The old woman cackled again. ‘Well, you can try knocking on Squire Wilson’s door. But I don’t think you’ll get any answer.’
‘Why not?’
‘He sent all his family down to Montreal when the war started. Servants too. Himself, he comes and goes. Sometimes he spends a few nights there, but mostly he’s travelling.’
‘Where does he go?’
‘Couldn’t tell you.’ The old woman stared at him. ‘If you’re not going to marry me, you’d better not hang around my doorstep. Folks will start to gossip.’
MacLea smiled and bowed again and returned to his men. ‘That’s Wilson’s house,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
The wind had increased in force, and freezing rain lashed their faces. Despite the old woman’s opinion that the house was probably empty, they approached with caution, spreading out and moving carefully across the fields. But all the windows were shuttered and dark, and there was no sign of movement around the barns and stable.
The front door of the house was locked. MacLea tried the lock with the point of his bayonet, but Hill came up beside him. ‘Allow me, Cap’n.’
A single kick from Hill’s sturdy boot burst the door open.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Murray asked.
‘Sunday school,’ said Hill, grinning.
Inside the house, all was quiet and dark. ‘Search the outbuildings, Alec,’ MacLea said. ‘Hill, Crabbe, come with me. The rest of you keep watch.’
Swiftly they searched the house. Wilson was clearly a prosperous man: the rooms were full of European furniture and American silver, and there was a fine porcelain dinner service on the sideboard, all covered with a fine layer of dust. Upstairs they found wardrobes full of clothing and linen, smelling strongly of damp. Wilson might have been an occasional visitor, but no one had lived here properly in a long time.
But if the rest of the house was cold and damp, the kitchen was warm. The ashes in the fire were still hot with glowing embers, and a silver coffee pot sat on the hearth. There were bread crusts and cheese rinds beside several cups on the table. Someone had made a hasty meal here, and then departed quickly. The coffee pot, when Hill picked it up, was still half full.
Alec Murray came into the kitchen wiping the rainwater from his face. ‘They were here all right. We saw where they stabled the horses, and we found an empty bag of oats.’
‘They stopped, rested the horses, fed the beasts and themselves, and cleared out again,’ said MacLea. ‘The question is, where did they go? Hill, if you’re thinking of stealing that coffee pot, don’t.’
‘Just havin’ a look,’ said Hill, examining the pot. ‘I been wonderin’ why a rich feller like Squire Wilson would risk everything by joinin’ up with the Yankees. Ain’t his bread got enough butter on it already?’ He tapped the pot. ‘And then I seen the hallmark on this pot, and I guess I know why.’
‘How do you come to know so much about hallmarks?’ asked Alec Murray. ‘Oh, let me guess. Sunday school.’
Hill grinned. Half the time he’s dancing with the fairies, MacLea thought; the first time I met him, his musket had no ramrod because he had left it in the barrel by mistake when he fired. Then he comes out with things like this.
‘What is significant about the hallmark?’ he asked.
Hill tapped the pot with a grimy finger. ‘This pot was made by Paul Revere, from Boston. Remember him, Cap’n? One of the Sons of Liberty, them fellers who helped start the American revolution, back in ’75. He rode from Boston to Lexington to tell the rebels the redcoats was comin’, and that’s when the fightin’ started. My pa was in Boston that day. He tellt me all about it.’
He set the pot down on the hearth. ‘Strange silversmith to choose, don’t you think, Cap’n? Unless maybe he fancies hisself as a new Paul Revere.’
A silence fell. ‘So Calder was right,’ said Murray. ‘Wilson is Polaris.’
‘Maybe,’ said MacLea. So much had happened since the dog had started barking at seven o’clock, and like all of them he was cold, tired, wet and hungry. He could see through cracks in the shutters that the light outside was almost gone. Winter darkness was descending.
‘We’ll billet here for the night,’ he said, ‘and pick up the trail in the morning. Wilson and his men can’t ride for ever; sooner or later we will catch up with them. Alec, post sentries. Hill, get that fire going again. Schmidt, see if there’s anything in the larder.’
