Jean-Philippe, unmoved, returned the captain’s gaze with a reflection of the same unyielding expectation, waiting.
Captain Wheelock faintly smiled. And played a different card. From an inner pocket of his coat he drew a folded paper which he opened on its creases and consulted as though seeking to refresh his memory. “Lieutenant de Sabran is not required to tell me anything. But it would help if he would, at the very least, make me a list of the names of his men.”
Jean-Philippe saw his own writing on the paper in the captain’s hand, and recognized the letter he had written to the governor of New York. Mr. Wilde had told the truth then, when he said that he had sent it. Leaning back, he kept his tone flat and his face impassive. “Was there not a list already made?”
“Unfortunately not.” The corners of the captain’s mouth compressed the smallest fraction. Only briefly, but enough that Jean-Philippe knew his assessment of the captain had been accurate: a man with a decided sense of right and wrong, who disapproved when others broke the rules.
Such men, in life and war, took one of two roads and became either intolerant or honourable.
Jean-Philippe suspected Captain Wheelock was the latter. And seeing in the captain’s face a flicker of discomfort, he ventured to reverse their roles a moment, asking, “But you do know where they are?”
“They will be either on Long Island, in Connecticut, or in New Jersey.” Pausing, he admitted, “They might be in all three places.”
“But how is that possible? The terms of our capitulation at Niagara clearly said our men and officers were not to be divided.”
“I regret to say that Governor DeLancey had not seen that paper,” said the captain, “or perhaps he would have made a different distribution. As it is, I cannot yet tell where your men have been disposed of. All the prisoners were sent away in sloops to different parts, but I shall know soon where they are by going round them.”
Jean-Philippe did not relax his guard upon his features, but he knew his quiet anger must be showing in his eyes because the captain said, with understanding:
“I assure you General Amherst wishes to comply with all the terms of the capitulation, and with the agreement that was signed this winter past between your king and mine, regarding treatment of all prisoners of war. The general sent me here believing I’d find you together with your men, so we could give you funds to give each man the daily fourpence he’s entitled to, with firewood and clothing. We did not expect—” He caught himself, and smoothing the frustration from his tone, said, “This is inconvenient for us both, Lieutenant. That is why I’m asking every officer I meet with here to list the soldiers under his command, so I can use these lists to bring things back into a proper order.” With the letter to the governor still held within his hand, he raised it slightly. A reminder. “I had hoped that, since you showed such a concern for your own men, you wouldn’t find this very difficult.”
The anger simmered still, but what was done was done, and Jean-Philippe could understand that it was not the captain’s fault. He held his hand out silently and Captain Wheelock handed him the pen and moved to make space for him at the desk.
“With their ranks as well,” the captain added, “if you can.”
He could. He wrote the thirty-two names swiftly, firmly, signed his name below them and returned the page.
De Brassart, when faced with the same request, wrote only two names on his list. “My second lieutenant and sergeant. Find either of them, and I warrant they’ll make you a full and complete list of all my men.”
If any other officer had said that, Jean-Philippe might have assumed he was concealing what he knew, but with de Brassart it could only mean he did not know the names himself. “My men,” he called them, yet he did not know their names.
He noticed Captain Wheelock made that small betraying facial movement, tightening the corners of his mouth as though he disapproved. On that at least, thought Jean-Philippe, they could agree.
There was not much to settle after that. They had given their paroles already at New York when they had first arrived, and Captain Wheelock had the copies, so there was no further paperwork.
De Brassart, when informed that they could go, excused himself and bowed and left the room, but Jean-Philippe stayed where he was. This was his ground, while he was on it. He would be the last to leave.
As if he understood that, Captain Wheelock gathered up his things and rose and gave a short nod of acknowledgement. “Lieutenant.”
Jean-Philippe stood too, aware that while this man was yet his enemy, his rank deserved respect. As did the fact they both appeared to share a common code of honour. “Captain Wheelock.”
“Do you have sufficient money for your needs?”
“Yes.”
“Because I can advance you more.”
“I’ve no expense but room and board, and I have funds to settle that until November.” He had done the calculations. “If we have not been exchanged by then, I will inform you what I need.”
The captain smiled. “Perhaps your hosts will charge you less, since you seem to be paying them in labour, also.” Likely he had meant that in a friendly way, a lightly joking reference to the fact that when the captain had arrived that morning, Jean-Philippe had not been in his uniform but in his shirt-sleeves, working side by side with Monsieur Wilde. But the captain’s words, phrased like that, seemed to imply Monsieur Wilde had been taking advantage. And Jean-Philippe could not allow that.
He said, in a tone that rejected the joke, “I am helping my host with his cider press.”
Captain Wheelock, as though conscious of his misstep, said, “Of course.” And then, “Forgive me, I meant no offence.” He moved towards the doorway.
Jean-Philippe frowned. “Captain.”
“Yes?”
Throughout their meeting, Jean-Philippe had taken care to keep his own gaze from too often drifting to the parlour window and the view it offered of the trees beside the barn, where for some time the younger brother had been climbing through the branches cutting clumps of berries to be tossed down to his sister. It was clearly an old game with them, and Jean-Philippe could not help but be jealous of the laughter she gave easily to someone else.
He’d purposely not watched them long, in case his face betrayed his interest in her to the captain. It was never wise to let your captor see a weakness he could use against you.
Even now he did not glance towards the parlour window, though he wanted to. “What you just said . . . ‘Forgive me, I meant no offence’ . . .”
“Yes?”
“How,” asked Jean-Philippe, “does one say that in English?”
Charley
My office was crowded this morning. Malaika had dropped by to give me some forms to fill out for the budget, and Lara had brought me a fan—an electric one, still in its box. “It’s too hot in this room,” she’d explained. “You need air.”
More air and light and colour was, in Lara’s world, the answer to all ailments. And in this case she was right: my office was warm.
The sturdy window-mounted air conditioner that hummed out in the hallway did a decent job of cooling all the other upstairs rooms on our side of the house, but because my room still kept its older Colonial footprint the door was offset just enough that the air didn’t really flow through. So I’d welcomed the fan.
I’d also suggested that, given the heat, we should probably think about moving a bookcase from my office down to the room at the end of the hall that eventually would be our archives. We didn’t have that many truly old books yet, but paper was better preserved in a cooler and drier space. And while Malaika and I had looked over the bookcases, choosing which one we should move, I had mentioned the papers that Frank had brought yesterday, and she had wanted to see them.