Jack Absolute (28 page)

Jack sat and listened to the raspy breathing for a moment. Then he reached forward and sought contact. Finding a shoulder,
he shook it gently.

‘Fellow? Are you awake? Do you live?’

A groan, then a fit of coughing, horridly fluid. It sounded for a moment that the man was choking, and then his throat cleared
and a whisper came.

‘I am, sir. No thanks to our hosts.’

There was something to the voice, an accent. English, not Colonial, for sure, though that, in itself, meant nothing in this
land. While he searched for an answer, Jack said, ‘Would you sit up?’

‘I would, but I might need some help, like.’

Then it came to him. The accent was from the west, though not as far west as Cornwall. Dorset! ‘Willis? Sergeant Willis?’

Jack could hear the other man check his breath. ‘Name’s Johnson, mister. And I’m a farmer out near White Plains. Who’s there?’

It was definitely him. ‘It is Jack Absolute, Sergeant.’

A gasp then. An arm reached out to him, a hand almost exploring his face. Then it gripped his arm and Burgoyne’s other messenger
was pulled into a sitting position.

‘Well, I’m sorry for you, Cap’n, and no mistake.’

‘And I for you. Here, man, would you like some beer? It’s sour but—’

‘I think not, sir. They … they beat me when they finally caught me. Drink’s the last thing on me mind. And it’s not often
you’ll hear Emmanuel Willis say that.’ There was the hint of a laugh. ‘So you tried the Tarrytown ferry like I advised. I’m
right sorry for that.’

‘Not your fault, Willis. I think the whole Hudson is in the hands of the Rebel.’

‘Perhaps not for long.’ He paused. ‘Are we alone in this cell?’

‘We are.’

‘Good. Then I can tell ye – General Clinton moves at last. He sets out for the Highland forts on the third of October. In
four days.’

‘You reached him then?’

‘Aye, sir. I was on my way back.’

Jack whistled. ‘I thought I travelled fast. You have the speed of Perseus and the luck of the devil, man.’

‘Ran out on me, though, didn’t he, Cap’n? Knew I be pushin’ it, like.’ Willis’s hand reached forward. ‘Perhaps I will take
a sip of that beer. Who knows when I’ll get that chance again? We’re to be stabbed with the Bridport Dagger, Cap’n, and no
question. I’ve a wife back in Lyme Regis who cursed me when I took the shilling, saying I was born to dangle. I’ve dreaded
it ever since.’

Jack placed the jug in his hand. The Sergeant drank, spat. ‘Fuck, that’s foul. The Americans call this beer? Give me a strong
Dorset ale any day.’

He drank on nonetheless, and while he did, Jack thought. ‘If Clinton comes,’ he said after a while, ‘then General Burgoyne
may be saved after all.’

Jack heard the jug being laid down. ‘I’d like to say that, sir, but—’

‘Come on, man.’

‘He gave me a dispatch for General Burgoyne. Being a sergeant like, he gave me no verbal message, of course—’

‘The fool.’

‘Yet I was there when he dictated the letter. He attacks up the Hudson, sure …’ Coughing took him. When it subsided, he croaked,
‘But with scarce three thousand men.’

‘Three …
three thousand, you say? He’ll never force his way to Albany with so few.’

‘He don’t intend it, Cap’n. A distraction he can do, is all.’

Jack shook his head angrily in the dark. ‘And did he at least order Burgoyne to retreat?’

‘He did not. I believe the phrase was – “He cannot presume” aye,
“presume to
send orders to General Burgoyne”.’

‘He’s washed his hands. By God, he’s washed his bloody hands.’

‘I believe he has, sir, at that.’

Jack slumped back, remembering the desperation in Burgoyne’s eyes. If he retreated without orders he risked a court
martial and ignominy. Yet he could only stand a little longer unaided before that option was cut off. He must do so now, or
fight or … no, surrender was impossible. No British army had surrendered to a Colonial one in the history of the world.

‘Well, Sergeant Willis, this news must be delivered.’

That fluid cough came again. ‘I’m afraid my deliverin’ days are past, beggin’ your favour. But I’ll help you as I may. Is
there escape from this room?’

‘Only through the door.’

‘And I am not well enough to overpower any. Are you?’

