The Redcoat Chase

by Clifford, Riley

  “Frederick,” Dolley began, but he gently gripped her arm. I’ll get us out of here.

  “Mrs. Madison doesn’t know where it is,” Frederick corrected. “I’ve known all along. The first lady would be far too vulnerable with this type of privileged information. I was just waiting for her to leave so I could obtain it for myself — until you came in.”

  “And a twelve-year-old boy wouldn’t be too vulnerable with intelligence of this kind? How could you possibly know such secrets?”

  Frederick balked. “I have my sources.” Rushing forward, he continued, “I’ve seen enough of you to know better than to try and trick you now.”

  Frederick guessed that flattery might work, at least for the moment. “Let us leave with the portrait,” Frederick added, “and I will deliver you your map.”

  “Frederick?!” Dolley cried. Frederick knew she must be wondering if he’d been lying to her the whole time. Or if he was now saving their lives. Or both.

  “Of course,” the general said, stroking his mustache, “show me the map, and I will, with certainty . . . release you.”

  Frederick didn’t believe him for a minute. General V would probably rather die than let two Cahills walk free. But at least if they made it upstairs, they could see. And it bought them one step closer to escape.

  General V dragged Dolley and Frederick back up the stairs toward the entrance hall. Their wrists ached from the tightly bound ropes, and it was so black they could barely see the arms pulling them up the stairs. The steps creaked as they climbed, and with each step Frederick was more determined — how to escape?

  At the top of the stairs, General V pushed his captives roughly to the floor. The chandeliers shone brightly — someone must have lit the oil — and the glare blinded Dolley and Frederick, who shielded their eyes with their elbows.

  “Now, where is the map?” General V roared, yanking Frederick up by the arm and swinging him around so that the general’s ugly face was too close to Frederick’s.

  The brave slaves who’d stayed looked on in horror from the edges of the entrance hall. The French servant had left, and the gardener stood guard outdoors, ready to bolt at the last second. The slaves were the only ones left.

  “Well,” Frederick stammered, “you see, I have to show it to you. I can’t tell you here, with so many people around.”

  How to buy more time?

  “And, I, uh, need to see the painting, as proof that you’re as good as your word.”

  General V flashed the knife from his belt and thrust it against Frederick’s back. It did not break his skin, but the blade pierced through Frederick’s shirt, so the metal pointed sharply against his skin. “Don’t move, do you understand?”

  Frederick nodded.

  General V called for his assistants, but evidently they were already scouring the house for the map.

  “Wait here,” General V said, stewing with impatience.

  When he left the entrance hall, Frederick turned to Dolley. “We have to run, now, let’s go!”

  “What about the map?” Dolley asked. They’d already started running. Their wrists and fingers were still tied together, and it slowed them.

  “He doesn’t know where it is — and neither do we. It will burn with the rest of the house as soon as the British arrive, and that way nobody gets it,” Frederick whispered.

  “We can’t go out the door, there are Vespers here guarding the door.”

  “Maybe a back window!” Frederick cried as they raced to the side of the room where Frederick let himself in.

  Frederick had locked the window after he’d landed, and there was nothing close by to break the glass. He couldn’t lift much with his fingers and wrists bound.

  “Quick,” Dolley cried, “before General V gets back!”

  Frederick raised his elbow and squeezed shut his eyes. One, two, on three!

  SMASH.

  Frederick struck the window as hard as he could. The sound of the glass shattering was the best thing he’d heard all day, and he could see the hole where his elbow had punched through. He didn’t even mind the blood. His elbow hurt, but that was nothing compared to what General V would do. He hoped General V hadn’t heard the crash.

  “Dolley, you first,” Frederick said, helping her out the window as best he could.

  Dolley stuck one leg through and then the other, careful not to let the glass cut her on her way out. Slowly, she lowered herself out of the window and onto the grass outside.

