Redcoat
Page 42
“But it may not come to that,” Sir Henry said brusquely.
“Indeed not.” Sir William’s voice became warm as he realized that his successor, like himself, believed in the peace negotiations. “I’m led to believe that the rebels will be prudent enough to see the generosity of our proposals and, if we can conclude a peace, the French will surely stay away.”
“Peace!” Sir Henry sounded horrified. “I was born here, Sir William, I know these people. They’re like spoilt children! Give them an inch and they’ll scream for more. Saratoga ended any chance of peace, and there’ll be none now that the damned Frogs have joined! They’ve only agreed to talk so they can lull us to sleep! Surely you see that? No, Sir William. You hold your talks, but nothing will be decided unless we hammer them on the battlefield first!”
“Always one more battle,” Sir William said softly.
“One more battle?” Sir Henry frowned with misunderstanding.
Sir William feared that his successor was right, and that the peace proposals would come to nothing, but he could not surrender his dream so easily. “There are Whig voices in the city which are most encouraging!” He almost mentioned Martha Crowl by name, then decided that Sir Henry would be better served by a more gentle introduction to the exotic Widow. “The rebels will make some noise about surrendering their independence, of course, but I think they can be persuaded.” Sir William shook his head chidingly. “Independence is a nonsense, and they must realize it. Where’s the justice in it? It was not their money which settled these colonies, but ours. They’re like tenant farmers demanding the freehold, aren’t they? And there’s no law nor reason in the world to take them seriously.”
Sir Henry’s irritation had visibly grown through this patient argument. “Damn law and damn reason,” he growled. “My job is to hit them! If I do that, then they might grovel for peace, but I won’t lift the hounds till they do!”
Sir William, realizing he had spoken in vain, sighed. “You’ll find them most adept at dodging our blows.”
Sir Henry appeared not to hear the calm response. “And if I can drive the rebels away from the city, then I see no need to relinquish a garrison on the coast. Five thousand men to hold Philadelphia and the same in New York. That should suffice.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Sir William was suddenly too tired to argue.
“And one savage blow at Washington before the French fleet can bring troops. If indeed it ever passes the Channel Fleet!” Sir Henry, as he spoke these optimistic words, had walked to the table where a pile of his papers sat alongside Sir William’s documents. “But it seems to me, Sir William, that any blow we do aim at the rebels is first betrayed …?” Sir Henry found the paper he wanted, and drew it out.
“Betrayed?” Sir William seemed startled by the word.
“Captain Vane wrote to me. I presume you saw a copy of his letter?”
Sir William closed his eyes rather than betray his bitter disappointment. For a second he was tempted to say that he had expressly forbidden Captain Vane to communicate with Sir Henry, but what good would such a protest make? Clinton was now the master of Vane’s destiny, not Sir William, who, therefore, kept silent.
Sir Henry scanned the paper. “He says he has proof of a rebel organization within the city. One that has betrayed each and every one of our moves. He explains that you permitted its existence as a conduit for the discussion of peace?”
On hearing the accusations that he knew would be reported to London and whispered in Parliament, Sir William sighed. “It was never quite like that.”
“But the French are in the game now. It made sense to treat with the rebels before, but not now, Sir William, not now! Now we must strike at all our enemies.” Sir Henry, still holding the letter, went to the window and stared at the State House roof. “I like the sound of young Vane! He doesn’t have a lot of nonsense in him.”
“I’m sure he’ll be gratified to hear you say so.”
“I shall make him an aide, of course, then let him end this defiance.” Sir Henry remembered that he had already asked Sir William to continue in temporary command. “With your permission, of course.”
Sir William thought of contradicting the proposal, then realized that, in a week or so, he would be gone so his contradiction would amount to nothing. He shrugged. “The future command is yours, Sir Henry. You must make your preparations for the year’s campaigning as you see best.”
“Then I shall ask Captain Vane to put his ideas into practice.”
