Dave Meek

Mrs. Van den Steen grabbed Jeb’s waistcoat. “Away, rabble-rouser! We need not the likes of you sowing discord amongst us!”

Her fury surprised him. As did her hands pilfering his waistcoat pockets.

“Good work, my lad,” she whispered with a blue-eyed wink. Her breath smelled of maple candy. “I daresay, those sons of bachelors had it coming.”

The pockets of Jeb’s waistcoat grew heavier. Mrs. Van den Steen hadn’t pilfered them. She had filled them.

Jeb remembered his mother often saying women lead lives of layers. Until now, he had always assumed she meant only clothing.

“Merci,” Jeb whispered.

Mrs. Van den Steen’s white brows furrowed.

“Thank you.”

“Ah, quite right.” Mrs. Van den Steen pushed herself back. “Away, I say, or I shall give you a thrashing! Come back not until you have mended the errors of your ways!”

After a last glance around, Jeb climbed into his saddle and rode off, leaving behind the silent crowd, the soldiers’ groans, and the echoes of Tonnerre’s hooves on cobblestones. Only when out of view of the town did he stop to examine what Mrs. Van den Steen had given him.

Two bags of nails, a pewter whisky flask, and a chunk of hard candy the size of a plum.

Jeb smiled. Mrs. Van den Steen remained the kindest person he knew in Bushwick Shore.

He popped the candy into his mouth, the first thing he had eaten since stepping off the smuggler’s riverboat before dawn this morning. A warm flavor of maple syrup flowed over his tongue. For a moment, pleasant memories poured in of savoring his treats while hiding from the other boys. They’d have stolen his little gifts from Mrs. Van den Steen if they had known about them.

Still, memories were only memories. The boy who left seven years ago had returned a man. With a man’s troubles. This time, no one would come and rescue him as had happened in France.

Jeb didn’t reply. He’d heard it all before. If Edmund could dig up his ancestors and hang their skeletons, he would.

“Huxley, he agrees with Mr. Bennett,” Salem said.

“How do you know that?” Jeb asked.

“Now and again, I make things for Mr. Bennett. Take them over. Folks talk around me as if I don’t exist. Always have. Probably always will.”

“Huxley lets the old man rant to keep Rebecca happy.”

“Think so?”

“That’s what I did.”

“Uh-huh. What about the soldiers you killed?”

Jeb grunted.

“They were Huxley’s men. You ever order men to murder someone?”

Jeb’s eyes popped open. Did the old ironsmith mean what he thought the man had meant? That he was the victim of a plot more sinister than the theft of Tonnerre?

He looked over at Salem.

Salem stared into Jeb’s eyes. “Miss Rebecca ... would she still love Huxley if she knew he plotted murder against you?”

A chill swept through Jeb. Rebecca wouldn’t knowingly give her heart to a man who had plotted his death.

Salem leaned closer, so close Jeb could count the pores on the man’s nose. When Salem spoke, his words washed over Jeb’s face.

“Can you leave the woman you love in the hands of a man like that?”

Jeb had trained Tonnerre to charge past flames, and Tonnerre had crossed unstable structures before. Never, however, had Tonnerre attempted both while under gunfire as wounded and dying men screamed all around him.

Jeb dug his heels into Tonnerre’s flanks, leaving no doubt about what they both needed.

Tonnerre lived up to his name. He thundered onto the bridge at a full gallop. The far end of the bridge flexed up and down, side to side. Some of the men, still struggling across, slipped and fell from the planks into the river below. The cleats of Tonnerre’s iron horseshoes slid here and ripped out chunks of wood there. Still, the stallion’s course remained quick and true. He seemed to know his life depended on reaching the far bank before a collapsed bridge or a musket ball ended it.

Halfway across, a swarm of musket balls zipped past Jeb’s head. One flew close enough to heat a cheek. Another nicked his left shoulder, a quick burn furrowing back to front. Gritting his teeth, Jeb bore the pain without flinching. An errant tug on the reins might veer Tonnerre to one side or the other, plunging them both into the river.

The stallion charged onward.

Ahead, the dismantlers finished their work. The bridge began collapsing. A broad wave swept toward Jeb and Tonnerre. Jeb clenched his teeth to spare them from breaking when he and Tonnerre landed on the other side. Then, he leaned forward, pressed his chest against the stallion’s mane, and grunted a command in the human language Tonnerre knew best.

“Sauter!”

Tonnerre jumped.

Wood planks crashed into the swollen torrent below.