“Stay as you are,” a deep voice commands.
“What is this we have here?” This is a second, high-pitched voice. Then I’m grabbed by my collar and brought up to my knees. Both men are wearing grimy, ripped civilian clothes and pointing flintlock rifles at my face. The one with the bass voice pats me down for weapons, then opens my sack. The other keeps his musket trained on me.
“A tory spy is it?” the shorter one with the higher-pitched voice says. They both have an accent indistinguishable from those I’d heard in Leatown; sort of British yet different in a way I can’t pinpoint.
“No, I’m not a spy,” I say feebly.
“Ah, I’m pleased to hear that,” the short one says. “Be on your way then.” They laugh heartily.
I’m marched up the slope at gunpoint having gained the attention of the motley column of troops. Messages are being mumbled up the line and eventually the column comes to a halt. I’m walked to the head of it where a mounted soldier looks down to study me. His blue jacket is adorned with gold and his white breeches are spotless, tucked into shining black boots. He asks where they found me. The short soldier tells him. The officer scans the surrounding terrain and then looks up through the canopy of trees.
“We camp here,” he says and dismounts.
I’m roped to a tree trunk, arms behind me. The soldiers settle down and gather in knots around campfires. On the other side of the encampment, a white marquee and a smaller tent had been erected, for the officers I assumed.
I know that spies being shot is a thing. They’re probably not sure that I’m a spy though. But why take the risk? Yet, here I am, still breathing. The horrifying thought hits me that I’m alive only because they want to extract intel about the Leatown garrison. What do I know about it? Almost nothing. I’ll tell them that. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. For a moment there, I thought maybe I was in trouble.
An hour passes and I see two soldiers coming my way. This is it. This is the end. I’m untied and marched across the camp under the surveillance of many suspicious eyes. Sitting outside the marquee and warming his hand at a campfire is the soldier–the general maybe–who’d led the column. Besides him is another soldier, similarly dressed in blue and gold. I stand facing them through flickering flames with the two guards behind me.
“Your name?” the general asks. No point in making one up, so I tell him. “And where are you from?” That’s a tougher one to answer honestly.
“Leatown,” I say. The general takes a draft from a metal mug. In the flickering light of the fire I see his skin is pink and pocked, and his black hair is tied back over his ears into a low ponytail.
“Leatown. And what’s your work in Leatown?” He’s looking into the fire rather than at me.
“I’m a farmer,” I say, because this is my first random thought. The general looks up at the other officer seated at the fire.
“He’s a farmer,” the general says.
“Indeed,” the other one says. “He looks to me to be veh’y well-dressed for a farmer.” It’s a French accent. The general smiles.
“What do you farm?” the general asks. This may be where my entire story collapses because I’ve no idea what gets farmed here, now or two hundred years from now. All that enters the vacuum of my mind is what I knew to be farmed in twenty-first century eastern Washington state.
“Alfalfa.” They look at each other bemused. “And wheat,” I add promptly. Surely that’s a safe choice. I should have said that first. The fire spits a cinder that lands by my foot. “Look, I’m just on my way home and don’t mean to inconvenience you.” They smile.
“You’re no inconvenience Mr. Bevan,” the general says. “Not as long as we have you as our guest. But I must ask you, from where are you returning?”
From where am I returning? Where is there to return from? I’ve no clue where I am. “My son,” I say. “He ran off and I’m trying to track him.” I learned from Bess–my version of Bess–that staying close to the truth is the best way to lie. This gets no response. They either bought it or they think it’s too ludicrous to take the bother of questioning.
“Tell me about the Leatown garrison. How many British?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I have no business with them.” The French man chortles.
“I see. So your home is in Leatown, you’re a farmer, but you have no dealings with the garrison?” the general says to the fire. He shakes his head. I sense my luck is taking a bad turn. Then a soldier walks up, stands stiffly to attention and hands a note to the pocked general. He unties and unfolds it, and leans in toward the fire to read it. He looks up at me. “We’ll have plenty of time to converse more Mr. Bevan. I’m afraid I have more pressing matters at this moment.”
THIRTY-THREE
I’m sitting tethered to the tree. The wind is picking up and the rustle of the forest is getting louder. On the microscopically small chance that I escape this, Prasad needs to be told that a little preparation for these trips would be a good idea. Dragging a hungover guy out of bed and then catapulting him across more than two centuries without educating him on where he’s going is, put politely, a fucking stupid strategy. Knowing crops would have been invaluable. Yet, not a minute on crops.
From the fading chatter I can tell the soldiers are settling in for the night. Only one of them is close to me and he’s lying with his hand on his musket. He rolls over
