Redcoat

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Aren’t we all?” Vane called back. There was a hint of petulance in his voice, a petulance shared by many of Sir William’s army. Spring had come, yet still Sir William did not march to strike at the rebel’s army. The troops still lingered in their winter quarters, wondering if the rumours about the French and about Sir William’s resignation and about the peace negotiations were true. Some officers, resentful of their sheathed swords, grumbled that Sir William loved America more than Britain. Others, like Vane, urged him to march. But Sir William preached patience. “We’ll be offering peace terms soon, and very generous ones! Let us not provoke their hatred when we seek their affection.”

  Yet a Loyalist farmer, watching the gathering of the rebel forces at the Crooked Billet Tavern, had forced Sir William’s hand. Such a flaunting of American power, so close to the city, could not be ignored, and thus, at midday, ahead of the lurching and creaking coach, the staff officers came across the scene of the previous night’s carnage.

  Six Redcoats had been wounded in the night, but over a hundred rebels lay dead. Charles Lee, sitting on Sir William’s mare, looked with horror at the bodies. “What happened?”

  “They ran.” A major in the green uniform of the Queen’s Rangers, the Loyalist cavalry that fought such a bitter war against their fellow colonists, gave a harsh laugh. “Sentries fast asleep again, just like Paoli’s Tavern.”

  Christopher Vane walked his horse among the bodies. The rebel camp fires still smoked. A canvas sack of cornmeal lay beside one fire, and next to it was a pair of boots too shabby to be taken as plunder. The boots’ owner, in his holed stockings, lay killed by a sabre slash five yards away. His clothes had been ripped apart as Redcoats sought the coins that men sometimes hid in the seams of jackets or breeches. A British tin canteen, punctured with a bayonet so that the sharp edges would make a rasp for grinding corn, hung about his bloodied neck.

  “Who were they?” Lee asked.

  “Lacey’s men,” the Rangers’ major seemed happy to boast to the rebel general.

  “We were betrayed,” Lee said bitterly.

  “A payment for all the times we’ve been betrayed,” the major said harshly.

  Lee turned his borrowed horse away. The Crooked Billet Tavern still burned and a roof beam, collapsing in a spew of sparks, made the mare shy sidewards. A barn, which had been used as a straw store behind the tavern, was a smoking ruin. Among the embers, and half hidden by the smoke, Lee could see curled and blackened corpses. There was a smell of roast flesh in the air.

  “Patriots?” Lee asked.

  The major nodded. “Set fire to the straw with their musket wadding.” He laughed, as though he thought the rebels’ fate was a just one.

  Lee spurred away from the horrid sight. Vane stayed. He was fascinated by the burnt bodies. They were blackened and shrivelled by the flames, only recognizable as humans by the shrunken shapes. He turned round as hoofbeats sounded behind him and saw Sam Gilpin, drawn by an equal curiosity, coming to look at the corpses. “That will teach you, Sam, not to fire a musket in a straw barn.”

  “They didn’t, sir.” Vane raised an eyebrow, and Sam, staring with horror at the blackened men, explained, “They was pushed back in, sir, after the fire started.”

  Vane gave an abrupt laugh. “Don’t be absurd, Sam.”

  “That’s what they say, sir.” Sam nodded towards a dozen green-uniformed troopers who lolled beyond the burning tavern. “Boasting of it, they are.”

  “Pushed in?”

  “They’ll deny it, sir. But the major helped.” Sam nodded towards the Rangers’ officer who led Charles Lee on a triumphant tour of the massacre.

  Vane heard the ring of truth in Sam’s words. Troopers would callously boast of such a thing to a private like Sam, but the horror would be formally and strenuously denied by the officers. “Did they say why they did it?”

  “One of the buggers fired from behind, sir.”

  “They deserved it, then. It will teach them not to be treacherous.”

  Sam flinched from Vane’s callousness. “You sound like Sergeant Scammell, sir.”

  Sam, still intrigued by Vane’s questioning in the stables, had mentioned the Sergeant’s name deliberately, but, even so, he was astonished by the effect of his words. Vane turned the stallion towards Sam and the muscles of his neck distended like taut cords. “How dare you, Gilpin? You insolent bloody bastard!”

