FREEDOM!
GREY PASSED ANOTHER interminable—though less eventful—day, broken only by watching Colonel Smith write dispatches, which he did at a furious rate, quill scratching with the sound of a scuttling cockroach. This bit of imagery did nothing for Grey’s digestion, which, in the aftermath of intoxication, hadn’t dealt all that well with the cold grease-caked journeycake and burnt-acorn coffee he’d been given for breakfast.
In spite of physical infelicity and an uncertain future, though, he found himself surprisingly cheerful. Jamie Fraser was alive, and he, John, wasn’t married. Given those two marvelous facts, the dubious prospects of escape and the much higher probability of being hanged seemed only mildly concerning. He settled himself to wait with what grace he could, sleeping as much as his head allowed, or singing softly to himself—a practice that caused Smith to hunch his shoulders up around his ears and scratch faster.
Messengers came and went with great frequency. If he hadn’t already known that the Continentals were not only moving but preparing for a fight, it would have been clear to him within an hour. The hot air was burdened with the scent of molten lead and the whine of a sharpening wheel, and the camp had a sense of rising urgency that any soldier would have felt at once.
Smith made no attempt to keep him from hearing what was said by and to the messengers and subalterns; clearly he didn’t expect the information gained to be of any use to Grey. Well . . . neither did Grey, to be honest.
Toward the evening, the tent’s door was darkened by a slender female form, though, and Grey raised himself to a sitting position, careful of his tender head, because his heart had begun to beat strongly again and it made his eye throb.
His niece Dottie was in sober Quaker garb, but the soft blue of much-laundered indigo was surprisingly flattering to her English-rose coloring—and she was in amazing fine looks. She nodded to Colonel Smith and set down her tray upon his desk, before glancing over his shoulder at the prisoner. Her blue eyes widened in shock, and Grey grinned at her over the colonel’s shoulder. Denzell must have warned her, but he supposed he must look a literal fright, with a grotesquely swollen face and a fixed and glaring crimson eye.
She blinked and swallowed, then said something low-voiced to Smith, with a brief questioning gesture in Grey’s direction. He nodded impatiently, already taking up his own spoon, and she wrapped a thick rag around one of the steaming cans on the tray and came across to Grey’s cot.
“Dear me, Friend,” she said mildly. “Thee seems much injured. Dr. Hunter says thee may eat as much as is comfortable, and he will attend thee later to put a dressing on your eye.”
“Thank you, young woman,” he said gravely, and, glancing over her shoulder to be sure Smith’s back was turned, nodded at her. “Is it squirrel stew?”
“Possum, Friend,” she said. “Here, I brought thee a spoon. The stew is boiling; be careful.” Putting herself carefully between him and Smith, she placed the rag-wrapped can between his knees and rapidly touched the rags, then the links of his fetters, her eyebrows raised. A horn spoon was produced from the pocket tied at her waist—and a knife with it, which was slipped under his pillow, quick as any conjurer could have managed it.
Her pulse was beating fast in her throat, and perspiration gleamed at her temples. He touched her hand once, softly, and picked up the spoon.
“Thank you,” he said again. “Tell Dr. Hunter I look forward to seeing him again.”
THE ROPE WAS horsehair and the knife dull, and it was very late and with innumerable small cuts stinging his hands and fingers that Grey rose cautiously from the cot. His heart was pounding; he could feel it thumping briskly behind his injured eye and hoped the eye itself was not going to explode under the impact.
He bent and picked up the tin chamber pot and used it; Smith was a very sound sleeper, thank God; if he roused at all, he would hear the familiar noise, be reassured, and—presumably—fall back asleep, subconsciously ignoring any further small noises as being Grey resettling himself.
Smith’s breathing didn’t change. He had a small, buzzing snore like a bee working in a flower, a tidy, busy sound that Grey found mildly comical. He lowered himself to his knees, slowly, between the cot and Smith’s pallet, fighting a momentary insane impulse to kiss Smith on the ear—he had sweet, small ears, very pink. This vanished in an instant, and he crept on hands and knees to the edge of the tent. He’d threaded the rags and the gauze with which Denzell Hunter had packed his eye through the links of his fetters but still moved with the utmost caution. Being caught would be bad for him; it would be disastrous for Hunter and Dottie.
He’d been listening intently to the sentries for hours. There were two guarding the colonel’s tent, but he was fairly sure that both were presently near the front flap, warming themselves at the fire; hot as the day had been, this late at night the forest’s blood ran cold. So did his.
