“No,” Roger said. “I won’t.” But the corporal hadn’t waited for an answer; he was hurrying back into the main body of the camp, boots crunching on white oyster shell.
It was close—a lot closer than he’d thought. He could feel the whole camp humming, a sense of nervous energy, men making ready. But surely it was too early for …
Then he walked through the high stone gate of the cemetery, its lintel decorated with the Star of David, and saw at once what must be Lieutenant Colonel Francis Marion, hat in hand and a blue-and-buff uniform coat thrown loose over his shoulders, deep in conversation with three or four other officers.
The unfortunate word that popped into Roger’s mind was “marionette.” Francis Marion was what Jamie would call a wee man, standing no more than five foot four, by Roger’s estimation, scrawny and spindle-shanked, with a very prominent French nose. Not quite what the romantic moniker “Swamp Fox” conjured up.
His appearance was made more arresting by a novel tonsorial arrangement, featuring thin strands of hair combed into a careful puff atop a balding pate and two rather larger puffs on either side of his head, like earmuffs. Roger was consumed by curiosity as to what the man’s ears must look like, to require this sort of disguise, but he dismissed this with an effort of will and waited patiently for the lieutenant-colonel to finish his business.
Chasseurs, the corporal had said. French troops, then, and they looked it, very tidy in blue coats with green facings and white smallclothes, with jaunty yellow feather cockades sticking up from the fronts of their cocked hats like Fourth of July sparklers. They were also undeniably speaking French, lots of them at once.
On the other hand … they were black, which he hadn’t expected at all.
Marion raised a hand and most of them stopped speaking, though there was a good deal of shifting from foot to foot and a general air of impatience. He leaned forward, speaking up into the face of an officer who topped him by a good six inches, and the others stopped fidgeting and craned to listen.
Roger couldn’t hear what was being said, but he was strongly aware of the electric current running through the group—it was the same current he’d sensed running through the camp, but stronger.
Jesus Christ Almighty, they’re getting ready to fight. Now.
He’d never been on a live battlefield but had walked a few historical ones with his father. The Reverend Wakefield had been a keen war historian, and a good storyteller; he’d been able to evoke the sense of a muddled, panicked fight from the open ground at Sheriffmuir, and the sense of doom and slaughter from the haunted earth of Culloden.
Roger was getting much the same feeling, rising up from the quiet earth of the cemetery through his body, and he curled his fists, urgently wanting the feel of a weapon in his hand.
The air was cool but humid, with a faint rumble of thunder over the sea, and sweat was condensing on his body. He saw Marion wipe his own face with a large, grubby handkerchief, then tuck it away with an impatient gesture and step closer to the chasseur officer, raising his voice and jerking his head toward the river behind them.
Whatever he’d said—he was speaking French, and the distance was too far for Roger to make out more than a phrase here and there—seemed to settle the chasseurs, who grunted and nodded amongst themselves, then gathered behind their officer and set off at a jog-trot toward the ships. Marion watched them go, then sighed visibly and sat down on one of the tombstones.
It seemed ludicrous to approach Marion with his questions under these circumstances, but the man had spotted him and lifted his chin inquiringly. Not much choice but to say hello, at least.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “I apologize for interrupting you. I can see that—” Lacking any sufficient words, he waved a hand toward the distant camp.
Marion laughed, a low sound of honest amusement.
“Well, yes,” he said, in an accent that seemed faintly tinged with the French he’d just been speaking. “It’s clear, isn’t it? I take it you didn’t know, though, or—？” One eyebrow quirked up.
“Or I wouldn’t be here,” Roger finished. Marion shrugged.
“You might have come to volunteer. The Continental army isn’t choosy, though I have to say that the occasional minister we get usually doesn’t wear his best clothes to fight in.” The look of amusement deepened as he looked Roger up and down. “So—why are you here, sir?”
“My name is Roger MacKenzie, and I am the son-in-law of General James Fraser, late of—”