Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [90]
“Royal Marines!” Patrick O’Heyne grasped Jeremiah by the arm, his words clipped by a clear American accent, without a trace of Jeremiah’s lingering British. “There’s been a landing! Another Royal Navy ship … the bayside sh—”
He coughed suddenly and crumpled against the edge of the table. Amy Coverman supplied a tin cup of water, which O’Heyne gulped down. Then the gentle young girl pressed a moist cloth to a patch of blood on the side of O’Heyne’s head.
“Patrick, you’re hurt,” Jeremiah said solicitously. “You should lie down.”
“No time. The ship must’ve been waiting to rendezvous with the Justina. When the frigate failed to appear, they landed a company of redcoats five miles south of our shore. Grenadiers. I was barely ahead of them the whole way! They’ll be here any time—we must get word to Colonel Fox to bring the militia. He’s billeted three miles northeast of the mill tributary—”
A sudden grip of pain cut him off again, but there was already a flurry of movement in the room.
“I’ll go!” Mercy snatched a wool shawl from a hook and flung it around herself.
“Mercy!” Jeremiah snapped. “Nonsense! I would be no gentleman to let you go!”
“You stay and defend our town!” the woman insisted. Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got my guardian angel, and I’m out this door after the Dover Light Infantry!”
And she was gone, the clap of the door as her send-off. Picard got the idea she’d have happily cracked the elbow of anyone who tried to stop her.
Jeremiah helped Patrick O’Heyne get a more controlled drink of water, and looked at his wife. “Amy, take the baby upstairs. Stay in the back of the house, in case balls fly.”
“I will, Jeremiah,” the girl said, and moved to comply.
As the hem of her skirt licked the stairway corner and she was gone, leaving only men in the keeping room, her husband’s friend looked around with clearing eyes at Picard and Sandy, and at the sailors sitting near him, who all wore nondescript clothing of ordinary colonists.
He didn’t seem to buy that entirely.
“I don’t know these gentlemen,” he said, suddenly cautious.
Picard found O’Heyne’s instincts impressive, especially since he was seeing these strangers in the home of his best friend and should have trusted that. Yet, he knew better. Interesting.
Perhaps these were suspicious times.
Jeremiah locked eyes briefly with Sandy, and luckily Sandy decided on forbearance.
“This is Sandy Leonfeld, my cousin from Austria,” Jeremiah said tensely. “And his traveling companions, Mr. Picard, Mr. Nightingale, Mr. Wollard, Mr. Bennett, and … Mr. Picard’s son.”
“Alexander,” the boy spoke up, demanding to have a name if everybody else was going to.
A strained glance passed between Picard and the boy, then nothing more was made of it, especially since they were interrupted by Amy’s reappearance; she, too, was now wearing a heavy wool knitted shawl that drowned her shoulders and went almost to her knees.
“What’s this?” Jeremiah asked.
“I shall ring the bell for the minutemen. They must man the picket line.”
Her husband protested. “But I’m just going.”
“You stay with Patrick and make your plans,” the brave teenager insisted. “I can certainly ring a chapel bell, can’t I? After all, it’s my town, too.”
And she dashed out the front door, allowing for no protests.
“Wonderful family,” Patrick O’Heyne said. Then he suddenly shivered and pressed a hand to his forehead.
“Are you all right, Patrick?” Jeremiah asked.
O’Heyne offered him a smile. “Recovering. I’ve bruised my hip notably … a knee, my shoulder, and I wisely stopped my fall by striking a tree with my ribs.”
“And your head is bleeding, Mr. O’Heyne,” Picard pointed out.
The redheaded man looked up with something like gratitude. “Is it? Well, it’s only my head. If the redcoats take the Station, I won’t have long need of it.”
Evidently, Picard’s British accent was common enough among patriots, for O’Heyne took no particular note.
Picard