He lay down and squirmed as quickly as he could under the edge of the tent, clinging to the canvas to minimize any shaking of the tent itself—though he’d taken pains to jerk on his rope every so often through the evening, so that any shifting of the structure might be put down to his normal movements.
Out! He allowed himself one deep gulp of air—fresh, cold, and leafy—then rose, clutching the padded fetters close against his body, and walked as silently as possible away from the tent. He mustn’t run.
He had had a short, sharp, whispered argument with Hunter during the latter’s evening visit, seizing the brief moment when Smith had left the tent to visit the latrine. Hunter had insisted that Grey hide in his wagon; he was going into Philadelphia, everyone knew that, there would be no suspicion, and Grey would be safe from patrols. Grey appreciated Hunter’s desire to rescue him, but he couldn’t possibly put the doctor—let alone Dottie—at risk, and risk it would be. In Smith’s place, the first thing he would do was prevent anyone from leaving, the second, search the camp and everything in it.
“There’s no time,” Hunter had said, briskly tucking in the end of the bandage he had wrapped around Grey’s head, “and thee may be right.” He glanced over his shoulder; Smith would be back any minute. “I’ll leave a bundle of food and clothing in my wagon for thee. If thee chooses to make use of it, I’m glad. If not, God go with thee!”
“Wait!” Grey seized Hunter by the sleeve, making his fetters rattle. “How will I know which wagon is yours?”
“Oh.” Hunter coughed, seeming embarrassed. “It . . . has a, um, sign painted on the tailboard. Dottie purchased it from—Now, you must take care, Friend,” he said, abruptly raising his voice. “Eat generously but slowly, take no alcohol, and be careful in moving. Do not stand up too quickly.”
Colonel Smith came in and, seeing the doctor present, came over to inspect the patient himself.
“Are you feeling better, Colonel?” he inquired politely. “Or are you still suffering from the need to burst into song? If so, might I suggest you do so now and get it out of your system, before I retire for the night?”
Hunter—who had of course heard “Die Sommernacht” the night before—made a small noise in his throat but managed to take his leave without losing control.
Grey grinned to himself, recalling Smith’s glower—and imagining what the colonel might look like in a few hours, when he woke to discover that his songbird had flown. He made his way around the edge of the camp, avoiding the picket lines of mules and horses—easy to detect by the smell of manure. The wagons were parked nearby: no artillery, he noted.
The sky was overcast, a sickle moon glimmering uneasily between racing clouds, and the air held the scent of impending rain. Fine. There were worse things than being wet and cold, and rain would hamper pursuit, if anyone discovered his absence before daylight.
No abnormal sounds from the camp behind him; none he could hear above the noise of his own heart and breathing. Hunter’s wagon was easy to find, even in the flickering dark. He’d thought by “sign” that the doctor meant a name, but it was one of the barn signs that some of the German immigrants painted on their houses and sheds. He smiled when the clouds parted, revealing this one clearly, and he saw why Dottie had chosen it: it was a large circle, in which two comical birds faced each other, beaks open in the manner of lovebirds. Distlefink. The word floated into his head; someone, somewhere, had told him the name of that sort of bird, saying it was a symbol of good luck.
“Good,” he said under his breath, climbing up into the wagon. “I’ll need it.”
He found the bundle under the seat, where Hunter had told him, and took a moment to remove the silver buckles from his shoes, tying the flaps together instead with a length of leather lacing that had evidently been meant for his hair. He left the buckles tucked under the seat, put on the shabby coat, which smelled strongly of stale beer and what he thought was old blood, and peered at the knitted cap, which held two journeycakes, an apple, and a small canteen of water. Turning back the edge of the hat, he read by the fitful moonlight, LIBERTY OR DEATH, in bold white letters.
HE WASN’T HEADED in any particular direction; even had the sky been clear, he wasn’t sufficiently familiar as to be able to chart his direction by the stars. His only goal was to get as far away from Smith as possible, without running into another militia company or a patrol of Continentals. Once the sun was up, he could orient himself; Hunter had told him that the main road lay south–southwest of the camp, about four miles away.
What the public might make of a man strolling down the main road in fetters was another question, but not one he needed to answer just now. After walking for an hour or so, he found a sheltered spot among the roots of an enormous pine tree and, taking out the knife, hacked off his hair as best he could. He stuffed the shorn locks well back under a root, rubbed his hands in the dirt, and then applied them vigorously to hair and face before donning his Phrygian cap.
Thus suitably concealed, he heaped a thick blanket of fallen dry needles over himself, curled up, and went to sleep to the sound of pattering rain in the trees above, once more a free man.