Frederick nodded. He was anxious to return home. He believed passionately in his cause, but he believed, too, in the love he shared with his young wife and in the future he sought for his infant son. He’d tried to explain to Elizabeth that it was for the future that he had come out this night. They were a free people. They had won the right to representation in 1215 when the barons had forced King John of England to sign the Magna Carta. They were good Englishmen, even if they were colonists. It was not the idea of taxes they minded so much—it was the idea of taxation without representation.
No one really thought that it might come to war.
And yet, already, there were whispers of bloody, horrible conflict, of American fields strewn with blood…
He didn’t dare think of blood, not now. He still had to make it to the wagon, and then home.
He hurried along the street, turning corners, moving in silence. He knew that he was followed, and he took care to allow the West County Sons of Liberty easily keep tempo with his gait and yet keep hidden.
At last he passed the cemetery. In the cold mist of the night, the sight of the weathered tombstones made him shiver. He was almost upon the simple wagon that held the French armaments. His breath came quickly. Before him he could see the shadowed figure of his contact. The figure saluted sharply, then hurried away to disappear into the cemetery.
Frederick’s feet seemed to slap against the cobblestones.
He passed the wagon by and exhaled heavily. He was almost home. Suddenly he heard a flurry of footsteps. He turned about. There was a woman running down the street in a huge sweeping cape.
“Damien?” a female voice called.
Frederick’s heart began to pound. She was not following anyone named Damien, she was following him! He ducked around a corner into a lamplit street and started to run across it, then he paused. There was a sentry out. A sentry in a red coat.
“Halt!” the soldier cried.
Never—come death or all of hell’s revenge, he could not halt.
He streaked across the road. Then he heard the woman calling out. “No! Oh, no!”
A Brown Bess was fired, but though he did not pause to look, Frederick was certain that the woman had caused the sentry to lose the precision of his aim. He was struck, but in the shoulder. He barely suppressed a scream as the bullet tore into him.
He clasped the injury with his good hand and sagged against a brick building. He could hear the sentry arguing with the woman, and he could hear the delicate tones of the woman’s voice. Who was she, and why was she saving him?
He closed his eyes and thanked God for that small favor, but when he tried to open his eyes again, he discovered that he could barely see. He was falling, falling against the building and toward the mud beneath him.
He heard the sound of hoofbeats.
There was a horse pounding down the street. Frederick tried to push away from the wall. He had to find a place to hide, and quickly.
He staggered into the road. Looking up, he could see the spire of the Old North Church rising out of the mist. Or was the mist in his eyes? He was falling.
He would never see Elizabeth again. He would never cradle his infant son in his arms again. Was this, then, the price of liberty? Death and bloodshed? He would never see her face again. He would never see her smile, he would never feel the tender caress of her lips against the heat of his skin.
The rider was upon him. Frederick threw up his arms as a great black stallion reared before him. “Whoa, boy, whoa!” a man called out, and Frederick staggered back. The massive animal came to a rigid halt, and the rider leapt from his back.
Frederick fought to stand but slumped to the ground instead. The man coming toward him was tall and towering, and wearing a fine black greatcoat trimmed with warm fur. He wore fine boots over impeccable white breeches and a crimson frock coat. His shirt was smocked and laced. Dimly Frederick realized that he was not just a man of means, but a man with an aura of confidence and the assured and supple movement of a well-trained fencer or fighter. Dressed in his buckskin and paint, he had come across a member of the nobility.
Now he would not even die in peace. He would be dragged into prison, tried by a puppet jury, condemned by the king to be shot or hanged by the neck until dead.
“What in God’s name—” the stranger began.
“Aye, in God’s name, milord, for the love of God, kill me quick!” Frederick cried.
As he reached out, trying to ward off an expected blow, he saw the stranger’s face. It was a striking face, composed of steel-fire eyes, a hard jaw, and strong cheekbones. He was dark-haired and wore no wig. His very presence was menacing, for he was not just tall but extremely well muscled for all that he gave the appearance of a certain leanness.
“Hold, boy, I’ve no mind for murder in the streets!” the stranger said, a touch of humor upon his lips. “You’re no Indian, and that’s a fact. I can only determine that you were in on the trouble at the harbor. Is that it?”
Frederick remained stubbornly silent. He was doomed anyway.
“Ah…perhaps there is even something worse,” the stranger murmured.
“Search this way!” came a shout from the street. “I’m sure I’ve seen one of them!”