  “Sir, I – ”

  “And shut your godamned face when I’m talking! My God, but you get above yourself! You think because you’re my servant that you’re above discipline? I can have you flogged, Private Gilpin, till blood pours over your boot tops, and don’t forget it!”

  Lee and Andre, attracted by the anger, had turned to listen. Sam said nothing. He had seen how febrile and excitable Captain Vane had been ever since the day when he had met Caroline in the church, but he had not seen anything like this sudden and vicious temper. “You make me sick!” Vane shouted. “You’re a bumpkin! An impudent ignoramus, and I’m sick of you! Now get out of my sight!”

  “I’m sorry …”

  “Bugger off!”

  Sam turned his mare. John Andre, troubled by the outburst, spurred his horse toward Vane, but Vane kicked his heels back and went past his friend. He sought the major instead. “You must tell your men to keep their mouths shut, Major.”

  The Ranger glanced towards Lee, but the rebel General was out of earshot. “Why?”

  “You know why.” The anger was still in Vane’s voice.

  The major, who had been a Pennsylvanian farmer before he took up the sabre, resented Vane’s tone. “Ar.J who are you to give me orders, Captain?”

  Vane took a deep breath to calm himself. “My name’s Christopher Vane, sir. I’m from Sir William’s staff.”

  “My name’s Moir, Major William Moir.”

  Moir was a large man with a weathered face and hands which looked big enough to strangle an ox. Moir’s eyes were never still, flickering disconcertingly about the scenery. It was a habit he had learned in the forests where, like all the Rangers, he fought a cat-and-mouse game with the skilled American ambushers. There were lines creased about those watchful eyes.

  Vane, not wanting to give offence to the American officer, smiled. “I don’t care, Major, if you burn every damned rebel between here and the mountains. I’ll help you push the bastards into the flames, but your men should keep their silence.”

  Moir nodded curtly. He glanced dispassionately towards the smoking barn where the corpses lay. “Fuckers shot at us from behind. We’d already taken the tavern, but they still fired.”

  “Then you did the right thing, but Sir William wouldn’t like to hear of it.”

  Moir gave a grim small smile. “There are lots of things out here that Sir William wouldn’t like. It ain’t a very gentlemanly war, Captain.”

  “You can be assured that Sir William won’t learn from me.” Vane felt as if a burden was lifted from him. He was not the only man who saw the path of savagery as the one clear road that would lead to victory. Popular as Sir William was, his strategy was binding and pinching the fighting man like a tight riding boot. A rebellion was not defeated by pussyfooting about the rebels, but by blind savagery and overwhelming force. “And in return, major, you can help me.”

  Major Moir’s eyes, for once, remained still as he looked suspiciously at the elegant Captain Vane. “A favour?”

  “You know this area?”

  “I grew up in it.”

  Vane felt the renewal of hope. He had taken a name from a bloody cell in an asylum, but no one in the city had recognized the name and Captain Vane had begun to feel despair. “I’ve been looking for a man called Davie Logan. He has one eye and a broken nose …”

  “I know Davie,” Moir interrupted. “He got the broken nose in a mill with a drunken preacher, and lost the eye when the preacher’s wife attacked him with a firedog.”

  Vane, despite his excitement, was amused. “A preacher?”

&n
bsp; “Just some poor Baptist howling with rum,” Moir said dismissively. “Why are you looking for him?”

  Vane did not answer the question. “I hear he’s a ferryman?”

  “Anyone with a boat on the river’s a ferryman,” Moir said, again dismissively. “Davie’s more than that. He carries food down to the city.”

  “And carries messages back?” Vane suggested.

  Again Moir’s eyes settled on Vane. He thought for a few seconds, then nodded. “Like as not.” His voice betrayed that he had never considered the possibility, but that now, on thinking of it, it seemed a most likely proposition. “My God, yes! He carries produce to the city, see, and why would the bastards let him do that unless he was doing something for them in return? Christ!” Moir smashed a big fist into an equally big hand, then looked worriedly at Vane. “Are you certain?”

  “I know he warned Fort Mercer of our attack last autumn. A prisoner confessed as much.”

  Moir was unconvinced. “Those bastards will tell you anything for a loaf of bread.”

