* * *
They reached Elizabethtown the following evening and billeted at the inn, not far from the blackened, snow-dusted ruins of the barracks. Patrols of local militia guarded the roads, watchful in case the Americans should return. The village itself was silent, still recovering from the shock of the attack. The St Lawrence River, a broad white sheet of ice, lay just beyond the settlement. MacLea looked at the holes in the ice cut by fishermen and shivered a little.
‘What motivates a man like Dunne?’ Boydell asked. He and MacLea were alone in the common room; the rest of the party had gone to bed. ‘Why did he turn traitor?’
‘As a boy, he watched his father die and saw his mother attacked,’ said MacLea. ‘Quite understandably, he has been full of hatred ever since. Working for Polaris offered him a chance for revenge.’
‘If we can take Dunne, do you think he will tell us who Polaris is?’
‘I hope so. We have various forms of persuasion at our disposal.’
‘Such as?’
‘We could threaten to arrest his mother.’
Boydell stared at him. ‘By God! You play dirty, don’t you?’
‘I said threaten. I wouldn’t touch a hair on the lady’s head.’
‘No. I’m not sure I’d dare to either. I still don’t understand it, though. I get thoroughly fed up with our government from time to time, and I’m not the greatest admirer of either our lunatic King or his debauched son. But I have never been moved to rebel against them.’ He looked at MacLea. ‘You’re from the western Highlands. Some of your family must have been out in ’45.’
MacLea smiled. ‘Pretty much all of them were. My clan were Jacobites to a man and woman. I reckon some of them probably still are.’
‘Does that bother you? To know there are traitors in your family?’
‘Not at all. I don’t agree with them, but I admire their convictions, and their courage. The men who fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie were brave lads. Had they been better led, the course of history might have been quite different. I don’t know the answer to your question, James. Like you, I am not always satisfied, but again like you, I have never been minded towards treason. But who knows what goes on in the hearts and minds of our fellow men?’
‘Dunne tried to murder you. You feel no hatred towards him?’
MacLea shook his head. ‘I understand why he feels the way he does. Perhaps I even pity him, a little. The one thing I don’t understand is the glass harmonica. Killing your enemies is one thing. But to use that instrument to torment them before they die is quite another. I’ll never forget that sound as long as I live. Why did he do it?’
There was a long silence. The last embers of the fire popped a little, sending sparks floating up the chimney. ‘If we catch him, perhaps we will find out,’ said Boydell.
‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘If. As you said, it is still a long way to Prescott.’
* * *
They arrived at Prescott around noon the following day. The village consisted of a huddle of wooden houses on the bank of the river, with a long wharf extending out into the ice. Fort Wellington, a wooden stockade surrounding a blockhouse with a couple of six-pounder cannon, stood on a rise in the ground nearby, the Union flag fluttering stiffly in the wind.
‘Dunne? Yes, he was here,’ said Captain Sutherland, the Grenville militia officer who commanded the post. His voice was heavy with disgust. ‘He’s gone now, though.’
It was snowing heavily outside, fat white flakes thick in the air. During the last few miles of the journey, the horses had been up over their fetlocks in snow. ‘Where did he go?’ asked MacLea.
The militia captain pointed to the window. ‘See there?’
They looked out across the river to another huddle of houses on the southern shore half a mile away, a distant blur in the falling snow.
‘Ogdensburgh,’ said the captain. ‘New York State. That’s where Dunne is now. The dirty treacherous bastard just drove across the ice bold as brass. We saw the Yankees come out and make welcome, like they were expecting him.’
‘God damn it,’ said MacLea. ‘We’re too late.’
‘And right now, Dunne is over there telling Major Forsyth and his friends where to lie in wait for Sir George Prévost,’ said Derenzy. He turned to the militia captain. ‘Do you know where Sir George is?’
‘Not far away,’ said Sutherland. ‘An outrider came in this morning. We’re expecting him and his escort this afternoon.’
‘How big is the escort?’ asked Boydell. Like all of them, he looked tense and angry; the news of Dunne’s escape after the long journey was a bitter blow.
‘A company of the 8th Foot and another of Glengarry Light Infantry, with Red George in command,’ said Sutherland. ‘That should be enough.’
