“Jack!”
He did not hear her call over the hubbub and marching music. Weaving a course along the fringes, he headed toward the square.
“Jack!” Keeping her eye on the flash of emerald green bobbing in and out of her view, Anne sailed after him. Whipping through and around the onlookers at full speed, she managed to catch up when he came to a standstill near the stairs leading down to the ferry landing on Water Street.
“Jack!” At once breathless, elated and relieved, she reached out and took hold of his shoulder.
All the wind was sucked from her canvas the moment she touched the man, suddenly aware this man was not tall enough—this man was too broad in girth and had gray streaks mixed with the dark hair drawn into the bedraggled ribbon at his neck.
“Madam?” he quizzed her through a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose. Anne snatched her hand back, her mumblings tangled on the square knot lodged in her throat. Blinking back tears she stammered, “B-beg pardon, sir . . . I-I’ve mistook you for someone else.” With a nod, the man turned his attention back to the parade, and Anne shuffled back to brace her hand against the railing.
How could I have taken that man for Jack?
Her true colors were just revealed. The mere glimpse of a certain shade of green sent her flying into a heart-thumping tizzy—and the mistaken identity just as quickly consigned her with a thud to the depths of disappointment.
Made a fool by a green weskit . . .
“Widow Merrick? Are you ill?”
Anne startled. She looked up to see a familiar young officer dressed in the same gray and green regimental coat David wore. She shook her head, and forced a smile. “The heat . . . I just needed to take some air away from the crowd. But thank you for your concern, Lieutenant . . . ?”
“Collins . . . John Collins.” The young lieutenant shook her proffered hand. “I’ve frequented the Cup and Quill. Your brother is a friend of mine.”
“Of course! Have you any news to share, Lieutenant? Does David fare well?”
“He’s anxious, as we all are, what with the bloodybacks on our doorstep.” Collins shrugged. “But since David is such a cheerful fellow, I’d say he fares better than most. Why, I last saw him Friday night when I shipped over—at the Ferry House he was—smoking cigars and drinking whiskey with a Spaniard and a negro man.”
“A Spaniard?” Anne squinted.
“A foreign-looking fellow—tall—with a heavy dark beard.”
“No!” Anne laughed. “Don’t tell me he’s grown a beard!”
“You know the man?”
“I know both the Spaniard and the negro man—friends of our family.”
“Collins!” an officer shouted up from the landing.
“I have to go.” The lieutenant flipped a haversack over one shoulder.
“Good luck to you, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll tell your brother of our meeting.”
“Tell David he is a constant in our thoughts and prayers.”
John Collins skittered down the stairs, taking a seat and an oar in a flat-bottom scow.
Anne leaned over the railing. “Mr. Collins! If you should happen to see the other two—the Spaniard and the negro man—tell them Anne Merrick bids them both to take care!”
AS the sun drew close to the horizon, an unseasonable chill crept in from the east to settle over the British encampment at Flatlands. The cool temperature combined with wood smoke from the many campfires to end the summer day with an aspect more akin to October than to August.
With a gunnysack full of foraged foods thrown over his shoulder, Jack meandered past row after row—hundreds of wedge tents—in search of the one he shared with his fellow guides and three British regulars.
After his midday meal with Titus was interrupted by the call to assemble, the 17th and all of General Cornwallis’s units struck camp at Flatbush and marched two miles south to encamp with General Clinton’s forces at the old Dutch village called Flatlands.
Jack puzzled over it, but he could make no sense of this move away from the rebel lines. And though no one seemed to understand the why or wherefore of the orders, it was plain these seasoned soldiers recognized the movement as a meaningful portent, and the camp buzzed with industry in preparation for the inevitable.
Jack strolled past men with wood-framed mirrors propped, wielding lather and razor, shaving while there was still good light to see by. Others were busy seeing to their uniforms, mending tears, and applying fresh coats of pipe clay to mask the grime and stains on white crossbelts, breeches and waistcoats. Boots, shoes, cartridge boxes and canvas gaiters were also being attended to, receiving a good rub with brush and blackball.
