These conditions were reversed in the morning, and he sprang from bed with mind and body renewed, determined in spirit. He’d go first to Cornwallis’s headquarters; he’d seen the house, with its regimental flags, on his peregrinations the evening before. Someone there would doubtless know at least where Banastre Tarleton was supposed to be.
Someone did. The news, however, was not encouraging: Colonel Tarleton had taken a company of his British Legion southward two weeks before, in pursuit of a body of fleeing American militia. A messenger had come back to report the outcome of a small but nasty fight near a place called Waxhaws; Tarleton’s troops had overcome the Americans, killing or injuring most of them and taking the rest prisoner. However, Colonel Tarleton had been injured by reason of his horse falling on him, and had not yet returned to Charles Town.
All right, that crossed Ban pretty definitively off William’s list. Tarleton couldn’t possibly have been lending Amaranthus aid in her escape. What next?
The docks, of course. He’d begun searching there last night, before his stomach had had other ideas. But if she was heading for Philadelphia, as she’d said, and had not taken a ship from Savannah—which she hadn’t, he’d checked—then Charles Town was the next large port from which she might reasonably have done so. And surely a young woman traveling alone （God, was she alone? Might she have eloped with someone? Surely not …） would find ship travel safer, as well as more comfortable, than risking travel on roads swarming with soldiers, sappers, ex-slaves, and commercial wagons.
It was a beautiful day, and he began his search with diligence, starting with the harbormaster’s office for a list of ships sailing within the last week for Philadelphia or New York （just in case she is heading for Ben …） and manifests for those who had posted them. Her name was not on any of the lists—but then, he argued with himself, she wouldn’t necessarily be; if she’d sailed as a private passenger on a small boat, she wouldn’t be listed anywhere …
In the end, it came down to what he’d already known it would: a slog through the docks on foot, asking questions of everyone he came across. After an hour of this, the beautiful day was beginning to dim, as a fogbank moved in. He decided to slake his thirst and began walking up the quay— a small one that docked fishing boats and smaller commercial ships—toward shore. What he found, though, was Denys Randall. Again.
“Hoy!” William said loudly, coming up behind Denys and clapping him on the shoulder. “Do you live on the docks?”
“I might ask the same of you,” Denys said shortly, and William now perceived that he wasn’t alone; he was trying to shield a small man, whose lined face made him look like a Christmas nutcracker, from William’s view. “Who are you looking for now?”
“A young woman,” William said mildly. “Who’s your friend?”
Denys was for once deprived of his air of light mockery and self-composure. William thought he presently resembled nothing more strongly than a cat on hot bricks. Denys glanced swiftly at his companion, whose resemblance to a Christmas nutcracker was becoming more pronounced by the moment, then turned back to William, a pulse throbbing visibly at the side of his jaw.
“I must go and speak to someone,” he said. “Quickly. This is Herr Weber; keep an eye on him. I’ll be back, quick as I can.” And with that, he vanished down the quay toward the water, nearly running in his haste.
William hesitated, not sure what to do. He was somewhat afraid that Denys might have taken fright—well, clearly he had, but fright at what?—and abandoned his German companion altogether. In which case, what was he to do with the fellow?
Weber was staring down at the planks of the quay, brow slightly furrowed. William cleared his throat.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked politely, and nodded toward an open-fronted shanty on the shore, where a couple of large barrels and the presence of a sailor lying on the ground insensible probably indicated an establishment that sold liquor.
“Ich spreche kein Englisch,” the man said, spreading his hands in polite apology.
“Keine Sorge,” William said, bowing. “Ich spreche Deutsch.” He might have informed Herr Weber that his breeches were on fire, rather than making a simple statement to the effect that he, William, spoke German. Alarm convulsed the nutcracker’s features and he turned wildly, looking for Denys, who had by now disappeared.
William, afraid that Weber was about to flee, grasped him by the arm. This resulted in a sharp cry and a blow to William’s stomach. Considering Weber’s size, it wasn’t a bad try, but William grunted at the impact, let go Weber’s arm, grabbed the man by both shoulders, and shook him like a rat.