Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

William nodded in acknowledgment and pushed off in search of Broad Street, Mrs. Warren, and food—not necessarily in that order. He found food quickly, in the form of rice and red beans cooked with sausage, at a stall near the parade ground. No troops were drilling, but as usual with an army nearby, there were plenty of the civilians—sutlers, laundresses, food vendors, prostitutes—who fed off the army like a horde of voracious lice.

Well, turnabout’s fair play, he thought, returning his bowl to the rice-and-beans proprietor for a second helping. Eating this one somewhat more slowly, he scanned the passing crowds for any trace of Amaranthus, or Banastre Tarleton, but no trace did he see—and he thought he would instantly have perceived either one, both having a taste for vivid dress.

Replete, he walked slowly round the city, up and down the major streets, peering into shops and banks and churches as he went. He had no idea whether either Amaranthus or Ban was religious—somehow, he doubted it—but the churches were cool, and it was good to sit down for a few moments and listen to the silence, as a respite from the city’s noise.

He reached Mrs. Warren’s house just before sunset, and after a very decent fish supper went to bed, dog-tired and low in spirit.

These conditions were reversed in the morning, and he sprang from bed with mind and body renewed, determined in spirit. He’d go first to Cornwallis’s headquarters; he’d seen the house, with its regimental flags, on his peregrinations the evening before. Someone there would doubtless know at least where Banastre Tarleton was supposed to be.

Someone did. The news, however, was not encouraging: Colonel Tarleton had taken a company of his British Legion southward two weeks before, in pursuit of a body of fleeing American militia. A messenger had come back to report the outcome of a small but nasty fight near a place called Waxhaws; Tarleton’s troops had overcome the Americans, killing or injuring most of them and taking the rest prisoner. However, Colonel Tarleton had been injured by reason of his horse falling on him, and had not yet returned to Charles Town.

All right, that crossed Ban pretty definitively off William’s list. Tarleton couldn’t possibly have been lending Amaranthus aid in her escape. What next?

The docks, of course. He’d begun searching there last night, before his stomach had had other ideas. But if she was heading for Philadelphia, as she’d said, and had not taken a ship from Savannah—which she hadn’t, he’d checked—then Charles Town was the next large port from which she might reasonably have done so. And surely a young woman traveling alone (God, was she alone? Might she have eloped with someone? Surely not …) would find ship travel safer, as well as more comfortable, than risking travel on roads swarming with soldiers, sappers, ex-slaves, and commercial wagons.

It was a beautiful day, and he began his search with diligence, starting with the harbormaster’s office for a list of ships sailing within the last week for Philadelphia or New York (just in case she is heading for Ben …) and manifests for those who had posted them. Her name was not on any of the lists—but then, he argued with himself, she wouldn’t necessarily be; if she’d sailed as a private passenger on a small boat, she wouldn’t be listed anywhere …

In the end, it came down to what he’d already known it would: a slog through the docks on foot, asking questions of everyone he came across. After an hour of this, the beautiful day was beginning to dim, as a fogbank moved in. He decided to slake his thirst and began walking up the quay— a small one that docked fishing boats and smaller commercial ships—toward shore. What he found, though, was Denys Randall. Again.

“Hoy!” William said loudly, coming up behind Denys and clapping him on the shoulder. “Do you live on the docks?”

“I might ask the same of you,” Denys said shortly, and William now perceived that he wasn’t alone; he was trying to shield a small man, whose lined face made him look like a Christmas nutcracker, from William’s view. “Who are you looking for now?”

“A young woman,” William said mildly. “Who’s your friend?”

Denys was for once deprived of his air of light mockery and self-composure. William thought he presently resembled nothing more strongly than a cat on hot bricks. Denys glanced swiftly at his companion, whose resemblance to a Christmas nutcracker was becoming more pronounced by the moment, then turned back to William, a pulse throbbing visibly at the side of his jaw.

“I must go and speak to someone,” he said. “Quickly. This is Herr Weber; keep an eye on him. I’ll be back, quick as I can.” And with that, he vanished down the quay toward the water, nearly running in his haste.

William hesitated, not sure what to do. He was somewhat afraid that Denys might have taken fright—well, clearly he had, but fright at what?—and abandoned his German companion altogether. In which case, what was he to do with the fellow?