captain's
overeducated brains to figure out this one. "So what are we goin' t'do,
Cap'n?"
"Good question." Livingston wasn't entirely sure
himself. He'd been ordered to stop any and all military drills and maneuvers by
the local militia. At the same time, he'd been reminded in no uncertain terms
he was not allowed to fire on civilians without civil authority.
He'd been here long enough to know things didn't always work
precisely as his superiors planned. He'd been among the first thousand troops
sent to Boston in 'sixty-eight. A newly frocked lieutenant, he'd been shocked
when seventy soldiers deserted in the first two weeks, lured by the freedom and
vice of the colonies.
He'd been equally surprised at the Bostonians' treatment of the
soldiers: he'd had rocks, chunks of ice, rotten vegetables, and various
unidentifiable types of animal dung flung at him on a regular basis. There'd
been little he could do in retaliation.
And now this. What did it really matter if the colonists played
around in the square with their guns and their bayonets? It didn't make them
soldiers. One afternoon of drilling would never make a crack unit—it wouldn't
even make a lamentable unit. If he'd been giving the orders, he would have seen
it as an opportunity to discover just what kind of shape the colonists'
defenses were in.
But he wasn't giving the orders. Not yet, at any rate. And the
only way he would ever get that opportunity was to continue to do his job
flawlessly. He had no doubt he would do precisely that. Then he'd receive his
promotion. Perhaps if these little squabbles with the colonies were settled
once and for all, he'd finally be sent back to blessed England, where he
belonged.
"Tea, sir!"
"Enter."
Jon bent over nearly double as he came in, carrying a precariously
balanced tray laden with cups, a steaming pot, and a large assortment of tiny
cakes.
Livingston held his breath as Leighton served him, hoping
that—this time—he'd get his tea without getting drenched, scalded, or otherwise
injured in the process. But there were few jobs the man was at all suited for,
and he seemed to be especially proud of doing this one.
The tea was served without incident. Livingston took a careful sip
of his, sighing with pleasure. A strong, lovely Ceylon blend.
His gaze fell on the paper on his desk. "What am I going to
do? Well—"
"Er, Cap'n?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Hitchcock cocked a ragged brow at Jon, who was trying to stand
rigidly at attention with his back bent at what surely must have been an
extremely uncomfortable angle.
"Lieutenant, why are you still here?" Livingston asked.
"Didn't say I could go, sir."
"You are dismissed, Leighton."
"Yes, Cap'n." The lieutenant ducked his head and clomped
out the door.
Livingston tsked and shook his head. "He's hopeless,
Hitchcock."
"Yes, sir." Hitchcock hid his grin behind his teacup.
"But he does make one helluva cuppa tea."
"True. Now, then," Livingston said, returning his
attention to business. "What else can we do?" The captain rose from
his chair, and Hitchcock scrambled to his feet. "We will gather the
troops. And we will stop the mustering."
***
Brendan's printshop was in a small trim brick building next to
Grout's store. Carefully holding both cups, Bennie pushed the door open with
her elbow.
"Hello? Brendan?"
"A moment, please. I'll be right with you," he called
from the back room.
Three shelves just inside the door held a sparse selection of
merchandise: writing utensils, ink, chocolate, coffee, a few assorted bottles.
Setting down the tea, Bennie picked up one bottle.
"'Elixir Vitriol,'" she read. "'Miraculous remedy
for fever.'" The next bottle was dark and irregularly shaped. "'Dr.
Walker's Jesuit Drops.' What are they for?"
"Never you mind what they're for." Brendan plucked the
bottle from her hand and returned it to the dusty shelf.
"Do you always have to sneak up on people, Brendan? It
startles me every time. I never hear you coming."
"Can I help it if you're not
overeducated brains to figure out this one. "So what are we goin' t'do,
Cap'n?"
"Good question." Livingston wasn't entirely sure
himself. He'd been ordered to stop any and all military drills and maneuvers by
the local militia. At the same time, he'd been reminded in no uncertain terms
he was not allowed to fire on civilians without civil authority.
He'd been here long enough to know things didn't always work
precisely as his superiors planned. He'd been among the first thousand troops
sent to Boston in 'sixty-eight. A newly frocked lieutenant, he'd been shocked
when seventy soldiers deserted in the first two weeks, lured by the freedom and
vice of the colonies.
He'd been equally surprised at the Bostonians' treatment of the
soldiers: he'd had rocks, chunks of ice, rotten vegetables, and various
unidentifiable types of animal dung flung at him on a regular basis. There'd
been little he could do in retaliation.
And now this. What did it really matter if the colonists played
around in the square with their guns and their bayonets? It didn't make them
soldiers. One afternoon of drilling would never make a crack unit—it wouldn't
even make a lamentable unit. If he'd been giving the orders, he would have seen
it as an opportunity to discover just what kind of shape the colonists'
defenses were in.
But he wasn't giving the orders. Not yet, at any rate. And the
only way he would ever get that opportunity was to continue to do his job
flawlessly. He had no doubt he would do precisely that. Then he'd receive his
promotion. Perhaps if these little squabbles with the colonies were settled
once and for all, he'd finally be sent back to blessed England, where he
belonged.
"Tea, sir!"
"Enter."
Jon bent over nearly double as he came in, carrying a precariously
balanced tray laden with cups, a steaming pot, and a large assortment of tiny
cakes.
Livingston held his breath as Leighton served him, hoping
that—this time—he'd get his tea without getting drenched, scalded, or otherwise
injured in the process. But there were few jobs the man was at all suited for,
and he seemed to be especially proud of doing this one.
The tea was served without incident. Livingston took a careful sip
of his, sighing with pleasure. A strong, lovely Ceylon blend.
His gaze fell on the paper on his desk. "What am I going to
do? Well—"
"Er, Cap'n?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Hitchcock cocked a ragged brow at Jon, who was trying to stand
rigidly at attention with his back bent at what surely must have been an
extremely uncomfortable angle.
"Lieutenant, why are you still here?" Livingston asked.
"Didn't say I could go, sir."
"You are dismissed, Leighton."
"Yes, Cap'n." The lieutenant ducked his head and clomped
out the door.
Livingston tsked and shook his head. "He's hopeless,
Hitchcock."
"Yes, sir." Hitchcock hid his grin behind his teacup.
"But he does make one helluva cuppa tea."
"True. Now, then," Livingston said, returning his
attention to business. "What else can we do?" The captain rose from
his chair, and Hitchcock scrambled to his feet. "We will gather the
troops. And we will stop the mustering."
***
Brendan's printshop was in a small trim brick building next to
Grout's store. Carefully holding both cups, Bennie pushed the door open with
her elbow.
"Hello? Brendan?"
"A moment, please. I'll be right with you," he called
from the back room.
Three shelves just inside the door held a sparse selection of
merchandise: writing utensils, ink, chocolate, coffee, a few assorted bottles.
Setting down the tea, Bennie picked up one bottle.
"'Elixir Vitriol,'" she read. "'Miraculous remedy
for fever.'" The next bottle was dark and irregularly shaped. "'Dr.
Walker's Jesuit Drops.' What are they for?"
"Never you mind what they're for." Brendan plucked the
bottle from her hand and returned it to the dusty shelf.
"Do you always have to sneak up on people, Brendan? It
startles me every time. I never hear you coming."
"Can I help it if you're not
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