Jack Absolute (32 page)

‘Well, one would not wish to be rude.’ Burgoyne took the proffered bundle of jerky and tucked it rather swiftly into a capacious
pocket at the back of his coat. ‘Now, sir, I have something of import to discuss with you. Perhaps I will share that seat,
if I may?’

Jack shifted and Burgoyne sat heavily down. There was a time when their combined weights would have tested the camp bed’s
construction.
No more
, thought Jack, somewhat ruefully.

‘So,’ began Burgoyne briskly, ‘you know about the result of the negotiations, do you?’

‘I have heard … something. Is it capitulation, then?’

‘It is not!’ Burgoyne tapped Jack’s knee with one finger. ‘I may have lost the campaign but I have undoubtedly won the peace.
It is a “convention”. We are to be known as the “Convention Army”, and will march by way of Boston to a British fleet and
thence home. We will not be allowed to fight in this war again, none of us, but … it will at least free His Majesty to send
replacement forces here.’

‘It seems … generous of the Rebel, to say the least.’

‘I bamboozled him, Jack,’ Burgoyne declared proudly. ‘Told Gates that we’d hurl ourselves upon him with bayonets fixed and
die rather than submit to humiliation. And he still fears that Clinton will come, even if I am now certain that he will not.
So he signed the Convention with alacrity. We march out on the morrow with full honours of war.’

For all the bravado in the speech, Burgoyne would not look at him. Jack struggled to choke down both his anger and
the thoughts he would express. Whatever sweetening euphemisms were used, it was still surrender. Whatever the terms, the Yankee
had triumphed. He thought of Simon Fraser then, his sacrifice, and of all the hundreds, thousands, who had marched down from
Canada, never to march back. And he felt something he’d never experienced before as a Redcoat – shame.

His throat was full yet he managed to speak. ‘So we are prisoners, sir, at least for a while?’

‘We are in their hands, yes. All of us.’ The older man paused, at last looked up. ‘All, that is, save three.’ He let the words
sink in, continued. ‘That is what I would talk to you about. One of my conditions was that I was allowed to inform my superiors
of the … debacle that has been so much their fault. So three dispatch bearers are guaranteed safe passage. One to Boston and
thence by swiftest frigate to Lord Germain in London. One to General Clinton in New York. And one to Sir William Howe, our
Commander in North America, who has had some successes against Washington and taken Philadelphia.’ Burgoyne’s voice could
not help but edge with bitterness as he spoke those words. ‘I want you to be that messenger and ride to Philadelphia.’

Jack’s heartbeat quickened.
To not be part of this surrender, to be free to carry on the fight!
Yet a soldier’s honesty made him caution.

‘I thank you for the honour and the trust, General. But,’ he gestured to himself, ‘I am not in the rudest of health. My progress
may be slower than you would like. Does General Howe not need this news urgently?’

Burgoyne said, softly, ‘I am sure he will know it within a week if not in days. The Rebel will trumpet his triumph swiftly,
both here and in the courts of Europe. Especially in Paris. The French have been aiding the rebellion since its beginning
and not very secretly. Who knows what those curs
will do now.’ He sighed. ‘No, it is not truly as a news bearer that you are needed there, Jack. It is for … something else.’

The vigour with which he’d proclaimed his skills in negotiation had left him. He leaned forward now to rest arms on knees,
rubbing his hands first against each other then reaching one up to his brow. His eyes seemed to darken still more as they
stared forward.

‘There are several reasons I could give why I lost this campaign. Some, no doubt, my fault; others, certainly the greater
number, clearly not. But one remains prominent in my mind: I have been consistently undermined from within. Somewhere out
there, in that rabble of Germans and Loyalists, there is still, as we have discussed, a traitor, a spy. He has stolen my decoding
mask, spread dissension between my allies, consistently betrayed my secrets to my foes. I do not speak of Von Schlaben – as
we said, he was not in the camp when our mask went missing – though I am sure he was involved. The Count may well be this
other, this Cato. But the one he controls, this …’

‘Diomedes?’

‘Just so. Diomedes. Whoever he is, he will move on to plague General Howe, attempting to ruin him as he has helped to ruin
me.’

He turned back to Jack, reached out to grip his arm. ‘You must find him. Root him out and kill him before he does to Howe’s
campaign what he did to mine. It may be the last action I can take to help win this war. Set a spy to trap a spy.’