‘I’ll have to be,’ Jack sighed.

‘Have you a thought on it?’

Jack hadn’t. Groping around, his hands felt for anything that might be of use. Straw? A wooden paddle against a blunderbuss?
And the man never came fully into the room. He’d have to be lured in. Then Jack’s hand rubbed against the upright barrel of
beer. It was a large one, stood at least his own height, more; the brewery may have skimped on quality but it produced large
quantities. From the malt smell coming off it, and the heat of the oak, it was in mid-fermentation.

‘You know, Sergeant, I may just have thought of something.’

‘Have you, Cap’n? Have you indeed?’

It was warm in the beer. He had some chemically minded friends who could probably tell him why that was. Some brewers of his
acquaintance, too. They would also be able to discourse about the froth on the surface. Something to do with yeast, he presumed.
Anyway, he was grateful for the little warmth it generated. He doubted he’d have been able to hide naked, in that chill cellar,
in a butt of wine.

The liquid was buoyant, forcing him up to the surface where he’d created a small gap by emptying some of the beer
out with his jug. But there was little breathable air up there due to the exhalations of the brew; and the hole he’d prised
with an iron nail pulled from another barrel would quickly block with scum. He’d despaired, until Willis had suggested a straw.
He found one hollow and thick enough, and thrust it through the air hole. Though he panicked the first time the lid was pressed
down on him and struggled out again, he was calmer the second time and managed to steady his breath.

Now he waited, while spume clogged his vision; the beer made his bruised head ache and he could not help taking little sips
of it whenever he shifted slightly. He could not remain in there long, he knew. The gases, the heady, noxious liquid, the
confined space; he was getting drowsy. Yet he’d close his eyes and still see things. The longer he was in there, the more
like a coffin it felt. Buried at sea!

Twice, Willis had rapped on the outside of the barrel to warn of approach, twice he signalled the false alarm. Each time,
Jack had clutched the wooden paddle tightly to his chest, thinking ahead to the movements he had to make when he emerged,
the only movements that would save him … and perhaps Burgoyne and the King’s army too. But after the second thwarted hope,
he did think he could survive much longer.

Another single tap came – a warning one: that meant footsteps on the stair. Then another three – the lock was being turned.
Jack found he was suddenly starved of air, that the straw was no longer sufficing. He felt his bowels clench and gripped the
paddle’s handle harder, trying to stave off the panic. Then there came a single tap – someone had entered the room. He awaited
the next signal, desperate, his air nearly gone – a tap for each man there and a flurry for him to move, if, as they hoped,
the man with the blunderbuss would rush in at the sight of his absence and be in range.

Two taps. Two men.

A flurry.

Forcing himself as deep into the liquid as he could sink, Jack placed one hand in the centre of the barrel lid and grasping
the paddle firmly in the other, he used his legs as a released spring and surged upwards.

Froth obscured half his sight. But a large shape was before him and he struck at it, sweeping the paddle down from on high.
There was a cry, an explosion, the room stinking of gunpowder in an instant. Wiping his vision clear, Jack placed his hands
on the barrel’s side and propelled himself up and out.

The man who’d held the blunderbuss was crouched on the floor over his expended weapon, clutching at the collar bone that Jack
had obviously snapped. The gun had discharged, scattering its shot. Some had caught Willis, thrown him back against the wall,
a bloody rent where his throat had been. The other man in the room was emerging from his shock at the suddenness of the ambush
and reaching for a sword at his side.

He had to be the interrogator, a stout officer in a green greatcoat, the bulk of it making the removal of his sword awkward.
He had spectacles on his nose and a black tricorn hat on his head and it was the centre of this that Jack aimed for, bringing
the wooden stave down hard. It crushed the hat and the man collapsed with a cry.

There was no time to pause. Willis was dead, at least spared the Bridport Dagger he dreaded, no noose for him. But the other
men stirred at his feet, and moans would soon be turning to screams, so Jack ran from the cellar and took the stairs before
him two at a time.

A door gave on to a corridor. There were three others leading off it and, as Jack hesitated, one opened and a soldier walked
out, pipe and pint mug in hand, trailing smoke and the noise of an inn in full conviviality. They regarded each
other but a moment, until the man yelped, dropped his smoke and beer, and ran back inside, yelling. Jack sprinted the opposite
way.

