TIME QUAKE (18 page)

The sergeant had taken up position a few feet below Lord Luxon, on the same tree. His legs were straddled over a stout branch and his back was pressed into the trunk. All night they had listened to an officer barking instructions to his army on the move, his stentorian voice carrying even over the howling storm.

‘My throat aches just listening to the fellow,’ commented Lord Luxon to Sergeant Thomas.

‘Ay, sir, they are lucky to count him among their number. It would be difficult to imagine how the task could have been accomplished without him. I freely admit that I could not have done what he has this night.’

‘Then he deserves our first shot, what say you?’

‘He would make an easy target – he is the size of a house!’ But even as Sergeant Thomas spoke, he felt a pang of sadness. The
anonymous officer with the booming voice had earned his respect that night. In the heat of battle there was never time for reflection or pity. It was a case of kill or be killed. But there was something unpalatable about hiding in a tree with an aristocrat with hands as soft as a girl, and plotting the death of a man in this way.

‘But you have not answered my question. Should he die first?’

‘If that is what you wish, sir.’

‘Pshaw! It is not a case of what I wish. I brought you here, Sergeant Thomas, in order that
you
could advise
me
. I’d wager you’ve seen more action in your time than Washington himself—’

‘I’ve been in the army man and boy, sir – almost thirty years.’

‘I cannot imagine such a thing! Do you not dream of taking your ease in some cottage by a stream? Of taking a wife, perhaps?’

‘The army is my wife, sir.’

‘Ha! I believe you! And so, Sergeant Thomas, at what point should we strike? How many men do you suppose I need to transport here to sabotage Mr Washington’s stratagem?’

‘I should prefer to see how the night unfolds before expressing an opinion.’

‘Very well, Sergeant. Even though I can scarcely feel any of my limbs, if these men can brave this howling north-easterly I suppose that we can do likewise. Although I must say that I can think of more cheerful ways to spend Christmas night.’

Sergeant Thomas put his binoculars to his eyes and watched the American Patriots struggle to disembark through rows of blocks of ice that were collecting close to the bank like sets of jagged teeth. He pitied them, for rarely in his long career had he seen more trying conditions.

‘If I had not witnessed it myself,’ said Lord Luxon, ‘I should have said that this crossing was an act of utter folly.’

‘But is that not the beauty of General Washington’s plan, sir?
The Hessian mercenaries at Trenton will be warm in their beds on Christmas night, believing the Americans to be on the other side of a broad river without a hope of getting across in such weather. Washington has made an ally of the storm.’

Night-vision binoculars pressed to their eyes, like two unblinking owls, Lord Luxon and Sergeant Thomas continued to survey the scene from their high and windswept perch.

‘What a ragged-looking bunch they are!’ commented Lord Luxon.

‘They are battle weary, and poorly supplied, without a doubt,’ returned Sergeant Thomas. ‘But then, if you say that our redcoats and the mercenaries have driven them out of New York and chased them across New Jersey, it is not surprising that their uniform does not pass muster.’

‘If uniform is a measure of an army, the American Patriots do little to inspire confidence.’

‘The lack of a handsome jacket will not trouble a fighting man, sir, but the lack of shoes will. I have observed many men with nothing more than rags tied around their feet. Have you not noticed the trails of bloody footprints in the snow? This night will bring forth a fair crop of frostbitten toes. Cannon and musket fire do not scare me but I have a horror of the gangrene. Gangrene has the stink of hell about it.’

‘Why so? Have you ever been afflicted with it?’

‘No, thank God, but many is the time I’ve held a gag for my comrades to bite on while the surgeon got to work with his saw . . .’

Lord Luxon gulped. ‘Upon my word, Sergeant, what vastly disagreeable images you conjure up.’

‘War is not for the faint-hearted.’

‘Have a care, Sergeant Thomas – you are impertinent. My father was a fighting man as were all my uncles. He who pays the
piper calls the tune, and you and your little band do not come cheap. Like it or not, men of action will not survive long without men of ideas.’

‘My apologies, sir, I did not mean to imply . . .’

‘Yes, yes, I did not employ you for your silver tongue.’

There was a lull in the conversation during which the wind howled and the branches creaked all around them. It was Lord Luxon who spoke first.

‘You know, Sergeant Thomas, I am a betting man. But were the outcome of this night not already known to me, I should not bet so much as a bean on this lamentable, rag-tag army of amateurs. Lady Fortune is nothing if not surprising. To think that they will defeat the Hessians within a few hours – why, it beggars belief!’

‘No one can predict the fortunes of war, sir. It seems to me that courage is indispensable but it is not enough; nor is skill; nor is heart – no matter how much one would like to think it is. I have seen astonishing victories and unforeseen defeats. Nothing is ever certain until the final shot has been fired.’

‘Ha! And not even then . . . Tell me, Sergeant, if Trenton is eight or nine miles distant, how long do you suppose it will take them to march there in these conditions?’

‘Two hours would suffice for the men – but they must carry heavy artillery over winter roads. I should guess three hours if all goes well.’

‘In which case Washington will be lucky to reach Trenton by dawn.’

Suddenly Sergeant Thomas made a shushing sound. Lord Luxon swept the ground beneath them with his night-vision binoculars and spotted one of the sentries walking in their direction. He watched as Sergeant Thomas waited until he was directly below, jumped on him and wrestled him to the ground. There was a brief
altercation, inaudible to Lord Luxon, during which Sergeant Thomas disarmed the man and held the blade of a knife to his throat. Presently he tore off the sentry’s jacket, his tricorn hat and the grimy scarf which he had used to tie it around his head, and then proceeded to bind and gag him.

He called up to Lord Luxon: ‘With your permission, sir, I should like to stand with the infantry awhile – it will give me a better idea of where to mount the attack.’

