He sighed, but then relaxed, breathing in the scents of woodsmoke, pine needles, and roasted corn. Wherever Hal was, he’d be safe enough. His brother could take care of himself.
The prayers over, one of his companions had started to sing. It was a song he knew, but the words were quite different. His version, picked up from an army surgeon who’d fought with the Colonials during the French and Indian war, went:
Brother Ephraim sold his Cow
And bought him a Commission;
And then he went to Canada
To fight for the Nation;
But when Ephraim he came home
He proved an arrant Coward,
He wouldn’t fight the Frenchmen there
For fear of being devour’d.
Dr. Shuckburgh hadn’t had much opinion of the colonials, and neither had the composer of the newer version, used as a marching song. He’d heard that one in Philadelphia and hummed along under his breath.
Yankee Doodle came to town,
For to buy a firelock,
We will tar and feather him,
And so we will John Hancock!
His present companions were now singing—with gusto—the latest evolution:
Yankee Doodle went to town
A-riding on a pony,
Stuck a feather in his cap
And called it Macaroni!
He wondered, yawning, whether any of them knew that the word dudel meant “simpleton” in German. He doubted Morristown, New Jersey, had ever seen a macaroni, those affected young men who went in for pink wigs and a dozen face patches.
As his headache eased, he began to appreciate the simple pleasure of reclining. The shoes with their makeshift laces fit him badly and, as well as rubbing his heels raw, gave him shooting pains in the shins from the effort of constantly clenching his toes in order to keep the bloody things on. He stretched his legs gingerly, almost enjoying the tenderness in his muscles, so near bliss by contrast with walking.
He was distracted from his catalog of meager blessings by a small, hungry gulp near his ear, followed by a young, low voice.
“Mister . . . if ye’re not meanin’ to eat that journeycake yourself . . .”
“What? Oh . . . yes. Of course.”
He struggled to sit up, one hand pressed protectively over his bad eye, and turned his head to see a boy of eleven or twelve sitting on the log just beside him. He had his hand inside his sack, rummaging for the food, when the boy let out a gasp, and he looked up, vision wavering in the firelight, to discover himself face-to-face with Claire’s grandson, fair hair in a tousled halo round his head and a look of horror on his face.
“Hush!” he said in a whisper, and grabbed the child’s knee in such a sudden grip that the boy gave a small yelp.
“Why, what’s that you’ve got there, Bert? Caught you a thief?” Abe Shaffstall, distracted from a desultory game of knucklebones, looked over his shoulder, peering shortsightedly at the boy—Christ, what was his name? His father was French; was it Claude? Henri? No, that was the younger boy, the dwarf. . . .
“Tais-toi!” he said under his breath to the boy, and turned to his companions. “No, no—this is a neighbor’s son from Philadelphia—er . . . Bobby. Bobby Higgins,” he added, grabbing at the first name that offered itself. “What’s brought you out here, son?” he asked, hoping that the boy was as quick-witted as his grandmother.
“Lookin’ for my grandda,” the boy replied promptly, though his eyes shifted uneasily round the circle of faces, now all aimed in his direction as the singing died away.
“My mam sent me with some clothes and food for him, but some wicked fellows in the wood pulled me off my mule and . . . and t-took everything.” The boy’s voice trembled realistically, and Grey noticed that, in fact, his dirty cheeks showed the tracks of tears.
This provoked a rumble of concern round the circle and the immediate production from pokes and pockets of hard bread, apples, dried meat, and dirty handkerchiefs.
“What’s your grandpa’s name, son?” Joe Buckman inquired. “What company is he with?”
The boy looked nonplussed at this and shot a quick glance at Grey, who answered for him.
“James Fraser,” he said, with a reassuring nod that made his head throb. “He’d be with one of the Pennsylvania companies, wouldn’t he, Bobby?”
“Aye, sir.” The boy wiped his nose on the proffered handkerchief and gratefully accepted an apple. “Mer—” He interrupted himself with an artful coughing fit and amended this to “Thank ye kindly, sir. And you, sir.” He handed back the handkerchief and set himself to ravenous consumption, this limiting his replies to nods and shakes of the head. Indistinct mumbles indicated that he had forgotten the number of his grandfather’s company.
“No matter, boy,” Reverend Woodsworth said comfortingly. “We’re all a-going to the same place to muster. You’ll find your grandpa with the troops there, surely. You think you can keep up with us, though, a-foot?”
“Oh, aye, sir,” Germain—that was it! Germain!—said, nodding fast. “I can walk.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Grey said hastily, and that seemed to settle it.
He waited impatiently until everyone had forgotten the boy’s presence and begun to ready themselves for sleep, then rose, muscles protesting, and jerked his head at Germain to follow him, muffling an exclamation of pain at the movement.
“Right,” he said in a low voice, as soon as they were out of earshot. “What the devil are you doing out here? And where is your bloody grandfather?”
“I was lookin’ for him,” Germain replied, unbuttoning his flies to piss. “He’s gone to—” He paused, obviously unsure what his relationship with Grey now was. “Beg pardon, my lord, but I dinna ken should I tell ye that or not. I mean . . .” The boy was no more than a silhouette against the darker black of the undergrowth, but even the outline of his body expressed an eloquent wariness. “Comment se fait-il que vous soyez ici?”