"The Captain's Coat"

Tom rose, pistol in his right hand, left palm hovering near the hilt of his saber. The drag-track was shallow but steady — the work of a man with strength enough to crawl, but not to stand. He followed it across the loose sand and into the brittle shade of the palmettos, where the fronds clattered against each other like dry bones. Twenty paces in, the track ended at a hollow scooped beneath a fallen palm. Captain Marrow lay there on his back, eyes closed, his teeth bared as if he had snarled himself into stillness. His coat — the long blue coat with the brass buttons Tom knew the way another boy might know his father's voice — was black with blood from collarbone to belt. A splinter the length of Tom's forearm jutted from beneath his ribs. The captain's right hand was clenched white around the twin of the pistol Tom now carried. Tom dropped to his knees. "Captain. Captain, it's Pell. Tom Pell." For a long moment there was nothing. Then Marrow's eyes opened — pale, cracked, terribly clear. He looked at Tom, and at the pistol in Tom's hand, and a thin breath of laughter escaped him. "Boy," he whispered. "Took your bloody time." His free hand fumbled at his sash and drew out a folded square of oilcloth, sealed with black wax. He pressed it into Tom's palm with the last strength he seemed to own. "Don't open it," Marrow rasped. "Not here. Not where the drum can hear." His grip tightened. "And don't trust the smoke." The drum sounded again. Nearer now. Marrow's eyes flicked toward the sound, and something like fear crossed his ruined face.