Louisa half-turned. ‘What did he say?’
‘He asked that you hurry as he has a young wife warming a bed. Do you not speak French?’
‘Hardly a word. Heigh-ho for an American education!’
The boatman called up again, a string of oaths.
‘I will see you on shore, Jack Absolute. And on the march. We will have our time again, I know.’
She reached up and their lips collided, something desperate in the kiss, and before he knew it he was handing her down the ladder. The boatman was there, guiding her feet to the rungs. Then she was in the boat, settled in the stern, oars were in the water and the craft pulled swiftly away, aimed at the docks.
Jack watched her, the set of her shoulders. She did not once look back. But halfway to the wharf, one hand was raised in sudden farewell.
The gloom of night took the boat. Still he stared, going through the words he had not spoken, that perhaps would remain unspoken now.
When at last he returned to his cabin, he was looking forward to the distraction from his thoughts that the code would furnish. Pellew’s snores provided a varied musical backdrop. With a newly sharpened pencil he copied the numbers on to the top half of a clean sheet of paper. Then he bent over the page, focusing first on the blank area, then letting his eyes drift up till they were full of the numbers laid out in six lines:
71685459656355545569642
52646369765269527452766964597
656953765351
62765272745959626551526566
5560577561595165
123
Assuming each letter would be represented by a number, he knew a single numeral would be too easy, three per letter too complex. It was probably a pair per letter – though this left an uneven number on the first two lines and the last.
He would come back to that. Swiftly he used a pencil to mark off pairs, leaving the ends of those first two lines as threesomes. There were clusters, flows of linked numbers – 555455 in the first line. That could be a consonant, bonded with vowels, he thought – ‘ini’ for example, as in ‘dining.’
He looked for the lowest number of the pairs, found it in the third, fourth, and fifth lines – 51. If 51 was ‘A’, then 52 was ‘B’ and so on.
He swiftly wrote out a crib on a separate page. Then taking the third line, he matched each paired number to its letters and wrote out the result: Osczca.
A code within a code? A name? Acronym? Even an anagram? For half an hour he tried to make one, first in English, then in French. He tried the other lines and got equal nonsense – though these yielded up some surprising, useless (and two quite rude) anagrams. Nothing worked.
Throwing down his pencil, he rose and went for a turn around the deck. When he came back he stood above the page, looked again at the lines of numbers … and suddenly saw what he might have missed. Perhaps, as a further concealment, the code writer had altered the starting letter for each line? If there had been a ‘51’ on the first line it would have been ‘A’. On the second line, ‘51’ would then have been ‘B’. Thus on the third line, where ‘51’ actually did appear, it would be the third letter, ‘C’. Scratching swiftly, he made a new crib for the third line: 51 was ‘C’, 52 was ‘D’ and so on. When he got to ‘Z’ at 74, ‘A’ became 75, ‘B’ 76. He then substituted the numbers for this new order of letters and wrote out a different version of line three.
It was a single word: Quebec.
Excited now, a new crib for each line was the matter of moments. Soon almost the entire message was laid out before him. After a struggle he concluded that the threesomes at the end of the first two lines – 642 and 597 – were just that – numbers, codes for agents’ names, to be used in future communications.
There was only the last little scribble that took Jack another ten minutes to figure out and when he did he could only laugh. He’d been looking for concealment and it was the one unencoded part of the message. And the only part in French.
1–2–3, it read, the ‘1’ with a line through it. Un-deux-trois. Un-de-trois. One of three.
All spymasters would send multiple messages as so many were intercepted. This, recovered from a silver bullet and a man’s guts, was the first of three.
Jack threw down his pencil and rubbed his eyes. Through the porthole, a faint light was glowing in the east. He would sleep for two hours and then he would report.
He lay down, tired now, thinking that, despite the droning from Pellew’s bunk, he would fall asleep fast. But it wasn’t his fellow Cornishman’s snores that kept him awake. It was the memory of a boat rowing away from him, bearing Louisa, their last conversation full of his suspicion and jealousy. He’d been foolish. On the morrow, ashore in Quebec, he would make amends.
