He felt, rather than heard, the other’s laugh—the amusement was palpable, but it made little sound.

“Let me guess who’s first on your list—the big Scotch fellow what put your light out?”

“He’d be fairly high on the list, yes.” Actually, he couldn’t decide who he’d rather see shot first: Jamie Fraser or his own bloody brother. Probably Hal, all things considered. Rather ironic, if Hal ended up getting him shot. Though his captors seemed quite convinced that hanging was the preferred method.

That reminded him of the uncomfortable bit of conversation that had preceded his being chivvied through the woods on a deer trail bountifully equipped with bramblish bushes, low-hanging branches, ticks, and biting flies the size of the ball of his thumb.

“Would you happen to know what—or possibly who—Paoli is, Mr. Bumppo?” he asked politely, kicking a fir cone out of his way.

“What’s Paoli?” The man’s voice was filled with astonishment. “Why, man, are you just come to this neck o’ the woods?”

“Fairly recently,” Grey replied guardedly.

“Oh.” Bumppo considered, carefully matching his lengthy stride to Grey’s shorter one. “Why, ’twas an infamous attack, to be sure. Your kinsman—Major General Grey, as they said—him and his troops snuck up by night to where General Wayne’s men were camped. Grey didn’t want to risk a stray flint sparking and giving them away, so he gives the order to take out all the flints from their guns and use the bayonets. Fell upon the Americans and bayoneted near a hundred men in their beds, in cold blood!”

“Really?” Grey tried to reconcile this account with any recent battle he knew of, and failed. “And … Paoli?”

“Oh. That’s the name of the tavern nearby—Paoli’s Tavern.”

“Ah. Where is it? Geographically, I mean. And when, exactly, did this battle occur?”

Bumppo’s prehensile lips pushed out in thought, then withdrew.

“Be up near Malvern, last September. The Paoli Massacre, they calls it,” he added with a certain dubiousness.

“Massacre?” Grey echoed. The engagement had taken place before his own arrival, but he’d heard it talked about—briefly, and not in terms of massacre, to be sure. But, then, perceptions of the event were bound to be different, depending upon one’s position in the matter. William Howe had spoken of it with approval—as a successful engagement in which a minimal number of British troops had routed an entire American division, with a loss of only seven men.

Bumppo seemed disposed to share Grey’s opinion of the rhetorical nature of the name, albeit from yet a third perspective.

“Well, you know how folks will talk,” he said, lifting one shoulder. “Ain’t what I’d call a proper massacre, but, then, ain’t many folk seen one, and I have.”

“You have?” Glancing up at the tall, bearded ruffian, Grey thought it only too likely.

“Was raised as an Indian,” Bumppo said, with visible pride. “By the Mohican, my own folks havin’ died when I were just a tadpole. Aye, I’ve seen a massacre or two.”

“Indeed?” Grey said, innate courtesy obliging him to invite the man to elaborate, should he wish to. Besides, it would pass the time; they seemed to have been walking for hours, and no end in sight—not that he was eagerly anticipating the end… .

As it was, Mr. Bumppo’s reminiscences passed the time to such good effect that Grey was surprised when Corporal Woodbine, in the lead, called the company to a halt at the edge of a fairly sizable encampment. He was glad enough to stop, though; he was wearing city shoes, not suited for the terrain at all, and they had worn through his stockings and rubbed his feet to blood and blisters.

“Scout Bumppo,” Woodbine said, with a short nod to Grey’s companion. “You’ll take the company on to Zeke Bowen’s place. I’ll deliver the prisoner to Colonel Smith.”

This statement gave rise to vocal discontent, from which Grey gathered that the company wished very much to accompany Woodbine, in order not to miss Grey’s execution, which they confidently expected to occur within moments of his delivery to the aforesaid Colonel Smith. Woodbine was firm about it, though, and with democratic mutterings and execrations, the militia moved reluctantly off under the guidance of Natty Bumppo.

Woodbine watched them out of sight, then drew himself up, brushing a stray caterpillar from the breast of his shabby coat and straightening his disreputable hat.

“Well, Lieutenant Colonel Grey. Shall we go?”



NATTY BUMPPO’S reminiscences of the proper way to conduct a massacre had left Grey with the feeling that perhaps, by contrast, hanging was not the worst way to die. But while he hadn’t personally witnessed any first-rate massacres, he’d seen men hanged, very close to—and the memory of it dried his throat. The leakage from his eye hadn’t stopped completely but had lessened; the skin felt raw and inflamed, though, and the swelling gave him the annoying sense that his head was grossly misshapen. Still, he drew himself upright and strode chin out into the ragged canvas tent ahead of Corporal Woodbine.

Colonel Smith looked up from his lap desk, startled at the intrusion—though not quite as startled as Grey.

He’d last seen Watson Smith in his own sister-in-law’s drawing room in London two years ago, eating cucumber sandwiches. In the uniform of a captain of the Buffs.

“Mr. Smith,” he said, recovering his wits first. He bowed very correctly. “Your servant, sir.” He didn’t bother trying to keep the edge out of his voice or his expression. He sat down upon a vacant stool without being invited and gave Smith as direct a stare as he could with one operant eye.

Smith’s cheeks flushed, but he leaned back a little, gathering his own wits before replying, and returned Grey’s stare, with interest. He was not a big man but had broad shoulders and considerable presence of manner—and Grey knew him to be a very competent soldier. Competent enough not to reply directly to Grey but to turn instead to Corporal Woodbine.

“Corporal. How comes this gentleman here?”

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Grey, sir,” Woodbine said. He was near bursting with pride at his capture and placed Grey’s King’s warrant and Graves’s accompanying note on the rickety table with the manner of a butler presenting a roast pheasant with diamond eyes to a reigning monarch. “We caught him in the woods near Philadelphia. Out of uniform. Er … as you see, sir.” He cleared his throat in emphasis. “And he admits to being a cousin of Major General Charles Grey. You know—the Paoli Massacre.”

“Really?” Smith picked up the papers but cocked an eyebrow at Grey. “What was he doing there?”

“Having the shit beaten out of him by Colonel Fraser, sir—he’s one of Morgan’s officers. He said,” Woodbine added, with less certainty.

Smith looked blank.

“Fraser … don’t believe I know him.” Switching his attention to Grey, he addressed him for the first time. “Do you know Colonel Fraser … Colonel Grey?”

The elaborate hesitation spoke volumes. Well, he hadn’t expected anything else. Grey wiped his nose as well as he could on a forearm and sat straight.

“I decline to answer your questions, sir. They are improperly put. You know my name, rank, and regiment. Beyond that, my business is my own.”

Smith stared at him, eyes narrowed. Smith’s eyes were rather attractive, a pale gray with black brows and lashes, very dramatic. Grey had noticed them when the man came to tea with Minnie.

Woodbine coughed.

“Er … Colonel Fraser said the man was his prisoner, sir. But he wouldn’t say what for, and when I pressed the matter, he … er … left. That’s when we searched Lord … er, the lord colonel here, and found his papers.”

“He left,” Smith repeated carefully. “And you allowed him to leave, Corporal?”

Woodbine was looking less confident in the virtue of his conduct but wasn’t the sort to be easily cowed, Grey saw. He lowered his brow and gave Smith a look of his own.