Redcoat

by Bernard Cornwell

  If Sam was to answer, then Sam was forced to look at Caroline, and he saw that nothing had changed. Nothing. He blushed. “It’s been a long time, miss.”

  “Nearly four months, Sam.”

  Caroline was not commonplace, she could not be dismissed from Sam’s dreams, and he saw how his vision of her, which he had conjured in the long snow-silenced nights, had been so wooden and wrong. He had not remembered the life in her face, or the defiance and wildness and humour of those blue eyes and strong jaw. “I’ve been busy,” Caroline explained lamely. “It’s calving time.”

  “It would be, yes.”

  “But Jonathon wanted to meet me.” Caroline seemed to need to explain their sudden presence. “I said we should meet here.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Caroline took her hand from Jonathon and walked to the nearest box-pew where she fondled Lord Robert Massedene’s grey gelding. “We need your help, Sam.” Her voice was strangely flat, almost unfriendly.

  “Anything.”

  She turned to him. “We’re going soon.”

  “In three weeks.” Jonathon bubbled with eagerness. Plainly they had planned this escape in their secret correspondence, but now Sam must be told.

  “You’re going north?” Sam had waited so long to see Caroline, and now she was going. He could hardly bear to look at her.

  “By boat to Trenton,” Jonathon said. “I can’t do any fighting, Sam, but I can clerk.”

  “For the rebels?”

  “Yes.” Jonathon gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Of course.”

  Sam forced a smile. “Perhaps I’ll have to shoot at you again?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The difficulty,” Caroline interrupted in a flatly determined voice, almost as though their friendly trivia annoyed her, “is getting Jonathon out of the city. He’s still a prisoner, so he can’t get a pass.”

  “I suppose not,” Sam said. Sir William, in the last few weeks, had instituted a system of passes for anyone wanting to travel beyond the ring of British guardposts. It was intended to deter paroled rebel officers who, even though they had each put up a one-hundred-pound bond to seal their promise not to attempt an escape, still tried to rejoin Washington’s army.

  “But the sentries know you, Sam.” Caroline turned to face Sam and her look was almost defiant. It was as though she expected Sam to resist her demands. “If you were helping a drunken officer into a boat, no one would take any notice, would they?”

  “No.”

  “So we need a uniform.”

  Sam wiped his hands on his leather apron. “What time of day were you thinking of going?”

  “At night.” Jonathon glanced towards the main door of the church, obviously afraid that his uncle’s groom would overhear this conspiratorial plotting.

  “Better be a naval uniform then,” Sam said. “They’re the only officers on the river at night. Going back to their ships, you see …” His voice petered out.

  “Can you get me one?” Jonathon asked.

  Sam nodded. “And the pegleg won’t matter so much. There’s a couple of navy fellows on stumps.”

  Jonathon smiled. “I knew you’d help, Sam.”

  “Daft as lights, I am,” Sam smiled back.

  Jonathon glanced towards the main door again, then looked sheepishly at Sam. “Do you mind if we go in the vestry?”

  “It’s a tack room now,” Sam said.

  Caroline had gone back to Jonathon’s side. “Thank you, Sam.”

  Sam heard the farewell in her voice. “It was good seeing you again, Miss Caroline.” The formality seemed strange, but to use any other form of address would have been to hint at their former brief intimacy that Caroline, by her attitude, was at pains to deny.

  “You could take the uniform to Mrs Crowl?” Caroline asked in her distant voice that hurt Sam.

  “I can.”

  “I’ll try and come again, Sam.” Jonathon held out his hand. Sam took it and felt the strength of the grip. Jonathon, using his hands to replace his missing leg, had put on muscle.

  “I’ll get the uniform,” Sam promised, then watched as Caroline helped Jonathon into the vestry. The door closed behind them.

  Sam stood for a moment, then went back to the stallion. He rubbed its nose. “You shouldn’t have dreams, eh? Daft things, dreams. Only let you down.” He sat, lifted the hoof, and worked on the horny hoof walls till the stallion’s frog stood proud to give the horse a grip. Sam had waited for so long, and let his hopes soar to such dizzy, silly heights, and now he had been flattened. He closed his eyes suddenly, as though he was afraid of tears.

