Jack Absolute (20 page)

‘A dreigh sight, sure. But nae bodies in there, at the least.’ Angus bit his lip. ‘There’s hope then that Gregor’s kin have
taken shelter up ahead, in the Native village. They were always friendly to us, the Oneidas there.’

He was talking of Canajoharie. Though a Mohawk, the wanderings of Até’s family had led many of them to live among their brother
tribe.

‘Shall we check on them then?’ Jack said.

‘Aye. And my own farm lies not an hour beyond, on the edge of Herkimer township.’ He looked again at the ruins. ‘Dod! I pray
my eyes do not see such blae things there.’

But the sights they encountered at the Native village were beyond the Scotsman’s worst fears. Here the corpses were not only
animal but all too human, both Iroquois and white, their differences eradicated now in the uniformity of death. The attackers
had not bothered with flame here; they had slaughtered, with gun, tomahawk, and club.

Gregor had fallen, weeping, by a pile of bodies, a family clustered around a man’s corpse still clutching a shovel, his remains,
like all the others, violated with the removal of his scalp. Before them, two other bodies lay, stripes of war paint running
in bands around their chests, their heads smashed, in what must have been the dead farmer’s last desperate defence.

As Alisdair led the sobbing boy away, Angus poked at one warrior’s body with his toe. ‘Mohawk,’ he said, flatly, as if any
colouring of the word would release too much emotion.

‘Yes.’ Jack, his voice as toneless, nodded, turned away. These dead warriors could be the Mohawk who lived among the Oneida,
could even be Até’s relatives. They could also have come from another village. Either way, his brothers had taken to the war
path and this was the way they fought their wars, in raids, in slaughter. And though some of the bodies lying about were white,
like Gregor’s family, the majority were Native. The promised civil war that Jack had foreseen when he saw the Oneida warriors
leading the Tryon County Militia into the ravine at Oriskany was upon them. The Hodensau-nee, the People of the Long House,
were divided now as they had not been in two centuries, their confederacy shattered. Iroquois fought Iroquois and the result
would be a ravaged land and many sights as horrible as the one before him now.

He turned back, something nagging at him. The Mohawks had not been scalped but that wasn’t it. Then he realized.

‘This war party was disturbed. They’d have taken these bodies with them otherwise, for burial in their own villages. Who stopped
this slaughter?’

He had the answer in a heartbeat. ‘Lay down your weapons, easy now. Or you’ll die where you stand.’

The voice had called from the tongue of forest that still reached down to the village. And it was from there that the single
shot was fired, the ball passing close enough to make MacTavish duck. The Scot’s first instinct had appeared to be defiance
but the shot’s passing and the sight of the still-weeping Gregor changed his mind. Laying his rifle on the ground, he raised
his arms.

In an instant, men on horses sallied from the woods. They circled, forcing MacTavish’s band to cluster tight. Finally, reining
in, the horses jerked their heads up and down while their riders regarded the captives silently – a silence broken by the
same voice that had called out before.

‘Zook! If I don’t see the world’s most insubordinate Scot before me.’

MacTavish’s face lightened when he heard the words, then darkened almost instantly. ‘Colonel Benedict Arnold,’ he muttered,
‘is’t thee that mouches aboot to greet an old comrade, with shoots and shouts.’

Jack studied the horseman. Unlike the rest of his men, who were dressed in a ragtag assortment of uniform and civilian clothing,
this Arnold wore a fine blue coat with a gold epaulette on his right shoulder and brilliant gold buttons down the front. It
parted over a buff waistcoat, again gold-trimmed, with a lawn shirt poking from its top, a black stock spilling out. His tricorn
hat split his face at a jaunty angle, perched atop hair as black as Jack’s and that, unlike with most American officers, seemed
to be entirely his own. He
was taller by a good head than his subordinates and wider too, though not fat. A prominent beak of a nose dominated the swarthy
face, grizzled with a half-beard.

The face flushed at MacTavish’s words. ‘That’s
General
Arnold, as I am sure you are aware. Are you here to scavenge?’

It was MacTavish’s turn to colour. ‘As I’m sure you are aware,
Arnold,’
the name was laden with a dose of venom a rattlesnake could have envied, ‘nae MacTavish has e’er been a scavenger. Ah’ve
escaped my English captors at Fort Stanwix, and noo am bound to my hame. If it yet stands!’

