Marcus turned to find Brother Andrew standing at his elbow.
“I was taught to watch for them, when my name was Ofodobendo Wooma and I was still in the land of my fathers,” Brother Andrew continued. “Lightning and rain and the winds—these were all signs that the gods were angry and must be appeased. Later, when my name was York and I lived with a Jewish master on the island of Manhattan, he planned on selling me to Madeira in exchange for some wine. I prayed for deliverance, and one of the Brethren bought me instead and brought me here. That was a sign, too—of God’s love.”
Lafayette listened, fascinated.
“But I do not think this broken wheel should be counted among them, Brother Lafayette,” Brother Andrew said with a shake of his head. “God does not need to send his poor servants a message that we misjudged the weight of the bell. The broken chain is sign enough.”
“That is what Matthew said,” the marquis said, watching his friend argue with John Adams. Over by the wagon, tempers were fraying.
“Fetch Brother Ettwein,” Brother Eckhardt murmured to Brother Andrew. “Then go back to the mill. They will have need of you before this day is done.”
* * *
—
IT WAS TWILIGHT BEFORE MARCUS had an opportunity to take the medicines to Brother Andrew and Sister Magdalene. The area beside the creek was a hive of activity, even at this late hour, and the lamplight spilled through the windows and illuminated Marcus’s path.
The door to the millworks was ajar and Marcus craned his head around it, wanting to see what was going on inside. The sight that met his eyes was astonishing.
The chevalier de Clermont was working alongside Brother Andrew. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, displaying muscled forearms, and his dark breeches were covered in wood shavings. De Clermont’s skin was pale and smooth, unmarred by the marks of battle common to the soldiers Marcus treated. Not for the first time, Marcus wondered exactly what kind of knight the chevalier de Clermont was, with his craftsman’s skills and preference for the workshop rather than the tavern. The chevalier was a hard man to know—and an even more difficult one to understand.
“I think that’s straight,” the chevalier said, handing a spoke to Brother Andrew. “What do you think?”
Brother Andrew weighed the spoke in his hand and looked down the length of it with a practiced eye. He coughed as he drew the air of the mill into his lungs. “That will do, Brother Matthew. Shall I take them to the wheelwright?”
“Let Doc do it.” The chevalier de Clermont turned and motioned Marcus forward.
“I brought the liniment, Brother Andrew, and the tea,” Marcus said. “Brother Eckhardt made something to treat Sister Magdalene’s hands.”
“She is still down at the laundry,” Brother Andrew said. “I told her not to walk home unaccompanied. I will go—”
“No. I will go and escort Sister Magdalene home,” de Clermont said. “The hill is too much for your lungs at present. Doc will make you some of his tea and then come straight back from the wheelwright and put some liniment on your back. By the time I return with Sister Magdalene, you will be as hale and hearty as the day you married.”
Brother Andrew laughed, but the laughter soon turned to spasms of coughing. Marcus and de Clermont waited in silence until the fit passed and the man was able to breathe again.
“I thank you, Brother Matthew,” Brother Andrew said, “for your kindness.”
“It is nothing, Brother Andrew,” de Clermont said with a bow. “I will return soon.”
Marcus poked at the fire and put the dented kettle on the stove to boil water. Once it was piping hot, he shook out some of the dried herbs from the packet of tea and set it to steep. He made sure Brother Andrew was comfortable and breathing more easily before trotting off with the bundle of wheel spokes. Marcus was saved from having to take them into town by some of the single brethren who were wheeling a metal hoop in that direction, no doubt to go around the new wheel that would carry the statehouse bell out of Bethlehem.
When Marcus returned to the mill, Brother Andrew was still coughing but the fits were less severe. Marcus poured some of the tea into the cup he’d noticed earlier. Brother Andrew sipped at it and his coughing abated further.
“This tastes better than most of what Brother Eckhardt makes,” Brother Andrew commented.
“I put mint in it,” Marcus explained, “just like Tom taught me.”
“And this Tom, he was your brother?” Brother Andrew eyed him over the cup.
“Just someone I knew once.” Marcus turned away.
“I think you are someone who has traveled far, and been known by many names,” Brother Andrew commented. “Like me. Like Brother Matthew.”
“The chevalier de Clermont?” Marcus was surprised. “I have never heard him called anything else, except for his Christian name Matthew.”
“And yet today he answered to Sebastien, when one of the German soldiers called out to him.” Brother Andrew sipped at his tea. “What other names do you answer to, Brother Chauncey?”
Somehow, Brother Andrew had divined that Marcus was not who he seemed to be.
“I answer to Doc,” Marcus replied, making for the door. “The liniment is on the table. Have Sister Magdalene warm her hands before she applies it. Twice or three times a day will help to ease the spasms as well as the tightness in your chest.”
“Once my wife answered to Beulah. Before that, she had another name—one her mother and father gave her.” Brother Andrew’s eyes were unfocused, as though he had forgotten Marcus was in the room. “When we were married, I asked for that name, but she said she no longer remembered it. She said the only name that mattered was the name she took when she was made free.”
Marcus thought of all the names he had gone by in his life—Marcus and Galen, Chauncey and MacNeil, Doc, and boy, and once even son. If he ever married, and his wife asked him his true name, which one would he share with her?
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY, Bethlehem had returned to some semblance of its normal routine. Congress had left town, and the windows of the Sun Inn were flung open to air out the rooms. All of the wagons save one had moved on, along with most of the guards and the camp followers—except for Gerty, who had decided to stay in Bethlehem. Marcus had seen her outside the bakery, talking nonstop in her native language. Some of the brethren were already at work in the fields to the south of town, replacing the fence posts the soldiers had burned in their campfires and raking the manure left by the horses in the trampled buckwheat fields.
In der Platz, a small group of men were lifting the statehouse bell out of the broken wagon. The spokes that Brother Andrew and the chevalier de Clermont had been working on last night were not for a new wheel but a whole new wagon. How the Brethren had managed to construct it so quickly was a mystery. It stood next to the old one, waiting for its cargo.
Marcus watched as the men strained and struggled with the heavy load. Only one man seemed oblivious to the weight: the chevalier de Clermont. His grip on the bell never loosened, and no groans or complaints issued from his lips.
But it was not only the men who were participating in the work taking place in der Platz. A few of the sisters were assisting the process, adjusting ropes and darting to place another block under the wagon’s wheels to keep it steady. A group from the children’s choir stood nearby while their teacher explained what was happening, highlighting the mathematics and engineering that had been used to figure out the best way to transfer the bell from one wagon to another.