The Redcoat Chase

by Clifford, Riley

  But then her eyes scanned the gorgeous room and settled on the American flag in the corner, its stars and stripes bright and bold. Even in the depth of this humid heat wave, they sent goose bumps down her skin. The fate of the nation was at stake, everything they’d built so carefully. The British were bad enough, but the Vespers were the enemy of free men everywhere. Dolley searched inside herself for courage. If she left, she would be allowing something unspeakable to win. And all her life she would watch on, knowing that she had run away when she was needed most.

  “Gentlemen,” she continued, her voice softer, somewhat shakier, “I appreciate your trip to retrieve me, and I apologize if it has been a fruitless journey. I regret that my husband’s orders are in conflict with my actions, but I am not ready to leave the house. This is not about my life,” she said, pausing, and letting her eyes fill before blinking the tears away, realizing the truth of the statement only as she said it aloud. “It’s about so much more than me.”

  “Mrs. Madison, consider your family! Consider the threat to national security if they take you hostage. We have orders, and you’re acting childish, if you permit me to say so.”

  “Quite the opposite, sirs,” she said, taking large strides to stand before them, so she could stare hard into their faces. They would never know the measures she’d already taken for national security. “This decision is one I’ve weighed with utmost deliberation. I resent the implication that I would ever do anything to endanger the country. And if you want to take me now, you will have to take me in chains.”

  The messengers slowly backed away toward the door, shaking their heads and muttering under their breath. She heard the slam of the door as they left, and the finality of their absence made the room suddenly ghostly. If only they understood this wasn’t simply her being stubborn: She had to find the map!

  Dolley turned back to searching, toting out a fresh box of papers from beneath the desk.

  Her husband had ridden out to the troops yesterday after receiving a discouraging dispatch from Secretary of State Monroe: The enemy are in full march to Washington. Have the materials prepared to destroy the bridges. Now, even the colonel with his hundred men left to stand guard over Washington had evacuated, leaving only her, and her gardener, her faithful French domestic John, and a handful of slaves.

  Never had Dolley felt so alone. The British were coming, a Vesper with them. Coming to destroy not only her home, but the most important American landmark in the country’s short history, the President’s House, and everything it contained. Every last possession she’d ever owned and all of the American treasures this fledgling country had worked so hard to amass. The historic home of a new nation was about to burn to the ground like a pile of firewood.

  Through the silky red curtains she’d chosen when they moved in, she could see the nervous workings of people on the street as they began to pack up and depart. Smashed windows. Crushed plants. Carriage wheels across the street and screeching horses, shop doors shaken closed, whistles sounding alarm, vendors attempting to hawk last-minute deals before their businesses were destroyed. The whole district was upended.

  Memories of the house flashed before her — how excited she’d been when they’d moved in, state dinners with her husband, Wednesday drawing room parties, family picnics in the gardens, important official meetings, and underneath it all, a haven for her secret Madrigal family.

  A cannon sounded in the distance — Dolley froze. The battle was practically over and there were still entire wings to search, chambers and antechambers within the wings, and no one she could trust to help her find the map.

  She dove back into the papers, resisting the urge to run her fingers along the mansion’s beautiful gilded furniture and plush woven tapestries. She felt certain that this would be the last time she’d be in this grand space.

  Smoke hissed through the Bladensburg air, and the whistle of rocket fire assaulted Captain Cyrus Ramsay’s ears. This new British weapon, this rocket, was a force unforeseen. Red smoke threaded the sky above the battlefield, as if the clouds were trailing blood from gunshot wounds.

  The British troops were advancing up the hill, and Ramsay dove behind the parapet against which he and his troops had dug a trench.

  The battle was wearing down — it would be over soon, Ramsay knew, a complete embarrassment for him and the other outmatched American troops. Today, the president and the secretary of state had been present to witness their humiliation, which made it hurt all the worse. With this loss, it was now certain that the British would take the capital. As if to put an exclamation mark on the thought, another missile arched over Ramsay’s head and exploded thirty yards in front him.

