“They have more men, you said.” He was resettling his cloak, ready to go, but looked up at this. “How many?”
“Oh, somewhere between three and four thousand,” he said. “At a guess.”
“And how many do you have?”
“Not that many,” he said. “But we are His Majesty’s army. We know how to do this sort of thing.” He smiled, and rising slightly on his toes kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry, my dear. If anything drastic happens, I’ll come for you if I can.”
He had almost got to the back door before she shook off her sense of shock enough to run after him.
“Lord John!”
He turned at once, eyebrows raised, and she thought for an instant how young he looked. Excited at the nearness of battle. Roger. Oh, Lord, Roger …
“My husband,” she managed, breathless. “He’s on his way home, from—from an errand. He thought he’d make it for supper …？”
Lord John shook his head.
“If he’s not here now, he won’t be.” He saw the look on her face and added, “I mean, he can’t get into the city. The road is closed and the city is surrounded by abatis. But I’ll send word to the captain of the city guard. Remind me: What’s your husband’s name and what does he look like?”
“Roger,” she said, through the lump in her throat. “Roger MacKenzie. He’s tall and dark and he looks … like a Presbyterian preacher.” Thank God you wore your good clothes today, she thought passionately toward her absent husband.
Lord John had been fully concentrated on her words, but that made him smile.
“In that case, I’m sure no one will shoot him,” he said, and lifting her hand, kissed it briefly. “Au revoir, my dear.”
“Good …” she began by reflex, but then froze. He politely pretended not to notice, touched her cheek gently, then turned and went out, pulling down his hat against the rain.
THE SOFT LIGHT woke her, next morning. She lay for a moment, confused. What was wrong?
“Mummy, Mummy!”
A small curly black head with bright brown eyes popped up at eye level, and she blinked, trying to focus.
“Mummy! Mrs. Upton says there’s flapjacks ’n’ hash for breakfast! Hurry up!” Mandy vanished, and Bree heard both children thundering down the stairs, both evidently already dressed and shod. It was true: enticing smells of food and coffee were drifting up from the dining room below.
She sat up and swung her feet out of bed, and then it struck her. It was quiet. The guns had stopped. After five days of being jerked awake in the black predawn by the distant French ships practicing bombardment, today the house was rising peacefully, early sun seeping through the fog, calm as honey.
“Thank God,” she muttered, and crossed herself, with a quick prayer for Roger, and another for her father, her first father. She’d believed what he’d said in the book; the siege of Savannah would fail. But it was hard to have complete faith in history when it was exploding around you.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, and reached for her stays.
92
Like Water Spilled on the Ground, Which Cannot Be Gathered up Again
In the Marshes Outside Savannah
An hour past midnight
October 9, 1779
THE QUILL WAS LITTLE more than a blunt stub, the greasy feather mangled by dogged hands determined to send one last word. Roger had written more than one such word tonight, for the men who could not write or had no notion what to say. Now the camp lay sleeping—lightly—all around him, and he faced the same problem.
Dearest Bree, he wrote, and paused for a breath before going on. There was only the one thing to say, and he wrote, I’m sorry. But she deserved more, and slowly, he found his way.
I didn’t mean to be here, but I have the strongest feeling that here is where I should be. It wasn’t quite “Whom shall I send? Who shall go for us?”—but something close, and so was my answer.
God willing, I’ll see you soon. For now and for always, I am your husband and I love you.
Roger
The last few words were ghosts on the scrap of rough, rain-spotted paper; the last of the ink. His name was no more than scratches, but he supposed that was all right; she’d know who’d written it.
He let the ink dry and folded the scrap carefully. Then realized that he had no way to send it—nor any ink left with which to write Bree’s direction on it. The other letters had been given to Marion’s company clerk, now snoring under a blanket near one of the many watchfires, anonymous among the huddled, sleeping sheep.