Redcoat Page 17

  “Sir?” Scammell stood to attention.

  Christopher Vane was not certain why, a moment before, he had asked Elliott’s permission to intervene. Perhaps it was because he had seen Sam Gilpin’s skill with the stallion, or perhaps it was the euphoria of victory. Whatever, Vane now held Sam’s fate in his hand. “Were you running, Gilpin?”

  “The bastard was running, sir,” Scammell said confidingly.

  “I didn’t ask you, Sergeant, did I?”

  “No, sir.” All Sergeant Scammell’s scorn for officers was invested in the two words.

  “Well?” Vane looked back to Sam.

  “He killed my brother, sir.”

  “I didn’t ask you that!” Vane made his voice sharp. “Were you running?”

  “No, sir!” In truth Sam did not know what he had been doing. He had just been filled with a hopeless rage.

  “He’s bloody lying, sir!” Sergeant Scammell had been hit by Sam Gilpin and Sergeant Scammell was not a man to let such an insult pass. He feared that this officer’s intervention might interfere with natural justice, and felt he had to make his own position very clear. “He’s a bloody liar, sir, and he’s going to the triangle.”

  Vane had heard Sergeant Scammell’s scorn earlier and could not resist swatting the man down. “You can’t flog my servant. At least not without my permission, Sergeant.”

  “Your servant, sir?” Sergeant Scammell put as much outrage as he dared into his voice.

  Vane chose to take the question as an honourable salutation. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He looked at Sam. “Can you cook, Sam Gilpin?”

  Sam stared uncomprehendingly at the blood-spattered officer.

  “Can you cook?” Vane asked again.

  “Cook sir? No, sir.”

  “But you can learn? And you can ride. Take it.” He threw the stallion’s reins to Sam. “And follow me.”

  Sam did not move, only stared.

  “Well?” Vane was relishing the role of God. Just as Sir William had plucked him from the humdrum duties of a regimental officer, so Vane would now use his staff officer’s patronage to rescue this private. “You’d rather be flogged?” Vane asked.

  Sam suddenly broke free of the Sergeant and, hurrying lest this quixotic officer change his mind, went and scooped up his red coat that had fallen from Jonathon’s body, then put a foot into the stallion’s stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. Clutching the jacket, he looked towards the corpse of his brother and checked when he saw that two soldiers were stripping Nate naked ready for the common burial pit. All soldiers were stripped thus, but it was hard to watch. Sam would have liked to say a prayer, or even to have dug a separate grave, but there was no time, for his new master was impatient. “Come on,” Captain Vane said, “I’m devilish hungry.”

  Sergeant Scammell could do nothing, the British had a victory, and Sam had been saved. He rode across a field of blood between the skeins of acrid smoke. Mister Washington had sought the battle, Sir William had won it, Sam was a twin no more, and everything, by the touch of fire and steel, was changed.

  PART TWO

  Sixteen

  Mrs Elizabeth Loring, glorious Lizzie Loring, stood beside Sir William Howe and smiled in gracious welcome at her lover’s guests.

  Sir William himself was resplendent in a coat of brightest red that was festooned with loops and chains and lace of gold. A white silk stock, fashionably plumped about a golden pin, bulged between his collar turnbacks that were edged with golden braid. A gilt and enamel star blazed from a slanting blue sash that lay on his comfortable belly. Wigged, fashionably red-heeled, and happy, Sir William stood beside his paramour and was the proudest man in Philadelphia.

  A minuet filled the room with sweetness. The musicians wore powdered wigs that tightly framed their sweat-sheened, absorbed faces. Their white uniforms were gaudy with scarlet turnbacks, crimson facings, and gilded epaulettes which caught the light of the tall candles that illuminated the music stands.

  Mrs Loring, gracious Mrs Loring, wore a polonaise of blue watered silk, its skirt slashed and kirtled over a petticoat of ivory brocade. The blue silk gown was embroidered with lilac roses and cut very low. Beneath her breasts hung strings of pearls, hugging their silk-dad lower contours, while on their upper slopes, bravely bared and softly powdered, lay two small black beauty patches of heart-shaped velvet. Her golden hair was piled in a baroque confection of curls and swags that sparkled with pearl tears hanging on silver hooks from bows of crimson silk. The elaborate coiffure, which, like the dress, was so much more fashionable than any other in the room, soared to its peak a full fifteen inches above the top of her head.

