Redcoat

by Bernard Cornwell

  “I fear they had to,” Lord Massedene murmured.

  “I know. I’m told it wasn’t pretty.” Martha put an arm about Caroline’s shoulder. “I tried to tell Sam, but Jenny couldn’t find him.”

  Caroline shuddered. “I suppose I’ll have to tell him.”

  “I will,” Martha offered.

  “He wants to meet me at six o’clock this evening,” Caroline’s voice was bleak. “He left a message with a sergeant on the wharf. I presumed he wanted to talk about Jonathon.”

  “Sam doesn’t know from me,” Martha said, “and I can’t imagine who else might tell him. Will you go?”

  Caroline turned to look at the grave. “I don’t know if I should.”

  “It isn’t your fault, Caroline. You didn’t kill him!” Martha turned on Massedene. “Why was Jonathon even on a ship, Robert? He was supposedly a prisoner, wasn’t he?”

  “He was released.”

  “By whom?” Martha’s voice was dangerous. “Don’t tell me, Robert. Let me guess. Captain Vane?”

  Massedene shrugged. “I don’t know. Truly. Jonathon’s name was added to a list of people who were to be given passes, and there’s no way of knowing who contrived it.”

  “And there’s nothing I can do, is there?” Martha was close to tears again. “A brother dead, men burned alive in a straw barn, and there’s nothing anyone can do because the murderers wear red!” She almost screamed the last word at Massedene, then, in tears, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Robert. That wasn’t fair.”

  Massedene said nothing. The sexton, his job done, slapped the heaped earth with the flat of his spade, then walked away through the mossy stones. Caroline, staring at the newly shaped soil, broke the silence. “Sam wears red.”

  “A coat can be taken off.” Martha said it scornfully.

  Caroline still stared at the grave. “I won’t see Sam,” she said softly. “I can’t.”

  Martha moved in front of Caroline and tilted the girl’s face up to hers. “Why ever not?”

  “Not today.” Caroline stepped to one side, the better to see the grave down which the rain trickled to make puddles in the newly turned earth. “Not after this.”

  “Jonathon’s dead!”

  Caroline shook her head. It was hard to tell whether the drops on her face were rain or tears. “Not today.”

  Martha gripped the girl’s shoulders. “Listen! Go to Sam! Tell him to cross the river. Tell him from me that he’ll lose his soul if he doesn’t cross the river!”

  Tears were flooding down Caroline’s face now. She said nothing.

  Martha shook her. “You must go! Tell him to cross the river! He’ll know what I mean! Tell him they killed Jonathon and that he must cross the river!”

  But Caroline was not listening. She was sobbing and, in a sudden rush of horrid truth, she clutched at Martha. “I wanted him to die.”

  “Oh, God, child.” Martha hugged her.

  “I used to imagine him dead and I’d be free.” Caroline’s words, racked by huge sobs, tumbled out. “I hated it, I prayed to stop it, but I still thought it. I was wicked. Wicked.”

  “No.” Behind their veil, Martha’s eyes were shut. “I wished for the same once. You think that’s so unnatural?”

  “I wish I’d never met Sam.”

  “No, you don’t.” Martha held Caroline as tightly as she would hold her own child. “You’re to go to Sam and you’re to tell him to cross the river.”

  “Not today.” Caroline pulled away and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I want to, but I can’t. For him.” She gestured towards the grave. “It’s not very much, but it’s something for Jonathon. I just won’t see Sam today.”

  Martha, understanding and approving, nodded. “So what will you do?”

  “I don’t know.” Caroline, who prided herself on not showing weakness, could not control her weeping now.

  “Come to my house.”

  “I’ll go home.” Caroline hated to be seen this vulnerable, especially in front of a British officer. She sniffed. “You’ll never forgive me for what I said.”

  “Jonathon loved you,” Martha spoke softly, “and whatever happiness he enjoyed came from that love. You never spoiled it, so I thank you. But you and Sam were made for each other.”

  If Caroline understood the words, she gave no sign. She sniffed and cuffed at her eyes. “I’m going home.”

  “God bless you.” Martha watched the girl walk away, then she seemed to slump with a sudden tiredness. “I wish I were a man.”

