Frederick hid behind a tree while his thoughts rushed forward. He was now in occupied Washington. The British had seized the city, and Frederick would have to get out without being seen. He picked up the urn with the map on it, safe beneath some leaves. The general would be in Baltimore by now, Frederick hoped, wishing he’d told him that the ring was in Canada. It would have put more space between them.
Frederick peeked around. Gardens, trees, bushes, statues.
And then — a flash of red. The V-shaped scar.
The gunshot rattled the bush just next to him but Frederick was already on the move.
He took off with the map through the orchards as fast as he could, his shoeless feet taking a beating with each step.
“You!” General V cried, gaining on Frederick as they ran through the grounds. “The map was a fake!”
Oh, no! Frederick didn’t know how he would outrun the general. His lungs were still weak from the day before.
Thunder clapped, sending a rumble through the grounds. Lightning flashed through the sky in white-hot forks. Rain pattered down, and the splattering of trees and dirt made it hard to hear how close General V was behind him.
Frederick ran as fast as he could back through the orchards, rain soaking his clothes. He dashed out the gate and down the deserted Washington streets, the city a rubble of ashes, his feet slapping hard against the wet ground, the urn pressed in close to his belly. He turned back to see General V slip on a pile of slick leaves. Lose him! Now!
Tearing past the farms and acres from yesterday, Frederick fought his way back toward the Potomac. He spotted British troops out of the corner of his eye, and veered diagonally, still running toward the Mall.
The green was wide open, a straight shot, but there were more British troops lined all along the edges. Frederick didn’t have a weapon; he had nothing except the urn.
He broke into the fastest sprint he’d ever run.
“Hey! Stop! You! You’re not allowed here!” an officer called from horseback, chasing after him. Three more horses followed.
The soldier whistled, and more soldiers on horseback gathered to chase Frederick. The redcoats flooded onto the Mall — he was surrounded!
Frederick turned around. Was it too late to cross back? He threw a frantic look over his shoulder and saw, to his horror, the general only twenty paces away. There was no choice. Frederick plunged into the maze of soldiers and horses. A red-sleeved arm snaked out to catch him, but he ducked and spun, colliding with the flank of a rust-colored Arabian. It reared, throwing the officer from its back, and Frederick used the distraction to weave through the crush of bodies
He had one chance to make it off the Mall — one chance that would either succeed beautifully or lead to his demise.
Running full speed, Frederick held the urn with one hand and leapt face-first for the wet grass. His arms slid along the green, gliding his body forward fast enough to rocket himself beneath the horses’ legs in front of him. Mud spattered his face and neck. His chin bumped over the ground, but the grass was slick enough to push Frederick underneath the last row of horses and through to the other side.
I’ve made it! thought Frederick.
Through the sheets of rain falling, Frederick spotted a bridge and made a dash for it. The rain made everything gray, including the bridge and the rapids below. Everything blended together. And so Frederick did not realize until he was halfway over the water that the other side of the bridge had collapsed. He was at the edge before he had to pull back, flailing his arms, to avoid falling into the rushing water below.
Frederick did not want to look down — the bridge was so much higher than he remembered. He kicked a stone over the edge and watched as it plummeted for what seemed like hours before the water seized it.
The current was high and fast, hurtling branches and trees in whirlpools of rushing water. Clouds gathered and raced across the sky, darkening the day. Frederick barely knew how to swim.
A shot exploded behind him. Frederick whirled around to find the general on horseback behind him on the bridge, closing in quickly. Frederick had only one move left to him.
Urn pressed close with both arms, Frederick took a deep breath and jumped.
The water rushed over his face, hurtling him over rocks, slamming him against the riverbed, and then, as soon as Frederick emerged above the river and into the downpour, attempting to swim with one hand, he was submerged again under water, gasping for air and trying uselessly to fight the current, to break out of the swirling eddies that threatened to keep him trapped under.
Frederick’s arms were leaden, and he could barely lift his legs enough to kick himself up. But he was alive. The storm battered the river and everything in it. Every bone in Frederick’s body seemed to be telling him to give up, that he wouldn’t make it. He was so tired he could hardly breathe in coughing gasps of rain as he thrashed against the river. Water pinched his lungs, but his hand still clutched the urn. Must get the map to Cahills, map to Cahills, he repeated to himself between breaths.
Frederick swung his head up, his arms flailing in the water, and caught a glimpse of General V still up on the bridge. Then lightning struck again, startling the general’s horse. She whinnied and reared back, thrashing her head, and when the thunder crashed, the general was tossed out of his saddle. He flew through the air, a wide red arc against the dark sky.
“Nooooooooo,” the general cried, his voice howling above the wind as he hurtled toward the river.
His head cracked against a boulder that jutted up from the river and his body went limp, crashing like a cannonball into the water. The splash it sent up nearly reached the bridge.
He was dead.
But Frederick himself could barely stay afloat. He took one last big breath and kicked against the river, propelling himself roughly toward the bank. Frederick swam until the river grew more shallow, more tame. He reached a sloping bank and beached himself against a sapling, his heart beating rapidly and his clothes heavy on his soaking body.
