The Redcoat Chase

by Clifford, Riley

  Are You Ready to Save the World?

  Title Page

  Letter

  The Redcoat Chase

  The Cahill Files

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Maryland, 1814

  Frederick Warren knew he shouldn’t do it. He knew his parents would be angry, and that he would be punished and told he was too old for childish pranks. But he could worry about punishment after the fact. At that moment, on a dark August dawn, Frederick needed a good hard laugh to lighten the mood. And what his parents didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

  It was 1814, and America had been at war for two years with no sign of the conflict letting up. Everyone was feeling the effects — soaring prices of food, a constant shortage of money, and living with the threat that, at any time, the British could attack.

  Frederick’s parents had seemed particularly frayed lately, his mother taking care of guests at their Maryland inn with resignation, sighing as she spooned stews at night or stirred porridge in the morning. All Frederick’s father could talk about was the course of the war, which pressed closer and closer to their doorsteps, the British army advancing more each day. It seemed to Frederick that no one had smiled in years, let alone laughed.

  So earlier that morning, before his mother readied breakfast, Frederick carefully replaced the sugar in his mother’s fancy pewter sugar bowls with salt. Now, as he brewed a pot of tea and stacked a tower of golden toast on a tray for their crabbiest guest, Frederick chuckled to himself. His parents had been preoccupied that morning and hadn’t noticed his little trick. Their town hall meetings had been starting earlier and earlier before the sun rose, and pressing later and later into the night, too. The inn responsibilities were increasingly falling to Frederick.

  This week alone, his parents had been laboring over sketches for evacuation maps and serving on committees planning what to do should the British reach town — where to take shelter, where to find stashed food, the least conspicuous back roads out of town. Frederick wasn’t sure where his parents received their information, or why they were always the first to find out everything. It seemed to Frederick that his parents were always whom other people turned to when they needed to be comforted, when they needed a plan in times of crisis, and, most of all, when they needed information no one else could seem to get.

  In the breakfast room, Frederick deposited the tray in front of a scowling old woman and her husband, who were traveling through town to get to Washington. After Frederick had served the woman the night before, he’d heard her mutter to her husband, “If our army is as sloppy as the staff at this inn, we’ll all be singing ‘God Save the King’ before the year is out.”

  Now Frederick bowed lavishly and left for the kitchen, where he peeked out from behind the doorway to watch. The old woman nibbled on some toast and loudly declared it burnt to her husband, who shrugged and ate it anyway. The woman then spooned three helpings of what she thought was sugar into her bowl of tea. She blew on the steam that rose up from the bowl and inhaled the scent before bringing the tea to her lips and taking a long warm sip. Not a split second later, the woman’s tea came flying at her husband as a liquid projectile right into his face. He leapt to his feet and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  “Constance, you forget yourself!” he huffed at his wife, her face puckered and furious.

  The other guests, seated at nearby tables, were trying visibly not to laugh.

  Frederick, who’d seen the whole thing from his perch just inside the doorway of the kitchen, doubled over, holding his stomach, tears leaking from his eyes.

  The old woman gesticulated wildly, knocking the bowl of sugar onto the floor. “It’s salt! SALT!” she screeched, though it was clear her husband had no idea what she was talking about. “WHO DID THIS?”

  Frederick took a cautious step toward the kitchen just as his mother came in from outside, untying her bonnet and setting down a pail of fresh cream. Her eyes were pinched and exhausted, and she looked at Frederick wearily, as if to say I don’t have the energy for this right now.

  Frederick dared one last peek into the dining room and caught the expression on the face of the woman’s husband, who was trying very hard to suppress a smile.

  The barn smelled of manure. Frederick had to shovel it, sweep the barn floor, and then milk, feed, and water the cow until she relieved herself and it was time to shovel again. Whose bright idea was it, again, Frederick chided himself, to switch the salt and the sugar? His parents had berated him, but what made him feel worse was that they’d been forced to return the old woman’s money, which Frederick hadn’t even considered until it was too late. His prank had been poor judgment, Frederick agreed, and no amount of shoveling would replace the funds his parents had lost.

  It was already bright and hot, even though it was not yet noon. Frederick wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

  As he worked, Frederick’s thoughts turned again to the war. Even decades after the War of Independence, England was still trying to turn America back into a British colony. They had blockaded American ports for their own selfish gains in the war against Napoleon. And then they’d impressed American sailors, kidnapping them at sea and enlisting them to fight on British ships!

  Frederick hadn’t been alive during the War of Independence, but when he was younger he would press his ear to the floor to try and overhear the war stories his father told of the battlefield — men getting blown up, shot down, sliced in two with a bayonet, how they taught those redcoats a lesson and won freedom for all the land. As far as Frederick was concerned, the British were the most villainous people alive.

  The barn shared a wall with the small stable, and Frederick could hear the thud of horses kicking in their stalls. He’d need to feed and water them later.

  Frederick drove his shoulder into his work, lifting a pitchfork heavy with hay into his wheelbarrow. The haystacks loomed tall, and there were a lot of horses to feed. Sunlight streamed in through the doorway; it was already midmorning. What if he wasn’t finished by supper? He decided maybe he’d like to lie down on the haystack, just to rest his back for one moment. He could have sworn his eyes hadn’t been closed a second when —

  “Frederick! Wake up, son!”