  Frederick got an idea. With the ragged edges still attached to the sill, Frederick rubbed the rope that bound his wrists against the sharp glass still left in the window. The first pass did nothing to the rope, and on the second pass, it barely frayed.

  “Frederick!” Dolley cried from outside, “Hurry! We have to get out of here!”

  Frederick could feel the rope beginning to give and the individual strands starting to unravel. He was almost there, he just had to make sure he didn’t nick himself.

  “There!” Frederick announced, wiggling his fingers, “I got it!”

  “Bravo,” came the general’s voice, breathing in his ear. Two false claps followed.

  Frederick dove for the window, but it was too late.

  General V dropped the painting and caught Frederick around the waist, squeezing Frederick’s arms behind his back.

  “Run, Dolley!” Frederick yelled, and for a split second, General V released hold of Frederick’s arms to catch a glimpse of Dolley on the lawn outside.

  “Frederick!” Dolley cried.

  In that second Frederick managed to grab the historic painting from where General V had dropped it on the floor and throw it out the window.

  “The painting, Dolley!” Frederick cried. “Run for your life!”

  “Frederick!” she cried. “I’ll go find help!”

  “Detain that woman!” General V shouted through the window. “And grab that painting!”

  Frederick could hear a mad rush of footsteps chasing after Dolley.

  “Take me to the map! I’ve had enough of you!” General V shouted into Frederick’s ear, shaking him.

  Frederick wracked his mind for anything that could save him. He held on to the hope that he could still solve the riddle of the map before the British set fire to the house. He just had to think of something to throw the general off the scent.

  “Well, boy?” General V yelled over the chaos outside, the veins in his neck pulsing as he pressed the dagger against Frederick’s jugular, just shy of breaking the skin. “You decide — the map or your life.”

  “It’s — it’s in the dining room, where you found us!” Frederick stammered. “I have to show you where.”

  “Well, go then, before it’s destroyed!” General V shouted, his voice only barely audible over the wreckage surging in from outside.

  With the knife to his neck, Frederick led General V back to the gallery, the last place he’d seen before being thrown in the basement. Maybe the last place he would see alive. Was this his death march? He took slow steps, letting his mind work itself into a frenzy, the general pushing him forward to try and rush him. But Frederick needed every second of time left.

  At that moment, a sound flooded the entrance hall, echoing off the high ceiling and through the great halls. In marched the British army, in lines of two and three, bearing torches and rifles and bags for looting.

  They were there to retaliate for America burning the Canadian capital, earlier in the war, and Frederick heard the glee in the voices of the enemy soldiers ready to deliver a fatal blow to the President’s House. They were there to wreak real and symbolic destruction to what they still thought of as their American colony.

  “God save the king! England forever!” they shouted.

  In their bloodred uniforms they flooded through the pristine rooms of the President’s House like fire ants, kicking over furniture, smashing crystal, shattering windows with the butts of their rifles. In short order, they tore down the red silk and velvet drapes and swept c
lean the carefully arranged objects from on the shelves. From the rooms above, Frederick could hear chests being broken open, mattresses sliced through. He could imagine the feathers mushrooming up into clouds. The redcoats slashed the faces of portraits on the walls — the rips slicing like scalpels through flesh.

  Troops rushed past into the kitchen and dining room, raiding the cupboards. They gorged themselves on what would have been the first lady’s dinner, laughing the whole time. Then they smashed the plateware and kicked over the table.

  Clearly delighted by the chaos, General V pushed Frederick forward with the blade of his knife.

  They were back in the dining room, and Frederick’s moment was up.

  “Now!” General V shouted.

  Frederick frantically scanned the gallery. The other paintings had all been lifted off the sandstone walls, their shapes still outlined like ghostly shadows of what had hung before. Shredded canvas lay in piles on the floor. The dining table had been chopped into what may as well have been a pile of firewood, with the gardener’s ax resting on top.