‘But what of the sentries? Your life is your own but I had rather you not risk it while you are in
my
service.’

‘I have persuaded this fine fellow to divulge the password.’

‘Then, by all means, Sergeant Thomas.’

‘He should not cause you any trouble – I have bound him tightly.’

‘I am astonished that you spared him—’

‘The password bought him his life.’

‘And you are a man of your word?’

‘What would I be if I were not?’

‘Like the rest of the world, Sergeant Thomas. And what, out of curiosity,
is
General Washington’s password?’

‘Victory or Death!’

Lord Luxon flexed his fingers in the fur-lined leather gloves he had bought in Saks on Fifth Avenue – how he loved twenty-first-century shopping – and wrapped his heavy coat tight around him against the wind. Even so, he still felt in danger of freezing to death if he let himself drift into sleep which somehow the cold beckoned him to do, like a siren willing a sailing ship to crash and falter on her rock. He longed for his vigil to end. Images from his past haunted him – of the balls his mother would arrange at Tempest House and of the men of his family, strutting about like
peacocks in shiny black boots, erect and proud in their immaculate uniforms, making the young ladies blush and giggle. How frightened he had been of these good-looking, arrogant men. He would cower behind the pillars of the ballroom and peep out, marvelling at these glamorous creatures who looked as if they had ridden out after breakfast and conquered the world. They had probably, Lord Luxon now realised, spent most of the day losing small fortunes at cards but a dashing uniform still aroused in him feelings of envy and admiration. All of them were dead now, yet they continued to look disapprovingly down at him from their portraits hung in the Long Gallery.

Half an hour later Lord Luxon heard Sergeant Thomas clambering back up the tree. He reached up to him, a fluttering piece of paper in his hand.

‘What is this that you give me?’

‘Read it, sir. It is a pamphlet written by a certain Thomas Paine, an Englishman, it seems, but no friend to the crown. It has been read or heard by every man in the American army. It has given them hope and purpose.’

Turning towards the tree trunk to obscure the tiny pool of light, Lord Luxon took out a small torch and read out loud.

‘
These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
. . .’

‘Ha! Tyranny! It is a
British
colony! Their relatives still live out their lives in Surrey and Norfolk and the Yorkshire Dales! It is but a small matter of paying tax to the Crown . . . In any case, the Americans will invent their own taxes soon enough and doubtless
they shall prove as painful to pay as any of those levied by King George. But I agree that this Mr Paine knows how to pen a sentence. “These are the times that try men’s souls . . .” It sounds like a drumbeat.’

‘Those words are on every man’s lips. Their morale is high – they have a purpose. They are fighting for their own freedom.’

‘Did I not say to you, Sergeant Thomas, that every man of action needs a man of ideas?’

‘Some men need to be inspired before battle.’

‘But not you?’

‘No, sir, I am a war horse. Put my blinkers on and I shall fight until death takes me or I am told to stop. It is what the army has taught me.’

‘Then, Master War Horse, tell me what information you have learned on your reconnoitre.’

‘I saw General Washington sitting on an old beehive—’

‘A beehive! Does the Patriot Army not run to chairs?’

‘I cannot comment, sir. The General was deep in thought while his men struggled with the cannon and the horses around him. I fancy he was wondering if he should give up the task – and perhaps he was thinking, too, that it would be just as foolhardy to turn back. I liked the look of him – he is in a tight spot yet he is resolute and there is a calmness about him—’

‘Yes, yes. General Washington impressed you. What else?’

‘It seems that most of the men are signed up until the new year – in a week they will be free to return to their homes but they know General Washington will ask them to stay until the job is done.’

‘Which is a worry for him but hardly for me. What else?’

‘The officer in command of the crossing – with a voice so powerful it carries over the roar of the wind – he is Colonel Henry Knox. I pity the horse that has to carry him for he is a mighty
figure of a man. From what I have seen tonight, he is a man with the instincts of a soldier – which is rarer than you might suppose. I also learned of something else which has given me some cause for concern.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Lord Luxon sharply.

‘It is not Washington alone who attempts to cross the Delaware this night. There are two other forces – one at Trenton and another further downstream. If Washington fails this night it may be that other forces will arrive to take his place.’

‘Damn your eyes, Sergeant Thomas! Why did you not tell me at once! That is bad news, indeed!’

‘Perhaps they fail, sir – in this storm—’

‘And perhaps they succeed,’ snapped Lord Luxon. He sighed. ‘No matter. I shall consult Alice on my return – if she has not been frightened to death by your wretched hound!’

They watched the last cannon being unloaded and saw the men assembling into a snaking column, ready for their long march to the Hessian mercenaries’ encampment at Trenton. It would be a march not only to Trenton, but, if Lord Luxon’s plan failed, also to a glorious victory that would revive the Patriot cause and save it from military disaster. Lord Luxon felt a pang of doubt for the first time that night. How could he stop Washington and the Patriots wrenching the colonies from Britain’s grasp?

‘And so, Sergeant Thomas, what should be our strategy? Have you formed an opinion?’

‘I have, sir. My first thought was that we could make do with fifty or sixty men if our attack was timely enough – but I am now of the firm opinion that if we strike early in the evening, when the storm raged fiercely and morale was at its lowest ebb, we need only a party of four. The death of two men should seal the Americans’ fate.’

‘Four! I fancied you were going to ask for two hundred! As for
the two men, you refer, I imagine, to General Washington and Colonel Knox.’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Then, so be it! With your words you have signed their death warrant, Sergeant Thomas. Rather than passing into the golden annals of history, the crossing of the Delaware shall be held up as a failure; it shall be viewed as an ill-judged attack in which a rarely remembered general called George Washington met his death. Above all, this night shall be remembered as the beginning of the end of a short-lived adolescent rebellion against Mother England!’