  Frederick shook his bleary head awake, confused at the sight of his father looming above him. He flushed in embarrassment. In his exile in the barn, Frederick had hoped to gain back his parents’ trust, not further erode it.

  “F-Father,” Frederick stammered, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’ll make sure the chores —”

  But his father wasn’t paying attention to the barn. He had a look on his face that Frederick had never seen before, and was pushing his hair back and forth while holding his hat in his other hand.

  “I apologize, again, for this morning —” Frederick began, but his father cut him off, which was also a first. Frederick’s father believed in a man’s sense of dignity. He considered it a breach of manners to interrupt someone.

  “There isn’t time, son,” his father said, his voice barely audible, sounding higher and less certain than Frederick had ever heard it, like a child afraid of the dark. His father was wearing his black waistcoat and jacket with black leggings — the outfit he normally reserved for funerals. A chill ran through Frederick. His father’s rifle, which was normally stored away, was propped against the barn door.

  “What is it, Father?” Frederick asked. He brushed off his pants and straightened up, rising from the haystacks to try and meet his father’s eyes.

  “Son, what I am about to tell you may not make sense right now, but you must listen. You must be serious, for once.”

  Frederick braced himself; everything that was sturdy this morning now felt uncertain, s
haky. Serious, for once: The words clattered around in his head. Did his father really think him so frivolous?

  “Your mother and I — we are not innkeepers.” He paused here, and met Frederick’s eyes. “Well, we are, of course, but that is not our main work. We have a special heritage — you have a special heritage. You are a member of the Cahills, a family that goes back hundreds of years. We’re Madrigals, members of a group of elite Cahills.”

  “But I’m a Warren!” Frederick protested.

  His father toed at the ground with his boot, and the nervous tic in someone normally so composed made Frederick uneasy.

  “Yes, but you’re also part of a powerful secret organization. We don’t just run our inn for travelers. It’s also a place of safety for other Cahills, a place they can escape their enemies.”

  “Enemies?” Frederick asked. A chill ran up his spine.

  His father nodded. “The Vespers. Those who seek to extinguish us, forever.”

  Frederick gasped a sharp breath — extinguish us?

  His father put an unsteady hand on Frederick’s shoulder, and his brow furrowed as he forced himself to continue. He swallowed mightily. “At this very moment, son, there is an extremely dangerous man in the area. A Vesper traveling with the British army here in Maryland. Your mother and I must find him and stop him, or —” Frederick’s father broke off and gave his son an anguished look.

  Frederick’s head was spinning now. Everything was tilting — the way he felt dizzy after circling the maypole too many times the past spring, when the ground came up and knocked the wind out of him.

  “Where are you going?” Frederick managed to ask.

  “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is keeping you out of harm’s way.”

  Frederick took stock of his father’s face — the silvery hair, watery blue eyes, the quiet lines around his eyes and smile, a gentleman’s face, a distinguished retired soldier, to be sure, but this man, this man, was also a — would that make him a spy? It was inconceivable. He tried to memorize all of the details of his father’s face, searching it, as if it were the first time he was really seeing it. Please, please, let it not be the last.

  Soft footsteps on the grass broke their reverie. Frederick’s mother hurried across the barnyard to join them, chickens squawking at her as she passed — a harsh, grating sound. She wore her good walking dress and gloves, with her straw bonnet tied under her chin. She clutched her shawl around herself tightly, as if to protect herself from a blizzard, even though it was the height of summer.

  Frederick’s mother took his arm in her own and asked if he understood the grave danger that they were all in.

  “No,” Frederick answered helplessly. “And you can’t tell me what’s going on?”

  His mother’s lip quivered as she shook her head and turned to look at his father.

  “Is there nothing I can do?” Frederick asked desperately. “Have I disappointed you somehow, this morning —?”

  “Son,” she whispered, turning to face him, “if we felt it would be safer for you to join us, we would bring you. Your safety is our greatest priority. We’re doing this to protect you, and not only you, but to safeguard our innocent neighbors against these terrible people. Can you see that?”

  Frederick shrugged.

  “Listen to me,” she said, her voice hitting an urgent note, her arms on his shoulders, her hands squeezing for emphasis. “If you hear anything about the British approaching, take to the church immediately, and hide, do you hear me? Follow their guidelines for taking shelter until you can safely evacuate. I need you to promise me you’ll do this, son. I won’t leave without knowing you’re safe.”

  “But the British won’t, they’re not going to —”

  And then his mother started to cry, hot swift tears that made Frederick’s chest ache. She said, “You have to promise me. Promise me?”

  “Yes,” he said as she embraced him, finality in her grip, “I promise I will run at the first sign of the British approaching.”

  He wasn’t sure when he’d grown to be taller than her, but his mother felt frail in his arms, and he could barely keep himself from crushing her with the strength of his good-bye.

