Authors: Traitorous Hearts
"Good." He pressed her fingers again. "Take care,
Ben."
"I will."
Watching him stride away, head and shoulders above every man in
camp, Bennie felt a quick swelling of pride. She waited until he was out of
sight, unwilling to take the chance that he would turn and see her heading for
Washington's quarters. She wasn't sure she was up to answering any questions
right now.
As casually as she could manage, she strolled over to the
whitewashed building. The soldiers who guarded it were unsmiling, utterly
serious about their jobs. Unlike most of the men in camp, they were in
uniform—plain and dark blue, but clean and neatly turned out. Their black boots
shone, a gleam only rivaled by that of their weapons.
Bennie swallowed heavily, set her shoulders, and approached the
nearest guard.
"Excuse me, sir. I'd like to see General Washington."
His gaze flicked over her dismissively, resting for the briefest
moment on her breasts. She wondered if he could see her heart knocking against
her chest.
"Are you expected, ma'am?" he asked stiffly.
"No, but—"
"Then I'm afraid it will not be possible."
"I know it's irregular, but I have to see him. It's
important."
"I'm sure it is, ma'am," he said with just a trace of
condescension. "However, the general is a busy man."
"I'm aware of that."
"Excuse me." He turned on his heel and began to march
across to the other side of the building. Another soldier was high-stepping
toward them; the dead grass was worn thin in criss-crossing lines that they
followed precisely.
"Wait!" She hurried to go after him. She wasn't used to
being dismissed.
He stopped and turned impatiently when she reached him.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but if you don't leave I'll have to get someone to
escort you away."
She checked quickly to see if anyone was in earshot. "Tell
him it's about Goliath."
The young soldier wrinkled his brow. "Excuse me?"
"It's important," she insisted.
"Goliath?"
"Just tell him!" she said, glaring down at the soldier,
grateful, not for the first time, that she'd had plenty of experience in
quelling recalcitrant young men.
"If I do, and he won't see you, will you leave quietly?"
"Yes," she said, impatiently shoving back stray curls.
Why would her hair never stay where it belonged?
The soldier marched crisply to the plain structure and up the
steps. He opened the wooden door, then turned and looked at her, his eyebrows
raised questioningly, as if giving her one final chance to back out. She nodded
forcefully, and he disappeared inside.
Bennie waited, fingering the papers in her pocket. She swallowed,
licked her dry lips, and wondered if she'd be able to get any words out when
the time came. Maybe words wouldn't be necessary. She could just give the
general the packet and get out of there.
The general! Oh, Lord. The impact of what she was doing struck her
forcefully. What she was carrying in her pocket could make the difference
between life and death for thousands of men.
She looked around quickly. No one seemed to be paying any
attention to her at all. Thank God.
The young soldier stuck his head out the door. He was frowning,
and she braced herself to be told to leave.
It would be all right. She'd find Brendan, and he'd listen to her,
and he'd find a way to get the information to Washington. Yes, it would be all
right. It had to be.
"Follow me," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"He's waiting for you. This way ma'am."
She managed to gulp down a full breath of air, straightened her
spine, and went to meet General Washington.
***
The traitor mopped the sweat from his brow and looked around him
in disgust. Two soldiers were sprawled to his left, drinking rum straight from
a common bottle and exchanging stories about the whore they'd shared the night
before. To his right, one man shouted and four others groaned as each lost half
a crown on the turn of a card.
It stunk. A haze that smelled of unwashed, sweaty male bodies and
spoiling food clung to the camp. The sanitary conditions were deplorable, the
food was worse, and soldiers were dropping like flies—not from battle wounds
but from illness.
It was a complete waste. It was disgusting. And nothing he'd done
to try and prevent it had amounted to a damn thing.
There'd been precious little information to be discovered in the
last few months. Both sides seemed content to sit on their hands and wait.
He sighed in disgust and rose from the crate he'd been sitting on.
Perhaps a turn about camp would help. He needed to stretch his legs anyway.
The gamblers hailed him and invited him to join their game. They
needed fresh blood—and fresh coin. He declined. He had better things to do,
both with his money and his time.
Neatly sidestepping the drunks, he strolled across the camp,
automatically noting and cataloguing every thing he saw. One never knew when
something crucial would drop into one's lap.
A woman was standing in front of the General's quarters, staring
at the door and impatiently tapping her foot. That was unusual enough to catch
his interest, but there was also something very familiar about the figure. He
slowly ambled closer.
Bennie! What in the world was she doing there?
Before he had time to make up his mind whether to approach her, a
young soldier appeared in the doorway and beckoned her in.
It made no sense. There was absolutely no reason she would be
expected in the headquarters of the Continental army.
He wondered if it was worth trying to find out what business she
could have with the general. Crossing his arms, he waited, unmoving, oblivious
to the bustle around him. After nearly a half-hour had passed she still hadn't
come out.
Well, his decision was made. He would have to satisfy his curiosity.
Dark clouds scudded across the black sky, blotting out the moon.
The light was gone, and darkness settled like mist over a swamp.
That was fine with Jonathan. He saw well in the dark.
He couldn't have said why he'd chosen to come back here. He put
little stock in superstition or luck, so coming back to this place didn't
bother him. Instead, it seemed fitting somehow, to close the circle where it
had begun—in New Wexford.
The outlines of the old fort were a mere impression in the darkness.
