by John Jakes
Not ground free of risk, certainly. George Clark’s plan was perilous, and so was the territory involved. On the other hand, one of those Indians George talked about could surely die in exactly the same way as a Philadelphia Tory. The only problem was to deliver the shot straight and true.
He wished that he could tell Peggy McLean where he was going, and with whom. It might make her think a little better of him—if that were possible after the debased, drunken act he’d committed. However, even if Peggy would be willing to speak to him again—which he very much doubted—the idea was academic. According to Donald, Peggy hadn’t been at home for the past four weeks.
Donald didn’t believe she was visiting her parents. He’d remarked on how curious it was that no one at the McLean place, not even the house blacks, knew where the mistress had gone. If Williams knew, he wasn’t saying. Perhaps her absence had something to do with the business affairs of the plantation.
Whatever the explanation, Judson hoped the absence didn’t signify more of the same emotional strain that had tormented Peggy after the uprising; a need to flee a place where terrible memories lived—
But then everyone had such memories, didn’t they? And, ultimately, the need to flee from them somehow? He did. A combination of luck, friendship and providential timing had at last combined to offer him a way out. Had there not been such a way—
Well, he didn’t relish thinking about that alternative.
Actually, he was ambivalent about Peggy. On one hand he hoped he’d never again have to face her. Another part of him still wished she could somehow learn that he had earned George Clark’s confidence. She didn’t need to know how hesitantly, and with what reservations, George had finally extended that confidence—
Perhaps Donald would tell Peggy about it when she returned. That would be easiest for all concerned.
He turned his attention to less somber subjects. After he’d ridden some five miles more, a remarkable thought crossed his mind, making him smile broadly.
He’d been concentrating on how to approach Donald for a loan to finance a trip to Richmond—and purchase of the very best Kentucky rifle available from the local gunsmiths. Not once had he thought about, or felt a desire for, something to drink.
Still, a rum might refresh him. Perhaps there was an inn—
No. That was done. Let his palms crawl and his tongue taste of ashes and the craving bring all the horrors of hell. It was done. He’d promised.
He knew the name of the worst enemy he faced—Judson Fletcher—and he meant to conquer him. By God he did!
As the October day turned radiant, he forced thoughts of drinking from his mind and let his soaring imagination fashion the sleek, deadly silhouette of the rifle he’d carry across the Blue Wall into the west.
v
Ahead, the familiar curve of the road signaled that he had barely a quarter of a mile to ride.
He was grimy, exhausted, butt-sore and hungry after the long trip, but still in an ebullient mood. He looked forward to easing out of the saddle, washing up, enjoying a solid night’s rest and a little food from the cabin’s meager stores. In the morning he’d begin to implement his plans. Contact Donald about the loan. Perhaps, if all went well, he’d be on the road to Richmond before the week was out.
He inhaled the fragrant, nippy air of the October twilight, a bemused smile on his face. He let the horse find its own way to the dooryard—
Where he pulled up short, jolted out of his reverie. A sorry-looking gray nag whose hock joints showed signs of bog spavin was tethered to the dead apple tree.
The gray swung its head, whinnied. Judson’s palms prickled. A lantern glowed inside the cabin. He heard a woman’s voice—
Lottie.
Damn, this was an unexpected complication. A quick alteration of his plans was in order. He’d have to ride downriver a ways, locate an inn where they’d accept his promise of payment until he had an opportunity to speak with Donald—
At the moment, though, his challenge was to avoid any sort of argument with Tom Shaw’s widow.
Judson dismounted, caught the sound of footsteps inside the cabin. Lottie’s voice had gone silent all at once. The door remained closed.
Why was she back? Had she found business poor in Richmond? Well, he’d commiserate. Even go so far as to ask that she forgive him for his outrageous act of throwing her off her own property, if that would satisfy her. Hell, he’d treat her like a princess if necessary.
The thoughts chased through his mind in the moments he stood beside the horse, patting its lathered neck. He took a deep breath, preparing to walk to the cabin—
The door opened.
