Authors: Traitorous Hearts
The older children understood far too well. It pained her to see
their usually exuberant, playful personalities so subdued. Adam junior tried
too hard to take on the responsibilities of the man he was too young to be.
Sarah spent hours holding her cat close, sitting and watching spring push its
way upon the land. All Bennie could do for either of them was hold them and
hope she was there if they ever needed her.
No matter how much Bennie crammed into her daytime hours, it
didn't seem to be enough. She tried to exhaust her body and her mind, hoping
she'd fall asleep the instant she hit her mattress. It didn't work; she dreamed
anyway, dark, disjointed dreams edged with smoke and blood. The only thing she
remembered when she awoke, struggling for breath, was the image of Jon and her
brothers smiling at each other—then lifting their muskets and blowing each
other's chests away.
For the first time, she wasn't able to turn to her music; she
couldn't seem to make it come out right. After years of it being her own
private melody, she'd experienced the delight of sharing it, and she couldn't
go back to the loneliness. The music seemed empty, echoing, as hollow as the
yawning cavern in her chest where her heart should have been.
***
Brendan was back.
He strolled into the Dancing Eel the first day of June, leaned
against the wall, and called for an ale.
"Brendan!" Bennie didn't bother to excuse herself to the
two old farmers she'd been waiting on. She fairly flew across the room and
threw her arms around him.
"I can't believe you're really home," she said, her
voice muffled against his shoulder. She gave him one more squeeze and stepped
back. "What are you doing here?"
Before he had a chance to answer she hollered for her youngest
brother. "Isaac! Dad went down to the mill to pick up some extra oats. Run
and tell him to come home. Brendan's back! Stop at Adam's house and get Mother,
too."
Isaac strode across the room, moving his lanky frame with the
first eagerness Bennie had seen from him since he returned from Lexington. He
grabbed his brother's hand and pumped it.
"Brendan. Can't wait to hear all about it. Shot many redcoats
yet, huh?"
Brendan straightened. "No." He gave Isaac an even look.
"You've grown again."
"Yeah."
"I think you've finally topped me, too."
"You think so?" Isaac's fine blond hair drifted around
his bony face. "Don't know what good it'll do me. Mother still treats me
like a child."
"Isaac, weren't you going to let Mother and Father know
Brendan's here?" Bennie reminded him.
"Oh, right." He rushed out the door.
"What was that all about?"
Bennie sighed. "He wants to join you all in the army. Mother
said no."
"I'm surprised Father didn't tell him he could go
anyway."
"You know he never goes against Mother." She shoved her
hands through her pocket slits and into the pockets that were tied around her
waist with a tape. "He can leave when he's sixteen. Maybe it'll be all
over by then."
"I wouldn't count on it, Elizabeth."
His quiet conviction was more than she could handle right then.
She had to believe it was all going to be over soon, quickly, cleanly, and
neatly.
"Let me look at you." She stepped back and surveyed him.
His dark hair was shiny, neatly fastened in a bagwig at the nape of his neck.
His clothes, though rough, were well mended and meticulously clean. He was
thinner, having lost a little flesh he could ill afford to lose. But it was his
eyes, as always, that stopped her. They were dark, shadowed, holding secrets
and depths that even she couldn't read. In fact, she was sure she was the only
one who saw the shadows at all.
She poked his stomach. "You haven't been eating enough."
"The food is not exactly appetizing."
"Then get some that is."
His eyes darkened. "It isn't that easy, Elizabeth."
She touched his arm gently. "Is it so terrible, then?"
"Not now." He shook his head. "I'll just have to
tell it all over again when Father gets here. Later, Elizabeth, all
right?"
"Well, then." She dropped the subject. Brendan was the
one Jones she could never pry information out of, no matter how much she
prodded. "I guess Mother and I will just have to feed you up. We'll have
you back to normal in no time."
"I can't stay."
"What?"
"I'm going back tomorrow. I've only got two days' leave, and
it takes a good part of it just getting here and back. I had to come and check
on of all you, though. I promised the others I'll give them a full report when
I return."
Cadwallader burst through the door of the Dancing Eel.
"There you are, my boy." He clapped Brendan on the back.
"Isaac told me you were here. He went to get your mother. Might take a
bit, though. Think she already headed out to Carter's place."
He grabbed a chair and practically tossed it at Brendan.
"Sit, sit. A soldier should take a break when he can; never know when
you'll get another one, do you? Bennie, go get us something to drink, will
you?"
Brendan took the chair. His mouth quirked as Cad heaved his
massive bulk onto a nearby bench.
"You don't change much, do you, Father?"
"Why should I change?" He clapped his hand on his knee.
"Now then, tell me all about it. Seen much action?"
Brendan shook his head slightly. "Could we wait until
Elizabeth gets back? I'm a bit thirsty."
"Of course, of course," Cad said, smiling genially. His
boy was a soldier. It was a damn sight better than being a bookworm and a
printer. Soldiering was man's work, a proper occupation for a Jones, and Cad
could afford to be a bit patient now.
Bennie returned, clasping two huge tankards of beer in one hand, a
smaller mug of cider in the other. She handed the tankards to the men and
settled herself close to Brendan's side, wrapping both hands around the chilled
mug of cider.
"Now then." Cad had been patient long enough. "The
action?"
"There's no action to see. I'm sure you've heard that
here."
"I know, I know," Cad said impatiently. "That's
what the news is. But there had to be
something.
Certainly you could
find it."
Brendan sipped his beer. "Very little. Oh, we pick off a
British scout now and then. Nothing more."
