Jack Absolute (21 page)

With the campaign reaching its climax, Jack had no need to risk his life, for the moment, to hurry to his General. Burgoyne
was the master of that phase in chess and in war. He could serve his Commander better where he was.

Easing into the gentle canter that seemed to be the roan’s natural gait, Jack eased also into the skin of Lord John Absolute.
That man had given his word not to escape. That man would not. But at the sound of the guns, Captain Jack Absolute must. And
would.

Jack Absolute lay concealed in the decaying trunk of a fallen cedar, musing on death.

Strange how my mind runs so on that subject lately
, he thought. Not, he hastened to point out to himself, in a philosophical ‘Prince of Denmark’ way. No, indeed, Até would
not discover him in the mood to receive one of his infernal theoretical diatribes about the Dane. On the contrary, Jack’s
mind focused only on the mundane and myriad ways death had tried to take him in the last six months; they could certainly
be counted on his fingers – if he even had that much room in his cramped quarters to extend them.

In March, in London, a man named Banastre Tarleton had sought to impale him on a small sword and, frustrated in this, had
tried to finish the job with a sabre. Another sword, a claymore, swung by an unintelligible Scotsman, had attempted to remove
his head while the Highlander’s confederates sought to stick him with bayonets and bludgeon him with gun butts. He had been
extensively shot at by Rebels in the forests of Oriskany where, later, one Abenaki had hurled a war club at him, another had
attempted to extrude his brains with a tomahawk, and a third had cudgelled him. A German Count had dropped a rattlesnake on
him, which had bitten him twice. To top it all, he half-believed
that same Scotsman, Angus MacTavish, had made a second attempt on his life by feeding him oats and cow’s blood, a combination
from which his guts had yet to recover and which had rendered his afternoon’s stay in the cedar tree additionally uncomfortable.

Though maybe their stirrings now were more to do with what lay ahead than behind. For in the next hour, he had an equal chance
of being shot by his own side
or
the enemy, depending on who spotted him first, the British pickets or the Rebel.

Jack sighed. He was sure he had left a few out. The temptation was to stay in the log, perhaps for the duration of the war.
But he couldn’t do that for two main reasons and one minor: he was hungry; he had learned the war was going badly for the
Royal Army so he had to resume his position at Burgoyne’s right hand; and some creature had slipped inside his trouser cuff
and was engaged in biting its way up his leg.

He had to lessen the odds against him if he were to survive the next sixty minutes. He felt proud that he had already taken
a deal more care by hiding in this tree while a battle was fought in the valley below him. He had been in enough such fights
to know that men on either side would shoot precipitously and not query his allegiances till later, especially dressed as
he was, as neither friend nor foe but in the gaudy civilian suit Arnold had lent him.

Benedict Arnold. Two and half weeks he’d spent in that braggart’s company, from Stanwix to Saratoga, encouraging him to talk,
though in truth the man needed little prodding. Jack had made himself the perfect audience – reticent himself but ‘noble’.
He had learned much of how the Rebel army worked, and too much of Arnold’s several loves and even more numerous hates – for,
it seemed, he was the only capable general the Colonists possessed and grievously overlooked for the highest commands. He
had not gained enough
knowledge about American spy rings, however. A boaster he may have been but Arnold was not so foolish as to parade his deepest
secrets before an English officer. So when Arnold had told him as much as Jack felt he ever would and when he had brought
Jack to within running distance of the British lines, Jack had made his escape.

And now, another man seeks my death
, Jack thought, trying in vain to thrust his hand down the narrow log and scratch his leg.
For a peaceable fellow, I seem to make an inordinate number of enemies.

Fortunately, the General had been so concerned about the forthcoming combat he’d barely had time to yell, ‘Return or die,
you dog!’ as Jack sprinted for the cover of the trees, balls snapping branches above his head as he entered them. Once in
the forest, Jack knew the odds were on his side against any but the most thorough search. He had reverted to his Mohawk nature
and men had passed within feet of his concealment.

