Campaigning had changed the Legionnaires from the rigidly erect horsemen who’d paraded at Tir Alainn. They rode slouched, saving their energies for battle. Anything that could clink was wrapped with cloth; each man’s head swiveled constantly, on lookout for ambush.

  The patrol swam from the island to the mainland, fighting a current that threatened to sweep them down to Wadmalaw Sound, and crossed the Ran-towle Bridge over an arm of the Stono, then swung north, away from the British-controlled side of the harbor. They crossed the Ashley well above the ferry, using a leaky bateau to cross a few men at a time, swimming their horses alongside. It wasn’t a normal crossing point, or even a good one. But the usual crossings to the south were in British hands, and those to the north were too far off. The boat was one of a dozen kept hidden in the Neck marshes for quick crossings into British territory.

  On the ride down to the city Michael kept a close eye on the far bank of the river, several times stopping to look through his glass. At several points boats were gathering, the same launches and cutters, it seemed, that he’d reported being moved through the inland waterways earlier. And there wasn’t a sign of anything being done to impede them.

  He galloped across the bridge over the wetditch before the city and through the embankments and abatis with a frown on his face. There was plenty of activity there, at any rate. Parties of slaves worked feverishly, increasing the network of fortifications. The remnants of the old hornwork city wall around the gate on King Street had been enclosed to make a strongpoint. He glared around at the work going on and motioned Bakeman to him.

  “Take the men to the encampment, Sergeant. I’ll be at General Lincoln’s headquarters if you need me.”

  From a distance the swirling traffic in the streets might have seemed normal. It was certainly as heavy as ever. But the men jostling their way through the streets were militia, identified by the muskets they carried and white patches sewn to their hats, and uniformed Continentals. The Continentals—there were just enough of those regulars to convince most people the city was impregnable. Some men had counted the soldiers, and looked at the enemy, though. The few carriages to be seen were all headed out of the city, piled high with baggage and filled with women being sent to safety. At least he didn’t have that to worry about.

  When he saw Petrie trudging down the street, he could hardly believe his eyes. “Petrie, what are you doing here? How’s Hussar, and the crew?”

  Petrie dropped his luggage and offered a hand as Michael dismounted. “Fine, Captain Fallon. Everything’s fine with us. I suppose I should say colonel, now. It was a good cruise, sir. No fat Indiaman, but good enough. It was my decision to come back to Charlestown, sir; bad judgment, it seems.”

  “Well, yes, Petrie. You’d better make to sea immediately. We may have to abandon the city, and—” Petrie was shaking his head. “Why not?”

  “Not with seven ships-of-the-line and a swarm of frigates already inside the Bar.”

  “What! But how? I’ve heard not a whisper of a naval fight.”

  “There wasn’t one,” Petrie said acidly. “It was our Commodore Whipple.” At mention of the name both men involuntarily looked toward Saint Michael’s towering steeple, painted black by Whipple’s order so the enemy couldn’t use it for a landmark. Now it stood out against the sky like a beacon. It was told often in Charlestown, and generally to great laughter, but neither man was smiling now.

  “When I arrived,” Petrie went on, “I put Hussar with the American frigates just inside the Bar. If the British tried to cross, we could’ve played bloody hell with them. But Whipple claimed we’d be in danger of running aground during the fight—I ask you! He pulled us back. The British took the guns off their ships, crossed the Bar, and rearmed without hindrance. This Abraham Whipple may be a hero in New England, but he’s a fool in South Carolina. And Lincoln isn’t any better, if you ask me.”

  “Then the harbor’s theirs!”

  “Yes, Mr. Fallon. It is theirs, any time they run past Fort Moultrie. The American Navy,” Petrie spat, “is sitting behind a barrier of sunken hulks in the Cooper River, along with such privateers as are in port. The Royal Navy can’t get at us, but we can’t go anywhere at all until the channel’s cleared. They’ve already begun taking some of the guns ashore. I let them have Hussar’s. They were doing no good where they were.”

  Michael nodded. “Aye. I suppose. It’s a hell of a way for—Listen, Petrie. Are any of the crew left?”

  “About ten.” He was clearly puzzled. “The rest either deserted or joined the militia.”

