"Well, ya made sumthin' of yerself, at least," he said to Jake after hearing the erstwhile ranger's report of the adventure. "Ya might as well see if ya can scrounge up some breakfast. The girl's run off — or was carried away, whichever. We'll be here a while."
Jake realized that Busch's absence would make it considerably easier to sabotage their plot. He also knew that the longer they waited at Stoneman's, the better the odds he would show up. And so he endeavored to encourage the troop to leave for its rendezvous. A rendezvous had been planned, hadn't it? "Keep yer shirt on," said Lewis. "I'm the one what knows the plan, not you. It's me that's in charge." "I don't question that," answered Jake. "But we should leave before the rebels find us."
"Why? We don't have to be aboard the Richmond until 3 p.m. Our horses will get us there within an hour."
"Given the problems of yesterday," said Jake, acting as if he had known the plan all along, "I suggest we should leave immediately." "What do you know of the problems of yesterday?" "One of the men told me the horses got sick." "Yes, well, they're better now," said Lewis stubbornly. "Even so, the rebels will be searching the countryside for us, sir."
The sergeant galumphed, and cast an eye toward Caleb. As corporal, he should have led the breakout from the jail, or at least the march south. Now his authority had been usurped by the uppity Smith. Would the sergeant's post be next?
But Jake was well used to dealing with a man such as Lewis, and proceeded to praise the sergeant for his leadership and rapport with the men. His words sounded so sincere that Lewis was somewhat softened.
"I wonder, Sergeant, why you were not actually placed in charge from the beginning," assayed Jake. "After all, you are considerably closer to the men than Captain Busch. And I don't believe what the others have whispered."
"Tell it to yer bunter, not me," said the sergeant. While the expression implied that Jake should seek the services of a woman whose loose morals would make her believe anything, there was nonetheless a hint of wounded pride in Lewis's face. "As I said, Sergeant, I didn't believe it." "Who said it? Who?" Lewis's cheeks screwed up like an angered puffer fish. "I would not," said Jake, "turn traitor on any fellow in this troop."
Lewis's hand jutted forward as he prepared to demand an answer to his question. But the rush of blood to his head so increased the pain in his wounds that he had to stop and put both hands to his skull, as if it were about to explode.
"Listen, fool," he said after calming somewhat, "when ya've gone through the hells that I've been through, then ya can talk of courage. Anyone can stand up to a salt merchant on the road, or break out of jail."
Sergeant Lewis spit into the dirt and took a step away, debating with himself. Surely the rebels would launch a search for the escaped prisoners, and that could complicate things. He didn't like Jake Smith, but if he ignored him, Smith was exactly the sort of eager beaver fellow who would stir up the others.
It was probably Corporal Evans who had gone around whispering. He was just the type.
Well, the sergeant could deal with both of these bastards in one blow.
"All right, get your horses!" he thundered to his men, his voice trailing off because of the pounding in his brain. "We ride in five minutes-less, if possible. Smith, find yourself a new uniform from the pile there. We have no more helmets.
"You, Caleb — take Smith and round up these citizens and lead them south to New York. Hurry, before the damn rebels or their Skinners make an appearance." But Jake had no intention of leaving the main column. "Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but if Captain Busch doesn't show up — " "I'm in charge now, Smith. I'll not have my orders questioned." "I merely wanted to point out that I know the layout of the defenses around the chain, which I presume is our target."
"It might be," allowed Lewis, who in fact had only a hazy idea of the shape their mission would take once they reached the HMS Richmond. "Then perhaps it would be better if I came with you to the ship, where my knowledge may prove useful." Smith, the sergeant reluctantly conceded, had a point. "Caleb, choose another man in his place," he said. "The rest of you, look sharp!" "Perhaps six or seven men might be better," suggested Jake. "There are many rebels about."
"Don't push it, Smith. If yer gonna have a comment every time I give an order, ya'll soon find yourself swingin' upside down from an oak tree, no matter how important ya are."
Even so, the sergeant did add a few more soldiers to Caleb's force, leaving the ranger complement at a bare two dozen. He boarded his horse — to say "jumped on" would imply more vigor than his bandaged head allowed — and got his troops in motion. A few of the rescued Tories came up to him as he was about to leave and protested that they would prefer to go back to their homes in place of the city.
"Yer homes are as good as burned down now," he told them. "Ya better do as I say and get yourselves south. Come tonight, the rebels will be getting what they deserve, thanks to His Majesty's Navy. And Earl Graycolmb's Doughty Rangers."
Chapter Twenty-nine
Have we yet paused this narrative long enough to make proper note of the contributions of the female portion of our population to the great cause of Freedom? Have we noted the unparalleled bravery, the sacrifices of the distaff of our society? Or forayed into the differences of women bred unto this New World, bolder than Eve herself, veritable mothers of Liberty?
Alas, if we have not had time to do it until now, we will lose this chance as well. One of those brave women — nay, she is barely a girl — was last seen riding hard in the night, heading northwards for General Putnam's headquarters to alert him and save the country from ruin. Her ride is every bit as important as Paul Revere's, and should she achieve her goal before daybreak, undoubtedly her name will be mentioned in every sentence that praises the Boston silversmith.
Unfortunately, she is not to reach her goal, though this is not due to any failing on her own. She rides her horse as swiftly as possible, and while Squire van Clynne might beg to differ, her route is a good one. But — and here is a serious "but" — she is being pursued by one of the most accomplished members of the British Secret Department, a ruthless man who justifies his personal deprivations with the rubric of philosophic experimentation, indeed, a man whose polished demeanor hides the ferocity of a wounded lion.
Rose McGuiness drove her horse hard once she was free of van Clynne. But the poor animal, stolen from the Tory rangers, had been left in a much weakened state by the poison Jake had fed it the day before. The stallion quickly tired, and within three miles simply stopped in the road, near total collapse.
Rose slipped from its back and patted the animal's heaving side. She realized it would die if pushed any further, but her mission could not afford a long delay. So she caught the ribbons of her bonnet and tied them firmly around her neck, pulled her cloak tight against the rising wind, and set off on foot up the road.
The sun tickled the Connecticut hills to her right, struggling to break through the ever-increasing layer of clouds. Rose aimed to approach the first homestead she came to and persuade the owner to lend her a horse to proceed north on.
She had gone no more than a quarter mile when she heard hoof beats coming up the road behind her. Her first thought was that the fat Dutchman she had rescued finally had realized his mistake, and was now coming to make amends. She put her hands on her hips and continued walking without turning back, smug in the knowledge that her path had proven the correct one.