Authors: Traitorous Hearts
"A stork in peacock feathers," she scoffed. "Why
don't you buy me something to eat before the mustering?"
"Can't." Brendan grinned. "I can't afford it."
Bennie frowned at him in mock severity. "I don't eat that
much."
"Uh-huh—compared to a horse, maybe. Or Adam. But compared to
the rest of the world—"
"Three sweet buns at most. I promise."
"I really can't, Elizabeth. It's almost time for the mustering."
She glanced out at the square; several dozen men were already
milling about in loose groups. "But it's scarcely noon. The mustering
never starts before two o'clock."
"It does this year." He grabbed the musket leaning
against the wall near the door.
"But why?" His grim look was all the answer she needed.
"Oh, in case the British decide to show up?"
"We'll be all done."
"Why didn't someone tell me?"
"We didn't tell anyone who didn't need to know." He
opened the door and motioned her through. "Let's go."
***
The Jones women stood together at the mustering. Bennie, Mary, and
the wives of the four married sons all watched with pride puffing up their
breasts and bringing broad smiles to their faces. There was no question that
the Jones men were the finest of the lot.
Cadwallader strode up and down the raggedy rows of soldiers, his
silver-gilt head high as he performed his last inspection as the elected
captain of the troops. After today, Adam would take over as leader. It was
time.
But that didn't mean Cad was any easier on the men on this
occasion. Though they were clothed in a wide-ranging conglomeration of tans,
rusty reds, browns, dark greens, and even an occasional purple, it didn't
matter. They might not be garbed like soldiers, but they had the equipment.
Each man was required to present his flintlock musket for
inspection. Cad made sure it was perfectly oiled and ready to fire; if not, he
made sure the man was out of the line until it was. Each man also had to
deliver two spare flints, a priming wire, and a brush. They knew Cad would
never let them get away without having all the proper tools, so they all did.
At the same time Cad was marching up and down the rows, the
selectmen were presenting the other officers with money for the military
banquet.
Banquet, hah, Bennie thought. It was simply an excuse to seriously
deplete the stores of the Dancing Eel.
Her father stopped dead between the rows, an oddly questioning
look on his face. Something was wrong. Bennie began to go to him but paused,
seeing his brows draw together and his eyes darken with rage.
The relaxed men suddenly drew together, their hands tightening on
their weapons. Cad looked at Adam, seeming to find satisfaction in his
answering nod.
What was it? Bennie wondered in bewilderment.
Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.
Drums. But all the towns expected were already here.
Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.
Relentless, rhythmic, unstoppable. Almost eerily regular. The
drums of soldiers marching to battle.
Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.
Louder. Closer. A drumming that seemed to set the pace of her
painfully pounding heart.
Ba-dum-dum-dum. Ba-dum-dum-dum.
They were coming.
There weren't as
many of them as she'd first thought.
Bennie huddled a little closer to the other silent women. All
around the square, small groups of women and children drew together, quiet and
watchful, as their men were confronted by the redcoats.
When the lines of soldiers had first come into sight, they'd
seemed endless. Long, evenly spaced columns, their marching flawlessly
synchronized to the beat pounded out by the Negro drummers, resplendent in
vivid yellow. Now, with the initial shock over, Bennie could see there were no
more than thirty or so men, not much more than half the number of colonial
militia.
It didn't seem to matter. These were soldiers. Their bayonets
gleamed malevolently in the sun. Their cross-straps were so white they must
have been freshly daubed with pipe clay. Their posture was straight, their grip
on their weapons sure, their bearing arrogant.
The lone exception was Jon. His size alone would have made him
conspicuous. A half step out of line, spoiling the sharp, perfect rows, he
fumbled with his musket and nearly lost his hat before he jammed it back on his
head. Earnest seriousness darkened his sculpted face as he sidled forward more
closely into alignment with the soldiers flanking him.
Quickly Bennie turned her attention back to her father. He was
nearly ready to explode. Even from this distance, she could see that his
eyebrows were quivering, the way they always did just before his temper erupted
onto one of her brothers.
Soon as they'd known what was coming, the colonists had rapidly
moved to a better defensive position. Now there were four solid rows backed
against one side of the common, protecting the women and children. Behind them
were the tavern, the store, the printshop; places their families could quickly
retreat to if it became necessary.
But what choices did the militiamen have, really? They couldn't
shoot, not without provocation or threat. And they
wouldn't
turn tail
and run—that was what the British wanted.
Cadwallader Jones stood proudly in front of his men. If the damn
English wanted to push this issue, he would oblige. There'd be better days and
places than this, but if this was what was to be, then he was ready.
Captain Livingston sauntered slowly, almost casually over to Cad.
Planting his feet slightly apart, Livingston linked his hands behind his back.
"So, Jones, you couldn't see your way clear to make this
simple, could you?"
"It could be very easy. You march your men back to your fort,
and we'll continue as if nothing had happened."
The captain shook his head regretfully. "Well, no, I don't
think that would work. I've been ordered to stop you from conducting any
military maneuvers, you see."
"And just how do you plan to stop us? You can't shoot
us."
"No? It would be a bit messy, I will admit. All that blood
and everything. Still and all, it's a rather expedient way of doing things, and
my men haven't had much chance to practice on moving targets recently. Might do
us some good."
Cad's hands tightened around the stock of his musket. "You
can't shoot first."
"I suppose not. But then it's always a bit confusing in
battle. All those shots, all that screaming. Who's to say who fired first? I'd
imagine twenty different men would have twenty different stories. I don't
suppose I'd have much trouble getting my superiors to believe me."
