Страница 187 из 285
Flaming arrows in the commander’s tent would compel instant attention, to be sure, but they would also cause widespread alarm; soldiers would boil out of the camp like hornets, looking for attackers. A grass fire, no. Such things were common, and while it would certainly create diversion, no one would be looking further once they’d seen it was nothing.
A few minutes and he had his diverson ready. So busy he’d been, he hadn’t even taken thought to look again at his son.
“God damn ye for a liar, Jamie Fraser,” he said under his breath, and looked.
William was gone.
THE SOLDIERS WERE at their supper; cheerful talk and the sounds of eating covered any small noises Ian made as he walked softly round the side of the left-hand tent. If someone saw him, he’d speak to them in Mohawk, claim to be a scout from Burgoyne’s camp, come with information. By the time they got him in front of the commander, he’d either have thought of some good, picturesque information, or he’d scream and reckon to fight his way out while they were distracted by flaming arrows.
That wouldn’t help De
There was a gap at the bottom of the tent and a candlestick lit inside; a spot in the canvas glowed dim in the twilight. He watched the gap and saw no shadow move. Right, then.
He lay down and inserted a cautious hand, feeling along the dirt floor, hoping no one inside stamped on his hand. If he could find a cot, he could squirm in and lie under it. If—something touched his hand and he bit his tongue, hard.
“Is thee a friend?” whispered De
“Aye, it’s me,” he whispered back. “Keep quiet. Stand back.”
De
De
Ian leaned in close to whisper in De
“I go out before ye. Lie down there, easy as ye can, close as ye can.” He jerked his chin at the back wall of the tent. “Di
It wasn’t possible to move a man in chains in total silence, but with any luck at all, the scraping of spoons on mess kits and the soldiers’ conversation would cover any stray clinking. He pulled the canvas out as far as he could, reached under, and took firm hold of De
There was no sound, but Ian’s head jerked up before his mind even told him that the air near him had moved in a way that meant someone was standing there.
“Hush!” he said by reflex, not knowing whether he was talking to De
“What the devil—” the soldier began, sounding startled. He didn’t finish the question, but took three paces fast and grabbed Ian by the wrist.
“Who are you and what are you—Good God, where did you come from?” William the soldier stared into Ian’s face, and Ian thanked God briefly for the fact that his other wrist was immobilized by De
“He has come to help me escape, Friend William,” De
William’s head jerked, looked wildly round, then down. Had the circumstances been less dire, Ian would have laughed at the expressions—for there were a great number of them, run through in the course of a heartbeat—on it. William closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them again.
“Don’t tell me,” he said shortly. “I don’t want to know.” He squatted beside Ian and, between them, they had De
William’s hand closed on Ian’s forearm, and his head, a dark oval in the last traces of light, jerked toward the woods.
“Left,” he whispered. “There are latrine trenches on the right. Two pickets, a hundred yards out.” He squeezed hard and let go.
“May you be held in God’s light, Friend William.” De
A few moments later, he heard the first shouts of “Fire!” behind him in the camp.
NO BETTER COMPANION THAN THE RIFLE
September 15, 1777
BY EARLY SEPTEMBER, we had reached the main army, encamped on the Hudson near the village of Saratoga. General Horatio Gates was in command, and received the ragtag and bobtail refugees and random militia with pleasure. For once, the army was tolerably well supplied, and we were equipped with clothes, decent food—and the remarkable luxury of a small tent, in honor of Jamie’s status as a colonel of militia, in spite of the fact that he had no men.
Knowing Jamie as I did, I was reasonably sure this would be a temporary state of affairs. For my part, I was delighted to have an actual cot to sleep on, a tiny table to eat from—and food to put on it on a fairly regular basis.
“I’ve brought ye a present, Sassenach.” Jamie plumped the bag down on the table with a pleasantly meaty-sounding thump and a waft of fresh blood. My mouth began to water.
“What is it? Birds?” It wasn’t ducks or geese; those had a distinctive scent about them, a musk of body oils, feathers, and decaying waterweeds. But partridges, say, or grouse … I swallowed heavily at the thought of pigeon pie.
“No, a book.” He pulled a small package wrapped in tattered oilcloth from the bulging sack and proudly set it in my hands.
“A book?” I said blankly.
He nodded encouragingly.
“Aye. Words printed on paper, ye’ll recall the sort of thing? I ken it’s been a long time.”
I gave him an eye and, attempting to ignore the rumbling of my stomach, opened the package. It was a well-worn pocket-sized copy of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman—Vol. I, and despite my disgruntlement at being presented with literature instead of food, I was interested. It had been a long time since I’d had a good book in my hands, and this was a story I’d heard of but never read.
“The owner must have been fond of it,” I said, turning the little volume over gently. The spine was nearly worn through, and the edges of the leather cover were rubbed shiny. A rather nasty thought struck me.
“Jamie … you didn’t… take this from a, er, a body, did you?” Stripping weapons, equipment, and usable clothing from fallen enemies was not considered looting; it was an unpleasant necessity. Still …