Redcoat

  The convoy was late.

  Somewhere in the dark trees, somewhere in the mysterious landscape, the ammunition convoy was lost. The Queen’s Rangers, tough Loyalist horsemen who were born to this empty land, had gone to search for the convoy, but Sir William feared that they, like the cartridges, might have been ambushed. He did not express the fear, for risk of tempting fate, but every officer on the hilltop knew it anyway.

  “We managed without ammunition at Paoli’s Tavern, sir,” John Andre said lightly.

  “I fear the Yankees won’t always oblige us with sleeping sentries,” Sir William said.

  Thomas Evans, Sir William’s principal servant and given a freedom with his master because of his exalted position, climbed to the hilltop. “We ought to be going, Sir William.”

  “You’re concerned for my safety, Tom?” Sir William twisted, causing another spasm of pain in his back, to look down the hill’s eastern flank. The army’s rearguard was marching past. “You can clear the plates, Tom, but we’re going to wait for a few moments before we leave.”

  They waited, though prudently mounted, and every officer knew why they waited. Sir William wanted the solace of the convoy. He wanted to see the heavy wagons, swollen with cartridges beneath the roped tarpaulins, lumber into view. It might not be the Commander-in-Chief’s task to wait for such a menial thing as a supply convoy, but no officer knew better what disaster threatened if the wagons did not arrive.

  “We really should be going, sir,” Lord Robert said nervously. The army was safe enough wherever it stood, but once it had vacated ground, the rebels mysteriously flowed back to occupy the land.

  “Another minute, Robert.” Sir William stared fixedly to where the road disappeared into the deep shadow of trees.

  And where, quite suddenly, a green-coated horseman appeared.

  John Andre’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, while Tom Evans dragged a cavalry carbine from his saddle holster. Major Zeigler, Sir William’s Hessian interpreter, spurred forward to place himself between the Commander-in-Chief and the strange horseman, but Sir William waved the German away. “It’s all right, Otto. He’s a Ranger!”

  Andre’s hand left his sword, and Evans’s carbine went back into its holster. More green-coated horsemen appeared, all Americans who fought for their King, and behind them, a blessed vision, came the wagons which the Rangers had sought. Sir William’s face, that had been drawn with worry, cleared. “God’s still an Englishman, eh?”

  Then the elation drained from the watching horsemen. God might be an Englishman, but He had sent only, three wagons. The tarpaulin of the third was scorched, while all three were guarded by Hessian troops who walked like men who had struggled through the valley of the shadow. This was not the convoy, but rather the remnants of the convoy.

  A red-coated officer walked his horse with the Hessian infantry. He stared up the hill, saw the bright uniforms of the staff officers and, with a weariness that was visible from the summit, climbed into his saddle. He spurred the horse up the hill, but the mare was desperately tired and could only walk.

  No one on the hilltop spoke. The approaching officer proved to be a lieutenant, his handsome face made dirty by sweat and powder stains. When he took off his hat to salute Sir William he revealed fair hair that was matted to his skull. His red coat, which had the facings and turnbacks of an unfashionable line regiment, was stained with blood and scorched by fire. Among the staff officers’ pristine uniforms, with their golden aiguillettes and looped frogging, the shabby lieutenant seemed like a man from another world. A soldier.

  “Lieutenant Vane, sir,” he reported to Sir William.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Vane nodded wearily. “Yes, sir.”

  Sir William’s usual affability had faded at the sight of the shrunken convoy. “Are you here to tell me, Lieutenant Vane, that there are only three wagons?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sir William rarely showed temper, but in the face of Vane’s calm words the temper threatened. “What did you do with the rest?”

  Vane stiffened. “I did nothing, sir. The convoy was not my responsibility.”

  There was a pride in Vane’s voice which, though his tone was respectful, nevertheless edged his words with a defiance that no usual lieutenant would dare use to a commander-in-chief. Vane rubbed a sleeve over his forehead, smearing powder stains and sweat into his matted hair. “Fifty wagons left the Head of Elk, sir, but they were ambushed ten miles out. The rebels drew the escort to the north of the road, then sent horsemen from the south.” Vane’s voice was suddenly bitter. “They hamstrung the draught animals and burned the wagons, sir.”

