Jack Absolute (23 page)

make cotes then go fort’sell ’em. Give kind’st to my financee,

Marge. I see her in two or three weeks but it will seem no more

nor less than three thousand.

Yr. Affectionate Coz.

T. Rhodes

Jack took a hefty swig of the sherry then set the glass down next to its decanter. He had never seen the mask the General
referred to, and obviously no one could distinguish it from the several they carried for other correspondents. These – among
them the lightning bolt, a Jewish star, a cross of Lorraine – had been laid out beside the page and Money had obviously tried
them all. He had also made various random shapes from cards, the ones he’d been desperately trying when Jack came in, as well
as some fair copies of the letter.

Jack lifted one now, slid it back and forth across the ink, looking for a pattern of words that would spring out, a sentence
of military import among the detail of goods and gossip. He was aware of the men’s attention upon him, the pressure of their
expectation, their desperate hope. If Jack had had hardships on the campaign, so had they. The bodies lying in the stubble
of Freeman’s Farm were testimony to that, as eloquent as the holes in Burgoyne’s coat.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and placed
another piece of card, stubbier, square. He’d been good at this sort of game, once. He moved it up and down, saw nothing.
Licking his lips, without removing his scrutiny from the paper, he reached out to the glass at his side … and misjudged the
distance completely, knocking the decanter, which tipped, splashing some liquid out, but did not fall.

‘Absolute, have a care, that’s the last of the Santa Vittoria,’ Burgoyne exclaimed.

‘Sorry, sir.’ Jack reached out, his hand grasping the fine lead crystal vessel. A trickle of the golden liquid ran across
the table, reminding him suddenly of that last supper on board the
Ariadne
, the river of port running between the glasses that signified this campaign, the blood-like flow of it, as Von Schlaben entered
the room. His fingers ran over the decanter. It had a short, narrow neck, expanding, in an almost feminine way at the ‘bosom’,
narrowing at waist, before spreading wide to the ‘hips’ of the flat base. Running his fingers down its curves stirred something
in his mind.

The sherry was, of course, from the land where Burgoyne and he had first fought together in 1762. That Spanish campaign had
made the General’s reputation as strategist and commenced Jack’s as lunatic when he was at the forefront in the storming of
the citadel at Valencia de Alcantara. And he had seen his first masks in that country, for the Spanish were very attached
to that method of encoding. When they’d captured the enemy staff in the surprise assault, several masks had been found on
them. Burgoyne, already noting his young officer’s intelligence as well as his courage, had ordered Jack to make a study of
these devices. The first thing he realized was that most were derived from their Spanish enemies’ greatest love – their native
wines.

He traced the contours of the decanter again, then said, ‘Has anyone here a reasonably clean handkerchief? And have you a
pair of scissors, Captain Money?’

Several handkerchiefs were produced, in various degrees of cleanliness. Jack chose three of the least noxious and, with the
scissors he was given, cut shapes from each to a different size but in the quite feminine lines of the crystal vessel before
him. He then moved the smallest one up and down, read nothing. The second also produced no legible result. He was about to
give up on the third when suddenly he saw something. It was in the sixth line, the misplaced apostrophe, the oddity of the
words in the sixth line, ‘fort’sell ’em’. Especially odd as they were beneath the word ‘Hudson’s’. He angled the mask to forty-five
degrees … and smiled.

Burgoyne had never left studying him. A hand reached up to him, dropped back. ‘You have it?’

‘I … think so, sir. The mask is imperfect so you may not get it all but … perhaps enough.’ Jack picked up a pencil and traced
the shape of the mask around the isolated words. He then studied it again to make sure he’d got all he could.

Dear Coz.

Have you lately seen that cur
Will
Piper? He owe me

5 pounds and so his vile
attempt
to avoid me is contimtible.

I mean therefore
to push ahead
with your order, for because

I riecievd
on Hudson’s
looms a delivery of fine cloth. Shall

make coats then go fort’sell ’em. Give kind’st to my financee,

Marge. I see her
in two or three weeks
but it will seem no more

nor less than three thousand.

Yr. Affectionate Coz.

T. Rhodes

‘Colonel Carleton!’ Burgoyne gestured down to the slashed handkerchief and letter; his adjutant carefully reached over and
began to transcribe into a notebook. The General squeezed Jack’s arm. ‘I lied, dear Jack. I do have one more bottle of the
Santa Vittoria. And it’s yours.’