‘But Forsyth has an entire battalion,’ said MacLea. ‘We need to reach Prévost and warn him. Captain, can you find fresh horses for us?’
The militia officer shook his head. ‘There are none in the village. You could ask around some of the farms and see if they’ll lend you a plough horse or two.’
‘There isn’t time. Can you find us some snowshoes?’
* * *
The snowshoes were long wooden frames latticed with tight-strung strips of rawhide; the webbing supported the wearer’s weight and kept him from sinking into the snow. MacLea and Murray had used such footwear often, as had most of their men, and Derenzy was proficient; Boydell was a little more clumsy. ‘Stay here, James,’ MacLea said, strapping his snowshoes to his boots. ‘We can deal with this.’
‘No,’ said Boydell. ‘I’ve come this far. I’m not hanging back now.’
The snowflakes whirled and flew in their faces and clustered thickly on their cloaks. The only sound was the soft hiss of snowshoes gliding over the snow. Boydell stumbled several times, and once he fell heavily, but he scrambled up and rejoined them, swearing under his breath.
‘Save your energy,’ MacLea said. ‘We have company.’
He pointed through the falling snow. Dim shapes were coming across the frozen river, men in long greatcoats with shakos on their heads and rifles strapped across their backs. Like themselves, they were on snowshoes. ‘Jesus,’ said Murray. ‘There’s two hundred of them at least.’
‘Come on,’ said Derenzy. They hurried onward, panting through the scarves wrapped around their mouths and noses. MacLea could feel beads of sweat forming on his face and then freezing. His eyelashes were stiff and solid with ice. Out on the river, the Americans were coming on fast. Boydell tripped and fell again, but pushed himself to his feet and hurried after them.
‘They’ve spotted us, Cap’n,’ said Miller. Part of the American force, thirty or forty men, had detached itself from the main body and was coming straight towards them. An officer led them, waving a sword, and they could hear him shouting to his men to hurry. MacLea’s party raced on. Up ahead, a tree-clad point of land thrust out into the river, and they could see the shapes of islands in the ice beyond. The trees, MacLea thought, would be the perfect place to set up an ambush. Sir George Prévost and his escort would suspect nothing until they walked into the American trap.
Boydell fell again. ‘Oh Jesus!’ he cried.
The others halted. Boydell struggled to get up. ‘It’s my ankle. Christ, I think I’ve broken it.’
‘Schmidt, Crabbe, give him a hand,’ MacLea said. ‘Help him up.’
The two militiamen helped Boydell to his feet. He took a single step forward and then halted again, wincing with pain. ‘I’m a lame duck,’ he said. ‘Forget about me. Go on.’
The Americans were perhaps two hundred yards away; in a few moments they would be within rifle range. ‘We’ll carry you,’ said MacLea.
‘No! God damn it, John, you have to warn Sir George!’
‘I don’t leave men behind on a battlefield,’ MacLea said.
‘For God’s sake stop being so bloody heroic! If they catch me, what’s the worst that will happen? I’ll spend a few months in a Yankee cell unt
il I’m exchanged, and I’ll be home by spring. Go! Quickly, man, or they’ll take us all!’
‘He’s right, John,’ said Murray.
Behind them, a rifle fired, a dull report half muffled by the falling snow. MacLea clapped Boydell on the back and then motioned to his men. ‘Let’s go.’
Again they raced away through the falling snow. More rifles barked, and once a bullet kicked up a fountain of snow a few feet from MacLea. They reached the point and its stand of trees, and pushed on quickly through the dense undergrowth. Suddenly Croghan halted.
‘The Yankees,’ he said. ‘They’ve stopped.’
‘Look,’ said Derenzy. He pointed through the trees towards the white snowfield of the river. ‘They’re turning back.’
It was true. The main body of American riflemen had turned away and was retreating across the river. The detachment that had pursued them was falling back too. ‘What the hell?’ wondered Murray.
MacLea thought about Boydell, abandoned in the snow. ‘Schmidt, Crabbe, go back and see if they took Mr Boydell. If they didn’t, help him move if he can, and keep him warm if he can’t. We’ll find Sir George and send a rescue party.’
