‘No, sir. You have visitors.’
Four people waited for MacLea in the gaolers’ office: Alec Murray, Julius Kramer, John Beverley Robinson and Josephine. He had not seen her since the day of the wedding, and now her face was like an explosion of sunlight in the room. Still weak from his fever, he felt his head spin a little.
Robinson cleared his throat. ‘Captain MacLea, I have brought orders for your release. You are a free man.’
He had to say it twice before MacLea understood him. ‘What has happened?’ the captain asked.
‘Your loyal friends refused to abandon you,’ Robinson said. ‘They continued to investigate, and this morning they finally uncovered the name of Polaris.’
‘James Boydell,’ said MacLea.
All four stared at him. ‘You kept that quiet,’ Murray said.
‘I only worked it out after I had been captured. I’ve been a damned fool, Alec. The evidence was there all along. Remember when we were trying to get to Sir George Prévost, and he fell and twisted his ankle?’
Murray nodded. ‘A ruse,’ he said. ‘He invented the injury so he could stay behind and make contact with the Americans. He told them we knew about the ambush, and they turned back.’
‘He also told them when and where to find us in Ogdensburgh,’ MacLea said.
Murray frowned. ‘But Sir George hadn’t yet decided to attack the town. He only did so that evening.’
‘Boydell may have put the idea into his head. Or he was intending to suggest we launch a clandestine raid of our own to snatch Dunne, and then decided to use Red George’s attack as cover. But the result was the same: Dunne was killed before he could talk to us, and I was taken.’
‘There is more to it than that,’ said Josephine. ‘Now that we know the truth, so many things that were puzzling seem to fall into place. Your seemingly chance encounter with Calder at Frenchman’s Creek: Boydell was there to make certain you believed Calder’s story, and help him get away afterwards. And his arrival at the church just after I had been attacked. He was passing by, he said, which is quite plausible, but he told us this before anyone asked him. I wondered why.’
‘How did you discover it was him?’ MacLea asked.
‘Your friends found a witness,’ said Robinson. ‘Mrs Dunne. She also confirmed that you were the subject of an elaborate and detailed plot involving Polaris, Elijah Dunne and other agents including Calder, all acting under the direction of Colonel Beauregard. That, plus evidence recovered by Mr Kramer from Boydell’s house, is enough to accuse him and exonerate you.’
MacLea looked at Kramer.
‘I called at Mr Boydell’s house this morning,’ the Austrian said. ‘Both he and his wife were out, so I waited a few moments and then let myself in without disturbing the servants. I found a strongbox hidden in the floor of the library. It took a long time to break into it, and I daresay only an agent of my skill and experience could have done so. Inside, I found a code book, and also a laissez-passer allowing Mr Boydell to travel freely in American territory. It was signed by Colonel Peter S. Beauregard of the US Army Ordnance Survey.’
‘Where is Boydell now?’ asked MacLea.
‘We don’t know,’ said Robinson. ‘I have requested troops to help us search for him.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘She is not at home either. One of my constables is waiting at the house, with orders to inform me as soon as she returns.’
MacLea nodded. ‘What about the assassin? It wasn’t Dunne; Madame Lafitte shot the killer, and Dunne was unwounded. So for that matter was Boydell. Clearly it is not Boydell himself, but it must be someone close to him.’
‘Mrs Dunne refused to say who it was,’ said Josephine. ‘She had been quite calm up to that point, but suddenly she was absolutely terrified. It was the devil, she kept saying, the devil incarnate.’
‘That isn’t much to go on,’ said Murray.
‘I know,’ said Robinson. ‘Nevertheless, we will do our best to find him.’
‘Is Mrs Dunne under guard?’ MacLea asked.
Murray nodded. ‘Thomas and the boys are watching the house. Madame tried to persuade her to come away, but she refused to leave— John, for God’s sake!’
Weakened by fever and confinement, MacLea’s knees had begun to buckle. Murray stepped forward and caught him under the arms, and he and Josephine helped him to a chair. ‘Can we get him out of here?’ asked Murray. ‘That mob outside haven’t heard the news yet, and they are still calling for his head.’