  Sam’s eyes were still closed as the vestry door opened behind him. He listened to the footsteps on the chancel’s flagstones. He dared not look in case he was disappointed.

  “Hello, Sam.”

  He opened his eyes to find he was not disappointed.

  Caroline stared at him, then gave a small, embarrassed shrug as though the explanation she was about to give was not really necessary, but perhaps dutiful. “He went out the back way. He daren’t stay away too long in case they get suspicious.”

  Sam tacked the horseshoe on to the hoof. Later he would take the stallion to a forge and secure the shoe properly, but the job would suffice for the moment. “He daren’t be seen with you?” Sam spoke without looking up from his work.

  “He’s frightened of his uncle. Frightened he might not get his inheritance.” Caroline sat on the pulpit steps. “He’ll be better when we reach Trenton.”

  “Where you’ll marry him?” Sam, as he watched how the stallion stood on the filed hoof, had tried to make his voice careless, but he heard the edge of bitterness in his words.

  “I promised.” Caroline spoke guardedly.

  Sam patted the stallion’s withers. “That’s better, boy, isn’t it? You won’t be slipping and sliding now.”

  The stallion whinnied in answer. Caroline was silent. The sound of wagon wheels and of a whip cracking came from Race Street. “How are you, Sam?” Caroline broke the silence.

  “Glad that the spring’s come. Everyone is. Winter chafes the nerves, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And hard winters you have here. But the fighting time’s come, hasn’t it, boy?” He addressed the question to the stallion which, in affection, nudged its muzzle against Sam’s cheek.

  Caroline stood again, then climbed the chancel steps. The sunlight, coming through the broken window above her, glinted on her hair. “What’s going to happen to you, Sam?”

  “To me?” Sam laughed as though the answer did not matter, though in truth he had given the question much thought through the winter months. “I shall be all right.”

  “Tell me.”

  Sam hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “I cured the General’s horse of the colic and his man reckons Billy might give me a job in his stables.”

  “Is that good?” Caroline’s voice was bleak.

  “It could get me out of the army.”

  “I thought you enlisted for life?”

  Sam smiled. “You do, but if they like you they fiddle the papers, see? If the general wants me in his own stables at home then he’ll fetch me out. When the fighting’s over, of course.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Sam led the stallion towards its pew. “It’s better than carrying a musket.”

  Caroline nodded. For a few seconds she said nothing, then her voice was oddly quiet, almost inaudible. “I’ve been hoping that you’d come with us, Sam.”

  At first Sam thought he had misheard, then, turning to look at her, he saw from her face that he had not. “To Trenton?”

  “That’s where we’re going.”

  For a moment Sam did not know what to say. He shrugged, half-laughed, then shook his head. “You want me to fight my own side?”

  “There’s plenty of Redcoats who’ve changed sides, Sam.”

  “Aye. My brother wanted to, and look where he is now. I’ve watched them, miss, w
ith blood dripping down their legs from the whips.”

  “You’re frightened?” Caroline spoke with a hint of scorn.

  “No, miss, I’m not frightened.” Sam led the stallion into its stall. He did not tie the head rope, but just latched the low door shut. “But I’m a bit like Jonathon, you see. Only one thing will make me run, and it isn’t the liberty you go on about.”

  Caroline said nothing. She held her hands towards the charcoal in the brazier.

  Sam knew the moment had come to say the words he had rehearsed through the long weeks, but now that they should be said, he found the saying too hard and chose a circumlocution instead. “I kept waiting for the ice to melt.”

  Caroline stared into the flames. It was as if she had not heard his words, but finally, and as softly as before, she answered him with an evasion to match Sam’s own. “We made Jonathon better, Sam.”

  “We did.”

  “And we knew what that meant.”

  “Aye, we did.”

  Caroline still watched the tiny flicker of flames about the glowing charcoal. “I wasn’t asking you to come for me, Sam.”

  “What for, then? Fifty acres of land and three hogs?” Sam’s voice was scornful.