“Lottie—” he began, and scowled.
He saw her, right enough. Dirty and disheveled as ever. But she was standing behind someone else. A man.
The man blocked the cabin door, worn boots planted wide apart as if to bar Judson’s entrance. The fellow was somewhere in his thirties. Not bad looking, but going paunchy. He wore dirty white breeches, a ruffled shirt, a once elegant fawn waistcoat. He had a puffy, dissolute face that wasn’t helped by a three- or four-day growth of beard.
Lottie clutched the man’s arm, her face all nasty pleasure as she exclaimed, “Well, look who’s back!”
“Evening, Lottie.” Judson spoke calmly, determined to avoid an altercation. “I’ve been in Williamsburg a few days—”
“Then I guess we came home at exactly the right time, didn’t we, Mr. Carter?”
Mr. Carter acted slightly tipsy. He gurgled something Judson didn’t catch. Lottie went on:
“Mr. Carter an’ me, we’re livin’ here now. You better not make any fuss about it.”
“Don’t intend to, Lottie.” He’d guessed the laconic Carter’s profession, if that was the proper word. The man continued to regard him with a peculiar stare that might have been animosity, or awe, or some of both. “I’ll be leaving Caroline County soon. Just came to collect a few belongings. My other shirt, my—”
Carter interrupted: “Afraid we disposed of those right after we returned.” The man affected polite speech, but handled it awkwardly. Judson had seen men of Carter’s stamp in Richmond before. Why he and his whore had left there, Judson still couldn’t imagine.
“We burned them,” Lottie added, still baiting him.
Judson forced a shrug. “In that case I’ll ride on.”
Yet it required effort for him to check a mounting annoyance. He kept reminding himself that Lottie and her new-found companion weren’t worth his trouble. He turned to amble back toward his horse.
“You ain’t gettin’ away from here that easy, Mr. Fine Judson Fletcher. Not after the way you pushed me off my own land.”
“Yes, we’ve actually been waiting for you,” Carter said. Judson didn’t like the sound of it. “Lottie thinks you’re due a comeuppance.”
He tried to keep his smile easy, alert to the undertone of ugliness in the conversation. “I admit I treated you in pretty shabby fashion, Lottie. For that, I tender my apologies. But there’s no point in starting an argument now. There’s nothing to argue about—the cabin’s yours. I’m bound away from this part of the country, so let’s just say good evening and—”
“The hell!” Lottie fairly screamed, dashing past her slovenly friend and snatching at the bridle of Judson’s horse.
Judson was faster. Bridle in hand, he retreated two steps. The horse nipped at Lottie’s hand but missed. She jerked back, glaring.
“I don’t blame you for being angry,” Judson said. “But believe me, I don’t have the slightest desire to cause you further distress—”
“Doesn’t make any damn difference what you got a desire for, I told you I wouldn’t forget what you did.”
Suddenly Judson stopped smiling. He had to impress on them that although he wanted no trouble, he wouldn’t bear harassment:
“Lottie, keep quiet I’m going to mount up and leave, and you and your—ah—business associate can put the cabin to any use you see fit.�
��
“I don’t care for your tone,” Carter said, taking a wobbly step forward. “What were you implying when you said business associate?”
God! Trifling with trash like these two tried his patience to the limit. He stood in the left stirrup, hoisted his right leg over and met Carter’s stare straight on:
“I didn’t see any point in using the word pimp, Mr. Carter.”
Carter wilted under Judson’s gaze; looked at the ground.
Judson yanked the horse’s head toward the road, ignoring Lottie’s burst of obscenities. At the sound of scuffling he reined in, swung around in the saddle just as Lottie pushed Carter aside and darted into the cabin. Carter’s eyes flicked between Judson and the girl, out of sight in the dim interior. When Carter spoke, it was to her:
“He’s agreed to ride on, Lottie. I don’t think we need press—”
“Scares you, does he?” Lottie jeered, still unseen. “Well, you can turn yellow, but he’s got somethin’ coming for the way he treated me—”
Suddenly she was back in the door, again shoving the confused Carter out of the way. And Judson saw just how badly he’d miscalculated the extent of her wrath.
