The Redcoat Chase

by Clifford, Riley

  “Sir, I’m sorry, they’re away on business. Could I send for the doctor? You don’t look well, soldier.”

  The soldier groaned painfully, his face turning white. He lifted a bloody hand to his forehead, streaking the dirt on his face with blood. His words were obscured by his wheezing breaths. “Too late for doctor . . . I need someone . . . who knows my or-or-orders, to relay an urgent message.”

  The soldier’s face fell. He looked like he was going to cry, a seemingly proud man like this.

  “Sir,” Frederick said, wanting to sound brave, though his voice squeaked a little, “perhaps I could help?”

  The soldier took stock of him between shallow breaths, his eyebrows furrowed. “You’re — just — a boy. I need an agent. I need a . . .” The soldier couldn’t go on.

  “You need a Cahill.” Frederick finished the man’s sentence, sitting down at the table in the chair beside him. Serious, for once. His parents’ words echoed in his head. “I am a Cahill. What do you need?”

  The soldier just stared at him, taking breaths.

  “My p-parents,” Frederick stammered, needing to fill the silence while the man held his chest. “My parents are the innkeepers you seek. You already knew this, yes? That’s why you’re here.”

  “You. Son,” the soldier said, raising a blood-slicked hand to point at him, “You must — carry a message to the President’s House.”

  “Sir?”

  “Take the horse that brought me. Leave immediately. And tell the master the message I give you. If you fail, the Vespers win —”

  Vespers. Frederick let the sound of the word sit in the silence — it sounded like snakes and whispers, the hiss of an evil sendoff. Vespers could extinguish them. If the Vespers won, his parents were vulnerable — and what if they never came home? What if his parents were next on their list?

  Frederick forced himself to nod and tried to appear calm. “Yes, sir.”

  The soldier rasped in more air. All of the talking had depleted him, and his breathing was noisy again. He brought the water to his lips once more, letting his hand slide off his side after he took a sip, the blood gushing freely.

  Frederick didn’t know how on earth he’d make good on this promise, but he found himself saying, “I’ll take your message, soldier.”

  The soldier nodded, unable to keep his head up any longer. He folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. With his last clear words, the soldier warned that General V, the man who had shot him, was out to destroy the President’s House. Then he whispered the task that Frederick needed to complete: “The map — the map, Gideon’s ring.” But his speech was already becoming garbled and nonsensical. “Find it. The color of old age. Roots of our father.”

  Frederick asked the man what he meant, and when he didn’t respond, Frederick repeated the senseless words over and over to try and make sense of what the soldier had said. Color of old age. Roots of our father. Each time, the words felt stranger and stranger. What did he mean?

  The soldier took a last look at him, nodded his assurance, whispered a barely audible, “God bless you, young Madrigal,” and put his head down on the table for the last time. He did not lift it again.

  Frederick waited a moment before disrupting the man, shaking him desperately.

  “Sir,” Frederick said, but the man did not stir. It was the stillest Frederick had ever seen another human being. It reminded him of when Bessie, their cow, had delivered a stillborn calf. The stillness was what had frightened him as a boy, though, of course, he’d pretended he was fine, and even tried to brag about it later to his friends, that he’d seen a dead calf and they hadn’t.

  “Sir!” Frederick repeated, louder now. He put his head to the man’s chest, and when he heard no heartbeat, cried out in horror at what had just transpired before him. The man had died on their kitchen table. The brave soldier was gone.

  Surely his parents would have known what to do, but they weren’t there. Should he run down the road and call for someone to assist him? Would the soldier need to be taken to the doctor, or the church cemetery? Where was this soldier’s family? Where was his own?

  Frederick looked down at the soldier, Ramsay, a tag on his shirt read. The bullet wound! General V, Ramsay’s killer, had chased him down. If the Vespers found the body, they’d know why he was at the inn and where he was going. Frederick had to move Ramsay’s body.

