After two solid hours on horseback, he was decidedly saddle sore. Riding at the head of the column, with only three Tory guides between him and the open road, the tantalizing urge to simply dig heels into his mount and bolt was tempered by his rather middling horsemanship, and the three hundred dragoons on his heels.
A familiar pain jabbed his leg, and Jack mined his pocket for the little cast-iron crown he carried. He closed his fist on the rough metal. It seemed a lifetime ago when he and Anne Merrick worked the press together, printing the wonderful words read aloud and cheered on the Commons. It seemed far longer than seven weeks since the happy mob had torn down the King’s statue—since his nation was born in the hope and dream of liberty.
Jack smiled, remembering how he’d kissed the widow most thoroughly on that happy day. He could recall exact the softness of her lips, and how she’d laid her small hand light to his cheek. Lavender . . . Her neck, her hair—she always smelled of lavender. She lost her hat . . .
Jack worried the metal fragment between his thumb and forefinger, wondering what had ever possessed him to leave her behind at the Bowling Green. I should have stayed with her that night . . . with her wrapped in my arms that one night . . .
Shifting in his saddle, Jack stole a glance at the stern-faced general riding alongside him.
I have to stop them.
A sudden sadness coiled tight around his heart. Not used to having regrets, Jack Hampton found himself beset by them—regretting having nothing more than a few stolen kisses with Anne Merrick—regretting most of all that he would never know what pleasure and happiness would have been found in sharing a life with her.
Nevers and evers of one man are not of much consequence when weighed against the hopes and dreams of many who will die if these Redcoats breach Jamaica Pass.
Jack pushed the broken crown back into his pocket, his jaw set.
A wild tear down the road. Lead the bloody bastards on a merry chase . . .
He would cause a rumpus—ride off hooting and hollering. Jack thought he might get off at least one shot with his musket.
Draw the attention of those Pennsylvania sharpshooters . . .
Jack took the reins in two hands. He rose up in his stirrups, putting air between his hindquarters and the horse’s, twisting around to contemplate the grim faces trotting behind.
Time to make some noise . . .
“Come to a halt,” General Clinton suddenly ordered. The column shuffled and creaked to a full stop. Jack slumped back into his saddle.
“You know, Stapleton,” Clinton said, as he swung his leg over to dismount. “I am accustomed to long hours in the saddle, but your fidgetry reminds me the men might need to take their ease.”
A low-register, communal groan echoed down the line as cavalrymen dismounted, and rushed to relieve themselves along the side of the road.
Jack relished a surge of new confidence with his feet landing on solid ground. Though still a dire risk, taking flight on foot better suited his abilities and his purpose. Dashing through the dark woodlands, he might actually be able to make good his escape. He wandered a ways down the path from the clump of men and horses—casually unbuttoning the flap on his breeches, edging into the thick woodland, all the while his heart beating a mad gallop.
A hand gripped him by the shoulder. “Hold there.”
Jack turned to Captain Blankenship—the death’s-head on the dragoon’s helmet grinning toothless in the moonlight. He jerked free from the grasp.
“The major general would have a word with you,” Blankenship insisted.
“The major general will have to wait until I’ve had my piss.” Jack shrugged his member free and arced a steamy stream, causing the captain to leap back to save himself a boot-wetting.
Jack shook off the last drops and heaved a deep breath, taking his time to settle his business and button up. The dragoon marched him back to the column, where he half expected to meet with a company of hangmen—noose in hand.
Much to his relief, Jack was led to the guides and the general, all down on their hunkers. Dropping to one knee, he joined them, encircling a patch of smoothed earth lit by moonlight.
“Ah . . . there you are, Stapleton . . .” In low tones, dagger in hand, Clinton began to draw a diagram in the dirt. “Thus far, we have been traveling parallel to the Jamaica Road.” He scratched two lines close together. “The rebels guarding the pass no doubt expect an attack to come from this direction.” He marked an X for the pass. “As we are uncertain of the level of force and fortification we may encounter, I propose we veer away from this straightforward route, and come upon them from behind.” He scraped a large bump on the line. “I’m not one for contending with the vagaries of chance, and I do not want to risk another Breed’s Hill in gaining this pass.”
