#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMarch25 #inwhichLordJohnmeetsaturncoat


Natty Bumppo’s reminiscences of the proper way to conduct a massacre had left Grey with the feeling that perhaps by contrast, hanging was not the worst way to die. But while he hadn’t personally witnessed any first-rate massacres, he’d seen men hanged, very close to--and the memory of it dried his throat. The leakage from his eye hadn’t dried completely, but had lessened; the skin felt raw and inflamed, though, and the swelling gave him the annoying sense that his head was grossly misshapen. Still, he drew himself upright and strode chin-out into the ragged canvas tent ahead of Corporal Woodbine.

Colonel Smith looked up from his lap-desk, startled at the intrusion—though not quite as startled as Grey.

He’d last seen Captain Watson Smith in his own sister-in-law’s drawing-room in London two years ago, eating cucumber sandwiches. In the uniform of a captain of the Buffs.

“Mr. Smith,” he said, recovering his wits first. He bowed, very correctly. “Your servant, sir.” He didn’t bother trying to keep the edge out of his voice or his expression. He sat down upon a vacant stool without being invited, and gave Smith as direct a stare as he could, with one operant eye.

Smith’s cheeks flushed, but he leaned back a little, gathering his own wits before replying, and gave Grey back the stare, with interest. He was not a big man, but had broad shoulders and considerable presence of manner—and Grey knew him to be a very competent soldier. Competent enough not to reply directly to Grey, but to turn instead to Corporal Woodbine.

“Corporal. How comes this gentleman here?”

“This is Lieutenant-Colonel Lord John Grey, sir,” Woodbine said. He was near bursting with pride at his capture, and placed Grey’s King’s warrant and Graves’s accompanying note on the rickety table with the manner of a butler presenting a roast pheasant with diamond eyes to a reigning monarch. “We caught him in the woods near Philadelphia. Out of uniform. Er…as you see, sir.” He cleared his throat in emphasis. “And he admits to being a cousin of Major-General Charles Grey. You know—the Paoli Massacre.”

“Really?” Smith picked up the papers, but cocked an eyebrow at Grey. “What was he doing there?”

“Having the shit beaten out of him by Colonel Fraser, sir—he’s one of Morgan’s officers. He said,” Woodbine added, with less certainty.

Smith looked blank.

“Fraser…don’t believe I know him.” Switching his attention to Grey, he addressed him for the first time. “Do _you_ know Colonel Fraser…Colonel Grey?” The elaborate hesitation spoke volumes. Well, he hadn’t expected anything else. Grey wiped his nose as well as he could on a forearm and sat straight.

“I decline to answer your questions, sir. They are improperly put. You know my name, rank, and regiment. Beyond that, my business is my own.”

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