Thad shoved his fingers through his hair and concentrated on the document before him. He blew on the final word, still darkening from the layer of counter liquid he had applied, and watched it turn from pale green to blue to nearly black. The news from Freeman was, in a way, exactly what he had expected.
The northern front of the war was an entirely different enterprise from what they faced in the Chesapeake. On the Canadian border, the British weren’t the aggressors, they were the ones defending their territory—territory the politicians in Washington City had decided to try to annex since war had handed them a shiny excuse.
For a good while little effect had been felt here, given that the British didn’t know the waterways well enough to either stop the American privateers from escaping the blockade or to navigate their fleet away from the coast. But they had fallen back on proven tactics—luring slaves away from their masters with the promise of freedom in exchange for their help. And given Maryland and Virginia’s large slave population, more effort had been put into stemming revolts than in fending off the British.
Freeman had taken too great a risk, posing as a runaway himself, to get Thad names, and no doubt it would have proven fruitless had the man, now seventy, not looked fifteen years younger than he was.
But now they knew. Now they knew which parts of the British navy had native pilots to lead them through the estuaries. No wonder the raids along the Patuxent, the aggression, the confidence.
Thad drew his letter forward, the one he would send with Arnaud to Washington City tomorrow to be delivered directly into Congressman Tallmadge’s hand. He uncorked the vial of sympathetic stain.
The formula was similar to the one the Culper Ring had used during the Revolution. But when the brothers Jay had ceased its production after the war, Father had taken it over and made a few small changes.
Thad drew out his code book as well, though he only occasionally needed to refer to it. Mother and Father had set to work on this too after peace settled over the land some thirty years ago. They had used Tallmadge’s original code as a base but had studied other examples of cryptography and had made improvements accordingly. No longer, for instance, did they encode the shortest words—such as “a,” “an,” “I,” and “the”—for doing so would all but guarantee that anyone who got their hands on a developed message could crack it. He had been rather surprised to look at both new and old versions and see that Tallmadge hadn’t considered that from the start.
But then, they had been novices, all of them. Trained only in love for their country, not in espionage.
Thad flipped open the book. He had found it in a hidden drawer of Mother’s secretaire when he was thirteen and had set about memorizing it so that he and Arnaud could pass messages between them in school. It had earned him a knuckle rapping from Mr. Taylor, but still the memory made him grin. When his parents realized what he’d done, they had been far too impressed with him to dole out any extra punishment.
And a ruler across his hands was not so great a penalty, not when one considered that his mother had risked her life every time she wrote a message. Had she been caught, she would have been hung. Thad had no such danger facing him. Though the British would no doubt be happy to see him dead, they were hardly within reach.
He and Tallmadge had political enemies aplenty, though.
As Mother would say, better to spend an hour encoding and decoding than a lifetime wishing one had.
He dipped his quill into the vial of stain. Careful not to let the straw-colored ink cross over the iron gall and leave telltale smudges, he penned the pertinent information into the blank space between the visible lines. Even as he wrote, the pale stain faded and dried, disappearing entirely.
Magic. Two centuries earlier, Father would have been called a sorcerer for creating such a potion and likely burned at the stake. Praise the Lord they lived in a more enlightened age.
Once the message was dry, Thad folded the sheet, let a few drops of melted wax fall onto the edge, and pressed to seal it. He slid the code book and vials back into their drawer, cleaned and mended his quill to be ready for its next use, and then pushed away from his desk. Arnaud had said he would be over to collect Jack before dinner, which meant anytime.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Jack came flying into his study, leaping upon his legs and trying to climb him like a ratline. Thad laughed and hauled him up into his arms.
But the boy stuck out his lip. “Not funny.”
No? Odd, he had heard him laughing like a loon not five minutes earlier. “What is not funny?”
“Papa said it is time to go home, but I don’t want to go home. ’Tis no fun there.”
Thad lifted his brows and met the boy’s scowling brown eyes. “Is that not where all your toys are? Your carved horse, your tin soldiers? Your wagon?”
For some reason, that reminder only served to bring the lip out farther. “Papa is mean.”
“Oh?”
“I asked if he would bring them all back here, and he said no. But I bringded them all before.”
“Brought.” Thad tapped Jack’s nose and gave him his best wise-uncle look. “And that was because you were staying with us for a month, my little mate, not for an afternoon.”
