The French Admiral (20 page)

“Thank you right kindly, Chiswick. Let me know when this is maddening to you and I shall spend another twenty minutes in the water.”

“Take your time.” Chiswick waved as if it did not matter. “I had a dunk two days ago in a creek closer to the town. Don't forget to do behind your ears. Your momma would not allow that to pass unwashed.”

“Never had one,” Alan replied. “I've always had dirty ears. No one would know me without them.”

“For dear old nurse, then,” Chiswick shot back. He rose to his feet and took a long look around. “This must have been a nice farm once.”

“Really?” Alan said, wondering what had been so nice about a cabin made of pine logs with no mark of real civilization to it.

“For this part of the world, yes,” Chiswick said, changing his tone, which made Alan swivel to look at him. “More than half the farmers in the Colonies would give dearly to look so prosperous or orderly.”

“What was your own place like?” Alan asked, raising one leg to give it equal treatment with the soap.

“Oh, we were proper squires in the Carolinas,” Burgess said, smiling but not much amused by the remembrance. “Had a brick house and some columns out on the portico. Painted barns and outbuildings. We grew tobacco, corn, rice, and timber, and had the mill, too. Tried our hand with indigo, but never got the hang of it, not like some closer to the coast. We had a decent herd of cattle and sheep. And some really fine horses.”

“I hope you killed all your pigs . . . painfully,” Alan said.

“Never asked 'em.” Burgess grinned.

“So you were what my whore in Charlestown called Tide-water people?”

“Charleston,” Burgess corrected without thought. “Yes, we were, in a way. Sort of betwixt and between Piedmonters and Tidewater, not fully one or the other. People firmly established in the Tidewater put on more airs than we could afford.”

“I'm sorry you got burned out,” Alan said, rising and dripping water as he waded the few paces ashore. “Regular troops or Regulators or whatever?”

“You did learn a lot from that whore of yours,” Burgess replied, tossing him a scrap of cloth with which to dry himself. It had been some woman's sack gown once, a light blue linen worked with white embroidery in a pattern that was now hard to identify, evidently something that Burgess had found in the house or the yard, smelling strongly of mildew and leaf mold. It was fairly clean and dry, though, so he used it without another care.

“No, 'twas a troop of horse rode through while the army and the militia were away over toward Charlotte,” Burgess said, his hazel eyes narrowing in anger. “Wild as over-mountain men, not even an organized troop, most of 'em. Some local hothead Patriots, too, as they like to style themselves.
Most
of our neighbors were Scots, loyal to the Crown.”

“Were you there then?” Alan asked, sitting down in the sun to finish drying with the scrap of gown across his lap for modesty.

“Aye, I was there.” Burgess winced, his hands growing tight on the rifle. “My daddy and momma, my sister Caroline, and my younger brother.”

“Did they harm any of you?”

“They shot George.” Burgess glared. “Shot him down like a dog. He was just fourteen; he didn't know. They were taking his favorite horse and he went after them and . . . they just shot him down. And they laughed. He bled to death before we could do anything for him.”

“My God, I'm sorry, Chiswick,” Alan said, shocked in spite of all the deaths he had seen in his short time in the Navy.

Burgess went on. “Could have been worse. Their leader, one of the local Rebels, was a gentleman. Else we'd have all been killed, and my momma and sister raped. Their leader had that man beat half to death right on the spot. But then, he went on looting the place after that, so it wasn't much comfort to us. We all got used pretty ill, anyway, what with all the shoving and pushing. Couple of our house servants got shot, and they ran off the rest, along with the stock. Then they allowed us some time to gather what we could, and torched the place.”

Alan didn't know what to say, so he finished dressing. Cony had done a fair job as hammock-man and had gotten out all the worst smuts.

“I'll stand guard for your bath now,” Alan offered.

“I knew that bastard, Lewrie,” Burgess almost moaned.

“That Rebel neighbor?”

