Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [69]
The cabin was a single keeping room, with a narrow stairway to their left, leading most likely to sleeping quarters. An oval rag rug in the middle of the room was the only covering upon a worn wooden slat floor that had a few visible sags. The two candies stood in tin sconces with rubbed backings that reflected their glow forward from the exposed-log walls, casting a dim light upon the side of the room farthest from the fireplace.
The fireplace was also made of those ballast stones, sootdarkened from the cooking hearth, and laden with iron utensils hanging from hooks. Iron pots, molded muffin tins, and a rolling pin hung from one of the four ceiling beams. Near one of the two front windows was a trestle table, flanked by two simple benches made of half-logs and standing upon stumpy wooden legs. On the table near the pitcher were several pamphlets and papers. Over the nearest bench was spread a dull-colored quilt with star patterns. Picard smiled when he saw that.
Near the fire was a simple Welsh-type lambing chair and a small crooked tavern table, and on the other side of the room, the cool side, was a collection of grass baskets, a chopping block, and a barrel that might be a grain bin—
“Stand very still or die turning!”
Despite the sharp order, all five swung about toward the voice and found themselves staring down the barrel of a wide-muzzled pistol.
The pistol barrel protruded from the narrow stairway, in which there was only a blurred shadow of a man.
“What are you doing in this town?” the voice demanded. “Are you advance scouts?”
At the sound of the voice, with its decidedly English accent, Picard held his hands up cautiously. “We’re survivors. Our ship ran aground. We only want safe haven until we can sort things out.”
“There’s no safe haven for you here. In this town, you’ll be turned over to the Continental Army as prisoners of war.”
“We’re not here to participate in the war,” Picard persisted. “We’re looking for the owner of the linen factory. Jeremiah Coverman.”
At the sound of the name, the gunman stepped out of the stairway shadow. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-five, medium height and muscular, and he possessed the same blue eyes as Alexander Leonfeld. The family resemblance was instantly recognizable, despite this man’s much darker brown hair, more weathered complexion, and stockier build.
“What is it you want here?” Coverman asked, still leveling the pistol on Picard, as if understanding quite well that he was the officer of rank here. Evidently he knew something about the British military. He came into the room, and there was some movement in the stairwell behind him, but Picard couldn’t yet see who else was there.
Without answering, Picard glanced around at Sergeant Leonfeld, who until now had been standing off to one side, near the wide cooking hearth.
Leonfeld was only staring, with a peculiar nostalgia gripping his features. As Picard looked at him, he choked up a voice. “Jeremiah?”
Coverman squinted into the candlelit dimness at the tall grenadier in the bright scarlet uniform coat with its white facings and brass buttons, and for the first time he saw something other than the clothing.
The pistol wavered, then finally came down.
Jeremiah Coverman narrowed his eyes again, crossed the line over to believing what he saw, and rasped, “Sa—”
Leonfeld dropped his rifle onto a bench, Coverman shoved his pistol onto the table, and the cousins came together in a long-overdue embrace. They seemed truly shocked to see each other, as if each had thought the other dead or forever lost.
“Sandy!” Coverman finally choked out the rest of the name.
After a moment Sergeant Leonfeld was laughing as he hugged his cousin, and Jeremiah Coverman simply gasped, “My God! My God! Oh, God, dear God!”
His enthusiasm was so heartrending that