They let her sway there till the clock again struck the quarter. Then new noises came, of something heavy dropping to grunts, another gasp, more cheers, of men moving below, nails screaming as they were withdrawn from holes, hefty beams of wood being knocked down. Jack knew, despite the numbness that had taken his limbs and mind where he lay on the floor, that a scene change was under way. It was time for the final act of the play, its climax. He used the cot to raise himself, stood and began to dust the cell’s leavings from his Redcoat and breeches.
When they led him on to the same scaffold, out into the grey light, he saw that he had been correct, for the simple square frame of the gallows had been disassembled, its three beams laid out one atop the other to his left, the rope carefully coiled and placed at one end. Of Louisa’s body there was no sign. André had said that once her prisoner-father had been found, he would be released on grounds of compassion from the Convention Army. She would be kept for him to claim, to bury her, no doubt, in the valley of her childhood.
As the drum struck up again, as he was led to place his back against the scarred brickwork of the gaol – it had obviously been used for this purpose before – he looked around him, taking in everything, feeling nothing. Directly ahead, under louring snow clouds, what should be the fourth side of the square was open to the Delaware River, steps leading down to wharfs. These supplied the shops and warehouses lining the other two sides, split only by single archways that led out to surrounding streets. Each building had an arch, and he presumed there was one in the base of the gaol too.
He looked up. To both his left and right, balconies overhung the square and these were filled with the more fashionable of society, like boxes at Drury Lane. Indeed, it was as fine a theatre as ever he’d seen, the floor of the square the pit, the boxes above. The stage entrances were stairs off the sides of the platform. As he looked, a file of soldiers began to climb the ones to the right, moving to the steady beat of the drum. At their head was Banastre Tarleton.
The file halted on one command, on another became a line facing Jack.
‘Rest your firelocks!’ Tarleton bawled, and while the ten men obeyed, their officer wheeled and walked towards him. He nodded at the two men who had led Jack to the wall. Instantly, they let go his arms and moved away down the stairs.
The drum had ceased and the chatter had started again in the crowd. Tarleton had to more than whisper to be heard. ‘Last blood, eh, Absolute?’
Jack, who had avoided meeting his gaze, did so now. He thought of all the wonderful sentences he could speak, full of bravado, how he would write this scene for the stage. Sheridan would have done well with it, though his bent was more towards comedy. There was a time when Jack might have appreciated the irony – about to be executed by his own army. When he’d lain in that log at Saratoga and considered all the ways he’d nearly died, could yet die, he had not considered that one. When in the forest he’d contemplated all the titles he had acquired, he had never imagined that traitor would be the one by which he would be best remembered. But humour had disappeared from the world. Louisa was dead and she had taken all the smiles away.
Tarleton expected the words, waited for the defiance. When none came, even he was somehow discomfited. Pulling a scarf from his pocket, he reached up to tie it around Jack’s eyes.
‘No.’ It was the only word he would give him. Tarleton stared at him for a moment, then shoved the scarf away. ‘Good,’ he said, his momentary unease gone, ‘for now you’ll be able to see all your friends.’ He pointed to the balcony on the right. There, sat just behind General Howe, was John André. Beside him was the Count von Schlaben.
Jack looked away, but not before he’d seen the German incline his head in acknowledgement, in triumph. It didn’t matter. There was no way to convey in a look how little Jack cared.
Tarleton had walked back to his soldiers. He stopped, facing out to the crowd, took off his hat, and yelled, ‘Behold the fate reserved for all traitors! God save the King!’ To cheers, he turned back and on his signal, the drum began to sound.
‘Raise your firelocks!’ Tarleton cried.
Jack looked up into the sky above the river.
‘Cock your firelocks!’
A bird flew there. It was a heron, making its ungainly way along. It made him think of that night in the forest, the one that he and Louisa had watched there. Of the other one he’d seen on the battlefield, just before Simon Fraser was shot.
‘Present your firelocks!’
A strange thing happened. The heron suddenly plunged down to the far bank. Then he saw why, that another heron floated in some rushes there. The two birds now flapped together, water rising around them, reed-thin necks craning to each other.