  Frederick’s mind reeled. There wasn’t time to think about what he was doing or to be afraid. He shut off his mind and forced his body into action. Stumbling to the back of the apartment, Frederick pulled the sheet off his bed. He slid the man off the chair and laid him gently on the floor. Then Frederick draped the sheet over the man’s body and rolled Ramsay into it so he was fully wrapped. Bending down, he hoisted Ramsay up. The soldier was heavy, like the shipments of feed that arrived by cart and usually required two men to transport to the barn. Frederick dragged the soldier across the floor toward the door, the man’s legs trailing beneath the sheet.

  Please, please let no one see, Frederick prayed. He’d barely issued this prayer when Frederick heard the door unlatch. Amos, their servant, was standing in the doorway, there to turn down the beds, as he did every afternoon. Amos gave a start of shock and gaped at Frederick.

  “Amos!” Frederick cried. “This man was in battle at Bladensburg, he stumbled in off the road. We have to move him.”

  “I’ll send for the mayor,” Amos said, his face urgent. “Leave him there until help arrives.”

  “Amos,” Frederick implored, “this man was being chased by a British general. We can’t let them know he was here. Can you help me carry him to the barn? Just until my parents return?”

  Amos looked too alarmed to speak.

  “We can’t endanger the inn, not with the British so close!” A dead soldier in his arms would put his home at risk — how had this happened in the course of an afternoon cheese break?! Frederick was having trouble connecting his thoughts.

  Amos nodded silently, still stunned. Then he kicked into gear. Amos lifted the soldier’s legs while Frederick gripped the arms, which were growing heavier by the second. Slowly they backed through the door and down the stairs one by one. They couldn’t risk catching the attention of the other workers at the inn, and they especially could not afford to upset the patrons. And what if the Vespers were watching them?

  Frederick and Amos were in plain view now, needing to cross the green to the barnyard as fast as possible without anyone seeing them.

  In the barn, Frederick laid Ramsay on a bed of hay. Blood had seeped through the sheet, so they laid a vegetable tarp over the body. Amos filled a pail of soapy water to scrub the path of blood. He promised that he’d find the mayor after he was finished. The servant crossed himself as he passed the body lying outstretched on the hay.

  Frederick was terrified. This Madrigal agent had died right in front of him, and his family was in the same mortal danger. If he failed to deliver Ramsay’s message, their fate could be the same as the soldier’s.

  Frederick knelt down before the dead soldier and prayed in earnest for the first time in his life. He’d been to church before. Every Sunday, in fact, but he usually prayed for his friends to fall for one of his tricks or for the pretty girls in the square to dance with him during the May Day festivals. But on this day, Frederick prayed with everything he had to beat the Vespers and to keep his family safe. He prayed for the future of his troubled nation. Finally, Frederick wished this soldier, this Ramsay, a restful peace in heaven above.

  God, watch over me now, as I continue this dead man’s journey.

  The soldier’s horse clopped its way east toward the capital, Frederick riding uneasily. He’d had to adjust the stirrups, since Ramsay had been so much taller, but he still felt unfit to ride such a mammoth animal, and his heart clapped loudly in his rib cage.

  As a twelve-year-old boy on this enormous black cavalry horse, Frederick drew looks from the local villagers, some of whom knew him. A few hec
kled or hooted or called up that he should not be playing pranks with other people’s horses.

  Frederick pretended not to hear them and ushered the fine large horse along. For once, this wasn’t a prank, and he wasn’t being irresponsible. Serious, for once.

  The road was windy, and the skies were darkening, a storm blowing through soon. The air held the wet smoky smell of early fall. Up ahead, Frederick saw a group of American soldiers in the village square, watering their horses from a pump by the communal well.

  Sweaty and bearded, some of the men were still wearing their caps, while others hung their heads. The square around them was quieter than it should have been, the way it got before a riot, or a revered politician’s speech. Even the local tavern was muted. Some of the town families approached the soldiers to offer their thanks and appreciation in hushed tones. They served up plates of food, and gently tried to coax out what had happened at Bladensburg.