Jack looked at his leader, noted the sadness, the desperation in him. And he realized that the terrible feeling he’d had when
he thought of surrender and the wasted death of Simon Fraser was dispersing like a weight pulled off his chest.

‘I will go to Philadelphia, sir. And I swear this to you – I will see this Diomedes dead.’

Burgoyne held his gaze for a moment. ‘Good,’ he said on a
sigh. ‘And I am going to promote you, lad. To Brevet-Major. A field promotion only, alas, that those fools in London will
no doubt rescind at war’s end to save themselves a farthing. Captain Money will be by later with the commission, the dispatch,
and a generous supply of gold. Enough even for a spendthrift such as yourself.’ A brief smile came as he rose from the bed,
Jack rising behind him. ‘You’ll take your savage?’

‘If my savage will come, aye. He has concerns of his own in this land. And he has no obligations to me. Quite the reverse,
damn the fellow!’

Burgoyne nodded, his mind already moving beyond the tent. He was at the flap when he stopped, turned back. ‘All the luck in
the world,
Major
Absolute. I know we shall meet again. Perhaps at Drury Lane, eh? Where the prologue of our own little play began. That was
quite a night for you, wasn’t it? Long as I live, I’ll never forget your entrance, Stage Right. Barely had your breeches done
up.’ He chuckled. ‘But try not to get into any duels this time, eh?’

The tent flap had barely settled before it twitched up again and Até was there.

‘You just missed the General. He wanted to see you.’

Até came in, two squirrels dangling from his belt. ‘I did not want to see him. He smells of defeat. It’s not a smell I like.’

Momentarily annoyed, Jack grunted – nothing could persuade an Iroquois that Burgoyne had no choice. Then he told Até of his
new mission. ‘Will you come?’

‘I do not think you could reach this city without me. But I will not stay. There are things afoot in the land of the Mohawk,
bad things. I must return.’

‘Fair enough,’ Jack said. He looked down at his bandaged arm. His sword arm, of course. He did not need Burgoyne’s warning
about duels, he would not be fighting with a sword any time soon. But a pistol he could fire with his left hand. As he hoped
Diomedes would soon find out.

*

‘So what, exactly, are you doing in Philadelphia, uh … Major Absolute?’

Major Puxley sat behind his desk, staring up at his visitor, unease plain on his large, farmer’s face. Jack understood his
discomfort, indeed shared a little of it. When he’d last seen Puxley, the Welshman had been the Senior Sergeant in Jack’s
company of Dragoons. That had been in 1767, the year Jack had resigned his commission in the 16
^th
and first gone to India. He was pleased to see that the man had risen from the ranks; he was more than capable of the responsibility.
But the reversal of their positions – Puxley was a full Major, not a Brevet like Jack – was awkward.

While he considered his answer, Jack glanced out into the stable yard. A platoon of troopers was saddling up, a corporal stalking
among them checking equipment. Though Philadelphia was firmly in the British grasp, the surrounding country was still hard
contested. The patrol would need to be well accoutred and prepared.

Puxley had followed Jack’s gaze, misinterpreted it. ‘I mean, if you should wish to resume your regimental duties … it might
be a little difficult. Your commission makes you superior to Kelly and Craddock, whom you might remember. Captains now, but
they’ve been serving for years and, to be truthful, the regiment is functioning so well …’

He petered out. Jack regarded the man. He had always got on well with him, ever since they had fought together under Burgoyne
in Spain and Portugal. He had no desire to discountenance him now – and even less to take up the normal duties of a Dragoon
officer. He was there for different reasons, which need not concern this honest soldier.

‘Sir, may I?’ He tapped the chair before the desk with his cane.

‘My dear fellow, of course. Please.’

Jack sat, leaned forward, his voice lowering. ‘I wouldn’t conceive of disrupting the running of the regiment. I took my commission
again on General Burgoyne’s insistence. But he wanted me at his side, to aid him in … certain areas where he felt I could
be of most use.’

The other man shifted, looking uncomfortable. ‘Areas of … intelligence?’

‘Yes, sir. You understand I cannot be more …’ Jack waved a hand.