‘We’ll take him to Pine Grove,’ said Josephine. ‘He will be safe there. Mr Robinson, if we might borrow your coach?’
‘Of course. I will speak to the crowd also, and announce Captain MacLea’s innocence. Hopefully that should cause them to disperse. Captain MacLea, you must rest. Leave everything to us.’
‘I don’t seem to have much choice,’ said MacLea weakly. ‘Mr Robinson, I hate to keep repeating myself, but the American fleet could arrive at any moment. Is anything being done to prepare the defences?’
‘The militia have been called out,’ said Robinson, ‘and General Sheaffe has begun to make preparations. But our defences are not strong.’
The young attorney general hesitated. ‘I wish to apologise,’ he said. ‘I should not have doubted you. I let Boydell persuade me, and I was utterly wrong. I hope one day you can find it in yourself to forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ said MacLea. ‘Boydell deceived everyone, myself most of all. You did your duty, sir, as I did mine. The past is behind us. Let us look now to the future – assuming we still have one.’
* * *
On Duchess Street, Abel Thomas and his men stood watch on the Dunne house. Miller, Croghan, Appleby and Carson observed the rear gate, while Thomas and the others covered the street. The day was cloudy, the air cool, with a strong wind coming in off the lake. The corporal was nervous and fidgety. The wind, he knew, could be bringing the American fleet straight towards them.
Like everyone in York, he knew how weak the defences were, and how strong a force the Americans would bring. He was not afraid for himself; he had been through many forms of hell in his young life, and battle held no terrors for him. But he liked this country. He had not always been made welcome here, since his arrival as a runaway slave, but he had found a measure of freedom. He was ready to defend his adopted homeland; he just wished they had a few more men and guns to do it with.
‘When do you reckon we’ll see the cap’n again?’ asked Hill.
‘Mr Murray said he was going straight to Mr Robinson,’ said Thomas. ‘They should have let him out by now.’
‘He is sick, though,’ said Schmidt. ‘Or at least he was. So they say.’
‘Let’s hope he’s back on his feet again soon,’ said Thomas, looking at the sky and the hurrying clouds. ‘We’re going to need him.’
Inside the house, a woman screamed.
‘Come on!’ said Thomas sharply, and he ran for the house, the others following.
The front door was wrenched open and the housekeeper stood in the doorway, pale and shaking, her apron covered with blood. ‘Help me!’ she cried. ‘Help!’
‘What is it?’ asked Thomas.
‘It’s my mistress! She’s in the drawing room! She’s… She’s…’
‘Show us,’ said Thomas.
The housekeeper hurried into the drawing room, Thomas and the rest following. They could smell the blood as soon as they entered. Mrs Dunne sat in her chair, her head lolling to one side. The front of her black gown was covered with sticky blood. She had been stabbed in the heart.
‘Oh Christ,’ said McTeer. ‘Mr Murray isn’t going to like this.’
They heard a soft thump: the housekeeper, fainting and falling to the floor. ‘Tend to her,’ Thomas said sharply to McTeer. ‘The rest of you, search the house… What was that?’
They had all heard the soft click of the front door closing. They ran back through the hall and outside, but by the time the
y reached the street, there was no one to be seen.
* * *
The clothes MacLea had been wearing since his capture stank of the gaol. Angelique Givins’s servants drew him a bath and brought him a robe, and after he had bathed and washed away the grime, he was shown to a bedroom where he could rest. He asked after Josephine, but was told she had gone back to town to join the search for Boydell. Too weak to do anything else, he stretched out on the bed and slept the day through.
It was evening before Josephine returned. She came into the bedroom bearing a bowl of soup, and it was the smell of this that woke MacLea. He lay for a moment and gazed up at her in the lamplight. ‘You look like an angel,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘The Madonna of the Potager,’ she said. ‘Sit up, my dear, and eat.’
He sat up and took the bowl, and began to eat slowly. ‘Will Mrs Givins mind you being alone in my bedroom?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Givins doesn’t give a fig,’ said Josephine. ‘John, I’m afraid there is bad news. Polaris’s assassin has killed Mrs Dunne.’