The colonial guides were housed in the third tent beyond a neat pyramid of regimental drums, right next to a group of small conical tents used to shelter the racks filled with barrel-end-up muskets.
“Ahoy!” he shouted to his fellow guides busy building a campfire in front of his tent. He was at once greeted with a rousing cheer from his Tory messmates. To Jack’s surprise, the three surly troopers, who had complained so bitterly to their sergeant over having to share tent and mess with “colonial bastards,” cheered as well—all prejudice overcome by the full gunnysack slung over his shoulder.
“I hiked to the bay and met with some luck . . .” Jack dumped the contents of his sack: Three large flounder, a dozen ears of corn and at least two dozen not-quite-ripe yellow pippins all spilled onto the tamped-down grass.
“I can clean those fish,” volunteered the small, pointy-faced trooper putting a fresh edge to his bayonet with a honing stone. “Afore I made the mistake of taking the King’s shilling, I worked as a fishmonger in Swansea.”
Pointy-face made quick work of the fish, and in no time they were threading chunks of sweet flounder meat onto bayonets to broil over the flames, and ears of corn were roasting in their husks on a bed of embers. One of the Tory guides passed a bottle of rum around their circle, and though he was sharing food, drink and conversation within the bosom of the enemy, Jack managed to enjoy his dinner, and the company.
The bottle had made several rounds when a pimply faced ensign approached with orders for colonial guides to gather their gear and report to General Clinton’s marquee “at once.” Jack and his cohorts scrambled to shoulder packs and weapons, and fell in, marching along with the ensign to the opposite side of the camp, where the officer marquees were located.
A pair of fox terriers stood guard at the tied-open door flaps, barking a friendly welcome as the ensign ushered them inside. The large tent was empty, save for one fubsy fellow—plump and squat—with a clean-shaven pate. Dressed in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the man hunkered over a big table centered between two tent poles.
The ensign removed his tricorn. “General Clinton, sir.”
The major general looked up, prominent dark brows raised. “Ah! The guides!” With a wave he urged, “Come forward . . .”
A negro servant boy followed in on their heels and hung a pair of lanterns from hooks screwed into the tent poles, casting needed light onto the detailed map of Long Island spread across the tabletop.
“I plan to turn the enemy position by means of this gorge . . .” General Clinton pointed to the Jamaica Pass, located at the eastern end of the Gowanus Heights. The British Army needed to somehow penetrate this densely wooded ridge in order to reach the Patriot forces entrenched behind the Brooklyn Heights. “Our informants tell us this pass is little used and ill-guarded.
“While Grant’s brigades and von Heister’s Hessians divert our rebel friends, keeping them busy here, here and here”—the general tapped his finger to the heavily guarded Bedford Pass, Flatbush Pass and Martense Lane—“my flanking force will come around the rebel left and crush them from behind.” Clinton swept his palm across the parchment and brought his fist down with a thump.
Astounded, Jack stared at the map with newborn clarity, restraining a strong urge to knock knuckles to his skull. Thick. Thick. Thick. He
had been too stupid to comprehend the import of the words Titus overheard at the stable. Clinton would turn their flank . . . He should have gone to Washington with those words alone. His eyes leapt from point to point on the map, and Jack could find no flaw in the brilliant stratagem. “A perfect trap . . .” he muttered.
The general acknowledged the praise with a nod. “You local men will join me in guiding a swift vanguard of light cavalry and foot to take control of the gorge. Generals Howe and Cornwallis will follow us with the main body and artillery. We will move ten thousand men and twenty-eight guns through that pass.”
I have to find Titus. His brain awhir fathoming the consequences of Clinton’s strategy, Jack studied the map anew, calculating the quickest route to take to warn the Continental forces. After dark . . . steal horses . . . travel through the night and cross the heights before the Redcoat vanguard gains an inch . . .
The servant came to stand beside the general, a freshly powdered wig in hand. The negro boy held a looking glass steady, and the general contemplated his reflection as he dressed his bald head. “I have ordered mounts readied for the four of you. We leave at nightfall. The troops are forming now.”