“He will appreciate that.” Sir William spoke absently, then, fearing he might be thought rude, tried to essay some small enthusiasm for his successor’s eager plans. “The Loyalists will be gratified that you intend to stay in the city.”
“They must be rewarded,” Clinton said harshly. “For if they’re seen to prosper then more of them may take up arms for our cause!”
“Oh, indeed!” Sir William made it sound as though he had never thought of such a simple solution to the nagging shortage of men.
“Let the Loyalists hold Pennsylvania and New Jersey,” Clinton said, “and I can punish the French in the Caribbean.”
“Then come back and complete the pacification of the colonies?” Once again Sir William achieved a tone of awed astonishment, just as if an answer, for which he had vainly sought through long and frustrating months, was suddenly, and too late for his own good, becoming clear.
“Exactly.”
“It is gratifying,” Sir William paused to put Hamlet on to the rug, then groaned as another backpain stabbed at him, “that you have brought such eagerness to the war’s prosecution, Sir Henry.”
Sir Henry preened under the praise. “It should never have been fought, of course, but we can’t lose now! That way lies ruin. We’re in it, and the damned business will have to be finished.”
“We shall see you as Earl of Philadelphia yet!” Sir William said gleefully. “Now, will you forgive me? Hamlet does like a turn in the garden before dark.”
Sir William, beyond caring now, walked through to the dining chamber where the orderlies were clearing away the long tables. He smiled vaguely at them, then tried to open the garden door, but a stab of pain from the small of his back made him first flinch, then fumble with the lever.
A red sleeve pushed past Sir William and the door was opened for him. “Sir,” said a nervous and respectful voice.
“I do thank you.” Sir William’s back was suddenly extraordinarily painful, so much so that he had to clutch at the red sleeve for momentary support. “Do please forgive me.”
“You want to sit down, sir?”
“No, no. It’s a passing thing. My father suffered from it, you know, and the doctors never knew how to treat it! Never.” Sir William, as he spoke these words, leaned on his helper as they went into the garden. Hamlet ran happily to the far shrubs, but Sir William was forced to hobble on the Redcoat’s arm. He saw that his helper was one of the orderlies. “You’re Vane’s man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah! Indeed.” Somehow the recognition seemed to upset Sir William, but, as he still had need of Sam’s support, he forced a smile. “It’s really very foolish. I haven’t had a twinge as severe as this for months. Perhaps there’s wet weather coming?”
“It always seems to make it worse, sir, but a linseed poultice will have it beat.”
Sir William’s face lit up with a sudden and happy recollection. “Sam! That’s your name, isn’t it? You’re the fellow who cured my bay stallion of the colic.”
“Back in January, sir. Tom Evans fetched him to me.”
“What on earth did you do?” Sir William, instead of being the Commander-in-Chief talking to a private, was suddenly an English squire talking of his favourite subject to an expert.
“Nothing much, sir. Just warmed his drinking water and gave him peppermint and honey.”
“I must remember that.”
“And some liquorice and powdered ginger after, sir.”
“I
think I could do with some powdered ginger myself.” Sir William tentatively took his arm from Sam’s and tested how his back felt. “It seems to be passing. Why on earth are you in the infantry, Sam? I’d have thought a fellow like you would be a cavalryman!”
“Dunno, sir.” Sam, now that his support was no longer needed, felt embarrassed.
Sir William saw the embarrassment and, eager as ever to see men comfortable and happy about him, strove to allay it. “But you’d like to work with horses, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You should, you should. The world’s not so full of experts as you’d think. Did Evans pay you for curing the bay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quite right.” Sir William nodded happily. “You met Captain Vane at Germantown, am I not right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good horse country, that.” Sir William sounded wistful. “Fine grass and good drainage. If it wasn’t for this damned war, Sam, I’d as soon raise horses on those pastures as anywhere in the world.”
Sam’s voice was warm in answer. “It would be a good life, sir, so it would.”
