The war, they said, was being waged not very far away. But here, among the sunlit trees of Collinwood, the cries of rebellion seemed much more distant than they actually were.

"Do you think you'll go and fight, Jeremiah?"

The two young men, walking at a leisurely pace through the wood of autumn oaks, looked at one another, and the elder of them answered. "I don't know. Joshua thinks I am of more value here. And Naomi--"

The younger boy laughed. "She says you are yet a child and that children do not belong in battle. For any other purpose, of course, your fifteen years would have a man of you."

"True. I told you you have an equivocating mother!" After awhile, he added, "Barnabas.. If vou could go, would you?"

Twigs, like miniature gunshots, snapped under their feet. "I don't think I know, either."

Jeremiah smiled. Somewhere overhead, a mocking bird scolded them.

Barnabas regarded his companion in silence as they walked on. Though only two years his senior, Jeremiah was an uncle to him, his father's youngest brother. They had grown up together here on the Collins estate, part of a select aristocracy of colonists wealthy enough to keep servants, wear fine clothing, eat well, and own slaves... How all of that had changed in two short years! They were, he supposed, still considered wealthy. But the great white house was empty, save for his mother, Jeremiah, and himself. The slaves and servants were gone. And food was becoming increasingly hard to come by in between Joshua Collins' visits home. Soon, Barnabas was certain, his father would be back again, with enough money and supplies to keep them comfortable for... how long? A week? A month? And if for any reason Joshua should not return at all, what would they do? A week ago, he and Jeremiah had taken a box of Naomi's jewels, at her request, into Bangor and sold them for a fraction of their value. The money had purchased little more than two weeks' supply of staples. It drove the price of everything up, this war. Part of him wanted to see the rebellion succeed, but another cursed it for bringing them to this...

They broke out of the trees into brilliant sunlight. The white-pillared house loomed ahead, overgrown and in need of paint, but beautiful nevertheless.

Suddenly he was aware that Jeremiah had stopped in front of him. "What is it?"

Jeremiah's hand gripped his arm, and in the same moment, he saw. The door of the house was ajar. And grazing in weeds at the base of the cascading steps was a dapple-grey horse.

"It could be my father."

"No. That grey is wearing British trapping."

Panicked, Barnabas started forward, but Jeremiah held him. "Don't be a fool! Stay here and keep watch. I know where Joshua keeps a pistol ready, inside. I can go in the back." Leaving no room for argument, he hurried off across the once-green lawn to disappear into the shadows behind the house. He had not been gone long when Barnabas heard voices. As he stepped out of sight, his mother and a man in the King's uniform came out onto the porch.

"I've nothing more to tell you, Lieutenant." Naomi's voice floated across the dead lawn, sounding irritable, yet just a shade apprehensive.

"And where do you say your husband is, Mrs. Collins?"

"Away. On business. And I'll thank you to go about yours!"

The man leered at her. "Supplying arms to an enemy of the Crown is a serious offense. We could have him executed."

"Lt. Pierce, I've asked you to leave my house."

"Not until I've searched the grounds."

"You will search nothing."

"If not on the grounds, then perhaps in the house itself. Somewhere here, there is a cache of ammunition waiting to be sold to rebel forces. I intend to find it."

Naomi shouted the words at him. "You will get on your horse and leave these premises at once!"

His laugh unsettled her further, and Barnabas saw her take several furtive steps backward, bridling when the officer closed in after her. What was keeping Jeremiah?

"They told me Colonial wenches had tempers. I see they were right." Naomi bumped into the door frame, halting her backward flight. Pierce kept coming. "Tell me where the cache is hidden."

The officer did not see Barnabas break from the cover of the trees and start toward them. He had both hands on Naomi now, and had lowered his voice to an obscene whisper. Barnabas heard her scream, saw a ruffle of skirts when her foot struck out and upward to the crotch of his soiled white breeches. Cursing, the officer slapped her sharply just as Barnabas reached the steps and came rushing up them, colliding with Pierce in a flurry of pommeling fists and kicks. Bellowing insults, he was marginally aware that his mother had collapsed near the door, and was not moving. Two hands, incredibly strong, clamped his shoulders and pinned him against a pillar. "Damned sniveling colonial whelp!" Pierce shook him like a doll, slamming him against the post so roughly that tiny firefly lights swam into the periphery of his vision. One of the big hands gripped his throat and drew him away from the pillar, shoving him hard in another direction, where he fell against a wall of the house. His mother still had not moved. What was wrong with her?

"You know where the guns are hidden, you little rebel bastard..." The voice forced him to look away from her, and into the point of a dagger held firmly in Pierce's gloved hand. Barnabas found his feet and stumbled clumsily away from it, but it followed his movement until he was backed onto the brink of the high, stone porch, where it dropped into what once had been a garden. Pillars blocked him on either side, and the dagger's gleaming point moved slowly in on him.

