The Greco Gambit
Chapter One
Somewhere outside, a dog was barking, its voice sharp with alarm. Up in the loft of the farmhouse, John MacLea rolled out of his cot and began pulling on his uniform, pausing to shake the figure in the other cot. ‘Wake up, Alec. Something’s wrong.’
Murray sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know, but that damned dog won’t shut up.’ MacLea dragged on his boots and reached for his musket and cartridge pouch. ‘Rouse the others. I’ll meet you outside.’
He ran downstairs and out into the farmyard. It was about seven o’clock in the morning on the 28th of November, half an hour before sunrise; not that they would see much of the sun in this weather. Low grey clouds scudded across the sky, driven by the same biting north wind that had been blowing for several days.
In its kennel near the barn the dog was half hysterical, howling and barking while it danced on its hind legs and scrabbled to get out. Old Joseph Hershey, the owner of the farmhouse where MacLea and his men were billeted, leant out of a window and shouted at the dog in German, and then saw MacLea.
‘Was ist los, Captain?’
‘I don’t know,’ said MacLea. ‘Keep your family indoors and away from the windows.’
‘Ja, ve vill do so.’ The window closed.
Cautiously, musket cradled in his arms, MacLea walked out onto the road that ran past the farmhouse. On the other side of the road were the dark waters of the Niagara River, rushing between broad banks. On the far side of the river, a few hundred yards away, were the dark forests of the hostile American shore.
Hill and Moses Crabbe were standing in the road, listening to the pop-pop-pop of faraway gunfire on the wind. ‘Where is it coming from?’ MacLea asked.
‘South, sir,’ said Crabbe. ‘Sounds like it might be coming from Frenchman’s Creek.’
Faint but unmistakable came the sound of more musket shots in the distance. Frenchman’s Creek was about two miles away to the south. A small detachment of British regulars was posted there, guarding the bridge over the creek where it ran down to join the Niagara.
MacLea turned as the rest of his men hurried out of the farmyard to join him. Murray, like himself, wore a rifle-green uniform; the rest were in civilian clothes, with only a white armband on their coats to mark them as Canadian militia. They had heard the musketry too, and were alert; Alec Murray sniffed the air as if he could already smell the powder smoke. Murray liked fighting.
‘Yankees?’ he asked.
‘Sounds like they’re trying to take the bridge at Frenchman’s Creek,’ MacLea said.
Murray nodded. He was a big man, square-shouldered and sandy-haired, a reassuring presence whenever danger threatened. ‘We’d better get down there, then.’
‘Carson,’ MacLea said. ‘Run to Chippawa, as fast as you can. Tell Colonel Bisshopp the Americans have landed. We’re going up to see what is happening.’
They set off down the road, slipping and stumbling from time to time in the half-frozen mud, the icy wind whipping around them. Up ahead, the crackle of gunfire grew louder.
‘May I ask a question, Captain?’ said McTeer, panting.
‘Go on,’ MacLea replied.
‘There’s only ten of us now Carson has gone. What happens when we get to the bridge and find a couple of hundred Yankees swarming over it?’
‘We’ll think of something,’ MacLea said.
A month earlier he had led fifty men into battle at Queenston. But his company had been disbanded after the battle, and only a handful of men remained behind. Murray, his sergeant and also his closest friend. The two scouts, Croghan and Miller. Abel Thomas and Moses Crabbe, both runaway slaves who had escaped from America. McTeer the clerk from Burlington, Appleby the butcher’s boy from York, Carson the wheelwright, Schmidt the restless wanderer, Hill… well, who knew where Hill had come from, or what went on in his mind. The men had never said why they decided to stay with him, and MacLea had never asked.
They passed another isolated farm. Cattle were lowing inside the barns. Beyond lay empty fields, and then the forest closed in, a thick belt of leafless trees overhanging the road, branches stark black against the clouds. Suddenly Miller, who was in the lead, slid to a stop and flung out one arm, pointing.
‘Movement in the woods, Cap’n!’
