“I’ll not be givin’ ye that,” the man whispered as the effort to talk sapped his last strength. His skin was paling quickly and his lips were turning blue as his lungs filled with blood. He coughed once, a bright scarlet bloom of life burst from his lips and then he died.
Governour got to his feet and began to reload his rifle as if nothing untoward had happened. “Any more of ’em still have life in ’em?”
There were none.
“With luck, these will not be missed until tomorrow morning,” Governour said as his troopers began to drag the dead away. “Here, they have some weapons we need. Strip ’em of their guns and powder.”
Governour bent down to a dead horse and fetched off from the saddle a handsome pair of long-barreled dragoon pistols, which he presented to Lewrie. “You’ll find these shoot straighter than your own pistols, and you’ll need some extra weapons. That man will have powder, patches and ball on his corpse. The caliber will probably not fit your own.”
They recovered a round dozen saddle pistols, two pair of shorter pocket pistols, four French model 1777 cavalry musketoons, and a pair of .69 caliber St. Etienne muskets from the militia officer and his dead orderly, along with a welcome supply of dry powder, ball and flints. They had dried some of their own powder and cartouches, but more was always welcome since half the prepared rounds carried by each soldier had been soaked and rendered useless.
“What if they are missed, Governour?” Alan asked after he had found a pocket for all the iron he was collecting. “Wouldn’t they be due back with their units in the morning?”
“Three very junior officers and their orderlies wouldn’t be all that very important,” Governour told him. “They may peeve their commanders by not being present for the surrender parade, but no one would think to search for them until it’s all over. They’re off celebrating victory in their own style with complaisant ladies! They might send a lone rider with a message, but it’s a long way back to their positions at Gloucester, six miles, maybe further, because the road swings north to clear the swamps and marshes and goes above the shore of this Perrin River, and there’s no bridges or ferries. Might take a rider four hours on bad roads to come and go.”
“So if they had to be back by ten tomorrow morning,” Burgess said. “Seems a reasonable hour . . . no one would comment on their continued absence until two or three in the afternoon, if they sent a messenger for them right away. That would be the earliest he and they could return to Gloucester. And we could be gone by then.”
“What if we worked all night on the boats?” Governour asked Lewrie. “We could depart even sooner, could we not?”
“The tide would serve to get us out of the inlet,” Alan replied. “Besides, if the messenger and these poor souls don’t return by three or four, what would they do? Send another messenger? A troop of cavalry? More luck to them, ’cause we’ll be out in the marshes by five, and by the time they get here around six, we’ll be under sail.”
“But once they arrive at the house and speak to the Hayleys, our goose is cooked,” Governour said. “They could signal the French ships to send boats to cut us off. I’d really feel better leaving here tonight. Matter of fact, the more I think on it, it seems best.”
“But the leeboards aren’t ready,” Alan said.
“Hang your bloody leeboards,” Governour snapped.
“You cannot,” Alan said, over his unease at the slaughter, and in a position of authority and knowledge for once with the land officers. “Oh, we could pole out right now, but with provisions and all, we’d be overset within five miles. There’s the keels still to be fitted, and without them, we’re unstable as a cup-shot cow. And without the leeboards, we’ll make as much leeway as we do forward. How do we know how calm the bay will be, or what strength the wind? We have to finish the boats—it’s that or drown out there. And if you think the river was rough, just wait ’til we get out past Cape Charles and onto the ocean.”
Governour puffed up as though he was about to burst.
“Believe me, I want to be away from this shitten place as badly as any of you, but there’s simply no way,” Alan assured him.
“Work at night, then,” Governour demanded, adamant.
“By torch and firelight?” Alan asked.
“No, that would be even worse,” Governour said finally. “We would be sure to draw attention from the French ships then. Forgive me my impatience, Lewrie.”
“Governour, I know what impatience is,” Alan laughed without much humor. “I’ve been impatient since I first saw Yorktown.”
