Mistress Firebrand

by Donna Thorland

  He reached out to touch a lock of her hair. Jenny shrank back and Fairchild’s hand shot out.

  “Enough, Dyson.” The officer who had entered the wrecked church was tall, fair haired with blue eyes, and remarkably handsome in a disheveled, louche sort of way—but Jenny did not like the look of him either. He now nodded to acknowledge Fairchild. “Courtney.”

  “Call your dog off, Caide,” Courtney responded. “The girl is my mistress’s niece, and I’ll kill any man who lays a hand on her.”

  “Fair enough,” said Colonel Sir Bayard Caide, although he did not seem to care very much one way or another. “Understood. I have no interest in the girl myself. André asked to borrow my barracks and my man Dyson, and I was happy to oblige. But I’m not partisan enough to meet anyone at dawn in a dispute over the details.”

  That was when Caide offered them the vestry and locked them in.

  When they were alone, Jenny said, “I am so very sorry for all of this. It is my fault. If I had never written to Burgoyne, she would still be here.”

  Fairchild’s face, always so boyish, looked drawn, haunted. “Never apologize for your choices, or your ambition, Jenny. It is a quality you take from Frances. If you had not been talented and ambitious, she would never have come back to America for you, and she and I would never have met.”

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “First, I will see you free of this place and settled as Frances would have wanted.”

  “Major Fairchild, I am guilty. I am Cornelia. André has irrefutable proof. I do not see how there is a way out for me.”

  “Severin Devere is resourceful. You’ve no idea. He will think of something.”

  It was a pleasant fantasy. She would pretend to believe it for now. “And then what will you do?” she asked.

  “I shall call John André out, and I will kill him.”

  * * *

  Devere did not return until morning, and although he put a brave face on it, she knew that her situation was dire. He accompanied a small detachment of redcoats sent to transfer her to more suitable accommodations. The man known as Butcher Caide was entirely indifferent to their departure, but she could feel Dyson’s narrowed eyes on her back as she was marched out of the church, and she could hear him saying something crude about clarifying the “real” color of her hair.

  They took her to the Sugar House, which had been fitted up as a Rebel prison, and here Devere counted out more guineas than Jenny had ever seen all in one place so that she might have a private cell, and that Fairchild might remain with her. Severin also promised to send Margaret to her.

  “General Howe,” he explained, “wants to send you north to Burgoyne.”

  “Why the devil would he do that?” asked Fairchild.

  “Because he thinks she is his mistress.”

  “Why does he imagine that?” Jenny asked.

  “Because I persuaded him of it. It is a necessary fiction. As long as Howe believes it, he dare not hang you. But I very much fear that Burgoyne will. We must make our escape en route. It will not be easy. They are sending us north with reinforcements for Jack Brag’s Albany campaign. We will bide our time and seize the best opportunity that presents itself.”

  * * *

  Devere saw her settled in the Sugar House. He wished he could stay longer, comfort her for the loss of her aunt, but time was short now.

  Fairchild agreed to put off calling out John André to remain with Jenny. Severin knew he would have to take some more permanent measure to prevent that duel from ever happening—he did not like his friend’s odds in such a contest—but he had a few calls to pay first.

  Severin saw the wife of his man of business first, because money would be needed. Then he went to call upon James Rivington.

  Two years earlier Isaac Sears and the Liberty Boys had stolen all of his type and run Rivington out of town. Severin had never ascertained whether the attack had been genuine—and Rivington a true Tory at the time—or a blind engineered by Washington to give credence to his printer’s cover as a loyalist, but Rivington had come back and reopened his coffee shop as soon as Howe had entered the city, and was even now advertising that his new press would be available to print all manner of handbills, advertisements, and of course newspapers soon. He had not advertised that he was printing Rebel propaganda on a secret press in his basement.

  The hour was early and the coffeehouse not yet open for business, but the door was unlocked and Severin found the man himself behind the counter grinding beans.

