Redcoat

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Mrs Crowl would urgently like to speak with the Commander-in-Chief,” the lieutenant explained. “I told her that Sir William was …”

  “Sir William would be delighted to meet you,” Lizzie interrupted as she waved the lieutenant away. “To my certain knowledge he’s been trapped with some tedious merchants for the last half hour. Shall we rescue him?”

  Sir William was indeed trapped, and also standing too close to the antechamber’s fire which he feared would be scorching his silk stockings. However, he dared not move for fear of causing offence to a delegation of Philadelphia’s merchants who had cornered him. They bored him, but Sir William knew he must show polite interest in their problems. These, after all, were the solid men on whom the wealth of the colonies depended, and the men who were among the staunchest defenders of royal power. “I do assure you,” Sir William said for the third or fourth time, “that the river forts will be taken. Upon my word, gentlemen, they will!”

  “They must!” a furniture manufacturer said gloomily.

  “And they will!” Sir William wished one of his aides would come to his rescue, but doubtless they were all busy with young ladies.

  Abel Becket demanded to know by what date the river would be free for traffic. “I have cargoes ready for Britain! Sawn walnut, Sir William, which is already late for the market.”

  “I’m sure, I’m sure.” Sir William, his backside roasting because of its proximity to the flames, wondered what perverse fate had driven him to the company of a timber merchant. “But the river will be open in good time.”

  “Before the ice comes, I hope,” Becket went on. “Or the French?”

  The last remark piqued Sir William, who offered one of his rare frowns. Such talk was defeatist. “The French, Mr Becket, do not want to be embroiled in the rebellion! Oh, I don’t deny they would like to see Britain embarrassed, but at the price of republicanism? France is a monarchy!” Sir William said the last patronizingly, as though a provincial American trader might not be expected to know much of Europe’s governance. “Besides,” Sir William brightened, “the rebellion will soon be over. We have had the good fortune to smite Mister Washington another blow. I cannot see his men enduring a winter, upon my soul I can’t! And very soon, gentlemen, we will hear of General Burgoyne’s success. New England chopped away!”

  “Praise God,” said the Revd MacTeague, who was eavesdropping on the conversation.

  “I believe peace is a genuine and imminent likelihood.” Sir William ignored the fat minister who was pestering headquarters to be allowed to hold a solemn service of thanksgiving for the victory of Germantown. Sir William wanted nothing solemn, only joyful things like the tune of ‘The World Turned Upside Down’ which the musicians were now playing to a quick tempo. A flash of shining blue passed by one of the terrace doors, and, much to his relief, Sir William saw Lizzie discreetly beckon to him. “You must forgive me, gentlemen?” he hummed and hawed as though matters of great military moment demanded his immediate attention.

  And in a way, they did, for Martha Crowl, taken to the empty library of the house, confronted Sir William with a bitter accusation of callousness. Had Sir William, she demanded, visited the hospitals where the rebel wounded had been placed?

  Sir William, who admired ladies of spirit, even when they interrupted his carousing, confessed that he had not.

  But Martha Crowl had troubled herself to visit the hospitals, and now she told Sir William of the horrors in the overcrowded wards, and of the untended agony that the wounded suffered. Lizzie Loring, sitting at the room’s edge, listened with Captain Vane.

  “And my own brother,” Martha said, “is dying in one such hospital.”

  There was silence in the library, except for the tinkling music that echoed down the corridor outside.

  “I am so very sorry,” Sir William said at last. He frowned, seeking more adequate words, but found none. “I am so very sorry.”

  “I have tried to have him moved,” Martha said, “as I tried, Sir William, to take comfort to all the wounded. Both requests were denied me. Your doctors will not tend the American wounded until your own men are treated, but nor will they allow our own doctors into the hospitals. It is not civilized, Sir William.”

  “No.” Sir William was evidently upset by Martha’s news and Vane noted how he instinctively looked towards Mrs Loring for support. Sir William was also clearly intrigued by Martha’s use of the possessive ‘our’. “Might I ask, forgive me, but are you of the rebel persuasion, Mrs Crowl?”