* * *
They made a rough meal of bread and cheese and bacon, washed down with coffee, while their outer clothes dried on the hearth. Then they curled up and slept on the floor in front of the fire, its warmth a welcome relief after a day in the cold. Each time the sentries changed, MacLea rose and went out with them to see if anything was stirring in the night. But apart from the roar of the wind in the trees and the bubble of the river, all was quiet.
In the morning, the wind had died away, and the valley of the Chippawa was blanketed with fog and drizzle. Trees loomed like skeletons in the pre-dawn mist. They heated more coffee and made porridge, and as soon as it was light, MacLea and Murray went out to examine the tracks. Despite the rain, the trail was still plain to see, heading upriver.
‘Wherever they are, they’re not far away,’ Murray said. ‘Even if they left here at midday yesterday, they only had about four hours of daylight. And the horses will be tired.’
He nodded towards the surrounding forest. ‘We’re almost at the edge of civilisation. Brown’s Bridge is only a couple of miles away, and after that there’s only the old forest track to Ancaster, and some Indian trails. I reckon they’ll have to abandon the horses if they go up there.’
MacLea nodded. ‘We’ll catch up with them today, I think.’
Something about his tone made Murray look at him. ‘What’s eating you, John?’
‘Several things,’ said MacLea. ‘If Wilson is Polaris, why did he come personally to meet Colonel Boerstler? Anyone with local knowledge could have guided the Americans up the Chippawa and across to Burlington. Everything we know about Polaris suggests that he likes to remain in the shadows, an unseen puppet master, pulling the invisible strings. Why expose himself now, when there was no need?’
‘Point taken,’ said Murray. ‘On the other hand, if Wilson is not Polaris, why did Calder claim he was?’
‘The obvious answer is to save his skin. But I wonder. I think something else is going on.’
‘What do you mean?’ Murray asked.
‘You said it yourself. Calder was soused in rum, and yet he sobered up remarkably quickly. Too quickly?’
Murray considered this. ‘Do you think someone is playing a game with us?’
‘I’m beginning to think it is possible,’ MacLea said grimly. ‘And there’s another thing. Givins was asking questions about Josephine.’
‘Ah,’ said Murray after a moment. ‘What sort of questions?’
‘He wanted to know if I had informed Sheaffe that she was a spy, and that she was working for us. I got the impression he wanted to tell Sheaffe himself. When I asked him not to, he agreed, but he was pretty damned reluctant. I’m worried he might change his mind.’
* * *
They set out through the fog and rain, following the washed-out tracks in the mud. The trail was becoming fainter now, but Miller and Croghan had grown up in the wilderness around Markham, north of York, and few white men alive knew more about tracking than they did. They passed more farms, some silent and cold, some with smoke curling from their chimneys. Beside them, the river bubbled in its bed.
Shapes ahead in the fog: a wooden bridge over the river, and beyond it a cluster of log houses and barns. ‘Brown’s Bridge,’ said Croghan. ‘I was here a few years ago. There were only a couple of houses here then.’
‘And now there are six,’ said McTeer. ‘That’s progress for you.’
The rain was falling harder now, and water dripped steadily from the rim of MacLea’s shako onto his face. He brushed it away. ‘
Which way do the tracks go?’ he asked.
Miller, kneeling down in the mud, raised his bandaged head. ‘They split up, Cap’n. Some have gone across the bridge. Looks they’re headed down Lundy’s Lane. The others have left the road and gone south.’
‘God damn it,’ said MacLea in frustration. He had not foreseen this; he had assumed that Wilson would keep his men together. ‘How many in each party?’
‘I reckon most of ’em went down Lundy’s Lane. I count only eight sets of tracks goin’ south.’
Lundy’s Lane was a wagon road running down to the Niagara, terminating at the escarpment near the great waterfall. ‘What’s south of here?’ MacLea asked.
‘Trees and swamp for twenty miles or so,’ said Croghan. ‘Then you get to Lake Erie.’
‘Maybe they’re making a run for the lake, sir,’ suggested Appleby.
Murray nodded. ‘They could be looking for a boat,’ he said. ‘But if Wilson is Polaris, he won’t be trying to flee the country, will he? Like you said, John, he’ll be trying to get back to his network.’