  “Why?” Robert Massedene stepped to Martha’s side.

  “So I could swear.” Martha watched Caroline go through the gate, then shrugged. “She’s in love with a Redcoat.”

  Massedene’s eyes flickered towards the grave, understood, and went back to Martha. “Poor girl.”

  “Lucky girl. Jonathon would never have been strong enough for her, never. And her Redcoat isn’t a weak man.” Martha sniffed. “I do hate love sometimes.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Poor Robert.” She took his arm. “So patient. Thank you for coming. It cannot have been very pleasant for you.”

  “I would have sought your company today, whatever happened.” He walked beside her towards the grave. “I’m charged with a message for you, from Sir William. He desires me to tell you that Captain Vane has been given the licence to seek out traitors within the city.”

  Martha stopped and looked into his lordship’s eyes. “Traitors?”

  “Someone warned Fort Mercer.” Lord Robert Massedene’s voice was very soft, scarce audible above the rain that fell on the newly made grave. “Sir William thinks that Lizzie told you, and that you sent the message.”

  Martha gave a short, abrupt laugh. “That wasn’t what happened. Lizzie said nothing! Tell Sir William that!” She shook her head. “Robert, it was servants’ gossip, nothing else, just servants’ gossip!”

  “But it was you who – ?”

  “Of course it was me!” Martha seemed irritated because he had needed to ask her the question, but she immediately became contrite. “I’m sorry, Robert. I suppose you’ll have to become pompous now? Are you going to arrest me? I shall deny the charges, of course, but I don’t want Lizzie in trouble.”

  “She isn’t in trouble. Nor are you, least of all from Sir William or myself. But in seven days, my dear Martha, we shall be leaving the city. Sir Henry will be in command then, and Sir Henry is already much impressed by Captain Vane.”

  Martha shook her head sadly. “I understand.”

  “And Sir William is eager that you’re protected,” Massedene said. “He feels keenly that he was responsible for your brother’s fate, and he’s fond of you, as I am …”

  “My dear Robert.”

  “… and so he has charged me with this.” Massedene took a piece of paper from his sabretache, but, because of the rain, he did not open it. “It’s a pass for you and all your household. It enables you to leave the city with two wagonloads of property.” He held out the pass to the reluctant Martha. “Please, take it.”

  Martha took it, inspected Sir William’s red seal, then thrust the pass into a pocket of her cloak. “I really don’t know why you’re doing this. I’m your enemy, Robert.”

  “No woman is my enemy, you least of all.” Massedene smiled shyly. “Indeed, I value your friendship and would make it more than a friendship.”

  “Robert …”

  “No, hear me, please.” He was blushing as awkwardly as any schoolboy, but he looked into Martha’s face and said his piece. “I would offer you my own poor protection, my dear, in the only way I can. I’m a younger son, not wealthy, but no man will dare offend you if you are to be the Lady Robert Massedene. I know these are inappropriate words in a place and on a day like this, but they are sincere.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope I have not offended?”

  “My dear Robert.” Martha walked in silence for a few paces, then offered her suitor a hopeless shrug. “Could y
ou become an American?”

  He thought about it, evidently seriously, then offered her a wry smile. “I’m not sure I’m brave enough. England’s the place I know, the place where I have my friends, or most of them,” he gave her a swift smile, “and it takes a brave man to surrender friendships.”

  “And a brave woman.” Martha waited as Massedene opened the cemetery gate, then followed him into the small walk which went towards the city. “And one day, Robert, I’m going to see our flag up there.” Martha gestured towards the State House spire. “And I have no wish to live under any other flag. Not even with someone as dear as you. There, I have been offensive, and you will think me ungracious.”

  “Never.”

  Martha smiled. “There was a time, my dear lord, when all I ever dreamed of was being called ‘My Lady’, and I thought I should die of a broken heart if I were forced to live in Philadelphia instead of London, but here I am, with a heart still beating.”

  “It isn’t too late.”

  “Those dreams, dear Robert, were the dreams of a child. Perhaps I will see London some day, but I would rather, a thousand times over, see a free America. And I shall!”

