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then tied them to a pair of posts. The boy was frightened – and he'd also likely stand on his head if Pomeroy ordered him to, he had the feeling.
    "Have no fear, young Tommy," he said, "you’re under the watchful eye of one of the finest officers of the King’s Own Regiment, a strapping young Major who’s risen through the ranks nearly as fast as his dear father could purchase his commissions."
    Thomas struggled to pull down Hawkes’s musket. Pomeroy raised the pistols, admiring the shadow he cast in front of him.
    "Beloved by his men, trusted and respected by his superiors, he represents the cream of British might. Why, even his own family was devastated to see him shipped off for his gallant postings – oh, how the tears must have flowed," Pomeroy said.
    The boy came back to the door and Pomeroy stepped aside with a flourish. Thomas carried the musket, careful not to let it smack the door.
    "Ah, you look a natural with that musket, young master Chase," Pomeroy said. The boy wasn’t looking at him, but that didn’t stop him, "A right Grenadier-to-be, and with my officerial brilliance to model, you’ll likely go far. Just ask Hawkes. Or Cooper and good Hutchinson."
    Thomas put the musket down and started searching the cabin for food, coming across some potatoes and half a loaf of bread. Pomeroy put his pistols down on the table, locked the cabin door, and poured another cup of mead.
    "Of course, it might have gone much worse without my leadership. And that, young Tommy, is precisely why I’m the type of officer to lead a secretive and dangerous powder-hunt, to catch the local militias unawares. So secret – now listen up, young master – so secret that not even his commanders knew about it."
    Pomeroy winked at the boy and drained his cup yet again. The boy looked confused. Pomeroy shook the second cask – it was still two-thirds full.
    Yes, this was more like it.
     
    When he opened his eyes the next morning, he winced. It was cruelly bright. His back and neck were stiff from sleeping on the floor. He lifted his head and worked his mouth, his tongue as dry as velvet. The boy sat in front of the fireplace – and he held one of Pomeroy’s pistols, pointing it right at him.
    "Put that down and tell me you haven’t fed that fire all night," Pomeroy said. His voice was plaster and rocks.
    "You’re an officer. I’m taking you prisoner," Thomas said. "And we're going to get Pannalancet."
    Pomeroy sat up with a groan. He reached over and took the pistol, grabbing it by the barrel and pulling it out of the boy’s hand with little resistance.
    "Hardly," he said. He looked at the pistol – it hadn’t even been properly cocked.
    "I could have shot you in your sleep."
    "And I’d probably have felt better," Pomeroy said, setting the pistol to rights. "This is dangerous and you’re too young to go fooling with it, boy."
    "I can shoot better than my brother."
    "Well so can I," Pomeroy said, "And yet I’m here in these miserable Colonies while he enjoys the wine and women of Hampshire. Not to mention father’s wealth and hearth."
    He cleared his throat and looked around the room. His head pounded. What a bloody mess. He got to his feet with a bit of care and went to the window. Mid-morning sunlight dappled the trees and meadow near the cabin. Pomeroy grabbed the water skins from the table and walked over to the boy.
    "What did you say your name was?" Pomeroy said.
    "Thomas."
    "Have you heard of a tavern by the name of Brewster’s, Thomas?"
    "It’s in the village, next to my father’s printing shop."
    At least that was something. Pomeroy held out the water skins.
    "Well then, Thomas – go fill these in the stream," he said, "We have things to do."
    Thomas looked at the skins without moving. Pomeroy tossed them and Thomas caught them.
    "Look, if this is about me being an officer and you being from a family of rabble-rousers, then don’t get too knickered up about it," Pomeroy said. "You’ll show me the way to