  “Then strip Hussar of everything. Store it at Carver’s Bridge. There you’ll find twenty hogsheads of turpentine and some barrels of pitch. Load them on Hussar, and if the city—If she’s going to fall into British hands, fire her.”

  Petrie nodded, slowly at first, then more firmly. “I’ll see to it. I promise.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Michael sighed. “I’m due at headquarters. In case we don’t meet again, good luck to you, and God favor you.”

  Lincoln’s headquarters, in a house on Tradd Street, was almost deserted. A pair of sentries at the door saluted as he came in; a single officer scribbled at a desk in the hall. All else was still.

  “I have to see General Lincoln,” Michael said.

  “He can’t see anyone,” the writer said without looking up.

  Michael slammed a fist down on the desk, and the man jerked erect, frowning when he saw Michael’s rank. “I’ve urgent reports on the enemy’s movements and intentions. Now do we understand one another, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve orders—Sir? Sir! You can’t go up there.”

  Seeing a group of officers coming down the stairs, Michael had darted up to meet them. Rotund Benjamin Lincoln led the group, William Moultrie among them.

  “Ah,” Lincoln said. “It’s good to see you, Colonel Fallon. Gentlemen, one of our finest cavalry officers. What information today, Colonel? No more troops landed, I hope.”

  “No, General, but they’re massing. It’s my estimation they’ll be crossing the river at the Ashley Ferry and Drayton Hall within twenty-four hours. I believe they’re moving for the Neck.” He added, “And with the British Navy in the harbor, we must evacuate before we’re completely surrounded.”

  Lincoln’s chins wobbled. “They don’t have the harbor yet,” he snapped. Some of the officers behind the general shifted uncomfortably. His mouth worked, and he made an obvious effort to moderate his voice. “Colonel Fallon, you’re simply not aware of our higher strategy. The British Navy will be severely mauled if they attempt the run past Fort Moultrie. And if General Clinton lands his army above the city, he’ll discover he has cornered a bear. We’ve a strong force here, and it will get stronger. General Scott is expected any day with troops from Virginia. I have Thomas Jefferson’s word on that. We will get troops from Virginia. And if worse does come to worst, we shall still have our way out of the city across the Cooper River, to Lempriere’s Point. But it will not come to that, Colonel Fallon. Now, we all have duties. I suggest you be about yours and stop spreading defeatist talk about evacuation. Good day to you.”

  Lincoln waddled down the stairs and out of the house, followed by most of the officers, who avoided Michael’s eyes. Only Moultrie remained, tattered maps under his arm, shaking his head. He glanced over the bannister at the lieutenant writing below, and nodded toward a door. Not until they were inside, with the door closed, did he speak.

  “That was a fool thing to do, Fallon. The rest of the city doesn’t know it, and you may not, but evacuation is the main topic of every council of war, lately.”

  Michael threw up his hands. “God’s teeth! Then why did he blow up? We must get out. General, if we get field pieces up the Neck, we can delay Clinton’s crossing a week or more. We can expect no help from Scott. Jefferson promised troops before, when Prevost came, and never sent them. Even so, in the countryside, we’d have enough to make a fight of it, instead of waiting here for the axe.”

  “He blew up because he’s straddling the fence, dreading coming down on either side. Most field officers want evacuation but the civilians—The civilians, damn their souls, want a siege. Gadsden carries on like the firebrand he’s always been, as if this were a clash between his Liberty Boys and a few King’s men. His brother-in-law, Ferguson, is even worse. He says he’ll rouse the citizens to fire at us if we try to run away, as he puts it. And Rutledge refuses to discuss it. But then, what governor could easily countenance leaving his capital to the enemy?”

  Michael listened in disbelief. “God’s wounds, General, you’re talking politics. The Council has no place deciding when or where a battle’s fought.”

  “Civilians always decide, unless you’ve a Washington to stare them in the eye and tell them to leave him to the fighting. All we have, God help us, is Benjamin Lincoln. Here.” He suddenly spread a map on the table. “This is the battle ground they’ve chosen. The harbor and peninsula of Charlestown. With the British fleet in the harbor and the British Army on the Neck, they have two-thirds of a circle around the city. But as long as we hold Lempriere’s Point across the Cooper, we still have a gate to the outside. God send we have the chance to use it.”

