he perused an open journal book.
"Your mongrel, Major," the young officer announced in the tone of one expecting a grand entertainment.
The officer frowned, first at Duncan then at his escort. "Fodder, Lieutenant. How much fodder is needed to overnight another fifty animals?"
"I will look into it at once, sir," the lieutenant replied.
"And the junior officers must be moved into tents by tomorrow."
"Of course, sir." The lieutenant offered not a salute but a servile bow of his powdered head then slipped away.
Latchford fixed Duncan with an icy stare. "You think you can wander into my garrison without a by your leave?" he asked in a cool, well-educated voice. "Use our water, watch my troops like some spy, provoke our bereaved comrades in arms?" Latchford, Duncan realized, had had him under observation from the moment he had passed under the gate.
"If I am not mistaken, Major, I was brought into your establishment by soldiers under your command." He saw the gleam in Latchford's eyes and instantly regretted the words. A man like Latchford delighted in impudence, for all punishments were at his beck and call.
The officer lifted a quill and made a note in the journal. "You have not honored us with your name."
"McCallum. Duncan McCallum."
"I'll know, McCallum, why your friend killed this particular Virginian on this particular day."
Duncan weighed Latchford's words carefully. There was something more to the murder in the forest than he had understood. "My friend killed no one. You should look to the enemy. Last night we observed a Huron raiding party not twenty miles from here."
Latchford lifted a small bronze medallion etched with a tree on one side, a crude W on the other. The strap that until that morning had fastened it to Duncan's neck had been snapped apart. "Observed?" He dangled the disc toward Duncan. "For Woolford's rangers?"
"Nearly twenty men, including two or three French."
"I have had no reports of hostiles."
"The entire point of secret raiding parties, Major, is to operate secretly." Duncan clenched his jaw, chiding himself. Sometimes it seemed impossible not to lash out at such officers. It was privileged and powdered men like Latchford who had hanged his father for a rebel, skewered his younger brother with a saber, and raped his mother and sisters before bayoneting them.
The major's face flashed with anger. He slammed the medallion onto his desk and leapt up. Duncan braced himself, certain the officer meant to strike him, but Latchford moved to a side door, stepped halfway into the hall to bark out orders for a reconnaissance patrol. Through the rear window Duncan could see parties setting up a large campaign tent. The fortress was expecting visitors, ones important enough to worry the commanding officer. Duncan could not afford to linger if senior officers were coming, officers who might have experience in the New York theater.
When he looked back Latchford was at his desk again, lifting an elegant pistol with a metal butt from the desktop. He toyed with it a moment, sighting along the barrel. "Woolford's men are operating along the Saint Lawrence, the last I heard. And you do not have the look of a ranger, McCallum. We have reports of a solitary warrior and a European woodsman making mischief, always evading our patrols."
Duncan shrugged. "I am no woodsman. And Conawago is no warrior, just an old man looking for traces of his family."
The major extended the pistol, raising and lowering it as if practicing for a duel. "It is easy for a man to pretend a new identity so far from civilization. I have orders to deal harshly with deserters and spies."
"Wounds need to be cleansed every day to keep the filth from entering the blood," Duncan said abruptly.
Latchford's brow knitted. "I'm sorry?"
It was a desperate wager Duncan was making, based on the passing remark of the militia sergeant. "Your infirmary is without a doctor. But you have wounded. I attended medical college in Edinburgh."
"You are
"Your mongrel, Major," the young officer announced in the tone of one expecting a grand entertainment.
The officer frowned, first at Duncan then at his escort. "Fodder, Lieutenant. How much fodder is needed to overnight another fifty animals?"
"I will look into it at once, sir," the lieutenant replied.
"And the junior officers must be moved into tents by tomorrow."
"Of course, sir." The lieutenant offered not a salute but a servile bow of his powdered head then slipped away.
Latchford fixed Duncan with an icy stare. "You think you can wander into my garrison without a by your leave?" he asked in a cool, well-educated voice. "Use our water, watch my troops like some spy, provoke our bereaved comrades in arms?" Latchford, Duncan realized, had had him under observation from the moment he had passed under the gate.
"If I am not mistaken, Major, I was brought into your establishment by soldiers under your command." He saw the gleam in Latchford's eyes and instantly regretted the words. A man like Latchford delighted in impudence, for all punishments were at his beck and call.
The officer lifted a quill and made a note in the journal. "You have not honored us with your name."
"McCallum. Duncan McCallum."
"I'll know, McCallum, why your friend killed this particular Virginian on this particular day."
Duncan weighed Latchford's words carefully. There was something more to the murder in the forest than he had understood. "My friend killed no one. You should look to the enemy. Last night we observed a Huron raiding party not twenty miles from here."
Latchford lifted a small bronze medallion etched with a tree on one side, a crude W on the other. The strap that until that morning had fastened it to Duncan's neck had been snapped apart. "Observed?" He dangled the disc toward Duncan. "For Woolford's rangers?"
"Nearly twenty men, including two or three French."
"I have had no reports of hostiles."
"The entire point of secret raiding parties, Major, is to operate secretly." Duncan clenched his jaw, chiding himself. Sometimes it seemed impossible not to lash out at such officers. It was privileged and powdered men like Latchford who had hanged his father for a rebel, skewered his younger brother with a saber, and raped his mother and sisters before bayoneting them.
The major's face flashed with anger. He slammed the medallion onto his desk and leapt up. Duncan braced himself, certain the officer meant to strike him, but Latchford moved to a side door, stepped halfway into the hall to bark out orders for a reconnaissance patrol. Through the rear window Duncan could see parties setting up a large campaign tent. The fortress was expecting visitors, ones important enough to worry the commanding officer. Duncan could not afford to linger if senior officers were coming, officers who might have experience in the New York theater.
When he looked back Latchford was at his desk again, lifting an elegant pistol with a metal butt from the desktop. He toyed with it a moment, sighting along the barrel. "Woolford's men are operating along the Saint Lawrence, the last I heard. And you do not have the look of a ranger, McCallum. We have reports of a solitary warrior and a European woodsman making mischief, always evading our patrols."
Duncan shrugged. "I am no woodsman. And Conawago is no warrior, just an old man looking for traces of his family."
The major extended the pistol, raising and lowering it as if practicing for a duel. "It is easy for a man to pretend a new identity so far from civilization. I have orders to deal harshly with deserters and spies."
"Wounds need to be cleansed every day to keep the filth from entering the blood," Duncan said abruptly.
Latchford's brow knitted. "I'm sorry?"
It was a desperate wager Duncan was making, based on the passing remark of the militia sergeant. "Your infirmary is without a doctor. But you have wounded. I attended medical college in Edinburgh."
"You are
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