His firm knock at Burgoyne’s cabin door the next morning was answered with an equally firm, ‘Enter!’ The General was standing at the table’s end, a steaming mug in one hand, a long fork in the other. Before him was a plate of what could only be kidneys. In their campaign together in Spain in 1762, the General had conceived an enormous appetite for them in ‘the Spanish Style’. The acrid smell of offal, masked by the sweetness of sherry, filled the room, causing Jack’s stomach to give a warning leap. He was not overfond of mornings. And the indulgence of the night before, coupled with his lack of sleep, now sat heavily upon him.
‘Grab a fork, Jack. These arrived by the first rowboat, compliments of the Governor.’ Burgoyne stabbed down and waved pinkish flesh at him. ‘Quite delicious. D’ye know, I am as hungry as a hunter this morning. Can’t think why.’
A loud giggle was heard from the corner of the cabin. The screen that had concealed actors the previous night now concealed something else. Burgoyne gave him a pronounced wink.
Jack tried a smile. ‘Just some of that coffee, if I may, sir.’
At Burgoyne’s nod, Jack filled a cup from the jug. The General, who was merely in shirt and stockings, now reached for his breeches.
‘Shall I call your servant, sir?’
‘Have you unravelled the mystery?’
‘I have.’
‘Then I think I can dress myself while you explain it.’
Jack raised his eyebrows towards the screen. Burgoyne shook his head. ‘Impeccable source, Absolute. Do not concern yourself there.’
Jack sighed. One thing that made his trade more difficult was the wilful disregard by senior commanders of secrecy. Still, he laid the piece of paper he carried on the table’s end, and tried not to inhale too much of the kidneys’ rich steam.
Beneath each numerical puzzle-line was its solution and Burgoyne slowly read each one out.
U R DIOMEDES 642
CONTACT BY CATO 597
QUEBEC
OBEY ALL ORDERS
INK COMES
Burgoyne’s finger rested on the name. ‘Diomedes?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me if it was our late guest last night, sir. This supplies him with his agent name. The three numbers at the end of the line – 642 – will be his number code.’
Burgoyne tapped the butt of his fork on the paper. ‘And Cato, 597?’
‘I would suggest he is Diomedes’s immediate superior. “Ink Comes” means they are moving from pure codes to codes in invisible ink.’
‘As will we, no doubt?’
‘Indeed.’ Jack hesitated. But he felt he must try one last time. ‘Sir, I am convinced Von Schlaben is at the heart of all this. Do you still wish him to remain … unmolested?’
‘Oh, I think so. You forget another thing, Jack. The Count is Baron von Riedesel’s cousin. We are going to have enough trouble merging with our German allies without knocking off their commander’s kin.’ Burgoyne laughed. ‘No, my boy. You leave the Count to me. I’ll keep him on a tight leash, believe me. And when I have learned all I need to from him, when we have discovered all there is to know of these Illuminati, why then, my boy,’ Burgoyne stabbed his fork down, impaling the last glistening kidney, ‘I will deal with him.’
Burgoyne chewed, swall
owed, sighed with joy, and dropped the fork on to the plate; then he reached for his black stock. Jack took it, moved behind.
‘Thank you, Jack.’ He began to tie the cloth around the General’s neck and Burgoyne leaned forward, pulling a map towards him. ‘You have demonstrated once again, dear Jack, how valuable you are to me as an agent. I would keep you by my side throughout the campaign if I could and I hate to part with you. But, much as I need you here, I have something even more important for you to do, which will suit another of your peculiar talents. I decided not to expand on it last night in, uh, mixed company.’ The General jabbed down at a spot on the map. ‘Know it?’
His finger rested just on the edge of a large expanse of water.
‘Lake Ontario. More specifically, I believe you are pointing at Oswego.’
‘Exactly. Oswego. A good rallying point, wouldn’t you say? Word will go out to the Six Nations of the Iroquois – and any other savage who cares to gather there – “Come to the biggest party you’ve ever seen. Come for powder, presents, and plenty of rum.” Should prove irresistible, what?’