  “God send Lincoln remembers he’s a general, not a politician.”

  “Generals have to be politicians, Colonel Fallon. Even Washington, I understand, has to spend as much time dealing with the Congress as with the British. I constantly pour oil on the waters between the Privy Council and the backcountry militiamen. And the British are as bad off. Half their generals have refused to serve in America for political reasons, and half those here are here for politics.” A sour expression came on his face. “Not the way we thought it’d be when we all started, is it? All we can do is our duty. What did you discover toward the Edisto?”

  “Nothing to help,” Michael said. “Not a thing.”

  The next morning Clinton’s army began crossing the Ashley River. After an afternoon-long skirmish between Johnny Laurens’s light infantry and Hessian jaegers, the army started digging their first gun emplacements. Charlestown was cut off by land.

  The dirt sifting from the cellar roof onto his face woke Michael; another mortar bomb had exploded in the yard. He spat and rolled over, but another exploded only a little farther away, and more dirt fell. The bombardment was intensifying; there’d be no more sleep. He threw off the blanket and rose.

  Outside, young Tom Jarvis, the bugler-boy, slept curled beside the steps of the ruined house. Michael frowned. No matter where he ordered the twelve-year-old to sleep, he always ended up in the same spot.

  A British mortar gave a deep-throated cough, and Michael paused to listen. At the first whine he relaxed. It wouldn’t fall near. Not a good morning, Michael thought, as the bomb tore open a building three blocks away. Every time he saw the British flag above the battery at Lempriere’s Point, which in falling had snapped the city shut, he wished to throttle Lincoln. Now, after seven weeks of siege, Lincoln was surrendering. God’s teeth! They were down to six ounces of meal a day for each man, and the third British parallel wasn’t more than twenty-five yards away. But the real defeat was in the spirit. The Congress had written them off, saving men for fighting in the north. And firebrands for liberty were howling that Clinton’s force was huge—and could no longer be resisted. No, they’d gone soft.

  Gently he woke young Tom.

  “Tom! Up, lad. I know you’re awake. We may find barley soup at headquarters.”

  The boy jumped to his feet and wobbled to attention. “I don’t need nothing extra, sir. I can eat meal with the rest of the men.”

  “Just like you ate horse, lad?” Tom studied a scuff mark in the mud. He’d cried when they’d had to start killing the horses. “It’s no matter, boy. I could never take it for beef, either. Look you, now. What it is, I need that soup myself. But I can’t go asking for it alone, now can I? So come along, then. It’s an order.”

  Plumes of smoke rose from burning houses along the way, and geysers of debris were kicked up by cannon balls or mortar-bombs. Down the street a party of men clambered up mounded dirt, thrown up against most houses for protection, to pour water on a blazing roof. All of them dropped as a cannon ball smashed into the roof of the house next door, sending tiles and timbers flying.

  At headquarters the first man Michael saw was Moultrie, hurrying down the steps. It seemed deserted.

  “General, is there anyone in there?”

  “Only Lieutenant Bascombe.” Moultrie’s face was haggard. “He’s packing.”

  “Today? They’ve come to terms?”

  “Almost. If Clinton refuses his last offer, Lincoln will accept what he can get.”

  “God’s wounds. It’s soft we’ve gone. No, no, not you, sir—”

  Moultrie shook his head. “Fallon, Fallon. Clinton’s is the second largest army ever sent into battle in the Americas, maybe the largest. Do you really think we could bloody him enough to pay for what would follow? Burning. Looting. Rapine. You’ve been in cities taken by storm. I’m sorry, Fallon. I’m sorry.”

  Michael watched him walk away. He felt a tug at his coat; it was the bugler, looking frightened. God, but he was young!

  “Mr. Fallon? Mr. Fallon! Sir!”

  Michael looked up, and his jaw dropped. “Daniel! Man, what are you doing here? How did you get into the city?”

  The boatman’s eyes darted at a distant explosion. “Mr. Fallon, you know I know every blade of marsh grass round this city. Ain’t no sentries going to keep me out. One thing, Mr. Fallon. That ship of yours, that Hussar, I seen it in the Cooper, and it burning like I never see nothing burn before.”