He tried to rear the horse back out of the line of fire. Both of Lottie’s hands were clamped on a horse pistol that evidently belonged to Carter, who tried to grab it:
“Listen, we had enough trouble with the Richmond authorities, we don’t want to be responsible for murd—”
The hammer fell, the powder ignited, the muzzle bloomed smoke and fire.
Judson ducked, but not quickly enough. The ball slammed his left side, knocked him from the saddle. All he could think of in that chaotic instant was George Clark’s warning—
Three weeks at the outside. If you’re not here, I won’t wait.
He floundered in the dirt, hurting. The ball had hit just under his left armpit. Already he felt warm blood soaking his clothes. Coughing hard, he tried to crawl on hands and knees. Carter’s voice had a frightened quality:
“Christ amighty, Lottie, you said he has friends and kinfolk in this county. They won’t stand for—”
“Who’s going to know who shot him when they find him lying dead by Plum Creek, like we talked about?”
Judson’s hands weakened. He could barely support himself. He wanted to curse her. Wanted to curse himself for not getting away sooner. Christ, it was intolerable, Lottie doing this to him when things had finally changed for the better—!
In his mind, a vicious voice mocked his despair:
Why blame Lottie? Who caused it if not you?
Coughing harder, he spoke George Clark’s first name aloud. He was stupefyingly dizzy. He heard his horse clatter away down the road, spooked by the shot. The dirt of the dooryard rushed up toward his blurring eyes and struck him, bringing the ruinous dark.
CHAPTER VI
The Drillmaster
ANOTHER HORSE LAY on the shoulder of the road, the sleet spattering from its still flanks and huge, distended eyeballs. Philip had already counted three others, starved and abandoned along the line of march. He averted his eyes and passed by the dead animal as quickly as his split, rag-wrapped shoes would carry him.
The sleet was starting to turn to rain. Ahead and behind, ghostly double columns of men plodded in the December murk. Royal Rothman, his face half concealed by a strip torn from the bottom of his coat, bumped against Philip to attract his attention.
Philip turned his head. Even that small effort was painful. He walked and breathed in pain. The worst was in his feet.
Sometimes they felt totally numb. Then, abruptly, sensation would return. Dozens of tiny knives seemed to be slicing his flesh. A while ago, he’d glanced down and seen blood staining the rags on his left foot.
Philip hunched his shoulders against the sleet, tried to catch Royal’s words, had trouble because the chandler’s clerk had almost lost his voice.
“They lied to us,” Royal said. “They damn well lied.”
Too weak and weary to argue, Philip answered, “It’s possible. They said thirteen miles. Thirteen miles from Whitemarsh to the campsite.”
“Thirteen hundred, more like,” Breen said just behind them. “Fuckin’ liars. Fuckin’ incompetents, every one.”
“I can’t keep walking,” Royal croaked.
“Here, put your arm around my neck,” Philip said. “Lean on me a while.”
A little extra weight made no difference. He had long passed beyond the point of caring about anything except taking the next agonizing step; then the next; and the next. Royal Rothman’s body slumping against his was just one more minor hardship among all the rest: no food; no water; no decent clothing; no conviction that anyone really knew where they were supposed to be going—
The world consisted of this long, seemingly endless road where the edges of the mud ruts had frozen sharp as axe-blades, and were only now beginning to soften a little. But the frozen ruts had already done adequate damage during the week’s march. Men sprawled at the roadside in the gray of the winter morning, their feet bleeding so badly they couldn’t go on.
It did seem impossible that it could only be thirteen miles from their last permanent camp at Whitemarsh to the new one, somewhere on the bank of the Schuylkill River about twenty miles west and slightly north of Philadelphia. There, presumably, they would winter. Rest. Draw rations.
But a week to reach the place? God, that was incomprehensible—!
Or was it? Everything seemed incomprehensible of late.