Nightfall! Forming now! Rocked, Jack sucked in a breath and leaned over the map on both hands, trying to think over the desperate clamor ringing between his ears. He studied the map, floundering—searching for something—some reason to cause Clinton to put a halt to the plan.
One of the Flatbush farmers spoke up. “A company of rebel riflemen patrol regularly along the road here . . .” He dragged a finger along a stretch of the Jamaica Road. “Pennsylvania sharpshooters.”
“We are aware—and thus require your services to guide us a path through the countryside”—Clinton drew a line parallel to the Jamaica Road—“avoiding the main road and evading any enemy patrols that might discern our intent.”
Jack pictured the terrain the general proposed they lead an army through by night, and referred to the map. “The off-road path will necessitate a very narrow column, sir,” he said. “Your forces will be stretched thin for miles”—he pushed his finger from the position at Flatlands, tracing the six-mile span to Jamaica Pass—“vulnerable to attack—at risk every inch of the way—especially at the gorge.”
General Clinton slipped his arms into the coat his servant held ready, and contemplated Jack with a furrowed brow. “Your name, yeoman?”
Jack stood upright. “Stapleton, sir.”
“Your outlandish beard does little to disguise a keen eye and an artful mind. I will enjoy riding with you, Mr. Stapleton.” The general buckled the strap of his sword sling across his chest, and zinged a shiny brass-hilted saber into the scabbard at his hip. “No plan is invincible, but with utmost attention to secrecy, silence and under cover of dark, our force will be as stealthy as a viper, and I am confident we will be sinking fangs into Mr. Washington and his ilk come daybreak.” Clinton took up a bicorn hat trimmed with gold tape to match the fringed epaulettes and lacing on his red coat, and he fit it square to his face. “Let us go and possess this island.”
The general led them on a brisk march, across camp, to an open field where, without benefit of a drum call, a full brigade of light infantry stood assembled into ranks, and a regiment of dragoons waited in open file array, standing beside their mounts. To Jack’s great relief, he saw Titus Gilmore among the ostlers leading riderless horses to the fore.
“There are your mounts.” Clinton pointed. “Secure your gear and stand ready to depart.” With those orders the general turned on his heel and joined two tall officers in conversation—one corpulent, one slim—both bedecked and festooned in gold fringe and trim.
Cornwallis and Howe . . . Jack thought as he claimed the horse Titus was tending. They pulled several yards away from the formation and any prying ears.
“You see the three of them with their heads together?” Titus whispered. “No one knows where they are taking us—not even the officers.”
“Well, I know. Clinton means to sneak up on the Continental left flank by way of the Jamaica Pass,” Jack said through gritted teeth, sliding his musket into the gunsling suspended from the saddle. “Ten thousand men—twenty-eight guns—on the march now.”
“Clinton would turn their flank . . .” Titus remembered in an ominous tone. “We have to go, Jack . . . give warning . . .”
“I know . . . I know . . .” Jack settled his knapsack and bedroll onto his mount’s rear, lashing the straps through a loop at the back of the saddle. “But I’m caught in the eye of this storm—expected to ride alongside the major general himself.”
Together, he and Titus turned to see Clinton swing himself up onto his saddle, and on this quiet signal hundreds of dragoons followed suit.
Titus fiddled with the saddle blanket. “This march could mean the end of our army—the end of our country . . .”
“I know”—Jack sidled next to Titus, making a pretense of adjusting the stirrup length—“and I will be leading the Redcoats to it.”
Titus whispered, “I’m on foot with the farriers, at the rear of the horse ranks. No one pays me much mind. I think I can steal away . . .”
“Ho! Jack!” One of the guides, already mounted, called him back to the line with a wide wave. “It’s time.”
Jack took the reins. “Do it, Titus. Break away as soon as you can—get through with all speed. This column must be stopped before it breaches the pass.”
Titus clapped Jack on the back and took off running to the rear of the light horse, where he rejoined the ostlers.
