“A plain suit, stockings, and a fresh shirt,” he said briefly, handing over the latter. “And money. There’s a letter of credit in there as well—you might put that away in your pocket, just in case.”
“In case I’m obliged to ransom her from a band of highwaymen?” William asked, taking the purse. It was pleasantly heavy. He tucked it into his greatcoat, and, taking one of the pistols from his saddlebag, tucked that into his belt.
“Haha,” said his father, politely. “William—if she is going to Ben, and she gets to him … don’t—I repeat, don’t make any effort to take her away from him. Next time—if there is a next time—he probably will kill you.” There was enough blunt finality in that opinion that decided William not to argue with it, though his pride thought strongly otherwise.
“I won’t,” he said briefly, and patted his father’s shoulder, smiling. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
130
Herr Weber
A MONTH PAST THE fall of Charles Town, and the place still looked like an anthill that someone had kicked over. All the citizens of the place appeared to be outside, carrying stones and lumber and baskets of dirt and buckets of paint, and those not occupied with cleaning and repair were shouting and selling: meat and fruit, vegetables and poultry and hams, cockles and mussels, shrimps and oysters, and every other damned thing you could pull out of the sea and eat. The thought of eating, coinciding with the drifting smell of broiled fish, made William’s mouth water.
The seller of the savory fish was unfortunately surrounded by a company of soldiers, all pushing for attention as the woman and her daughter shuffled small, sizzling fish off hot bricks and into scraps of old newspaper as though they were dealing cards, while a small boy squatted beside them over a dented pot, taking coins from the soldiers and firing each one into the pot to make it ring.
Not willing to draw attention to himself by using his captain’s uniform to push his way into the mob, he turned toward the docks, where he’d certainly find food, and doubtless drink as well, at one of the numerous taverns.
What he found, though, was Denys Randall, walking idly up and down a narrow quay, apparently waiting for someone.
“Ellesmere!” Randall exclaimed, spotting him.
“Ransom,” William corrected. Denys waved a hand, indicating that it was all one.
“Where have you sprung from?” he asked, taking in William’s uniform at a glance. “And why?”
“I’m looking for Ban Tarleton. Seen him recently?”
Denys shook his head, frowning. “No. I suppose I could ask around, though. Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere, at the moment. Are there any decent places?” He glanced round at a line of shirtless men, gleaming with sweat as they moved baskets and barrows and wooden pallets of rubbish down to the shore. “What do they mean to do with all that? Build a seawall? Or repair it, rather.” There was an untidy ramble of fortifications outside the remains of the extant seawall, which had suffered much from the siege bombardments.
“They should do, but I daresay they’ll just shove that lot into the water and be done with it. As to a sleeping place, try Mrs. Warren’s, on Broad Street.” Denys picked up his hat and gave William a quick wave of the hand. “I’ll ask about Tarleton.”
William nodded in acknowledgment and pushed off in search of Broad Street, Mrs. Warren, and food—not necessarily in that order. He found food quickly, in the form of rice and red beans cooked with sausage, at a stall near the parade ground. No troops were drilling, but as usual with an army nearby, there were plenty of the civilians—sutlers, laundresses, food vendors, prostitutes—who fed off the army like a horde of voracious lice.
Well, turnabout’s fair play, he thought, returning his bowl to the rice-and-beans proprietor for a second helping. Eating this one somewhat more slowly, he scanned the passing crowds for any trace of Amaranthus, or Banastre Tarleton, but no trace did he see—and he thought he would instantly have perceived either one, both having a taste for vivid dress.
Replete, he walked slowly round the city, up and down the major streets, peering into shops and banks and churches as he went. He had no idea whether either Amaranthus or Ban was religious—somehow, he doubted it—but the churches were cool, and it was good to sit down for a few moments and listen to the silence, as a respite from the city’s noise.
He reached Mrs. Warren’s house just before sunset, and after a very decent fish supper went to bed, dog-tired and low in spirit.