  Frederick could tell that it had been a rough fight. Gunpowder coated the soldiers’ brows, their uniforms were ripped, skin scratched. Sweat soaked through the heavy cloth and their faces were splotchy with heat fatigue. The men, quite simply, looked beaten.

  Their expressions darkened at the sight of Frederick, and they began shouting and pointing at him. The horse whinnied and whined, the soldiers storming toward him with death in their eyes.

  As Frederick approached, the soldiers began to throw things at him, rocks and heavy branches.

  “Redcoat!” one of the men yelled at Frederick, coming at him fast and hard.

  What was he talking about?!

  “Bloody traitor!” screamed another. Frederick tried to ride faster, as this horse was the fleetest he’d ever ridden. But why were they screaming at him? Just as he thought he’d safely made it out of the village, Frederick saw two men on horseback coming after him down the path.

  Frederick kicked his horse, urging her onward, gripping the reins and holding on as tightly as he could.

  Just get me to Washington. To Washington! Frederick repeated to himself. The men behind him jeered. They were calling things to him: “Run, coward!” “If you ever show your face again . . .”

  Frederick believed he was safely out of eyeshot and that the men would leave him alone now. But just as he was relaxing into his saddle, the horse stumbled and Frederick fell to the ground.

  His back took the most shock from his fall. Frederick lay still, waiting for feeling to return to his legs.

  From above his head, Frederick heard a voice say, “You some kind of Tory errand boy, traitor?”

  Frederick groaned as the feeling began to return to his side — the speed with which his body had been thrown made the ground that much harder when he’d hit it, like he’d been kicked in the kidney.

  “Sir, why do you keep calling me that? I am as American as you are,” Frederick moaned.

  “If you’re not a British errand boy, then what are you doing on a British horse?”

  From his immobile position on the ground, Frederick’s face flushed. Of course! Ramsay must have stolen it. How could he not have realized and tried to remove the cloth regalia the horse was brandishing? It was the colors — red, gold, and black. He might as well have been waving a British flag and singing “Rule, Britannia!”

  From the ground, Frederick managed a grin before standing up and brushing himself off. “Why, stealing it, of course.”

  With the horse stripped of her enemy uniform, the ride was much smoother. Churches and schools and stores dotted the greens. The trees were less dense as more of the land was razed and parceled into lots for farming than the roads down which Frederick had come.

  Wooden cabins lined the roads, set back behind fenced yards that would normally keep the animals in, though now most of the animals had been herded away. Wheat and tobacco fields spread out around him, the corn getting taller than Frederick, anticipating harvest.

  Frederick could see the town approaching. In the distance lay all of the government offices. The great strip of green, the Mall, was coming into view. At the outset, everything looked peaceful.

  But the closer he drew to the President’s House, the clearer it became that the city was about to be attacked. Everyone was packing up and evacuating as fast as they could, riding the opposite direction as Frederick. Farther in, the roads were clogged with carriages of families, mothers holding babies, coaches packed to the very last inch with trunks and tools, animals and food, a chair or table, if it could be carted off. Everywhere, the sounds of pandemonium rang out.

  Men were yelling, women shrieking, babies crying, children squabbling, dogs barking, chickens squawking, horses whinnying, as if even the animals could tell there might not be a tomorrow. The pre-storm wind picked up stray garbage and whipped pieces around and around, like a wild carousel. Abandoned goats loitered in the road.

  As Frederick got deeper into the city, the roads emptied out, and an eerie quiet filled the air. People had abandoned everything. Windows and doors were left haphazardly open, fences were unlatched, and Frederick saw cows lazing on the side of the street.

  Frederick could hear windows breaking — he suspected people were taking advantage of the opportunity to vandalize as much property as they could before fleeing the city.