They went back into the house for a welcome drink from the wine cabinet and sideboard. Mrs. Hayley, her son, and sister were at that moment being escorted back downstairs from whatever room they had been confined to during the brief action, their tears flowing copiously. Nancy could not look him in the eyes, but the other two were livid with rage and the shock of seeing men killed in their presence.
“Murtherers!” Mrs. Hayley shrilled as soon as she saw them. “You did not give them one Christian chance! Just shot ’em down like dogs! They were all our friends! One of ’em was a neighbor up the neck.”
“There is little that is Christian in war, ma’am,” Governour told the woman, knowing it would not penetrate but making the effort anyway.
“Is that how my daddy died?” Rodney hissed. “Shot from ambush by a cowardly, sneaking hound? Damn you all, I say!”
“Corp’r’l Knevet?” Governour barked.
“Aye, Governour?” the non-com replied from the stairs.
“Mistress and her charges shall be confined to the upper floors tonight, and for all tomorrow until we are gone. Their meals to be brought to them. Keep a watch on their windows. No lanterns in their rooms, and make sure they have only what they need for decency’s sake.”
“Right, Governour.”
“And shall we be shot as well, sir?” Mrs. Hayley objected. “Have Tories and King’s men no honor toward innocent civilians? Where is that gentle treatment which you promised when first you came here?”
“I could care less what happens to Rebels and their broods,” Governour snapped coldly. “Be thankful you shall have your lives and your property when the fighting is over, ma’am.”
Once the women were hustled back upstairs, Alan opened the sideboard doors and found a stone jug of corn whiskey. At that moment, he preferred it to other, weaker, spirits. He took a deep swig, rattled it about in his mouth, and gulped it down, holding his breath until the fire had passed.
“Whew, what a mort she is!” he said.
“Can’t blame her, really,” Governour relented, unslinging his rifle and unloading his pockets of weapons. “Pour me a goodly measure of that while you’re there, would you? Women know nothing of war, thank God, nor should they, so they have only the vaguest notions of how it is really conducted, or how bestial the average soldier becomes after he faces battle and death more than once. They will never have the slightest idea how rudely they and their property could be treated if we were not honorable gentlemen at heart.”
“So leaving them more gold would not help any longer,” Alan said. He was still jealous about having to part with his guineas, and if they did not have to do so, would be glad to keep them.
“No, we promised to pay for what we despoil.” Governour sighed, flopping down into the wing chair and putting his feet up on a narrow padded bench before the cold fireplace. “Perhaps twenty pounds would do. And they’ll be the only ones to profit by this campaign of ours.”
“I already gave five, and got little for it.”
“Did you learn anything, though it is moot now?”
“Not much. It was all I could do to keep her from spying on us,” Alan admitted. “We were to tryst upstairs tonight. Perhaps I could still.”
“Then I hope the lady is worth the socket-fee.” Governour laughed.
“I’ve bargained for worse,” he replied with a sheepish grin.
“We shall work through the night, anyway,” Go
vernour Chiswick said as Burgess joined them from cleaning up the last signs of the ambush. “We can at least slaughter and embrine meat, bake johnny cake, and dry more powder in the tobacco barns. Anyone familiar with growing tobacco would expect to see drying fires on a plantation at night.”
“I could put my men to work on the leeboards in the wagon sheds as well,” Alan said. “We could burn torches in there to see by. Though we don’t know what to use for the boards themselves.”
“What sort of boards would they have to be?” Burgess asked, taking a glass of corn whiskey himself.
“Two or three feet wide, four feet long, ready planed from heavy wood, Feather told me. I suppose we can nail or peg something together that would suit.”
“Heavy wood, you say.” Burgess chuckled, going to the double doors to the front parlor. He rapped one of them significantly. “How would you prefer oiled mahogany. Inch and a half thick, over eight feet long and over three feet wide, both of them.”
“Two sets of leeboards!” Alan exclaimed. “Burgess, you’re a paragon! I was looking right at them and never gave ’em a thought!”
