He squared his shoulders and blew out his breath. Time enough to deal with her when he was out of this place.
If Ben hadn’t had him shot at dawn, he wasn’t going to kill him. Aside from the fear that William would start shouting incriminating things on his way to the firing squad, there was Dottie. William had no doubt that she loved Ben and Adam and Henry; it was a close-knit family. But Dottie was fond of him, too—and beyond that, she was a Quaker now. Having spent some time traveling with Rachel and Denzell Hunter, William had considerable respect for Quakers in general, and while Dottie was what he thought was called a professed Friend rather than a born one, she certainly possessed enough native stubbornness to give any born Quaker a run for his or her money.
He was therefore not surprised when a guard abruptly opened the door to his cell an hour later and Denzell Hunter walked in, his scuffed physician’s bag in hand.
“I trust I see thee well, Friend,” he said. His voice was pleasant, neutral—but his eyes were warm behind their spectacles. “How does thee do this morning?”
“I’ve done better,” William said, with a glance at the door. “I’m sure a drink of brandy and a bit of Latin will fix me right up, though.”
“It’s a bit early for brandy, but I’ll do my best. Take off thy britches and bend over the bench, please.”
“What?”
“I mean to give thee a clyster to settle thy humors,” Denzell said, jerking his head toward the door. “Of course, ice water is not the best medium for the purpose …” He walked to the door and rapped sharply. “Friend Chesley? Will thee fetch me a bucket of warm water, please?”
“Warm water?” The guard had, of course, been standing just outside the door, listening. “Er … yes, sir … I suppose … you’re sure as you’re safe in there with him, sir? Maybe you’d best step out here while I get the water.”
“No, Friend, there is no danger,” Denzell said, motioning William to lie down on the bench. “He is suffering from an injury to the head, among other things; I doubt he can stand.”
There was a scraping noise as Chesley unbolted the door and peered suspiciously in. William emitted a faint moan and swooned, one hand pressed to his brow, the other trailing off the bench in a languishing sort of way.
“Ah,” said Chesley, and closed the door again. Footsteps crunched away.
“He didn’t bolt it,” William whispered, sitting up abruptly. “Shall I run for it now?”
“No, thee wouldn’t get far and it’s not necessary. Dottie is giving Benjamin his breakfast and convincing him that the best thing to do is to give orders for thee to be taken to General Washington’s headquarters; that’s the Ford house in Morristown. I am meant to be administering smallpox inoculations at the church this afternoon; I will therefore insist upon accompanying thee to Washington, to support thee in thy infirmity.” Here he paused to look William over, grinned briefly, and shook his head. “Thee looks convincingly battered. I think thee might suffer an effusion of blood to the brain and unfortunately die as a result before we reach the general.”
“A fine physician you are,” William said. “Ought I to have a fit and foam at the mouth, to be convincing?”
“Moaning loudly and soiling thyself will be adequate, I think.”
105
Four Hundred Miles to Think
THE ROADS WERE EITHER half-frozen slush or knee-deep mud, and the trees held their brown sticky buds tight to their twigs, refusing to let a single leaf poke its tender head out into this inhospitable climate. Still, William could feel the restlessness of the air; a sense of something alive and wild moving in the air between the soft, fat flakes of snow.
After parting from Denzell in Morristown, he’d resisted the strong impulse to go to Mount Josiah when he reached Virginia. He didn’t need solitude or contemplation now, though; the choice was clear enough, and all the thinking he needed to do could be done on horseback.
He’d had nearly four hundred miles and three weeks of riding to make up his mind, and it wasn’t nearly long enough. Good thing I’ve got another four hundred miles to think, he thought, grimly dismounting and picking up the horse’s mud-clogged left fore. Betsy had pulled up lame, and William hoped it was just a stone, and not a strain or a hairline crack in the bone. The thought of having to shoot her and leave her for the wolves and foxes was worse than the thought of walking for another thirty miles through ice and mud—but not by much.
Betsy was an obliging horse and let William squeeze her leg, feel his way down the cannon bone, and gently work her pastern joint. So far, so good. His fingers burrowed through the frozen mud caked thick around the mare’s hoof, his thumbs working into the frog—and there it was. A sharp stone, wedged solid beneath the edge of his shoe.
“Good girl,” he said, relief puffing out with his breath. He got the stone out, eventually, and walked Betsy for a bit, but the mare seemed sound, and they resumed their usual pace, going as fast as the road allowed. Weary of thinking, and hungry, William shoved all concerns beyond reaching a village before nightfall out of his head.
He succeeded, and it wasn’t until he’d looked after Betsy, eaten a decent supper, and retired to a fireless room and a cold, damp bed with a mattress stuffed with moldy corn husks that he resumed his cogitations.
Who first?
Every day he’d gone back and forth, back and forth in his mind, until his head buzzed and the road blurred before his eyes.
He was going to have to talk to all of them, but whom should he tell first? By rights, it should be Uncle Hal. Benjamin was his son; he had to know. But the thought of telling his uncle, of seeing realization wash over his haggard face … William had heard more than one English father declare fiercely that he should rather his son be dead than a coward or a traitor. How many of them really meant that, he wondered—and was Uncle Hal one of those who would?
His strong urge was to go to his own father first. Tell Papa everything, seek his advice, and … he smacked his fist into the squashy mattress. Whom was he trying to fool? He wanted to hand the burden of his knowledge over to Papa and let him tell Uncle Hal.
“Coward,” he muttered, turning restlessly over. He’d gone to bed fully dressed and in his greatcoat, only removing his boots, and moving destroyed the fragile layer of warmth he’d managed to build up.
Coward.
Without his consciously making a choice, it had gradually become clear to him, and now, in this clammy, dark, fireless room smelling of frozen sweat and burnt meat, that word at last gave him his answer.
Her. It had to be her.
He tried telling himself that this was the fair thing to do: Amaranthus needed to know first that he’d discovered Ben, in order to take whatever action she could to protect herself once the truth was known. But he’d had enough of lies and lying, and he’d be damned if he lied now to himself. She’d made a fool of him and damn near dragged him into her web.
He wanted to tell Amaranthus because he wanted to see the look on her face when he did.
Decision made, he went to sleep and dreamed of beetles with tiny red eyes.
WILLIAM TOOK HIS greatcoat off for the first time when he reached New Bern. It was raining, but it was a soft rain that smelled of spring and his skin yearned for air and freshness, and his limbs for a good stretch. It would need to be a good deal warmer before he took much else off, but he did find an inn with a stable for Betsy, and once having seen to the horse’s needs, he walked down to the shore, shucked his boots and filthy stockings with a sigh of relief, and walked out onto the cold, wet sand above the tide.