“But—”
“Jacques?” Arnaud appeared in the doorway, his smile edged in frustration. “Are you ready?”
The boy squirmed so that Thad had no choice but to put him down lest he fall and then went tearing from the room shouting something to the effect of “No!”
Rather than chase after him, Arnaud fell into one of the leather chairs with a long sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. “I am a monster, you know, for expecting my son to live at his own home with me.”
Thad sat on the edge of his desk. “Hmm. That is because you have no Grandmama Winnie there. Though if you wish to transfer Father’s laboratory to your house and have them stay with you…”
The look Arnaud shot him was far too pained to play along with the jest. “Am I doing wrong by him, Thad?”
Sorrow pulsated from his friend’s hunched shoulders. Thad sent a silent prayer heavenward. “He is still so young, Alain. He hasn’t the reason yet to sort through his conflicting emotions—his love for you and his fear for you.”
Arnaud seemed not to hear him. His gaze remained fastened on a tassel of the rug, his shoulders now slumped. “I still miss her so. I still think, every time I feel at a loss with him, that Marguerite would know exactly what to do.”
Thad sighed and gripped the edge of wood under his hands. “She would be proud of you. Proud of you for taking charge of him when it would have been so easy to entrust him to someone else.”
The way Arnaud winced, eyes closed, made Thad wonder if the pain would ever dull for this friend of his. “If only I had not missed so much of his life, perhaps then it would be better. Perhaps I would not feel so helpless had I been here when he was born, before Marguerite died.”
“’Tisn’t your fault you were not. Those pirates all but killed you—”
“But I ought not have gone.” Arnaud surged to his feet and paced to the window. “Had I but listened to that blasted feeling of yours…”
How different it all would be. So many years of questions and grief that never would have been. So many fewer nightmares. So many shadows that would have no place.
But still, there was light anew. “We must simply thank the Almighty yet again for the miracle of your escape, of your return to Jack, and trust that He is leading you still. Just as He led you out of that infested pit in Istanbul.”
Arnaud braced himself against the window frame. “I know. And I have no trouble crediting Him with the miracles, but seeing Him in the hours of tedium is…” He squinted out the window as he cocked his head to the side. “That looks like—But it cannot be.”
Thad gained the window with two quick strides, his eyes going wide at the figure riding down the street who looked to barely be keeping his saddle. “Whittier?”
“It cannot be. Last I heard, he joined up with Barney’s flotilla after the British sealed the harbor. He ought to be well up the Patuxent.”
The river’s name, along with the way the man in the saddle listed to the side, lit a spark of urgency within Thad in the same place that warned him against Arnaud’s disastrous trip to the Mediterranean. He ducked his head through the open window, his left leg following.
Arnaud loosed a questioning grunt. “What in blazes are you doing?”
“That man needs help.” His left leg on the ground, he swung his right over the windowsill. “And will likely be a heap on the road before I could find a door.”
Though he muttered something under his breath, Arnaud was pulling himself through the frame as Thad sprinted across his lawn toward the now-halted horse.
By the time he reached the lathered beast, all question of the man’s identity had been answered. ’Twas Joseph Whittier all right. Though with a face white as sea foam, and tinged with green. “Witty? Are you ill?”
His old friend turned unfocused eyes his way. One hand held the limp reins while the other arm remained folded across his unfastened uniform jacket. “Lane. I made it, then.”
Thad made sure his smile was calm and reassuring, even though the wisp-thin voice sounded so little like the robust man he knew. “Aye, you did. Come, Witty. Let us help you down.”
“I…” Whittier clutched the arm more tightly to his stomach and blinked too heavily. “Hurts.”
Arnaud came to a halt beside the horse, his frown well justified this time. “Your arm?”
Witty listed further to the side, his arm shifting along with him, and Thad got a glimpse of the filthy shirt under the jacket—the shirt stained a dark, rusty red. “Nay, ’tis his stomach. Look at all the blood. Inside with him. Hurry.”
Their friend moaned as they pulled him off the horse as gently as they could. Because he couldn’t support himself, Thad lifted him with a shake of his head. “Will you get the door? And have Rosie clear the table?”
Arnaud ran ahead as Henry appeared beside him, brows drawn. “What can I do?”
“Would you see to his horse?”
His friend nodded and headed for the street while Thad continued toward the house. Whittier let out a low grunt of pain, but his eyes opened again, and they were fired with panic. “You must warn them.”
