The faint thunder of distant cannons invaded his perception as Arthur walked up Church Street with Gates on one side and Scrubs a few steps behind. Happy as his feet—and stomach—were to be on solid ground again, he had a difficult time focusing on the city of Annapolis around him with that familiar echo in the air.
“How far away is it, do you think?” Scrubs spoke in an even tone, but the fact that he spoke at all said volumes.
Gates looked to him. Arthur shrugged. “As faint as it is, it must be at least twenty miles away, I would say. Perhaps as much as thirty, depending on how sound carries here. Not too close.”
But it made his hand reach for the sword no longer fastened to his side. For the Brown Bess no longer slung over his shoulder. It made his ears strain for the next command from his superior officer. It made the scar throb in his leg.
“It sounds like it is from the direction of Washington City.”
Arthur would have to take Scrubs’s word on that one, having never had cause to learn much by way of American geography. “Their capital, is it not? Perhaps we have made progress, then.”
Gates turned on him with an exasperated sigh. “Do watch your tongue, Hart, will you? And your very way of speaking. If we hope to discover information from the locals, we ought not shout from the rooftops that we are British.”
Yet again, Gates managed to make him feel the dunce with the aid of a few curt sentences. “My apologies, sir. I haven’t your experience with the covert.”
“You could at least use common sense. Boy—what is your real name?”
Scrubs looked from Gates to Arthur, his silence pulsing with reticence. But at Gates’s continued stare, he swallowed and said, “Willis, sir.”
Arthur was about to ask if that was his given name or family, but his companion apparently did not care. “You will act as our guide and mouthpiece. And rest assured that while I may not be as familiar with the area as you, I will know if you are lying about anything, and the penalty for such will be severe. Are we clear?”
“As ice.”
No, the boy had certainly not thanked Arthur for getting him off the Falcon. And his tone at that last burned of resentment, in fact. Arthur wiped away the sweat beading on his brow. “’Tis hot as blazes.”
“I told you it would be.” Gates pointed up ahead, past the rows of buildings, many with windows still bricked over to avoid the old window tax, toward the one at the apex of the road, up upon the hill. “The Maryland Inn is there. When we rent our rooms, Willis will tell the proprietor we are from his area in Virginia. Try to imitate his speech or, if you cannot, say nothing.”
Arthur opted for a nod. He longed again for his weapons, a uniform, and a battle plan. Far better that than this underhanded nonsense.
But it was for Gwyneth, so he would do whatever he must. Gwyneth, who he prayed was safely within this very town. Which, given its size, would mean no more than a mile away even now. A bath, a meal, and he could be with her.
Another whisper of a boom echoed through the air. Arthur looked around to try to gauge the townsfolk’s reactions but found none to study. Odd for this time of day, surely. Perhaps Yorrick’s prediction was true and most of them had fled. Or perhaps the distant sound of war had scared them all indoors.
They hiked in silence up the hill, the slope of which would have seemed gentle had he not been two months aboard a vessel that afforded him little exercise, and had the very fires of Hades not been trying to devour them even now. By the time they reached the inn, Arthur was silently cursing himself for not taking better care of his condition on the Falcon. He ought to have anticipated this and found a way to drill in his cabin. Close quarters was no excuse for sloth. Although he had hardly felt up to exercise, what with the constant motion of the ship churning his stomach.
The door to the inn stood open, as if the meager air moving up the street would do anything to cool the interior. They moved inside, Gates having waved Scrubs into the lead, but to no purpose. No one stood behind the desk, nor was anyone anywhere within sight. Gates tapped the bell, but a full minute of waiting produced no results.
Another muted blast of a cannon.
Gates spun for the door again. “Come, this is foolishness. Annapolis has few enough residents that all know each other. We will simply ask someone.”
Arthur and Scrubs followed him back out, where he looked around and chose a house seemingly at random, marched up to it, and knocked upon the door. A door which remained firmly closed. Though after another round of knocking, and an increasing frown upon Gates’s brow, a neighboring door opened and a well-dressed woman of middling age stepped out.
“Good day, there. Are you looking for Mrs. Mercer?”
They all turned to the woman, Mr. Gates presenting a smile far brighter than his usual one. “Is she in, do you know?” Gone was the clipped, upper class London accent from his voice. In its place was one a bit slower, of a different cadence. More like Scrubs’s.