  “Good man, Petrie,” Michael said half to himself. “Daniel, you have to get out of here. I don’t know why you came, but whatever the reason, you must go back.”

  “Mrs. Fallon send me.” Daniel took a note from under his coat. “She send you this. She know the city’s done, sir. She tell me to bring you out.”

  Michael held the paper a minute before opening it.

  Dear Husband,

  I beseech you for the sake of your son to leave Charlestown before it is too late. Daniel will bring you out safely in his boat. You will aid nothing, and only bring hurt to those who love you, by remaining.

  Gabrielle

  Refolding the note, he took out a leather case. It held the last letter Gabrielle had written, smudged from handling, tearing along the creases despite his care. The note joined it.

  He pocketed the case. For the sake of his son. “My wi—” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Fallon is well?”

  “Yes, sir. She well.” A mortar shell blew the roof off of a house in the next block. “Come on, Mr. Fallon. Let’s go. Please. Mrs. Fallon, she have my hide if I don’t get you to her in one piece.”

  “You exaggerate like an Irishman, Daniel. Now, you tell Mrs. Fallon her brother Henri is safe and unhurt. Her brother Louis broke his leg, but we evacuated him three weeks ago. He’s hidden, so she’ll have to wait for him to reach her. But let her know they’re both alive.”

  “Do that mean you ain’t coming, Mr. Fallon?”

  “Even if I could walk away from the rest of the garrison, I couldn’t leave my own men. There are still ninety-seven Legionnaires.” Suddenly Michael grabbed Tom’s skinny arm and pulled him forward. “But here’s a passenger for you. His people have a farm up the Ashley. Take him there before you go back to Tir Alainn.”

  The boy squirmed in Michael’s grasp. “No, sir. No! I put my name on the papers! I’m a Legionnaire!”

  “Hold still, lad. That’s an order. What’s this bundle up in your shirt?”

  The boy froze as Michael took out the Legion’s colors. It wasn’t quite the same flag they’d flown that morning at Tir Alainn, showing off for Gabrielle. There was a patch over the rip made at the siege of Savannah, and, lower down, two more for Ebenezer Heights and Dupont’s plantation. Across the bottom was a row of gold stars, embroidered when there had been time, a star for every action from Purrysburg to Dorchester. There were no stars for John’s Island, or the Wappoo Creek Bridge. There’d never be a star for Charlestown.

  Tom drew himself up. “The enemy must never take your colors. I know that, sir. And I figured, well, I’d hide it under my shirt when they, when they—” He swallowed. “The redcoats won’t get our colors, sir. You can trust me.”

  God send the Legion never learned their colors left Charlestown like a stolen pullet! Briskly Michael folded the flag. “I expect that I can, Private Jarvis. I’m entrusting the colors to you. But, of course, this means your leaving is twice as important as it was. No, lad. You listen to me, now. Private Jarvis, I order you to take the colors out of the city, and hide them at your father’s farm. To keep them safe, you’ll act the part of a farmboy, and no more, till I send word the Legion is ready to ride again. Now, both of you go.”

  The boy replaced the flag inside his shirt. Michael pushed him toward Daniel. “Mr. Fallon,” the boatman said, “everybody know you snuck the governor out. Why you got to stay if he don’t?”

  “Go, Daniel,” Michael said. “Tell Mrs. Fallon—” He stopped abruptly and turned away up the street.

  Daniel started slowly for the waterfront, holding the boy’s hand. The whistling whine didn’t sound any different to him than any other he’d heard since getting to the city, but in the same instant he heard Michael shouting something, and looked back. Michael was running toward them waving violently. Down. Down. Daniel fell, pulling Tom with him. Before they hit the ground the world blew up.

  Groggily, Daniel pushed a board away and sat up. Tom was looking around, wide-eyed. But Mr. Fallon—the street was empty except for rubble. Tom started to scramble past him, back the way they’d come. He grabbed his arm. “No, boy. There ain’t nothing we can do to help him, now. We just got to do what he told us. Come on, boy. Come on.”