  “I have come to inquire about the printing of a pamphlet,” said Severin.

  “My new press has not yet arrived from England,” said the dapper Rivington pleasantly. “I will begin taking orders as soon as it is delivered.”

  “It is not your new press I am interested in,” said Severin. “It’s the one you used to print Jennifer Leighton’s Braggart Soldier.”

  Rivington’s hand on the grinder stopped moving. He looked at Severin’s scarlet regimentals and lied smoothly. “I’m afraid you must have me confused with another printer.”

  “I do not, sir. You are a double agent. You have been selling information to both sides for so long that few know, or particularly care, where your true allegiances lie. But I have been the purchaser, at second hand, of your wares in the past, and I will see you swing alongside Miss Jennifer Leighton if you do not do precisely as I ask.”

  Rivington considered and took off his apron. “What, precisely, do you want?”

  “Information and aid. The girl has been arrested. She will be sent north to Burgoyne, who will hang her. Your people got her into this mess. I want you to help me get her out.”

  “She knew the risks,” said Rivington coldly. “And she was recompensed for them.”

  “Not nearly so generously as you were, though,” said Devere. “What did Miss Leighton receive for her play? A penny on every pound you made? I wonder how much Washington believes she has been paid, and how much she really had of you. It can be a very profitable thing to have friends on both sides of a war, but a very dangerous one to have none at all.”

  “Your point is taken,” said Rivington. “I will do what I can.”

  “I am glad we understand each other. You will find out everything about this expedition that there is to know. The number of men, the size and number of guns we will be carrying, the names of the officers and their financial circumstances, the route to be taken. And after you have reported to me, you will relay the same information to General Washington.”

  It took Rivington three days to gather the intelligence that Severin wanted, much of it gleaned from talk overheard in his coffeehouse.

  “Howe,” said the printer, “wants to be seen to be supporting General Burgoyne without actually diminishing his own resources for his drive into Philadelphia. He has scavenged five guns from his brother’s ships, and if the navy did not want them you can be sure that they are not fit to fire. Neither does he want to part with a company of his soldiers—not even a company of Hessians—so he has thrown together a half-strength one of stragglers: men whose units were shattered at Bunker Hill and are too depleted to be re-formed. By sending these to Burgoyne, he saves the expense of their passage home. And he has taken the opportunity to empty his prisons as well. You will likely have thirty or forty men, a dozen of whom were set to be hanged for pillaging the inhabitants of New York. Thieves, murderers, and rapists.”

  “And the officers?”

  “There is an engineer going north with the guns, but he drinks and is not fit to command a digging party. John André has handpicked a lieutenant who knows the terrain to lead your expedition. David Jones. A loyalist from Fort Edward. He was hounded from his home by Rebels and has lost all his property so will have no sympathy whatsoever for the girl. Jones walked all the way to Montreal to join up with a loyalist regiment. He desires a place on Burgoyne’s st
aff, but he has a fiancée waiting for him in Fort Edward and, unfortunately, she has a brother who is an officer with the Continentals. So Jones has thus far found his path to advancement blocked. The girl, I’m told, is lively and from an honest family, and adjudged a great beauty in those parts on account of her uncommonly fine red hair.”

  Like Jenny’s copper locks. They would be shorn before they hanged her so the hair did not foul the rope. The thought nearly made Severin ill, and also angry.

  “I have drawn a map of what I surmise will be the route,” continued Rivington. “The guns will slow you down and Jones will have to keep tight discipline with so many likely deserters in his company. His troubles will only increase once you leave the settled areas. The scrapings of Howe’s army are all too likely to decamp into the wilderness. That will be your best opportunity.”

  “Copy it out and send it to Washington, and tell him that we will be ready to take advantage of any aid he can furnish.”

  “And if no aid is forthcoming?”

  “I suggest you be exceptionally persuasive,” said Devere. “If Miss Leighton hangs, sir, I promise you one thing: that you will follow her to the gibbet shortly thereafter.”