  Massedene walked in silence beside her until they turned north on to Seventh Street. His voice, when at last he spoke, was filled with a gentle curiosity. “Were you always this certain of rebel victory?”

  Martha laughed. “Certain? I sometimes watch raindrops on a window and I tell myself that if the drop on the right of the pane reaches the sill before the one on the left, then we shall be victorious. I am reduced to praying for a raindrop to hurry.” She grimaced. “That is the measure of my certainty, Robert.”

  “We’re the same,” Massedene said sadly. “We look for portents. Most soldiers do.”

  “Most? Not all?”

  Massedene absent-mindedly returned the salute of a sergeant who led a file of men south towards the 2nd Grenadiers headquarters. “Most, yes, but not all. I rather think your General Washington has a certainty of victory in his bone, else he could not endure so much defeat. Such men aren’t comfortable to live with, but wars aren’t won without them.”

  “Do you have such men?”

  Massedene smiled ruefully. “Not in this war. Instead we believe that God is an Englishman and, in His own good time, He will ensure our deserved victory. Till then we muddle along, not quite sure why we’re here or whether we even ought to be here or, worse still, how to end the wretched business.” Massedene, pacing slow beside Martha, suddenly frowned. “But we also have men who aren’t content to muddle, men who will try to force God’s hand.”

  “You mean Captain Vane,” Martha said tonelessly.

  Massedene stopped and turned to her. “I want you to promise me that you will not stay in Philadelphia. Captain Vane has changed. I cannot explain. I’ve tried to be kind to him, and still would, but …” Massedene shook his head. “He was brave in battle, so very brave. He made me jealous. But he cannot endure defeat, and I think he feels he has suffered too much defeat. He resents his birth. He thinks that to be called a lord would be the greatest gift this world has. I could tell him it isn’t really worth a bent penny, but he’d never believe me.” He sighed. “Do I assume, my most dear lady, that you have turned down my proposal of marriage?”

  “Probably to your relief, yes.”

  “When this is over, my dear, and your new flag flies, I might try again?”

  “I shall anticipate your return with pleasure,” Martha spoke with genuine feeling, “but for now you leave in a week’s time?”

  “Till when you have Sir William’s protection.”

  “Then I shall leave the day before you sail, and you will bring Sir William and Mrs Loring to supper with me on the Friday night. Will you promise me that?”

  “With all my heart.” Massedene felt an immense relief that Martha would leave the city, and the relief showed on his face.

  Martha put her arm into his again. “I fear I won’t see Sir William till that parting. Mourning has its duties.”

  “The Meschianza will be the poorer for your absence.”

  “But next Friday we shall part as friends.” Martha looked again towards the State House spire and her voice was suddenly filled with a happy eagerness. “And one day, Robert, you will come back, and you will see my new flag in a blue sky, and you will know that I helped put it there.”

  “I think I shall.” Lord Robert Massedene smiled at the thought. “I truly think I shall.”

  The minute hand of the clock which was built against the State House wall jerked with an audible click to mark the new evening hour. It was six o’clock, and Martha wondered if Caroline had changed her mind about meeting Sam, and hoped, for the sake of love, that she had.

  Forty

  “It will stop raining,” said Captain John Andre, waving his hand as though he wielded a magician’s wand, “at midnight.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Sam said loyally.

  “Do not hope, young Gilpin. Trust me! I have spoken with the Deity, and he has harkened to my prayer. The rain will stop and tomorrow will be a day of the most sublime sunshine.” Andre stared from the window across the wide lawn upon which, the next day, the Meschianza would blaze: “Plumes!” Andre said happily, sketching the air with his hands as he said the word to illustrate the size of the plumes. “Elaborate, beautiful, and magnificent plumes!”

  “High plumes?” Sam had looked after the Captain’s two horses during the winter and he was always amused by Andre’s enthusiasms.

  “Very high plumes,” the Captain said firmly. “Black, red, green, white, and high plumes! Yes, high. Plumes for the Knights of the Blended Rose and their sworn enemies, the Knights of the Burning Mountain. The hooves of their steeds will shake the very earth with their fierce pounding.” Andre imitated the pounding hooves with small clenched fists.

