She sat, unobtrusive in the shadows. Head bent, the soft shush of her charcoal lost in the clearing of throats, the rustle of clothing.
There each man paused to look on his face, calm in the candlelight, and she caught what she could of the drifting currents that crossed their own faces: shadows of grief and sorrow, eyes sometimes dark with fear, or blank with shock and tiredness. William and John Cinnamon flanked her, standing just behind on either side, silent and respectful. The soldiers came by companies, the uniforms in some cases, only militia badges changing.
The ‘Outlander’ world is growing
John Cinnamon shifted his weight now and then, and occasionally took a deep breath or cleared his throat. What was he doing?
Counting the soldiers? Assessing the condition of the American troops?
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They were shabby; dirty and unkempt, and in spite of their respectful demeanor, few of the companies seemed to have much notion of order. Was it true, though? Clearly he still knew people in the British army.
The skin on her shoulders prickled at the thought, and she wanted to turn round and look up at him. His face was grave, but he was looking at her. She smiled, and opened her mouth to say something, apologize for keeping him and his friend out all night.
He stopped her with a small twitch of fingers. This excerpt was also posted on my Blog on July 25, There are several ways to connect with me online.
Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone
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