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“It’s okay,” he said, turning to kiss her cheek. “It’s your mum, and she’s in an especially parenthetical mood. She doesn’t normally do that unless she’s feeling happy.”
“Well, yes,” Bree murmured, frowning at the page, “but… Fort Ticonderoga?”Dear Bree, et al—
As you’ve doubtless gathered from the heading of this letter, we are not (yet) in Scotland. We had a certain amount of difficulty on our voyage, involving a) the Royal navy, in the person of one Captain Stebbings, who attempted to press your father and your cousin Ian (it didn’t work); b) an American privateer (though her captain, one—and one of him is more than enough—Asa Hickman insists upon the more dignified “letter of marque” as the designation of his ship’s mission, which is essentially piracy but executed under the authority of the Continental Congress); c) Rollo; and d) the gentleman I mentioned to you earlier, named (I thought) John Smith, but who turns out to be a deserter from the Royal navy named Bill (aka “Jonah,” and I begin to think they are right) Marsden.Without going into the details of the whole blood-soaked farce, I will merely report that Jamie, Ian, the damned dog, and I are all fine. So far. I’m hoping this state of affairs continues for the next forty-two days, that being when your father’s short-term militia contract expires. (Don’t ask. Essentially, he was saving Mr. Marsden’s neck, as well as providing for the welfare of a couple of dozen seamen inadvertently forced into piracy.) Once it does, we propose to leave promptly on whatever transport might be headed in the general direction of Europe, provided only that said transport is not captained by Asa Hickman. We may have to travel overland to Boston in order to do this, but so be it. (I suppose it would be interesting to see what Boston looks like these days. The Back Bay still being water and all, I mean. At least the Common will still be there, if sporting rather more cows than we were used to.)The fort is under the command of one General Anthony Wayne, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that I have heard Roger mention this man, using the nickname “Mad Anthony.” I’m hoping this designationeither does or will refer to his conduct in battle, rather than in administration. So far he seems rational, if harried.Being harried is rational, as he is expecting the more or less imminent arrival of the British army. Meanwhile, his chief engineer, a Mr. Jeduthan Baldwin (you’d like him, I think. Very energetic fellow!), is building a Great Bridge, to co
Roger sat in silence for a moment, to be sure Bree had had time to finish reading the letter—though in fact she read much faster than he did; he thought she must be reading it twice. After a moment, she sighed through her nose in a troubled fashion and straightened up. He put up a hand and rested it on her waist, and she covered it with her own. Not mechanically; she gripped his fingers tightly—but absently. She was looking across at the bookshelves.
“Those are new, aren’t they?” she asked quietly, lifting her chin toward the right-hand bay.
“Yeah. I sent to Boston for them. They came in a couple of days ago.” The spines were new and shiny. History texts, dealing with the American Revolution. Encyclopedia of the American Revolution, by Mark M. Boatner III. A Narrative of a Revolutionary Soldier, by Joseph Plumb Martin.
“Do you want to know?” he asked. He nodded at the open box on the table before them, where a thick sheaf of letters still remained unopened, on top of the books. He hadn’t yet brought himself to admit to Bree that he’d looked at the books. “I mean—we know they probably made it out of Ticonderoga all right. There are a lot more letters.”
“We know one of them probably did,” Bree said, eyeing the letters. “Unless… Ian knows, I mean. He could have…”
Roger pulled his hand back and reached with determination into the box. Bree drew in her breath, but he ignored it, taking a handful of letters from the box and flipping through them.