It was impossible to sleep in a place like this. Cannons and musket fire had greeted them when they arrived at William Henry, and forty-eight hours later they hadn't let up. The summer air was saturated with sawdust and gunpowder. At the heart of the fort, muffled groans seeped out of the infirmary. Every footfall above the ceiling reminded Uncas what a relief it would be when they finally left.
Their British hosts were cold but courteous. A week ago Uncas would have chalked up their aloofness to snobbery, but he knew better now. These were exhausted men. Trapped inside, forced to listen to the thunder of cannonballs growing closer while outside the French dug thirty meters of trench a day. They were waiting for reinforcements, or waiting to die.
Careful not to disturb his father, Uncas slipped out of the bunker they shared with the Mohawk scouts. Nathaniel was absent, probably blowing off steam with Ian and Jack. Since their arrival his brother had spent more time with the colonials than with his family. It bothered Chingachgook, though he tried not to show it. Uncas thought he should mention this to Nathaniel, but he really did not feel like dealing with his brother's infamous temper tonight. Nor did he feel like drawing attention himself. His presence tended to attract a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, even when not surrounded by his mixed-blood family. More than anything else he wanted a quiet place where he could close his eyes and be alone.
He brushed past the din from the mess hall, where the men not on sentry duty were drowning their fears in whiskey and ale. Turning to the stairwell, he followed the corridors downward without any real destination in mind. It wasn't long before he found himself utterly lost, which was more or less what he wanted. The air beneath the fort smelled cool and stale. He passed an unused musket rack and turned another corner. Then he paused to listen. Judging by the near-absolute silence above him, he had finally found a part of the fort that no one used. The only room in sight was a dusty storage closet. Curious and a little bored, Uncas peered across the threshold. Amid dusty crates and stacks of paper he discovered a battered piano forte sitting inside, abandoned.
His first thought on glancing at the piano was that it was very ugly. Most of its keys had yellowed, and its wooden frame was covered in nicks and splinters. A square mirror with a deep crack rested on the music stand. Someone probably had shoved it into the closet months ago to get it out of the way. An impractical, useless instrument during a siege. Uncas pitied it.
He tapped the keys experimentally with his fingers. When he and his brother were younger, their father had sent them to one of the Moravian missionary schools where a songmaster had tried (futilely, in Nathaniel's case) to instill in them a basic understanding of music. Nathaniel had lacked the patience to sit still; Uncas was perennially baffled by the strange dots and lines that supposedly represented songs. But he had learned the pitch of the black and ivory keys. His hands could mimic a song without needing to see the notes written on paper.
The piano in the fort was slightly out of tune. He played in spite of it–a light, tripping melody that reminded him of smooth pebbles and running streams.
A flash in the mirror caught his eye. The cracked glass distorted the reflection, but he could make out a pale figure in the doorway. Straw-colored hair over faded rosebuds, on a ghost of a dress that fitted her poorly. It was the younger sister, the timid one. Alice, they called her. Her panic attack had almost gotten every one of them killed on their way to the fort. It was only by clapping a hand over her mouth that he had finally gotten her quiet. He remembered feeling exasperated as he held her, bracing for the flutter of indignation that would surely follow as soon as he released her. But once the danger had passed, she had looked so ashamed. A silent cloud of remorse and self-loathing had darkened her eyelids. Uncas had found he couldn't bring himself to criticize her then, knowing anything he said would have been redundant. How she had found her way here, tonight, was a mystery he didn't have the energy to ponder. Evidently he was not the only one in the fort plagued with insomnia.
She was watching him from the threshold with her wide green eyes, the color of rain-drenched mountains in springtime. He wondered if she was shocked to discover the music that had enticed her below played by someone she almost certainly considered savage. With his back to the door, she did not know he could see her through the glass. He knew if he turned she would scamper like a frightened animal. And though it cost him a bit of self-righteousness to admit, he realized he did not want her to leave.
Uncas continued to the play the song unbroken as though he had noticed nothing. Then, after a few more bars, he let his fingers slow into a softer ballad. Glancing surreptitiously in the mirror, he saw her eyes relax and close. She leaned her head against the doorframe. Her lips turned upward, almost involuntarily.
He realized too late that it might have been unwise to play a song so like a lullaby. She couldn't fall asleep in front of the door—he certainly couldn't carry her back to wherever it was she slept if she did. But this girl…he sensed this one shared his desire to remain hidden. She would creep away quietly before risking discovery. He was certain of it. It did not seem like such a difficult thing just then, to continue playing until she did.