  Ramsay swung around over the top of the wall and took aim at the redcoats on horseback headed his way. Through the sights of his rifle, Ramsay locked in on the British general who’d been particularly murderous earlier in the afternoon — Ramsay recognized him because this man wore his red and gold hat with the brim pulled all the way down, almost over his eyes, so that the plume tilted forward, the ridiculous plating catching glints from the sun. The general’s rifle could not miss, as American soldiers strewn across the field clearly evidenced. He reloaded faster than anyone Ramsay had ever seen, and with each successful shot, a sickening smile twisted the general’s face.

  Ramsay took aim and fired at the tilted hat, but the general had reflexes like a cat and dodged out of the way. The bullet barely missed brushing his ears, instead whistling through the general’s hat, pushing it off his forehead to reveal a hideous disfigurement.

  Ramsay’s hands shook as he lowered his gun. He couldn’t take his eyes off the general’s forehead. There, plain as day, was a deep gash slashed across his brow. The man had been cut, scarred with a letter just over his eyes, a letter that would immediately signal his true identity to any Madrigal. The scar, like a furrowed brow above his furrowed brow, was the letter V. This man was no ordinary British general. He was a Vesper, and perhaps the deadliest Vesper of them all.

  Madrigals in Europe had warned of a man with a famously crooked mustache and scarred forehead, who served as a general in the British army. Among other worthy souls who’d died by his hands, a highly gifted Madrigal operative had been bested by the general in a bloody sword fight several months ago. The general had given the Madrigal operative a death blow straight to the stomach. But before the Madrigal had fallen, he’d slashed out at his opponent, scarring the general’s forehead with a V so other Cahills would know him immediately for what he was.

  At that moment, the general turned his head and caught Ramsay’s horrified gaze. The general’s brows knit together so that the V carved into his forehead grew sharper and deeper. It looks just like devil’s horns, Ramsay thought as the general coolly looked him over. He knows! He knows I’ve recognized him!

  The general slowly raised his rifle. Ramsay started sprinting. The first line of American soldiers had already fallen back in defeat, so he did not draw attention as he fled the field. But inside Ramsay felt like a target moving on a dartboard. He had to get away from the front lines and to the President’s House; he had to keep the map safe. If the general got his hands on the ring . . . Ramsay could barely handle the thought. The horror of being too late made Ramsay run even faster, his feet barely touching the ground as he ran for camp.

  Ramsay rounded the bend, every step bringing him closer to the camp and closer to a horse, the fastest horse he could find. But as he raced the last ten yards and his eyes scanned the camp, Ramsay realized something was wrong. The tents were set up for sleeping and eating, the food stash and the medical supplies lay at the ready. But it was quiet, so quiet he could hear the twigs crack beneath him. There was only one person left in camp, a boy too young to fight. “Where are the others?” Ramsay yelled. “What happened to the reserves?”

  “Called away to the flank,” the boy answered. “There’s no one left but me!”

  Ramsay cursed. All the proper horses were on the battlefield behind him,
or away with the reserves. The only animals left at camp were the packhorses, a scrawny collection of ill-trained beasts. Ramsay chose the best of them, a thin mare that tried to bite him as he threw a saddle on her and prepared to break for the back paths, which were overgrown with shrubbery and brush.

  The early afternoon heat had set in and Ramsay could feel the distant rumble of storms building behind him. The redcoats weren’t used to the punishing sun and humidity — he’d seen some on the battlefield drop to the ground from heatstroke, the Americans’ lone amusement on a day that had blistered their pride. Ramsay’s uniform was torn, his skin scratched and bruised and filthy from battle, but these were the least of his ills. Ramsay knew the general would be coming for him, that it would be a race to the river with death breathing down his neck. In his mind flashed the faces of his platoon members, those he’d watched die of gunshot wounds on the field, and his ears filled with the unmistakable shriek of the rockets and the path of destruction they had carved. Yes, a return to British rule would ruin the country for the rest of his lifetime, but if the Vespers took control, the world would never recover.