  Sir William instinctively glanced towards the smudge of smoke on the horizon. He tried to imagine the exploding wagons and the screaming horses and the blood and horror on a forest road, then he was assailed by thoughts of the crisis he had feared. How was he to fight without ammunition?

  “There weren’t many rebels,” Vane interrupted Sir William’s thoughts, “but one burning wagon set fire to another, and we could only save three.”

  “We?” Howe looked back to the lieutenant.

  “My servant and I, sir.” Vane gestured towards a Redcoat who waited at the foot of the slope, then, with immense weariness, the lieutenant explained how he came to be with the convoy. “We were returning to the army, sir, and were ordered to march with the escort.”

  “Then where’s the escort commander?” Sir William asked. “Shouldn’t he be making this report?”

  Vane, after the smallest shrug, spoke with a seeming reluctance. “Major Woodward deemed it wiser to return to the Chesapeake Bay, sir.”

  “He …” Sir William paused. “Go on, Vane.”

  Vane seemed embarrassed. “I believed the army’s need to be extreme, sir, so thought it best to bring the three wagons. The Hessian company volunteered to make the journey with me.” Vane straightened in his saddle. “I’d like to commend their bravery to you, sir.”

  Major Zeigler, the Hessian interpreter, preened himself at such news of German valour, while every other officer on the hilltop stared at Lieutenant Vane and thought of what he was choosing not to report. Doubtless Vane had argued with Major Woodward, and doubtless Vane had disobeyed orders in insisting that the remnant of the convoy should be taken onwards, and doubtless Vane had displayed a reckless bravery. A lieutenant had defied a major, then brought his tiny force through the dark woods and past the small farmsteads where the men with their deadly rifles lived. A full battalion was needed to escort any convoy through such terrain, yet this lowly lieutenant had come through with a handful of men because he knew how desperate the army’s need for ammunition might be.

  Now, with sweat running down his face to make rivulets through the dust and powder stains, Vane waited in the sunlight as though he expected a reprimand. “I’m sorry it was only three, sir.”

  “It would have been none without you!” Sir William said warmly.

  John Andre, seeing the black stains on Vane’s face that were caused by the exploding powder in a musket’s pan, and knowing that no officer ever fired a musket unless the danger was terrible, spoke gently to Vane, “Did you have to fight to bring your three wagons through, Vane?”

  “Yes,” Vane frowned as though trying to recall the incident. “It was last evening, but it was hardly serious.”

  “Hardly serious?” Sir William asked.

  “They were merely vagabonds among the trees, sir. I thought they should be unsettled before they understood how weak my force was.” Sir William’s officers imagined the muskets and rifles flaming from the trees, and the small band of soldiers trapped about their wagons. Vane spoke slightingly of the event, but his modesty only made the feat more impressive.

  “Vane.” Lord Robert said the name musingly. “There are Vanes in Northamptonshire, are there not?”

  “I wouldn’t know. My family was in trade.” Vane made the embarrassing admission with a touch of his previous defi
ance.

  “Was?” Sir William asked gently.

  Vane hesitated. “My father died, sir. I used my inheritance to buy a commission.”

  It was evidently not a very successful investment, for Vane was already in his middle twenties when a richer man might expect to be a captain at the very least. But it was evident that Lieutenant Vane could not afford to buy his next promotion. His mare was a poor horse and his uniform was a threadbare coat. He could not purchase the captaincy, but nor could an unconnected tradesman’s son expect the patronage that a nobleman’s relative might enjoy. Vane was an ordinary officer from an ordinary regiment facing the ordinary tedium of a soldier’s career. Except, in these last two days, Vane had proved himself as brave as any man in the army.

  “How long have you been in America?” Sir William turned his horse and, to his aides’ relief, at last led his party off the hilltop.

  Vane followed Sir William. “Since December, sir.”

  Sir William beckoned Vane to ride on his right flank. “You were at Brandywine, then?”

  “Indeed, sir.” Vane’s voice sounded warm at the memory of that recent battle in which the rebels had been pushed out of the path of the British advance. “I was ordered to escort our wounded back to the ships afterwards. I feared that by doing so I might miss the next engagement, sir.”

