Ethan Saunders
It was growing dark, but that would not matter, could not matter. We would ride through the night, at a slow crawl if need be, if that would get us to Philadelphia before the trading began. We rode swiftly, clinging to every last second of daylight, and with the violence behind us, the violence I would not permit myself to think of, it did indeed seem as though we could get there before dawn. The roads were good, and there was no sign of rain or snow. We would arrive in time and Hamilton could perform whatever magic was required to calm the City Tavern crowd. It was too late to prevent some damage in New York, but he could send agents there, as well as to the other trading cities, who would buy at Treasury’s direction to stanch the bleeding.
I thought of what we would do, not what we had done. I had no wish to recollect the whiskey men torn apart by Lavien’s grenade, or Isaac Whippo executed, or charming Joan Maycott, who had engineered death and plotted to ruin a nation. I tried not to think of these things, and for the most part I succeeded. I thought mostly of the cold and discomfort and the growing dark. After sunset, as our pace slowed, we took turns holding a torch to light our way.
We rode on in silence, the cold bludgeoning us, numbing us. Our arms ached from holding the reins, from holding the torch. Our legs and backs were stiff and wretched. The skin on the insides of my thighs burned and itched. Onward we rode. I did not take out my watch. I would not. I would ride in the dark as fast as I could, and that would be enough. Knowing that I made good time or ill would not matter to me.
I don’t know that I fell asleep. Not precisely. My mind, however, went elsewhere as we made our way in that slow, deliberate, careful pace. It was black of night, no end conceivable, as though we were to ride in the cold, barren darkness forever. And then, toward the east, I saw the first rouging of the sky.
We had not spoken in hours. Now Lavien turned back to look at me. “We shall be at Hamilton’s office before seven o’clock. We’ve done it, Saunders. We’ve done all that men could do, and that will have to be enough.”
We rode on, picking up the pace with the rising of the sun. In ten minutes, we were trotting. Five minutes after that, we were in a full gallop. The road showed signs of a nearby town, spotted now with farmers’ shacks and outbuildings and a tavern where I wished, dearly wished, we might stop for tea and warm punch and the freshly baked bread that perfumed the air. It was an abstract wish, for what I truly wanted was to complete my task, to take my news to Hamilton and then rest. To eat my fill of food and drink and then lie down and let sleep overtake me and not wake for a day or more. Next I would find Cynthia. And then, with no urgency upon me, with the schemers on the run, wallowing in the filth of their own ruined plots, I would track them down one by one and make certain they knew justice.
We rode hard, leaning forward in our saddles, no longer troubled by pain or fatigue or cold. The chill wind and the beating of the hooves drummed in my ears, but I felt gleeful and giddy. I turned to Lavien. I said, “You know, in the midst of all this madness-”
That was as much as I said, because all went wild and the sky twisted from the top to the side, and the ground corkscrewed around to meet my face in a slap of cold earth that came hard and fast, making my teeth rattle. The blood trickled from my mouth, my nose. I felt the most dreadful of pains, those that come from a blow to the head.
I never heard the shot that killed my horse, but I heard the next one. It must have been only an instant after the one that brought me down, but I was already upon the ground, stunned and feeling pain reach out with its first tentative, exploring tendrils. There was a second crack and Lavien’s beast reared up, threw him off, and collapsed upon him.
I thought how foolish they had been to shoot at me first, but it did not seem to matter. Not yet. And then I remembered that they had a marksman among their number, one of Daniel Morgan’s men, and they’d shot our horses, not us. It could not have been an accident. We’d killed five of their men the day before, and they still took pains to keep us alive. But then again, it occurred to me they could not know. No one could have traveled faster than we had. If news was coming, it was not yet there.
Lavien was upon the ground some fifteen feet ahead of me, his horse atop his lower body. Blood-I presumed the animal’s-pooled around him. He did not move. Lavien lay in the muck of the King’s Highway, perhaps dead, perhaps dying. I was determined I would go to him, and was attempting to clear my head when I heard the voice.
“Can you stand?” asked the voice.
I knew not if he’d been standing there, ten feet behind me, all along, or if he’d approached while I lay in my daze. I could not see him easily in the glare of the sun, but I could determine that he was a large man, riding like an ancient warrior upon his beast. It was the Irishman.
“I asked if you can stand.”
“Lavien’s hurt,” I said. I pushed myself to my feet and found that yes, I could stand. I was dizzy and my head ached, and I wished to Christ I had someone or something to lean against, but I would not tell him that. I wiped at my bloody nose with my sleeve. It bled but was not broken.
“He’s hurt,” I said again.
“We’ll see to him,” the Irishman answered. Dalton.
There must have been other men, men who used the glare of the sun and my own disorientation against me, for a hood came down over my head, and I felt rough hands grab me and begin to tie my wrists together behind my back. Hands moved me so a tree was to my back, and I was made to sit. The blood still ran from my nose, and it trickled over my lips.
From a distance I heard voices. They said, “His leg is broke,” and “We’ll need a litter,” and “To the house.” I heard Dalton’s Irish accent, and I heard another man who sounded like a Scot. I thought, It’s still early. If we get to Philadelphia by ten or eleven o’clock, we might yet salvage all, but I did not know how that could happen. I was dazed and bound and hooded. Lavien, it seemed, had broken his leg, and what was I without Lavien? I was a mind without a body, an arm without a fist.
Time passed, I knew not how quickly or slowly, but I felt its agonizing, excruciating pace. I feared not for myself. These people wanted us alive-or at least had no will to kill us. What was life to me, though? We had done what we had done because Lavien believed, believed to his soul, that the survival of the country depended upon our arriving in Philadelphia in time for Hamilton to quiet the markets. He’d set aside his humanity, murdered a helpless man, because he believed if he did not get to Philadelphia in time, Duer’s ruin would be the spark to ignite the destruction of a new fragile nation. I could not simply allow myself to be held, to live passively while the forces of destruction won out.
At last I felt hands lifting me to my feet. They were soft hands, and I smelled the flowery scent of female flesh. “Come, Captain Saunders,” said Mrs. Maycott. “Let’s come this way.”
“Lavien,” I croaked. I was thirsty but would not ask for drink.
“He’s hurt,” she said. “His horse fell on his leg. It’s broken, but Dalton says it’s a clean break. He knows a bit of surgery from the war, and from the West too. He’s already set the bone, which he says will heal well enough in time. They’ve borne him back to the house.”
“What house?” I walked slowly, as she guided me, daring to trust her leadership.
“It’s not half a mile east, by the river. It’s lovely, actually.”
“What do you want with us?”
“As our men in New York seem not to have detained you, we must do it ourselves. We only want to keep you as our guests,” she said. “Until, perhaps, this evening, when all will be too late for Hamilton. Then you may go.”