  Vane decided that he must offer something in exchange for Moir’s knowledge. He twisted in his saddle and looked towards the smoking corpses. “Some things happen in the city, Major, that Sir William doesn’t know about.” The saddle creaked as Vane turned back. “The prisoner told me the truth. So how do I find Logan?”

  “A hard bastard to catch. One flicker of trouble and he’s on the water.” Moir stared northwards. “And there’s more than a few rebel households between us and him.”

  “But if he delivers food to the city, won’t I find him there?”

  “Big place,” Moir commented bleakly. “And he may not sail all the way there. He could meet another boat halfway.” He shrugged, and Vane felt his hopes, which had been raised so high, suddenly sag. Moir shook his head. “There’s precious little produce to deliver at this time of year, Captain. Davie might not travel downriver for another two months.”

  Vane stared at the drifting smoke. “Could a patrol of Rangers find him?”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Moir’s voice was grim. “But to travel that far we’d need Sir William’s permission.”

  “I’ll seek it.”

  “You won’t get it.” Moir gave a sour laugh. “The new policy seems to be bent on cuddling the bastards. We were only allowed to come here because the fools conveniently climbed on to the chopping block.” Moir suddenly clicked his fingers. “There’s one man who’ll know who Davie Logan trades with. Ezra Woollard.”

  “Becket’s foreman?”

  “There’s nothing that happens on the river that Ezra doesn’t know.” Moir’s praise was grudging. “If any man knows Davie’s movements, it’s Woollard.”

  “My God, but you’ve been helpful.” Vane had been at a dead end, until he met this big Pennsylvanian.

  Moir nodded towards the barn. “And you’ll say nothing …”

  “My dear Major Moir, they set themselves alight with musket wadding.” Vane, alerted by a warning look from Moir, turned to see Charles Lee approaching.

  The rebel General held out his hand. “Will you forgive me, Captain Vane? I can’t stomach a meal here.”

  “We shall miss you, sir.” Vane, forcing his attention away from Moir’s revelations and assuming again the polished elegance of a staff officer, walked his horse towards the carriage. “Perhaps we’ll meet on the battlefield?”

  “Not if Billy can make peace.” Lee sounded wistful as he made a wide circuit about the horror in the barn. “Come and have dinner when we’re all friends again, Vane. I’ll be a great man in a new country. Maybe they’ll name a city after me?”

  John Andre had joined them. “I’ll come to your city, Charlie. I’m sure it will be a roistering sort of place!”

  Lee reined in his horse, struck by some awful thought. “My God! Do you think they’ll name a city after plump George? What a dull place it will be!” He laughed, then slid off the borrowed horse’s back. “God keep you, Captain Vane.”

  “He has so far, sir.” Vane shook Lee’s hand.

  The other staff officers one by one embraced Lee or shook his hand. More gifts were pressed on the rebel General, good wishes showered on him, and ribald but friendly insults offered. The coachman, who would return to the city when his errand was over, stared stoically ahead into the sunlit landscape where burned bodies buzzed with flies.

  “You can all dine with me when you’re prisoners!” Lee bowed to the staff officers, then opened the carriage door. John Andre, riding close to the coach, thought he saw the figure of a shawled woman inside.

  “Who is she, Charlie?”

  “My plunder from Philadelphia.” Lee quickly closed the door, but raised the curtain and lowered the window. He slapped the door panel twice. “Good luck, you bastards!”

  “Good luck, Charlie!” The coach lurched forward and Andre tried to catch a glimpse of the shawled figure, but the woman kept her face well hidden. The coach bumped off the verge on to the road and rattled northwards. When it was some twenty yards away, a rebel flag was suddenly unfurled from the window.

  “The bastard!” Andre laughed at Lee’s parting gesture.

  Then, suddenly, the coach’s other window dropped open and a girl leaned out. “Sam! Sam!”

  Sam, laying out food in the pasture beyond the road, looked up at the waving girl.

  “Goodbye, Sam!” It was Maggie, unshawled and hair free, happy beyond her dreams, and travelling to be introduced to General Washington as Mrs Lee. “Come and see us, Sam!”

