Jack Absolute (22 page)

Pellew had swiftly regained his sang-froid. ‘Could only improve your attire, Jack. You seem to have acquired a lamentable
taste in clothing. Never took you for a macaroni.’

Jack grinned. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

He thrust out his hand. Pellew gripped it and squeezed heartily. ‘And I you. You’ve missed some brisk work this day, Jack.
Welcome to Freeman’s Farm.’ Something dark came into the younger man’s eyes as he glanced out across the field. Then the eyes
cleared and focused again on him. ‘But no doubt you’ve been about some hot action yourself.’

‘Hot enough, Ted, aye. And now I must speak to General Burgoyne.’

‘I’ll take you to him forthwith.’ Pellew unclasped Jack’s hand, which he’d still been pumping vigorously. ‘Wilson, you have
the command.’ As they moved off and the drill to reload
began behind them, he contined, ‘He’ll be pleased to see you. And surprised. We all believed you was dead.’

Jack thought back. A few minutes ago he’d been lying in a log, musing on death, counting the number of times he’d faced it
within just the last six months. He had exhausted his fingers in the tally. That run down the valley had moved him well onto
his toes and he had a horrible suspicion that in what lay immediately ahead he would rapidly exhaust those too.

The camp was an appalling sight. Those who had limped or crawled or by some fortune been recovered from the field lay around
before hastily erected tents in which the surgeons, their silhouettes monstrously distorted by the lamps within, operated
continuously, while outside them amputated limbs grew into flesh volcanoes, with lava flows of congealing blood. In their
shadows, men waited their turn, weeping, groaning, or just staring, mouthing silent prayers.

‘And there’s more left on the field, Jack, more than made it back. We try to get to them but the Rebels shoot if we stir.
We must wait till full dark and then bring in those few who have survived.’

Jack heard the emotion in Pellew’s voice and was careful not to look at his compatriot. He’d forgotten how young the lad was,
barely eighteen. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a hand reach up, saw a tear flicked away.

‘It was hard, the hardest day ever I saw in my life. I’ve been in the odd skirmish and scrap in this campaign but a battle
…’ Pellew paused and wrestled with his voice. ‘We held the field, just, but each regiment in the brunt has barely seventy
left, officers and men, and the gunners near wiped out. The Yankees kept coming and coming. Who thought they had that kind
of courage? I think we was only saved by the Germans marching in from the left. And the rumour is
that the General thinks to attack again in the morning. How can we do that, Jack, how—’

His voice was rising both in tone and volume, and Jack made to stumble, reaching out to steady himself on Pellew’s forearm.
Halting them both, he said, ‘Burgoyne will only do what is right, Ted. For England. For honour. He will not sacrifice his
men needlessly. He loves them too much for that.’

The words, calmly spoken, had their effect. The younger Cornishman breathed deeply and, at last, nodded. ‘I know he will,
Jack. I apologize.’

Jack squeezed and released his grip. ‘No need,’ he said. They resumed their walk over the rise and dip of the ground, and
soon were passing down a wide central avenue made up of rows of tents, the campfires of the regiments before them. Men clustered
around, content to squat and stare, while women moved among the cook pots. Even the swiftest glance told Jack that the rations
were spare. No one seemed able to talk, a hush held the whole encampment. At the end of the rows, Jack could make out a structure
through the gloom.

‘Sword’s House,’ said Pellew. ‘The General’s HQ.’

He was perhaps fifty yards from the door when he heard a cry from a tent to his right. It would have been clear in a playhouse
during the overture. In the stillness of the camp, it was piercing.

‘Jack Absolute. My … oh my …
Jack
!’

He turned – in time only to open his arms to the blur that hurled itself into them.

‘They told me
… he
told me … you were dead. Beyond all hope and prayer, dead!’

Though somewhat winded by the assault, Jack managed to breathe and speak. ‘As you can see – and feel – Miss Reardon, I am
not.’

Louisa gripped her hands up and down his arms as if to verify the solidity of flesh while her eyes searched and sought
and still seemed unable to comprehend. Jack delighted in the touch, revelling again in those eyes. He had tried on many occasions,
during many an uncomfortable night, to conjure their exact shade of green. He’d had it close; yet memory could never recall
all their detail, their swirls and swoops. His grin spread – in London, aboard ship, she had always balanced coquettishness
with an infuriating coolness. She was always in command. He suspected this would return once her surprise was past and she
became aware of all the eyes upon her – not least those of the elderly man standing in the entrance of the tent from which
she’d just burst.