MacLea stared at her. ‘I thought the men were guarding the house.’
‘They were. We think someone was already in there when they arrived. Mrs Dunne had been dead for some time before the housekeeper discovered her and called Corporal Thomas for help. While the men were inside with the body, the killer slipped out and fled.’
‘Could it have been Boydell himself?’
‘Possibly. We don’t know. Sheaffe sent a file from the Royal Newfoundland Fencibles to help with the search. They have combed the town thoroughly, but found no sign of him.’
‘He will have anticipated this,’ said MacLea. ‘He has plenty of hiding places, I am sure… But why kill Mrs Dunne now, when he has already been exposed? That is sheer vindictiveness.’
‘He may also have wanted to eliminate another witness,’ said Josephine. ‘Mrs Dunne knew more than she told us. I’m quite certain she knew who the assassin was, for a start. And Robinson’s men have tracked down and arrested some of the bully boys who attacked Charlotte and myself. They have also confessed to being the ones who tried to kill you at the shinney match. They were paid by Dunne, but it was Mrs Dunne who brought them the money. There may still be other secrets that Polaris desires to protect.’
‘Did Robinson ever find Patience Boydell?’
‘Yes, she returned home around midday, and he went at once to interview her. She refused to believe the accusations against her husband and accused Robinson of fabricating them. She is threatening to write to Sir George Prévost to demand an enquiry into Robinson’s conduct. If she knows anything at all about her husband’s activities, she is not saying.’
‘The loyal wife… What about the town, and the fort? Is Sheaffe preparing the defences?’
‘He is doing what he can, but he has almost nothing to work with. There is plenty of powder and shot in the magazine, but half the cannon are unserviceable, and there are only scraps of troops: two companies of the 8th Foot, a company of the Royal Newfoundlands, a part company of the Glengarry Light Infantry, and a few hundred militia. We could use Captain Derenzy’s men.’
Derenzy’s company had been left behind in Kingston, resting after Sackett’s Harbor. ‘Poor Derenzy,’ said Josephine. ‘He came back to York to enjoy his belated honeymoon, only to find the town in turmoil and his father-in-law dying.’
MacLea looked up from his soup bowl. ‘Dying?’
She nodded. ‘His heart is giving out at last. He has a few days at most. John, I can see in your face what you are thinking. Representing you before Sheaffe and Robinson may have strained his heart and hastened his end, but he has no regrets. He is deeply fond of you, and proud to have been of service.’
MacLea set the soup bowl aside. ‘I don’t deserve my friends,’ he said.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Josephine. ‘Lie down now, my dear.’
‘I have been resting all day.’
‘Then you must rest some more.’ Still fully dressed, she lay down on the bed beside him and drew him into her arms, kissing him softly. ‘Sleep,’ she whispered. ‘Sleep, my love. You have guarded me so well. Now it is I who shall hold you safe.’
* * *
The distant boom of a cannon echoing through the forest brought MacLea awake. He sat for a moment listening. Outside, the first pale light of dawn was stealing through the trees.
The cannon sounded again. He stumbled out of bed, and Josephine sat up quickly. ‘What is it?’
‘The alarm gun,’ said MacLea. ‘The Americans are here.’
She stared at him, and he saw the remembered fright in her eyes. ‘Are you well enough to go?’
‘Sick or well, I must go. I need some clothes.’
‘I had your bags sent over from Whitworth’s. Everything is in the dressing room.’
He dressed quickly in his familiar rifle-green uniform and then hurried back into the bedroom and kissed her. ‘I will return,’ he said. ‘I don’t know when, but I will.’
‘I know,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘You always do. May God go with you, John.’
Downstairs, he found Givins in his red and white uniform, buckling on a sword. ‘I need a weapon,’ MacLea said.
‘Take a musket from the rack in the hall. I’ll find you some cartridges when we get to Sekahos. His fellows are camped not far away.’
The Mississaugas were armed and waiting when they arrived. ‘Les américains arrivent,’ said Sekahos. Like all his men, he had painted his face for war with streaks of vermilion and black. ‘My scouts saw three ships out beyond Gibraltar Point. I think they intend to land in the woods west of the fort, somewhere along the shore of Humber Bay.’
