puddles and the heaps of dirty snow to the door of the inn. In the doorway stood the innkeeper and a comely golden-haired chambermaid, both peering up the street.
“I have a message for Major Clark,” said the courier. “He’s said to be lodging here.”
“So he is,” the innkeeper said, and pointed a fat hand up the street. “Here he’ll be coming now.”
The soldiers in the street had burst out in cheering. The girlwas hugging herself and jouncing up and down, her bosom and ringlets bobbing. “He’ll be the first,” she squealed.
The courier looked up the wet, gray street and saw four men in shirt-sleeves running abreast at remarkable speed, sprinting and lunging like racehorses. As they drew near the inn, a tall, wide-shouldered youth suddenly surged ahead of the other three, and passed the door twenty feet ahead of them, laughing, his shoes scarcely seeming to touch the street, the pigtail of his copper-colored hair flying. The others then thundered past, their soles slapping the cobbles as they drew themselves to a heaving, panting halt amid the taunts of the soldiers. The girl was watching the red-haired one, who had stopped a few yards farther on and was now coming back, grinning, carrying his strapping frame with an easy grace, and seeming to be hardly winded. “What did I say?” the lass exulted.
“There is your Major Clark, sir,” said the innkeeper. “It’s the fourth race he’s won this hour. Major!” he called.
The young officer came over, and the courier noticed that the wench inhaled to raise her bosom at his approach, as if in salutation.
“This man has come to see you,” said the innkeeper.
The courier and the young officer bowed slightly to each other.
“I come from Governor Henry, sir. May I speak with you?”
“Ah! I’ve been waiting for you, then. Is he ready to see me?”
“Yes. I’ve brought a carriage.”
“That’s good. Have we time for me to wash myself down and dress myself up? Nell here can bring us an ale. Would you, Nell? Now, sir,” the young officer said, taking the messenger by the arm and leading him into the inn, “tell me your name, and …”
“Heyo, Major,” one of the soldiers called. “Don’t forget the purse.” He crossed the street and spilled a handful of coins into Major Clark’s hand. “You’re the very devil on your feet, sir.”
“Thank you kindly. As I had to be, to outpace such fellows. Goodbye. Well, now,” he said, jingling the silver as they climbed the stairs. “Not bad for an hour’s exercise, eh? So tell me, how is the great Patrick Henry these days? I’m sorry; what was your name?”
“Jonathan, sir. Jonathan Herring.”
“Jonathan! I have a brother named Jonathan. He was with Henry in the Revolutionary Convention. He’s serving with General Muhlenberg now …”
They entered Major Clark’s room, where he dropped a towel in a basin of cold water, stripped off his shirt and began wiping his torso with the damp towel. The messenger was awed by the power and symmetry of the young frontiersman’s physique. As he toweled himself, the long muscles knotted and rippled, sharply defined by his leanness. He was deep-chested, small in the waist, with a thick, sinewy neck. Red hair lightly covered his chest and abdomen and forearms. Nell came in with two tankards while he was drying, and blushed mightily at the sight of him. Herring smirked as she went down the stairs.
“I do believe, Major, that the wench has some feelings for you.”
“Do you.” The major said only that, but a hard look that flashed in his dark eyes made the courier wish he had not made the remark. He found himself a little confused by this; the young officer seemed so affable, so sporting, hardly the sort to take offense at some harmless remark about a bawd. So Herring sipped his ale in silence for a while as Major Clark dressed in a clean linen shirt and red velvet coat which appeared to be fresh from the tailor’s. Herring took note that the
“I have a message for Major Clark,” said the courier. “He’s said to be lodging here.”
“So he is,” the innkeeper said, and pointed a fat hand up the street. “Here he’ll be coming now.”
The soldiers in the street had burst out in cheering. The girlwas hugging herself and jouncing up and down, her bosom and ringlets bobbing. “He’ll be the first,” she squealed.
The courier looked up the wet, gray street and saw four men in shirt-sleeves running abreast at remarkable speed, sprinting and lunging like racehorses. As they drew near the inn, a tall, wide-shouldered youth suddenly surged ahead of the other three, and passed the door twenty feet ahead of them, laughing, his shoes scarcely seeming to touch the street, the pigtail of his copper-colored hair flying. The others then thundered past, their soles slapping the cobbles as they drew themselves to a heaving, panting halt amid the taunts of the soldiers. The girl was watching the red-haired one, who had stopped a few yards farther on and was now coming back, grinning, carrying his strapping frame with an easy grace, and seeming to be hardly winded. “What did I say?” the lass exulted.
“There is your Major Clark, sir,” said the innkeeper. “It’s the fourth race he’s won this hour. Major!” he called.
The young officer came over, and the courier noticed that the wench inhaled to raise her bosom at his approach, as if in salutation.
“This man has come to see you,” said the innkeeper.
The courier and the young officer bowed slightly to each other.
“I come from Governor Henry, sir. May I speak with you?”
“Ah! I’ve been waiting for you, then. Is he ready to see me?”
“Yes. I’ve brought a carriage.”
“That’s good. Have we time for me to wash myself down and dress myself up? Nell here can bring us an ale. Would you, Nell? Now, sir,” the young officer said, taking the messenger by the arm and leading him into the inn, “tell me your name, and …”
“Heyo, Major,” one of the soldiers called. “Don’t forget the purse.” He crossed the street and spilled a handful of coins into Major Clark’s hand. “You’re the very devil on your feet, sir.”
“Thank you kindly. As I had to be, to outpace such fellows. Goodbye. Well, now,” he said, jingling the silver as they climbed the stairs. “Not bad for an hour’s exercise, eh? So tell me, how is the great Patrick Henry these days? I’m sorry; what was your name?”
“Jonathan, sir. Jonathan Herring.”
“Jonathan! I have a brother named Jonathan. He was with Henry in the Revolutionary Convention. He’s serving with General Muhlenberg now …”
They entered Major Clark’s room, where he dropped a towel in a basin of cold water, stripped off his shirt and began wiping his torso with the damp towel. The messenger was awed by the power and symmetry of the young frontiersman’s physique. As he toweled himself, the long muscles knotted and rippled, sharply defined by his leanness. He was deep-chested, small in the waist, with a thick, sinewy neck. Red hair lightly covered his chest and abdomen and forearms. Nell came in with two tankards while he was drying, and blushed mightily at the sight of him. Herring smirked as she went down the stairs.
“I do believe, Major, that the wench has some feelings for you.”
“Do you.” The major said only that, but a hard look that flashed in his dark eyes made the courier wish he had not made the remark. He found himself a little confused by this; the young officer seemed so affable, so sporting, hardly the sort to take offense at some harmless remark about a bawd. So Herring sipped his ale in silence for a while as Major Clark dressed in a clean linen shirt and red velvet coat which appeared to be fresh from the tailor’s. Herring took note that the