  “I am a Patriot, sir, and proud of it.”

  “I am grateful for your honesty. Truly.” Sir William paused again. “And do I presume, ma’am, that as you are here alone your husband is fighting for Mister Washington?”

  “My husband is dead, sir, but doubtless had he lived he would have fought in General Washington’s ranks.”

  Sir William heard the stress on the word ‘general’, and smiled. “We stubbornly refuse to recognize his rank, ma’am, for which you must forgive us.” He twisted to look at Christopher Vane. “Are you the duty man, Kit?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Perhaps you’ll notify the hospitals that any civilians wishing to tend the rebel wounded must be offered every facility?”

  Vane nodded. “Of course, sir. I’ll have the order drafted tonight.”

  Sir William turned back to Martha. “You say your brother is dying?”

  “Unless his leg is removed, yes.” Martha hesitated, but could not resist rubbing salt into Sir William’s discomfort. “And I should not even have known, Sir William, had I not insisted on searching the hospitals.” Martha, like other women in the city who sought news of their relatives, had gone to discover whether any of the prisoners had seen Jonathon in the battle, but, instead of news, she had found Jonathon himself. “I insisted on being given entrance,” she said defiantly.

  Sir William smiled. “I am glad you did, ma’am.”

  “But they would not permit me to remove Jonathon.”

  “It will be arranged immediately.” He turned. “Kit?”

  “At once, sir.” Vane looked at Martha. “Where is your brother, Mrs Crowl?”

  “In the State House, Captain.”

  “You wish him moved where?” Vane was pencilling notes in a small book.

  “My house is the limestone building on the corner of Fourth and Market. Might I suggest you bring Jonathon through the backyard and down the steps to the kitchen? I shall have a surgeon waiting.”

  Vane gave a condescending smile at the implied suggestion that he should carry a wounded rebel through the streets. “My servant will bring him, ma’am. Your brother’s name?”

  “Jonathon Becket.”

  Sir William gave a surprised start. “Not Abel Becket’s son?”

  “His nephew, Sir William, though Mr Becket has disowned any of his family who are Patriots.” Martha said it with a biting scorn, then softened her tone as she bowed her head towards the Commander-in-Chief. “I am grateful to you, Sir William.”

  The bow was returned. “I only regret the necessity that brought you to this house, ma’am.”

  “I am thankful I came.” Martha seemed surprised at the ease of her victory, then became flustered when Vane offered her his arm.

  “You said the matter was urgent, ma’am. Shall we therefore deal with it urgently?”

  “Yes, Captain.” Martha, suddenly obedient, took the proffered arm and left the room.

  Sir William blew out a long, appreciative breath. “I hope Vane knows what a chance he has! A beauty if ever, besides yourself, I saw one.”

  “Let us hope she teaches him some sense.”

  “You don’t like Kit?” Sir William sounded surprised.

  “He’s an ambitious man, and a proud one. That’s dangerous, William.”

  “But I’m a general and he’s a captain, so I think we can sleep easy in our bed. Shall we return to our guests?” Sir William smiled his benevolent smile that would embrace a wilderness. He dr
eamed of peace, and he dreamed of laughter gilding that peace with happiness, to which end, and as Captain Vane went with the widow, Sir William went back to the dance.

  Seventeen

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  The duty officer at the State House was an elderly and morose lieutenant whose breath stank of rum. A disappointed man, denied the promotion he believed he deserved, the lieutenant now held Private Sam Gilpin’s authorization close to the guttering flame of a candle stub. “Sir William Howe?” The Lieutenant’s voice implied disbelief.

  “He signed it, sir,” Sam said helpfully. In truth Sir William’s private secretary had forged the signature, but only because he did not wish to further spoil Sir William’s evening of pleasure.

  “There is such a thing as daylight, you know? God said ‘Let there be bloody light’, and there was, but no! Sir William has to send you in the middle of the bloody night, doesn’t he?” The lieutenant gave the seal-embossed paper back to Sam, grudgingly acknowledging its authenticity. “You are here to find one bloody Yankee and take the bastard away, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good luck, son. They’ve been dropping off their perches like poxed sparrows, so the bugger’s probably dead.” The lieutenant yawned. “Take a bloody lantern, don’t set the bloody place on fire, and don’t wake the bleeders up. They’re trouble enough as it is.”