Thad’s throat went tight. “We will, Witty, but first we must see to this wound. What happened?”
He shook his head, nearly thwacking it against the door frame. “Shot. Not important. Cockburn is…Cochrane coming from Bermuda.”
Clenching his teeth until the muscles in his jaw twitched, Thad drew in a long breath and aimed for the kitchen. Tantalizing as any information on those two British admirals was, he must first tend his friend. “Save your strength, please. You can tell me about it afterward.”
“Nay. Now. Before—” A cry of agony interrupted the words, and Whittier’s face contorted.
Thad lengthened his stride. “Rosie! Are you ready for us?”
“Get him on in here, Thaddeus.” Rosie had spread a length of old canvas on the table, onto which he lowered Whittier. His housekeeper hissed out a breath when she saw the stained shirt. “Lawd o’ mercy, help us now.”
“Amen.” Thad pushed the jacket away and gently rolled up the ruined cotton shirt. His own stomach cramped when he saw the wound seeping deadly, nearly black blood. Though his medical expertise was limited, he had seen enough to know that this was bad. Over his shoulder, toward the sound of footsteps, he said, “We’re going to need Dr. Miller. Fast.”
Whittier seized Thad’s shirtfront, strong enough at first to bring his head whipping back around, though then his hands loosened and fell away. His chest rose slowly, as if the effort to fill his lungs required all his strength. “No time.” His voice was even thinner than a minute earlier. “Cockburn, Lane. He…soon as Cochrane arrives…attack. Awaiting…orders on where. Annapolis or…or Washington.”
The knot in his stomach twisted. “Are you certain?”
“Heard them.” Whittier’s eyes went shut again. “Thought I…dead. Talking. Crawled away and…took a horse. You must…warn…”
Calm descended, loosening the twist in Thad’s gut and bringing him down into the chair by the table. Purpose took the place of urgency, though it was sorrow stained. He gripped his friend’s forearm. “I will take care of it.”
“I know.” Another quavering breath, another raising of his eyelids. “My parents. Jill. My love.”
“I will go to them myself. I will tell them.”
Whittier’s other arm lifted slightly and then fell again. “Samuel. Proud of him. And of little Jilly.”
“I know. And so do they.”
With a minuscule nod Witty closed his eyes again. Drawing in another wheezing breath, he let it out. And then…he wasn’t.
Rosie’s sniff sounded, and her familiar hand rested on his shoulder. “I’ll see if I can catch Alain. No call for bringing the doctor now.”
“Thank you, Rosie.” He gave her hand a pat and then stood. He turned, expecting to find his mother hovering in the doorway.
But it was Gwyneth who leaned into the post, gripping it with white knuckles. Her eyes were as wide and damp as the sea, looking toward the table but glazed in a way that made him think she saw Whittier no longer.
Had he known it was she in the doorway, he would have ordered her away before she could have caught a glimpse of the horrific wound. Thad slowly eased forward, afraid she would yet again go weak-kneed. “Gwyneth?”
“Who was he?” Her voice emerged like a spring breeze, nothing more than a soft stirring.
“An old friend.” He took another step, this one to put himself between her and the table. To block her view, to force her to focus on him instead.
She did, with a blink and a lift of her head. “I am sorry. I never…Papa always said war was an ugly thing.”
“’Tis that.” Thad lifted his chin, motioning behind her. “You ought not be in here. It will only unsettle you.”
What thoughts were those that flashed through her eyes like lightning? They were too swift for him to make out, too much cloaked in those shadows that marred the depths of her gaze, but at least she seemed to hear him. She nodded, loosed the door frame, and half turned.
And then she had to grip the other side. ’Twas more convulsion than tremor that swept up her figure, and she squeezed shut her eyes as if to hold back tears.
“Gwyneth.” He went to her side, ready to catch her should she fall, ready to rescue her should she be overcome.
But the moment he touched a hand to her shoulder, she lifted her chin and swallowed, fighting back whatever demons chased her. And then she strode away.
Thad could only lean into the post and shake his head. It was as though she were a pane of glass, shattered yet still in its frame. What tragedy had struck to destroy her so?
And what strength must she have within to still hold herself upright?
He turned back toward the table and the prone body upon it. He had a family to notify.
And a message to the congressman to revise.