He flicked his hand slightly, his forefinger upraised. At the
signal, his troops lifted their muskets in one move, each selecting a target in
the front lines of the colonial forces. The Americans raised their own weapons,
determination steeling each man. They were untrained, but they had their
families at their backs. There was no better incentive.
This couldn't be happening. Bennie felt a trickle of sweat slide
between her shoulder blades. How could she be sweating, when she was so cold?
Around her, women rushed to get their children into the fragile shelter of the
buildings, but Bennie was rooted in place, unable to make herself move.
This could
not
be happening.
Rising to her tiptoes, she took a look over the heads of the men,
suddenly grateful for her height. She could see only the back of her father's
head and shoulders, so she moved to the side of the main body of colonists,
oblivious of the fact that she was leaving herself an open target.
Silence. How could so many people make so little noise? There was
no creak of leather boots, no rustle of cloth, not even the whisper of the wind
through the trees. Just overwhelming, terrible silence.
A loud, squealing wail shattered the quiet. A fat pink pig from
last spring's litter, not quite grown, bolted between the two groups of men.
Splotched black with mud from the hollow, it shouldered its way through the
tiny space between the captain and Cad, leaving dark streaks on the captain's
white breeches and gaiters. He stumbled back, only at the last instant managing
to regain his balance and avoid falling ignominiously on his rump.
The pig continued to dash wildly through the crowds, squealing
loudly, as if a butcher was after it. It wove between the alert soldiers,
pushing them out of formation, causing several to drop loaded muskets, which
they frantically scrambled to grab before the weapons could accidentally go
off.
It was chaos. Half the men stared agape at the unexpected
intruder. The other half dodged to get out of its way.
"Somebody get that stupid pig!" the captain shouted,
staring sadly at the soiled mess of his best dress breeches.
"I'll get it, Cap'n!" Jon charged through the men, his
massive shoulders causing nearly as much commotion as the pig. He stumbled
after it, diving and missing, only to jump to his feet and tumble after it
again. He trailed in its wake, his arms spread wide as if ready to embrace a
lover, not even noticing the havoc he wreaked.
At least half a dozen men, both colonial and British, were upended
as Jon shoved his way after the frantic animal; they rose grumbling, nursing
bruised posteriors.
"Almost got him!" Indeed, he did seem to be gaining
slowly. The desperate animal took off at a dead run for its favorite mudhole.
Reaching the hollow, it took a reckless leap into the dubious safety of its
brethren, burrowing itself deeply in the sticky mud.
"I... got it!" Jon took a massive, rash dive. He landed
with a splat, spread-eagled face down in the muck, sinking in at least a
handspan with the force of his landing. Black clumps of mud flew, splattering
the already grubby pigs.
Both arms wrapped around the wriggling, struggling pig, Jon rolled
over to face the astonished spectators. His hat was gone, his mud-bedaubed hair
stuck out in wet clumps, and he was black from top to bottom; his pale eyes
showed light in his grime-covered face, as did his broad, triumphant grin.
"I got it!"
The crowd on the common was quiet with stunned disbelief. Cad and
Captain Livingston cautiously approached the edge of the wallow, staring down
at the pigs scrambling around the lieutenant.
"Well, Leighton, you certainly did get it," Livingston
said calmly.
Laughter swept the clearing, ripsnorting, sidesplitting laughter.
Laughter that swelled through both groups of men, an irresistible wave of
gaiety.
Cad held on to his sides, trying to suppress his monstrous snorts.
He glanced over at the captain, who was red-faced and nearly doubled over with
amusement.
If the enemy found it funny, well then he couldn't. It was that
simple. Cad straightened abruptly, fixing his face into severe lines. As soon
as Livingston saw Cad's serious expression, he sobered too. The captain and Cad
glared at each other, trying to impose the force of their wills.
And then the pig squealed again. The captain's mouth twitched.
Cad's eyebrows wiggled. Gales of irrepressible laughter bubbled up in them
both. Cad whooped. Livingston wiped watery eyes.
"Gawd, Livingston... you laugh... like a sick horse,"
Cad managed between guffaws.
"Me?" The captain struggled to gulp enough air.
"You... stop this right now, Jones. This... have to be... serious. This
is... a... military maneuver."
"I'm... serious." Cad snorted again.
"Not a military maneuver, Cap'n," Jon piped in happily,
still clutching the wiggling animal. "It's a party."
"A party." Captain Livingston quieted immediately and
looked speculatively around the common, taking in the assorted stands selling
sweets and treats, the peddlers and their varied stock of wares, the obviously
ample supplies of spirits. "A... festival, perhaps." It could be so
easy. "Jones, would you say you were having a festival?"
"Well..." Cad said doubtfully.
Livingston gave him a significant look. "My commanding
officer gave me orders to prevent any military action on the part of the
colonists. He never said you could not have a festival."
"Oh, a festival." Cad pursed his lips. It went against
his grain to compromise with a redcoat, to do anything but insist on their
freedom to drill. But a chance to avoid the issue? To avoid putting anyone in
danger? "Yes, certainly. A festival."
Livingston gave a relived sigh. "Good."
"But you know, if we had been having a 'military action,' we
would have trounced you soundly."
"You most certainly would not have."
"A shame we won't have a chance to find out."
The captain lifted his eyebrows. His only desire had been to get
out of the situation without bloodshed. But if there was the opportunity to gather
a bit of information along the way, he was not one to overlook it.
"Perhaps we could."