Law, Susan Kay Read online

  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. "J
ones, 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."

  "Huh?"

  "We could have a bit of a competition. That is, unless of course, our last contest put you off wagers entirely."

  "That was a fluke. How was I to know you had the biggest ox around in your company? It had nothing to with skill or strategy, as a real battle does." Cad stroked the barrel of his trusty musket. "What did you have in mind?"

  "Shooting. Knives. It matters little. I'm certain my men can both shoot and throw straighter than yours. After all, we are professional soldiers, not merely a collection of farmers who get together a few times a year to play make believe."

  Cad's eyes narrowed. "A contest it is, then."

  "Agreed."

  "Ah, Captain?" At the question, Cad and Livingston turned to Jon. He was awkwardly struggling to his feet, sunk knee-deep in muck, his right arm still wrapped around the chubby body of the pig. "Can I let him go now?"

  ***

  Waiting in line for his turn to shoot, Jon discreetly shook his rump, trying to dislodge the clammy leggings sticking to his private parts. After his disaster in the pig wallow, Sergeant Hitchcock, kind soul that he was, had taken pity on him and dumped two buckets of water over his head. It had washed away the worst of the mud, but it had left his clothes wet, clingy, and distinctly uncomfortable.

  What a mess. He should be satisfied. Poking the pig and setting it on its wild run through the troops had been a last ditch effort to avert—or at least postpone— disaster. It had worked even better than he'd imagined, but it had made him, once again, look like a fool.

  Why did it even matter? He'd always rather enjoyed his part, an actor whose stage was the world, and for whom a bad review could mean death. It had been a challenge, being continually on guard, fooling everyone, creating the illusion that allowed him to do his job.

  An illusion. His gaze was drawn to Beth, standing quietly to one side of the meadow, watching as man after man shattered the bottles placed on the stone wall. She was serene, placid, a calm, still pool with nary a ripple showing on the surface. Why was he so sure it was an illusion?

  It had been all he could manage to stay away from her all week, and he congratulated himself on his success. Well, near success. Once, unable to resist any longer, he'd followed her to her family's stable, staying out of sight, and listened to her play. Just listened.

  He'd leaned outside the door, pushing it open a crack so he could hear better, and closed his eyes. Her music had been different that day; muted, haunting, echoing... lonely. Almost desperate.

  It called to his soul, a soul that had been buried so deep he wasn't even sure he still had one. But somehow she found it, dredged up the tattered remnants of it, and made him feel.

  He hadn't seen her play then. He hadn't needed to.

  Crack.

  The sharp report of another musket brought him back to the matter at hand.

  It was nearly Jon's turn to shoot. Another one of the Jones boys—what was this one's name?—was firing now. One of the middle brothers, Jon thought, but it didn't seem to make much difference; they all could shoot. They fired rapidly, with swaggering confidence and surprising accuracy—except for Brendan, who shot deliberately, almost contemplatively, but with even greater precision. He was quite possibly the best shot Jon had ever seen.

  Another shot, and another bottle shattered. If there was any glassware left in the village after this afternoon it would be a miracle.

  "These colonists are right fine shots." Sergeant Hitchcock stood near Jon, watching the competition with his captain. "Better'n I would've thought."

  "Mmm." Captain Livingston rocked back on his heels and pursed his lips. He was growing weary of watching his soldiers getting outdone. They were supposed to be professionals, for God's sake. Why couldn't they shoot better than a bunch of bumpkin farmers? "It seems that we definitely need to step up our target practice."

  "Hungry."

  "Hmm?" The captain peered at Jon. "No, no, Jon, we'll get you something to eat later. When this is over."

  "Not that." Jon jerked his thumb toward the colonial troops. "They shoot for food. Squirrels, rabbits." He waved his hands through the air, mimicking a tiny animal scurrying to escape its hunter. "Little animals. Fast. To feed their children. So, good shots."

  "Ah." Livingston hadn't thought of that: the Americans had to be good shots, it meant food on their tables. After chasing small game, bottles were easy targets.

  For his own men, shooting had simply become part of the job. It was up to him to impress upon his troops the fact that their lives would depend on their skill with their muskets. That should take care of the matter.

