stop,” he added firmly.
Hal sat, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He was still shuddering, but the first shock of grief had passed, and John heard him now blowing out his breath and hauling it in again in a rhythmic, measured way that must be the technique Claire Fraser had taught him for not dying of asthma. John was—not for the first time in their shared acquaintance—grateful to her.
He pulled up another chair and sat down, feeling as though his own insides had been scooped out. For a few seconds, he couldn’t think. About anything. His mind had gone completely blank. He was gazing beyond Hal to a small table, though, and on it was a bottle of something. He got up and fetched the bottle, pulled the cork with his teeth, and took a gulp of the contents, not caring what it was.
It was wine. He swallowed, breathed, then took Hal’s hand and wrapped it round the bottle.
“Dottie’s alive,” he said, and sat down. “Remember, she’s alive.”
“Is she?” Hal said, between breaths. “She was—is—ill. Very ill. He said so.”
“Hunter is a physician and a good one,” John said firmly. “He won’t let her die.”
“He let my granddaughter die,” Hal said passionately, forgetting to breathe. He coughed and choked, his grasp whitening on the neck of the wine bottle.
“The child was his daughter,” John said, taking it from him. “He didn’t let her die. People do die, and you know it. Stop talking and bloody breathe, will you?”
“I know … better … than any … one,” Hal managed, and succumbed to a fit of coughing. A hank of hair had come loose, and strands were sticking to his face. The dark hair was streaked with white; John couldn’t tell how much was powder.
Hal did know, of course. His first child had died at birth, along with its mother. That had been many years ago, but such things never went away altogether.
“Breathe,” John said sharply. “We have to fetch Dottie, don’t we? I can’t find her and then tell her first thing that you’re dead.”
Hal made a sound that wasn’t a laugh, but might have been if he’d had more breath. He pursed his lips and blew, though the resulting air was only a thread. Then his chest relaxed; it was no more than a fraction, but it was visible, and John took a deep breath of his own. Hal stretched out a hand toward the letter on the desk, and John fetched it for him.
He picked the ball gingerly apart, smoothing it flat on the table.
“Why didn’t … he fucking … write the bloody … date?” Hal demanded, straightening up and wiping a hand roughly down his face. “We’ve no … idea how long … it’s been since it—since it happened. Dottie could be dead by now!”
John forbore to point out that if that were the case, Hal’s knowing the date of Hunter’s letter would make no difference. It wasn’t a moment for logic.
“Well, we need to go and get her anyway, don’t we?”
“Yes, and now!” Hal flung himself round, wheezing loudly and glaring at the things around him, as though daring any of them to get in his way.
Perhaps just a little logic …
“I don’t know what the army would do to Hunter if they catch him,” John said. “But I know damn well what they’d do to you, should you just—go. And so do you,” he added needlessly.
Hal had got himself in hand. He glared at the letter, mouth tight and wet eyes burning, then looked up at John. He pursed, blew, and gasped, “Well, what does he mean … you can ‘discern’ his friend’s … name? Why you?”
“I don’t know. Let me see that again.” He took the letter, gently, feeling the weight of sorrow it bore. He’d seen enough letters stained with tears—sometimes his own—to know the depth of Hunter’s anguish.
He had a good idea what Hunter meant by “discern.” The man had traveled in company with Jamie Fraser, he knew that much—and he knew that Fraser had been a Jacobite spy in Paris, among other things. The word “spy” gave him a disturbing echo of Percy, but he pushed it aside, holding the paper up to the light, in case there should be secret writing in vinegar or milk—sometimes you could see the faint difference in reflection on the paper’s surface, even though the words would come into view only when heated.
It was simpler than that. There were words written on the back of the letter, written lightly with a pencil. It looked like a brief paragraph written in Latin. The words were indeed Latin, but strung together without meaning. Even Hal could have recognized it as a coded message, though he wouldn’t have known what to do with it.
He smiled a little, despite the seriousness of the situation. It was a cipher, with “friend” as the key.
Five minutes’ work gave him the name: Elmsworth, Wilkins Corner, Virginia.
“We’ll send William,” he said to Hal, with as much confidence as he could manage. “Don’t worry. He’ll bring her back.”
WILLIAM FELT AS though he’d been struck in the chest by a cannonball. His mouth opened and closed—he could feel it, automatic as the wooden jaws of a marionette—but nothing came out for a moment.
“That’s very terrible,” he managed at last, in a strangled croak. “Sit down, Papa. You’re going to fall.”
His father did look as though someone had cut his strings. Dead white, and his hand trembled when William pushed a glass of brandy into it. He looked round the inside of the little shed William shared with John Cinnamon as though he’d never seen it before, then sat down and drank the brandy.
“Well,” he said, coughed, and cleared his throat. “Well.”
“Not all that well,” William said, peering at him. “How’s Uncle Hal?” His own sense of shock was beginning to subside, though there was still an iron weight in his chest.
“As you might expect,” his father said, and took a deep, wet breath. “Off his head,” he added more clearly, having taken another large swallow. “Wanting to ride off directly and fetch Dottie himself. Not that I blame him.” He took another. “I want to do that, too. But I doubt that Sir Henry would see it that way. War, you know.”
War, indeed. Half the regiment was set to move on Tuesday, to join Clinton’s troops at Charles Town. The weight had shifted lower in his body, and he could breathe now.
“I’ll go, of course,” William said, and in a softer tone, added, “Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll bring her back.”
99
Is. 6:8
“I’M SORRY,” ROGER SAID at last. “I had to …”
“It’s all right,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”
“Well, maybe not all that matters,” he said, the ghost of laughter in his voice. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday and I smell like a rubbish fire.”