  Champagne, which, because the rebel forts still barred the Lower Delaware, had been fetched overland from the victualling ships in Chesapeake Bay, was poured into fine crystal glasses that tinkled a ragged rhythm beneath the sweeter sound of violins, bass viols, and flutes. Perhaps two hundred guests were present, perhaps more, but such was the prodigality of the Commander-in-Chief’s invitation list that no one could be certain. They were there to celebrate the restoration of the monarchy to America’s largest city. A great fire, banked within the marble fireplace, warmed the room so well that the glazed garden doors had been flung open and some of the guests had drifted on to the lantern-lit terrace. A chandelier, hung with crystal drops and blazing with three score of white expensive candles, shivered in the night breeze coming from the windows.

  “Mr and Mrs Abel Becked!” A uniformed major-domo, magnificent by the double doors which led into the hall, announced the newcomers in a sonorous voice.

  “Upon my word, it’s Mr Becket! My pleasure, sir, my extreme pleasure!” And Sir William, who had never met the man before, did exude much pleasure at the meeting, treating Abel Becket as though he was an old, much missed, and valued friend. “And your dear wife. What signal honour your attendance does me, ma’am.” Sir William bowed low over Hannah Becket’s pudgy gloved hand. “You will permit me to name Mrs Elizabeth Loring to you?”

  Lizzie offered her lace-gloved fingers to Mr Becket who seemed transfixed by the generous bosoms that lay just beneath his gaze. His face, unable to hide the disgust he felt, twitched away, but he could not ignore the mistress of the man upon whose efforts depended the restoration of the city’s trade. He touched cold fingers to the lace gloves. “Mrs Loring.”

  “You must call me Elizabeth.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” Abel Becket had never seen as much of his wife’s breasts as Mrs Loring saw fit to present to the world.

  “Loyalist merchant,” Ambrose Serle, Sir William’s private secretary, whispered into his master’s ear during this ill-matched exchange, “of importance.”

  “You must tell me,” Sir William was amused by the shocked reaction of his guests to Lizzie’s splendours, “how we can best serve your trade, Mr Becket? You merchants are our strength in the colonies, and we must not ignore you!”

  “You can take the forts, Sir William.” Abel Becket decided that bluntness was the best policy. “The river will freeze, sir, freeze! And if we don’t have a chance to float our cargoes out we’ll be ruined, and if the city isn’t victualled you’ll be ruined with us.”

  “I shall take the forts,” Sir William said. “Indeed, that is my chief object in these coming weeks.”

  “Weeks!” Abel Becket, fearing that his purchase of black walnut might prove the ruin of his fortune, could not contain his indignation.

  “Slow and steady, Mr Becket!” Sir William beamed happily. “Now, let me worry about the fortresses while you partake of some champagne. A scarce beverage, but one I’m partial to, and Mrs Loring can vouch that it travelled remarkably well!”

  Abel Becket turned away from the shocking orbs, and wondered how any man, least of all a Commander-in-Chief and Peace Commissioner, could bring his mistress to meet respectable people. If this was how things were arranged in London then it might be better … But that line of thought was too dangerous, too rebellious, and he sheered away from it
as he took his wife across the crowded room to the safer haven of the Revd MacTeague’s company.

  “What a dull man!” Lizzie said to Sir William. She had bright large eyes that now left Abel Becket’s retreating back and fixed themselves on a red-coated officer whose sword slings were of new silver chain, and who wore bright new aiguillettes to denote his status as an aide-de-camp. “Is that your new boy?”

  “Indeed it is. Captain Vane!”

  Vane crossed to Sir William, was introduced to Mrs Loring, and bowed low before her beauty. “Ma’am.”

  Lizzie left her gloved fingers in Vane’s hand. “Sir William tells me you showed exemplary bravery at Germantown, Captain?”

  “He’s very kind, ma’am.” Vane, hearing the praise that was balm to his ears, could not hide his pleasure.

  “Too kind, some say,” Lizzie smiled, “especially to Americans.”