  Sam, thus admitted to the State House, helped himself to a lantern that he lit from the guardroom’s candle. Life as an officer’s servant, he was finding, was full of surprises; whether serving two breakfasts to the Captain and whatever whore had been taken upstairs the night before, or running such strange errands as this which had started when the Captain had returned early from the General’s reception, rousted a sleeping Sam from the kitchen floor, and demanded that Sam immediately discover a wounded rebel soldier in the State House.

  Sam, blinking awake, had sat up. “Rebel, sir?”

  “Twenty years old. Called Jonathon Becket. He must have been wounded very close to the place where you assaulted that sergeant.” Captain Vane liked to remind Sam of that crime, thus ensuring Sam’s wary gratitude. “Go and find him. Someone must have a list of their bloody names. Wake them up, stir them up, use Sir William’s authorization, and hurry!”

  “Jonathon Becket, sir? Like the Archbishop?”

  “Are we here to discuss history’s crimes? For God’s sake, wake up, Sam!”

  “But I know him, sir! I had to look after him! If it’s the same fellow.”

  “God sent me a paragon!” Vane had whirled on Sam with a sudden upwelling of good temper. “When God made you, Samuel Gilpin, he excelled his normally botched work. Up, thou scum, find him. There is a woman at stake. Put wings on thy feet and a lit cartridge up thy arse. In brief, Sam, hurry!”

  Thus Sam found himself in the State House. No register of the wounded had been made, so Sam would have to go through the makeshift wards one by one, but it was not an unwelcome task. In the last few days Sam had been plagued by his memories of the wounded American boy who had tried to help Nate run, and who, for his pains, had been savaged by Sergeant Scammell. Sam also felt guilty. If he had fetched the horse quicker, or if he had agreed to run with Nate, then his brother might not be dead and Jonathon, who in some curious way seemed now to be a link with Nate, might not be lying in this hospital.

  If Jonathon Becket even lived, which, in the stench and filth of the State House, seemed unlikely. Sam started his search upstairs, edging his way through the wounded rebels who moaned, cursed, and wept. The building stank of festering flesh, rotting wounds, vomit, dung, and death. The real hospitals, such as they were, had been given to the British wounded, so these rebels, casualties of Germantown, were consigned to the State House where they waited for agonizing death. Some slept, some were already dead, while others blinked towards Sam’s sudden lantern flame and, desperate for help, reached pathetic hands towards the small light. “Friend?” a voice issued from the shadows. “Friend?” The man who spoke lay wrapped in a verminous blanket. Sam, flinching from the reek around him, stooped with the lantern, but the speaker was not Jonathon. The man’s hand wavered towards Sam’s sleeve. “Water? Please?”

  Sam offered his canteen which the man gripped with an almost demonic force, sucking at the wooden neck as if he had not drunk in a week. The whole room, waking slowly and seeing the kindness, began a horrid and beseeching moan for help.

  “Did you have to? Was this really necessary?” A petulant voice sounded from the doorway, and Sam turned to see a red-coated corporal blinking away sleep and looking at him.

  “Corporal?”

  “They do disturb our rest.” The corporal had an oddly educated voice. “Now, lads! Please! Time for sleep! So good for ypu! Sleep! Nature’s soft nurse!”

  But the rebels were woken now, raising their hands, weeping for the water or food that Sam could not offer. He snatched up the empty canteen, retrieved his lantern, and fled from the room.

  “It really doesn’t help to raise their hopes,” the corporal said chidingly. “You might think you’re doing them a kindness, but in the long run you’re being excessively cruel! It’s what I told the women who wanted to look after them. Why? I asked them, Why prolong the suffering? But women do like to interfere, don’t you agree?”

  Sam leaned on the wall by an open window. Clouds flew silver-black beside a clean-edged moon. He gasped in the fresh, cool air. A cockroach scuttled across the windowledge. Touching his jacket, he thought of his brother and, as ever, had to choke back angry tears at the memory. Sam tried to console himself that Nate’s quick death was a better end for a soldier than this lingering and callous torture. “They only wanted water,” he said.

