“Partly it was the slaves,” William explained, licking a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Sir Henry had already put out a proclamation, offering freedom to any slave of a rebel American who might choose to fight for the British army—and when this was reiterated to the countryside around Charles Town, there was quite an outpouring of men from both countryside and the city. And as these were men with a strong knowledge of the terrain, as you might say …”

Moira refilled his teacup, eyes gleaming over the squat gray teapot.

“Ye mean to say as how ’twas black men that turned upon their masters, and that’s how the city fell? Good on ’em!”

“Mrs. O’Meara!” Miss Crabb exclaimed. “You cannot mean that!”

“The divil I don’t,” Moira replied stoutly, plunking the pot back on the table with such force that tea sputtered across the cloth. “And ye’d mean the same, if ye’d ever been a ’denture, like I was. Death to the masters, says I!”

Amaranthus uttered a shocked laugh and tried to turn it into a coughing fit by burying her face in a handkerchief.

“Well, I do gather that Lord Cornwallis and his regulars had some hand in the surrender,” William said, keeping his countenance with some difficulty. “He led his troops onto the mainland, while Sir Henry was capturing the offshore islands, and besieged the city with cannon and trenches.

“And whilst all this was going on, in mid-April, Sir Henry sent two of his officers to take a place called Monck’s Corner. Banastre Tarleton—I know him, very vigorous officer—and Patrick Ferguson. They—”

“You know Ban Tarleton?” Amaranthus said, surprised. “I know him, too. How funny! I—trust he escaped injury?”

“So far as I know, yes,” William said, surprised, too. He was reasonably sure that nothing short of a cannonball at close range would have made a dent in Tarleton; he’d had a brief passage with the man—over Jane, and the thought conjured up a host of feelings he didn’t want to deal with. He swallowed tea and coughed a little. “I’ve not heard of Ferguson—do you know him?”

He supposed it wasn’t odd that she should. Prior to turning his coat, Ben had been a major in the British army, and his battalion was—so far as William knew—still with Clinton.

She shrugged a little. “I met Major Ferguson once. A small, pale Scottish creature with a crippled arm. Very intense, though, with those sort of pale gooseberry eyes.”

“I suppose he is. Intense, I mean. Sir Henry sent him out to collect Loyalists for a provincial militia, and I understand he’s done quite well. His Loyalists fought with Major Tarleton’s troops to take Monck’s Corner—and that cut off the main line of retreat for the Americans. So then—”