  The scorn prompted Caroline to look at Sam again, and to put an urgent pleading into her voice. “It’s a whole new country, Sam. A whole future, something for ever! Something good and shining. Not like the Old World, Sam. Can’t you see that? We’re going to make a new beginning, Sam, and it won’t be rotten and corrupt. It will be clean!” All her passion and all her hopes seethed in her voice. “God’s country, Sam. A good country. You could be happy, Sam, you could – ”

  Caroline stopped speaking because the main church door had banged open and a red-coated officer, sword at his waist, came into the church. His loud and strident voice echoed down the aisle. “Sam! Sam! Sam!” Captain Christopher Vane strode between the horse-occupied pews. “Sam, you varied Have you finished? I have need of …” Vane’s voice tailed away as he caught sight of Caroline. He stopped abruptly, stared, then swept off his hat to offer a low, sweeping bow. “Dear lady. I don’t believe we’ve met?”

  Caroline said nothing. Vane, who was clearly in one of his more cheerful moods, straightened up. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Sam?”

  Sam’s embarrassment was excruciating, but he managed to stumble out an introduction. “Miss Caroline, sir. Captain Vane, miss.”

  “Miss Caroline!” Vane said the name as though it belonged to an angel. He stared shamelessly at her, struck by her quick and lively beauty. This might be a peasant girl, but she could make the heart race in springtime, and Vane, astonished by her, felt the jealous impulse that must have spurred ashlar lances to break against dragons’ hides. This girl, he thought, was too good for a mere groom! “Are you Sam’s mysterious kitchenmaid?”

  Caroline was quick. She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “My dear Sam, no wonder you keep her a secret!”

  “I shouldn’t be here, sir.” Caroline edged towards the vestry door.

  “Please! Miss Caroline!” Vane was at his most charming. “I wouldn’t want to drive you from Sam’s side.”

  “No, sir. I have to be going.” She nodded at Sam and almost ran out through the tack room.

  Vane waited till the outer door banged shut. “My God, Sam! She might be golden-haired, but she’s quite lovely.”

  “She’s nice, sir.”

  “Nice?” Vane whirled on his servant. “Good God, boy! Men have killed for less! Is this where you meet her? No wonder you spend so long in the stables, Sam. So would I! If you ever tire of her?” Vane saw the flicker of irritation on Sam’s face, and quickly shook his head. “Forget I said it, Sam. I had no right. I apologize.” Vane smiled. “But really you’re foolish, Sam.”

  “Foolish, sir?”

  “A soldier should never become attached to a pretty girl. Always choose an ugly one. The essential pleasure is no different, and they’re much easier to leave behind. They’re also damned grateful.” Vane laughed, then fondled the stallion’s nose. “How is he?”

  “Footing properly now, sir.”

  “Truly?”

  Sam smiled. “Stand away from him, sir.” He waited till Vane, with a puzzled expression, had obeyed, then gave a short sharp whistle. The stallion whinnied, gathered itself, and jumped clean over the low door of the pew. It trotted obediently to Sam and lowered its head for his affection.

  Vane laughed. “Teaching him tricks?”

  “He’s a good one, sir. The best.” Sam led the stallion back into the stall and tied the head rope. “He’s fine now, sir. Did you want to take him out?”

  “No, no. I’m just passing the time of day, Sam.” Vane looked around the church’s bare interior, almost as if this were the first time he had seen it. “It’s a dull church, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam wondered why the Captain was making such inconsequential conversation.

  “Dull, dull, dull.” Vane turned to look at the nave. “A church needs mystery, Sam. It needs the dark space behind the altar. It’s like a country. It needs a touch of ghosts and vengeance, of kings and nobility, of history that reeks of the inexplicable, but not here! Oh, no! Here they will have sweet reason and I pray to their profitable God that they stay a dull and boring people, for if they encounter a mystery there will be nothing in their creed to explain it. What was the name of that sergeant who so scared the tripe out of you?”

  The last question was asked so suddenly, and came so abruptly in the middle of one of Vane’s eloquent diatribes, that Sam could not gather his wits. “Sir?”

  “The one who was married to what’s her name? Sacharissa?”

  Sam sounded horrified. “Scammell, sir?”