“It was one of our cousins,” Burgess said, verging on tears.

“Holy shit on a biscuit!” Alan gaped. That proves it. The whole bloody country's mad as a lunatick in Bedlam, he thought.

“I grew up with him, played with him, hunted with him, sported with him and his family,” Burgess said. “They were better off than us, real squires of the county. They had no use for more land, but they've got ours now, and some of our slaves and our stock. From Momma's side they were, in the Carolina's longer than we were, closer to Wilmington, and the town turned into a hotbed of rebellion until we occupied it. Their daddy was at all the meetings and conventions, saying he was for the King and only wanted his rights as an Englishman, but then they all changed and turned on us 'cause Daddy was a newcomer and stood up for King George. God, I cannot tell you how much I hate them. How I want to see them suffer and die. You cannot know what it is to be betrayed by your own blood!”

“The hell I can't,” Alan said without mirth. “When we get back I shall tell you about it, if there's time. But if we got our wishes, a battalion of people would be consigned to Hell. Now stick your head under water for a while to cool the heat of your blood.”

“I guess they used us for an example, of what would happen if any more of our neighbors stayed Loyalist.” Burgess muttered on as he stripped away his uniform to take a scrub. “Like I said, most of our neighbors were Scots. They came over after Culloden, and when they give an oath, they never break it. Most of the lower Cape Fear is like that, around Cross Creek and Campbelltown. I suppose we were just too good a target. Daddy had helped Colonel Hamilton outfit the Royal North Carolina Regiment, our unit, so they had to do something to punish us, what with Governour already with the colors and all, and half the men away fighting. But we felt so safe there, with our neighbors of one mind with us to support the Crown. And with the Fannings and Cunninghams and Tarletons on our side raiding the Rebels, they had to respond. But everyone in the county loved George, Lewrie. He was the best horseman and hunter going, not afraid of anything. I'd rather it had been me, sometimes.”

“But your family is safe, now,” Alan said, trying to change the subject. God, he thought, and I believed I had a vicious set of relations.

“For the moment,” Burgess said, wading into the water and sitting down in the shallows. He did duck his head and came up spluttering, and it seemed to calm him. “Wilmington, though, is full of Rebels and sympathizers. Were it not for Major Craig and his garrison, and Fort Johnston at the tip of the peninsula, I fear they'd be slaughtered in their beds. Daddy's not been the same since, Momma's not a strong person, and only poor Caroline with what blacks we haven't been forced to sell to keep body and soul together to run things. She's a strong girl, is Caroline, but I doubt even she can cope if things get worse. Prices are high, higher for Loyalists from those Rebel townspeople. We left what money we had, but we haven't been paid in months. They were going to seek cheaper lodgings, last we saw them before we marched north. Sorry, Lewrie.”

“Sometimes it helps to talk. Go on and bathe. I'll guard.”

While the army men splashed in the sun-warmed water, he wandered up to a higher vantage point above the stock pond by the burned-out barn and outbuildings. Cony had gone to see to the stock they had captured, and was using a seaman's knife to cut some grass for the cows, once more back in the peaceful world of animals and farm chores he had left God knew how long before to take the joining bounty and enter the harsh world of the Navy.

“Keep a sharp eye, Cony,” Lewrie had to remind him.

“Aye, sir,” Cony said, as he ruffled the becoming tuft of woolly hair on one calf's skull. “Poor beasts. Shoulda been weaned long ago, I 'spects, but nary a soul about fer months ta do it, most like. Nearly a yearlin' now an' still nuhsin' 'is momma.”

Reluctantly, Cony took up his musket, cartouche bag, and powder horn and headed off toward the edge of the woods to the west, where they came down almost to the edge of the stock pond. Watching him go, Alan could see that the fence between the pasture where they had seized their livestock and the stock pond had been torn down; perhaps by the raiders who had looted the place, or perhaps by the animals in their thirst once things had settled down and they had returned to the farmstead from the woods where they had fled.

