He got silence. An interested, attentive silence, but silence nonetheless.
Well, if inspirational speeches weren’t his strength, Bram still had one incontrovertible argument on his side. He straightened his coat and said the rest. “Drill and training will last a month. Uniforms, firearms, and other supplies will be provided, and there will be wages. Eight shillings a day.”
Now that caught their attention. Eight shillings was more than a full week’s pay for most workingmen, and more than enough to overcome any reluctance. Murmurs of excitement swept the crowd, and several men began to move forward.
“Fall in line,” he told them. “See Lord Payne for enrollment, then Corporal Thorne for outfitting.”
There was a bit of a crush as the men made their way to the enrollment table, but Finn and Rufus Bright took the head of the line, no contest. Bram joined Colin behind the table.
“Names?” Colin asked.
“Rufus Ronald Bright.”
“Phineas Philip Bright.”
Colin dutifully inscribed the names. “Date of birth?”
“Eighth of August,” Finn said, looking to his brother. “Seventeen ninety-ei—”
“Seven,” Rufus finished. “We’re over fifteen.”
Bram interrupted, fixing the boys with a stern look. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, my lord.” Finn stood tall and slapped a hand over his heart. “I’m over fifteen. May the devil take me if I’m telling you false, Lord Rycliff.”
Bram sighed to himself. No doubt they’d stuffed scraps of papers with the number fifteen in their shoes. Oldest trick in the shiftless army recruiter’s sack. With that scrap of paper beneath their heels, the lads could say with all honesty that they were “over” fifteen.
Susanna was right, the boys were obviously lying. And they were boys yet, not men. He regarded their matching, fresh-scrubbed faces that wouldn’t know a razor’s scrape for years. But if their birthdays truly were in August, that put their actual fifteenth birthday only a few months away. He surveyed the queue of men behind the twins, performing a quick mental tally. They numbered just under twenty, all in all. Not good. To form a company that would appear remotely impressive in formation, he needed twenty-four.
“Well?” Colin asked, looking up at Bram.
“You heard the lads. They’re over fifteen.”
The boys grinned as they completed the questions for Colin and proceeded to Thorne’s table for measuring and firearms. Bram didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt about putting muskets in the boys’ hands. If they didn’t already know how to handle a weapon and shoot, it was high time they learned.
One by one, the men worked through the line, giving Colin their names, ages, and other vital information before proceeding to Thorne to be measured for coats and issued firearms. As the morning progressed, Bram’s knee began to ache. Then it started to throb. Before long, the damned joint was screaming with pain—so loud, he was surprised no one else could hear.
When Colin finished with the next recruit, Bram nudged his cousin aside. “You’re too slow. Go help Thorne.”
Lowering himself onto Colin’s vacant campstool, Bram winced. He performed a surreptitious flex of his leg beneath the table, trying to ease the pain and focus on the enrollment list before him. He took his time dipping the quill.
“Now, then. Name?”
“Finch.”
Ten
Bram froze, quill poised above the paper, praying his ears deceived him.
“That’s F-I-N-C-H,” she spelled helpfully. “Finch. Like the bird.”
He looked up. “Susanna, what the devil are you doing?”
“I don’t know who Susanna is. But I, Stuart James Finch, am volunteering for your militia.”
Gone was that frothy, leaf-green muslin frock he’d admired in church. In its place she’d donned a pair of nankeen breeches that fit her surprisingly well, a crisp linen shirt cuffed at the wrists, and a cobalt-blue topcoat that oddly enough did lovely things for her eyes.
And gloves, of course. Men’s gloves. Heaven forbid Miss Finch appear in public without her gloves.
She went on, “My birth date is the fifth of November, 1788. And that’s the God’s honest truth, my lord.”
Her hair was bound in a tight queue, and she was dressed in man’s clothing, but there was absolutely nothing that wasn’t feminine about her. Her voice, her bearing . . . God, even her scent. She couldn’t fool a blind man.
Of course, she didn’t mean to fool Bram. The interfering minx simply wanted to make a point. And she intended to make that point in front of scores of people. The entire village crowded around them, men and women alike, eager to see how this scene would unfold. They all wondered, who would emerge the victor?
He would. If he let her get the better of him today, he would never have the men’s respect. What’s more, he wouldn’t deserve it.
“Write my name,” she urged.
“You know I won’t. Only men are eligible to serve.”
“Well, I’m a man,” she said.