MacLea stared at the tracks in the mud for a moment, considering. McTeer touched him on the arm. ‘Captain,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re being watched.’
Someone was standing outside one of the cabins, a tall figure in a black hooded cloak, staring at them without moving. Shouldering his musket, MacLea walked slowly towards the figure. It stood silent, waiting for him. As he came closer, he realised to his mild surprise that it was a woman.
He stopped and bowed. ‘Good day to you, madam. Would you permit me to ask you a few questions?’
She was nearly as tall as himself. Her age was impossible to guess; her hair, twisted into two braids hanging down from under her hood, was iron grey, but the dark eyes on either side of a long aristocratic nose were alert and keen. She stared him for a long time without moving, and MacLea felt a sudden prickle of unease.
‘May I ask you some questions?’ he repeated.
‘You may ask,’ she said. ‘I will answer if I can.’
Her voice had the soft cadence of someone whose mother tongue was Iroquoian; MacLea knew Mohawks who spoke with a similar accent. ‘I am looking for a party of horsemen,’ he said. ‘They came this way, probably late yesterday afternoon. Did you see them?’
‘You are looking for George Wilson,’ she said.
MacLea paused. ‘How did you know?’ he asked. She continued to stare at him, saying nothing. ‘Was he there?’ he asked. ‘Wilson, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ the woman said.
‘You are certain it was him?’
She made a gesture of impatience. ‘I have known George Wilson for many years. My late husband’s farm was next to his. Do you wish to know where Wilson is?’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea, and waited.
‘He knows who you are, John MacLea,’ she said, ‘and he knows you are following him. He has gone south, into Canby Marsh. He is there now, waiting for you.’
‘How do you know my name?’ he demanded.
‘John Norton described you well,’ she said. ‘And I heard Wilson mention your name. One of his scouts recognised you when you followed him from Watersmeet.’
‘How many men does he have with him?’
‘There are eight men plus himself; nine in all. The rest have deserted him. He tried to persuade them to remain. “We must carry on with the plan,” he said. But they disobeyed him, and rode away down Lundy’s Lane to go back to their homes. Be warned, though. The men with him are not so weak-minded. They are loyal and will die for him.’
‘You heard and saw all this?’ MacLea asked.
The woman inclined her head. ‘They did not know I was there.’
He paused for a moment. ‘You have been very helpful. May I ask your name?’
‘Among my own people I am called Kanahstatsi. Your people know me as Rebecca Morningstar.’
MacLea bowed. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and turned and walked back to his men. He could feel her eyes on his back, but when he turned to look again, she had disappeared into the fog.
* * *
‘All right,’ said Murray. ‘What is their game?’
‘Surely you can guess,’ said MacLea. ‘Lure us deep into the forest and ambush us. Snow will come soon, and no one will find our bodies until spring. Wilson then makes his escape unmolested.’
‘Not if we ambush him first,’ said Abel Thomas.
MacLea nodded. ‘Exactly. Now listen, all of you. We need to take Wilson alive. Even if he is not Polaris, I am betting he can tell us who is.’
* * *
South of the river, the forests closed in. They pushed on through woods thick with undergrowth. The fog was thicker than ever, and through it a hard freezing rain fell, stinging their faces and slowly soaking through their overcoats. The trail was hard to follow at first, but after a time the ground grew boggy, with pools of stagnant water, and they could see the tracks of the horses more easily. In some places the unfortunate beasts had sunk up to their hocks.
‘They’ll not be able to ride much further,’ Murray said.
A mile on, they found the abandoned horses standing heads down, cold and exhausted. MacLea and Murray briefly searched the saddlebags, but found nothing except the remnants of a bag of oats. ‘Not far away now,’ said Thomas softly.
‘Miller, take the left,’ MacLea said. ‘Croghan, you go right. We’ll follow the main trail. If you see anything, come back and report at once.’
Slowly they stalked forward through the dark forest, watching and listening, muskets at the ready. The cold grew more intense, the rain chilling them to the bone. MacLea could barely feel his hands and feet, and he knew his men were suffering too.
