A Spell for the Revolution (23 page)

Deborah swallowed air in little gasps, as if staggered by the extent of the sorcery. Proctor stumbled, suddenly weak, overwhelmed by the prospect of lifting the curse.

Surly led them to a farmhouse flying the Virginian regimental flag. Several horses were tied up out front. An officer ran out the door, carrying several orders. Proctor and Deborah stepped back as he untied his horse and mounted. His own ghost, badly wounded, arm limp and dragging a leg, floated out after him, grabbing the saddle just in time to be carried off. The horse kicked up dirt and was gone.

Surly stepped up to the door and knocked. Proctor moved into the doorway behind him. The room had been cleared except for tables and papers. One young officer lay on the floor against the wall, using his rolled coat for a pillow, snoring fitfully. His ghost squatted beside him, poking a finger in his head and stirring it around.

A solitary man in a neat uniform sat at the desk, writing with such painstaking care that he’d failed to hear them
knock. His shoulders sagged in weariness or resignation, or both. Pain and hopelessness flashed in turn across his face.

No wonder, Proctor thought.

A dozen ghosts were latched to him, shackled ankle-to-ankle, like slaves in the market. They shuffled side-to-side, jostling for position, anxious, irritated, dead men full of restlessness and despair.

Surly knocked a second time. “General?” he said.

The man at the desk looked up, saw them in the door, and instantly composed himself. He lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and nodded recognition.

It was then, combined with the soldier’s address, that Proctor recognized him. “General Washington.”

“I’m sorry, have we met?”

Surly bumped Proctor out of the way, asserting himself as the center of attention. “We found them coming up the road, sir. They said they wanted to volunteer.”

Washington stood and stepped around his desk. The ghosts shuffled out of his way and then pushed forward, crowding around him again. “We can always use volunteers.”

“I think his name is Proctor Brown,” said a black man over in the corner. It was Washington’s slave, the excellent rider. Proctor hadn’t noticed him because he’d grown attuned to looking first for the ghosts and this man had none, perhaps because he was a slave and not an enlisted soldier.

“Yes, that’s it,” Washington said. “Thank you, William Lee. Friend of Paul Revere.”

“That’s right,” Proctor said.

“Did you find your aunt?” Washington asked.

Proctor’s tongue knotted up in confusion for a moment before he recalled the story they’d told Washington when they’d met him. It took another moment to untie it, while he boggled at the man’s memory, to recall a personal detail from a chance encounter during the middle of a complicated retreat.

Deborah spoke up to cover Proctor’s confusion. “Yes, we did, and we saw her safely to the shelter of those who can watch out for her. Thank you kindly for remembering. Nor have we forgotten your kindness to us under the most horrible of circumstances when we sought to help her.”

Proctor glanced at Deborah, once again amazed at her ability to turn on the fancy speech. He wondered if it was another aspect of her magic, but decided it was just a natural talent she had.

“After we took care of that, we decided to come back and volunteer,” he said. “Help however we can.”

“You don’t happen to have about twenty brothers at home, do you?” Washington asked.

“It’s no good, sir,” Surly said. “They’re Quakers.”

“That doesn’t keep a man from fighting. General Greene is a Quaker, and he’s one of the best fighting men I have.”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d prefer to serve in some other way if I can.”

Washington sighed, and for a split second the weight of the curse passed over his face like a shadow. But he smiled again as soon as he felt it, and all visible evidence of the weight he carried disappeared in the warmth of his smile.

“Of course. Corporal,” he said, “perhaps you could take them to the captain for assignment.”

“Not sure where he is, sir. Everyone’s busy because of the fire.”

“Ah,” Washington said. “Well, then. Have you any skill with horses, young man?”

“Yes, si—” Proctor said, cutting off the
sir
in mid-syllable. It was hard to forget his militia training and remember to be a Quaker in Washington’s presence.

His slip was covered by Deborah speaking over him anyway. “No,” she said firmly.