  Ramsay had one foot in the stirrup when a rifle shot screamed past his ear. The horse bolted and Ramsay was lucky to hang on, his saddle sliding precariously down the mare’s side. Ramsay managed to hoist himself up, only the one foot securely in the stirrup, and tried desperately to slide the other one into place as the mare galloped on. He was still out of breath from his sprint back to camp, and everything in him called out for a small sip of water. The horse’s gait was lopsided as a result of the saddle, and because she had probably never gone faster than a trot in her short animal life. Her gallop rocked the unsteady saddle with each stride.

  Ramsay whipped his head around and caught sight of the general behind him, reloading his rifle. Ramsay whipped his head forward again. The back roads were laced with tree roots and overturned saplings. The horse raced past the obstacles with breakneck speed, each upturned tree trunk that blocked their path nearly sending Ramsay flying from the mare’s back.

  The thundering of hooves sounded behind him, closing in. Ramsay leaned forward, grabbing tufts of the mare’s mane, clinging to her while he urged, “Go, girl, go! Faster, faster!” into her matted ears. His heels clicked into her ribs. And, as if his words had been a magical incantation, the little mare picked up speed.

  But the path was giving way before them to smaller tracks — the trees blurring into a streak of sky and woods. The vegetation grew dense and tangled; the way forward less and less clear. Thick, prickly bushes choked the path, and trees cut off the route, forcing Ramsay to ride around them.

  The mare wasn’t fast enough to stay ahead of the general’s horse for very long. Just when Ramsay hoped he’d put some distance between them, the Vesper’s mount stampeded forward.

  The general’s horse was so close behind him, Ramsay could practically feel its breath. He’d have to throw the general off course — even if only for a few seconds, just long enough to make a breakaway.

  The branches that hung over the path were treacherous and wide, forcing Ramsay to duck down on his horse so as not to knock his head. With one hand still gripping the mane, Ramsay reached for his sword on his belt. The saddle slid on the mare’s back when Ramsay shifted his weight, nearly hurling him onto the bumpy track. Ramsay clamped his knees around the mare, pushing his feet more firmly in the stirrups. Then he stood up, taking a solid whack at a thick branch above.

  The branch swung down fast and hard, unloosing a flurry of smaller branches, and Ramsay dipped out of the way. Ramsay glanced over his shoulder to see the general get hit by a branch, his arms covering his head as bits of the tree rained down on him.

  Chopping any branches that he could reach, Ramsay left a furious storm of twigs and leaves behind him as he rode. He hacked at boughs and anything he could reach or slash in order to block the path. He wanted to knock the general in the forehead with a thick branch, or, short of that, at least slow him down. From over his shoulder Ramsay saw General V’s sword now thrashing in front of him, too, his arms flailing wildly as he tried to slash the debris crashing down on him. Anything to keep the rifle off his shoulder, Ramsay thought.

  The sound of water gushing over rocks reached Ramsay slowly at first and then with more force. He’d reached the river.

  The Potomac was wide, and the water rushed past swiftly, carrying small pieces of saplings in its current. Ramsay’s mare juddered to a halt, uncertain about her willingness to cross without a bridge. Ramsay kicked her to charge through, but the mare wouldn’t budge.

  Ramsay kicked his heel into the mare’s belly once more, but she reared up in protest. General V was approaching, his horse’s hooves thundering behind them, and another gunshot exploded behind the trees. The noise gave Ramsay’s mare the motivation she needed. She bolted into the water, the water swirling into Ramsay’s boots.

  We’ll make it! thought Ramsay. I can lose him on the other side.

  They were halfway across the river when a bullet hit Ramsay squarely in the back.