  Father could never withstand emotional scenes; they upset him too greatly ever since his brother died from a British bullet. With a handshake that squeezed too hard, Father commanded Frederick to keep himself safe before quitting the barn for the stables, where he rattled a stall door open. They could hear him mounting Buster in a swift motion of boots in stirrups, and then the clomp of horseshoes on the gravel as he rode to the edge of the drive. Buster stamped impatiently as they waited for Frederick’s mother.

  She took a final look at Frederick before swinging up behind his father. Frederick watched as they galloped away together, out of sight.

  Entirely alone, Frederick’s face heated up and his heart started kicking, the barn seeming to swim before him. What was it his father had called them — Cahills? And the enemies — Vespers? The war was blazing nearby, so close that just the day before he’d seen an amputee carried out of the town doctor’s house. So close that he’d read about a Chesapeake town being raided and looted by the British. What if the Vespers came for him, now, all alone, and he didn’t have time to escape? And on top of it all, that stupid prank — what if that was the last memory his parents ever had of him? You must be serious, for once.

  Frederick threw the pitchfork across the barn, and watched it sail through the air before crashing to the floor.

  The British were coming!

  “And, in conclusion, madam,” said one of a pair of messengers, both coated in dust, having just ridden straight from the battle near Bladensburg, “we’ve come to bid you flee, per your husband’s request. You are not safe here, as the British are eager to humiliate us and the President’s House is their prime target. They’ll be here in a few short hours! They seek to burn the Capitol, too, and God knows what else. We’re here to escort you to safety.”

  Dolley Madison, the first lady of the United States, looked up from the Cabinet papers she was clutching only to push away a strand of hair that had come loose from her otherwise immaculate bun. Then she returned to the boxes strewn around her on the floor.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, skimming over the documents before her, “that won’t be necessary.”

  She looked up only long enough to see the two messengers’ mouths drop at the same time, as if they were puppets controlled by some higher hand.

  The air in the library was hot. The room, which was also her husband’s office, was paneled in mahogany. Grand floor-to-ceiling bookshelves ran the length of the room, with stepladders on wheels mounted to them to more easily get from book to book. The books took up all of the shelves, some stacked sideways, but, far from looking cluttered or disorganized, the disarray gave the impression of being at a crowded and happy party.

  There were green velvet chaise lounges with gold filigree in great bay windows overlooking the President’s House lawn. At the center of the room, on top of a handsome Persian rug, sat James’s desk, flanked by a cozy fireplace.

  But all that Dolley could see were the boxes and boxes of papers strewn before her, none of them containing what she so desperately needed to find. This awful war, Dolley thought for the thousandth time. As the president’s wife, she knew the devastation it had wreaked on the country, the many young lives it had stolen. And as a Madrigal, a member of an elite branch of the Cahill family, she knew that the repercussions of losing the war would be far worse than anyone imagined. A Vesper had insinuated himself into the highest ranks of the British army, and if he were allowed to succeed . . . Dolley put the nasty thought firmly out of her mind.

  She was losing time with every second the messengers continued to bother her, and she needed to focus on the task at hand. A Madrigal contact had told her that there was a map somewhere in the President’s House, a map leading to a small gold ring that the Vespers coveted above all things. The Madrigals had never been sure
what the importance of the ring was, but they had sworn to keep it out of Vesper hands. As soon as Dolley learned that the British were in the area, she’d sent an urgent message to her contact, alerting him that the map was in danger. But help from the Madrigals had never arrived, and Dolley had to face the fact that her message hadn’t gotten through. It was up to her to keep the map out of Vesper hands — if only she could discover where it was.

  Her fingers paged rapidly through the papers in front of her as sweat beaded her forehead and coated her throat.

  “Madam,” said the older messenger, “leave these papers be. You need to collect your own belongings so I can escort you to your husband. We don’t have much time! Are you not afraid?” The younger of the two messengers shuffled his feet.

  Dolley didn’t look up from her task. “Very much so. I’m afraid for the sake of the army, and the sake of the country. My personal safety is far less important when our nation is in crisis.”

  There was a trunk set up next to the desk, in which Dolley had placed documents tied with string — pamphlets from before the revolution, the correspondence of past presidents. She’d packed them in to maximize space in the deep heavy trunk, the eighth she’d filled that day. Dolley had already searched two rooms methodically, packing up national treasures to whisk away to safety when she finally found the map and could flee. She was already running low on trunks. And wagons for carting them to safety. And people to drive the wagons and guard the President’s House.

  “Madam!” the older messenger cried again, watching her hustle back and forth through the room, her skirt trailing on the floor and picking up dust from all the books and old paper. She rolled a document between two scrolls and placed it in the trunk.

  “Madam!” he repeated. “You have received a direct order from the commander in chief. It is he who said you must evacuate. The Cabinet papers are not as valuable as your life!” He slammed his palm on the grand mahogany table.

  Dolley stopped in her tracks. Her life? Her thoughts darted to her dear sister, whom she’d written earlier that morning. The image of her son John’s face appeared before her now, all handsome and grown. She wanted to see him start a family one day. A wave of despair washed over her, and for a moment she was ready to drop everything and run out with these men, to leave everything behind.