by Ted Bell
“General idea when you’re trying to ambush someone, isn’t it? It was working, too, until you came along.”
“An Indian, is he?”
“Of course, an Indian boy. These rebels aren’t keen on bows and arrows. This fellow’s a Creek scout, one of three who ambushed me earlier.”
“Where are the other two?”
“Dead. They shot my horse out from under me. I managed to shoot one, put a knife in the other. But Chief Powatan over there has been playing hidey seek with me all afternoon. Excuse me a moment, will you? I have to deal with this savage.”
He stood up, moved to his right, braced his musket against the trunk, and waited. A moment later, Nick felt and heard the broad blade of another arrow bury itself deep in the tree.
He heard the musket boom, followed immediately by a howl of pain from the woods beyond the clearing.
“Got him at last, I did,” the soldier said, collapsing beside Nick. “Now, who the devil are you, Nick McIver, and what are you doing stumbling around these woods all alone?”
“I got separated from my regiment in a skirmish with the Yanks, sir. Near Mount Vernon on the Potomac.”
“Which regiment?”
“Second Light Infantry, 82nd Regiment, under the command of Major Thomas Armstrong,” Nick said, glad he’d memorized most of the British units at Yorktown noted in the big blue book. And their commanding officers.
“You couldn’t make it back to our lines?”
“I was in the process of doing so, sir, but I was captured by the Americans and taken to Fredricksburg. I escaped three days ago.”
“Escaped without your drum?”
“I was relieved of it, sir. A Yank officer’s trophy now.”
“Well,” the soldier said, getting to his feet, “I’d best be on my way, steal the first sturdy horse I see. We’ll rout these dogs at Yorktown, you’ll see.”
“Are you headed for Yorktown?”
“No, I’m a courier, Scots Guards. I’m carrying a dispatch from General O’Hara, second-in-command under General Cornwallis. I’m bound for New York, and I’m a bit behind schedule, so I’ll bid you good luck and safe passage, Nicholas McIver.”
“And you as well, sir. I’ve been looking for a back road to Mount Vernon in hopes of finding my unit. Any idea where one might lie?”
“Yes. Head due east through this wood for two miles. You’ll come to it. Not much traveled. Mind yourself, though. General Washington’s home is near there, and it’s well guarded by his Home Guard. Not to mention forests full of Creeks and Cherokees on the Yanks’ payroll. Are you armed?”
“No, sir.”
“Here, take this,” he said, pulling an odd-looking flintlock pistol from beneath his coat.
Nick noticed it was double-barreled, side by side, with twin hammers and triggers. “Quite extraordinary looking. What is it?”
“A Light Dragoon flintlock, twin barrels. My father is the finest gunsmith in Ayershire. He made this gun especially for me when he learned my regiment was bound for the colonies. Two shots are better than one, being his theory. Can’t argue that.”
“I cannot possibly take it.”
“Of course you can. I’ve a pair of them, the other’s in my satchel. And I’ve got my musket. You’re obliged to thank a gentleman who offers you a gift, Nicholas. Here’s a pouch of cartridges, powder, and balls.”
“Sir, I hardly know what to say.”
“Thank you will suffice.”
“Well, I thank you, then, with all my heart. What’s your name, sir?”
“Lieutenant Robert Burns, same as the poet’s, Scotland’s favorite son, though no relation to the bard, I’m sorry to say.”
“I bid you farewell, then, Lieutenant Burns,” Nick said, “I’ve enjoyed your company. And I will never forget your generosity.”
“Nicholas, before we part, a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Just before you arrived at my hiding place, did you see some kind of strange, dazzling light at the base of that yonder tree? It was very odd indeed.”
“A sharp ray of sunlight, sir, streaking down through a break in the clouds.”
“Ah, that explains it. Well, I’m off, then. Godspeed and God save the King, His Royal Majesty King George III.”
“Godspeed. May He bless you and keep you, sir.”
Nick watched the young Scotsman until he could no longer see him, heard him whistling a cheery tune as he went off through the woods in search of a horse to steal.
