He’d never been on a live battlefield but had walked a few historical ones with his father. The Reverend Wakefield had been a keen war historian, and a good storyteller; he’d been able to evoke the sense of a muddled, panicked fight from the open ground at Sheriffmuir, and the sense of doom and slaughter from the haunted earth of Culloden.

Roger was getting much the same feeling, rising up from the quiet earth of the cemetery through his body, and he curled his fists, urgently wanting the feel of a weapon in his hand.

The air was cool but humid, with a faint rumble of thunder over the sea, and sweat was condensing on his body. He saw Marion wipe his own face with a large, grubby handkerchief, then tuck it away with an impatient gesture and step closer to the chasseur officer, raising his voice and jerking his head toward the river behind them.

Whatever he’d said—he was speaking French, and the distance was too far for Roger to make out more than a phrase here and there—seemed to settle the chasseurs, who grunted and nodded amongst themselves, then gathered behind their officer and set off at a jog-trot toward the ships. Marion watched them go, then sighed visibly and sat down on one of the tombstones.

It seemed ludicrous to approach Marion with his questions under these circumstances, but the man had spotted him and lifted his chin inquiringly. Not much choice but to say hello, at least.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “I apologize for interrupting you. I can see that—” Lacking any sufficient words, he waved a hand toward the distant camp.

Marion laughed, a low sound of honest amusement.

“Well, yes,” he said, in an accent that seemed faintly tinged with the French he’d just been speaking. “It’s clear, isn’t it? I take it you didn’t know, though, or—?” One eyebrow quirked up.

“Or I wouldn’t be here,” Roger finished. Marion shrugged.

“You might have come to volunteer. The Continental army isn’t choosy, though I have to say that the occasional minister we get usually doesn’t wear his best clothes to fight in.” The look of amusement deepened as he looked Roger up and down. “So—why are you here, sir?”

“My name is Roger MacKenzie, and I am the son-in-law of General James Fraser, late of—”

“Really.” Both eyebrows were raised as high as they could go. “Fraser’s sent you as an envoy to General Lincoln, and they sent you to me because Benjamin’s asleep?”

“Not exactly.” He’d best just put it baldly. Whatever Jamie’s reputation with the Continental army was, his business with Marion was straightforward enough.

“I take it you know that General Fraser resigned his commission following the Battle of—”

“Monmouth, yes.” Marion shifted his scrawny buttocks on the stone. “Everyone knows by now, I should think. Is it true that he wrote his letter of resignation on the back of an ensign and sent him to Lee with a muddy shirt?”