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 16th 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 16th 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.
Philadelphia was a well-made place – broad, tree-lined avenues behind which sat handsome, two-storey houses. No doubt, several belonged to the signatories of the famous Declaration with which they had proclaimed Colonial independence from this very city the previous year. Men now driven away to shiver with Washington in the field, while British officers enjoyed their well-appointed residences, their servants, and, Jack was sure, many of their daughters and wives as well – for the city appeared full of women, all claiming to be Loyalists, strolling down the streets despite the chill wind, smiling at British officers, giggling and gossiping in groups on every corner. Jack had secured fine quarters on Chestnut Street, sharing with just two other officers of General Howe’s staff. It was costly but after what he’d been through, he saw no reason to scrimp and, with Burgoyne’s generosity, no need to. Até had paid a swift visit, grunted his disapproval of such luxury, and departed the next day, pausing only to stock up on second-hand books. After toting the hefty Clarissa throughout the campaign, he had developed what Jack found to be quite a disturbing taste in novels, the more sentimental the better. Jack couldn’t abide novels himself. Give him a good play any day! Yet it was sad to see his comrade go, back to the dangers of the Mohawk valley, to the civil war of the Iroquois. They made arrangements to keep in contact, hard though it would be in that fractured world. At the least, the plan was to rendezvous in the Cherry Valley when the blossoms came.
Locust Street was more of an alley, lined with stores of varying size. Above the door of one ‘Alphonse’ was lettered in gold leaf. A half-crown to the elegantly attired and be-wigged doorman gained him entrance and a private room. The sight of silver also brought le patron quite swiftly. Jack’s French was praised as much as his physique – mere flattery given his privations – but the greatest approbation was reserved for his coin. A price that would have shocked the denizens of Jermyn Street was eventually agreed. Jack felt that, if he was to honour the command of his General, he would have to operate in the same circles, the same balls and events Diomedes would to glean his information – the very highest. Besides, Burgoyne would not begrudge him. The two men had always shared a love of good tailoring. And Jack had been grubby in this campaign quite long enough.
The only difficulty, as Puxley had foretold, came over timing. Jack wanted it yesterday and at that the diminutive Frenchman baulked.
‘Impossible, monsieur. It is the Governor’s Ball next week and all the ladies of the city will only come à la maison Alphonse.’ He sighed and looked as if this was the greatest source of regret instead of the reason his own coat was so threaded through with gold.
‘And I am to attend the same event. Do you wish me to go like this?’
Alphonse looked with ill-concealed distaste at Jack’s apparel. ‘Perhaps we could adapt something already made—’
‘Already made?’ Jack’s voice deepened. ‘I will not be seen in cast-offs, sir. I don’t think you quite realize who I am. I am to be fêted at this same Governor’s Ball. For I, sir, am Lord John Absolute – hero of Saratoga.’
The name meant nothing, the title only a little – Jack knew you could throw a stick on any street corner in Philadelphia and strike three lords – but the idea that a man dressed in one of his creations would be the focus of the festivities obviously appealed. As did the producing of a two-guinea gold piece as down payment. Alphonse pocketed it with the sigh of a martyr while agreeing to all. Then the footman informed him that a large party had arrived for final fittings and he rushed away, promising to send his subordinates to take measurements.
Soon Jack was stripped down to shirt and breeches, while Alphonse’s assistants – who somehow achieved the near-impossible by being more haughty than their master – moved around him taking down his every detail. A middling white port was served, which Jack happily sipped. Indeed he was beginning to feel more relaxed than he had in many a day. He had a mission, and a deadly one at that. He’d always found it intriguing when pitted against a worthy opponent, which this Diomedes certainly was. But the mission’s pursuance required a role of him, the elegant officer. One for which he was – or soon would be – well suited.
Laughter came from the next room, only a little muffled by the thin walls. Both men and women were there and Jack enjoyed listening to the cadence of the bantering, if not being able to distinguish many words. When was the last time he had heard people really laugh? At Drury Lane? In another life, certainly. He half-listened, as the assistants wielded tapes and sticks around him.