“There you are!” the farrier-major scolded as he loaded heavy churns filled with smithing and horse-leechery equipment onto the back of a sturdy gelding. “Gather up yer gear and fall in line. Can ye not see the Seventeenth is on the move?”
Titus shouldered the musket and knapsack he’d left lying off to the side. Holding up his bedroll he said, “I’m ordered to bring my master this blanket . . . he’s a guide, riding in the lead with the major general.”
“With the major general!” The grizzled campaigner shooed Titus with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “Off wi’ ye, then, ye poor black bugger—go to yer master’s bidding.”
The column began to move forward, at first lurching in starts and stops, then shifting into a smooth, rhythmic pace. No one stopped to question Titus as to his destination or his intent as he sprinted by the slow-moving stream of horse soldiers, toward the head of the column.
Titus reached the lead of the vanguard just as it turned onto a narrow, woodland path. General Clinton was with the guides, riding alongside Jack. “Master!” he shouted, and reaching out, he grabbed ahold of Jack ’s stirrup.
Jack looked down in surprise.
Titus trotted alongside, offering up his bedroll. “Here you go . . . a warm blanket.”
Flashing a smile, Jack took the proffered bundle. “You are most thoughtful, Titus.”
Breathless, Titus said, “So I’ll find you . . . beyond the heights.”
“Or maybe I’ll find you.”
Titus laughed. “Fare well, then, till we meet again!” He sent Jack’s bay along with a slap on the rump, and then slowed his pace to a gradual halt. None of the dragoons cantering past paid him a scant bit of notice as he stepped off the narrow path to make way for the column. And no one seemed to notice as he inched backward, blending into the black shadows under the dense canopy of trees.
Jack glanced over his shoulder, and squinting, he could barely make out the gray linen of Titus’s shirt moving against the dark backdrop, away from the path.
“There is an uncommon chill in the air.” General Clinton drew on the cloak he had bunched behind his saddle. “Your servant is most devoted, Mr. Stapleton.”
“Yes . . .” Jack said, twisting around—craning—searching the trees to see his friend disappear. “Titus is most devoted to our cause.”
With a wry smile, Jack unfurled the blanket Titus had brought, and pulled it over his shoulders. Relieved that at least on
e of them was tearing pell-mell through the trees toward the Patriot lines, he sank into his saddle and put his mind to a new task. Like a hungry snake on the prowl, the double file of cavalry and infantry moved forward—relentless—and Jack must somehow prevent this red viper from slithering through the Jamaica Pass.
At the onset of the march, orders prohibiting conversation were passed along and strictly observed by troops armed with a sharpened sense of vulnerability. But no order could stifle random equine snorts and huffs, the thud of hoof and boot, and the creak and clank of leather and metal carried by a multitude on the move.
In keeping with the need for stealth, the vanguard advanced without the aid of lantern and torch. The first mile saw a near-full moon rise in a cloudless sky to illuminate the way, and the Redcoats were not overly hampered by the lack of light—another testament to Clinton’s good planning. Or good fortune . . . Jack thought, glancing to his right at the major general.
I should put an end to the bastard’s good fortune . . . Cut the head from the snake . . . Jack leaned forward and touched fingers to the hilt of the dagger kept ready in his left boot, considering a quick lunge and slash at the good general’s windpipe. The ensuing confusion might cause the flanking force to falter. Not for long though . . . Jack discarded the idea. The hydra would quickly grow another head, what with Cornwallis and Howe not far behind.
The vanguard moved forward in the night, unchallenged.
About an hour into the march, the company met with a salty, rotten-egg breeze wafting inland from the fetid wetlands bordering Jamaica Bay. The cadaverine smell and the chirping marsh frogs gave way to the fresh scent of dew-soaked meadow and the owl’s hoot as the vanguard moved inland and closer to the pass. Jack judged their position to be less than three miles away from the mark. These dragoons moved with greater speed than he’d anticipated, and Jack worried whether Titus got through to rouse some sort of attack or defense.
I make for a poor dragoon . . . Jack winced, shifting his weight forward in the saddle.
The Tory Widow Page 17