The Seekers Read Online Free Page B

compromises a lady by answering such a question, dear boy. It’s sufficient to say the locket was given to me by a charming creature who loves me deeply, and whose love is reciprocated.”
    Days later, Abraham brought up the locket in conversation with another officer. His scalp crawled when the officer identified the girl in the painting. “His mistress? Yes, he intimates she is. She’s also his sister, Lucy Stovall.”
    “Good Christ! I thought his remarks about a scandal in Baltimore were only boasts.”
    “To the best of my knowledge, I’m right in the identity of that pretty whore he carries around in his breeches. There was a scandal, and a juicy one. The girl’s married now, to some chap named Freemantle—Stovall fairly seethes whenever he mentions him. In case it’s not clear, Cornet, Stovall is a libertine of the worst sort. Don’t let him catch you alone! I understand his family’s damned rich, by the way. That probably helps buy official silence about his little escapades—”
    “And helps bribe recruiting officers to look in the other direction?”
    “And sign his papers in haste—yes.”
    After that, Abraham avoided the lieutenant, save for the one time he was unavoidably alone with him, and slyly propositioned.
    Stovall’s unpopularity was heightened by a condescending manner he displayed even to superiors—and to Abraham this morning. “Damned silly of you to run about pretending to be a bloody firebrand, Kent.” Stovall sometimes affected diction he imagined to be British; Abraham considered it a sign of Federalist leanings. “I’ve no desire to be potted by a bloody lot of howling heathen. Riding in the rear suits me admirably—”
    Abraham couldn’t resist a jab at the soft-featured officer. “Off the field as well as on, eh, sir?”
    Stovall colored, started to retort. MisCampbell’s shouted command distracted him. Stovall reined his horse around and repeated the order loudly, “For-aaard!”
    In a moment they were moving with a jingle of metal, a slap of leather, a plop of hoofs in the black earth leading to the slope that angled down into the cornfields. Abraham still felt foolish because of his comments to MisCampbell. Perhaps that was the reason he’d dared to jape at a senior officer.
    Why had he made those idiotic remarks about wanting to be first to charge the enemy? Was he secretly afraid he lacked courage? Yes, that might be the reason—
    But admitting it didn’t help his spirits one whit. A heavy lump had formed in his throat. Sweat continually blurred his eyes. Off to the far right, the Legion columns shimmered in the heat, their fur caps with different-colored plumes the only concession to military dress. Abraham felt heavy sweat on his chest and under his arms as MisCampbell led the dragoons down into the tasseled corn planted by the Indians.
    As he rode, Abraham’s thoughts turned inward again. He knew why he hoped to do well in the engagement. He wanted some record of accomplishment, however slight, from which to draw the strength of experience if and when he confronted his father in a much different sort of conflict.
    Once he acknowledged this in the silence of his mind, he felt a little better—though no less nervous. Guiding Sprite over the edge of the gentle slope, he noticed activity in a grove to the left. He saw General Wayne trying to lift his foot to his stirrup. Bending the flannel-swathed leg brought a grimace to Wayne’s face, then tears. Two servants rushed forward to boost him up. Abraham distinctly heard Wayne’s gasp of pain as he mounted.
    But once in the saddle, the general looked fierce and formidable. No trace of the tears remained. The hilt of his sword and the metal-capped butts of his pistols twinkled in the dappled sunlight of the grove.
    Abraham coughed in the dust raised by Stovall’s gray just ahead. He felt a sudden pride in serving with Anthony Wayne. If he were to die this morning, at least he wouldn’t be dying for a coward or