MacLea nodded. ‘Once they have enough men ashore, they’ll advance east and roll up the defences. What are your orders, Major Givins? You’re in charge this time.’
‘Hold them off for as long as we can and wait for help to arrive,’ said Givins.
They ran through the trees towards the lake. The first ships had already dropped anchor at the mouth of the bay, and boats were creeping across the water, oars dipping and flashing in the morning light. They were crammed full of green-coated soldiers. ‘Riflemen,’ said Sekahos, and he touched the rosary at his neck. ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena,’ he whispered.
‘Major Forsyth,’ murmured MacLea. ‘We meet again.’
Crouching among the trees and undergrowth along the lakeshore, Sekahos and his men opened fire. Muskets boomed across the water, and white smoke spurted into the air. In response, the boatmen increased their stroke, driving their oars hard into the water, and in the bow of each boat, riflemen began firing back. Bullets whickered in the air or thudded into the trees. Branches bearing green buds showered down around them. One of the warships swung around, and the cannon in its bow boomed and belched a great cloud of smoke.
Men were hit in the boats, sagging back or falling over the gunwales into the lake, but two of Sekahos’s men were down too. The ancient muskets of the Mississaugas were no match for Harper’s Ferry rifles in the hands of trained marksmen. ‘There’s too many of them,’ Givins shouted over the roar of gunfire. ‘Fall back into the woods.’
The Mississaugas slipped back through the trees, taking up fresh positions and opening fire again as the first boats ran ashore and the riflemen leaped out. MacLea saw Forsyth leading his men through the shallow water and snapped off a shot at him. The musket ball whizzed past Forsyth’s ear; the major looked up and saw MacLea, and raised his rifle. MacLea ducked behind an oak tree, hearing the bullet smack into the bole a split second later. When he looked again, Forsyth was gone.
More men came ashore, and still more. The riflemen began to push forward through the trees, some of them falling, but the rest pressing on. The Mississaugas fought desperately, but every time they made a stand, the Americans curled around their flanks and drove them back. Behind them, more boats drove through the water and a fresh wave of troops came ashore, blue-coated regular infantry who formed up and began marching
east.
‘Here comes General Sheaffe!’ shouted Givins. ‘Huzza for the regulars!’ He whooped and the Mississaugas set up their screaming war cries, but the thunder of gunfire almost drowned them out.
MacLea looked through the trees and saw the column of British infantry coming on hard and fast, the grenadiers of the 8th Foot in the lead, colours waving in the wind, fifes skirling and drums rattling, muskets hammering out steady volleys as they advanced. The Royal Newfoundlands were there too, and the Glengarry Light Infantry, screaming their own war cries, and the American line began to sag backwards. Sudden hope sprang in MacLea’s mind, but then he heard a cold voice shouting, audible even over the thunder of gunfire. Something unpleasant went tingling down his spine.
‘Stand fast, Fifteenth!’ shouted General Pike. ‘Hold the line!’
The Americans stood firm once more, firing back steadily, muskets belching flame and smoke as they traded blow for blow with the redcoats. Out on the lake more warships joined in, their cannon raking the British ranks with iron shot. The leading British company, under fire from land and lake, wavered and then crumpled, its men fleeing back through the trees, leaving their dead and wounded on the ground. The rest of the British column began to retreat.
Running through the trees, MacLea found Givins. ‘Sheaffe has been driven back. We must fall back too, before they surround us.’
Givins nodded, and then gave a shout of pain as a rifle bullet smashed into his ribs. ‘Christ!’ he cried, dropping his musket and clutching at the wound. Blood began at once to wash through his fingers.
‘Get out of it,’ MacLea said. ‘I’ll cover you.’ He knelt behind another tree, loading his musket, raising up and firing at the oncoming Americans, then ducking down to load again as another volley ripped through the air around him. Again and again he fired, ducking back through the trees as the Americans came closer, trying desperately to hold them off.
He was down to his last two cartridges. He would have to make a run for it; he only hoped he had the strength to do so.
The Hunt for the North Star Page 36
