He reached out a hand and grasped her arm—she let go of the reins with that hand and seized his as though she were drowning, clinging for dear life, remarkable strength for a woman. Several men had come to take up the shafts, and the wagon’s wheels creaked into motion, the small procession beginning its mournful journey. The mother had ceased wailing now; she moved as though sleepwalking after the wagon, stumbling as her knees gave way every few steps in spite of the support of two women who held her up.

“Where is her husband?” Brianna whispered, more to herself than to William, but he answered.

“He’ll likely be with the army.” Much more likely, he was dead as well, but his sister probably knew that as well as he did.

Her own husband … God knew where he was. She’d avoided answering him when he’d asked, but it was apparent that MacKenzie was a rebel. If he’d been in the recent battle—but no, he’d survived that, at least, William reminded himself. She didn’t ask about him, while we were in camp … why the devil not? Still, he could feel a small constant tremor running through his sister’s hand, and he squeezed back, trying to give her reassurance.

“Monsieur?” A high-pitched voice by his left stirrup startled him and he jerked in the saddle, making his horse shift and stamp.

“What?” he said, looking down incredulously. “Who the devil are you?”

The small black boy—Christ, he was wearing the remnants of a dark-blue uniform, so he must be, or recently had been, a drummer—bowed solemnly. His face, ear, and hand were black with soot on one side, and there was a deal of blood on his clothes, but he didn’t seem to be wounded.

“Pardon, monsieur. Parlez-vous Français?”

“Oui,” William replied, astonished. “Pourquoi?”

The child—no, he was older than he looked; he stood up straight and looked William in the eye, maybe eleven or twelve—coughed up a wad of black phlegm and spat it out, then shook his head as though straightening his wits.

“Votre ami a besoin d’aide. Le grand Indien,” he added as an afterthought.

“Is he saying something about John Cinnamon?” Brianna asked, frowning. She brushed at the tears streaking her face and sat up straight, gathering her own wits.

“Yes. He says—I take it you don’t speak French?”

“Some.” She gave him a look.

“Right.” He turned to the boy, who was swaying gently to and fro, staring at something invisible, plainly in the grip of exhaustion. “Dites-moi. Vite!”

This the boy did, with admirable simplicity.

“Stercus,” William muttered, then turned to his sister. “He says a press-gang from the French ships heard Cinnamon speaking French to someone on the shore; they followed him and tried to take him. He got away from them, but he’s hiding—the boy says in a cave, though that seems unlikely … anyway, he needs help.”

“Let’s go, then.” She gathered up her reins and looked behind her, judging the turning space.