Alan went off toward the yard of the house to keep an eye on the dirt lane that ran down from the Williamsburg road, and the wider expanse of the pastures and fields. There was corn growing there, rows of beans and potatoes of some kind, which might have been ripe enough to pick. Alan reminded himself that they might want to gather some before going back to the working party. He hunted about for a sack or keg for carrying.

Further north up the road there was another fence, beyond the home garden enclosure, and there were broad-leaved plants there, some already turning brittle and brown under the hot autumn sun; tobacco, he surmised, never having seen it growing before, or having much use for it up until then. He did know that tobacco fetched high prices in London shops, so perhaps Burgess was correct that this had been a fairly prosperous farm once.

Alan was dressed informally in breeches and damp shirt—his waistcoat and short blue jacket were still drying after a good scrubbing—so he was concerned that he stood out too prominently against the greenery. He went back from his vantage point to the shadows of the house, where he could still see a long distance should anyone attempt to sneak up on them, but not be as easily spotted.

The house was not as rude as he had first thought, either, being well made and chinked, the timbers adzed flat instead of the logs being laid round or still furred with bark. There had once been precious glass in the windows, and the door and shutters that had been ripped off had once been gaily painted and of good milled lumber, most likely done by the owners themselves. The porch was neat, the supporting posts made square and solid and whitewashed still, the floor of the porch planed or sanded and closefitting as a ship's deck, and nearly as white. There were overturned chairs with cleverly rushed seats scattered about, and he righted one for a rest on the porch near one of the windows.

After a few minutes, however, he became bored, and began to peek into the open window more and more, wondering if the raiders of whichever side had left anything worth looting.

He rose and scanned the area of the stock pond. The soldier Mollow was out of the water and dressing, near his rifle and ready for immediate danger, while Burgess Chiswick was toweling himself dry and already in his breeches and stockings.

Thinking there would be little danger, he rose from the chair and entered the house. It was a lot grander than he had thought inside as well. There was a large room with a plank floor that had been oiled or varnished at one time, and was still shiny under the dust of neglect that had gathered. There had been a cleverly made fireplace and hearth on one wall, and a neat mantel. There had been a bookcase, now smashed into kindling, and perhaps a dozen books scattered on the floor. The furniture was heavy and European made, either brought by the emigrants or ordered with profits from the farm's produce, though the cabinets and chests were empty. One of the books that lay open took his interest, one of Fielding's novels
—Joseph Andrews—
which he had heard was a merry story.

“God, what a smell,” he whispered, now that he was in the house.

Folding the book closed and sticking it into his waistband, he prowled towards the overturned dining table. The glint of metal caught his eyes, and he knelt to pick up a discarded pewter knife, a pair of spoons, and a fork, which went into his breeches pockets. They could use them in
Desperate
's midshipmen's mess, if only to replace the ones that their steward Freeling had lost over the months. He found a pewter mug smashed flat by something, another fork which was in good shape, and a ladle, which would come in handy for dipping out soup or rum toddies.

Then he tried the bedrooms, which both opened off the main room.

“Oh, my God!” he screeched once he had the door open to reveal what had been hidden. The stench of long decomposition rolled over him like a channel fog.

He dropped the ladle and almost dropped his rifle as he backed away. But it was the sight that had forced him to retreat; there was a nude woman on the high bed, long dead and eyeless. She had been ripped open like a slaughtered hog and had stained the sheets black with her blood and entrails. And pinned to the wall . . .

At the horror Alan lost what little breakfast he'd had.

Pinned to the wall with a bayonet, a tiny baby too small to be a suckling babe—perhaps ripped from that ravaged belly before birth
—
now with parchment-dark skin and tiny little bones and leathery looking stains on the whitewash. Beside it, written in blood: THOU SHALT NEVER BIRTH ANOTHER REBEL.