‘Quite so! Quite so!’ Puxley too had leaned across the desk, his tone and volume matching Jack’s. ‘Rather you than me, to
be honest. But what is it then, that you require of the regiment?’

It was all quickly arranged. Jack would once more assume the privileges of an officer of the 16
^th
but without any of the duties. His bandaged arm, his fever pallor, these would be enough to excuse him while his new rank
of Major, even if it was only a field promotion, would give him access to the more elevated echelons of society, free to roam
the city engaged on … whatever his mission was.

‘No need to go into any of that, eh?’ Puxley rose, so Jack did too. ‘You are, of course, welcome at the Mess any time. In
fact we would be thrilled if you’d come tonight. We are all so keen to learn first-hand of the travails of poor General Burgoyne.
Hear it was the Germans let us down again, what? Anyway, you have a billet, yes? Good, good.’

He was ushering Jack out, obviously greatly relieved that this new problem had solved itself. Jack halted in the doorway.
‘One other thing, Major?’ He indicated the very tattered and mismatched remnants of his infantry uniform, under his borrowed
greatcoat. ‘Is there a tailor in the city who could make me a Dragoon uniform?’

Puxley nodded. ‘Indeed there is. Alphonse of Locust Street. A splendid worker, though he can’t help being French.
Problem is he is very busy as he also makes dresses and many of the ladies of the town go to him. Every evening is spent in
balls and recitals and all sorts of damned fripperies.’ He gave a very soldierly shrug. ‘Gold speeds things along, of course.’

‘Well, I have that.’ Jack stepped outside, into chilly November sunshine. ‘Thank you so much, sir.’

He saluted, Puxley returned it then reached out his hand, his voice suddenly full of the Welsh tones he’d restrained. ‘Glad
to see you again, Jack. Come to the Mess, will you? We’re pretty informal there, see. We can talk of old times. Spain, eh?’
He shivered. ‘Damn sight warmer than here. And the women …’

He smiled, tipped a finger to his brow, and closed the door. Jack watched the now mounted patrol ride smartly through the
yard gate and followed them out into the street.

As he walked away from the barracks, Jack reflected that at least the second of his official meetings had gone better than
the first. That had taken place the day before when, on his arrival, he had presented Burgoyne’s dispatches at the mansion
commandeered by the British army for its headquarters. Once his credentials were established, he had been brought quickly
enough into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief, Sir William Howe, but then sent on his way as swiftly as bare civility
allowed.

He and the General had some history. Howe had also been in the vanguard of that assault up the cliffs at Quebec in 1759. He’d
been a Colonel then, so had paid little attention to the young Lieutenant fresh from England, despite Jack’s brave actions
that day. Or perhaps because of them – Howe was notoriously chary of sharing glory. They had seen each other at times over
that campaign and intermittently over the years since. Each time, Howe had contrived to forget Jack’s name and confuse his
rank. At this meeting in Philadelphia, he not only did both those things, he also gave the impression, in the
way he barely looked at the messenger and addressed remarks to him through a third party, that Jack was Burgoyne’s man, associated
with something distasteful – failure, defeat, an unthinkable surrender. Jack would have put some of this down to guilt, since,
in not marching to rendezvous with Burgoyne in Albany, Howe had contributed so much to that failure. But this was crediting
the Commander-in-Chief with a capacity for concern he undoubtedly did not possess. Indeed, if the rumours Jack had already
heard in the city were true, Howe’s only real concern was to return as soon as possible to the soft attentions of his mistress,
Betsey Loring, just brought down from New York. Whatever the reason, Jack was in the Commander’s presence no longer than five
minutes. Howe wanted nothing from him. He’d already had innumerable reports from spies, deserters, and Rebels as to the battles
at Saratoga and the Convention that had been signed two weeks previously. He probably regarded the dispatches Jack brought
as mere exculpation on Burgoyne’s part. He’d asked that they be handed over to his intelligence officer – some fellow named
Major John André, not present at the meeting – to analyse, précis, and report. Jack was barely acknowledged and quickly dismissed.

Which suits me perfectly
, Jack thought. He had not revealed himself to anyone on General’s Howe’s staff as anything other than a messenger and convalescing
officer. He did not know how infiltrated that staff might be. Working alone gave him his best chance of discovering the identity
of Diomedes. And alone, he had a better chance of exacting Burgoyne’s – and his own – revenge.