  The Potomac ran alongside him, helping Frederick orient himself as he raced toward an empty Pennsylvania Avenue. The river was brown with silt and mud, and the sky had grayed over. The humidity hung thick in the air. Mosquitoes were everywhere, and Frederick had to wave his hand in front of his face to keep the gnats away. Washington had been built on a swamp, and Frederick had never felt this as strongly as he did now. He mopped his brow with a worn handkerchief.

  At 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Frederick paused for a moment to take in the President’s House. It was a breathtaking sight. Even in its final hours, with the British on their way to sack it, the house stood proudly. The three floors and eleven bays were shimmering in the daylight, along with the columns and the trees that horseshoed around them. The windows were tall and seemingly endless, and a parapet bordered the roof like icing around the edges of a frosty, lonely white cake.

  Once again, Ramsay’s words rattled through Frederick’s brain. If you fail, the Vespers win. The sky clouded over, losing light, and the wind was rustling up in the trees like a soft-shoed burglar. He had to tell the president that General V was at large, and he had to find that map. If he didn’t, his family might share the same fate as this beautiful house.

  The President’s House gardens looked deserted. Roundabouts led to orchards, and flower beds flanked the walking paths, leading to copses of fruit trees and vegetable gardens. The rosebushes were releasing the last of their fragrant smell from the summer’s final dying blossoms. Fountains, statues, and birdbaths broke the carpet of green. Acres of trees were divided into plots, and shady pavilions offered solace from the sun. Ivy grew up the portico’s trellises that gave way to the famous mansion.

  Frederick had worried that it would be difficult to get into the house, but entry now appeared to be almost too easy. He’d expected to have to slip past rows and rows of uniformed guards bearing rifles, then to have to fight off servants and state officials, but there was almost no one around. The only people he had seen had been two slaves, surveying the empty city in alarm.

  The wrought-iron gate was locked — no surprise, but Frederick was a good climber from lazy summers spent in the trees around the inn. He made short order of the fence and hopped down with a thud onto the lawn. He checked both ways — still clear.

  A lone guard — or was it a servant? — stepped out onto the portico. Frederick lurched to take cover behind the hedges, but he’d been seen.

  “You there!” the man cried. “Out!”

  Frederick scampered across the emerald lawn, his feet almost sliding out from under him on the freshly cut grass. The man charged after him, waving a shovel. He was wearing coveralls and thick boots. Frederick was running from the president’s gardener.

  Frederi
ck bounded toward the corner of the house, but the gardener was gaining on him. He swung the shovel out at Frederick, but Frederick dodged it by a millimeter’s breadth.

  Frederick feinted one direction and at the last second turned the corner. He scanned the grounds for anywhere he might hide from the gardener, but everything was visible. He was about to make a break for the orchards, somewhere to take cover when — could it be?

  An open window on the far side of the house.

  Frederick sprinted to the siding and threw himself through the opening. He crashed onto the floor and froze for a moment before righting himself. He slammed shut the glass, locking the top. Frederick found himself suddenly in the cool drawing room of the President’s House — without a clue as to how he would now find the president.

  The entrance hall alone was bigger than Frederick’s family’s entire apartment. It was all far too spectacular a sight on such a terrible day — even the air felt more majestic beneath the marbled ceilings. Frederick would have liked to have stopped and admired each individual nook and cranny. But none of it would survive come nightfall. And if he wasn’t careful, neither would he.

  Frederick bolted from room to room, checking over his shoulder in case the gardener returned. He ducked behind columns and dove behind furniture, but no one was there. The space was deserted, and the president was nowhere to be found. The entrance hall led to a cross hall, with what appeared to be a state dining room on one side, and a smaller, private dining room on the other. Objects and historical artifacts were displayed artfully on the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and white wainscot ran the length of the floors.

  The president’s library looked as if a storm had blown through it. Papers were scattered everywhere.

  Was anyone home?

  Frederick heard footsteps and leapt beneath a desk. The library was covered in plush oriental rugs and smelled like cedars and tobacco. After a few seconds passed, he tiptoed out.