Captain Devaille heard his voice and without turning round called out: “Hawkshaw! You’re thick with Thornleigh, aren’t you? How does he take the news that the earl of Sussex has married his whore? What a mother to come home to!”
There was a horrible silence, and Devaille turned suddenly in his chair and cursed as he saw Hugh’s broad shoulders form a shadow in the doorway. He stood, stock still and white. His hands clenched.
“Thornleigh. M-my apologies,” Devaille spluttered. “I … My father wrote me, just came in an hour ago.”
Hugh took a step forward, his face and manner murderous. Hawkshaw moved in front of him, facing Devaille.
“We’ve been riding out. Not checked for letters yet. No doubt there is some mistake.”
Devaille looked in danger of being sick; he could not meet Hugh’s black eyes, still fixed on him over Hawkshaw’s shoulder.
“No doubt, Hawkshaw. Of course.”
“Some other earl of Sussex, presumably,” drawled another voice.
Hawkshaw glanced angrily in the direction it came from. An older Lieutenant, Gregson, who looked in his well-cut coat as if he had mistook the mess for a duchess’s drawing room, smiled sweetly at him. Hawkshaw turned to Hugh.
“Come on, Thornleigh. Leave with me now. Let us see what news from England we have.”
But Hugh took another half-step forward, apparently unhearing. Devaille’s chair scraped on the stone floor as he retreated in front of him.
“Damn it, Hugh,” Hawkshaw sighed. “Time enough to kill and be killed tomorrow.”
“Oh, tomorrow will be like stealing butter from the nursery table,” sang the voice of Gregson again. “We are to have a brisk walk through the countryside, blow up some powder the rebels have scraped together and then trot home again.”
Hawkshaw turned on him. “You are mighty open about our army’s plans, sir.”
Gregson held up his hand, as if gently fending off Hawkshaw’s annoyance. “We are among friends, are we not?”
Before Hawkshaw could reply, Hugh turned and walked out of the door, leaving it to clatter to behind him. Hawkshaw rubbed his face and collapsed into a chair. Food and wine were put in front of him.
“Thanks, Hawkshaw,” Devaille said under his breath.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Devaille,” he replied without much heat. “And if you fight as carelessly as you talk, you won’t bother me much longer.”
He began to eat.
As the afternoon slipped toward evening, the atmosphere in the camp became more charged with the promise of action.
Devaille’s comments were confirmed, first by another officer whose letters from home contained the same gossip, and then in a paragraph in a month-old copy of the Gentleman’s Magazine which was being handed around the mess. It was passed to Hawkshaw open at the significant page, and with a tap of a thumb on the middle paragraph.
It seems that no one, not even one of the highest personages in our land, is immune from the terrible passions and persuasions of great beauty. The holder of one of England’s oldest and most stainless Earldoms, Lord T of T…ll in Sussex, has gone against the wishes of all his friends and lately married Miss Jemima B-, also known under her professional name of “The Glorious Jemima,” when she graces the public in Covent Garden with her performances of dances from around the world. The lady in question is known to be the friend of several other members of the aristocracy, if not of their wives. Much as it pains us, we cannot forbear but to point out that Viscount H-, son and heir of Lord T-, was cast out of his family for honorably loving and desiring to marry a humble but beautiful young lady of spotless character some ten years ago, and has made his way in obscurity ever since.
Hawkshaw threw down the paper and went outside, walking without great purpose till he found himself at the edge of the camp. The light began to leach out of the sky in front of him. He thought about the action of the coming day. He could feel the unnatural calm he always experienced before and during action begin to circulate in his veins. He smiled at it, as if greeting an old friend. He heard a footstep beside him; it was Gregson, probably seeking some peace himself. He approached with a nod and offered Hawkshaw a cigar from a leather case he carried in his breast pocket. Hawkshaw hesitated a second, and then took it, thanking him stiffly before lighting it and drawing in the thick gray smoke to roll around his mouth.
“Have you seen Thornleigh since he heard?” The man asked.
Hawkshaw shook his head.
“I decided I’d leave him to his own thoughts. He did get letters from home. Presumably there is something from the earl. But you know Thornleigh. He won’t want to discuss his family with any of us.”
They heard a branch crack behind them.
“Who goes there?” Gregson demanded of the shadows of a small clump of low bushy trees a couple of yards away. “Come out, and let us see you!”
A thin, middle-aged man stepped into the light. He was carrying firewood under his arm.
“Sorry, sir. I’m Shapin, I help out in the kitchens.”
The man held out his wood in front of him as if he were offering his papers for inspection. He was dressed in the homespun of the country farmers and laborers. His back was a little bent, and a long scar across his neck glittered palely under his otherwise heavy tan. His accent had an American drawl, but you could still hear the old country under it, like a woman’s scent clinging to her handkerchief, though the girl herself is long gone.
“What are you doing, skulking about in the shadows, Shapin?”
Shapin looked like he thought this was a rather simpleminded question in the circumstances, and rattled his sticks together.
“Collecting kindling, sir. Then I heard the name Thornleigh, and it brought me up sharp. Is one of the earl of Sussex’s sons serving here? Is it Mr. Alexander, or Mr. Hugh?” He looked up at them expectantly. The two captains exchanged glances, and Hawkshaw shrugged.
“The Honorable Hugh Thornleigh is a captain of the Grenadiers in my regiment.”
Shapin looked pleased. “That’s good to know! I served the family back in England, you see. I knew Mr. Hugh when he was just a little boy, before his mother died.” A sudden thought seemed to cross Shapin’s mind. He blushed, and gathered his sticks to his breast. “I must get back. The kitchens will be wanting me.”
He was off again toward camp before the officers could speak to him again. They watched him trot away.
“Do you think he might be a spy, Hawkshaw?”
“Well, if he is, he is a very bad one.”
The gentlemen returned their attention to their cigars, and to discussion of the coming action.
His duties done, Hawkshaw still could not settle, and though he knew he should be resting in preparation of the night march ahead of him, before the hour was out he decided to pay Shapin a visit in the kitchen. He had some vague plan of introducing him to Hugh in an attempt to bring him out of whatever black mood the news of his father’s marriage had dropped him into. His visit was not welcome. When he asked after the man, the Quartermaster cursed him.
“So it was you scared Shapin away, was it, Captain?”
“I can’t see how I would have made him nervous.”
“Well, someone did.” The man spat onto the soil floor. “He came in here looking all white and stared about him like his wits were gone, then next thing we know he dropped his kindling and lit out like the devil himself were after him.”
“He claimed some acquaintance with Captain Thornleigh’s family in Sussex.”
One of the passing royalists caught this and laughed.
“That’ll be what did it. He was transported for stealing from them, came here as an indentured servant a good twenty years ago. Always wondered why he was spending time round our camp anyway. God knows, he’s got no reason to love England. Probably thought Captain Thornleigh had come over special to hang him.”