Then he heard something else, a fall of pure merriment in a woman’s voice. There was something especially musical to it and he had heard something like it before. When he realized where, he was through the door in a moment, protesting tailors scattering from his path.
The next door was ajar. A male voice had joined in the laugh, so Jack felt no need to pause and politely knock before intruding on ladies. Besides, his accelerating heart would allow no such niceties. Shoving hard, he swept in.
They were obviously used to people coming in and out, for no one looked up. Two young ladies sat on a divan, each tugging at an exquisitely dressed young gentleman between them, who was clutching a paper pad in one hand while endeavouring, despite the wrestling, to sketch a third young lady with a soft crayon. She was standing across from the divan, surrounded by kneeling tailoresses with pins in their mouths and it was her, fighting for balance, trying to hold a pose, who was still laughing the laugh that had drawn Jack there.
The third young lady was Louisa Reardon.
She saw him last. One of the young ladies looked at him with interest, the other with distaste, as her eyes climbed from his stockinged feet to his stock-less neck. The gentleman rose, laying the pad down. Jack took them in as if he was in some sort of dream, or at that moment in battle when time moved slowly. When his regard returned to the model, her eyes rose for the first time and met his.
They widened. She gasped, tottered. There was a cry of dismay from the women at her feet as pins popped and something ripped. Louisa struggled for balance then, heeding the shrill warnings, settled. He could, however, move and did and was across the room in three strides.
Only the assistants at her feet prevented him from seizing her.
‘Jack! How … When?’ Colours chased each other across her face.
‘Louisa!’ He saw a gap, moved to go through it – till her hand, thrust out, halted him.
‘Jack, have a care, or you’ll ruin this dress.’
‘I don’t care, I …’
‘Jack!’ The hand now gestured, to the man and the two ladies rising from the divan. He did halt then, even turned partly to them.
‘A
nother admirer, Louisa?’ The man’s voice was pleasant, full of laughter.
‘An old friend.’ Her voice shook. ‘Jack, this is Major John—’
It was not the time for tedious, polite introductions. ‘How are you here? How did you escape? How, by all that’s holy—?’
‘It’s a long story. Jack, these are my good friends—’
‘I thought you … a prisoner at the least, if not—’
‘Dead?’ The word at last halted her attempted introduction. ‘I heard you were taken but only later, for they had already let me go and I did not linger for them to change their minds. They’d believed my story of fleeing those who would rob us. But I learned, once I reached New York, that you’d been proclaimed a spy. They were going to examine then … then hang you.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Oh, Jack. I believed you were the one dead. I mourned for you – once more.’
Confusion stirred something in him, compounded by the presence of this handsome young man, the laughter he’d overheard, that had drawn him here.
‘Yes, I can see how well black suits you,’ he said, looking at the vibrant pink of the skirt, the canary yellow of the bodice.
The blow struck home and she blushed, nearly the colour of the dress. Before she could speak, the young man had come forward, arm extended. He took Jack’s unbandaged left hand.
‘Major John André. And these ladies are my two adorable Pegs – Miss Peggy Shippen and Miss Peggy Chew.’ Both misses curtseyed, giggled, then turned to whisper to each other, their gaze still upon him. ‘And you must be the officer who accompanied Miss Reardon on that hazardous ride. We all rejoice to see you alive, sir. We have heard so many tales of your forest skills, your gallantry, “Jack, this” and “Jack, that”. The only thing she failed to supply us with was your surname.’
André was in his mid-twenties, Jack guessed – closer in age to Louisa than himself. He was small, in height and physique, almost delicate, with a face that would have been called pretty on a woman. Each of the Peggys would have fought the other for his eyelashes. He reminded Jack of Banastre Tarleton. Yet in Tarleton’s face the man’s cruelty revealed itself in a thrust of jaw, the mad-dog gleam of his self-regard, the fanaticism in his eyes. André’s displayed nothing so much as a profound amiability. Intelligence was there too, keenly so. But he was obviously a lover of life – and life returned the compliment. Indeed, if the ladies’ marked attention to him was anything to go by, life returned the compliment in trumps.