  “That’s it! Thank you, Sam.” The Captain turned to leave.

  “Sir!”

  Vane turned back. “Sam?”

  Sam was alarmed. Since the night when Scammell had tried to hold Caroline against Maggie’s return, Sam had neither seen nor heard of Sergeant Michael Scammell, and he would have liked that happy ignorance to continue. “You’re not going to report him, are you, sir?”

  “Report him?” Vane was all innocence.

  “’Cause of what I told you? About the boy at Germantown, sir? The one he killed?”

  “It was murder, Sam!” Vane teased Sam with a mocking tone. “Do you think he shouldn’t be punished?”

  “He should be hung, sir, but if he knows I told you then he’ll kick the liver out of me.”

  Vane laughed. “I’m not going to report him, Samuel, so calm your troubled self. My reasons are altogether more whimsical. I am informed that the beautiful Sacharissa has formed an attachment, Sam. She is enraptured, and the officer concerned does not wish for any trouble from her husband. You follow me now?”

  “They were never church married, sir.”

  “Nevertheless I have promised to square the man, so don’t worry, Samuel. I am not about to invite the wrath of Sergeant Scammell on your head.”

  “He’s a bastard, sir,” Sam said warningly.

  “Bastards will bring us victory. Those and good horses like you, my friend.” Vane patted the stallion’s neck. “Thank you, Sam.”

  Sam watched the Captain go and wondered why the skin of his spine was suddenly chill. He shivered, then, without really knowing why, drew his winter-blunted bayonet and, with his usual care and skill, sharpened it on a stone. Spring had come, and dark things stirred themselves for war.

  Thirty-One

  Captain Christopher Vane met Sergeant Scammell outside a stone building which had windows disfigured by rusted iron bars. Vane, even though he had only glimpsed Scammell once, and that in the litter of a battlefield, recognized the Sergeant instantly. A tall man with knowing eyes whose good looks were too savage to be called handsome, Scammell gave the impression of being a man who could never be astonished by any of the world’s callous ways. “You’re Sergeant Scammell?” Vane asked, as if to belie the shock of
recognition.

  “Sir!” Scammell still bore the scar on his leg gouged by a bullet in a winter’s night. He knew this officer was the master of the man who had inflicted that scar and, because of it, Scammell was wary.

  “My name is Vane, Captain Vane.”

  “I remember you, sir.” Scammell’s eyes searched Vane’s face, seeking for a weakness that could be exploited. “Orders, sir?”

  “To do nothing, say nothing, unless I tell you.” Vane turned and tugged on a bellpull to provoke a mournful clanging somewhere within the gloomy building.

  Scammell watched the street, despising the civilians who hurried past in the small rain. Scammell had been told by a puzzled Lieutenant-Colonel Elliott that Captain Vane had requested his help, and Scammell knew that such a request, because it was a request and not an order, probably did not presage trouble for himself. But he was still curious and somewhat nervous. “Did Sam tell you about me, sir?”

  “He told me you murdered a boy at Germantown.” Vane said it harshly, and was rewarded by a flicker of fear on the tall Sergeant’s face.

  “I should have murdered more than one boy.” Scammell spoke the challenge softly.

  Vane ignored the words. He wondered whether he had given away an advantage by revealing so early his power over this intimidating man, yet the revelation should secure the Sergeant’s loyalty. And Vane needed that loyalty. He was ashamed of the need, bitterly so, yet ambition and jealousy led Vane inexorably onwards. A war was being lost because of hesitation, and it was time for someone to become brutal. Vane rang the bell again and was immediately rewarded by the door’s opening. A British sentry admitted the two men into a wide entrance hall that twitched with a gibbering, slobbering horde of maniacs who, as fast as their chains allowed, shuffled to investigate the newcomers. “Welcome to Parliament, sir,” the sentry said confidingly to Vane.

  “What’s that?” Vane edged away from a half-naked, dribbling man who was trying to lick the rainwater from his topboots.

  “That’s what we calls ’em, sir. The lunatics.” The guard booted a woman back against the wall. She pulled a heavy breast out of her rags and offered it to Captain Vane. Scammell, following the officer, laughed at the sight.