By the time the sun began to rise, they had left the barn behind by many miles and ridden through two small villages, both eerily quiet. Black had half-expected that they would be challenged as they passed by, but the towns had lain dead-asleep, not a lamp showing or a person stirring, and no watchman had stepped into the road to ask their business. They also came upon several small streams, but they were shallow and the horses crossed them without difficulty. Once in a while, where the water was deeper or faster, they traversed the stream via a crude bridge, or at least the bridges seemed crude to Black when he compared them to bridges he had ridden across in the English countryside.
Along the way, Stevens talked to Black about what the doctor continued to call “this rebellion” and of the strains it had brought to all, especially the shortages of everything imported, which was almost everything, but even of locally grown food.
“How is the population in these parts divided in loyalty?” Black asked.
“There are about an equal number on both sides of the argument, with many others in the middle. But those in favour of independence have seized control of the governmental machinery, so Loyalists who used to speak out openly against the so-called Revolution now stay largely silent for fear of being tarred and feathered or worse.”
“Where are these Loyalists, then? They are the people I must depend on if things go awry.”
“Many have left for New York, where the British still reign, or for England or Canada, so not many are left hereabouts. I will tell you who they are when you need to know. But right now I need to tell you who you are.”
Stevens then told Black the story he had made up about Black’s own background, in case he was challenged.
“What about you, Dr. Stevens?” Black asked. “Who are you in this charade?”
“I am your cousin, and I accompanied you to see your mother, my beloved aunt. Her name, by the way, is Constance—Constance Black.”
“What if someone wants to talk to me about my experiences in battle?”
“The answer is that you joined up only at the start of the year, and that, but for a few skirmishes, you have seen almost no action except for guard duty—tedious and boring, by the way.”
“I see.”
“You’re an officer in the British Army. Have you been in actual battles?”
“Yes.”
“If it comes to that and you must describe the skirmishes, draw on that experience. No one will know the difference.”
They rode on for a while. From time to time they passed men going the other way, usually on foot but twice on horseback. Black felt himself stiffen each time someone passed, but other than offering a tip of the hat and a wary “Good day,” no one tried to speak to them.
As they rode along, the road—really more of a rutted cart track than what Black considered a true road—had been bordered by thick woodlands. Suddenly, it emerged into unploughed fields, where Black could see the stubble of old cornstalks protruding from the ground.
“Are you hungry, Corporal Black?” Stevens asked.
“Yes, quite starved really.”
“We will soon come upon another village, where there is an inn. We can stop there and eat.”
“Do you know the leanings of this village?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. You are wearing the uniform of a regiment of George Washington’s army. People will know your leanings without the need to ask. If their views are contrary to yours, they will likely stay silent.”
“This town you have mentioned, Dr. Stevens, the one I am to be from. What if someone else hails from thereabout?”
“It’s seventy miles away in another colony. It’s most unlikely.”
* * *
The sign marking the inn, a two-story, red-sided clapboard structure, said, THE LION. The letters were painted in black on a weather-beaten wooden plaque that protruded into the road from a second-story window. Under LION someone had carved an outline of the very beast mentioned.
“Have you ever seen an actual lion, Dr. Stevens?” Black asked, as they dismounted.
“No.”
“Well, neither had the man who carved this one, since it looks nothing like a real lion.”
“You have seen one, then?”
“Yes, once, when I was but a lad. On the grounds of the Tower of London, where at one time they kept a sort of menagerie, although it is mostly gone now.”
“Your family must have been of high rank to be allowed in there.”
“No, much of the place was open to whoever wanted to visit there.”
As they were about to go in, Stevens touched Black on the arm. “Do not forget, no one here drinks tea anymore. If you don’t want beer or ale, ask for coffee.”
“Thank you for reminding me.”
Stevens pulled open the door and they walked inside. The place was already crowded with travellers, seated on benches pushed up to crude wooden tables, of which there were six. A fire roared in the fireplace, giving off both heat and smoke. The smell of bacon filled the room.