“I was ready to take ’em myself for our fortifications,” Burgess said. “Damn the place, I’d strip it down to the raw bricks rather than be captured for the want of a nail.”
“What fortifications?”
“Oh, Brother and I have been busy in the woods,” Burgess said. “Preparing a reception for anyone coming up the road. Our visitors tonight never even spotted ’em. We put up some rail fences and laid some surprises, too. See here, Alan, you said you were a hunter back in England, didn’t you?”
“Yes, some.”
“Ever see a fence you didn’t want to put your horse to?”
“Never,” Alan bragged, loosened up by the whiskey.
“Nor did I ever know a cavalryman that wouldn’t either. There’s chevaux-de-frise behind those new fences in the trees, not out front, mind, but in back, where you don’t see ’em ’til you’re in mid-leap, and if they had sent cavalry against us, they’d end up on the spikes.” Burgess snickered with anticipation at the sight. “With our Fergusons, we could have had an edge, too, ’cause we could lay down to fire and load just as fast as standing. There’s rifle pits in the woods, too, so we could have had several fallback positions to snipe from while any infantry would have come at us standing up.”
“Had they been necessary, we could have given anyone a hot reception,” Governour boasted. “We even provided for you. Up by the creek it’s too marshy for cavalry or infantry, but south of the woods, they could come across the fields. We put up some log ramparts for you and your sailors, covered with leaves and deadfall to look like a pile of junk wood. Would have made a neat little redan to guard the boats while we covered things south of you.”
“You were that confident?” Alan wondered aloud.
“If they had sent troops down here, and if they followed usual practice, we could have cut them to pieces. If they didn’t send too many, that is. And after besting them we’d be gone before they could summon a larger force.”
“It would have mattered how many they would have sent, though, would it not?” Alan asked, throwing a damper on their celebrations.
“Well, if a battalion had come, the best we could have hoped for was to fall back through the woods to you by the boats, while you held out,” Governour said, since it was now moot speculation. “Your men and Mollow with a half-dozen riflemen could have slowed them up. After that . . .”
“After that, we would have swum for our lives to the boats and hoped they wouldn’t have murdered us out in the open water,” Alan said.
“We would have put up a damned hard fight they’d have remembered for the rest of their lives,” Governour said tautly. “Now, how much can you accomplish tonight if we work in the barns?”
“The leeboards,” Alan said, shaking off the gruesome image of their entire force laid out defeated and dead, just like the revellers in the front yard. “The keels have to wait ’til morning, unless we want to show torches down by the boats.”
“No. Get as much done as you can.”
“Governour,” Alan said, getting a premonitory chill once more, “we’ll be days along the eastern shore, and God knows what we’ll run into. Would it be possible if you or Burgess or Knevet worked with some of my free hands and drilled them on those spare Fergusons?”
“A damned sensible idea, Alan,” Burgess said. “Best to be prepared for any eventuality.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Using as few torches as possible in the barns to shield the lights from prying eyes, they had worked until nearly midnight. The mahogany door panels were taken down and drilled to accept the axles of the small front wagon wheels, nailed to the naves and ready for installation in the morning at first light on the barges through existing rowports. Alan finally let his men get some rest and went back to the house to take his own. He entered the front parlor where Governour was already snoring on his pallet before the fire, sleeping rough on the carpet. Burgess was ensconced on a settee on his side. Even in repose, the Chiswick brothers were a ruthless-looking crew, Alan thought as he studied them by firelight. They were taller than he was, which gave them authority in spite of their low ranks, slim and almost angular. Even if he had not seen them in action, he would walk warily about them if he met them on the street back home. They had an air about them of habitual command, the sense of being obeyed. Perhaps it came from owning slaves and bossing them about, Alan decided, but they were impressive creatures, perhaps what that Frog Rousseau meant by natural nobility. Daunting personalities, magnificent physical specimens, and pretty enough to turn heads on the Strand or in the parks back in England, should they ever live to get there. Burgess had told him they still had relations in Surrey somewhere, and with the Rebels in possession of everything they had built up in the Carolinas, they were hoping to return to England and make a new start. Such an enterprise was dear to his own heart as well; he wished them joy of it.