The others halted without need of orders and knelt in the mud, raising their muskets and checking their priming. MacLea crouched down beside Miller, following his outstretched finger. Dark figures were gliding through the trees, but in the faint dawn light he could not make out who they were. ‘Halt!’ he shouted. ‘Who goes there?’
‘Friend!’ came the response. ‘Captain MacLea, is that you?’
MacLea felt a sudden rush of relief. ‘Captain Givins!’ he called. ‘I’m glad to hear your voice, sir.’
‘Likewise,’ said James Givins, stepping out of the woods onto the road. He was a stocky man in his fifties, wearing the red coat of a British officer. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The same as you, I expect,’ said MacLea. ‘Marching to the sound of the guns. How many men do you have?’
‘Twenty,’ said Givins. He turned his head and called something in a language MacLea recognised as Ojibwemowin, the Ojibwe tongue, and a moment later more men came gliding silently out of the trees, dressed in buckskins, faces painted red and black and white, carrying battered, well-used muskets. They looked alert and ready for a fight, and the sight of them gladdened MacLea’s heart. He knew from past experience how even a few Indian warriors could strike fear into American hearts.
‘These are Mississaugas,’ Givins said. ‘This is Sekahos, their leader. He’s an old friend of mine.’
Sekahos was a big man, his face painted dull red and black. He wore a tomahawk and two knives at his belt and a rosary around his neck. ‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘I think you must be John MacLea. Chief Norton told me about you.’ He nodded. ‘It is a good day for fighting, non?’
‘It will be better once we know what we’re up against,’ said MacLea. Ahead, the firing had stopped. ‘Let’s get to the bridge and find out what’s going on.’
At the edge of the trees they crouched down, looking out through the dim morning across another expanse of ploughed field towards the bridge, a simple wooden structure spanning the creek. A tavern, a two-storey building with a barn and stable block behind it, stood next to the road between their position and the bridge, perhaps a hundred yards away.
The fields were swarming with American infantry, regulars in blue coats with white frogging and cross belts. Some were demolishing the bridge; even at this distance, the steady chunk of axes could be heard. Others were guarding both ends of it. MacLea counted about ninety men at the north end, facing them; roughly three times the size of their own force. A similar detachment stood at the south end. In total he reckoned there were at least two hundred Americans, probably more.
‘We had troops here, protecting the bridge,’ said Captain Givins, crouching beside him. ‘Where are they?’
‘Driven off?’ said MacLea. ‘Scattered in the forest by now. Or dead.’ They could see bodies on the bank at the far end of the bridge, some wearing blue coats, others in British red.
Alec Murray knelt, sighting along the barrel of his musket and watching the Americans. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘If they destroy the bridge, they’ll cut the road between Chippawa and Fort Erie,’ MacLea said. ‘The Americans attacked Fort Erie two days ago but were beaten off. I reckon they’re trying again. These fellows were dispatched to stop us from sending reinforcements to the fort.’
The heavy thump of the axes continued. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ said Murray. ‘So, we need to stop them.’
‘With thirty men?’ asked Givins. ‘We’ll need reinforcements of our own.’
‘I’ve sent a runner to Chippawa,’ MacLea said.
Murray shook his head. ‘It’s ten miles to Chippawa, John, over a damned rough road
. It will take Carson at least an hour to get there, and probably two more for Bisshopp to assemble his men and march down here. By that time the Yankees will have smashed up the bridge and be waiting for us on the far bank. We’ll have to do something before then.’
‘Agreed,’ said MacLea.
Givins shrugged. ‘All right. What are your orders?’
MacLea hesitated. ‘I’m just a militia captain,’ he said. ‘You’re the staff officer.’
‘Not any more,’ said Givins. ‘I’ve been dismissed from the staff and sent back to the Indian Department. Anyway, you’re the hero. Tell us what to do and we’ll follow you.’
Sekahos nodded. ‘Chief Norton told me what you did at Queenston. Give us your orders, John MacLea.’
MacLea smiled briefly. ‘On your own heads be it,’ he said. ‘Very well. On my signal, open fire. Stay under cover, but make as much noise as you can. Make them think there’s a hundred men here in the woods, not just thirty.’