They looked around for a place they might be alone, but found none. They seated themselves across from one another at the end of a table at which six other men were already seated. One of the men looked over at them, nodded his head in seeming acknowledgement and turned back to the food on his plate. The other five gave no indication that they had even noted their arrival.
Soon a plump woman in a stained apron, wearing a matronly cap and carrying a pitcher of ale, appeared and said, “What will it be, gentlemen?”
“What is being served?” Dr. Stevens asked.
“We have pork and biscuits and gravy. And if you want to afford it, bacon. We have no eggs. The hens are not laying.”
“And to drink?” Black asked.
“Why, ale—” she raised the pitcher as if to show it “—and coffee. And we still serve tea here, although by the looks of ye, you’ll not be wanting that.”
“You’d be right about that,” Black said. “I’ll have pork and biscuits, please, and ale.”
“The same,” Dr. Stevens said. “But coffee instead.”
“And I will change my mind and have the coffee instead of ale, too,” Black said.
She looked at Black. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here, Corporal.”
“I’m not. I’m from near the town of Axel, in Pennsylvania. I was home on leave just now, visiting my mother, who is not long for this world, I fear.”
He hoped that his statement of near bereavement would deflect the conversation from his origins.
One of the men down the table, who had not previously deigned to acknowledge them, looked up from his plate. “I myself come from near to Axel. But you don’t sound as if you’re from there.” He paused. “You sound English.”
Black saw no reason to hide it. Nor could he have done so even if he had wanted to. Instead he put a broad smile on his face, as if he’d been paid a compliment. “Indeed I am. I came here when I was eleven, apprenticed to a blacksmith in Charleston. He was cruel, and I ran away.”
The others at the table had now stilled their forks and turned their attention towards him. Not, he sensed, in a friendly way. He felt a need to elaborate on his story.
“I ended in Axel, where the Blacks, who are Friends—good Quaker people—took me in and taught me to farm.”
“What of your indenture to the smith?” one of the men asked. “What about that, eh?”
“Mr. Black, whose last name I took in gratitude and whom I call my father, paid off the indenture. And I am now repaying the debt to my new country.”
He realized, as he spoke, that he was taking a risk. On the one hand, his thinly woven tale now had a more substantial warp and woof to it and so was perhaps more believable. On the other hand, its details would be much easier to check. He sensed Stevens, sitting next to him, wishing him to be silent.
Stevens said, “Madame, I will change my drink to ale, for I’d like to raise a toast.”
She took the pitcher she still carried and filled the empty glass that had been sitting next to Stevens on the table. Black held up his own glass, indicating that she should fill it.
Stevens held his glass aloft. “To the glorious cause,” he said, “and to the independence of these United States of America, and to those who fight for them.” He turned to Black and bowed slightly.
There were huzzahs all around, and then all returned abruptly to eating, as if the matter were at an end.
Stevens and Black were served and finished their pork, biscuits and gravy. Stevens paid the bill, and they left. Once they were mounted and out of town, Stevens said, “You made a mistake in there.”
“How?”
“Quakers oppose British taxation of the colonies, but most do not approve of war, and only a few have signed up to fight in this rebellion on either side. So they are mistrusted by all. And now you have brought that mistrust on yourself.”
“What am I to do, then?”
“There is a group of Quakers called the Free Quakers, who fight in the war on the side of the so-called Patriots. If you are asked again, it is that group you are aligned with. Although it would be best if you simply left that story behind.”
“Perhaps we should avoid public inns, then.”
“Perhaps.”
Just then, Black said, “Do you hear someone behind us?”
Dr. Stevens brought his horse to a halt and stayed Black’s at the same time. They remained still and listened.
“Someone is indeed following us,” Stevens said. “Take that path there—” he pointed towards a narrow side path “—and ride till you are out of sight. I will wait here for whoever is following.”
“Do you have a pistol?”
“I won’t need one. Now go.”