  Sir William smiled at the enthusiasm. “You enjoy soldiering?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “I’m glad you chose it instead of trade, Lieutenant! ’Pon my word I’m glad! Three wagons are better than none, eh?”

  “But not so good as fifty, sir.”

  “No.” Sir William, reminded of his problems, fell silent until the horsemen reached the road and could spur after the three wagons. Vane’s servant, carrying a musket, trudged in the dust. Sir William smiled at Vane. “Your man can meet you at headquarters? After supper?”

  “Indeed, sir.” Vane was perhaps too tired to show any astonishment at being invited to eat with the Commander-in-Chief. He gave the instruction to his servant, then caught up with Sir William who was wondering aloud how he was to fight without ammunition.

  “More will come,” Major Zeigler said.

  “But Mister Washington might come first.” Sir William spurred past the convoy, calling his praise to the Hessian troops who were as dirty and tired as Vane. “I’ve threatened to flog any man who fires without orders,” Sir William complained when he had overtaken the wagons, “but it doesn’t work! Flogging rarely does work.”

  “Because it isn’t done hard enough.” Major Zeigler had taken Vane’s place at Sir William’s right hand.

  Sir William, grimacing at the Hessian’s words, turned in his saddle to find Vane. Sir William’s question, when he asked it, did not truly seek an answer, but was merely an indication that Sir William wanted Vane to feel welcome. “How would you stop the picquets blazing away my ammunition, Lieutenant?”

  “I’d make the battalion officers pay for every wasted cartridge out of their own pockets, sir.”

  “Good God.” Sir William curbed his horse in his enthusiasm. “It’s a splendid notion! Touch an officer’s pocket and you harness his obedience, isn’t that so, my lord?”

  Lord Robert Massedene agreed it was so.

  “My God, Vane! I have all these clever aides and not one of them thought of …” Sir William’s voice faded away, then a broad smile came to his face as a notion, which, in its own way, was as splendid as Lieutenant Vane’s, came to him. “You deserve a reward, Vane.”

  “For doing my duty, sir?”

  “But duty is so rarely done well.” Sir William was at his happiest when he could make others happy and now, within his gift, was the priceless patronage that an officer like Vane lacked so badly. “I have a mind to make you my aide-de-camp, Vane.”

  Vane was astonished into incoherence. The horses had stopped and he was surrounded by Sir William’s military family into which, by one word, he could gain privileged admission. Instead he stared at Sir William and, at last, managed to stammer a response. “But you don’t even know me, sir!”

  “I know you’re brave! I’ve discovered you’re not without clever notions! What more do I need to know?”

  Vane seemed overcome. This was fortune beyond an officer’s wildest ambition, and, offered it, he seemed overwhelmed by amazement.

  Sir William, seeing Vane’s expression, was delighted. “It’s not such a great thing, Vane. You’re more likely to die in battle as an aide! Isn’t that so, John?”

  Andre, who was enjoying Vane’s confusion, smiled at the Lieutenant. “Welcome to the marble, Vane.”

  “The marble?” Vane looked dazedly at the elegant Andre.

  “Your tomb in Westminster Abbey,” Andre explained. “For now you are on the path of glory.”

  “If you accept,” Lord Robert observed drily.

  The words startled Vane into acceptance. “I do, sir,” he said to Sir William, “and am honoured beyond any thanks I can give. I shall do my utmost to prove worthy, sir.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Sir William was warmed by the man’s response. A gift had been given, and very properly received. “But you can’t be a lieutenant, Vane! That won’t do at all, oh no! My colonels don’t take lieutenants nearly seriously enough. I’ll gazette you captain this night.”

  “Sir.” It was all Vane could say. Promotion, more pay, patronage; all had come to him on a rutted road that had been kicked to dust by a passing army.

  “And I can’t go on calling you Vane, either. What did they christen you?”

  “Christopher, sir.” Vane said.

  “Christopher, eh?” Sir William glanced at his new aide. “Do we call you that, or Kit?”

  “Kit will do very well, sir.”

  “Or Kitten?” Lord Robert suggested mischievously.

  Vane turned and stared into his lordship’s eyes. For a second there was a chill in the hot day. “I’m never called that. By anyone.”