Washington studied them carefully. The ghosts, some with ghastly wounds, surged forward at his shoulders. A chill wind ran over Proctor’s skin.

“He likes to think he does,” Deborah explained, dropping her gaze apologetically. “But he doesn’t.”

“What other skills do you have?” Washington asked.

Proctor sorted his brain for skills he could admit to that might be useful. He was glad for the excuse of being a Quaker—he didn’t want to enlist to fight if it meant picking up the curse—but all the skills he had that might be of help came from his militia training. “I’ve got a strong back, and can build—”

“He’s got good penmanship,” Deborah interrupted, with her eyes still dropped to the floor.

“Is that so?” Washington said.

“No,” Proctor said; he’d hated writing lessons with his mother. She’d spent every winter making him practice by copying Bible verses.

“He doesn’t think so, but he does,” Deborah said.

Washington leaned over his desk, sorting through sheaves of paper until he found one. He moved it aside from the others and tapped it with his finger. “Would you mind copying this letter for me?”

Proctor started to protest, but then Deborah glanced up at him with eyes so fierce and insistent he didn’t feel up to dealing with the consequences of denying her. “Um, sure,” he said. “What should I do?”

Washington pulled out the chair, reshuffling the crowd of ghosts every time he moved. “Copy this letter for me.”

“Yes, s—” Proctor said, catching himself again.

He walked around the desk and sat down. The letter was a brief thank-you to a local patriot family that had hosted Washington and some of his officers for dinner the other night. Proctor picked up the goose quill, checked the tip, and found it blunter than he cared for. He almost used it as it was—if it was good enough for Washington, who was he to change it—but his mother’s habits forced themselves on him, and he took out his pocketknife and trimmed it.

The ghosts crowded in around him while he worked, making a sound like whispers from a distant room.

Dipping the quill carefully in the ink, he copied the letter neatly and efficiently, making certain to get the lines straight—the draft slanted to the right—and not crowding it against the top of the page the way the draft was crowded. When he was finished, he sprinkled some sand on it and then shook it clean.

Only then did he glance up, hoping for Washington’s approval. Washington picked up the sheet and studied it.

“It’s slightly more legible than mine,” he admitted finally, and Proctor felt a tightness he wasn’t even aware of drain out of his neck and shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said, choking once again on the
sir
.

“You’ll do for now, as I can’t afford to have any more officers exchange their swords for pens. As a civilian, I can only permit you to work on nonmilitary correspondence.”

“I understand,” Proctor said.

“Good,” Washington said, seeming genuinely pleased. The ghosts shrank back for a moment, as far as the chain on their ankles would allow. “My compliments, miss,” he said to Deborah. “I’m delighted that you seem to know your brother better than he knows himself. Mrs. Washington provides a similar service to me on occasion.”

“Thank you,” Deborah said.

“Do you know your own talents, or should I ask your brother?”

“I’m a fair nurse,” Deborah said.

“Better than fair,” Proctor said. “Her—
our
mother was a midwife and a country doctor. Deborah has helped her since she was, well, big enough to walk.”

“Excellent,” Washington said. “Most of our seriously injured are being dismissed to make their way home, but if you can get any who are staying in camp back into fighting condition, I’d be obliged to you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she said.

“Thank you for bringing these folks to me, Corporal,” Washington said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take them to the quartermaster and have them put on the civilian rolls. He’ll find you quarters and show you where to collect your daily rations.”

“Thank you,” Proctor said.

“We’re glad to serve the cause,” Deborah said.

Surly escorted them outside. His mood, which had lifted a bit while he faced Washington, soured again the moment they stepped through the door. He frowned, and his neck knotted up as he squinted at the sky. “You’re too late for any rations today” was the first thing he said. “Not that they’ve been all too much to get excited over lately.”

Another soldier stomped up the road from the way they’d just come, aiming right for Surly. He carried an extra musket and a Continental jacket.

“Where’s Dewey?” snarled the newcomer. He had a smirking ghost on his shoulder, stroking a knife along his neck.