Jack knew it would, and the knowledge saddened him. His Mohawk brethren, every other tribe, Iroquois or not, were now dependent on these handouts from the Great White Father, King George. It didn’t mean they would fight, necessarily. But impressive gifts and substantial supplies of rum were powerful persuaders.
Jack looked at the map again. The Mohawk River flowed inland, down the valley of the same name, the heartland of his adopted people, through rich farmlands of settlers, both Loyal and Rebel, and on to a place the General had talked of the night before, where a continent could be won.
‘You’ve seen it, ain’t ye?’
‘I believe so, sir. A third force, striking along the Mohawk. To rendezvous with you and General Howe at Albany.’
‘Ah, Jack! You should have stayed in the army, my boy, not run off to India to make money. You’d have been a general yourself by now.’
‘I couldn’t have afforded the purchases.’ Jack still stared down at the map. ‘And the size of the expedition?’
‘A small force of Regulars. Perhaps some Germans. Can’t spare many from the main thrust. But there’ll be two Loyalist regiments at least and our friend Skene assures me that the Mohawk Valley is filled with others waiting to rally to our standards. But the main threat will come from your Indians.’ Burgoyne, his stock finished, rose and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘Dazzled by our generosity, they’ll sign up in droves. I’ve already sent to that Iroquois leader, Joseph Brant. You know him, don’t you?’
‘A little. He and Até are both Mohawk and Wolf Clan, and also both graduates of Moor’s Indian Charity School.’
‘Good friends, then?’
‘Can’t stand each other.’ Jack laughed. ‘But they’ll work together nonetheless.’
‘Good. Well, you and Até and his schoolfellow Brant will drink with the tribes, smoke with them, speak their blessed lingo with them. Rally them, Jack. And then, set them loose in their thousands. I wager you’ll depopulate the Mohawk Valley of Rebels inside a month.’
While the General was occupied with the buttons of his waistcoat, Jack stared at the map. He had already voiced his doubts as to the size of the Native contingent that could be expected, as well as their enthusiasm. ‘Who is to lead us?’
‘Wish it were you, my boy. Alas, not even I have the dispensation to raise a Captain to Brevet-Brigadier in an instant. No, it will be Colonel Barry St Leger. Know him?’
‘A little. Experienced. Is he still … ?’ Jack cocked a hand towards his mouth.
‘Apparently not. Found temperance and God, they say.’ Burgoyne shuddered. ‘Still, better for our purposes to have him sober, eh?’ He laid his finger again upon the map. ‘Do you remember what’s here?’
Jack looked at the point indicated. ‘Fort Stanwix, is it not?’
‘Aye, Jack. Apparently it’s close to a ruin and defended by half-trained Militiamen, at best. They’ll probably run off; but if they do fight, just encourage St Leger to end it with all dispatch. A week at the most, eh? The swifter you move inland,’ Burgoyne’s finger traced along the Mohawk Valley, ‘the swifter the Americans will have to detach men to oppose you, while half the Militia will desert to protect their own farms. The weakened forces they put up against me I’ll sweep aside,’ his finger drew down the line of the Hudson from Canada, ‘while General Howe will be scattering Washington’s forces to the south and marching to join us here.’ His finger climbed from New York then stabbed down on a black circle. ‘Albany, Jack. We’ll see what the kidneys are like in Albany at the end of August. Three months! Why, it will be like a stroll around Vauxhall Gardens!’
Jack decided merely to nod. There was so much he could say as to the hazards that lay ahead and no point in saying them. The General would counter anything he brought up. He was that most dangerous of military men – an optimist.
‘When do I leave, sir?’
‘Immediately. I have your papers here – orders, requisitions for horses and equipment, some gold so’s you can do some bribing. No doubt you and Até will prefer to travel as civilians so you can leave your uniform with me. Then you and your savage can go where you think fit, urging all the warriors you meet to the fight. You know the country better than anyone. Just be at Oswego for the gathering of the tribes in the last week of July.’
‘Must I leave immediately, sir? There was a personal matter I wished to attend to in the town.’
