“Mais oui,” Mr. Cinnamon said, and bent to give Brianna a foot up into her saddle.
“But—I will be escorting her! General Lincoln is expecting me to bring him Mrs. MacKenzie!”
“And Mrs. MacKenzie he will get,” she assured the lieutenant, settling her skirts and taking up the reins. “Though apparently with outriders.”
Lieutenant Hanson had given William a look of deep suspicion, and no wonder, she thought. William sat tall and easy in the saddle, and wore a shabby, travel-stained suit that hadn’t been fashionable to start with, but someone with much less experience than Lieutenant Hanson would have recognized him at a glance as a soldier—and not only a soldier. An officer accustomed to command. The fact that William’s accent and bearing were at odds with his very commonplace dress was probably even more upsetting.
The lieutenant’s thoughts were clear to her—and, she thought, probably to William, too, though his face was politely impassive. Was he a British soldier in mufti? A spy? Was he a British soldier looking to turn his coat and take up a commission with the Continentals? She saw Mr. Hanson’s gaze dart to the bulk of John Cinnamon, and away. And what about him?
But there was no choice; Lieutenant Hanson had been sent to fetch an artist, and couldn’t well come back without her. Shoulders hunched around his ears, he turned his mule’s head toward White Bluff Road.
“Tell me about General Pulaski,” Brianna suggested, coming up beside him. “It was only this morning that he was killed?”
“Oh. Er … no, ma’am. That is to say,” Hanson said, obviously striving for exactness, “he did die this morning, on the ship. But he—”
“What ship?” she asked, startled.
“The Wasp, I think it’s called.” Hanson cast a quick look over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The general was shot up two days ago, runnin’ his cavalry in betwixt two batteries, but—”
“He led a cavalry charge … into cannon?” Evidently Lieutenant Hanson hadn’t lowered his voice quite enough, for the question came from William, riding close behind. He sounded incredulous and slightly amused, and Bree turned round and glared at him.
He ignored the glare, but urged his horse up toward Hanson’s mule. The lieutenant was carrying his flag of truce, and at this, moved it instinctively, pointing it at William in the manner of a jousting lance.
“I meant no insult to the general,” William said mildly, raising one hand in negligent defense. “It sounds a most dashing and courageous maneuver.”
“It was,” Hanson replied shortly. He raised his flag a little and turned his back on William, leaving brother and sister riding side by side, John Cinnamon bringing up the rear. Bree gave William a narrow-eyed look that strongly suggested he should keep his mouth shut. He eyed her for a moment, then looked away with a patently bland countenance.
She wanted to laugh almost as much as she wanted to poke him with something sharp, but lacking her own flag of truce, she settled for an audible snort.
“à vos souhaits,” Mr. Cinnamon said politely behind her.
“Merci,” she said, with equal politeness. William snorted.
“à tes amours,” Mr. Cinnamon said, sounding amused. Nothing more was said until they arrived a few minutes later at the edge of the city. A detachment of Scottish Highlanders was guarding the end of the street, even though the street itself was guarded by a couple of large redoubts dug by the British, visible on the side toward the river. The sight of the kilted soldiers, and the sound of their voices speaking Gaelic to one another, gave her a peculiar twisting sensation inside. A camp kettle was boiling over a tiny fire, and the scent of coffee and toasted bread made her mouth water. It was a long time since breakfast, and in the haste of leaving, they’d left behind Henrike’s packet of food.
She must have been gazing hungrily at a few men eating by the fire, for William nudged his horse nearer and murmured, “I’ll see you’re fed as soon as we reach the camp.”
She glanced at him and nodded thanks. There was nothing amused or offhand in his manner now. He sat relaxed in his saddle, reins loose in his hand as Lieutenant Hanson talked to the Scottish officer in command, but his eyes never left the soldiers.
They passed through the checkpoint in silence. She could feel the eyes of the soldiers on her skin, and the hair prickled on her scalp. The enemy …
The American siege lines lay no more than a quarter mile away, the camp perhaps a half mile beyond, but Lieutenant Hanson led them immediately inland, in order to circle the American redoubts and the French artillery, dragged overland from the ships. The guns were silent—thank God—but she could see them plainly, dark shapes beginning to emerge from the morning’s fog, still thick here near the river.