The French Admiral

that, around Cross Creek and Campbelltown. I suppose we were just too good a target. Daddy had helped Colonel Hamilton outfit the Royal North Carolina Regiment, our unit, so they had to do something to punish us, what with Governour already with the colors and all, and half the men away fighting. But we felt so safe there, with our neighbors of one mind with us to support the Crown. And with the Fannings and Cunninghams and Tarletons on our side raiding the Rebels, they had to respond. But everyone in the county loved George, Lewrie. He was the best horseman and hunter going, not afraid of anything. I'd rather it had been me, sometimes.'

'But your family is safe, now,' Alan said, trying to change the subject. God, he thought, and I believed I had a vicious set of relations.

'For the moment,' Burgess said, wading into the water and sitting down in the shallows. He did duck his head and came up spluttering, and it seemed to calm him. 'Wilmington, though, is full of Rebels and sympathizers. Were it not for Major Craig and his garrison, and Fort Johnston at the tip of the peninsula, I fear they'd be slaughtered in their beds. Daddy's not been the same since, Momma's not a strong person, and only poor Caroline with what blacks we haven't been forced to sell to keep body and soul together to run things. She's a strong girl, is Caroline, but I doubt even she can cope if things get worse. Prices are high, higher for Loyalists from those Rebel townspeople. We left what money we had, but we haven't been paid in months. They were going to seek cheaper lodgings, last we saw them before we marched north. Sorry, Lewrie.'

'Sometimes it helps to talk. Go on and bathe. I'll guard.'

While the army men splashed in the sun-warmed water he wandered up to a higher vantage point above the stock pond by the burned-out barn and outbuildings. Cony had gone to see to the stock they had captured, and was using a seaman's knife to cut some grass for the cows, once more back the peaceful world of animals and farm chores he had left God knew how long before to take the joining bounty and enter the harsh world of the Navy.

'Keep a sharp eye, Cony,' Lewrie had to remind him.

'Aye, sir,' Cony said, as he ruffled the becoming tuft of woolly hair on one calf's skull. 'Poor beasts. Shoulda been weaned long ago, I 'spects, but nary a soul about fer months ta do it, most like. Nearly a yearlin' now an' still nuhsin' 'is momma.'

Reluctantly, Cony took up his musket, cartouche bag, and powder horn and headed off toward the edge of the woods to the west, where they came down almost to the edge of the stock pond. Watching him go, Alan could see that the fence between the pasture where they had seized their livestock and the stock pond had been torn down; perhaps by the raiders who had looted the place, or perhaps by the animals in their thirst once things had settled down and they had returned to the farmstead from the woods where they had fled.

Alan went off toward the yard of the house to keep an eye on the dirt lane that ran down from the Williamsburg road, and the wider expanse of the pastures and fields. There was corn growing there, rows of beans and potatoes of some kind, which might have been ripe enough to pick. Alan reminded himself that they might want to gather some before going hack to the working party. He hunted about for a sack or keg for carrying.

Further north up the road there was another fence, beyond the home garden enclosure, and there were broad-leaved plants there, some already turning brittle and brown under the hot autumn sun; tobacco, he surmised, never having seen growing before, or having much use for it up until then.

He did know that tobacco fetched high prices in London shops, so perhaps Burgess was correct that this had been a fairly prosperous farm once.

Alan was dressed informally in breeches and damp shirt—his waistcoat and short blue jacket were still drying after a good scrubbing—so he was concerned that he stood out too prominently against the greenery. He went back from his vantage point to the shadows of the house, where he could still see a long distance should anyone attempt to sneak up on them, but not be as easily spotted.

The house was not as rude as he had first thought, either being well made and chinked, the timbers adzed flat instead of the logs being laid round or still furred with bark. There had once been precious glass in the windows, and the door and shutters that had been ripped off had once been gaily painted and of good milled lumber, most likely done by the owners themselves. The porch was neat, the supporting posts made square and solid and whitewashed still, the floor of the porch planed or sanded and closefitting as a ship's deck, and nearly as white. There were overturned chairs with cleverly rushed seats scattered about, and he righted one for a rest on the porch near one of the windows.