Burgoyne smiled, somewhat sadly, then reached for his scarlet coat. Even in the dawn light the gold thread dazzled. It was exquisite, as were all his clothes, the facings the deep blue of his own and Jack’s regiment, the 16th Dragoons. ‘I would give you the time, dear Jack, but you would find it fruitless. The boat that brought the kidneys brought this as well.’ He picked up another note and passed it to him.
It was in Louisa’s strong hand and asked the General to convey to Jack her deepest regrets; but her father had made arrangements for her to travel to Montreal with the dawn sailing.
His face must have betrayed his disappointment. Burgoyne laughed. ‘Damn me, Jack, but I fear you have become a sentimental dog. When you were younger such a letter would have given you joy. You’ve had five weeks of her charms. As a youth, that would have been an eternity. Sheridan had you to perfection in his play as a rogue and a schemer. What’s happened to you?’
‘Age, General.’
Burgoyne glanced at the screen and smiled. ‘Don’t know what you are talking about. Well, never mind, my boy. The lovely Miss Reardon travels with the army. I will watch over her as a second father and you will see her in Albany, if not before. Should goad you to keep St Leger pushing swiftly forward, eh?’
‘Aye, sir.’
Briskly, his sash was tied, his gorget affixed, his high black leathern boots slipped on. Burgoyne paused briefly to whisper behind the screen, then he strapped on his sword, picked up his gloves and hat, and beckoned Jack towards the door.
‘Follow me, Captain Absolute. Let us take the first step together on to the land we shall soon rule completely once more.’
He swept out. Jack hesitated a moment, then turned back to the table, gathering up the maps there, putting them into their case. He suspected the woman behind the screen was Hannah Foy, wife of a commissary officer, Burgoyne’s mistress from the previous year’s campaign and too dim to be a danger. Or the reverse, dim enough to blurt out all she had heard in the cabin that morning to some willing ear. There was no need to leave her with maps as well.
Jack paused in the doorway, listening to this woman’s light breathing, thinking of another. The General had judged the Captain by his own standards and, he had to admit, some examples from Jack’s youth. He assumed that Jack had been taking the same pleasure from Miss Reardon as he just had from Mrs Foy. It may just have been possible, despite the restrictions of shipboard life. There was indeed a time when such obstacles would have held him up not a jot. But Jack had wanted something
less transient, and Louisa had seemed to want that too. It was one of the things that intrigued, this holding off. Quite unlike Lizzie Farren in London and a host of other liaisons he could name – along with many he could not.
Suddenly, with the scent of a woman in a cabin in his nostrils, Jack began to wish away those wasted weeks. He was going to war and there were dozens of ways he could die in it. Burgoyne was right, he had become a sentimental dog. As he climbed the stairs, to the music of ship’s whistles and the percussion of Quebec’s cannons saluting the new Commander-in-Chief, Jack knew that in the months ahead, he would spend many nights cursing this change in his character.
– SIX –
The Fort
‘Fire!’
The order was roared with a martial ardour of which Jack could only approve. If the young ensign’s vocal enthusiasm at his first command of an artillery battery had been enough, the log walls of Fort Stanwix would long ago have sundered and split, Grenadiers would even now be forcing the breach, the Rebels choosing to yield or die. And the strange new flag that floated over the ramparts – unseen till that day, concocted of stars and stripes obviously ripped from spare cloaks and petticoats – would soon be replaced by the Union Standard of Great Britain.
Unfortunately for the besiegers, the officer’s command was the loudest noise made. Jack didn’t even bother to plug his ears as the British artillery whispered its shot towards the walls. The small balls from the two six-pounders, the two three-pounders, and the four coehorns went the same way as all the previous ones. They either bounced off the solid pine trunks leaving barely a mark, or buried themselves with harmless thuds in the sod and earth piled around the fort.
Ignoring the jeers of the defenders, the ensign commanded his troops to swab down and reload. He would keep firing until ordered to stop, despite the negligible results. Shaking his head, Jack began to step through the ranks of Indians gathered there for the show. He could at least try to get the order to desist, though he doubted his success. So far, Colonel Barry St Leger, Commander of the British forces at the siege, had neither sought Jack’s advice nor paid attention to any tendered.