Frederick stayed there, sheltered under the small tree, while the storm raged around him. Lightning and thunder boomed and boomed, until at last the claps grew less frequent and the storm quieted. The rain was still falling, but the sky was lighter now, the clouds blowing over.
Now there’s only the entire British army to avoid.
Frederick pulled himself out of the water and trudged toward safety. Dolley had told him about a camp where her husband would join her when it was safe.
It was a long way off.
His clothes were cold, and the skin on his feet felt tender without his shoes. His elbow still ached from smashing the window, and even on solid ground, Frederick still felt as if the river were rushing beneath him.
Whenever he heard voices, Frederick jumped behind a tree. He did not want to risk crossing a British officer again. And he was certain he would scare regular citizens with the way he looked — he rivaled the soldiers coming home from war in his current condition.
He missed his parents.
He would have given anything to tell them what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
It was as if he was pressing on through in a cold and rainy dream.
Frederick trundled past village after village on his way to the camp. He passed general stores and churches, taverns and schoolhouses, before the smell of campfire smoke reached out to him.
Something delicious was roasting over coals — fish, Frederick guessed, with the river right here. He followed his nose down the road.
Could this be it?
A sea of tents had been erected, and tarp after tarp was strung between trees. Frederick picked his way through camp toward the largest campfire, which was circled by a group of military men. There, in the middle of the laughter, he spotted Dolley.
Frederick rushed to see her.
“Oh, Frederick!” Dolley cried, running to greet him. “Gentlemen, this is the young man who saved my life!”
She enveloped him in a bear
hug and Frederick couldn’t remember the last time he had been so happy to see someone. She somehow managed to still look fresh and clean, even after a night spent at this muddied campsite.
As Frederick lowered his arms, Dolley bumped her hand against the urn. Frederick hadn’t realized it was still gripped tightly in his hands.
She searched his face quizzically, but before he could answer, she put her finger to her lips. Shhh. Her face broke out into a grin as they moved out of earshot.
The men can’t know, he thought.
“Mrs. Madison,” he said, “I managed to pull a gift out of the President’s House for you, just before I escaped.”
“Why thank you, Frederick Warren,” Dolley said, playing along. “Wherever did you find it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said lightly. “Flip it over.”
Frederick watched as Dolley’s eyes widened as large as saucers when she saw the map. She looked up at him, amazed. “But you — how did you — and the general?!”
“He won’t be bothering us now.”
Dolley shook her head and took his arm. “Come with me, Frederick. There are some people I want you to see.”
She led him deeper into the encampment to a simple shelter in the woods, and nodded at an American soldier positioned under a tree. Inside the tent there were benches set up inside, and crates flipped over to sit on, as well as a few soft-looking cots that were calling out to Frederick.
Am I going to meet the president?
But it was Frederick’s parents waiting for him instead, huddled close around a carved wooden table, their faces streaked with grief.
When they lifted their eyes to see him standing in the tent, their expressions gave way to a miraculous relief, and they scrambled to embrace him, squeezing him tight. His burns smarted at the contact, but then he leaned in to hug them harder.
“Oh, Frederick, we were so worried!” his mother exclaimed, clutching him close.
“Are you all right?”
His father clapped his back, another sore spot, and embraced him strongly, crying, “Son, son, Mrs. Madison wasn’t sure you had escaped! We were afraid —”
He didn’t let himself finish the sentence. “What happened to you?”
“Frederick, your shoes! Your face, what happened to this elbow? You’ll need stitches. . . .” Wilhelmina Warren cupped his muddy chin in her hand and met his eyes.
Slowly, Frederick eased into a rickety chair, one parent on each side. “I was afraid I’d never see you both again.”
Frederick was shivering, so Dolley brought him some tea while Frederick described Ramsay’s arrival. The liquid coated his throat in honeyed sweetness.
“Oh, Frederick, how awful,” his mother murmured, rubbing a tear at his shoulder. “You must have been so frightened.”
“I was terrified,” Frederick said. “When I got to the President’s House, the president was gone, but the first lady and I searched and searched, and she was able to get out before the fire.”
“You were very brave,” his father said. Frederick hadn’t felt courageous when he’d been in the basement, or during the fire, or swimming through the river, but all of it rushed through him now. Frederick lifted his chest with pride.
Yes. Frederick nodded. I was serious for once.
“No one could expect you to swipe the map from under the Vespers’ noses while the British were attacking,” his father continued. “Not even the most experienced agents would be expected to pull off a feat like that. I can’t tell you how proud your mother and I are.”
Frederick’s parents looked at him in awe and then at the urn Dolley brought out to show them. Dolley placed food in front of Frederick while his parents ran their fingers reverently over the Madrigal map.
Dolley smiled at Frederick and said, “When’s our next mission, partner?”
Frederick grinned back at her. He knew his family would never be the same. Instead of two secret agents running the inn, now there were three.
Weeks later, when they set out to retrieve Gideon’s ring, it was Frederick who led the way.
Clifford Riley would like to acknowledge
Jackie Reitzes.
Copyright © 2012 by Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, THE 39 CLUES, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012941537
e-ISBN 978-0-545-45730-9
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First edition, July 2012
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The Redcoat Chase Page 6