Fighting or making love? Jack wondered. It didn’t matter. It was just good to see something new, in the moment before he died.
Tarleton had paused, signalled the drum to cease, was staring at Jack intently as if he wanted to fix him for ever in his mind’s eye, this enemy conquered. And in the pause, in the silence, a second strange thing happened.
An explosion came, but not of muskets. Muskets could not cause the timbers of the scaffold to be rent suddenly upwards, to bend and splinter and splay around a hole that smoke poured from, sucking three soldiers into it. Tarleton tumbled the other way, shiny boots flailing as he flew down into the crowd, as ungainly as any heron. Jack was flung against the wall, hit it hard, slid to the timber flooring.
‘Rebels!’ came the cry, among the screams, as it had at the theatre only the week before. But Jack was perhaps the first to realize that this was not true when a head thrust through the smoking hole. For it had both a scalp lock on the crown and a face he knew well.
‘Come, Daganoweda,’ said Até, hoisting himself half-through the gap, reaching out an arm. ‘Come.’
He felt he could not move, his body still shaking from the sudden explosion. Até leaned further forward, grabbing and snagging one of Jack’s feet. The pulling motion was enough and Jack now scrambled to the hole. His friend dropped away and he peered down, into a chamber filled with smoke; Até stood there with six other warriors.
Iroquois. Mohawk. Wolf.
Heavy boots were thumping towards him on the platform. Orders were being shouted, someone was taking command. There was no time to do anything but sink into the smoky space, so he did. Até and others reached up to break his fall, set him on his feet, propelled him back towards the archway under the gaol house, past two fusiliers unconscious on the ground. The arch gave on to a passage, then out on to the street beyond. Philadelphians, those who had chosen not to attend the executions, stared as they all emerged, trailing smoke. Immediately, Até and the others of his clan began to run to the left, parallel to the back wall of the gaol, helping him whenever he stumbled. They turned at the corner, ran down the side of the building towards the river, dodging around the townsfolk and soldiers fleeing the shock of the square. Someone shouted at them to stop; they ran on.
‘Here!’ Até pulled him right, away from the steps, through a screen of rushes. Suddenly there was ice under their feet, panes of it cracking as they went over. Then there was the shock of water, freezing water, splashing over his boot tops. Two more Mohawk appeared, pushing two canoes. The others got aboard, dragging him in after. Seizing paddles, fast strokes took them swiftly into the centre of the stream.
His ears still vibrated with the explosion, with the creak of timber and rope, the shouted commands of a firing squad. He had been so ready for his death that this sight – warriors’ powerful shoulders ploughing paddles into the water, driving them away from the screams and the fury now fading on the river bank – could have come from another world, that new world Louisa had conjured for him, the one he’d wanted so to believe in.
‘Até.’ He said his name, as if saying it would make the vision real.
His friend turned, dripping paddle suspended above the water.
‘Até,’ he said again, ‘she’s … she’s …’
‘I know. I heard. We waited there below, with our barrels of powder.’ Then Até, who never showed emotion, reached down and gripped Jack by the shoulder. ‘I grieve for your loss. I will condole with you through the winter that lies ahead. But I could do nothing for her. She was not my blood brother. You are. I had to choose, Daganoweda. I chose you.’
He turned back, his paddle joining the others speeding the beech-bark craft through the drifting sheets of ice. In another week, less, the river would be choked with it, impassable. They had swung around downstream, were now passing the town on their left. The square had emptied of all but Redcoats, the officers among them shouting, directing. It had begun to snow hard again, slanting in from the west. No one looked through the flurries to the water.
As Jack put his face into the snow, into the wind that drove it, the vessels shot across the mouth of a little bulrush bay … and there they were, two silhouettes on stilts. Startled, the herons rose, circled each other once, separated, vanished into white. All that remained of them was their harsh cries and soon even those were gone.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
‘No man but a blockhead wrote except for money’
SAMUEL JOHNSON
The Malvern Festival Theatre, 10 February, 1987. Opening night of a revival of the eighteenth-century comedy, Sheridan’s The Rivals. The actor Chris Humphreys walks on to the stage and, in reply to a question, speaks these words:
‘And what did he say, on hearing I was in Bath?’