  "Well." Hitchcock sucked his teeth. "I hope I don't end up 'cross a battlefield from 'em anytime soon."

  Livingston sniffed. "I wouldn't be concerned about it, Sergeant. They have no discipline, no training. They elect their officers, for God's sake. How can an elected officer make the difficult, necessary decisions? He'll be too busy protecting his friends and family."

  "Think it's goin' t'come to that, Cap'n?"

  "Bah! They are like children, these colonists. They cannot hear the wisdom of their mother country. They can only hear the siren call of rebellion."

  "Next!" a man bellowed. The bottles were being reset.

  "Me!" Jon checked the loading and shouldered his musket.

  Captain Livingston winced and took two rapid steps away. "Ah, Jon, could you try not to wing anybody this time? I wouldn't want you to accidentally start a war by killing someone."

  "Not t'worry." Sergeant Hitchcock whacked Jon companionably on the back. "We been practicin', ain't we, Jon? He'll do just fine."

  Jon bobbed his head. "No problem, sir."

  The three bottles he was to shoot were carefully arrayed on a low stone fence at the far side of the pasture. They were perhaps seventy-five yards away, nearing the edge of a musket's accurate range. Off to his right was a stone barn; to his left, wrapping around the back of the fence, a tangled mass of thick forest.

  Jon turned around, noting everyone's location. He didn't care to shoot anyone accidentally either. There were two clumps of people: the small, orderly, red-coated group that was his compatriots and the larger, disorganized, cheerful collection of colonists, women and children mingled among the militia.

  Beth was still there, of course, in her green dress that looked like a piece of the forest. He'd nearly swallowed his tongue when he'd first seen her in it, looking so pretty he couldn't believe every unmarried man in the square wasn't clustered around her. When she noticed him looking at her, she smiled, like sunshine and light, all warmth and encouragement and pride. A smile like that could make a man want to beat the world.

  Instead, she was going to see him look like an idiot. Again. Like he'd looked in that cold, stinking pig wallow. He wondered if she'd laughed at him, with everybody else. Somehow he was sure she hadn't.

  If he was still Jonathan Schuyler Leighton, he could try to impress her. He could talk in words of more than one syllable, and he could walk without tripp
ing over his gaiters. But he was Lieutenant Jon now, and he had to be a fool. He gritted his teeth and his jaw ached with the effort to keep that stupid grin on his face. He turned away abruptly, unable to watch her anymore.

  "Sergeant? What do I do?"

  "You jes' try t'shoot the bottles. Jes' like we practiced, Jon," Hitchcock said encouragingly. "Start with the left one."

  Jon forced his face into an expression of blank bewilderment.

  "Ah, the brown one, son. Over there."

  "Yes." He lifted his musket and aimed at the brown bottle, perched temptingly on the fence across the meadow. And suddenly he was angry. Angry that he so seldom had a chance to test his skills at anything besides acting like an idiot. Angry that he couldn't go to a woman and smile at her without worrying if it would give him away. Angry that he couldn't allow himself to blow that damn bottle to smithereens.

  He fired. The right bottle shattered.

  "Lieutenant!" The sergeant whacked him on the back in exultation. "You did it! But, ah, I told you t'aim for the left one."

  Jon tapped another ball into his musket. "I did."

  "Oh." Hitchcock swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "Still, that weren't bad, son. Right height and all. Now all you gotta do is aim about six feet more to the left."

  Jon lifted his weapon slowly, trying to appear as if he was taking careful aim, and frowned. At the last minute, he jerked, dropping his right shoulder. The dark iron rooster weather vane fixed to the top of the barn spun crazily, like a child's top gone amok.

  "Cor!" the soldier behind him said in amazement. "Who coulda hit that if'n they tried?"

  The devil was in him now. He was taking a terrible risk, leaving himself open to suspicion if anyone was alert enough to put it all together. Still, he didn't seem to be able to stop.

  He reloaded and leveled his gun at the fence one more time.

  The pine tree was a good fifteen paces beyond the fence. He fired. The top spike snapped off cleanly and tumbled merrily to earth.