He was sad though that awareness came just as he was bending to kiss her. The touch of those lips had been as tormenting a
memory as her eyes and he was all for reacquainting himself. He had been through enough, deserved a reward, and damn the audience!
But Louisa had almost recovered. She stood back to look him up and down, and said, with a degree of tartness, ‘Well, sir,
and you have given your friends much aggravation, no mistake.’

Jack laughed and he was not the only one. ‘I regret any upset caused, miss. It was entirely beyond my control, I assure you.’

‘Well, you can make amends and shortly.’ Jack marvelled. From full passion to coolness in moments. Only the reddish flush
of her skin hinted of other emotions.

‘Will you take a glass with us, sir, and tell us your tale?’ She was gesturing to the tent entrance, where the elderly man
still stood. ‘I do not believe you have met my father?’

Jack inclined his head. ‘Captain Jack Absolute, sir, at your service.’

The older man bowed stiffly. ‘Colonel Thaddeus Reardon, sir. At yours. I have heard much about you. And I have spent much
time consoling my daughter at the loss of such a … friend.’ The weight on the word was slight and not harshly
meant. ‘I am rejoiced to see that, like Lazarus, Christ has raised you up. Would you indeed join us for some Madeira? I believe
it is my last bottle and I can’t think of a better occasion.’ He stepped wide and gestured into the tent.

‘I thank you, sir, but I believe I must first make my report to General Burgoyne. May I return later?’

‘You may.’ The Colonel looked at his daughter, who was still staring at Jack, coolness and delight still raging in colours
on her face. A smile came. ‘Nay, I believe you must.’

‘I vow it,’ he said, making her a generous bow, then fell into step again with Pellew, the dignity of his exit somewhat compromised
by the loss of the one boot and the hop that resulted. He didn’t really care; for as he hopped, he grinned. He’d had doubts,
during their separation, that her regard for him may only have been the product of five weeks’ close company at sea. But her
reception of him, her brief exposure, had reassured and delighted him. They made for the house ahead.

‘If it is of any interest, Jack, she wept from the moment the German delivered the news till just now, I should think,’ said
Pellew.

Delight was displaced. ‘Von Schlaben?’

‘Aye. Said you’d been bit by a snake at Fort Stanwix and died horribly. Must say, it always sounded strange, a woodsman like
yourself.’

The sentry already had the door swinging open. ‘Is he still here, Ted?’ Jack said. But any reply was cut off by a familiar
voice from within the room.

‘Captain Absolute. Well, well. I always believed reports of your demise were egregiously premature. Come in. Come in. You
have arrived in the nick, as usual, sirrah. We have need of your specialist mind.’

Pellew squeezed his arm, whispered, ‘There’s a pillow for you with the Marines, Jack.’

Jack nodded and entered the room.

General Burgoyne stood facing the door, leaning on a table. He was dressed in his waistcoat, his jacket having been placed
on a coat stand just behind him, its tails splayed so that the three bullet holes were clearly visible. Jack noted that someone
had placed a lamp directly behind the coat, making the rents stand out like stars in a red evening sky. Burgoyne himself,
undoubtedly, his sense of theatre never deserting him. The message was clear: They shoot at me in vain. I am invulnerable
and so will triumph.

Burgoyne returned his attention to something on the table. Around him were gathered his war council, including many men Jack
knew. Alexander ‘Sandy’ Lindsay, Earl of Balcarras, looking thinner and more frail than ever, started forward at the sight
of Jack, then restrained his obvious joy and contented himself with a smile. General Fraser bobbed his head and winked. Baron
von Riedesel and his interpreter gave curt Germanic nods and then continued their scrutiny over Burgoyne’s shoulder. There
were some there that Jack knew vaguely, such as the Artilleryman General Phillips; others, especially the Loyalist commanders,
that he didn’t. In the corner of the room, looking ill at ease, perhaps because he was the only one sitting, was a man in
muddy civilian clothes. He was also the only one there who regarded Jack with something like interest. The rest took their
cue from the General’s insouciance and gave the prodigal but a cursory stare.

Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Carleton, Burgoyne’s adjutant, whose hair seemed to have turned near white from the time Jack last
saw him, came and placed a glass of sherry in his hand, murmuring, ‘Welcome,’ then took him by the elbow and led him up to
the table. Jack looked down. Spread out there was a handwritten letter, with various odd-shaped cardboard cards and bits of
slashed cloth scattered
around it. Another officer, Captain Money, was rather desperately pressing one after another of these cards and cloths over
the childishly scrawled words.

‘Explain the problem to him, Captain Money,’ Burgoyne said. His voice was strained and low when it was usually light and easy.
‘In fact, Captain Absolute will be too quick for you, so why not explain it to us all. In simple terms.’

It was obvious that the unfortunate Money had committed some serious offence. Burgoyne was rarely anything other than polite
with subordinates, even when aroused. That made his anger here all the more unnerving. It certainly unnerved the Captain,
who stuttered slightly as he spoke, ‘The p-p-problem is simple, Captain Absolute. Its solution, sadly, not so. We have lost
the mask needed to decode this letter.’

‘You
have lost it, Money!’

‘With … with … with respect, sir, it was hidden safe in your tent, and then it was—’

‘Yes, yes. We’ve heard your excuses. On!’

Money chewed on his lower lip. He was explaining the obvious to people who mostly knew it. But Burgoyne was punishing him,
making him recite his catechism. ‘As you know, masks are an easy and effective means of encoding. The s-s-sender and the recipient
have an identical piece of card or cloth, cut in a certain shape. It is placed over a piece of paper and the desired message
is written to conform to the shape. It is then removed and the rest of the page filled in with innocent news. Trade, family
illness, and the like. The message is delivered and the recipient places his card or cloth and—’

‘Yes, all right, Money, that’s enough,’ Burgoyne snapped at the unfortunate officer then turned to Jack. ‘D’ye see the problem?
This letter arrived today from General Clinton in New York, borne by our gallant Sergeant Willis.’ He nodded to the muddied
man in the corner who tried to rise and was
gestured down. ‘He must return at dawn with an answer – but an answer to what?’ The General angrily waved away Money’s attempt
to fit another of the silk shapes – something like a bolt of lightning – over the letter. ‘Contained within this ill-spelled
rubbish is the news we have been denied for eight weeks: has General Howe finished his campaign in Pennsylvania and is at
last advancing to our rendezvous at Albany? Or, at the very least, is Clinton about to attack the Highland forts on the Hudson
and then march to our aid? Either will force our American friends to divide the army here ranged against us. They outnumber
me at least four to one. If that drops to two, by God, those are English odds and I’ll take ’em on and thrash ’em, and obey
my command to push through to Albany. The campaign, indeed America, will have been won, despite all our adversities.’ He ground
the heel of his hand into his forehead and massaged it. ‘But as you have heard, the mask that would fit over this letter,
that would render its meaning clear, that would tell us if help comes or no … is missing. Lost.
Lost
!’

Jack kept his dismay hidden. It was far more likely that the mask was not lost but stolen, no doubt by a spy at the heart
of the British army. Von Schlaben? Could he have returned in time from Fort Stanwix to do it? Unlikely. And Burgoyne would
never have left the Count alone in his tent. Could it be one of the Loyalist Commanders? One of the Germans? Surely not one
of the red-coated offiers? That was, however, a concern for later. What mattered now was that the mask was missing, its disappearance
near a disaster.

The General spoke again. ‘So all we know is that “Mr Rhodes has had a delivery of fine cloth”. Perhaps he can patch my coat,
eh?’ There was nervous laughter. He glanced up at Jack, who noticed, now he stood near, the closest he’d ever seen to desperation
in those grey eyes. ‘Can you cut this Gordian knot, Captain?’

He didn’t have much hope. But he had to try. So Jack read the letter. As Burgoyne had said, the spelling – and grammar – was
poor, a further ward against unintended readers:

Dear Coz.

Have you lately seen that cur Will Piper? He owe me

5 pounds and so his vyle attempt to avoid me is contimtible.

I mean therefore to push ahead with your order, for because

I rieciev’d on Hudson’s looms a delivary of fine cloth. Shall