While the other guides grunted and nodded in agreement, Jack studied the general’s scratchings. The detour Clinton proposed and the mention of Breed’s Hill—where the Redcoats lost over one thousand men—exposed a weakness Jack knew he must try to exploit.
“I know this road.” Jack pointed to Clinton’s suggested detour. “Your army, sir, will have to cross a very narrow bridge over a saltwater creek here . . .” He added a squiggling line to intersect Clinton’s proposed detour, and met the general square in the eye. “Schoonmaker’s Bridge—a bottleneck—the perfect spot for a rebel ambush. Riflemen posted in these woods”—Jack swept a finger over either side of the bridge—“would wreak havoc on our line—another Breed’s Hill—only worse.”
“Aye,” one of the Tory farmers agreed. “That’s a choke point, that bridge.”
Clinton rose to his feet, arms folded, tapping the tip of his dagger to his chin. “We will proceed with caution. Before crossing the bridge I will send skirmishing parties to sweep the woods for any rebels lying in wait.”
“A wise and prudent course, General.” Jack tried very hard not to smile.
“UP with your arms!”
The terse order, accompanied by the hammer clacking back on a flintlock, caused Titus to halt in his steps. He raised his arms and turned slow to the commanding voice. Two figures stepped out from the shadows and onto the road.
“Get his gun.” The larger man stood with his musket trained while the smaller of the two—a young boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen—ran up to wrest the weapon from Titus’s shoulder.
“He’s a black fella, Dad . . .” the boy said, giving the Brown Bess to his father.
“Keep your gun on him, Jimmy.” The father shouldered his weapon, and took a moment to examine Titus’s loaded musket, then he asked, “Where’re you headed in such a hurry this time of night?”
Titus squinted in the dark. These two wore no uniform. He could not discern any greenery in their hats. If they were Patriots or Loyalists, he couldn’t tell by looking at them.
“I asked you a question, nigger. Whose business has you skulking on this road with a loaded weapon?”
Titus heaved a breath—not wanting to implicate himself as either a Patriot or a Loyalist, he said nothing.
The man stepped close. “Answer me! Who gave you this gun?”
Arms still raised, Titus only shook his head.
The man swung the butt end of the musket up, hitting Titus square on the temple, knocking him to the ground. “Black bastard! Are you scouting for the Redcoats? Who do you work for?”
Patriots . . . Dazed, Titus smeared a finger through blood dripping down his cheek. He tried to rise up on legs suddenly gone to pudding, working hard to make words, he said, “Redcoats are mar . . .”
The man didn’t wait to hear the rest. Using the musket like a club, he dealt yet another vicious blow to the head, and laid Titus flat on his back.
“Jamaica Road . . .” Titus uttered as he blinked at the show of bright stars dancing in the night sky. Twirling and swirling, the stars whirled off into a sea of crimson black.
GENERAL Clinton’s vanguard dawdled for at least two hours waiting for search parties to finish comb
ing the woods on either side of Schoonmaker’s Bridge. Once the skirmishers gave the all clear, the vanguard proceeded in slow single file across the bridge, and Jack could only hope the fruitless exercise bought time for the Continentals to mount a strong defense at Jamaica Pass. With only a few hours left until daybreak, and the vanguard less than half mile away from the pass, Jack commenced another plan to further delay the Redcoats, and enable his escape back to the American lines.
“Howard’s Tavern is just up the road, and it is no more than one hundred yards from the pass,” he said, riding alongside General Clinton. “The tavern is most likely filled with rebel soldiers and sympathizers. It would only take one man, swift of foot, to raise an alarm, and the pass would be lost to us. Make another brief halt, and I’ll ride ahead to scout the situation.”
Clinton pondered Jack’s proposal before turning in his saddle. “Blankenship! Stuart! Wemyss!” he beckoned to three of his aides-de-camp. “Form a patrol of twelve to accompany Stapleton and take control of the tavern ahead—sweep up any locals you run across and report back once the area is secured.”
