“I don’t think we have time for all that,” McCormack said, reluctantly dragging his attention from the notebook. “Look.”
One of Pebbly’s search parties had returned to him, and several lads pointed up the hill toward Eamon’s hiding place. Eamon knew he and his new friends were well concealed, but if they stayed too long, they’d be trapped.
“We’ll have to rush them,” Wolfe said tightly. “Both of you, get in as many blows as you can to thin the ranks and then make a dash for the senior common room. All the masters will be there.”
“They’ll thrash us,” McCormick protested. “And throw us into the brig.” The brig was a cold, grimy room in the cellar where the worst miscreants were shoved for a day to think about their transgressions.
“That is where Stone’s gift of the gab will come in handy. He’ll talk them out of punishing us.” Wolfe stuck out a fist, his pristine kid glove fitting him like a second skin. “We’re in this together. Right?”
McCormick touched his fist to Wolfe’s, his freckled hand peeping from holes in his woolen glove. “If you two take me out of here alive, I’ll be glad to call you my brothers.”
“As will I,” Wolfe said. “We will be there for one another, no matter what.”
They eyed Eamon, waiting for him to join the pledge. Eamon balled his hand—his bare fingers dry, cracked, and stained with blue paint—and bumped it against the others.
“Be careful about this vow,” Eamon said. “It means that wherever we are, whatever trouble we face, we each must answer.”
His respect for Wolfe rose when the man didn’t demur. McCormick nodded. “Done.”
“Very well then,” Eamon said.
Their three fists touched, sealing the pact.
A shiver ran through Eamon, as though something had begun on this hill, something whose ending he could not see. He always liked to know outcomes three moves in advance, but since the day his father had died, his life had become more uncertain than ever, an empty and sometimes terrifying sensation.
Forming a bond with these two boys who’d followed him without question felt strange, but it was a welcome change to the bleakness.
On Wolfe’s signal, they charged down the hill, yelling like Highlanders at Culloden Moor, and took on their enemy.
They ended up fairly badly beaten, but Eamon’s charm, as Wolfe predicted, landed Pollard, the Viking, and their followers in the worst trouble, including a stint in the brig. The three newfound friends, let off with only a lecture, met on the hill again that evening, wounded but triumphant, to share a celebratory cigar and brandy.
This was definitely the beginning of something, Eamon reflected as the three bruised boys passed around the flask. It would be interesting to see what.
June 1815
“Make ready.” Eamon’s whisper could barely be heard above the noise of battle, but his friends caught it.
The two men at his side were poised to run, though Wolfe could barely walk with the wound he’d sustained to his leg. They had no choice. It was flee or die.
“When I give the signal,” Eamon said.
McCormick acknowledged this with a nod of his filth-streaked red head.
Wolfe remained flinty-eyed. “What signal?” he croaked, hoarse with pain.
Eamon grinned so hard he felt the dirt cracking on his cheeks. “You’ll know.”
“God help us then,” Wolfe muttered.
The three had been sent to report on Bonaparte’s right flank, which stretched southward toward a thick wood. They were to discover weaknesses and do any damage along the way that they could.
They’d slunk through the grass and brush in the long June twilight, taking cover on a low rise above a stream, backed by woods. Bonaparte did indeed have a hole in his defenses nearby, where several columns had been moved away to confront the new danger from the Prussians. Eamon used his drawing skills to sketch a quick map of the enemy’s positions for their commander.
Unfortunately for the three scouts, someone in Bonaparte’s forces had also seen the hole, and a line marched up to plug it. As the three men had fled, Wolfe had taken a bullet in the leg, and they’d been cut off from their escape route.
The three at last managed to find cover, but here they were, trapped between enemy lines and a long way from their own camp.
While they waited for darkness, Eamon had slipped out on his own to complete the second part of their orders—inflict whatever damage they could. Eamon had found the powder horn in his bag useful, as well as a few musket balls and a slow match.