Givins and Sekahos nodded, slipping away through the trees to pass the word to the Mississaugas. ‘Is this going to work?’ Murray asked.
‘Ask me in half an hour,’ said MacLea. He raised his musket and sighted on the distant Americans. ‘Open fire,’ he said.
Thirty muskets crashed out, belching dirty white smoke into the wind. Echoes roared in the forest. The Mississaugas began their war cries, whooping and screaming defiance at the enemy. The militiamen joined in, yelling and hollering along with them. Reloading rapidly, MacLea sighted on the American ranks and fired again. An officer, a small man with gold epaulettes on his coat, shouted at his men to stand firm, and on his command they raised their muskets and fired back, a full volley that tore splinters out of the trees but did no other damage. Already some of the Americans were edging away, uncertain of the size of the force they faced and horrified by the cries of the Mississaugas.
Another volley followed, but the Americans were firing blind, unable to see MacLea’s men among the trees. One blue-coated soldier fell, then another. Half a dozen more broke ranks and began to run back towards the bridge. The officer shouted at them, waving his sword, but then Croghan shot him through the leg and he too fell to the ground. They could still hear his voice, screaming now. ‘Help me! Don’t leave me for those bastards to torture! Help!’
Two soldiers dropped their muskets and seized hold of the officer, dragging him back towards the bridge. ‘Now!’ shouted MacLea.
Out of the woods they came in a long skirmish line, militia in white armbands and the Mississaugas with their painted faces, all of them yelling, running, pausing to fire and reload and running on again. Two more American soldiers went down, and another clutched at his arm and dropped his musket. Sudden panic seized the rest; they turned and rushed towards the bridge, shoving each other out of the way in their haste to escape. The men working on the bridge dropped their axes and fled too. Running breathless across the ploughed field, MacLea saw that the American detachment at the far end was also breaking ranks. By the time his little force reached the tavern, the Americans were fleeing south towards Fort Erie, quickly swallowed up by the forest.
Gasping for breath, MacLea flung open the door of the tavern and ran inside, covering the common room with his musket. Schmidt and Thomas followed. The place had been looted; tables were overturned and wooden cups lay on the floor. A cask of rum in one corner had been breached and the air was heavy with fumes. A blue-coated American soldier lay face down on the floor, unconscious. Another lolled against the wall, looking up at them with bleary eyes and then letting his head slump forward onto his chest. Abel Thomas, the runaway slave, looked at them and spat with contempt.
‘Schmidt, tie them up,’ said MacLea. ‘We’ll interrogate them later once they sober up. Corporal Thomas, take Crabbe and Hill and Appleby and get upstairs. Cover the bridge from the windows. The rest of you do the same downstairs.’
Schmidt nodded. ‘What about the rum?’ he asked.
‘Let’s not put temptation in front of our own people,’ said MacLea. ‘Pour it away.’
Schmidt shook his head. ‘What a waste,’ he said, but he carried the cask outside and emptied it, and then came back in and began tying up the two prisoners. The door opened again and Givins walked into the common room carrying his musket, his face stained with powder smoke. ‘That was easy,’ he said cheerfully.
MacLea took off his shako and ran one hand through his black hair. ‘A bit too easy, don’t you think?’
Givins shrugged. ‘They’re scared of Sekahos and his friends. And they had their fill of fighting at Queenston last month. They’re not anxious for more.’
‘Perhaps,’ said MacLea, clapping his shako back on his head. ‘And perhaps not. I reckon they’ll be back before long. Alec, take over here. Captain Givins, let’s go take a look at that bridge.’
* * *
The American axemen had managed to tear up a fair number of planks, but the supporting beams and struts were intact, and the bridge was still serviceable. Of the Americans there was no sign, save for a few blue-coated bodies here and there, and several big flat-bottomed boats beached on the shore where Frenchman’s Creek ran into the Niagara River.
On either side of the stream, broad fields stretched away towards the encroaching forest a quarter of a mile distant. There was nothing in the way of cover around the bridge save for the tavern behind them. MacLea gestured towards it. ‘Ask Sekahos to send his men to join mine,’ he said to Givins. ‘If there aren’t enough windows to shoot from, they can knock loopholes in the walls.’