Instead of galloping off alone, through the pass, and to the Patriot lines as he’d planned, Jack adapted to the situation, and took the lead in a party of twelve dragoons. Once at Howard’s Tavern, the soldiers broke in, stirring the sleeping Howard family from their beds, and herding the frightened innkeeper, his wife and children by tip of bayonet into the barroom for questioning by the officers.
Jack felt bound to make good his escape, if only to justify having put these hapless folk into a dangerous situation. “Captain Blankenship,” he said, “I’ll ride back and give the general the all clear.”
“I’ve already sent Lieutenant Wemyss,” Blankenship said. “Our friend Mr. Howard is very kind and generous. He tells me we can reconnoiter the pass by means of a secret path.”
“The Rockaway Path—” Howard added. “An old Indian trail—not much more than a bridle path—it runs along the rim of the gorge.” The innkeeper looked especially pale and miserable standing in the huddle of his wife and children, all of them barefoot in their nightshirts. Jack could hardly blame the man for wanting to appease these Redcoats.
As they waited for Howard and his eldest boy to dress, Jack helped himself, along with the other officers, to a bottle of spirits. He sipped a glass of rye, wondering if he would ever be able to get shed of these persistent Redcoats. There would be little opportunity for escape on a rough ridge path. Daybreak was drawing near and Jack came to believe the best hope for raising an alarm was bound up with Titus Gilmore making it through to the Continental lines.
The party mounted horses and left the inn just after the wall clock chimed the three-o’clock hour. Howard and his son led Jack, Blankenship and eight dragoons up a steep and difficult path, ducking low-hanging branches all the way. They skirted along the length of the gorge, and in the moonlight could not discern any motion or fortifications.
No artillery—not one single gun—in evidence. No troops—no soldiers of any kind. The Continental lines will crumble like a day-old scone if Clinton succeeds in getting ten thousand through this pass.
“That way will take you down to the other end of the pass,” Howard said as they reached the point where the bridle path transitioned onto a proper road.
“Continue forward, innkeeper,” Blankenship urged.
In strict obedience with Clinton’s original order for stealth on the march, the disciplined dragoons rode in complete silence, which made it all the easier to discern the undisciplined chatter and laughter coming from the road ahead. Blankenship’s patrol picked up speed.
Soldiers or citizens, the Redcoats had orders to sweep up anyone crossing their path. The captain used hand signals to organize his men into a double-file formation. Jack and the two Howards hung back as the efficient dragoons rode forward as of one mind to encircle and capture a party of five American horsemen, as neat and quiet as you please.
New Yorkers . . . Jack recognized their jackets, and the sight of the Continental officers—though captured and disarmed—gave him hope.
Maybe all is not lost . . . Maybe Titus got through and a strong guard is in place.
The rebel prisoners were led bound and gagged back to the tavern. Jack and his fellow guides were ordered to wait out in the dooryard while the general interrogated the prisoners.
Jack hovered on the stoop landing, itching to know what was going on behind the closed door. Nearby, a pair of dragoons kept a group of soldiers in thrall with the retelling of the rebel capture, but the majority of Clinton’s vanguard seized the opportunity to catch a few winks of precious sleep on a handy hayrick or a smooth patch of ground.
Mr. Howard came up with two cups of coffee, and handed one to Jack. “I am quite certain your Redcoats have just captured the entirety of the Patriot force defending our little pass,” he said with a snort.
“The other passes are all heavily fortified—why would this pass be any different?”
Howard shrugged. “They never seemed to pay much mind to it. They considered our pass unimportant—too narrow—too out-of-the-way for this lot to bother with.” He indicated with a sweep of incredulity the soldiers crowded onto his property. “I can tell you this much, the Continentals will pay dearly for their folly come morning—dearly, indeed.” Shoulders slumped, he gulped the last of his coffee and trudged back to his family.
Jack crossed the wide stoop to sit on the stair steps. Propping elbows on his knees, he cradled his head, closed his eyes and pictured the map spread out on the general’s table under the big marquee tent hours before. He envisioned the fortified Patriot lines at Brooklyn Heights sandwiched between a British invasion force twenty thousand strong, and the power of a naval armada riding anchor on the East River.