‘May I suggest that we all drink it together, General?’

A cheer went up at that, the sherry was broached, decanted into the revealing crystal, poured out. Carleton meanwhile scratched
with his pencil while men sipped and never took their eyes from him. Fraser came and clapped Jack on the back while Balcarras,
ever the Old Harrovian, whispered, ‘Not bad for a Westminster boy. I thought all you learned there was billiards and buggery.’

Jack picked up one of the fair copies of the letter. ‘I’ll take one, Captain Money, if I may. There might be something further.’

A much-relieved young officer was happy to agree.

The men watched the adjutant. Carleton scratched at his temples. ‘Well?’ barked the General.

Carleton showed the extract to Burgoyne, who closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. He then nodded to Carleton, who read
aloud, ‘“Will attempt to push ahead on Hudson’s forts in two or three weeks.”’

The company sighed out as one.

‘So Clinton assaults the Highland forts of the Hudson in two or three weeks. Could the man not have been more specific?’ Burgoyne
raised his eyes to the roof. ‘Still, since the letter has taken six days to arrive, the attack, gentlemen, is imminent. A
week or two at most.’

Burgoyne looked around at each of his officers to make sure they understood the import of those words.

‘And it is inconceivable that even if General Howe continues his operations further south, he would not have left Clinton
significant numbers in New York to both take the forts then march on to us here.’ Burgoyne was once again leaning on the table.
But whereas before his attitude had been one of exhaustion, now his stance betokened vigour. ‘We can anticipate a force at
least seven thousand strong. That Rebel facing us, General Gates, will have to split his forces here to
deal with the threat … or retire entirely. Either way, gentlemen, retreat for us is no longer a consideration, for Gates could
then turn his full might on Clinton. We must hold the Rebel here, pin him down. When Clinton breaks through, or Gates turns
to face him, we will catch the Yankee between us and crush him.’

‘Does that mean the attack for tomorrow is off?’ General Fraser asked.

Burgoyne smiled. ‘It does, Simon. The men may stand down and rest. Issue an extra tot of rum and give three cheers for the
King. We will convene in the morning to discuss fortifying our position. Yet I fear our Sergeant Willis, who has proved himself
so fine a deliverer of good news, must haste again to New York at dawn to inform General Clinton that we are most happy with
his plans and to find out a more definite date for his arrival here. So get some rest now, man. You’ll need it.’

The Sergeant took the news well, considering his obvious exhaustion. He saluted and left the room, the others taking this
as a signal to disperse. Burgoyne’s voice halted Jack at the door.

‘Captain Absolute, a word if I may?’

Balcarras whispered, ‘I’ve a fine Bordeaux saved. Join me later.’ With a quick squeeze of Jack’s arm he was gone. The General
and he were alone.

On the very click of the door, Burgoyne sat down heavily, his head coming to rest on the palms of both hands. ‘Not so young
as I was, Jack.’

‘We none of us are, sir.’

‘And perhaps I was a little hard on that boy, Money.’

‘It appears to have been a hard day for all.’

‘Indeed it has.’ Burgoyne knuckled his eyes, then raised them to regard Jack. ‘A nasty discolouration of your neck, my boy.’

‘You should have seen it three weeks ago, when the snake had just struck.’

‘Ah, so the Count’s story was true?’

‘Only to a point, General. I’m sure it left out some essential points. Such as how it was Von Schlaben who introduced me to
the snake. Or vice versa.’

‘He did indeed fail to mention that.’ Burgoyne smiled. ‘Damn, Jack! I can always rely on you for an interesting tale. Would
you care to tell it while we dine?’

‘I would. But first I have to know – is the Count still here?’

‘He is not, I’m afraid. You missed him by hours.’

Jack leaned back. He suddenly felt very tired, as if the thought of an imminent revenge had been the only thing that had kept
him awake. Meanwhile, the General’s servant, Braithwaite, had entered with a bowl, placing it on the table. Burgoyne bent
over it with distaste.

