Jack Absolute (26 page)

‘Ah, there’s the passion I was hoping to see again!’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I agree with you, Jack. Many do not. What of them?’

‘Beat ’em. For such men – I do not speak of the majority, perhaps, but a minority with strength – would seize too much power
and use it to tyrannize others. They have proved that already.’

Louisa leaned forward still further. ‘You speak of slavery? I am at one with you there, as well. I, too, find it abhorrent.’

‘I do not speak only of that. But, aye, it is a monstrous thing. There are no slaves in the British Isles now. And yet, near
half the signatories of the Declaration of Independence are slave-owners and would retain that detested institution if they
triumph. Maybe it’s my mother talking, but if revolution must come, let it be against
all
tyranny and for
everyone’s
freedom.’

‘Bold words from a man whose England brought all those slaves to us, whose traders continue to make vast profit in
doing so. You may have banned them from your own shores but you still drop them by their thousands on the shores of others.’
There was now a passion in her voice to match his. ‘Are you not concerned about that hypocrisy?’

He nodded. ‘More than most, aye. Because …’ He paused.

‘Because?’

‘Because,’ he sighed, ‘I am a slave-owner myself.’

Louisa shot up as if she had been stung. ‘You?’

‘Aye.’ Jack nodded, picked up the stick again, poked at the fire. ‘So you have another title for me. Recently acquired. Shameful.’

‘Where?’

‘Nevis, in the Antilles. I … gained, I suppose is the word, a plantation there in my last dealings in India. It was where
I was bound from London when,’ he waved the stick at the surrounding forest, ‘all this interfered.’ He threw the stick down,
turned to her. ‘You must believe me, Louisa, I was bound to Nevis from London to do my utmost to divest myself of the title
slave-owner. It will be hard and there will be many who oppose me, on the island, elsewhere. But I intend to run my plantation
with free men.’

She studied him, nodded at last. ‘I do believe you. But you said there was something else that made you want the Rebels to
fail?’

‘Aye. Something a little more personal.’ He turned again to stare into the flames. His voice, raised to convince her, dropped
again. ‘It is to do with my adopted people.’

‘The Mohawk?’

‘All the tribes, really, despite my enmity for some. But the Iroquois especially. I lived among them … loved among them. There
is so much to admire in their world; yet the white man has changed them already, unutterably. I would protect what’s left.’

‘And you think the Rebels will not?’

‘I know they will not.’ Jack rose to his knees, too. He was in the flow, could have been back in a tavern in London in his
youth, arguing his passions with Sheridan or any other ranter. ‘The British North America Act in seventeen sixty-three gave
the Indians rights – especially the right to their own land. Boundaries were negotiated, limits many Americans – and I include
native-born English-Americans here – cannot tolerate. They see wealth in uncontrolled expansion. Or rather, expansion controlled
by them. George Washington? Principal shareholder in the Vandalia Company. They seek to expropriate all the lands designated
tribal. Not only such lands as my brothers still control but west beyond the Alleghenies, into Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin
…’ He shook his head. ‘It is the untold story of this war and it is the story of every war ever fought. Greedy men seeing
someone weaker with something they want.’

‘I see.’ Louisa was staring at him. ‘I had not considered this.’

‘Joseph Brant once called that act of sixty-three the Indian Magna Carta. And that is the very cornerstone of English liberty.
That is worth fighting for.’

‘Indeed. Indeed it is.’ Louisa was now looking above his head, into the trees. After a moment, her gaze returned to him. ‘Well,
Jack Absolute! I am glad I have glimpsed, once more, your passion. I had wondered if it was only the result of Burgoyne’s
exceptional wines, the rich food, and five weeks of sea air. I am heartened to see it is not.’

She reached for him then; took the front of his shirt and pulled him towards her. He did not resist.

His arms went around her and their lips met. It was the kiss he had wanted since the moment of his return, the first since
that one snatched as she departed the ship, the one of which he had long dreamed, that he hoped she had dreamed
of too. A kiss to banish the memory of all others, so long did it continue. It had to end – an ending that could signal any
number of beginnings.

‘Oh my!’ she said, half actress, half a woman starved of air. She was falling back, still holding his shirt. He had to resist
falling on top of her and sacrificed a button to that cause.