  Sam stared, then laughed. He waved and blew a kiss. Maggie had found her paradise beyond the hills and was riding there in a travelling coach.

  Christopher Vane stared and was appalled.

  “What is it, Kit?” Andre, seeing his friend’s face, asked with real concern.

  “Sacharissa.” Vane said the name like a man in a trance.

  Andre chuckled. “So it is! Lucky Charlie!”

  “God damn him! I’d promised her to someone else!”

  “There’s plenty more where she came from,” Lord Robert Massedene said drily.

  But Vane was thinking of Sergeant Scammell, and of a devil’s pact, and he wondered how he was to keep that bargain of horror now. But that problem could wait, for he was close to the next link in the chain of treachery that would lead him to the enemy in Sir William’s camp. In a field where the roasted flesh had given him solace, Vane felt hope.

  Thirty-Three

  On the morning after his excursion to the Crooked Billet, Sam returned from exercising the horses to find Sergeant Scammell standing in the kitchen. “Miss Sam!” The Sergeant was cutting a piece of cheese from a wheel. “Am I making your nice kitchen dirty?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “That’s not nice, Samuel. That’s no way to greet an old friend, is it?” Scammell walked round the table, holding the cheese knife like a weapon. He pushed the blade into Sam’s belly, but Sam neither moved, nor showed fear. Scammell laughed. “I ain’t forgotten, boy. I owe you a fucking beating.”

  “Any time, Sergeant.”

  “No, boy. In my time.” Scammell shoved the knife hard enough for its tip to tear Sam’s old coat and prick the skin, then he pulled it free and tossed it on to the table. “I hear my whore went off with a Yankee Jack-pudding yesterday.”

  “She found herself a man, at last,” Sam said.

  Scammell did not rise to the insult. “More than she had with your brother! This your uniform?” Scammell fingered Sam’s newer red coat that was hanging by the hearth. Sam had cleaned it and pressed it because he had to be an orderly at an elaborate dinner party that Sir William was giving today. All the staff officers’ servants were required to be present. “No,” Sam said, “it ain’t mine.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter if it gets dirty, does it?” Scammell picked up a blackball from the table.

  “Don’t do it,” Sam said warningly.

  Scammell turned, looked into Sam’s eyes, and g
ently put the blackball back on to the table. “You’re getting above yourself, Sam. I hear you upset your Jack-pudding yesterday. You do that once more and he’ll send you back to me, won’t he?”

  Sam said nothing. Captain Vane, ever since his furious outburst the day before, had been curt with Sam, and Sam was fearing just such an outcome as Scammell described. Sam did not understand what had happened to the Captain, nor what connection Vane had with this half-mad, half-cunning sergeant.

  Scammell laughed softly. “He’s all right, your Jack-pudding. Ain’t as soft as I thought. A few more like him, Sam, and we wouldn’t be snivelling in fucking Philadelphia, would we? We’d be giving the rebels a kicking.” Scammell peeled the rind off the cheese and dropped it on to the floor. “How’s that little whore of yours? Ain’t seen her around … and I’ve been watching.”

  “She isn’t mine.”

  “Perhaps I’ll find her,” Scammell gave Sam a sideways look. “She’d earn me a pretty penny, wouldn’t she? Perhaps your Jack-pudding will get her for me, Sam. He was going to give me Maggie back …”

  “He wasn’t,” Sam said in derisive disbelief.

  “Sir!” Scammell dropped the cheese and slammed to attention as Captain Vane pushed open the door from the hall.

  Vane seemed embarrassed to see Sam. “You’re back early.”

  “They didn’t need much exercising after yesterday, sir.”

  Vane grunted. “I suppose not. Here.” This last was to the Sergeant and accompanied a bag that clinked with coin.

  “Sir! Thank you, sir!” Scammell was suddenly very correct.

  “That will be all, Sergeant.”

  “Sir!” Scammell about-turned, his right boot slamming on the cheese rind, then he stalked past Sam and banged his way into the small backyard.

  Sam felt the tension run out of him as the Sergeant left. Captain Vane, obviously discomfited because Scammell had been discovered in the house, fingered Sam’s hanging jacket. “Did I hear him say that I was giving him his wife back?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam’s voice still held resentment for the clawing he had been given the day before.