  * * *

  Jenny had never spent a whole week locked in one room. It took that long for the artillery and a company of foot to be organized. During the day Courtney remained with her in the Sugar House. At night Severin came and slept beside her on the bed in her cell. At all times there were six dragoons posted outside her door, courtesy of John André.

  “Do you trust Rivington to deliver your message?” she asked.

  “No. Not entirely. That is why I sent one to my uncle as well.”

  She did not ask how likely he thought it that Washington would exert himself, and expend his scant powder, to save her.

  At the end of the week Lieutenant Jones called on them. He was much as Rivington had described: tall, dark haired, and humorless, a stolid frontiersman with shockingly weathered skin for his age. He was reluctant to meet Jenny’s eyes, and there was a wary prickliness about him, the kind that picked-on children acquire, that assumes every whispered word to be a slight. It was difficult to imagine him engaged to some frontier beauty with titian hair, but Jenny supposed that the qualities valued in the forests of New York were different from those prized in the quiet lanes of New Brunswick.

  Jones wore the uniform of a loyalist regiment unfamiliar to Jenny, ill-fitting and travel-stained cream and yellow wool. She knew from Devere that Jones had been loosely attached to Burgoyne’s staff and had carried the general’s dispatches south, and had been ordered to return with men and guns.

  An outright refusal from Howe might not have reflected poorly on Jones. Returning with a half dozen rotting naval cannon—which would probably kill their crews when fired—and a small band of criminals and demoralized men who had lost most of their friends at Bunker Hill, most certainly would. In short, Lieutenant Jones was not a happy man, and Jenny’s presence made him only more unhappy.

  On the morning of their departure she was led out to the carts under guard and Jones ordered her shackled to one of the cannon.

  Devere protested.

  “I am not under your authority, Colonel,” said Jones, without even a hint of sympathy. He pocketed the key to Jenny’s irons. “I have been given a regrettable task and, frankly, dealt a very bad hand.” He looked at the men, who appeared orderly enough for the moment, but sullen, and certainly no credit to the British army. “But I know my duty, sir. And my orders are plain. The girl will be chained to the guns at all times. And if she runs, she’ll be shot.”

  Thirty-five men, three carts, a dozen horses, Jenny, and Devere started north on a bright June morning. Devere stayed close, walking alongside her cart, talking to her of the passing country, of trivial, pleasant things—speaking to her in lower tones whenever he was certain they would not be overheard.

  At the Sugar House he had brought her new clothes for the journey, two heavy linen petticoats and a jacket in dark brown cotton. “The colors will blend into the forest when we make our escape. There is scrip sewn into your jacket, coins spaced inside the hem of your skirt. I will carry weapons enough for the pair of us, once we have broken free. Keep a little food in your pockets at all times—in case we have to take our chances and leave our packs behind.”

  He was indeed carrying weapons enough for the two of them, but they were different from what he had armed himself with aboard the Boyne or what he had carried the night the dragoons had stormed the old Dutch church. He wore the regimental coat she despised, but this was over buckskin leggings and a simple linen shirt. He carried a single pistol, a long rifle, and two knives, including the quilled blade she had tucked in his pocket in the basement at John Street. But no sword: in its place hung a steel-and-hickory tomahawk.

  In the Sugar House, lying in Severin’s arms at night, feeling the strength of his body and his resolve, she had begun to believe they would be able to do it—to simply bide a while with their escort and then slip free. But then Lieutenant Jones had shackled her to the guns.

  “It is a simple lock to pick,” Devere had assured her in quiet tones when no one else could hear. “Jones will be on his guard at first, and the men will act disciplined enough for a time, but that will not last.”

  The first night they were able to break their march at an inn and Jones ordered Jenny chained in the cellar and set six men to guard her. Two of her keepers smirked at the prospect and Jenny felt sick with fear, but Devere brought her bedding from his pack and slept beside her through the night.