The door he burst through led to a large kitchen. A maid, bent over a range, stood up and screamed. He had a momentary glimpse
of himself through her eyes – a naked man covered in yellow froth, spattered with another man’s blood, clutching a paddle.
As she shrieked again, as shouts filled the corridor, he ran past her to wrench open the back door.

Cool air wrapped around him, as he fell down two steps into a walled kitchen garden. A gate stood open at the back of it and
he was through it in four strides, just as the room behind him filled with voices.

He was looking at a fenced paddock. To his left, three stalls were occupied by three horses. He took a step towards them,
already uncertain if he could get one backed out and mounted in time, wondering if he should just run. Then, from his right,
came a familiar snicker. He turned … and there was Doughty before him. The big bay wore a nosebag; he swished his tail and
carried on eating.

The shouting came from the garden now. Any moment and they would be upon him. So he ran at the horse, who skittered slightly
at his approach.

‘Easy, lad,’ Jack said, bending to jerk the loose hobble from the animal’s fetlocks. As the first soldier came yelling through
the door, Jack hurled the paddle at the man, then threw himself on to the animal’s back. If Doughty was upset at the interruption
of his meal he didn’t show it. Instead, when Jack leaned down and shouted, ‘Go!’ he immediately began to move. A pistol cracked
behind them, as Jack pressed his thighs into the horse’s flanks and urged him towards the fence. Doughty cleared it easily,
nosebag and all, though he nearly dislodged Jack on landing, his body still slick with half-fermented beer. Clinging desperately
to the mane, Jack
righted himself just as another pistol fired, this bullet passing between his chest and Doughty’s head.

‘Yah!’ Jack yelled, digging in his heels. A field of barley lay beyond the paddock fence and, riding down one row, Jack gained
the shelter of the forest that bordered it. The canopy swallowed them and trees soon smothered the sounds of screaming, the
shouted commands. Only the raucous cry of a bugle pursued them under the dusk-lit leaves. And soon even that was gone.

Jack had at least that much to be grateful for – the morning mists, which had concealed his departure with Louisa over two
weeks before, covered Jack again as he limped down the trail he could only pray led to the British camp. He reckoned it was
near noon, though only instinct told him so, time having no relevance in that spectral world. Sounds were muffled as if he
listened to them through sheepskin; shapes that seemed human at ten paces turned to saplings at three. He knew that others
also wandered these woods; indeed, the last few miles had been full of half-heard voices, phantasms moving in the distance,
challenges called out, ignored, passed by. He had no weapon to reach for if he met an enemy, no way of identifying a friend;
he would pass his father in this fog and not know him. Yet some sense still led him along the path he could barely see, towards
the faintest crackling sound he wasn’t sure he heard.

And if I was seen, what would they make of me then? Some Native Shade, wandered from the Village of the Dead? A scarecrow
hopped off his warding pole, tired of chasing crows, desirous of chasing men instead …

Jack shivered, stopped, stared into the greyness. He had definitely been alone in the woods too long. The forest was disorientating,
even to one, like himself, who had spent so much time in it.

Especially at this season, with the mists rising from ground that smells of mould, of putrefaction, of a world turning in,
consuming itself. The fire in every second tree, every maple, spreading flame to the ground, to die there and rot … what would
Até say? ‘And Hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world
…’

He’d lost count of the times he’d heard Louisa laugh. Each time he heard the chitter of a squirrel scrambling away, or a bird
taking flight, he’d turn, almost call. Then he’d battle down his disappointment, returning to his fear for her, for himself.

He was shoved in the back. Gasping, he turned. Then smiled. ‘Quite right, Doughty, old thing. Pull myself together, eh?’

He scratched the horse between its eyes. He didn’t need to peer through any mists to see how thin the animal was. The blanket
he’d managed to steal hung over flanks where ribs thrust through. And his own? He scratched at them now through the tattered
blouse a pitying old Tuscarora woman had given him, the third day of his escape, along with a long-dead husband’s second-best
breech cloth, donated for his modesty. That was also the last time he had eaten – five, six days before? – anything other
than walnuts or burdock roots. His legs beneath the cloth were marked and torn by their passage along the trails that led
back to Saratoga.