  Vane knew he was being tested, but quite to what purpose he was not sure. He smiled. “I can see why, ma’am.”

  Sir William was delighted with Vane’s compliment, but Sir William was delighted with everything about this splendid evening. He gestured at the lavish room. “Isn’t this magnificent, Kit? Quite the equal of anything in London!” The intricately plastered drawing-room, if not perhaps quite deserving of Sir William’s exaggerated praise, was nevertheless ornately impressive. Mirrors fixed within elegant stucco panels multiplied the blazing spermaceti candles in shimmers of fractured light. The house, commandeered as Sir William’s Philadelphia headquarters, was the most lavish of the great mercantile mansions in the city.

  “You must enjoy yourself, Kit!” Sir William thus affably dismissed his newest aide and, as the musicians struck up the popular tune of ‘Youth’s the Season’, he rocked up and down on his high red heels. At this moment Sir William was replete with a warm and generous happiness. Hamlet, his dog, was still lost, but that was the only cloud to mar Sir William’s contentment, and he yet dared to hope that the silver tag attached to the dog’s collar might effect Hamlet’s safe return. All else was blissful. He had won a victory, Philadelphia was safe, his own wife was in England, and Lizzie’s husband was in New York.

  Sir William’s nocturnal comforts were thus assured, but the aides still sought their own similar consolations. Christopher Vane exchanged impressions with John Andre who, like himself, had been scouting the feminine charms of the crowded rooms. Vane gestured towards a girl in a green dress that was swollen at her hips by old-fashioned panniers. “She has a charming smile, don’t you think?”

  Andre flinched dramatically. “Her teeth are atrocious, and she has breath like a cesspit. I made her laugh a moment ago and fell instantly out of love with her. How about the one in blue stripes?”

  Christopher Vane shuddered. “If Helen launched a thousand ships, John, then I don’t suppose that girl would cause a toy boat to be floated.”

  “You are difficult to please.” Andre pointed towards the door. “How about the girl in the cream cotton? Didn’t I see you clumsily trying to seduce her?”

  Vane smiled. “I was beating her off, my friend. Do you like the creature? Her name’s Peggy Shippen. I might award her two or three small rowboats.”

  “You’re devilish unfair, Kit.” The girl had golden hair, fresh skin, and blue eyes. “I think I would award her a flotilla.” John Andre straightened his jacket. “You will excuse me?”

  Miss Shippen was too fleshy for Vane’s taste. He smiled. “I shall wish you joy of the battle, John, and a speedy surrender of the foe.”

  Vane, alone once more, wandered the sumptuous rooms, smiling at merchants’ wives and picking at the great plates of oysters that were arrayed for the guests’ delectation. He eyed the girls, but saw none that stirred him to the effort of flirtation. Lord Robert Massedene was dancing with a tall red-haired girl whom Vane might have thought attractive if she had not already been enfolded in Massedene’s arms.

  “What do they call you, Captain Vane? Christopher, Kit, or Kitten?”

  Vane turned and was surprised to see Lizzie Loring smiling at him. He bowed. “Never the latter, ma’am.”

  “I imagine not. Kit, then?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And I’m Lizzie.” She put an arm into Vane’s and led him across the room to a table heaped with food. “Billy has been cornered by tradesmen, who bore me.” She took an oyster and slid it into her mouth. “The best in all the world,” she sighed.

  “Ma’am?”

  “The oysters, Kit! You surely admit that America has the finest oysters?”

  Vane, who was frequently irritated by the colonists’ habit of claiming all things American to be finer, larger, or more beautiful than anything in existence elsewhere, could not bring himself to contradict this dazzling American beauty who had such influence over Sir William. “They’re very fine, ma’am.”

  “Fine?” Lizzie repeated his mild praise indignantly. “Our oysters, Kit, are culled from the beds of heaven, nurtured on the milk of angels, and are fit only for the gods to eat.” She laughed, slipped her arm into Vane’s again, and led him on to the terrace where a few late fireflies glittered prettily in the dark shrubbery which hid the slave quarters and the stables. “No girl, Captain?”

  “I’m the duty aide tonight.”

  “How seriously you do take your duty,” Lizzie said with an airy scorn, yet, by her intimate closeness to Vane, she made him feel the pleasure of other men’s jealousy.