The eye was easily fooled by outlines, in any case. He watched for texture, for
movement, and listened for any sound that was manmade.
He knew there would be no repeat of what had happened the last
time. The instructions to Washington that he'd attached to the end of the troop
information had been clear. They were to seal off every possible exit from
Boston, throwing a tight, impenetrable line around the city. There was no
possibility that even a small force of British troops could have made it
through.
The almost imperceptible swish of a bat in flight stirred the air
over his head. He hoped the creature had good hunting tonight. He certainly
intended to.
If only the traitor had taken the bait. He'd suggested that
Washington have the information leaked. It was a lure Jonathan was sure would
be irresistible; Jon was supposed to be meeting with the highest-ranking
American spy to have infiltrated the British army, a person whose existence had
only been rumored until now.
A person who didn't exist. Jonathan had created him. There was no
way the traitor would pass up the opportunity to identify—perhaps to
capture—both of them.
There was no sign of anyone else. He would have thought he was
completely alone, but he knew his target was there. He felt it somehow, a
disturbance in the air, a tang of anticipation.
His prey was careful; there was little doubt about that. It
appeared Jon would have to expose himself in order to draw the traitor out.
That was fine, too. Tall, broad, completely unprotected, he
strolled across the empty space in front of the fort. Anyone would have a clear
shot at him.
He wasn't afraid. Felt little, in fact, not even nervousness or a
sense of impending triumph. He'd felt almost nothing since the day Beth had
left him in the woods. It was as if all his emotions had retreated into some
gray, cold corner where they couldn't reach him anymore. He no longer noticed
them in any but the vaguest of ways—a clinical acknowledgment of their
presence, but he didn't really
feel
them.
The wind was off the river, bringing with it a hint of coolness.
He filled his lungs and emptied his mind. Action was easier when unaccompanied
by thought.
He was sure that the traitor didn't want to shoot him—not yet,
anyway. Why kill him, when a bigger fish was soon to arrive? Wouldn't do to
scare off the prize.
Jon silently crept up on the fort. He backed up against the solid
bulk of the outer wall and let out a slow, even breath. He listened. Still
nothing. Either he was alone, or the traitor was every bit as quiet as he was.
Jon was betting on the latter.
He slipped along the wall. It smelled of damp and rotting wood. He
hugged it tightly, counting on its black flatness to hide both his motion and
his form.
He moved slowly. Speed was almost impossible without accompanying
sound, and right now, stealth was much more crucial than quickness.
The old gate was open, sagging slightly on one side. It was one of
the things the captain hadn't had time to repair. Jon edged around the gate
just enough to give himself a quick peek, then slipped inside the fort. The
empty central yard was dark and deserted. No shadows, no light, no sound. Only
an increase in intensity, a slight thickening in the blackness, indicated where
the various buildings stood.
Choices now were a delicate matter. Somehow he needed to flush the
traitor out into the open. In order to capture him, Jon had to find him.
Conscious of his audience, Jon turned around restlessly and
stamped his feet as if he were growing impatient waiting for his contact. He
was acutely aware of the heavy, comforting weight of the flintlock pistol
tucked at the small of his back underneath his jerkin, and the cold familiar
steel of the blade slipped into his right boot.
Not much protection against a musket or rifle— particularly if the
shooter was who Jon suspected it was, for there was only one person in New
Wexford who had the access to information, the intelligence, and the
temperament to carry this off.
All right, all the traitor needed was a place from which to watch
and listen. Safely, comfortably tucked away, all he had to do was hear and see.
There was no place to hide along the inside of the fort. The flat
wall provided no cover other than the barest shadow cast by the overhang—
The overhang. Jon looked up at the walkway that rimmed the top of
the wall. It was there that British soldiers had stood and fired on attacking
French and Indian troops. Narrow, roughly bulwarked with thick wood, it
provided rudimentary if fragile protection.
It could also, quite easily, hide a person. A person who from that
position would have no trouble hearing and seeing what was happening in the
yard below.
A faint prickle lifted the hairs on the back of Jon's neck. He was
being watched. How was he ever going to climb to the walkway and sneak up on
the traitor without being seen?
Glancing around him once more, he gave a loud, theatrically
exasperated sigh. Striding wearily over to the wall, he slumped against it like
a man who was tired of waiting. He whacked the wood loudly. Loud enough to be
heard above, he hoped.
He was now out of sight to anyone on the ledge directly above him,
though still exposed to a watcher on the walkway along the other three sides of
the wall, but he had to assume the traitor was here, close enough to see
clearly anyone who entered the fort and near enough to hear any conversations
held just inside the entrance.
Jon moved soundlessly along the wall. Not even the packed earth
and spare grass beneath his feet whispered his passing. Some way from the gate,
a crude, broken ladder led to a small opening in the ledge above.
His senses focused on that access hole. He was no longer aware of
the coolness of the air, the feel of his clothes, or the sounds of the forest
night. He was sharply, acutely conscious only of the task in front of him, and
what waited above him on the narrow walkway.
Reaching high above him, almost two thirds of the way up the
ladder, he closed his hands slowly around one of the few rungs that seemed
still sound. He carefully placed his foot on the fourth rung from the bottom,
easing his weight onto it, testing it as much as possible.
The wood was sturdy beneath his boot. He let out a long, even
breath, and moved upward.
The old wood creaked beneath his weight. He froze, clinging to the
ladder, mentally cursing the sound and his completely vulnerable position.