Surly snapped to attention. “Sir, he’s right—”

He stopped in mid-sentence and stared with a mixture of hopelessness and fury back at the way they’d originally come.

“I’ll tell you where he is—he’s gone!” He flung the jacket to the ground at Surly’s feet and shook the musket in his face. “We found these back where you were supposed to be guarding the road, and not a sight of him anywhere.”

“Sir, he can’t have gone far. It hasn’t been more than a few minutes. He had the trots something awful—maybe he’s just off somewhere private.”

“You’d better hope he is—I put him with you so you could keep an eye on him. We can’t afford any more deserters, by God. You bring him back and I won’t whip you for it.”

He tossed the musket to Surly, who snatched it out of the
air. The head of the ghost lolled on his shoulder; a horrific slash cut right across its dead mouth, but it lifted its eyes toward Proctor and grinned.

The other man stomped away. Surly shifted both guns to one hand and picked up the jacket, tossing it over his shoulder. Proctor half expected it to cover the ghost’s face, but there was no such luck.

After taking a few quick steps back down the road, Surly remembered Proctor and Deborah. “The quartermaster is down thataway,” he said. “You’ll likely find him in the barn.” With those simple directions, he was gone.

“Do you think desertions are a problem?” Deborah asked.

“I think that’s what the curse is meant to do, to break men’s spirits,” Proctor answered. “When I was sitting in there, at the general’s desk, it felt like a thousand ants crawling over my skin. I wanted to run away.”

“They can’t run away from it,” Deborah said. “We saw what happened to that soldier in Gravesend—the fellow named Increase. The curse stayed with him after he went home.”

“Yes, but they don’t know that,” Proctor said. He guided Deborah out of the road as two more officers rode up and dismounted, running into Washington’s headquarters. Walking toward the quartermaster’s barn, he said in a lowered voice, “No one but us even knows there’s a curse.”

“I don’t know how to break it,” Deborah said.

“We’ll figure it out,” Proctor assured her.

She nodded. “We’ll have a better chance with you close to Washington. You’ll be able to see the effects of the curse, learn more about who it affects, how many, and how.”

“Ah,” Proctor said, suddenly understanding why she’d made a fuss about his penmanship.

“And as a nurse, I’ll have close access to men with the curse. I may learn something up close that will help me
break it.” She nodded again, sharply, to herself, as if having a plan was enough to keep her going.

Maybe having a plan was enough. “Once we get our bearings again, I want to find some way to rescue that orphan boy.”

“And Lydia,” Deborah insisted. “It’s all part of the same curse. They’re using power drawn from Lydia and the orphan for the magic that’s sapping the army.”

“Whatever we’re going to do, we’d better do it soon then,” Proctor said. “It won’t be long till there’s not any army left to save.”

Proctor thought he’d never worked harder than he did in Washington’s headquarters, but he wasn’t the hardest-working man there, not by a distance.

When Proctor woke up in the mornings, Washington was already awake and on the job. When he fell asleep at night, Washington was still going over his correspondence. Most of his work seemed to consist of talking to men and writing letters, not what Proctor would have imagined at all. But as commander in chief of the army, Washington had to manage not only his own officers but also the officers of the militia who coordinated with him. He wrote volumes of letters to the governors and legislators in the states, encouraging them to raise more troops and send more supplies, often with detailed lists. His communications with the Continental Congress included all that as well as their orders to him, which he frequently pressured them to change or adjust. And he never let his personal communication slide. Every gift was acknowledged, every visit remembered, every letter answered. Washington drafted most letters himself, but his handwriting suffered as a result, and so most letters were recopied before they were sent. Any changes between the original and the copy had to be marked on the original, which was then filed and saved for reference. The amount of paper alone was staggering to Proctor. It felt like they completed a book’s worth every week. And all of it was done with this invisible curse hanging over them, this secondary
army of ghosts intent on stopping their work and driving them away.