  This proved a wise precaution. The second night they stopped at a farm, where Jones was forced to pay the farmer damages after two of his soldiers broke into the man’s chicken coop and stole a hen and some eggs. The third night the company slept in a drafty barn, and there was nothing to steal. But on the fourth, they stopped at another inn, and there was almost a shooting—four of the redcoats intercepted the innkeeper’s daughter on her way back from the necessary and her father had to cow the villains with a leveled fowling piece.

  After that Devere rarely left Jenny’s side, and made it very clear to the men who guarded her that any importunity would be answered. One ill-shaven, bandy-legged soldier nursed a sore jaw for days . . .

  Lieutenant Jones, who could scarcely afford to pay off every inn keep and farmer between New York and Albany, did his best to maintain order, but as Devere had anticipated, he quickly gave up trying to prevent the petty thievery that was second nature to a full third of his men.

  They were three weeks on the road, and Jenny knew that if help did not arrive soon, it would not be coming at all. Devere had been honest with her about that. They had discussed it, and they were resolved. If no aid came, he would have to take his chances overpowering Jenny’s guards at night.

  Six men were very bad odds. Jenny would need to distract them, and that meant taking desperate measures. If she lured two of them close, he might handle the rest, but she was shackled and would be able to do little if anything to defend herself when the duped men realized what she and Severin were about.

  Neither of them was eager to put the plan into action, but it must be soon. A few days at most.

  They were crossing a ford when rescue arrived, the water only knee-deep but the streambed slick and treacherous. Lieutenant Jones was wise enough to have the horses led across—indeed, was himself leading the pair of the gun cart Jenny rode—but the middle of a rocky stream was an impossible position to defend. Which was why, of course, the Rebels had chosen this spot for their attack.

  Bullets struck the water, splashing like skipping stones all around her. The report of nearby rifles was almost deafening. Jenny put her head down, but, shackled to one of the guns, she could not scramble behind a cart for cover as the soldiers did.

  Jones cried out, shot through the hand, blood pouring between his fingers. The horses reared
and tore the reins from him. They whinnied and plunged toward the bank. The gun cart surged ahead, throwing Jenny against the running board. The vehicle struck a stone and she was hurled back onto the two guns laid side by side in the cart bed. The wheel broke and the bed tilted dangerously. The guns rolled, winding Jenny’s chain like a capstan, and the heavy cannon burst through the side rail and plunged into the water, taking her with them.

  She scrabbled to stay on top of the rolling guns lest her arms or legs be crushed between the barrels, but her gown became soaked instantly and weighed her down. She tried to raise her hands, but they were anchored to the cannon, and it was a struggle to keep her head above even the shallow water.

  Then Devere was at her side, holding her up, searching frantically for the fastening of her shackles, lock picks in his hands.

  “It is wedged between the guns,” she said, taking deep breaths of air while she yet could. This was their chance. This was their rescue . . . and they were not going to make it.

  “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “There must be a way.”

  Ahead of them in the streambed Jones was barking orders and the company was regaining some order of discipline. His men lined up behind the carts and began to return fire. The shots from the tree line slowed, then stopped, and the attack was over.

  * * *

  Severin was still in the water at Jenny’s side, struggling to get her free, when silence fell. Lieutenant Jones splashed through the stream—mouth set in a grim line and stricken hand a bloody mess—to regard Jenny and the guns with stony resignation.

  In the chaos of the fight, four men had been killed, three injured, and six gone missing—deserted, no doubt. And more would have been lost if Jones had not been an experienced frontiersman, used to fighting over rough terrain and accustomed to ambushes. It took a dozen of the remaining soldiers to shift the guns and free Jenny. The additional weight on the two intact carts slowed their progress to a crawl, but Jones insisted that they press on through the moonlit night to the next hamlet marked on his map. He ordered one of his injured men to ride in the cart with Jenny and announced quite loudly that, if they were attacked again, she was to be shot.