‘Louisa …’

‘Jack?’

And then he told her of a conversation he’d had the night before.

‘You promised my father … what?’ Amazement was swiftly displaced by a fury she struggled to contain. ‘And he presumed to guess
at my actions? That I would be … what? Unable to make up my own mind?’

‘I’m sure, Louisa, he presumed no such thing. He was merely—’

‘He did! As did you with your promise. Thought yourself so … irresistible that I would be left with no choice but to succumb!’
She jerked her hand away from the one he reached out. ‘And
I
presume you gave your word as a gentleman?’

He nodded, though it was more of a flinch.

‘And
are
you one?’

‘Sometimes,’ he mumbled. ‘On occasion.’

This passion, clearly, could no longer be dammed. She was up and moving fast into the forest, twigs snapping to mark her furious
passage.

‘Louisa,’ he tried, knowing it was useless. He watched her out of sight. Then, cursing himself, her father, his own, the war,
all gentlemen and anything else cussable that came to mind, he stamped about, making the camp and fire safe for the night.
Its warmth was held in the half-moon shelter and when he wrapped the blankets around himself he was quite snug.

She returned, maybe half an hour later and a little more quietly than she’d left.

‘I am sorry,’ she said.

‘No, I am.’ He shrugged. ‘You know it is not because I do not want—’

‘I know.’

‘And you also know this is a … conversation we will have again. When my word is not pledged. When we are out of this bloody
forest.’

He threw open the blankets. After a moment’s hesitation she lowered herself into the space before him, her back to him. He
covered them both and lay back down. Their bodies touched at various points and suddenly, desperately, he tried to think of
other things – Whigs, the cold seas of Cornwall, his mother, billiard cues … no! Racehorses, nails …

He felt her shuddering, thought that tears may have come. Until she spoke, and he heard the laughter in her voice. ‘So! We
need to add three more titles to your name. Let me see. You are already a soldier, Mohawk, dramatist and duellist. We have
also discovered you to be a chef. A …
gentleman,’
she coloured the word with incredulity, ‘and …’

‘And?’

‘A fool. Yes, indeed, Jack Absolute, you are most certainly a fool.’

He squeezed her body a little tighter to him. ‘This is one title I have long owned. You should hear Até on the subject.’

She laughed again, yawned, her breathing slowed. It seemed she was asleep almost on the instant.

The fool, however, was awake a good while longer.

Sometimes he could almost believe that the war did not exist; that he was only on another extended journey through the autumnal
forests of New York, like so many he had taken in his life. Though instead of Até at his side, this time he had, in some distinct
ways, a more agreeable companion, one who
did not seek to draw him into endless arguments about Shakespeare, challenge him to run or shoot or skin faster – or complain
about his cooking. Indeed, Louisa was all compliments in that area, even when the cornmeal and bacon ran out on the fifth
day and he was forced to scavenge for burdock and cattail roots. These he roasted in the ashes beneath two squirrels he’d
managed to kill with thrown knives; further south, he would not risk a shot.

Louisa seemed to share his joy in the life, and though she, like he, got grubbier as the days went by, it did not diminish
her allure; rather the contrary. He’d watch her sometimes, brushing strands of hair away from her face as she broke up tinder,
leaving trails of dirt or charcoal there, sticking out her tongue at him when she caught him staring. Their nights were no
longer combative, both accepting the binding of Gentleman Jack’s word. Laughter came as easily as sleep beneath the reddening
leaves of maples, the yellowing of horse chestnuts and hornbeam.

But the war was still there, goading them as fast as they dared push their horses; his mission was still vital, her mother
still ill. And the late afternoon of the seventh day found them risking what they’d so far avoided – contact.

‘Do you see the ferry?’

‘Aye. It’s about halfway across. Time we were moving down.’ Jack turned from peering through the leaves of a walnut. Louisa
was behind him, just cinching the straps of the side-saddle on her filly, Caspiana. The man’s saddle lay at her feet.

Jack looked at the purple dress she once again wore. ‘So you are a lady after all,’ he said.

‘Did you ever doubt it, sir?’ She swished the full pleats a little then bent to the saddle on the ground. ‘This?’