  Lizzie danced two small steps in time to the music, then scooped a glass of the champagne from a passing orderly. “Do you think this is the beginning of peace, Captain?”

  “Do you, ma’am?” Vane was guarded.

  “Billy does. And he plans to stay in the colonies once the treaty’s signed.”

  “Have the rebels accepted talks?”

  “They will,” Lizzie smoothed out her lustrous skirts and perched delicately on a stone balustrade beneath the lanterns that fluttered thick with moths, “as long as we treat them with dignity. Today, Captain, you refused to allow a delegation of women to see Sir William?”

  Vane realized that this clever and pretty woman had accosted him with a purpose, and he felt a resentment that she could so interfere with his duties simply because she was a general’s whore. “The General was busy,” Vane said coldly. The delegation had come to plead for the Patriot civilians who, remaining in Philadelphia, had been illegally imprisoned by the Loyalists before the British arrived. Vane had received the unfortunate prisoners’ wives, then shrugged away their petition. It was clear, however, that the women had found their champion in Sir William’s mistress. “They’re all going to be released tomorrow,” Lizzie said.

  “If Sir William decides …”

  “He has.”

  Vane shrugged off the defeat. “Doubtless the jails will soon be full again.”

  Lizzie watched him as though she truly wished to understand what was in his mind. “I’m told, Captain, that you’re one of those men who believe the rebels must be punished for their temerity in defying King George?”

  Vane wanted to say that his views were none of Mrs Loring’s business, but knew this woman’s power precluded such a challenge. “If we concede to the rebels at the negotiating table, ma’am, then we encourage other men to follow their example. The whole Empire will then seethe with hooligans! No, ma’am, rebels must be punished as a lesson to others.”

  Lizzie Loring pretended to consider his words. “But then, having whipped the children, how do you rule a nursery that is disaffected by hatred for you?”

  “Let them hate us.”

  “So long as they fear you?” Lizzie mocked him with laughter. “You have pride, Captain Vane! Is that because you’re a merchant’s son?”

  Vane stared into Lizzie’s eyes that reflected the lanterns like tiny bright sparks, and he wondered who had gossiped about him. Massedene? “No, ma’am.”

  “The English hold such a ridiculous animosity towards tradesmen, don’t they? It must make you eager for acce
ptance.” Lizzie seemed oblivious to the fact that she was clawing at Vane’s most sensitive fears, or else she believed that her beauty gave her the right to speak as she wished. She smiled. “But I wanted to plead with you to support Sir William’s ambitions, Captain. He wants to make peace without more killing, and I believe that wish deserves the support of his military family.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” Vane said it neutrally. He allowed that Lizzie Loring might wish to surround her lover with cosy agreement, but Vane was not going to change his mind just because she bared half her breasts and smiled sweetly. Yet, he knew it would be dangerous to make an enemy of this woman who had such influence over the Commander-in-Chief. “I can assure you, ma’am, that no aide is as assiduous as I in the discharge of duty. Will that satisfy you?”

  But Lizzie Loring appeared not to be listening to him. Instead, and distracted by a stir at one of the glazed doors leading from the house, she looked to her right and Vane turned to see what had drawn her attention.

  He looked and the world stood still.

  A woman, tall, slender, and young, stood imperious and splendid in the doorway. She wore a simple dress of scarlet cotton, but on her straight body it seemed a gown of the highest fashion. Her hair was witch black and curled softly about a narrow fine face that was given striking character by a touch of anger.

  A lieutenant whose task it was merely to usher guests about the mansion this evening appeared at the woman’s side and, seeing Vane, led her across the terrace. “Sir? May I name Mrs Martha Crowl?” The lieutenant was nervous.

  “Your servant, ma’am.” Vane bowed to her.

  “Captain Vane, ma’am,” the lieutenant said. “Sir William’s duty aide.”

  “You can call him Kit,” Lizzie had clearly sensed Vane’s hostility towards her, “and I’m Elizabeth Loring.”

  The two women stared at each other and a flicker of sympathy must have shown in each face, for Martha gave a quick, intimate smile that struck like a dart into Vane’s soul. He wondered by what magic such women communicated.