Jack sighed, though taking care that the sigh produced no sound. All he had to do now was cross a battlefield full of the
Rebel dead and wounded and the parties that sought to bury or save them; then repeat the trick through the British soldiers
embarked on the same tasks, and further unnerved by constant American sniping. All? And the only true odds-lessening plan
he had come up with was to await the inevitable thunderstorm when men would be forced to ward their powder. Much less chance
of being shot, then. But presumably there would be the usual array of bladed weaponry ready to be thrust, thrown, or swung
at him.

Jack sighed again, not as silently, then felt two things – the bite of the creature, which had now reached his upper thigh,
and the log drumming with the first drops of rain.

With a mixture of relief and terror, Jack crawled from his lair. He took time only to reach in and dig out his assailant –
a grotesquely large centipede – then began to move, as
cautiously as he could, down the night-darkening slope of the valley. Lying in the log he had overheard various conversations.
Knew that the fighting had been especially heavy, and that each side, as usual, was claiming victory.

The rain consisted of thick and constant drops, stinging the eyes and making the features of the terrain, ill-lit enough by
the twilight, still harder to discern. By the way the land sloped, Jack guessed there was a stream somewhere nearby; he soon
hit upon it and, keeping it on his right side, moved parallel to it down the valley.

Streams drew soldiers. Many of the Rebel army were clustered now on its banks, seeking sparse shelter under the overhanging
branches of maples, their foliage just beginning the turn to the red of autumn. Jack sought not to meet anyone’s gaze but,
glancing up briefly, he saw men recovering from what, for many, would have been their first full battle. Most eyes were filmed
over, staring ahead. Some wept. Others had a euphoric gleam, as if they had suddenly discovered joy in every sensation. They
looked to the fat raindrops, or pawed at the dripping leaves, hugged themselves in pleasure, talked incessantly.

It was in the fourth group he passed that Jack, in the quickest of perusals, encountered something else – a challenge. He
looked away swiftly, too late.

‘You there. Yeh, you, in the dandy duds. Where you goin’?’

Jack cursed, yet again, Benedict Arnold’s taste in clothes. That particular Yankee could indeed stick a feather in his cap
and be called a Macaroni! The frilled shirt and elaborately gold-stitched jacket were hardly battle attire.

‘You’ll pardon me. I bear a message to Colonel Morgan.’

He had not bothered to disguise his accent. There were probably more Englishmen in the numerically superior Rebel army than
in the Royal. But the tall man who now stepped into his path and placed a hand against Jack’s chest had the
broad vowels and drawling speech of an American frontiersman. A tasselled buck-skin jacket confirmed the impression.

‘And who might this message be from?’

Jack had attempted to slide past, but the hand that had stopped now grasped his lapel. ‘General Learned,’ he muttered, reluctantly.

‘’sat a fact!’ The American whistled. ‘Interestin’ Learned should be sending messages. Considerin’ the Colonel be havin’ a
meetin’ with him right now.’

The man’s companions, buck-skinned as he, stirred beneath their tree. Jack felt the grip tighten at his chest, more gaudy
material grasped. The man was taller than Jack by a head and wider too.

Wonder if he’s done any wrestling?
Jack thought briefly, before dropping his left hand on the wrist before him. The man might well have had an advantage in
height and strength but his wrist, when twisted the wrong way and with sufficient pressure, would break as any other. As Jack
jerked sharply, the man gave a cry and bent away to save himself further injury. Whipping him to the side, Jack stepped past
and ran.

Instantly, the men under the tree began to shout, ‘Stop him!’ Jack was still close enough to hear the distinct sound of guns
cocking, despite the rain. Judging that these men knew what they were about, Jack counted to three then threw his feet out
before him and slid along the ground. The deluge took care of four of the guns for he heard the distinct ‘puff’ of wet powder.
The fifth fired and a ball flew over his head at the place where his hips would have been. He rolled up in a moment and was
running near flat out in another.

Near flat out. The path was slick with rain and the first fallen leaves of autumn, while twisted tree roots reached across
it to snag his toes. He had half his vision fixed on his footfalls, half on the group of Rebel Regulars crouched on the ground
ahead, rising at the hallooing and the single rifle shot.