Givins called to Sekahos and they had a brief conversation in Ojibwemowin, then the Mississaugas began trotting towards the tavern. MacLea looked at the redcoat captain. ‘You said you were dismissed from the staff. What happened?’
Givins shrugged. ‘I’m sure you can guess. Like John Macdonell, and indeed like yourself, I was one of those Canadian officers who found favour with General Brock. He brought me out of the Indian Department where I had been serving for the last ten years and gave me a position on his staff. But after Brock and Macdonell were killed at Queenston, General Sheaffe decided to purge me. Whether it was because I’m Canadian, or he didn’t want any of Brock’s favourites hanging around, I’ll never know.’ He sighed. ‘Nor, I suppose, does it greatly matter. Sheaffe has his own circle of favourites around him now, British officers mostly, men like that pompous ass Colonel Lawrence. He still hates you, by the way. Lawrence, I mean.’
‘I know,’ said MacLea. ‘After Queenston, he tried to persuade Sheaffe to have me shot for disobeying orders.’
‘And Sheaffe probably would have done it, too,’ said Givins. ‘Only by that time you were a popular hero, and people were singing songs about you. If he had prosecuted you, most of the Canadian militia probably would have mutinied.’ He paused. ‘To be fair, you did defy orders in a fairly spectacular fashion. We had been told to stand fast, but you persuaded the militia to break ranks and attack the Americans, and then the British regulars decided they wanted a share of the fun and joined in. What got into you?’
‘John Norton and his Mohawks were fighting the entire American army,’ MacLea said. ‘Someone had to support them. And the Americans had started to fortify their position on Queenston Heights. If we had waited much longer, we would have lost the battle and probably the war.’
‘Oh, agreed,’ said Givins. ‘All the same, it takes a special kind of lunacy to do what you did. No wonder Sheaffe disbanded your company and sent you into internal exile down here on the frontier. You’re lucky that’s all that happened.’
‘Actually, I think posting me down here was Lawrence’s idea. He knows this is a dangerous post. He’s hoping sooner or later I’ll stop an American bullet.’
‘Like Uriah the Hittite,’ Givins said. ‘Except you don’t have a wife for him to covet.’
An awkward silence fell. Lawrence, on the other hand, did have a wife, and he had several times accused MacLea of making advances to her. That was one of the sources of th
e animosity between them; one of several.
When Givins spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. ‘And Madame Lafitte?’ he said. ‘Have you seen her or heard from her?’
MacLea shook his head. ‘I saw her once, not long after Queenston. We agreed I should stay away from her, at least for a little while.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I am worried for her safety, though.’
Givins was watching him. ‘You think she is in danger?’
‘She has been in danger from the moment she agreed to work for us,’ said MacLea.
Josephine Lafitte was a clockmaker and astronomer who lived in the town of Niagara, down where the Niagara River emptied into Lake Ontario. What very few people knew was that she was also an American spy. And what even fewer knew was that shortly after arriving in Canada, she had turned her coat and offered to work for the British authorities without the knowledge of her American masters.
Only five people had known that secret. Two were General Isaac Brock, the former British Army commander in Upper Canada, and Colonel John Macdonell, his senior aide-de-camp. Both were now dead. The other three were Givins, MacLea and Alec Murray.
‘You know she has carried on,’ Givins said after a while. ‘She delivered a message to her usual contact a few days ago.’
MacLea, who had been studying the forest for signs of movement, turned his head. ‘How do you know?’
‘I saw them. Don’t you think we should tell General Sheaffe about her?’
‘No,’ said MacLea. ‘If we inform Sheaffe, he will tell Colonel Lawrence. He relies on Lawrence and trusts him, God knows why. And if Lawrence knew the truth about Josephine, he would use her to get at me.’
‘Any chance you could patch things up with Lawrence?’ Givins asked.
MacLea shook his head. ‘I challenged him to a duel, and he refused to meet me. And I unmasked two officers in his regiment as traitors. In both cases I made him look like a fool, and he hates my guts. This is a feud that will only end when one of us is disgraced or dead.’
The Hunt for the North Star Page 2