Something made a scraping sound. The lieutenant ignored it. Beyond him, a shadowed figure moved into Barnabas' view, and an unintelligible shout made Pierce whirl sharply.

The pistol shot caught him squarely in the throat. The dagger flew from his hand, scudding across the porch to rest at Jeremiah's feet. And even before he had fallen, a fountain of red had begun to stain the white marble of the porch, running in diminutive rivers down its long, fine seams to form small, bright pools on the steps.

Barnabas willed himself not to look at it; went instead to Naomi's side. Jeremiah joined him there, quickly bending to listen for a heartbeat. "She's all right," he announced. "I think she's only fainted." He cast a glance behind him. "Probably just as well." With an ill sensation, Barnabas noticed that his uncle still held the pistol. White smoke curled languidly from the barrel. Jeremiah tucked it into his belt. "Come. We'll take her up to her room."

When they had carried Naomi safely upstairs, they were forced, once again, to face the grisly scene left out on the doorstep. They wrapped the corpse, with its eyes still staring in undisguised terror, in a ragged quilt, and concealed it in the copse of oak until they had drawn enough water from the well to wash the porch white once more. Jeremiah switched the dapple grey across the rump with a stout twig, shouting curses to drive it away. That done, they set out to bury the dead lieutenant where no one would ever find him.

Not far from the house, Joshua Collins had recently constructed a small stone building on the edge of Eagle Hill Cemetery. It would serve, one day, as a burial place for his family. Now, however, it had quite a different function, of which both Jeremiah and Barnabas were all too aware. Behind the thick granite slab of the central alcove was hidden a small, windowless room, which, unlike the main chamber of the mausoleum, had an earthen floor. Though it was nearly empty now, save for several small crates and a few kegs of gunpowder, Barnabas knew it would soon be full of weapons -- as soon as his father returned. They found spades in one darkened corner of the room, and by the light of a single candle, they began to dig near one of the walls.

The task, all told, took little more than an hour to complete, but Barnabas was greatly relieved when the last of the empty crates had been placed over the newly-filled grave. Jeremiah's face reflected the dim light strangely. "Now he's found what he wanted," he said grimly.

Barnabas said nothing.

"Listen to me," Jeremiah went on. "We must tell your mother that both of us struggled with him, that we disarmed him, and that he ran away. Do you understand?" From somewhere, he had produced the lieutenant's dagger. Barnabas did not remember seeing him pick it up. "No one else must ever know he came here."

Barnabas watched the dagger turn slow circles in Jeremiah's hands. "I understand. You know I'll tell no one."

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Your hand. We'll take an oath. Here. Now."

"Jeremiah--"

Barnabas allowed his hand to be pulled outward, and seconds later felt the sting of the dagger's blade raking lightly across the palm. He tried to draw it away, but Jeremiah would not let go. He nicked his own palm in a similar fashion, and pressed it over Barnabas', holding fast. "Swear," he breathed, "that none will ever learn what we have done here today."

"But what of my father--"

"No one Vow you will never speak of it!"

Barnabas felt giddy. The walls of the stifling little room wanted to close in on him. "You have my vow," he said.

"And you have mine."

"Then we can go back now."

"No. Wait. There must be more."

"What more?"

"We must also swear an oath of loyalty, so that nothing should ever permit us to break the first oath. Swear that neither of us shall ever lift his hand against the other."

Barnabas stared at him. "Do you mean if we should quarrel? But we would never--"

"Swear!"

For a prolonged moment, Barnabas held his gaze. The candle sputtered. "Very well. I swear."

"Before God."

"Yes, before God!"

"Then we are sealed." Their hands parted. From a pocket, Jeremiah brought a linen handkerchief which he rent in half and wrapped swiftly around each of their hands. "We will tell your mother we were wounded in the struggle. We each tried to take his knife from him. I succeeded." He hefted the dagger, then stooped to slip it primly into his boot. The hilt remained visible, a silver cross glinting on his boot top.

Holding the torn linen tight around his hand, Barnabas was entranced by a crimson stain stealing slowly across the field of white. Jeremiah had to shake him. "Barnabas, come!"

They extinguished the candle and emerged into the anteroom, where the last rays of sunset had turned the grey walls blood red. Jeremiah twisted the shining lion's ring, and the massive slab of stone began to move, grating across the floor as it came. They were outside amid the tombstones before they heard it rumble shut with a final, hollow thud. They turned their footsteps homeward then, leaving the mausoleum, and its secrets, sealed behind.
 

The End