  “They get it once a day,” the corporal replied sternly. “It’s a bother fetching it as it is! We’re undermanned! And it isn’t our job to look after enemy wounded. I’m a flautist!”

  Sam tried to scour the thick stink of death from his throat. “They’re starving!”

  “All Mister Washington’s fault, I’m afraid.” The corporal dismissed the problem with a curiously elegant wave of a thin hand. “The custom of war declares that he must provide for his own men taken prisoner, and if he cannot be bothered to arrange their rations, then we are not obliged to do it.” He had said the words in a curious chanting voice, as though he spoke them by rote. “Not that I don’t feel for them, you mustn’t think that. I do, indeed I do! I read them psalms!”

  “I expect they like that,” Sam said bitterly.

  “I wanted to be in the Church.” The corporal, woken up now, seemed to decide that he might as well serve his period of duty. He buttoned his jacket and buckled his belt. “It was either the Church or the theatre, but I end up tootling for King George. Or rather, acting as nursemaid for uncouth colonials. Such a trial!” He looked Sam up and down and seemed pleased by what he saw. “Are you supposed to be here, or is this a social visit?”

  “I’m looking for a lad who was wounded at Germantown.”

  “He’s probably dead. They die constantly, you know. We have to take the bodies out. Filthy! Verminous! But it’s a mercy for them, really. There’s not much to enjoy in life, is there, if you’re crippled?”

  “This boy was crippled,” Sam said. “He had a twisted leg and a clubfoot?”

  “Ah!” the corporal said with sudden enthusiasm. “The good-looking boy with the black hair? He was alive yesterday, I think.” He beckoned Sam to follow him and, at the foot of the stairs, put a warning hand on Sam’s arm. “Do be careful how you tread here, it isn’t the most salubrious place.” He led Sam through a corridor which, being the guards’ latrine, was fouled with excreta and urine. Two rats, disturbed by the lantern light, scampered into darkness as the corporal pushed open a tall door and ushered Sam into a handsomely panelled room. “These,” the disappointed musician said in his delicate voice, “are the fortunate ones. They’re not so badly wounded, you see.” He raised Sam’s arm so that the lantern revealed more o
f the high-ceilinged chamber. “This is the very room where the rebels signed their Declaration of Independence.” The corporal laughed.

  “Their what?” Sam had never heard of any declaration.

  “Never mind.” The corporal looked at the wounded, who, seeing the lantern’s glow, had begun their horrid moaning for help. “Not that it’s done them much good, has it? Your fellow was over there, beneath the window.”

  It was hard to see how these lesser wounded were more fortunate than their comrades, unless it was that they would take longer to die. The room smelt putrid. The stench was of feverish sweat, of the bloody flux, and of flesh rotting on the living bone. There was fever and cholera here. It was a charnel house.

  But, beneath the window and with eyes as bright as coals, Sam saw the thin, handsome face of the boy he had knelt beside at Germantown, and he saw, too, that Jonathon was now ill far beyond the single wound that Sam had tended, the boy’s eyes were bright with fever, the thin body shaking in delirium, and Sam felt a welling of guilt and pity as he stepped across the crammed bodies to kneel beside the quivering boy. “Jonathon?”

  There was no answer. Sam saw a louse crawl beneath Jonathon’s collar. The boy stank of his own dung and sweat and blood. “Jonathon?”

  “You’ve found him, then?” the corporal asked.

  “Yes.” And as Sam spoke the word, so Jonathon’s eyes seemed to be invested with intelligence. Slowly they focused on Sam’s eyes, then a puzzled look spread over the American’s face. After the puzzlement came a look of such relief that help had come, a look that spoke of such hell that had been endured in this place, that Sam knew he would cry for pity if he did not speak. “I’m getting you out, Johnny.”

  “You’re taking him?” The corporal sounded shocked.

  “Orders,” Sam said, “from Sir William Howe.” He had learned, in the last few days, just what power he could wield with those magic words.