Schmidt and Crabbe saluted and hurried back through the trees. MacLea stood for a moment, watching the retreating Americans and frowning, and then once again motioned to the rest of the party to move on.
Twenty minutes later, they encountered the first forward scouts of the Glengarry Light Infantry, and a few minutes after that, they were in the presence of Sir George Prévost, the governor general of Canada. ‘Thank you for the warning, Captain,’ he said. ‘We’ll send a party to pick up your men, and I will hear your full report later. Very well, everyone, let’s get moving. I want to be in Prescott before nightfall.’
* * *
‘You say they were moving up to ambush us, spotted you and then suddenly turned back,’ said Sir George that evening. They were in the commander’s office in the blockhouse at Fort Wellington: Sir George and a few of his officers, Captain Sutherland, MacLea, Murray, Derenzy and Boydell, the latter sitting with his injured leg resting on a cushion. His ankle was not broken, but it was badly sprained and swollen.
‘They were within fifty yards of me,’ said Boydell. ‘I was hobbling along as best I could, knowing I didn’t have a hope of getting away but determined to at least put on a show, and then suddenly I looked over my shoulder and they were gone.’
‘Why did they retreat?’ asked Sir George. He was a tall, slightly fleshy man with a long nose and a hard, arrogant mouth, the impression of aristocratic command only slightly spoiled by the dewlaps falling over his collar.
‘We don’t know, sir,’ MacLea said. ‘It makes no sense to me.’
‘Let me hazard a guess,’ said Boydell. ‘They spotted us and assumed we were on our way to warn you, Sir George. They knew the element of surprise had been lost. Perhaps they didn’t know how large your escort was, and decided not to take a chance.’
‘Aye, but we’ll need to proceed carefully,’ warned one of the officers. He was a big man, with a shock of red hair and a bushy ginger beard, wearing the rifle-green uniform of the Glengarry Light Infantry. His name was Major George Macdonell, and he was known universally as Red George.
‘I know this man Forsyth,’ he said. ‘He’s a determined wee bugger, and he doesn’t like failing. He’ll try again.’
‘Not if we clean out their nest at Ogdensburgh first,’ said Prévost. ‘Forsyth has been a thorn in our side for too long already. Ambushing convoys, burning boats, and now this latest outrage at Elizabethtown. It’s too much. I want something done about it.’
There was a short pause. ‘Ye want to attack Ogdensburgh?’ enquired Red George.
‘Yes,’ said the governor general crisply. ‘That is exactly what I want.’
Red George’s beard split into an enormous grin. ‘Le Dia!’ he said. ‘Now ye’re talking my language.’
‘Teach Major Forsyth a lesson he won’t forget,’ said Prévost. ‘And there is also the matter of Dunne’s defection. You say he is in Ogdensburgh?’
‘He crossed over yesterday, sir,’ said Sutherland.
‘Then he won’t have gone far,’ said Prévost. ‘I want him brought back, put on trial and hanged, as an example to any others who might think of playing traitor.’
‘Sir,’ the militia captain said. ‘There’s a powerful lot of Yankee riflemen in Ogdensburgh.’
‘Then deal with them,’ Prévost said. ‘Macdonell, you’re the senior officer, so you’re in command. Captain MacLea, you’ll put yourself under Major Macdonell’s orders. Captain Sutherland, round up as many of the local militia as you can. You’ll go in at dawn tomorrow. Make it so.’
* * *
During the night, the snow stopped, the skies cleared, and the temperature plunged. Dawn was a cold orange line on the eastern horizon when the officers assembled once again in the blockhouse: Red George Macdonell and his lieutenants, the redcoat officers from the 8th Foot, Sutherland, MacLea, Murray and Derenzy. Everyone turned in surprise as the door opened and James Boydell walked in, wrapped in a heavy black cloak with a white militia armband on one arm and carrying a musket. He was limping heavily and clearly in pain, but there was no mistaking the determination on his face.
‘Apologies for my lateness,’ he said. ‘It took a damned long time to get my boots on.’
‘Are ye fit?’ demanded Red George.