  Sam nodded through the window. “But they won’t get under those arches, sir. Not with plumes on their hats.”

  “I have no doubt,” Andre said with a pained voice, “that when Almighty God suggested creating a heaven and earth, there was a gloomy angel who said it couldn’t be done. Of course they’ll get safely under the arch!”

  “Not unless they’re little plumes, sir. Or unless the knights duck.”

  “Knights don’t duck! They strut! And they wear huge plumes!” Andre’s hands again sketched his feathered fantasy in the air. “Enormous! Awesome!”

  Sam laughed. Captain Vane had ordered him to Walnut Grove and given instructions that Sam was to stay at the mansion to help Captain Andre with last-minute preparations for the grand Meschianza. And grand it would be. The guests would come by water, serenaded by bands and escorted by nymphs of the sea-green deep who would be tastefully posed on the prows of decorated longboats. On shore the guests would be squired up the sloping lawn to where they would watch a grand tournament between the two bands of knights, and only then, when the tilting was done, would the doors of the mansion be flung open for dancing and feasting. “Perhaps, sir,” Sam suggested, “the knights could carry their hats?”

  “Under their arms, you mean? Like ghosts carrying their severed heads?”

  “It will give you a chance to see their faces, sir.”

  “It would,” Andre allowed, though not with any enthusiasm. “But they have to carry shields, Sam, and lances!”

  “They could hang the hats from their saddlehorns?”

  “They’d fall off!” Andre, distraught at the image of tumbling plumes, stared from the ballroom’s shelter at the two offending arches. The one closest to the river was dedicated to Admiral Lord Howe and was decorated with Neptune’s trident and a model ship, while the closer arch, in tribute to the departing Commander-in-Chief, was festooned with unfurled colours, drums, piled arms, and was surmounted by the figure of Fame who tomorrow would bestow her fickle laurels upon Sir William. “I think they’re high enough,” Andre said. “I think you just take joy in filling me with gloom, you wretch.”

  “They’ll be tr
otting,” Sam said darkly.

  “Galloping, boy! These are knights, not farmers clumping to market.”

  “It’ll add another two feet to their height, sir. Up and down?” Sam gently imitated a riding motion.

  “I have ridden a horse,” Andre said with fragile dignity, then turned to scan the whole garden. “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! How could the man write such clichés?”

  There were no horses in sight. There were sailors building the scaffold on which some of the Meschianza’s fireworks would be arrayed, and soldiers who carried boards and trestles into the mansion, but there were no horses. “You could use little horses?” Sam suggested helpfully.

  Andre did not even bother to acknowledge the notion. “I shall prove you wrong, you wretched Gilpin. Find me a horse!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A large horse, mind! Not some spavined pony. Find me a horse fit for a Knight of the Burning Mountain. Fetch two, and we shall rehearse this wondrous pageant ourselves!” Andre flung an imperious finger towards the rain. “Hurry, Gilpin!”

  Sam hurried. He was looking forward to the Meschianza. Captain Vane was to be one of the Knights of the Blended Rose, in which obscure cause Sam had borrowed a cavalry breastplate, a dragoon’s helmet and had burnished both. A shield stood in Vane’s kitchen on which was painted a heart pierced by an arrow. In truth Sam was fairly sure that a plumed Captain Vane, and all the other knights, could negotiate the two arches, but both he and Captain Andre wanted to play at tilting, and so they had indulged in their disagreement which would mean Sam could spend the evening charging on Captain Vane’s stallion with a lance couched in his arm.

  Sam walked the length of Second Street, turned left on to Race, and felt the familiar pang as he passed the synagogue. The clocks in a watchmaker’s shop told him it was twenty past six, and he hurried his pace so there would be time to couch the twin lances before darkness spoiled the enjoyment.

  The door to the Lutheran church stood ajar. Sam pushed inside and clicked his tongue in his customary greeting to the horses. Their long faces turned towards him, then reached out as he walked up the aisle. He took off the sling on which his bayonet was scabbarded, and which always encumbered him when he saddled horses, and hung it over the stallion’s door. Then he unlooped the stallion’s headrope and stroked the white blaze. “You’re going to be a knight’s charger, boy.”