Roger smiled and assured Mr. Brumby that Jamie made whisky only for his own personal use, causing Mr. Brumby to laugh loudly and give Roger an exaggerated wink and a finger alongside his nose.
“Very sensible,” he said, “very sensible indeed. Customs and excise taxes being what they are, it would hardly pay to offer it commercially, save at an extortionate price—and that, of course, has its own difficulties.”
Brianna enjoyed the dinner and was delighted by the house, which had been built by a fine architect. The effort of nodding appreciatively at each of the Brumbys in turn—for both of them talked incessantly, and frequently at the same time—was wearing her down, though, and she took the entrance of cigars and brandy for the gentlemen as her cue to rise and excuse herself to go and see that the children were still where she’d put them.
They had been tucked into trundle beds that had been set up in the commodious dressing room attached to the well-appointed guest room that had been assigned to the MacKenzies, and when looked in upon, they were both clean and sound asleep, having been fed earlier by the cook, Mrs. Upton.
“I could get used to this,” Roger said, yawning as he came in later, stripping off his coat. “You wouldn’t think there was an armed siege going on outside, would you?” The Brumbys’ house stood in Reynolds Square, opposite the filature—a facility for raising silkworms—and the plentitude of trees, including the large grove of white mulberry trees required for the diet of said silkworms, gave it a sense of enclosure and pastoral peace.
“You’re keeping track of the calendar, aren’t you?” Bree pulled her sleeping shift over her head, noting from the smell that she should talk to the Brumbys’ laundress tomorrow. “How many days until all hell breaks loose?”
“Less than three weeks,” he said, more soberly. “Your father didn’t give much detail on the battle, but we know the Americans will lose. The siege will be lifted on October the eleventh.”
“And you’ll be here and safely inside, right?” She raised her eyebrows at him, and he smiled and took her hand.
“I will,” he said, and kissed it.
90
The Swamp Fox
Savannah
October 8, 1779
ROGER HAD DRESSED FOR his occasions. Luckily, the same black broadcloth suit, long-coated and pewter-buttoned, would do for both, since it was the only one he possessed. Brianna had plaited and clubbed his hair severely, and he was so clean-shaven that his jaw felt raw. A high white stock wrapped round his neck completed the picture—he hoped—of a respectable clergyman. The British sentries at the barricade on White Bluff Road had given him no more than a disinterested glance before nodding him through. He could only hope the American sentries outside the city felt the same lack of curiosity about ministers.
He rode out a good distance from the city before turning east and beginning to circle back toward the Americans’ siege lines, and it was just past noon when he came within sight of them.
The American camp was rough but orderly, an acre or so of canvas tents fluttering in the wind like trapped gulls, and the amazingly big French warships visible in the river beyond, from which every so often a volley of cannon fire would erupt with gouts of flame, setting loose vast clouds of white smoke to drift across the marshes with the scattered clouds of gulls and oystercatchers alarmed by the noise.
There were pickets posted among the yaupon bushes, one of whom popped up like a jack-in-the-box and pointed a musket at Roger in a business-like way.
“Halt!”
Roger pulled in his reins and raised his stick, white handkerchief tied to its end, feeling foolish. It worked, though. The picket whistled through his teeth for a companion, who popped up alongside, and at the first man’s nod, came forward to take his horse’s bridle.
“What’s your name and what d’you want?” the man demanded, squinting up at Roger. He wore a backwoodsman’s ordinary breeches and hunting shirt, but had army boots and an odd uniform cap, shaped like a squashed bishop’s mitre. A copper badge on his collar read Sgt. Bradford.
“My name is Roger MacKenzie. I’m a Presbyterian minister, and I’ve brought a letter to General Lincoln from General James Fraser, late of General Washington’s Monmouth command.”
Sergeant Bradford’s brows rose out of sight beneath his hat.
“General Fraser,” he said. “Monmouth? That the fellow that abandoned his troops to tend his wife?”
This was said with a derisive tone, and Roger felt the words like a blow to the stomach. Was this how Jamie’s admittedly dramatic resignation of his commission was commonly perceived in the Continental army? If so, his own present mission might be a little more delicate than he’d expected.