‘I am,’ said Boydell. ‘And you’ll need every man you can find.’
‘Then you’re gey welcome, Mr Boydell. Join the party. Captain Sutherland, give us the details of the American defences, if you please.’
‘There’s an old fort on the eastern side of the town,’ said the militia captain, ‘and another newer one, Fort Presentation, on the left bank of the Oswegatchie River. The river empties into the St Lawrence just west of the town. There’s a battery with two guns in front of the old fort, and another gun near the mouth of the river, and then two more outside Fort Presentation covering the bridge over the river.’
Red George nodded. ‘Nothing we can’t handle,’ he said.
‘What’s our own strength?’ asked Derenzy.
‘Seventy-five men fit for duty in the Glengarrys, another seventy from the 8th Foot,’ came the response. ‘Captain Sutherland, how many militia can you muster?’
‘About fifty, near enough.’
‘So that’s nearly two hundred. Should be sufficient. The bad news is that it’s bloody cold out. Have your men check the locks of their muskets and make sure they haven’t frozen up. The good news is the cold has frozen the snow hard. We can run straight across the river and be on top of the Yankees before they know we’re coming.’
MacLea thought this was unlikely; the river was half a mile wide without even a suggestion of cover. He listened as Red George gave his orders. ‘The 8th Foot and the militia will cross lower down the river, and then come up and take the Yankees in the flank. The Glengarrys will go straight in from the front. MacLea, ye and your men will accompany us. As soon as we have disposed of Forsyth, we’ll do a house-to-house search for Dunne.’
‘May I make a suggestion?’ asked Boydell. ‘I visited Ogdensburgh on business several times before the war. That bridge over the Oswegatchie is the only road running out of town. If we seize that, we can prevent Dunne from escaping.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Red George. ‘MacLea, once we’re ashore, ye and your men will take the bridge and hold it.’
MacLea nodded. Red George looked around the room, beard bristling. ‘Now, ye all heard Sir George Prévost yesterday. Dunne is to be taken alive. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said a Glengarry lieutenant. The rest nodded.
‘Very well,’ said Red George. ‘Mackintosh, the whisky, if you please.’
A row of glasses was already laid out on the table. Mackintosh, the Glengarry lieutenant, produced a bottle of whisky from his cloak and began pouring tots. They raised their glasses and clinked the
m. ‘Sláinte,’ said Red George. He downed his whisky in a single gulp and slammed his glass down on the table. ‘Time to go,’ he said.
* * *
The eastern sky glowed crimson and rose, the stars fading out in the west. They assembled along the waterfront below Fort Wellington, the local militiamen looking apprehensive, the redcoats of the 8th Foot dressing ranks mechanically, the Glengarrys eager and restless, like thoroughbred horses preparing for a race. They were a fencible unit, but nearly all had served in the regular army, and they were fighting men born and bred. Red George Macdonell stalked along their ranks, checking to see that muskets were primed and claymores were loose in their sheaths. When he was satisfied, he walked out in front of his men and turned, cloak billowing around him, and drew his own immense sword, holding it over his head. The blade glowed with fiery light, reflecting the sunrise.
‘Are ye ready, boys?’ he roared.
‘Aye!’ shouted the Glengarrys with one voice. The local militia edged away a little, clearly not certain whether they were more scared of the Glengarrys or the Americans.
‘Then follow me! Fir air adhart, fir Gàidhelach! Bàs no buaidh!’
Roaring like a bull, Red George turned and began to run straight across the river towards the distant lights of Ogdensburgh. Yelling and screaming, the Glengarrys followed him.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Boydell to MacLea. ‘I think I’ve found someone even madder than you are.’
‘You could have stayed at home with your feet up,’ said MacLea. ‘Who’s the madman now? Come on, all of you!’
They ran, following the screaming dark wave of the Glengarrys, seeing the 8th Foot and the militia veering off to the left to come in on the American flank. The frozen crust of snow crunched under their feet and the cold air rasped in their lungs. The southern shore drew closer, and MacLea could see the white sheet of the Oswegatchie River running down to join the St Lawrence, and the blockhouse of Fort Presentation.
The Hunt for the North Star Page 30