My life as Jack Absolute had begun.
I have been an actor for twenty-five years. In that time I have played over a hundred roles – from a zealot in the deserts of Tunisia at +45C to Hamlet in Calgary at — 30C, in venues that range from a theatre above a pub in London to the sound stages of 20th Century Fox in Hollywood. Many I enjoyed, many I hope are never seen or spoken of again. Relatively few can I say I truly ‘nailed’, that I’d done the best job possible despite the obstacles presented by directors, fellow performers, the weather, the audience, a hangover, and a thousand and one other things that can come between an actor and his craft.
Jack Absolute was one of the few I did nail. I loved playing him. I have a photo of me in the role, in mid-soliloquy, pinned above my desk for writing inspiration. Posed and poised, I wear a Redcoat, gorget and sash, with a walking-stick raised at a provocative angle and a plume in my tricorn hat! I saw him as dashing, wicked, humorous, courageous, foolhardy, and, at times, plain bloody foolish. I made him a role-player, a man of masks. And I always had the feeling that the playwright, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, if he happened to be looking down, would have approved.
The theatrical tour lasted six months. Like anyone you become close to and then lose touch with, I missed Jack when he was gone. In those days, the thought of writing novels was pure fantasy; yet even then I speculated (in the way one composes an Oscar acceptance speech) that if ever I did, he would be a wonderful character to base a novel on, with half my work already done because I knew him so well. It was a way, I dreamed, of being him again.
Then my first novel came out. My publishers asked, ‘What next?’ and Jack stirred inside me. They agreed on the idea but, like me, they knew that for the character to live beyond the one in Sheridan’s play he would have to be rather more than the dashing army Captain and oft-unscrupulous lover. He would have to do something. Thus he became a spy – among other things.
I again worked to the principle that had guided me through my first two novels – write what you love. And as in those two books, research gave me much of the story. Since The Rivals was first performed at Drury Lane in 1775 and was in the repertoire thereafter, I read up on those times. Tremendous they were too, with the American War of Independence just beginning, a very suitable arena for my gallant Captain’s skills and obsessions. And since, in my version, Jack became the model for the one in Sheridan’s play – much to Jack’s fury! – my love of theatre could be incorporated into the tale. Other passions then made their entrances – actresses in all their infuriating allure; Hamlet, the only stage role I’ve played to match Jack (and an obsession ever since); the use of all kinds of bladed weaponry; the Iroquois (I did so much research about them for my second novel, Blood Ties, that I was bloody well going to use them again!); an intriguing military campaign. These and many more, built around my memory of being Jack Absolute. This led to a sort of strange déjà vu, especially when writing the scenes from the productions of The Rivals. I made Jack say the lines the way I, as Jack, had said them. He reacts like me, worries, as I did, about getting laughs. And since the first play I wrote was partly autobiographical again, like ‘my’ Jack, I have seen my life ‘acted’ upon the stage. I have played opposite lovers current and past. Layers upon layers – making for some very odd writing days!
Once more I have fictionalized real people and realized fictional ones. Of the former, John Burgoyne was irresistible, an older version of my hero. Playwright, renowned ladies’ man, a very capable military commander, he was also the best-dressed man on two continents – not for nothing did the Americans nickname him ‘Gentleman Johnny’. I have also attempted portraits of other real-life figures such as the actress Elizabeth Farren, Colonel St Leger, Sheridan, Edward Pellew, John André, Banastre Tarleton, the Mohawk Leader Joseph Brant, and Benedict Arnold. I realize that any portrait is partial, can only show an aspect. With Brant and Arnold especially, people have distinct opinions of them and their actions. I can only do what a historical novelist must – stick as closely as possible to the known facts (disputed though some of these might be) and then make a judgement call as to character. I hope not too many are offended by my choices.