  The horse, frenzied by the sound of the gunshot, jumped almost out of the water and dragged herself across. When they reached the other side, Ramsay swiveled around, his back shrieking in protest, and fired a round at the general. But his vision had blurred with the pain in his back, and the bullet hit the general’s thigh, knocking him from his horse.

  General V landed with a thwack, knocked unconscious, and his horse was startled into the river. The Hanoverian chugged across, eyes wild above the swiftly surging water. Ramsay managed to slide off the mare’s back and catch the Hanoverian’s reins. With a grateful pat to the mare, he mounted the Hanoverian and raced off into the forest.

  Ramsay struggled now, urging the general’s horse to its fastest gallop. He knew it was the last ride of his life. He would not make it to the President’s House, but he could still deliver his message. There was a Madrigal house nearby, if he could only hold on that long. He was flying now, though he would have liked to have taken off his blood-soaked shirt and washed it in the river, rinsed his skin of the blood that he could feel sticking to his uniform and running down his back. He would have liked to have lain down in the water and let the currents slip over him, drink in all that his spreading thirst would take, let the river rinse his body and carry him away.

  But Ramsay had a mission, even though each stride made him clench his teeth against the pain. He cut through the woods like a knife, the trees swirling before him. Hold on, he told himself as he fought against unconsciousness. For the love of all things, hold on.

  The knock was insistent. It pounded and pounded and would not let up, shaking the walls around the door.

  “Is someone there!?” came a strained voice from outside. Frederick had only come into the inn for a heel of bread and hunk of cheese to eat before returning to his chores in the barn. He had discovered that work was the only way to root out the thoughts creeping in about his parents — were they still alive? Would they make it home tonight?

  Now the knock on the door brought Frederick up short. This was the entrance to the Warrens’ personal apartments, a door used only by Frederick and his parents. Visitors went to the bar at the main inn, and only the closest of friends were invited into the Warrens’ private rooms. What if, despite his parents’ best assurances, the British had come to capture him after all? Or the Vespers, the people out to extinguish him?

  Frederick searched frantically through the apartment for something to defend himself with, but there was precious little, since his father had taken the rifle this morning. As a desperate last attempt, Frederick grabbed a kitchen knife, his hands shaking as he tried to hold it steady.

  “Please,” the voice rasped as the rapping continued. “You must let me in. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  The voice was commanding but hoarse, as if the speaker was finding it difficult to form each word.

  Frederick froze with the knife held weakly at his side. He knew he must o
pen the door. His parents had left. He was the man of the house now.

  Slowly, he forced his feet to cross the room and pressed his hand up on the doorknob. The other hand retained the knife at his side. The afternoon heat had made the stagnant air unbearable, and already he could feel his head begin to ache and a sweat form at his temples.

  “Is anyone there? Please, you must reply!” the voice cried. “I’ve just come from Bladensburg.”

  Frederick turned the handle, but he was unprepared for what he saw. He leapt back and let out a yelp before he could stop himself. An American soldier stood clutching his side, his hands and stomach covered in blood, the breath wheezing from him. “Water,” the soldier said.

  Frederick was too stunned to move.

  “Please,” the soldier insisted.

  Frederick dropped the knife and raced to the pitcher on the table to pour fresh water into a tin mug. He led the soldier to a chair at the table, the same one where his family took meals, and asked if the soldier wanted some bread and cheese. This, Frederick decided, was what his parents would have offered.

  “No, thank you,” the solider said, as if the thought of food, and not his bleeding wound, brought him great pain. The water looked like a struggle to get down, each sip making the soldier wince, but the man continued to drink.

  “Son,” the soldier wheezed, “thank — you — for — kindness you’ve shown, but I must speak in private with the owners of inn. Where may I find them?” The soldier was resting one arm on the table, leaning heavily on it to keep his frame upright, and with the other was grasping his side to try and staunch the blood.

  Frederick wondered about all of the blood; he’d never seen so much before. He swallowed to push down a tide of nausea. But his parents had always been generous to people who needed help — stragglers who wandered in off the road or poor people without homes.