‘It does. We stopped those raiding heathen here. Everything further down the valley, both your lands and mine, are safe.’
While he was speaking, the General had flung his reins to the man beside him and descended his horse. ‘But tell me, man,’
he said, excitedly, ‘how did my subterfuge work? Did the idiot do his work? Has my little Hans-Yost put fear into the Royal
Army?’

‘Aye, that looby did. So much so that Benedict Arnold’s name alone has driven the enemy to flight.’ Jack could hear the sarcasm
in the Scot’s voice even if its intended target could not.

‘What? The siege is lifted?’

‘Indeed. Colonel St Leger is now engaged in running all the way to Montreal.’

A great cheer went up from the mounted men and many huzzahed their General. Arnold tried to look modest and failed.

‘The devil you say! The devil! That pays them for Oriskany and then some. And I can now get back to the real war. I can ride
to …’

It was only then that Arnold’s wandering eyes finally focused on the other man standing before him. Jack had remained perfectly
still and silent amidst all the ballyhoo. He was thus the most conspicuous person present.

‘Who’s this, MacTavish?’ the General barked. ‘Another kinsman? He’s black-browed enough to be a Celt. And with their insolence
in his eyes.’

The Scot grunted at the insult but breathed deeply and then laid a hand on Jack’s forearm. ‘’Tis a bonny lad, a fine swordsman,
and a true gentleman. He felled me once, then saved my life after Oriskany and gave me the honour of letting me save his soon
after. Ochone, his one clear fault is that he is an English officer.’

All cheering stopped. Arnold took a pace back and looked at Jack from toe to crown. ‘He’s not dressed like an officer nor
as a gentleman.’ The dark face darkened further. ‘He looks like a damn spy to me.’

There were mutterings from his men at that. There was a constant watch for spies on both sides. And a universal method of
dealing with them – a rope slung over a branch. It was time Jack spoke.

‘I regret, General Arnold, that I cannot be presented to you in the uniform of my regiment. For it was stolen from me by the
scoundrels who left me for dead in the forest.’

‘Your name, sir? Your rank and regiment?’

Jack had already spoken in the voice of a class somewhat above his own, his friend, ‘Sandy’ Lindsay, the Earl of Balcarras,
as his model. It was pure instinct, for he suddenly saw that in anything close to the truth there was no safety. Also some
detail about the man interrogating him was lurking in his memory.

‘Lord John Absolute, General Arnold. And I have the honour of being a Captain of His Majesty’s 24
^th
Regiment of Foot, seconded to the staff of Colonel St Leger.’

He was aware of Angus looking at him in some surprise, but he kept his attention fixed on his interrogator. For he had suddenly
remembered what it was that nagged him about the man, why his instinct had led him to declare himself thus.
Arnold’s fierceness in the Rebel cause, his bravery that was akin to madness, were subjects well known to both sides. But
he was also reputed to be a great admirer of all things English – especially rank and class.

Indeed, the grey eyes did almost instantly soften in their regard. ‘General Benedict Arnold, Captain … my lord … sir!’ He
flushed again as he struggled with titles to maintain his status yet not diminish Jack’s. ‘And will you now consider yourself
my prisoner as you were once MacTavish’s? I am sure I’ll be able to entertain you somewhat more lavishly than he. He’s probably
been feeding you blood and oats, what?’ He turned to a soldier mounted nearby. ‘Sergeant, provide his lordship with my spare
mount. MacTavish, you may check on your homestead and family then join us if you choose. We ride to verify this information
of St Leger’s defeat.’

Instantly, there were shouted commands, horses snorting as they wheeled, men calling out. Not least of the noise was the Scotch
invective, unintelligible to most there, aimed squarely at the retreating blue coat of Benedict Arnold.

Jack, who had learned to decipher some in their short acquaintance, turned and whispered in the huge and hairy ear. ‘Wheesht,
Angus. It’s what must be. Dinna fash.’

The words, thus delivered, pierced the wind of outrage. MacTavish laughed and spat a moment later.

‘Tha’ bumfy rides roughshod over all o’us, as usual. He and I have a history, ye may have been able to tell. We’ve been neighbours
five years and I was with him to Quebec in seventy-five. Aye, and carried him back most of the way when that British ball
broke his leg. Had to harken to his dreadful whinin’ and moanin’ and carryin’ on. I dinna think he’s ever pardoned me for
being a witness to his blubbin’. But he’s a brave lunatic for all tha’ and as changeable as the wind. So be canny round him,
ken.’