The trees thinned out. Ahead lay dense stands of scrub willow, rooted in shallow water and slippery mud. Boot prints in the mud and the occasional broken branch showed them the trail. The fog was even thicker now, visibility less than a hundred yards, and still the rain lashed down, moisture beading on their clothing and running in drops down their faces. Around them, the red bark of the willows shone like tongues of flame in the fog.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee.
MacLea had heard the call of the little black-capped birds that lived in the Canadian forests a thousand times, but it still made him jump. He looked around, but could not see the chickadee or where the sound was coming from.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee…
From nowhere came a vision of Rebecca Morningstar’s face in the mist, the iron-grey braids, long nose and deep dark eyes, staring at him.
‘Halt!’ he hissed.
They waited, ankle deep in water, the fog swirling around them. More birds were calling now; in the middle distance, two crows were cawing. MacLea wiped the water from his face with a numb hand, straining his ears. He could hear nothing but the birds, but he knew danger was waiting up ahead.
A soft splash, a swirl of movement in the fog, and he turned sharply, but relaxed as he saw Croghan coming towards him. ‘What is it?’ he hissed.
‘They’re waitin’ up ahead, Cap’n,’ Croghan whispered. ‘There’s a little rise in the ground, covered by a stand of spruce. They’re in among the trees. I counted three, but I reckon the rest are there in the shadows.’
More movement: Miller, coming through the fog with the same report. ‘There’s a thick bank of willows off to the left, Cap’n. I reckon we can get around without bein’ seen. Then we could take ’em in the flank.’
MacLea nodded. ‘Alec!’ he whispered. ‘Pass the word. We’re going left. And quietly, on your life.’
The crows were still cawing. Suddenly a musket boomed, its report echoing like thunder across the fogbound marsh. Everyone froze for a moment, but then MacLea raised his hand and pointed forward, and they moved on. Firing at shadows, he thought. But they know we’re here. The birds have alerted everyone.
The report of the musket shot died away. Silence fell once more. Even the birds had gone quiet. Ignoring the rain and the cold and t
heir soaking clothes, the eleven men slipped quietly through the marshes, with Miller leading the way. The air was thick with fog and tension.
Suddenly Miller halted, crouching down and pointing. MacLea knelt beside him. Ahead, fifty yards away, a little island rose out of the marsh, crowned with the dark, fog-shrouded shapes of spruce trees. MacLea spotted a man huddled behind the nearest tree and made out two more further on. All were staring forward into the mist; no one had thought to watch the flank.
Amateurs, thought MacLea. He motioned with his hand, sending his men left and right, then raised his musket and flipped back the firing pan cover to make sure it was primed. Satisfied, he closed it quickly to keep out the rain, and waited, thumb resting on the hammer. A hiss from Alec Murray told him the men were in position.
Thumbing back the hammer, MacLea sighted on the closest man and fired. The musket bucked against his shoulder and belched smoke. Ten other muskets roared around him. Reloading swiftly, he saw his target down on his side, motionless. One of the others was hit too, staggering and sinking to his knees. More figures came running through the trees, one of them a tall man in a long overcoat and cocked hat. They raised their muskets and fired back, white smoke mingling with the fog, but a volley from MacLea’s men sent two more tumbling to the ground.
‘Wilson!’ MacLea shouted, reloading. ‘You’re outnumbered! Surrender!’
The tall man looked up sharply at the sound of his name. Spotting MacLea, he raised a long-barrelled pistol. MacLea ducked as smoke belched from its barrel; the ball whickered through the air above his head. The militiamen fired again, and another man dropped his musket and slumped over. A single report, a musket shot, and the tall man staggered, clutching at his back, and fell heavily to the ground.
‘God damn it!’ shouted MacLea. Rising from cover, he ran forward towards the fallen man. Two of the enemy swung their muskets towards him, but Miller and Croghan, reloading swiftly, made no mistake; two more musket shots crashed out and both men went down. From the corner of his eye MacLea saw the last man splashing heavily through the willows, trying to escape across the marsh, but Abel Thomas fired and the man pitched forward into the water.
The Hunt for the North Star Page 5