‘Leave it. Throw it under the tree there.’ He raised a hand to stay her protest. ‘I know, it is a waste. But if we are to
carry
out this deception, a gentleman’s spare saddle, crafted for a lady, will not help it.’

She nodded, reluctantly heaved the saddle into the undergrowth, then came and stood beside him. ‘Well, husband?’

‘Well, wife. Shall we attempt to catch the Tarrytown ferry?’

They were both silent, in their own thoughts and fears, as they directed their horses down the steep hillside that overlooked
the dock. Jack, though his view of the settlement was partial, had been able to watch both the ferry’s approach and the small
group of would-be passengers awaiting transport. He had not seen any uniforms among them. But most who called themselves either
Loyalist Cowboys or Patriot Skinners wore none. This enabled them to decide which way they should turn their coats, depending
on how much money they could make from either side. Yet whether friends, enemies, or neutrals awaited them below, this was
the ferry Sergeant Willis had recommended across to the Hudson’s eastern shore. If they were to progress any further and eventually
reach the city of New York, they had no real choice but to cross on it.

They rode along a well-made fence, joined the road at the end of the line of houses. A group of children, the eldest no more
than five, chased each other in and out of one barn. In another, a man had just finished milking one cow and was now moving
his pail to another. A woman opened a door to throw some scraps out into a pen of chickens. As they squawked and pecked around
her feet, she raised a hand to her eyes and watched them riding past, lifting it in lazy greeting before moving slowly back
inside.

‘Where’s the war to these people?’ Louisa murmured.

‘Not far,’ said Jack tightly. He had looked ahead, seen three men detach themselves from the group on the dock. The last of
the evening sun glinted on the pistols in their belts.

When their hooves echoed on the wooden platform, the
largest of the men, barrel-bellied and heavily bearded, stepped forward.

‘Greetin’s to you folk,’ he said, smiling and catching at Caspiana’s bridle. The horse jerked it away and he let it go, transferring
his hand to pat at the filly’s neck.

‘And to you, friend.’ Jack moved Doughty closer to Louisa, let one hand drop with the reins, leaving the other free. He had
removed the holsters from the saddle. They were now strapped around his chest, concealed under his coat.

‘N-n-n-nice horseflesh, Amos.’ One of the other men, the younger of the two, had moved around to gaze up at Doughty. He had
an air of Hans-Yost about him, a simplicity in his stare. He kept taking off a much-holed hat and putting it straight back
on again. But it was the third man who concerned Jack the most. He stayed his distance, rested his hands on the weapons in
his belt, and stared at Jack silently.

‘Mighty nice,’ the first man said. ‘You must be gennelfolk, like. Cain’t see none but gennelfolk ownin’ horses like these.’

Jack nodded. He had already spoken in an accent he knew well, the one most common to Boston. Louisa spoke with a touch of
it herself.

‘Indeed we are. On our way home. Had to come the long way around to avoid the war up north. Terrible times.’

Hoping to draw out a declaration of allegiance here, he was disappointed. The silent man spat to the side, the younger one
giggled, while their leader’s face took on an earnest, almost pious look.

‘The devil’s abroad in the land, that’s fer damn sure. Taken man’s heart, makin’ him lust,’ he looked with ill-disguised interest
at Louisa’s skirt when he said this, ‘cheat, kill. Steal.’ He nodded. ‘Yessiree. Gold’s the root of all badness, that’s fer
damn sure.’

‘Fer damn sh-sh-sure,’ the youth echoed.

‘But every man needs a little, do they not, sir?’ Jack could
see the way the conversation had gone. He was not averse to paying some of Burgoyne’s coin to gain passage.

‘A little, aye, fer grub an’ suchlike.’

‘Fer grub and li-li-liquor,’ the younger man giggled.

The bearded one gave him a look that made him cringe, step back, and mumble to himself, the hat going on and off still more
swiftly. ‘Quiet, you,’ he barked, then turned back. ‘Honest men, sir. But we guard the crossing for gennelfolk like yourself.
Don’t get no thanks from government. Any government.’

There was still no clue – he could be of either the Higher or Lower party. Or neither. Jack looked beyond, to the water. The
ferry was being plied hard across the river and stood about a hundred yards off. This exchange required good timing and judgement
– enough payment to pacify till the boat docked, not enough to prod their greed.