“Oh.” Hunter coughed, seeming embarrassed. “It . . . has a, um, sign painted on the tailboard. Dottie purchased it from—Now, you must take care, Friend,” he said, abruptly raising his voice. “Eat generously but slowly, take no alcohol, and be careful in moving. Do not stand up too quickly.”
Colonel Smith came in and, seeing the doctor present, came over to inspect the patient himself.
“Are you feeling better, Colonel?” he inquired politely. “Or are you still suffering from the need to burst into song? If so, might I suggest you do so now and get it out of your system, before I retire for the night?”
Hunter—who had of course heard “Die Sommernacht” the night before—made a small noise in his throat but managed to take his leave without losing control.
Grey grinned to himself, recalling Smith’s glower—and imagining what the colonel might look like in a few hours, when he woke to discover that his songbird had flown. He made his way around the edge of the camp, avoiding the picket lines of mules and horses—easy to detect by the smell of manure. The wagons were parked nearby: no artillery, he noted.
The sky was overcast, a sickle moon glimmering uneasily between racing clouds, and the air held the scent of impending rain. Fine. There were worse things than being wet and cold, and rain would hamper pursuit, if anyone discovered his absence before daylight.
No abnormal sounds from the camp behind him; none he could hear above the noise of his own heart and breathing. Hunter’s wagon was easy to find, even in the flickering dark. He’d thought by “sign” that the doctor meant a name, but it was one of the barn signs that some of the German immigrants painted on their houses and sheds. He smiled when the clouds parted, revealing this one clearly, and he saw why Dottie had chosen it: it was a large circle, in which two comical birds faced each other, beaks open in the manner of lovebirds. Distlefink. The word floated into his head; someone, somewhere, had told him the name of that sort of bird, saying it was a symbol of good luck.
“Good,” he said under his breath, climbing up into the wagon. “I’ll need it.”
He found the bundle under the seat, where Hunter had told him, and took a moment to remove the silver buckles from his shoes, tying the flaps together instead with a length of leather lacing that had evidently been meant for his hair. He left the buckles tucked under the seat, put on the shabby coat, which smelled strongly of stale beer and what he thought was old blood, and peered at the knitted cap, which held two journeycakes, an apple, and a small canteen of water. Turning back the edge of the hat, he read by the fitful moonlight, LIBERTY OR DEATH, in bold white letters.
HE WASN’T HEADED in any particular direction; even had the sky been clear, he wasn’t sufficiently familiar as to be able to chart his direction by the stars. His only goal was to get as far away from Smith as possible, without running into another militia company or a patrol of Continentals. Once the sun was up, he could orient himself; Hunter had told him that the main road lay south–southwest of the camp, about four miles away.
What the public might make of a man strolling down the main road in fetters was another question, but not one he needed to answer just now. After walking for an hour or so, he found a sheltered spot among the roots of an enormous pine tree and, taking out the knife, hacked off his hair as best he could. He stuffed the shorn locks well back under a root, rubbed his hands in the dirt, and then applied them vigorously to hair and face before donning his Phrygian cap.
Thus suitably concealed, he heaped a thick blanket of fallen dry needles over himself, curled up, and went to sleep to the sound of pattering rain in the trees above, once more a free man.
NAMELESS, HOMELESS, DESTITUTE, AND VERY DRUNK INDEED
HOT, DISHEVELED, AND still thoroughly out of temper from his encounter with Richardson, William made his way back through the crowded streets. One more night in a decent bed, at least. Tomorrow he’d leave Philadelphia with the last few companies of the army, following Clinton north—and leaving the remaining Loyalists to fend for themselves. He was torn between relief and guilt at the thought but had little energy left to consider them.
He arrived at his billet to find that his orderly had deserted and had taken with him William’s best coat, two pairs of silk stockings, a half bottle of brandy, and the seed-pearl-encrusted double miniature of William’s mother, Geneva, and his other mother, her sister, Isobel.
This was so far over the bloody limit of what could be borne that he didn’t even swear, merely sank down on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, and breathed through clenched teeth until the pain in his stomach subsided. It left a raw-edged hollow. He’d had that miniature since he was born, was accustomed to bid it good night before he slept, though since he’d left home he did this silently.
He told himself it didn’t matter; he was unlikely to forget what his mothers looked like—there were other paintings, at home at Helwater. He remembered Mama Isobel. And he could see the traces of his real mother in his own face. . . . Involuntarily, he glanced at the shaving mirror that hung on the wall—the orderly had somehow overlooked that in his flight—and felt the hollow inside him fill with hot tar. He no longer saw the curve of his mother’s mouth, her dark wavy chestnut hair; he saw instead the too-long, knife-edged nose, the slanted eyes and broad cheekbones.
He stared at this blunt evidence of betrayal for an instant, then turned and stamped out.
“Fuck the resemblance!” he said, and slammed the door behind him.
He didn’t care where he was going, but within a few streets he ran into Lindsay and another couple of fellows he knew, all intent on making the most of their last evening in a semi-civilized city.