  “There!” Frederick pointed, his body rushing toward the ax. This last gasp of an idea wasn’t even fully formed, but Frederick had to go with it. He bent down to lift the ax by the handle. The crosshatched lines of the metal axhead, by some stroke of luck, looked almost organized, like they’d been inscribed there on purpose.

  “This axhead. Here is the map,” Frederick sputtered, handing it over to the general’s spindly fingers. “Do you see how the lines are intersecting, that one dent in the corner — there you will find Gideon’s ring.”

  Frederick squeezed shut his eyes as the madness escalated around them. The troops were at fever pitch now, ready to torch the place down. He awaited the final blow by General V, the certain and swift hit when his lie was discovered. Why exactly had Frederick just offered up a weapon to this maniacal killer?

  Surrounded by the entire British army, the world stopped, and everything went silent. It was as if he and General V were in the room alone. Finally, Frederick opened one eye.

  “Color of old age . . .” General V repeated to himself, turning the silver ax over and over in his arms, “roots of our father — the cherry trees in the garden, of course, you stupid Americans with your heritage ridiculousness.”

  Please, please, Frederick prayed, let him believe this is the map. Then at least if we can’t find it, the Vespers won’t, either, and it will burn tonight along with the rest of the house.

  “It’s a map of a cemetery in Baltimore,” Frederick lied. “There’s soon to be a battle there. Perhaps if you arrive before them, the ring will be yours.”

  Frederick hoped he sounded believable. He tried to make his voice sound as defeated as possible. “The soldier was on his way to Baltimore next, before you shot him in battle this morning.”

  “Your sources, of course,” General V concluded. He kept the ax close, a grin creeping onto his face. “Well, good work, my boy. I must take leave of you now. Unfortunately, you’ll have to burn with the house. It would be no good to have you out in the world — you’ve seen too much of me already.”

  Frederick ran for the door, but General V threw him against the broken bookshelf. “Pity you didn’t join Mrs. Madison.”

  With a flourish of red and gold and black, General V was out the door, an ominous click behind him.

  Frederick tried the knob and rattled the door, but it was locked tight. He ran to the window, but he was on the second floor now, and the British were guarding the property. He screamed uselessly. The noise from the British drowned out everything, and there was no one left to help him anyway.

  Frederick found a nail still tacked in the wall where the painting had been. Maybe he could pick the lock!

  He slid the nail through the keyhole and tried to turn it, but it was useless.

  Then he ran back for a chunk of wood, and tapped the nail with it, to try and bump the lock out of its socket. The bump loosened something. Frederick jiggled the nail a few more times where the key should have gone.

  Miraculously, the nail turned, and the lock tumbled back. Frederick took off down the hall as fast as he could toward the stairwell.

  Frederick barely had time to process that he was still alive before he saw the kiss of flame on the walls below. In every room, the soldiers had set torches to anything they could find, and the heat that rose up was already scorching. Smoke filled the air in gray clouds; the smell of singed wood was everywhere. Frederick could hear the last of the slaves screaming outside.

  Frederick made a break for the main door — maybe he could slip out without calling attention to himself. But as he was heading for the door, Frederick thought of something.

  Color of old age, roots of our father. The pieces were coming together. Color of old age — “silver is the color of old age,” Dolley had said. Silver — he’d found Dolley in the silver room — maybe there was still time to find the map!

  Frederick flew up the marble stairs, his mind racing ahead. The floors were hot beneath him, but he willed them to hold up for a few moments more, just until he found the map. Please let there be time.

  Back in the silver room, Frederick searched furiously. The last console Dolley had left unpacked was ravaged, and there was nothing left inside.

  Please, please. The heat was pressing close and the air was like an oven, but Frederick knew he was onto something. Sweat flowed off his body. Smoke swam through the room and burned his eyes.

  Just one last silver piece.

  Frederick ran along the edges of the room, lifting up shreds of rugs, kicking through rubble and upturning chairs. Finally, he was back at the console, where he’d first found Dolley nervously packing.

