“Thank you, Mr. MacDonald,” Randall said dryly. “That will be all.”
Private MacDonald, abashed, saluted and left. There was a moment’s silence, during which Roger became aware of the rain, grown harder now, clattering like gravel on the large casement window. A chilly draft leaked around its frame and touched his face. Glancing at the window, he saw the drill yard below, and the whipping post, a grim crucifix stark and solitary, black in the rain.
Oh, God.
Carefully, he folded up the dog tags again and put them away in his pocket. Then met Captain Randall’s dark eyes directly.
“Did Captain Buncombe tell you, sir, that I am a minister?”
Randall’s brows rose in brief surprise.
“No, he didn’t.” Randall was plainly wondering why Roger should mention this, but he was courteous. “My younger brother is a clergyman. Ah . . . Church of England, of course.” There was the faintest implied question there, and Roger answered it with a smile.
“I am a minister of the Church of Scotland myself, sir. But if I might . . . will ye allow me to offer a blessing? For the success of my kinsman and myself—and in thanks for your kind help to us.”
“I—” Randall blinked, clearly discomfited. “I—suppose so. Er . . . all right.” He leaned back a little, looking wary, hands on his blotter. He was completely taken aback when Roger leaned forward and grasped both his hands firmly. Randall gave a start, but Roger held tight, eyes on the captain’s.
“Oh, Lord,” he said, “we ask thy blessing on our works. Guide me and my kinsman in our quest, and guide this man in his new office. May your light and presence be with us and with him, and your judgment and compassion ever on us. I commend him to your care. Amen.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and he let go Randall’s hands and coughed, looking away as he cleared his throat.
Randall cleared his throat, too, in embarrassment, but kept his poise.
“I thank you for your . . . er . . . good wishes, Mr. MacKenzie. And I wish you good luck. And good day.”
“The same to you, Captain,” Roger said, rising. “God be with you.”
BABY JESUS, TELL ME . . .
Boston, November 15, 1980
DR. JOSEPH ABERNATHY pulled into his driveway, looking forward to a cold beer and a hot supper. The mailbox was full; he pulled out a handful of circulars and envelopes and went inside, tidily sorting them as he went.
“Bill, bill, occupant, junk, junk, more junk, charity appeal, bill, idiot, bill, invitation . . . hi, sweetie—” He paused for a fragrant kiss from his wife, followed by a second sniff of her hair. “Oh, man, are we having brats and sauerkraut for dinner?”
“You are,” his wife told him, neatly snagging her jacket from the hall tree with one hand and squeezing his buttock with the other. “I’m going to a meeting with Marilyn. Be back by nine, if the rain doesn’t make the traffic too bad. Anything good in the mail?”
“Nah. Have fun!”
She rolled her eyes at him and left before he could ask if she’d bought Bud. He tossed the half-sorted mail on the kitchen counter and opened the refrigerator to check. A gleaming red-and-white six-pack beckoned cheerily, and the warm air was so tangy with the smells of fried sausage and vinegar that he could taste it without even taking the lid off the pan sitting on the stove.
“A good woman is prized above rubies,” he said, inhaling blissfully and pulling a can loose from its plastic ring.
He was halfway through the first plate of food and two-thirds of the way into his second beer when he put down the sports section of the Globe and saw the letter on top of the spilled pile of mail. He recognized Bree’s handwriting at once; it was big and round, with a determined rightward slant—but there was something wrong with the letter.
He picked it up, frowning a little, wondering why it looked strange . . . and then realized that the stamp was wrong. She wrote at least once a month, sending photos of the kids, telling him about her job, the farm—and the letters all had British stamps, purple and blue heads of Queen Elizabeth. This one had an American stamp.
He slowly set down the letter as though it might explode and swallowed the rest of the beer in one gulp. Fortified, he set his jaw and picked it up.
“Tell me you and Rog took the kids to Disneyland, Bree,” he murmured, licking mustard off his knife before using it to slit the envelope. She’d talked about doing that someday. “Baby Jesus, tell me this is a photo of Jem shaking hands with Mickey Mouse.”
Much to his relief, it was a photo of both children at Disneyland, beaming at the camera from Mickey Mouse’s embrace, and he laughed out loud. Then he saw the tiny key that had fallen out of the envelope—the key to a bank’s safe-deposit box. He set down the photo, went and got another beer, and sat down deliberately to read the brief note enclosed with the photo.
Dear Uncle Joe,
I’m taking the kids to see Grandma and Grandpa. I don’t know when we’ll be back; could you please see to things while we’re gone? (Instructions in the box.)
Thank you for everything, always. I’ll miss you. I love you.
Bree
He sat for a long time next to the cold grease congealing on his plate, looking at the bright, happy photo.
“Jesus, girl,” he said softly. “What’s happened? And what do you mean you’re taking the kids? Where the hell’s Roger?”
PART THREE
A Blade New-Made from
the Ashes of the Forge
SOMETHING SUITABLE IN WHICH TO GO TO WAR
June 19, 1778
Philadelphia