A sudden wave of sadness swept over Nick as he turned and made his way east through the wood in search of a road. He had very much liked the handsome young Scot and hoped no harm came to him. And yet, that was precisely why he was in these colonies, to bring harm to Lieutenant Burns and thousands of young English soldiers just like him.
He was a traitor, he knew, but a traitor with a keen and relentless conscience. Right and wrong were as plain to Nick as black and white.
And he well knew now, that whether he succeeded or failed in his mission to alter the outcome of this great war, his conscience would never again rest easy. With a heavy heart, he set out to do what must be done and soon found himself on the winding, deeply rutted dirt road that led to Mount Vernon.
35
THE INDIAN IN THE FOG
A rushing river flowed to Nick’s left, some distance below the road. The sharp embankment on his left extended down to the banks, and through the trees Nick could occasionally catch glimpses of white water and rocky rapids. This was surely not the Potomac River, which he knew from his studies meandered wide and placid.
Due to the rain, which seemed to be steadily increasing, the road was sodden and muddy. His progress was slow and the sun would soon be down. He had little hope of finding shelter, even an old barn, for the thick green woods to his right were clearly uninhabited.
Uninhabited, that is, except for Indians most likely. And if they were indeed up there in the heavy wood to his right, they would surely see him long before he saw them.
“Nelson the brave, Nelson the bold, Nelson the Lord of the Sea,” he whispered, an all-too-familiar prayer recently.
He was shivering with the cold but took some small comfort from the pistol he’d stuck in his waistband. Still, he knew that with each step he took, an arrow to the heart was a very real possibility. He didn’t want to die on this road. Although his beating heart was torn apart by the moral dilemma Gunner had presented, an arrow in it now would be of no use to anybody. And so he slogged on as the rain continued to pour down, turning the road into a soupy brown stream, one which sucked at his boots and made every step he took an effort.
But each step closer to Mount Vernon brought more determination. In his mind, he saw his hero Winston Churchill, heard his frightening warnings about England’s certain fate without the Americans. As terrible as what he was about to do might be, he had to hold fast to one thought: duty. The greater good of his country, that much was clear. And that thought kept him strong, kept him trudging the terrible road even as darkness fell and the booming thunderstorms bellowed loudly above.
He squinted, trying to see the road ahead. In this downpour, little was visible.
He held his hand up in front of his face. Why, he could barely see it for the drenching rain. Thunder rumbled heavily overhead, and nearby lightning strikes lit up the ancient trees on either side. He kept his eyes on his boots, trying to stay within the borders of the road. Should he stray and slip off the edge of the embankment, it was one long, treacherous fall to the raging river.
Just as he entered a long bend in the road following the snaking river, a sharp bolt of lightning struck, frying the very air he breathed. A huge oak, on a hillside just ahead, had been split in half all the way to the ground. The great tree, rent asunder, sent smoke curling aloft.
In that brief and terrible flash, Nick had seen something else, too. A figure had leaped from the ruined tree down to the road a second before the bolt had struck. Having jumped six feet and somehow l
anded without falling, that shadowy figure was now walking steadily toward him through the blinding rain. Without the lightning’s instant of brilliant illumination, Nick would not even have seen this stranger until he collided with him.
Something in him caused his hand to embrace the curve of the pistol’s stock, his finger to cock the hammer and then find its way inside the trigger guard and curl around that lethal crescent. He squinted his eyes, using his hand to shield them from the rain, trying to see who was coming toward him.
As the stranger approached through a dense grey curtain of rain, Nick saw long dark hair falling about the shoulders. A woman? He relaxed for a moment, his finger slipping off the trigger.
“Devilish weather, is it not, ma’am?” Nick said.
No answer. This rather tall and large woman was closer now, no more than six feet separating them as Nick plodded forward, his boots making loud sucking sounds in the muck.