He sat down in a chair by the sideboard and discovered a bottle of rhenish that had been opened but barely touched. Being careful not to wake his compatriots, he poured himself a glass and sat back to ease his weary body. The house was silent as a tomb, except for the Chiswicks and their snoring. The sentry at the foot of the stairs was drowsing as well.
Don’t I have an assignation waiting for me? Alan asked himself. He checked his watch and discovered that it was a few minutes past the appointed hour of midnight. No, after this afternoon, she’ll hate the very sight of me. Still, she’s a whore, ain’t she? What’s another guinea or two now?
He stripped off his coat and waistcoat, undid his neckcloth and tossed them onto the chair next to him. He lit a candle with a stick of kindling that had fallen from the low-burning fire and made his way out into the hallway with a bottle of wine and two glasses in one hand, and the candle-stand in the other. There was no sentry on the back stairs from the butler’s pantry, though there was one at the back steps wrapped in a blanket against the chill of the night, and very much awake. Alan made his way up the dark stairs to the rear passage of the upper story. There was a door and a mean little narrow corridor that gave entrance to the rooms above through the back, so that night-soil and other unsavory removals could be done without staining the main hallways. He went all the way to the end and found a final doorway. He blew out the candle and opened the door furtively, inch at a time to avoid creaking hinges. It opened noiselessly, though, obviously well oiled to avoid disturbing anyone who was using the chamber.
There was a sliver of moon coming through the windows, just enough to see that he was in a large and well-furnished suite at the end of the house. Surely, it had to be Nancy’s; she had said her bedchambers were at the end of the house, overlooking the front yard and porches. He was in her sitting room. Groping like a blind man, he snaked his way on past all the furniture to the far doors, which stood open. Once his eyes were used to the gloom, he could espy a tall bed and several
chests and wardrobes, a dressing table, and a mirror that glinted moonlight.
With a smile, he crossed to the bed and found a small table by the headboard on which he could deposit his unlit candle-stand and his wine and glasses, though not without a tell-tale clink of glass on glass.
“Who’s there?” a tremulously fearful small voice exclaimed.
“’Tis Alan, Nancy love,” he whispered, removing his shoes.
“Oh God, after what happened today, ya still come to me and expect me to welcome ya?” she hissed, sitting up in bed with the sheets drawn up around her neck as a thin defense. “Leave my chambers at once, or I’ll yell the house down.”
“There’ll be no more guineas if I do,” he warned her, unbut-toning his shirt. “Your visitors this afternoon brought wine and tasty delicacies, but no gold for you.”
“Wh . . . what do ya take me for!” she complained in the dark.
“Sookie told me about you. So why make such a show of outrage?”
“Oh, you smug bastard!” she cried. “If I ever gave my favors ta a man, it was not for coin, sir! What sort of vile creature are you, ta think all women are whores for your pleasure? Just ’cause you’ve bought some women in the past doesn’t mean we’re all for sale for ya!”
“So your lovers just happen to leave you something worthwhile on their way out the door,” Alan scoffed.
“Goddamn ya, get out before I scream!” she said louder. “Ya shot down people I knew today, officers that’d been welcome here before, and now ya come creeping into my chambers with blood on your hands and think a guinea makes it alright? Get out, I mean it!”
To make her point, she picked something up from the nightstand and threw it at him. Whatever it was struck him on the shoulder, and he flinched away from her anger. The object clanked to the floor noisily.
“Go, before I kill ya!” she warned.
“Very well,” Alan fumed, heading for the door, bumping into the tables and chairs and making even more of a racket than she would have, trying to salvage his pride.
Once downstairs, and into another bottle of wine to replace the one she had thrown at him as a parting gesture, he had to realize that he could not exactly blame her. One or more of the men who had been shot down in ambush had most likely been in her bed once before. What really made him mad was the way she had gulled him out of those guineas.
The French Admiral Page 33