Jon wasn't a scout. Bennie let her fingers relax around the cool,
solid metal of her mug. He was safe, for now at least.
"Nothing." Cad slapped his thigh in disgust. "So
the entire Continental army is just sitting around on its ass?"
"Pretty much."
"Damn. Knew they needed me there, but your mother keeps
insisting it's foolishness for a man of my years to go chasing off after war.
My years, indeed. I'm worth more than any of those young pups."
"We all know that, Da," Bennie said soothingly.
"That's why we need you here. Someone has to protect New Wexford, in case
the British decide to move in this direction again."
"Hmph." Cad downed half his beer, then leveled his gaze
at Brendan. "Tell me the truth, Brendan. What's going on?"
"We've got them pretty much surrounded. We've got fifteen
thousand men camped around Boston, from Cambridge through Brookline, all the
way to Roxbury."
"And all we've managed to do with all those men is pick off a
couple of worthless scouts?"
"It's not that easy, Da." Brendan leaned back
comfortably in his chair. His tone was casual; he could have been discussing
the quality of the latest batch of ale. "We've got three whole divisions
running around. General Ward is in command, but none of the other generals
really wants to report to him. And there are a whole slew of companies who
don't want to report to anybody."
"Doesn't anybody know anythin' about military discipline
around there? Nobody
wants
to report to nobody. You can't give 'em a
choice."
"There's a group of Stockbridge Indians, and another of
Mohawk warriors. They're certainly not going to take orders from any one of us,
but they're better than the rest of us combined at slipping up on someone, or
scouting out the enemy."
"Still, you gotta drill, drill, drill. Make an army out of
'em."
"Rations are short. Everybody's hungry. There's not nearly
enough gunpowder."
"Gotta expect to make a few sacrifices."
"Pay is late. There's not much to do. People sit around
drinking all day."
Cad slapped his huge palm on his knee. "Well, what's wrong
with that?"
"They're not Joneses, Da. They can't all hold their spirits.
We've had more men injured while fighting amongst themselves than in skirmishes
with the British."
"Not men under your command, I hope. I expect better from you
boys."
"No, not under my command." Brendan smiled wryly.
"Nor any of ours. We've set our men mostly to cleaning. Keeps them busy,
and Lord knows the camp could use it."
"Adam's idea, I expect. Boy always did have a good head for
leadin'."
"No, actually, it was mine." Brendan drank deeply of his
ale.
"Yours, huh? Wouldn'ta thought it. Know you got a good mind,
course, but never seemed to have much of a practical bent."
Sipping at her ale, Bennie watched Brendan carefully. She didn't
see so much as a flinch, and she wondered if he'd finally reached a point where
their father no longer had the power to wound him. She wished she could recover
the ability to close off her emotions, an ability that seemed to have melted
away with the snow.
"Disease is running wild through the camps, Da. It's causing
more damage than the British could ever do. I only hope to God they don't
attack any time soon; half of our men will spend the entire battle looking for
the nearest trench." Brendan smiled, the first genuine smile Bennie had
seen from him since he returned. It lit up his eyes with the sudden, potent
charm he so rarely displayed.
"Of course," he continued, "none of the Jones boys
have had so much as a sneeze."
"Good breeding," Cad said.
Bennie laughed. Maybe it was all going to be all right after all.
"So that's it then?" she asked. "Everybody holds
their ground?"
Brendan's smile faded as he turned to look at her. Her own new
lightheartedness evaporated as soon as she saw the expression in his eyes.
If his eyes had been dark before, they were black now, but for
once, she could catch glimpses of the emotions they usually shielded:
desperation, and a soul-deep sorrow.
And she had her answer. It wasn't going to be all right after all.
***
Running the brush briskly down the horse's side, Bennie spoke
softly.
"That's a good girl, Puffy. You stand so still and let me
make your coat look nice."
Unseasonable heat had swept into New Wexford the day Brendan had
ridden out. A week later, it was close and stuffy in the stable, warm enough
that her light cotton dress was damp as she worked. She set down the brush and
picked up a metal comb, starting to work the tangles out of the tan mane.
'"Scuse me, miss, are you Miss Beth?"
She froze. Beth? Only one person had ever called her Beth, but not
in that cracked, quavery voice.
She turned to face an old man, spare and hunched as a sparrow.
Faded blue eyes twinkled from either side of a beaky nose, and he had a huge
pack slung over his slumped shoulder.
"What do you want?"
"Are you Beth?"
Idly, she turned the comb over and over. "Hardly anybody
calls me that."
"But someone does?" he persisted.
She ran her hand down her horse's flank. "Yes."
Beaming, he dropped his pack, the gaps in his teeth somehow
failing to diminish the contagious happiness of his smile. "I've got
somethin' for you, miss."
"For me?" What could he possibly have for her? He'd
yanked open the top of his sack and was now rummaging around inside, muttering
under his breath as he poked and prodded. The sack bulged dangerously.
"Who are you?"
His head bobbed up for an instant before he buried it in the
opening again. "I'm a peddler, miss. Come from Boston."
"I don't want to buy anything."
"It's free, miss." Tossing a bulky wrapped package over
his shoulder, he went on, mumbling under his breath. "Now where did I put
that..."
Free? What kind of a peddler gave things away? For that matter,
what kind showed up in the stables, knew her name, and starting unpacking his
wares before she had a chance to get a word in edgewise?
"Now see here—" she began.
"Ah, here it is." He emerged from the depths of his
sack, his face bright with triumph, waving a crumpled piece of paper. "I'd
stuffed it in a gill cup, miss. Kept it safe for you."