“Sorry, I said, it’s devilish—”
And then with a most horrible howl, the figure lunged toward him. No woman at all but a long-haired Indian brave, his terrifying face slathered with war paint, his eyes blazing through the rain, his powerful right arm raised above his head, a tomahawk clenched in his hand, the razor-sharp blade descending directly toward Nick’s startled face.
Nick leaped backward at the last second, and the blade whispered by his ear. He’d been struck a glancing blow, high on his left arm, but one that caused a red pain, momentarily blinding him. He staggered and stumbled, back-pedaling toward the embankment. Raising his pistol with his right hand, he knew he’d get just one chance at this Indian brave, now gleefully raising his tomahawk for a second blow to finish the job.
The wild-looking man, whose face was painted with fierce stripes of yellow and red, approached him slowly, enjoying the moment. He was grinning evilly as he closed in for the kill. But the brave’s eyes widened in fear as Nick aimed the pistol, still backing away as quickly as the treacherous surface would allow. Now. He pulled the hammer back, squeezed the trigger, and fired.
But he’d missed! As the ball left the muzzle, it went mere inches above the attacking warrior’s head. Nick, in the act of firing, found himself falling backward into space, plunging over the edge of the embankment. He bounced a few times, rolling and sliding rapidly down the steep slope toward the river, finally slamming painfully against the trunk of a tree. He looked up and saw his sure-footed attacker making his way quickly down the slippery, rocky ground. He was almost out of the woods now, about fifty yards away.
Nick having discharged his weapon and missed, the Indian brave knew he had the advantage now. But he didn’t want to give his victim time to reload. The warrior advanced carefully along the muddy bank, sure-footed and smiling.
Nick scrambled to his feet and faced the wild-looking man, his pistol hanging loosely at his side. He braced his left foot against a root of the tree, stabilizing himself in the muck as the savage drew closer. Seeing the boy not running for his life, he grinned once more and raised his tomahawk, which Nick now saw was decorated with beads and feathers matted with dried blood. Even as Nick raised the pistol and took dead aim, the Indian crept closer, that same evil look in his eyes that Nick had seen up on the road. He enjoyed both the hunt and the kill.
The tomahawk started downward.
Nick pulled the trigger and fired his second barrel. At such close range, gunsmoke obscured his attacker. Had Nick missed again? If so, the tomahawk would soon split his—no! The smoke cleared a bit and he saw the wounded Indian stagger, then topple headfirst into the raging river. Nick watched his attacker being swept downstream. When the brave disappeared around a bend in the river, Nick looked down at the pistol in his hand, remembering the young British courier who’d given it to him for protection. When had it turned so cold? he wondered, breathing heavily and shaking badly.
But he’ d missed!
Had he just killed a man? He’d never know, and it was just as well he didn’t.
Darkness had fallen in the woods.
Nick looked up through the tall trees to the road above. He hadn’t the strength to climb up nor the will to walk one step farther in the cold rain. He opened the haversack slung on his back, wrapped the pistol with the oiled cloth and stuck it in his waistband. He spread his thin waterproof cloth on flat ground beside the tree trunk, and lay down, wrapping up as best he could. Gunner had packed a surprise at the bottom of his sack. Food! He ate hungrily, first the flatbread and then the dried meat. It didn’t taste like any meat he’d ever eaten, but he wolfed it down, saving only a small portion.
It was as delicious a meal as ever he’d had. His belly filled somewhat, mercifully he slept, oblivious to the tumultuous skies above.
36
MARTHA WASHINGTON’S NEW BOARDER
· Mount Vernon ·
Sometime after dawn next morning, Nick awoke to a beautifully clear day, the skies high above a bright pink and blue; the rising sun sent rose-gold shafts of light streaking through the trees to the forest floor. It was not nearly so cold, and he bestilled himself for a time, eating what little remained of his food. He found his brain turning over the events of the prior day: the kindly courier, the deadly warrior, and the lessons to be learned from both encounters. As the hot sun rose higher, the rain-soaked trunks of the old trees began to smoke with steam, making it seem as if the woods were about to burst into flame.