After a few minutes, however, he became bored, and began to peek into the open window more and more, wondering if the raiders of whichever side had left anything worth looting.

He rose and scanned the area of the stock pond. The soldier Mollow was out of the water and dressing, near his rifle and ready for immediate danger, while Burgess Chiswick was toweling himself dry and already in his breeches and stockings.

Thinking there would be little danger, he rose from the chair and entered the house. It was a lot grander than he had thought inside as well. There was a large room with a plank floor that had been oiled or varnished at one time, and was still shiny under the dust of neglect that had gathered. There had been a cleverly made fireplace and hearth on one wall and a neat mantel. There had been a bookcase, now smashed into kindling, and perhaps a dozen books scattered on the floor. The furniture was heavy and European made, either brought by the emigrants or ordered with profits from the farm's produce, though the cabinets and chests were empty.

One of the books that lay open took his interest, one of Fielding's novels—Joseph Andrews—which he had heard was a merry story.

'God, what a smell,' he whispered, now that he was in the house.

Folding the book closed and sticking it into his waistband, he prowled towards the overturned dining table. The glint of metal caught his eyes, and he knelt to pick up a discarded pewter knife, a pair of spoons, and a fork, which went into his breeches pockets. They could use them in Desperate's midshipmen's mess, if only to replace the ones that their steward Freeling had lost over the months. He found a pewter mug smashed flat by something, another fork which was in good shape, and a ladle, which would come in handy for dipping out soup or rum toddies.

Then he tried the bedrooms, which both opened off the main room.

'Oh, my God!' he screeched once he had the door open to reveal what had been hidden. The stench of long decomposition rolled over him like a channel fog.

He dropped the ladle and almost dropped his rifle as he backed away. But it was the sight that had forced him to retreat; there was a nude woman on the high bed, long dead and eyeless. She had been ripped open like a slaughtered hog and had stained the sheets black with her blood and entrails. And pinned to the wall…

At the horror Alan lost what little breakfast he'd had.

Pinned to the wall with a bayonet, a tiny baby too small to be a suckling babe—perhaps ripped from that ravaged belly before birth—now with parchment-dark skin and tiny little bones and leathery looking stains on the whitewash. Beside it, written in blood: THOU SHALT NEVER BIRTH ANOTHER REBEL.

'Jesus Christ!' Alan was gagging, bent almost double but unable to take his eyes from the sight. 'Oh, my merciful God in Heaven!'

Burgess burst into the cabin with his rifle ready for firing.

He came to Alan's side and dragged him away and gave him a firm shove toward the door and the fresher air on the porch.

Alan clung to a porch post and continued to heave, though his stomach was empty. 'God, I never saw anything like that! No one should ever see such a sight! God in Heaven!'

He emptied his pockets of his loot and flung the utensils into the dirt of the yard, threw away the merry book, and felt he could use one more very long bath to get the oily, cold-sweat feel of putrefaction off his skin, to be cleansed of what he had seen in that bedroom.

'Here,' Burgess said, shoving a small, stoppered flask at him. He tore off the cork and took a long pull at whatever it was, which almost choked him. It was alcoholic, that he realized, but hot as fire and twice the bite of neat rum—at the moment he needed it badly.

'What the devil is this stuff?' he managed to choke out.

'Corn whiskey,' Burgess said, dragging him free of the porch and walking him over to the well on the other side of the yard. 'You'll not see its like in England, but it's popular here—and cheap.'

'That could take your mind off your own death,' Alan said.

Burgess cranked up the bucket from the bottom of the well, sniffed at the water to see if the well had been fouled, then offered him the bucket in lieu of the missing dipper. Alan took a sip or two, but felt better dumping it