“General Fraser is my father-in-law, sir,” Roger said, in a neutral voice. “An honorable man—and a very brave soldier.”
The look of scorn didn’t quite leave the man’s face, but it moderated into a short nod, and the man turned away, jerking his chin in an indication that Roger might follow, if he felt so inclined.
General Lincoln’s tent was a large but well-worn green canvas, with a flagstaff outside from which the red and white stripes of the Grand Union flag fluttered in the wind off the water. Sergeant Bradford muttered something to the guard at the entrance and left Roger with a curt nod.
“The Reverend MacKenzie, is it?” the guard said, looking him up and down with an air of skepticism. “And a letter from General James Fraser, have I got that right?”
Christ. Did Jamie know of the talk about him? Roger remembered the moment’s hesitation when Jamie had handed him the letter. Perhaps he did, then.
“I am, it is, and you do,” Roger said firmly. “Is General Lincoln able to receive me?” He’d been meaning to leave the letter and come back for the reply—if there was one—after he’d spoken to Francis Marion, but now he thought he’d better find out whether Benjamin Lincoln shared this apparent negative view of Jamie’s actions.
“Wait here.” The soldier—he was a Continental regular, a uniformed corporal—ducked under the tent flap, kept closed against the chilly breeze. Through the momentary gap, Roger caught sight of a large man in uniform, curled up on a cot, his broad blue back turned to the door. A faint buzzing snore reached Roger’s ears, but apparently the corporal had no intention of trying to wake General Lincoln, and after a minute’s delay—for the sake of plausibility, Roger assumed—the corporal reappeared.
“I’m afraid the general’s engaged at present, Mr …？”
“Reverend,” Roger repeated firmly. “The Reverend Roger MacKenzie. As General Lincoln isn’t available, could I speak with”—shit, what’s Marion’s rank now?—“with Captain Francis Marion, perhaps?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Marion, I expect you mean.” The corporal corrected him matter-of-factly. “You’ll maybe find him out by the Jewish cemetery; I saw him go that way with some chasseurs a while ago. You know where it is?” He gestured toward the west.
“I’ll find it. Thank you.” The guard seemed relieved to be rid of him, and Roger made his way in the direction indicated, holding his broad-brimmed hat against the tug of the wind.
The busy atmosphere of the camp was much at odds with the brief vision of its sleeping commander. Men were moving to and fro with purpose; in the distance, he saw a great many horses—cavalry, he realized with interest. What were they doing?
Forming up. He felt as though Jamie had spoken in his ear, matter-of-fact as always, and his stomach contracted. Getting ready.
This was October 8. According to Frank Randall’s book, the siege of Savannah began on September 16 and would be lifted on October 11.
For all the good that’s likely to do you, blockhead. For the thousandth time, he castigated himself for not knowing more, not having read everything there was to read about the American Revolution—but knowing, even as he reproached himself, that the chances of any book knowledge ever resembling the reality of his experience were vanishingly small.
A small squadron of pelicans dropped low in unison over the distant water and sailed serenely just above the waves, ignoring ships, cannon, horses, shouting men, and the rapidly clouding sky.
Must be nice, he thought, watching them. Nothing to think about but where your next fish is coming—
A musket went off somewhere behind him, a cloud of feathers burst from one of the pelicans, and it dropped like a stone, wings loose, into the water. Cheers and whistles came from behind him, these cut off abruptly by a furious officer’s voice, castigating the marksman for wasting ammunition.
Okay, point taken.
As though backing up the rifleman, there was a distant boom, followed by another. Siege cannon, he thought, and an uncontrollable shiver of excitement ran down his spine at the thought. Getting the range.
He lost his way briefly, but a passing corporal put him on the right path and came with him to the cemetery, marked by a large stone gateway.
“That’ll be Colonel Marion, Reverend,” his escort said, and pointed. “When you’ve done your business with him, one of his men’ll bring you back to General Lincoln’s tent.” The man turned to go, but then turned back to add a caution. “Don’t you be a-wandering about by yourself, Reverend. ’Tisn’t safe. And don’t try to leave the camp, either. Pickets got orders to shoot any man as tries to leave without a pass from General Lincoln.”