Enemy In The House Read Online Free Page B

cobblestoned streets.
    Actually she did not see Simon alone again till the night of the twenty-seventh when at last the privateer sailed. She stayed with the Holidays all that time and Simon was not even in town.
    She had had warning that her journey was about to begin, for a man had come in the afternoon to take her trunk to the ship. Colonel Holiday, preoccupied, busy, kind, had gallantly kissed her, wished her a good trip and hurried back to the dining room which seemed to serve as his headquarters and to which, all those six days and nights, men in uniform, men in broadcloth and neatly powdered wigs, men in fringed buckskins, had hurriedly arrived, held long conferences and gone hurriedly away again. Madam Holiday, kind, busy and preoccupied, too, had kissed her, put aside her thanks for friendly and indeed warm hospitality, and also wished her a happy journey. Simon came for her in a chaise which joggled and thumped through increasing blackness.
    “I’m sorry, I couldn’t get back sooner,” Simon said.
    The dawn when they had arrived, the Holidays had barely greeted them and been introduced. “My wife,” Simon had said shortly. “We were married yesterday.” Then Colonel Holiday had taken Simon’s arm and led him quickly into the dining room. Simon had emerged a few moments later, said merely that he was to be away for a few days, kissed her lightly and handed her over to Madam Holiday.
    “I know,” she replied as the chaise lurched around a corner. “Colonel Holiday told me that you might be delayed.”
    “It’s the British fleet. Our information is now that they’ve passed Charlestown so we expect them here. The captain of the privateer thinks he can make it out to sea tonight in the darkness without being sighted by the British. In fact, he’s making a run for it before they attack. There’s a good wind.”
    They talked no more until he pulled up the horse, and the smell of the river, the sweetish-salty smell of the sea, came through the night air. They seemed to have arrived at a small and rather secluded wharf. A cautious riding light and dimly outlined masts showed against the faintly light water. It was a dark night, cloudy, with a scudding north wind. “There’s a little tavern over here,” Simon said. “We have a few moments before she sails.”
    The tavern, a single room, was deserted except for the landlord who bustled forward to wipe off a bench for her with his apron. Simon ordered mulled wine, put his hat on the bench and sat opposite her; his caped greatcoat was still fastened high about his throat. His thick, crinkly red hair was tied back neatly, his face was newly shaven but he was pale, with lines of fatigue around his mouth and eyes.
    “You look tired,” she said.
    “I’ve been in the saddle most of this week. Trying to round up every man and every gun we can get. But our defense is still pitifully lacking. The British may take Savannah.”
    “But Savannah is no military stronghold for the—” she swallowed the word rebels and said, “the Continental Army. Why should the British attack?”
    “It’s a port. It is thinly—oh, God, how thinly defended. Mainly it’s an approach to Charlestown.”
    The landlord came back with the mulled wine, which sent up a spicy odor. Simon lifted his mug. “As to this trip to Jamaica—you must understand that you may have to stay there a long time. God knows how long. Until the war is over, perhaps.”
    “But the rebellion—I mean the war can’t last long!”
    “You mean the British will whip us.”
    “Oh, Simon, it’s Britain you are fighting. British ships! British-trained soldiers!”
    “Some hired Hessian soldiers, too.” He rubbed his eyes wearily and then smiled at her. “Well, we’re not whipped yet. Drink your wine.” He tasted his own and said thoughtfully, “You’ll be safe with your father. I hope—I believe that he is alive and well.”
    “How can I write to you?”
    Simon was never too tired, too discouraged