Time to get moving.
When he stood, though, he felt feverish, lightheaded, and weak. He touched his hand to his forehead, which felt very warm. He was shivering, too, his teeth chattering in his mouth. During the night, he’d bound up the fresh wound to his left arm, using a strip of cloth ripped from his shirt, but the bandage was blood-soaked and useless now. His right shoulder had at least ceased to bother him, thanks to the ministrations of the Baroness de Villiers.
He gathered up his few scant belongings. There included his bone-handled knife, tri cornered hat, the waterproof tube Gunner had made for Blood’s charts, the pistol that had saved his life, plus powder, cartridges, and ammunition. He rolled up his poor waterproof and placed it into his haversack along with his other possessions. Slinging the haversack over his shoulder and whistling a cheery tune, he began his climb upward to the road.
Two hours later he caught a glimpse of a great mansion in the near distance. It stood atop a high bluff overlooking the Potomac River. A wide green lawn swept down to the banks of the river. The house itself was gleaming white, with a steep red roof capped by a lovely glass-windowed cupola. He could see there were many outbuildings—he counted at least ten, truly the estate of a most wealthy gentleman.
George Washington’s home, Mount Vernon.
Now that he had his destination in sight, his spirits lifted considerably, and he started forward on the final leg of his journey.
He hadn’t gone more than half a mile when two blue-coated Continental soldiers stepped from behind trees on either side of the muddy road and leveled their muskets at him.
“Who goes there?” one of them said.
“A defector, sir, a friend of America.”
“Pulaski,” the other soldier said, challenging him.
“Poland,” Nick replied, remembering the password and the proper response Washington had ordered. Thank goodness for old Fitz’s history book. Without it, he might have been shot.
“Defecting, are you, boy?”
“I am indeed.”
“What is your rank and unit?”
“Drummer, sir. Second Light Infantry, 82nd Regiment, under the command of Major Thomas Armstrong,” Nick said.
“You’ve come from Yorktown, then.”
“Aye, I have done.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes, sir. A pistol and a knife. In my sack.”
“Open the sack and throw down the weapons.”
Nick did so and the two soldiers approached from either side.
“You’re wounded. Badly it would seem. How did that happen?” the o
lder of the two Americans said.
“Tomahawk. I was attacked by an Indian.”
“And the Indian?”
“Dead or wounded, sir.”
“You must be pretty handy with this pistol, I’d reckon, for a mere drummer boy.”
The older soldier looked hard at Nick and said, “The way you’re shaking, I might take you for a liar. Saying you’re a drummer don’t make you a drummer. Neither does saying you’re a defector.”
“He knows the password, Sam,” the younger one said, “Let’s at least let him speak before we shoot him.”
“I am both a drummer and a defector, sir, and have never been a liar. And I possess knowledge of the fortifications at Yorktown and the plans of General Cornwallis that I wish to provide to General Washington.”
Both men laughed. The young soldier picked up Nick’s knife and gun. “Strange-looking weapon,” he said.
“My father is the finest gunsmith in Ayershire, sir. He made it for me when he learned my regiment was sailing for the colonies. He said, ‘Two shots are better than one,’ and he proved to be right.”
“Meaning what?”
“I got the Indian with the second shot.”
Both soldiers laughed again. “What’s your name, drummer boy?”
“Nicholas McIver, sir.”
“Well, get a move on. We’ll escort you up to the mansion and have someone stitch up that arm afore you bleed to death. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you.”
“I’m most grateful to you, then.”
“You first,” the young soldier said. “We’ll be right behind you with our muskets on the chance you may change your mind about defecting.”
“Or in the more likely case that you’re some clever young British spy, sent by General Cornwallis,” the older soldier said. “It wouldn’t be the first time. We don’t look kindly upon spies here at Mount Vernon, boy. We generally shoot them.”
“I’m sure the information I’ll give General Washington will prove the truth of my statements.”
“He thinks he’s going to meet General Washington!” the older man said, and the two soldiers burst out laughing once more.