This awful viper is poised to strike, and when it gains the pass, Washington’s ragtag numbers will not only be bitten, they will be swallowed whole.
The door banged open, and a dozen officers stomped down the steps, fitting on helmets, girding on swords, and rousting their companies to assemble and form.
Jack jumped to his feet and caught up with Blankenship collecting his mount. “What’s happened?”
Blankenship turned, his handsome face alight, his voice tinged with more than a little bravura. “The pass is absolutely undefended! The rebels admitted as much when put to the question.”
“I don’t believe it!” Jack gripped Blankenship by the arm.
“Believe it—it’s true! The pass is ours! I’m taking a party through to affirm what the rebels have reported, and the vanguard will follow forthwith. You best get ready.” The captain swung up onto his horse. “Mark my words, Stapleton—I will be standing you a pint in a pub on Broad Way before the week is out!”
The dooryard was a tumult of horses and men as dragoons and troopers bumped about in the dark to create semblance from disorder. In the confusion, Jack claimed his horse, and led it around to the back of the tavern.
Clinton has yet to breach this pass . . . He struggled with the knots he’d tied in securing his pack to his saddle . . . He still needs to get ten thousand encumbered with heavy artillery and baggage through that gorge . . . “Bloody hell!” Jack cursed and pulled the knife from his boot to cut his pack free. He might not be able to prevent the British incursion, but he could certainly still warn his brothers-in-arms and get them to fall back to the Brooklyn works, and avoid total annihilation.
Pack on back, musket on shoulder, Jack skirted along the woodlands until he found the trailhead to the Rockaway Path. For not having slept in almost twenty-four hours, Jack was energized with new determination, and he climbed up the overgrown trail in the dark with some speed. Pausing when he reached the crest of the ridge, he scanned the valley view.
The eastern sky was imbued with a velvety blue, presaging the dawn. The waxing moon, sitting low on the western horizon, cast deep purple shadows on a patchwork landscape sewn of gray and black scraps. To the southeast, toward the Bedford Pa
ss, he could see the flicker of campfires—yellow flashes amid the shadowed woodlands—like fireflies signaling to each other in a hedgerow.
Our forces guarding the Bedford Pass . . . Jack marked the position and his course. He launched into a trot and made for those fires.
Jack raced with the rising sun and reached the encampment in the woods in less than half an hour. A sleepy-eyed picket wearing a dark hunting shirt and a sprig of oak leaves in his tricorn leaned on a long rifle, contemplating the few stars in the western sky. Jack snapped a branchlet from a nearby oak, and decorated his own hat accordingly. He gave the picket a wide berth and wound around, making his way into the camp pitched within a woody grove of white oak trees.
A lone drummer sat near one campfire—practicing, tapping out a soft call. Two men coaxing a fire under a simmering pot of water barely shot Jack a glance as he strode past with a tip of his hat, heading for the largest tent, as if he knew exactly what he was about. He swept a door panel aside and poked his head in.
A slim man with a hawkish nose stood bare-chested and barefoot in breeches, positioning a small mirror to best advantage, the light coming from a single candle set on a cluttered desk. His momentary puzzlement at Jack ’s appearance caused him pause.
“Are you the commanding officer here?” Jack asked.
“I am,” the man answered, his eye turned wary. “Colonel Samuel Miles, Fourth Pennsylvania Riflemen. And you are . . . ?”
Jack entered. He moved into the light, sweeping off his tricorn in salute. “Jack Hampton, sir, bringing you urgent intelligence.”
The crowded tent was further disordered with a disheveled camp bed, a small table desk and a single folding chair. Colonel Miles found a badger-bristle brush and a wooden cup amid the melee scattered on the desktop, and nodded to the chair. Jack shrugged off his gear and settled into the canvas sling.
Miles dipped his shaving brush into a bowl of steamy water and began beating up a soapy froth, the brush handle clacking merry against the sides of the cup. “What regiment do you serve with, sir?”
The Tory Widow Page 18
