“Come on.” William grabbed her by one arm, John Cinnamon by the other, and they had her out of the tent in a ruthless instant, knocking General Lincoln out of their way.
It was raining hard outside by now and she gulped air and water, breathing as deep as she could.
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God …”
“Was that worse, do you think, than the dead bear in the wood above Gareon?” John Cinnamon asked William, in a meditative voice.
“Lots,” William assured him. “Oh, Jesus, I’m going to be sick. No, wait …” He bent over, arms folded over his stomach, and gulped heavily for a moment, then straightened up. “No, it’s all right, I’m not. Are you?” he asked Brianna. She shook her head. Cold water was running down her face and her sleeves were pasted to her arms, but she didn’t care. She would have jumped through a hole in Arctic ice to cleanse herself of that. A slime of rotten onions seemed to cling to her palate. She cleared her throat hard and spat on the ground.
“My sketchbox,” she said, wiping her mouth and looking toward the tent. There had been a general hasty exodus, and men were scattering in every direction. Admiral d’Estaing and his officers were jostling down a footpath toward a large, lighted green tent that glowed like an uncut emerald in the distance. General Lincoln, his hat full of rain, was looking about helplessly as his adjutants and orderlies tried in vain to keep a torch lighted. General Pulaski’s resting place, by contrast, was deserted and pitch dark.
“He put the candles out,” said William, and sniggered very briefly. “Good thing the tent didn’t explode.”
“That would have been quite fun,” Cinnamon said, with obvious regret. “And fitting, too, for a hero. Still, your sister’s drawings … I’ll toss you to see who goes in to get them.” He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a shilling.
“Tails,” said William at once. Cinnamon tossed, caught the coin on the back of his hand with a slap, and peered at it.
“I can’t see.” If there was a moon, it was covered with rainclouds, and the pouring night was dark as a wet black blanket.
“Here.” Brianna reached out and ran her fingertips over the wet, cold face of the coin. And it was a face, though she couldn’t tell whose. “Heads,” she said.
“Stercus,” William said briefly, and, unwinding his wet stock, rewound it around his lower face and plunged down the path toward the dark tent.
“Stercus?” Bree repeated, turning to John Cinnamon.
“It means ‘shit’ in Latin,” the big Indian explained. “You aren’t a Catholic, are you?”
“I am,” she said, surprised. “And I do know some Latin. But I’m pretty sure ‘stercus’ isn’t in the Mass.”
“Not one I’ve ever heard,” he assured her. “I thought you wouldn’t be Catholic, though. William isn’t.”
“No.” She hesitated, wondering just how much this man knew about William and the complications of their shared paternity. “You … er … have you been traveling with William for some time?”
“A couple of months. He didn’t tell me about you, though.”
“I suppose he wouldn’t have.” She paused, not sure whether to ask what—if anything—William had told him.
Before she could decide, William himself was back, gasping and gagging, the sketchbox under his arm. He thrust it at her, yanked the stock down off his face, turned aside, and threw up.
“Filius scorti,” he said, breathless, and spat. “That was the worst …”
“Mrs. MacKenzie?” A familiar voice came out of the darkness, interrupting him. “Is that you, ma’am?” It was Lieutenant Hanson, drenched to the skin, but holding a dark lantern. The rain plinked on its metal, and water vapor drifted through the slit of light.
“Over here!” she called, and the lantern turned in their direction, the rain suddenly visible needles of silver falling through the light.
“Come with me, ma’am,” Lieutenant Hanson said, reaching them. “I’ve found some shelter for you and your … um …”
“Thank God,” William said. “And thank you, too, Lieutenant,” he added, bowing.
“Of course. Sir,” Hanson said uncertainly. He lifted the lantern, showing them the path, and Bree thanked him and started down it, followed by William and Cinnamon. She heard a small noise from one of them, though, and turned round. Lieutenant Hanson had stopped, looking toward the tent where Casimir Pulaski lay in darkness.