Sir William nodded. “It’s beyond my power to have it now, Sam. The damned French have seen to that. I don’t know why God made the French, they’re no damned use to the world.” He gave a small laugh. “But if I was a young man, and we hadn’t been so damnably stupid, I’d be over here.” He shrugged. “But it’ll be back to England, and that’s a good country, too. What will you do when you’re back in England, Sam?”
Sam plucked at his good red coat. “I have no choice, sir.”
“Of course you have! A man like you can name his price!” Sir William peered at Sam and decided that what he saw he liked very much indeed. “D’you want to come into my service?”
Sam was so astonished that he could not answer at first, and when he did he almost stammered. “Your service, sir?”
“Racehorses, Sam. Fast!” Sir William was eager suddenly. “Something to make Newmarket jealous, eh? Well, you think on it, and talk to Tom Evans before the week’s out. I’ll say you were invalided out of the army.” Sir William laughed. “There’s always a way, Sam!”
“I’m sure, sir.”
“Talk to Tom. I’ll see that Vane doesn’t make a fuss.” Sir William added the last words rather grimly, then saw Lizzie Loring come on to the upper terrace. He waved her a welcome. “Talk to Evans, Sam.”
“I will, sir.”
“And thank you, Sam. Thank you!” The words came over Sir William’s shoulder, and Sam, astounded, knew that he had achieved the Redcoat’s dream; he could go home.
Thirty-Nine
On the evening before the Meschianza, and in a graveyard where the rain spat from a grey sky, the Revd MacTeague read the order for the burial of the dead. “Man that is born of a woman,” he intoned, “hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower.”
“Murderer,” Martha Crowl said aloud, as she had said the word aloud in the pauses of every prayer. She stared at her uncle as she spoke, oblivious of the embarrassment she caused.
“O holy and most merciful Saviour,” MacTeague raised his voice to drown the Widow’s interruptions, “deliver us not into the pains of eternal death.”
“Murderer!”
Captain Lord Robert Massedene took Martha’s arm and drew her away from the grave. She went obediently, threading the gravestones and treestumps on a red-sleeved arm. Martha had so feared her own violent reaction to the news of her brother’s death that she had asked Massedene to bring her to the funeral, leaving Lydia in the house with Jenny. The priest’s voice faded behind her and the thin late-afternoon rain beaded the black veil that hung over Martha’s face. She was cloaked in her widow’s weeds. “Jonathon didn’t go willingly, Robert.”
“I’m sure.” Massedene, even if he was not convinced by Martha’s words, spoke with gentle sympathy.
“He’s lying!” Martha cried the words as if in pain. “Jonathon was in love. He would not have gone to London if the very throne had been offered to him!” She led Massedene across the wet grass to where, beneath a broken pillar that marked an old grave, Caroline stood. The girl had sidled through the cemetery gate just a moment before.
“I couldn’t come earlier,” Caroline said, staring with seemingly empty eyes at the dark huddle of mourners.
“It doesn’t matter,” Martha embraced the girl, “I’m just glad the message reached you.” Martha had sent a brief note across the river, but so hurried were the funeral arrangements that Martha had doubted whether Caroline would arrive before the coffin was obliterated by earth.
“What happened?” Caroline asked.
“They say he was going to London and that he stumbled overboard in the night.” Martha’s voice was scathing.
“They’re lying.” Caroline’s voice was as bleak as the rain-soaked sky.
Martha drew Massedene forward and made a perfunctory introduction. “I want you to tell Lord Robert Massedene what Jonathon planned to do.”
Caroline hesitated. Massedene politely took off his hat in greeting.
“It’s all right.” Martha had seen Caroline’s hesitation. “He’s one of the decent ones. Not like that murderer!” This was again directed at her uncle. “Tell him,” Martha said again.
“Jonathon was going to run away,” Caroline’s voice was weary, “and we were to be married.”
Lord Robert Massedene’s face grimaced with pain. He did not know what to say, so fell back on the stilted and commonplace. “I am so very sorry.”
