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The short soldier at the second forge shook his head. “Just us. Sackett’s got the order.”
Sackett pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “’Tis straightforward.”
Joseph unfolded the paper and schooled both his face and his breathing to show nothing, despite the scowl that tugged at his features and the excitement that tried to speed the pace of his lungs.
100 gun barrels to be made and delivered to Willis Plains in Duxbury by February 3.
His mind charged at full speed, kicking up clods of questions as it raced. Why Duxbury? Would they ship them north? Were there other munitions they planned to get into British hands? Nathaniel and Henry would need this information immediately.
He refolded the paper and slid it into his breeches pocket. “Such a task will be difficult with only the three of us.” He took Sackett’s place by the forge and yanked on the chain, the bellows rushing the flames high and hot. “Who’s Willis Plains?”
“Our gunsmith.” In stride, Sackett poked at the coals. “Poses as a Patriot, but he’s workin’ for us. If those idiot rebels haven’t figured that out by now…” A rough chuckle left him. “Eh, the job’s not bad. We’ll have to work morn’ and night, but we can do it.”
Joseph glanced to Deane, who was inspecting the growing glow at the end of his rod. “There’s no one else in your camp who can help?” He turned back to Sackett, who still yanked on the chain. “We could work faster with more men.”
“We’re the only ones who know how this is to be done.” Deane pumped the bellows. “Better this way instead of trying to teach someone who knows nothing at all.”
“Perhaps.” Joseph stopped
to look behind at the water bucket. Ice covered the top, and he reached for the nearest hammer, breaking through the thick covering. The men would need this water to cool their iron. “You’ve made gun barrels before?”
Deane nodded. “So’s Sackett. We both worked in smithies before recruitment.”
Looking from one soldier to the other, Joseph measured their strength. Their intelligence was harder to analyze. “Best see what we can accomplish before noon.”
“With focus and speed I believe ’tis quite attainable.” Sackett pulled the swage block beside the anvil. “Deane, you need help with that?”
The man grumbled his reply. “I can’t keep the flame up and poke the coals at the same time.”
Sackett left his post and went to pull on the chain while Deane heated the iron.
Joseph grumbled. This wouldn’t work. These two were obviously capable but lacked practice. They needed at least four men, or the work would take far too long. He glanced behind, the men mumbling between themselves. Perhaps that was a good thing. Delaying the shipment of gun barrels by the mere fact they could not be produced might be sabotage enough.
He shook his head. Nay. That could make Stockton suspicious. The man was no fool. What then? Craft all one hundred and deliver as planned, but with an attack at the ready? He bit his cheek. ’Twas too early for such plans. But what a sweet victory it would be to bring such an enemy to heel.
The next several hours passed with frustratingly little progress, the weight of the note in his pocket all but ripping a hole through the fabric of his breeches.
Glancing out the window, he attempted to assess the placement of the sun, but the thick white clouds shielded its location. It must be at least noon.
With a grunted sigh, he released the chain he’d been pulling. “I’m to the house.”
The soldiers paused, sweat glistening their brows, questions in their eyes.
Joseph motioned to the pile of coal in the corner. “I miscalculated the needed supplies. I must go to town.”
“Shall not I go?” Sackett stepped forward, obviously keen to be rid of the foundry for the time being. “Tell me what you need, and I shall—”
“Thank you, but I must do it.”
Sackett tipped his head with an acquiescent frown and turned back to his work.
Hat and coat on, Joseph spoke before closing the door. “I shall be back soon.”
Striding across the yard, Joseph made for the kitchen, leaving behind the mission he must now perform, to consider the woman who likely worked just beyond the door. Heaven help him. If Hannah were still there, he might not be able to resist another bit of banter. He growled inwardly. Foolhardy, that would be. Not even a simple interchange was safe. The slightest slope could give way to an avalanche that would cover him, forever sealing him in a mountain of emotions from which he would never have the strength to dig free.
He stood at the door, taking a long inhale of air he hoped would cool the rising temperature of his blood.
Two weeks. That was all. Nothing could happen in that time. He was safe. So why did he feel as if he had never been in more danger?