  Massedene saw how pale Vane’s eyes were. “No offence, Captain Vane.”

  “Shall we go, gentlemen?” Sir William, who had missed the brief exchange, smiled at his young men. The Commander-in-Chief might be short of ammunition, but he had Philadelphia within his grasp, a new aide, and a belief that peace was but a few weeks away, and so Sir William, Good-Natured Billy, was a happy man.

  Five

  On the Sunday after the patriots had fled Philadelphia, the Revd Donald MacTeague, for the first time in over three years, publicly read the prayer for the King’s Majesty as a part of divine service. Martha Crowl, dressed for Matins in her widow’s black, stood in protest as the first syllables of the prayer were uttered. Every eye in the church watched as she picked up her bible, prayer book, and parasol. The Revd MacTeague’s voice faltered. Martha took her daughter’s small hand. Some parishioners in the crowded church waited for a thundering denunciation, but the minister was silent as Martha banged her pew door shut and stalked loudly down the centre aisle. The six-year-old Lydia, evidently enjoying her mother’s defiance, smiled at her Uncle Jonathon who, tempted to join his sister, smiled back.

  A few moments later there was another shiver among the congregation when MacTeague read aloud the text which he had drawn from the fifteenth verse of the final chapter of the Book of Joshua. “Choose you this day whom ye will serve!” He paused there, as if daring any of his other parishioners to choose as the Widow Crowl had chosen. None did and MacTeague went on to extol the manifold blessings that would accrue to the city when the British arrived; busy wharves, full warehouses, the return of good English coin and the confidence of the mercantile world. These, MacTeague said, were God’s gifts that would be brought by the King’s forces.

  At dinner, following the service, Abel Becket vented his embarrassment at Martha’s display. “She disgraces our family!”

  “By the consistency of her opinion?” Jonathon asked.

  “Do you defy me, sir?” Abel Becket paused, carving knife in hand, to glare at his nephew. r />
  But Jonathon had long learned that the best way of dealing with his aunt and uncle was by an equable honesty that could neither be denied, nor challenged. Jonathon lived as a ward in his uncle’s house and had become an adept at avoiding the disagreements that had made other houses in the city so unhappy. He smiled. “I merely asked a question, sir.”

  The knife plunged back into the leg of pork. “If she finds the city inimical, she should leave!”

  “Or at least worship with the Presbyterians,” Hannah Becket said. “They’re all rebels! I hear they plan to fire the city before the British arrive.”

  It was a time of such rumours, bred by uncertainty, because the British had still not come to Philadelphia. It was reported that the rebel army still attempted to block the British advance on the city, though few Loyalists expected George Washington’s defiance to succeed. The news of the British victory at Brandywine Creek had been followed by a story of mayhem at Paoli’s Tavern and Philadelphians who in these past years had suffered Whigs at their supper tables now proclaimed that they had never, for one instant, doubted the return of the royal writ.

  “We shall say grace,” Abel Becket announced when the leg was carved.

  Jonathon bowed his head as his uncle thanked a beneficent and almighty God for the favours of a full table and a promising harvest. Abel Becket enjoined God’s protection on the family, His blessing on the food, and then, instead of his customary amen, added a further plea. “And we beseech thee, O Lord, for the success of Thy royal army and we pray Thy blessings on its men and their commanders. Amen.”

  “Amen,” said Hannah Becket.

  There was a pause. Both uncle and aunt waited for Jonathon to echo the word, but Jonathon kept silent.

  “Amen,” Abel Becket said again, then, as though there had been no embarrassment, remarked that the weather had suddenly turned unseasonably cold.

  “A sharp winter, I don’t doubt,” Hannah Becket said.

  Thus, again, conflict was avoided, yet Abel Becket dreaded the moment when it would sully his hopes for the future of his trade. Jonathon was the only heir, yet Jonathon, he feared, was no Tory. And Abel Becket, in his deepest convictions, was a fervent Loyalist. Liberty, to Abel Becket, was a word conjured by the lawyers to rouse the mob, and, should the ignorant win, and the King’s writ be expelled from America, it would bring ruin to a seaboard. For how could thirteen colonies, on the edge of the known world, hope to trade without the protection of a greater power?