behind his injured eye and hoped the eye itself was not going to explode under the impact.
He bent and picked up the tin chamber pot and used it; Smith was a very sound sleeper, thank God; if he roused at all, he would hear the familiar noise, be reassured, and—presumably—fall back asleep, subconsciously ignoring any further small noises as being Grey resettling himself.
Smith’s breathing didn’t change. He had a small, buzzing snore like a bee working in a flower, a tidy, busy sound that Grey found mildly comical. He lowered himself to his knees, slowly, between the cot and Smith’s pallet, fighting a momentary insane impulse to kiss Smith on the ear—he had sweet, small ears, very pink. This vanished in an instant, and he crept on hands and knees to the edge of the tent. He’d threaded the rags and the gauze with which Denzell Hunter had packed his eye through the links of his fetters but still moved with the utmost caution. Being caught would be bad for him; it would be disastrous for Hunter and Dottie.
He’d been listening intently to the sentries for hours. There were two guarding the colonel’s tent, but he was fairly sure that both were presently near the front flap, warming themselves at the fire; hot as the day had been, this late at night the forest’s blood ran cold. So did his.
He lay down and squirmed as quickly as he could under the edge of the tent, clinging to the canvas to minimize any shaking of the tent itself—though he’d taken pains to jerk on his rope every so often through the evening, so that any shifting of the structure might be put down to his normal movements.
Out! He allowed himself one deep gulp of air—fresh, cold, and leafy—then rose, clutching the padded fetters close against his body, and walked as silently as possible away from the tent. He mustn’t run.
He had had a short, sharp, whispered argument with Hunter during the latter’s evening visit, seizing the brief moment when Smith had left the tent to visit the latrine. Hunter had insisted that Grey hide in his wagon; he was going into Philadelphia, everyone knew that, there would be no suspicion, and Grey would be safe from patrols. Grey appreciated Hunter’s desire to rescue him, but he couldn’t possibly put the doctor—let alone Dottie—at risk, and risk it would be. In Smith’s place, the first thing he would do was prevent anyone from leaving, the second, search the camp and everything in it.
“There’s no time,” Hunter had said, briskly tucking in the end of the bandage he had wrapped around Grey’s head, “and thee may be right.” He glanced over his shoulder; Smith would be back any minute. “I’ll leave a bundle of food and clothing in my wagon for thee. If thee chooses to make use of it, I’m glad. If not, God go with thee!”
“Wait!” Grey seized Hunter by the sleeve, making his fetters rattle. “How will I know which wagon is yours?”
“Oh.” Hunter coughed, seeming embarrassed. “It . . . has a, um, sign painted on the tailboard. Dottie purchased it from—Now, you must take care, Friend,” he said, abruptly raising his voice. “Eat generously but slowly, take no alcohol, and be careful in moving. Do not stand up too quickly.”
Colonel Smith came in and, seeing the doctor present, came over to inspect the patient himself.
“Are you feeling better, Colonel?” he inquired politely. “Or are you still suffering from the need to burst into song? If so, might I suggest you do so now and get it out of your system, before I retire for the night?”
Hunter—who had of course heard “Die Sommernacht” the night before—made a small noise in his throat but managed to take his leave without losing control.
Grey grinned to himself, recalling Smith’s glower—and imagining what the colonel might look like in a few hours, when he woke to discover that his songbird had flown. He made his way around the edge of the camp, avoiding the picket lines of mules and horses—easy to detect by the smell of manure. The wagons were parked nearby: no artillery, he noted.
The sky was overcast, a sickle moon glimmering uneasily between racing clouds, and the air held the scent of impending rain. Fine. There were worse things than being wet and cold, and rain would hamper pursuit, if anyone discovered his absence before daylight.
No abnormal sounds from the camp behind him; none he could hear above the noise of