  He lifted up its legs — there was a secret trapdoor in the floor! Was Frederick imagining this? Had he lost his mind? He lifted the door and found a wooden compartment. And there, in a small hatbox, was a gleaming silver urn wrapped in paper. Frederick dropped to his knees to examine it.

  Engraved across its base were the words Roots of our father.

  Inside its polished silver bowl was one letter: M.

  On its base, Frederick found, at last, the real map to Gideon’s ring.

  Clutching the urn to his chest, Frederick raced toward the doorway. He had to fight back the smoke. The doorway was framed in fire where the wooden beams had once stood. The smoke was blinding, and tears streamed down his face, but he pushed through the black fumes that burned his eyes and nose. His whole face felt like it was melting. With his eyes closed, he grasped about for the railing of the marble stairs, taking each step as fast as he could, stumbling down with the rail as his only guide.

  When he heard a crash behind him, Frederick whipped around and saw that the ceiling above him had crumbled to the ground, sending down sparks and beams flying from the flaming rafters. Frederick felt the shock of his realization: If I’d waited a second longer upstairs, I’d be dead now.

  A flaming ceiling beam sliced down through the air, dangerously close to Frederick’s face. It landed in front of him — the fire licking around the floors, up the walls. How could he get to the next room with a flaming beam blocking his path?

  Frederick tried ducking beneath the beam, but the flames were too hot. The windows were burning, too, no hope of jumping out now. He was the last one left in the President’s House. But would he also be the last one out?

  Knowing this was his last chance, Frederick ran straight toward the beam. He kicked as hard as he could, watching the sole of his shoe catch flame as it slammed into the wood in front of him.

  The beam fell to the floor, spreading fire to the rugs, and Frederick leapt over them as he would a puddle. His boot was on fire now, his foot burning. Still clutching the urn with one hand, Frederick bent down and unlaced the fiery shoe, throwing it as far as possible. He raced for the exit.

  The door to the outside was too hot to touch. Frederick looked around for something to use to knock it open, but the whole house was lit up in flame. Around
him, wood sputtered and ceilings split and beams cracked with a sound like bones breaking. One lone tapestry still clung to the walls. Frederick pulled it from the wall before it caught flame, and batted away the fire on the floor next to the door. Using the tapestry to shield his hand, the urn under his shirt, Frederick placed the tapestry over the doorknob and turned. The door opened — he was out. Frederick dove out the door and onto the portico, rolling the small sparks of flame off his body in the grass. He leapt to his feet — running and coughing and sweating. His lungs and nose burned, still filled with the poisonous, scorching smoke. His one shoe was gone and the other had burned through in spots. It smelled awful, like charred hair. But Frederick didn’t care. He ran through the glorious cool air of the night garden, not stopping for breath until he’d reached the fruit trees, where he knew that he was safe.

  Doubled over from the run, Frederick stopped and reclaimed his breath. He was shivering now, and his teeth chattered loudly in his mouth. His bones felt hollow in his body, like twigs for the cinders. Blood coursed through him like a river of fire. His feet were torn up, and his skin was burnt, in some places too tender to touch.

  But he’d made it out, and he had the map! The urn was still wrapped under his shirt.

  Frederick collapsed to the ground, letting the cool blades brush against his face, coughing and coughing. The scent of anything other than smoke was a relief. Frederick inhaled the moist, grassy ground.

  When he sat up, Frederick watched through the trees with horror as what was left of the President’s House burned and burned. It went from a giant cloud of orange, tinged blue at the bottom, to a smoky gray that blew all around, some of the smoke reaching Frederick. He stayed where he was, hypnotized by the sight. He knew he wasn’t yet safe, but he was too exhausted to move. It was all he could do to crawl into the bushes, where sleep claimed him.

  Frederick awoke before dawn to the sound of the bushes rustling. He jumped to his charred feet. Thunder crashed above, and the air was thick and musty. Wind rattled the branches in the orchard, whistling through the leaves. Was there someone else in the garden?