“He would never have boarded that boat willingly,” Martha insisted.
“I’m sure.” Massedene’s voice was very soft.
“Perhaps he tried to swim ashore, perhaps he was pushed, but it amounts to murder, Robert, murder!” Martha, in her rage, was vehement.
Massedene shook his head helplessly. “The ship’s long gone, ma’am.”
Martha turned to stare at the mourners. “God damn them,” she said, then began to weep.
Caroline was weeping too. She was weeping silently and remorsefully, weeping because she had not loved Jonathon more. The priest’s voice droned on. Despite the coffin, the smell of the body was rank and thin in the graveyard where the rain, stinging and sharp, slanted on the wind. The dark clouds threatened an early dusk.
A hollow rattling made Martha turn back towards the grave. Abel Becket had shovelled earth on to the coffin and now the sexton took the spade and thrust it into the pile of raw soil that would smother the cheap pine box. “Wait!” Martha’s voice rang loud across the graveyard. “Wait!”
She took Caroline’s arm and dragged her towards the open pit. Ezra Woollard moved to block their approach, but Robert Massedene hurried ahead and the big man, not wanting a confrontation with a British officer, stood aside.
The sexton, his spade loaded with earth, hesitated, while MacTeague, his damp robes fluttering, stepped towards Martha as though to offer solace to her grief, but Martha pushed past the priest. She opened her black cloak and took out a folded flag which she shook loose. Red and white stripes and stars on a blue field were bright in the drizzle. “He can at least be buried as he would wish to be buried,” Martha said defiantly.
Abel Becket stepped forward and snatched at the rebel flag. “He had forsworn that nonsense! This is sacrilege!”
Martha plucked the flag beyond her uncle’s reach. “He forswore nothing, you murderer!”
Becket looked at Massedene. “Will you permit this? On British ground?”
Lord Robert Massedene stepped gently forward and took the flag from Martha. Sensing the Widow’s defeat, Becket and Woollard smiled.
But Massedene had only taken the flag so he could arrange it properly. He found two of the flag’s corners, then gave the other two to Martha. He smiled at her, stepped back, and the flag was stretched between them. Massedene’s red coat and golden aiguillettes stilled any protest that the mourners might make.
“At least it will rest in a free country soon!” Martha stared at her uncle. “Thanks to the French. And where will you run and hide, Abel Becket?”
“It was an accident,” Abel Becket said. His wife plucked at his sleeve to draw him away, but Abel Becket was not a cowardly man. He looked at Martha. “I wanted Jonathon to go to London to learn his business, nothing else. There was no unkindness in such a wish, none!”
“It was murder, uncle.”
“Grief speaks in you, not sense.”
“And you?” Martha turned on Ezra Woollard. “Do you say it was an accident?”
Ezra Woollard glanced at Abel Becket as though for support, but none came. He shrugged. “A ship’s deck, darkness, and only one leg. Yes, I’d say they were the ingredients of accident.”
“And when,” Martha asked in a clear and loud voice that carried to every mourner, “do you purchase a share of the trade, Ezra Woollard? There’s no nephew in your way now, is there?”
“You’re mad, woman.”
“Enough!” Abel Becket had said his piece and had no wish to stay in a damp graveyard to bandy words with an hysterical woman. He led his wife and houseservants away. Ezra Woollard nodded at the sexton and, with a last grim glance at Martha and Caroline, he turned away.
“Murderers!” Martha shouted.
“Dear Mrs Crowl?” The Revd MacTeague hovered beside Martha, but she twitched away from the priest. The sexton began to fill the grave, shovelling fast as though eager to cover up the rebel symbol.
Martha walked between Lord Robert Massedene and Caroline towards a walnut tree that offered some small shelter from the stinging rain. Jonathon’s body had been landed in the city the day before, just hours after Sir Henry’s arrival, yet the corpse had not been named until this morning. “They buried him quickly enough!” Martha said vengefully, suggesting more wrongdoing on her uncle’s part.