‘I’m rather afraid that when I was forced to cut the rations for the army I let it be known that I would only eat the same
as the common soldier. Pure bravado.’ He looked up, smiled. ‘I did not, however, mention what I would be drinking. To celebrate
… the Chateau Veracin, I think, Braithwaite. And a bowl – this purports to be stew, does it? – for the Captain.’ As his servant
went off to obey, Burgoyne turned back to Jack. ‘Your report, sir, if you will.’

They ate and drank, the wine exceptional, though he would have expected no less from Burgoyne’s cellar, while Jack recounted
all that had happened in the months since they’d last seen one another. The General had received St Leger’s self-excusing
reports though not the letter Jack had entrusted to Captain Ancrum; withheld, no doubt, by the drunken Colonel, fearful of
Jack’s truer version of the events at Fort Stanwix. Throughout the tale, Burgoyne swore and chewed, drank and whistled, as
good an audience as he was a dramatist.

‘You say the Indians deserted in droves?’ he interjected. ‘It is the same with my campaign. I have scarcely ninety of the
brutes left and I awake every morning expecting to see those gone. Even that Brant fellow, who at least came back from Stanwix,
has disappeared again.’

He topped up Jack’s glass, then continued. ‘Which reminds me, your friend Até was with Brant. I think he would have stayed
but as soon as he was informed that you were not here, he took himself off again. Wish I could have kept him. Apart from his
fighting skills, the fellow has the damndest ideas on Shakespeare I ever heard. I believe he considers Hamlet to be part Mohawk!’

Jack sipped and cursed. ‘We were meant to rendezvous. Von Schlaben’s assault and my capture meant I failed to appear. Até
has gone to look for me as I would for him.’ He swirled his wine, considering. ‘And you say the German only just departed?’
He received a nod. ‘That is a great pity, for I believe – and I feel, sir, after what I have just told you of the debacle
at Fort Stanwix that you must believe it too – that not only is the Count Von Schlaben Diomedes, he is also now one of the
most dangerous opponents we have.’

Burgoyne too swirled the wine in his crystal, observing the play of red against the lamplight. ‘I do agree, Jack. And I must
apologize. I promised to keep him close. I did not know for a week that he was missing, for I was … somewhat distracted. And
then Von Riedesel told me he’d gone – hunting, would you believe? I did not think that you were part of the quarry he sought.
That sot St Leger never mentioned his arrival or influence. I probably should have had him seized the moment he returned here.
But there was a battle to fight and I was set to rely on the skills of his cousin, the Baron von Riedesel.’

‘Do you believe, sir, that the Baron knows of his cousin’s activities?’

‘Von Riedesel? Countenance treachery?’ Burgoyne shook his head emphatically. ‘Impossible. I sometimes believe the Baron seeks
to win this war single-handed, so ardent is he in our cause. Indeed, if he had not marched his men in at double time and turned
the Rebel flank … well, we might even have lost this day. Not the actions of a traitor.’ He reached out a hand, laid it on
Jack’s shoulder. ‘No, my lad, I alone am to blame for Von Schlaben’s attempt on you. Apologies, again.’

‘Forgiven, sir. I believe you had enough to think on.’ He glanced to the world outside.

Burgoyne sighed. ‘Hot work today, Jack, as hot as you and I saw at Valencia de Alcantara. These Rebels have learned to fight,
curse ’em. We held the field but …’ He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘As to the damned Count, he only arrived here on the eve
of the battle. When the business today was concluded, I immediately sent my first messenger for New York and Clinton. Von
Schlaben, bearing personal dispatches from the Baron von Riedesel, set out shortly afterwards.’

‘He followed your messenger?’ A confirming nod. ‘Then I doubt your dispatch will make it through.’

‘He will kill my messenger?’

‘He will try. You must send another.’

‘Sergeant Willis goes at dawn. But I always send at least three because it’s possible, nay, likely, that two will be caught.
There are spies everywhere. I sometimes believe that Gates knows my movements before I’ve issued the orders.’

‘Speaking of which, that mask you were so in want of? Lost, you said, but stolen perhaps?’

‘Stolen, for certain. And it was discovered missing before Von Schlaben arrived back.’

Jack nodded. ‘So we do have another spy among us. The Count may not be Diomedes after all. Perhaps he is, in fact, Cato, the
other name in the coded message from Quebec.’

‘He may well be.’ Burgoyne drained his glass and regarded
Jack for a long moment over the rim. ‘You look tired, my lad. Positively gaunt. I am loathe to ask—’