stay.
Miss Ludlow would possibly agree, but Miss Munro was more of a challenge. He had attempted to engage her in conversation at dinner, and she had barely managed to remain civil.
She had to be a Colonial sympathizer. Ezra smiled, then took a sip of brandy. Watching the rebels squirm was the only bonus to this disastrous assignment. He enjoyed seeing the fear in their eyes whenever he made his appearance, and what a delight to watch them swallow their pride in order to appease him.
Brandy glass in hand, he paced to the window overlooking the river. His men had built a campfire close to the pier to guard the cargo. He wrenched open the glass-paned door and strode onto the balcony.
The Black River lapped lazily against the sides of the barge, the sound carried to his ears on a gentle breeze. He studied the clear night sky, brightened by a full moon. An excellent night for travel. And those damned partisans tended to strike at night. Cornwallis would have his neck if he lost any of the precious cargo.
Ezra gulped down more brandy. If the partisans knew what he was transporting, they’d laugh all the way back to their stinking swamp. A man of his abilities, transporting wigs, furnishings, and lacy white bed linens. What a ridiculous waste of his military skill.
Of course, only a good officer could be trusted to oversee the transport of the general’s personal items, but the assignment was a dead end. He had only two men to command. No chance for glory, no opportunity to shine on the battlefield. Damn, at this rate, he would still be poor and landless at the end of the war. His uncle, a wealthy merchant in Charles Town, would offer him employ as a lowly clerk. Then his cousins would come in their fancy clothes and carriages to gloat.
Damn it to hell! Ezra tossed the rest of the brandy down his throat. He needed a new assignment. Something important. Something that made him stand out.
Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton. Now there was a man who was making a name for himself. And what a name—the Butcher. Tarleton was famous after his slaughter of rebels at the Waxhaws. He’d probably end up with a title and land in England.
Wouldn’t that be splendid? Ezra wandered back inside and refilled his glass. If only he could distinguish himself in battle, then perhaps he could acquire a title, too. Or at least some land where he could rub his cousins’ noses in the dirt.
There was no doubt about it. The best way to make a name for himself would be through Tarleton. The British lieutenant colonel led a mounted troop of dragoons, all in coats of green.
Once the barge was safely delivered to Cornwallis, Ezra would request a transfer to Tarleton’s troop. But how could he convince the pompous old windbag of a general to agree?
Ezra paced back and forth, sipping the brandy and devising his strategy. First, he’d emphasize the need to eradicate the local militia. He would describe the destruction he had seen along the Black River. The partisans had burned so many bridges and boats that the only way to move supplies would be by barge.
Of course . Ezra halted in mid-stride. They’d have to move all the supplies by barge. Cornwallis would be looking for a way station halfway between Charles Town and Camden.
Ezra smiled. He had the perfect solution.
Cornwallis would be pleased. Then, in gratitude, the general would honor his request.
Ezra downed the last of the brandy and let the rich liquor linger on his tongue. This was the sort of life he deserved. He ambled toward the large four-poster bed. Mrs. Thomas had said it was the master’s bed. Master of a plantation. That would be title enough for him.
He pulled off his wig and draped it on the bedpost. Then he sat and yanked off his boots. With a yawn, he stretched out on the comfortable bed.
These accursed rebels. How could a pack of uneducated, backward peasants live so well? And what made them think they had some God-given right to it, as if their damned feelings were
Miss Ludlow would possibly agree, but Miss Munro was more of a challenge. He had attempted to engage her in conversation at dinner, and she had barely managed to remain civil.
She had to be a Colonial sympathizer. Ezra smiled, then took a sip of brandy. Watching the rebels squirm was the only bonus to this disastrous assignment. He enjoyed seeing the fear in their eyes whenever he made his appearance, and what a delight to watch them swallow their pride in order to appease him.
Brandy glass in hand, he paced to the window overlooking the river. His men had built a campfire close to the pier to guard the cargo. He wrenched open the glass-paned door and strode onto the balcony.
The Black River lapped lazily against the sides of the barge, the sound carried to his ears on a gentle breeze. He studied the clear night sky, brightened by a full moon. An excellent night for travel. And those damned partisans tended to strike at night. Cornwallis would have his neck if he lost any of the precious cargo.
Ezra gulped down more brandy. If the partisans knew what he was transporting, they’d laugh all the way back to their stinking swamp. A man of his abilities, transporting wigs, furnishings, and lacy white bed linens. What a ridiculous waste of his military skill.
Of course, only a good officer could be trusted to oversee the transport of the general’s personal items, but the assignment was a dead end. He had only two men to command. No chance for glory, no opportunity to shine on the battlefield. Damn, at this rate, he would still be poor and landless at the end of the war. His uncle, a wealthy merchant in Charles Town, would offer him employ as a lowly clerk. Then his cousins would come in their fancy clothes and carriages to gloat.
Damn it to hell! Ezra tossed the rest of the brandy down his throat. He needed a new assignment. Something important. Something that made him stand out.
Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton. Now there was a man who was making a name for himself. And what a name—the Butcher. Tarleton was famous after his slaughter of rebels at the Waxhaws. He’d probably end up with a title and land in England.
Wouldn’t that be splendid? Ezra wandered back inside and refilled his glass. If only he could distinguish himself in battle, then perhaps he could acquire a title, too. Or at least some land where he could rub his cousins’ noses in the dirt.
There was no doubt about it. The best way to make a name for himself would be through Tarleton. The British lieutenant colonel led a mounted troop of dragoons, all in coats of green.
Once the barge was safely delivered to Cornwallis, Ezra would request a transfer to Tarleton’s troop. But how could he convince the pompous old windbag of a general to agree?
Ezra paced back and forth, sipping the brandy and devising his strategy. First, he’d emphasize the need to eradicate the local militia. He would describe the destruction he had seen along the Black River. The partisans had burned so many bridges and boats that the only way to move supplies would be by barge.
Of course . Ezra halted in mid-stride. They’d have to move all the supplies by barge. Cornwallis would be looking for a way station halfway between Charles Town and Camden.
Ezra smiled. He had the perfect solution.
Cornwallis would be pleased. Then, in gratitude, the general would honor his request.
Ezra downed the last of the brandy and let the rich liquor linger on his tongue. This was the sort of life he deserved. He ambled toward the large four-poster bed. Mrs. Thomas had said it was the master’s bed. Master of a plantation. That would be title enough for him.
He pulled off his wig and draped it on the bedpost. Then he sat and yanked off his boots. With a yawn, he stretched out on the comfortable bed.
These accursed rebels. How could a pack of uneducated, backward peasants live so well? And what made them think they had some God-given right to it, as if their damned feelings were
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