A blue uniform was almost in his road. ‘Quickly!’ Jack yelled as he came level, slapping the soldier on the back. ‘A British
spy! There! Do you see him? There!’

The man turned as Jack ran by him. He could hear the distinct tones of the frontiersman he’d felled urging pursuit. Jack fancied
himself in any footrace but not if he had to slow up every ten paces. Other groups were visible ahead. Reluctantly, he dodged
off the path and began to forge through the low scrub between the trees.

They still had him in view. Another rifle surpassed the rain and a bullet thunked into a maple beside him. Twice, he nearly
fell, just keeping his feet, slithering and stumbling to steady himself against a tree, running on. Then the rain slackened
noticeably and, as suddenly, ceased. It made his task a little easier; at least he could see somewhat more clearly through
the dusklight. But it made him a clearer target too; and the powder would stay dry.

The steepness of the slope was diminishing, the trees thinning. He felt he was reaching the valley’s floor, an impression
confirmed in a moment by a sudden increase in the numbers of Rebels standing before him, for the valley bottom would be the
front line. He could see they were at the edge of the woods, that a clearing lay beyond. He even glimpsed a structure within
it and remembered one of the voices he’d overheard while lying in the log – the battle that day had mainly been fought around
a farmhouse. Was this it?

There was no way around the men before him. He had to go through them. Behind him, he could hear that the pursuit was closing.
He ran straight.

‘Look! To your fronts, boys. A British spy.’

He could not really expect it to work a second time. It didn’t. The man he’d chosen to run at stood square.

‘You’ll just be holdin’ it there, me lad,’ he said, his Irish brogue thick.

But Jack had the advantage of the slight slope, his momentum, and his desperation.

Beyond the man, the trees stopped, there was a field, open ground. It had to be the space between the opposing armies. So
he dipped his shoulder and took the Irishman in the chest, knocking him aside. A flailing hand grasped at him as he went by
and he almost fell, while one of the boots that Arnold had lent him with the clothes, which were a size too big, slipped off
easily.

He was through, in the open, and felt both hope and a hurtling fear. It was a hundred yards at the least to the shelter of
the building he now saw was a barn. The clearing was, in fact, a field that must, until recently, have held corn. Stalks snagged
at his ankles as he sprinted. But it was the first body that saved him, as he misjudged his jump, catching it with a toe,
and plunging, as a ragged volley crackled out behind. He slid along the churned ground face first, his progress halted sharply
when his forehead encountered something soft. Spitting mud, he looked up to see he had slid into another corpse. A swift glance
from side to side showed that the field was filled with them. Terrible slaughter had been done there that day.

‘We got him, boys! He’s down. Let’s grab the bastard.’ The voice of that first frontiersman, still dogged in his pursuit,
came from behind. It spurred Jack to rise, to stumble on. Suddenly, he was as tired as he could ever remember being, but he
forced himself forward.

The next shot came from in front of him, and passed through the embroidered epaulette of Arnold’s coat.

‘Hold!’ Jack cried. ‘I’m English, damn ye.’

‘Steady! Hold fire! On my word!’ There was something familiar to the sound, beyond that of regimental command. He altered
direction and sprinted towards the voice.

It spoke again. ‘You there! Down!’

Jack had no doubt he was being addressed. He flung himself flat, simultaneous with the next words. ‘Company, present your
firelocks.’ A moment’s pause. ‘Fire!’

Unlike the ragged volley from the woods behind him, this had the sharp crack of well-trained infantry and the results were
immediate: cries of pain and shock behind him, and that same frontiersman, screaming, ‘Back! Back!’

The familiar voice spoke again. ‘You! Come forward and be quick about it, see.’

It was the ‘see’ that placed it for him, as well as the slight burr on the ‘r’ of ‘forward’.

‘Well, Ted,’ he said, as he stumbled into the red ranks. ‘That’s a fine way to greet a fellow Cornishman.’

Midshipman Edward Pellew stood just behind his company of Marines and gaped. ‘Zooks! Jack! Jack Absolute! You’re alive.’

‘Only just, my lad. And I nearly fell at the last fence.’ Ripping the shattered epaulette from the coat, he added, ‘Thanks
to you.’