During the winter of seventy-seven, I found myself in the position of a guide for the Continental Army, and in the early morning of one of the later days of January, it was requested that I meet with the General without delay. Suspecting I was about to be placed in another scouting mission, I drew on my woolen coat and hastily made my way through the packed snow to the general headquarters to attend at once. The halls of the building were oddly quiet, but I paid this detail little attention as I walked, attributing it to the fact that it was scarcely sunrise yet.
Approaching the closed door of the General's room, it surprised me to hear the singular and irritatingly silky voice of Major Carter, a man who made no secret of his intense dislike for me, drifting out from within the room. I slowed my pace, paused for a moment, reached at last for the doorknob, then stiffened as Carter suddenly spoke my name. Withdrawing my hand, I leaned forward and pressed my ear against the door, struggling to make out the talk.
"—may be dangerous, sir, and I believe we can manage on our own. Why must she come as well?"
Here there was a break in the conversation. Realizing that I was holding my breath, I let it out as silently as I could. Then I heard the soft tone of the General's voice, calm.
"Should you indeed encounter any resistance, Major, you may have to cut through the forest. You will need a guide, and she is rather proficient at that."
"Forgive me, sir, but I do not believe she should be trusted with a task so great as this."
"She has not yet given any evidence to doubt her abilities" —another pause—"You do not consider her trustworthy? Surely you do not mean to suggest you believe her to be a spy, Major?"
Carter seemed to choose his next words with caution. "I would certainly not go as far as to accuse her of such treachery, sir, no. But I feel I must object to her being given such a responsibility, sir. She's barely seventeen, after all, and far too reckless. Sometimes I feel certain she finds it most desirable to see herself killed."
I could strangle that man.
A strident grating sound caused me to jump before I comprehended it to be the movement of a chair within the room. I shifted my weight, drawing hastily back, lest the door should swing unexpectedly open. But it remained shut, and after a few moments the voices continued, words I failed to catch. Frustrated, I inclined my head closer again, determined to hear more. Carter spoke again, and his tone seemed gentler than before, acquiescent.
"I apologize, sir, it is not my place. If you wish for her to join us, of course it will be so. When should we depart, sir?"
"As soon as you are prepared, Major. You may leave."
Hearing the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching, I hurriedly moved several strides backward and assumed the pretense of having just arrived. Carter pulled the door open and stepped out into the passage with his head lowered, apparently absorbed in deep thought and not yet aware of his proximity to me. As he walked closer, he glanced up and froze, stumbling visibly upon catching sight of me standing no more than three yards from him, and his eyes widened with surprise as a low, exclamatory hiss escaped his clenched teeth. The whole spectacle, the sight of the man's brief awkwardness, presented a rather enjoyable sense of amusement to my otherwise darkened mood, even as his cutting words continued to burn with a red-hot ferocity into my bosom.
Despite his critical mention of my youth, I supposed the man to be near my own age himself, perhaps two or three years older, and I had heard that he was born to remarkably modest means somewhere in Europe; I learned some time later that he came to America as a young adolescent, making his way first to New England, and eventually traveled to attend the College of New Jersey. He left to join the army not long after the war began and accomplished a surprisingly rapid rise through the ranks to his current position. Where precisely he came from I could only guess, for while his thick reddish-brown hair and fair, defined features strongly suggested an indisputable Scotch ancestry, his voice carried the shadow of a faint yet distinctly French accent. He was a handsome man, exceptionally so, however infuriating it was every time I looked at him—slender, sturdy, of medium height, and who held a striking azure glare of ice capable, it seemed, of penetrating deep into the far reaches of my soul and enhanced ever more by the deep blue dye of his notably ostentatious and immaculate uniform.