In October, at Germantown, the army had come close to revenging the humiliation of the Brandywine. General Washington had implemented an attack plan against Howe’s troops. But confusion about battle orders—and a sudden heavy fog descending—turned the near-victory into another rout. Philip had even heard that American units lost in the fog had fired on one another.
For an hour at Germantown, the possibility of success had been within their grasp. Officers said the troops had fought well. Then came the fog—and disaster. Seven hundred lost, they said, More than four hundred captured—
Supporting Royal, Philip staggered on between skeletal trees rising in the mist. They passed more men who had simply stopped; given up. Then an overturned baggage wagon with two of its wheels still revolving slowly. Someone had tried to move the wagon with only one horse. The spent beast lay thrashing and whinnying in the traces. Philip saw the spectral figure of an officer approach, lift a pistol to the animal’s head. The shot boomed through the rain. Royal Rothman started to cry.
Up ahead, the ground appeared to rise. Philip picked up the sound of men splashing through water, then a few weak cheers. Word came back along the line from soldier to filthy soldier:
“It’s Valley Creek.”
“We’ve reached it.”
“We’ll be camping tonight—pass it to the rear—”
Wearily, Philip tried. While he was shouting at Breen, Royal slipped and sprawled face down in the mud. Philip motioned Breen forward. Together the two lifted the younger soldier and carried him through the icy water of Valley Creek.
The rags on Philip’s feet fell away, drifted off in the current. He refused to stop. All he wanted was the haven of the campsite that apparently waited at the top of the rise where thick tree trunks clustered in the murk.
A plateau, then. They were climbing to a plateau where there was wood for fires. There should be food, too. The prospect helped him drive his tired, hurting body the last few hundred yards. Perhaps their agony was coming to an end—
By nightfall, Philip knew the hope had been cruelly false.
A savage December wind swept across the rolling two-mile plateau in the angle between the Schuylkill River flowing from west to east and the creek that came up from the south to join it. There were pines and oaks in plenty. But they offered scant protection from the wind.
And there were no supply wagons waiting.
When Philip, Breen and Royal tried to hammer pegs for their tent into the half-frozen ground, the pe
gs kept popping out. Exhausted, the three finally gave up, spread the rain-sodden canvas on the ground and crawled under it.
Philip listened to the pines moaning in the darkness. He had a dizzying vision of Anne and little Abraham sitting by a cheery fire in Cambridge. At least they were safe and warm. At least they would survive—
Even that assumption, though, was not without a certain hollow ring. Philip had received no further letters from his wife since the last one in the summertime.
Thinking about that for very long was too much on top of everything else: the army’s failure; his bleeding foot; his ferocious, unremitting hunger—
Dinner for the night had consisted of the one, green-tinged chunk of bread remaining in his haversack.
He shifted position under the soaked canvas, trying to get comfortable. The wind roared across the plateau, carrying the sound of officers shouting orders, horses and wagons crisscrossing the high ground. Units of the Continental army were still arriving.
Next to Philip, Royal began to cry again. Without even thinking about it, Philip reached over with one stiffened hand and patted the younger man’s shoulder, trying to comfort him.
On Philip’s left, Breen suddenly let out an assortment of curses. Then:
“Cap’n Webb said the general picked this place ’cause we could escape easy if we got attacked. Shit, you think Billy Howe’s gonna come out in this weather to bother with us? He’s gonna let us die in the goddamned place.”
“Shut up, Breen,” Philip said. “Try to sleep.”
“And wake up froze to death? Not me!” Breen hauled himself out from beneath the canvas, tramped away:
“I’m gonna squat under one of them pines.”
Philip might have done the same, but Royal Rothman seemed to be suffering an attack of the chills. His body convulsed for perhaps ten minutes. Philip held him with both arms, trying to transfer what warmth he could from his own body.
Finally the convulsions stopped. Royal drifted to sleep. Philip dozed a little himself. All at once, Royal started up:
“Where are we? I dreamed it was Boston—”