Of the pure inventions I should mention Angus Mac-Tavish, the Unintelligible Scot. He appeared after I’d read Kidnapped, by one of the masters, Robert Louis Stevenson, and spent much of the time resorting to the glossary of Scots-English.
As regards the history of the Saratoga campaign, and the specifics of the battles, I have drawn from a variety of sources, and most of the incidents I describe – Oriskany (both the battle and the subsequent massacre), the idiot Hans-Yost, the death of Simon Fraser, the storming of the redoubts at Saratoga, the loss of the crucial mask, to name but a few – did happen. I also had the enormous pleasure of attending, in October 2002, the 225th anniversary reenactment of the battle of Saratoga at Fort Edward, New York, where Don Beale, ‘Commander-in-Chief’ of the British army, was most hospitable and informative, along with many other fanatical re-enactors – Redcoats, Continentals, and Mohawk. Then I walked the actual field at Bemis Heights – superbly preserved – for two days. Alone in the dusk light, standing where so many brave men from both sides had fought and died, absorbing that atmosphere, was a privilege that gave me priceless detail – both the heron and the butterfly made their appearances then. The experience was like a few other, rare times in my life – such as when I was on that stage and Chris/Jack got that first laugh. My thought – at Malvern, at Saratoga – was the same: ‘They pay me to do this!’
I have read a number of texts to write this novel, too many to list entirely. But certain ones were indispensable. Christopher Hibbert’s Redcoats and Rebels gave a good overview of the war and its causes. Michael Glover’s General Burgoyne in Canada and America was both useful and partisan on behalf of an often-derided commander. Roy Porter’s English Society in the 18th Century was excellent on both facts and mindset as was Liza Picard’s Dr Johnson’s London. Works from the ever-wonderful Osprey Publishing gave me much background on the war, its soldiers and their uniforms, their Saratoga 1777 by Brendan Morrissey being especially detailed and evocative. For the Mohawks, The League of the Iroquois by Lewis Henry Morgan was as inspiring as it had been when I wrote Blood Ties; and Joseph Brant – Man of Two Worlds by Isabel Thompson Kelsay was an excellent, sympathetic portrait of the man and his people. For the secret society, the Illuminati, I found by chance a powerful exposé, Proofs of a Conspiracy, written about them in 1798 by Professor John Robison, Professor of Natural Ph
ilosophy at Edinburgh University. He made them out to be as sinister and ruthless as I needed Jack’s enemy to be. For spies and spying I purchased, at Saratoga, John Bakeless’s Turncoats, Traitors & Heroes. Informative – though I will discharge him of Jack’s unusual method of discovering the invisible ink, which is entirely down to my grubby mind! Jean Benedetti’s life, David Garrick, was great on theatre, its mores and questionable morals (how little we actors have changed). Of contemporary accounts, Burgoyne’s own account of the campaign – published to justify his conduct – was very useful. William Hickey’s Memoirs of a Georgian Rake makes any sin Jack commits look quite tame indeed. And Lieutenant Thomas Anburey’s With Burgoyne from Quebec was rich in detail – and provided the antidote to snake bite. Finally, there’s no escaping the influence of the playwrights on my work and, especially, dialogue – Burgoyne’s Maid of the Oaks, Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer (in which, in 1993, I played Marlow), and, of course, Sheridan’s The Rivals.
To these, and many other authors, I owe much gratitude. I also have some others to thank. There are the usual suspects, their importance no way diminished by still being suspected. My wife, Aletha, the first to read and comment, as always. My agent Anthea Morton-Saner. At Orion, Publishing Director, Jane Wood and especially my point man there, editor and enthusiast Jon Wood. My hands-on editor, Rachel Leyshon, whose wonderful notes challenge and inspire. My Canadian publisher, Kim McArthur.
And perhaps, finally, the man to whom this book is dedicated. For if Philip Grout had not cast me as Jack Absolute in 1987 I would not be writing this now. He has been a friend and mentor ever since. He even directed my first play here in London in 1998. It is a pleasure to collaborate with him and I always learn a lot.