‘You understand why I told him I was a lord?’

‘To secure better treatment?’ Jack nodded. ‘Aye, y’ere no dunce, Jack Absolute. For nothin’ will fetch ye into that callant’s
esteem like a title. I dinna know why he doesnae fight for t’other side, he worships the English nobility so much.’

The Sergeant had led a roan mare to where they stood. Just before he mounted, Jack made to give the shillelagh back to Angus.
But the Scotsman just shook his head.

‘Ye may be needing it mair than me.’ Then with a wink, he added, ‘I do so hope to meet you again,
my lord.’

‘So do I, MacTavish. And thank you. I owe you.’

‘Och, the owin’s mutual. Awa’!’ Angus slapped a huge hand on the horse’s haunch and the animal gave a leap forward then settled
into a slow canter. It was small yet biddable, though Jack doubted it would provide much pace. Not enough to outrun the Sergeant
astride his own spirited and far bigger gelding. It brought him up beside Arnold though, soon enough.

‘Ah, Lord John.’ The General, like Jack, was attempting to speak in an accent and tone different from the one he’d used in
addressing MacTavish. ‘These scoundrels who abandoned you for dead in the wood? Savages?’

Jack had already heard the American declaim one prejudice, against the Scots. He presumed on another.

‘Worse in my estimation, General. Germans.’

The reaction was all Jack could have hoped for. Arnold shuddered and rolled his eyes. ‘Worse, indeed! If you have their names
and their route, I would be delighted to set a watch for the scum.’

Jack considered. It was tempting to let Arnold and his forces loose on Von Schlaben. But instantly he decided against it –
for two reasons. The first that there was much more to be learned from his enemy should Jack have the fortune to catch up
with him. And the second was for the same reason the
Count had not told St Leger about the punch. Vengeance was indeed a personal affair.

‘I wish I knew either, General. And I am inexpressively grateful for the kind thought. But they were unknown to me, deserters
from our army.’

‘Deserters and Germans. They will get their punishment then, I am certain. But now, my lord, as is customary, I take it I
have your word as a nobleman that you will not try to escape? This prevents the encumbrance of too close a watch upon you.’

Jack smiled. ‘As a
nobleman
, sir, I give you my most earnest pledge.’

The General nodded. ‘And perchance I will not have the pleasure of your company for long. We can seek to exchange you, of
course, but there may not be time even for that. We ride to the crisis of this campaign, sir. Burgoyne is hedged in. Our forces
are gathering around him. The endgame is upon us.’

‘And may I ask where this hedge is being woven, General Arnold?’

Once more the man smiled. It was not a pleasant sight, its distastefulness having little to do with the crooked and discoloured
condition of the teeth. ‘No harm in telling you, my lord. You will have heard it in the camp by nightfall anyway – for how
these Militiamen will gossip. Burgoyne will be brought to bay near a settlement called Stillwater, just to the south of Saratoga.
Now, first we must check that these tales of MacTavish’s are quite true – never trust a Caledonian, sir, is a motto one lives
by in these parts – and then we must make with all haste for Saratoga.’

Affecting a need to lengthen his reins, Jack let the blue coat surge ahead, while the Sergeant slowed beside him. He had no
desire to return to Fort Stanwix but it would be less than a day’s ride away. By his calculations, Saratoga would then be
around ten days’ march, assuming Arnold travelled at the pace of his infantry. There would be no point in slipping away before
then, still somewhat weakened as he was, on a slow horse through hostile country. Not when he was being escorted where he
wanted to go, to Burgoyne.

As he rode, he considered further. His first mission for his General had ended in failure. Fort Stanwix had not fallen, the
third force had not struck along the Mohawk, Natives and Loyalists had not rallied in their thousands to the Union Standard.
It was not his fault but it was frustrating. Yet time spent with one of the Rebel’s foremost generals would be time
well
spent. There was much to be learned in Arnold’s camp concerning men, morale, the logistics of campaign. Food and drink for
a man used to listening and observing. And perhaps Arnold would get careless and leave some invisible ink or a code-crib lying
around. Or even more importantly, confirmation that Von Schlaben was indeed Diomedes, the spy at the centre of the King’s
army.