Turncoat (33 page)

“I'm all right now,” he said to Marc as Ensign Hilliard trotted up beside them with the horses in tow.

“Then let's be off,” Marc said as he hit the saddle. “We can't let him get away!”

When Sir Francis had given Marc the task of forming a guard for his political forays into the hinterland, he had spared no expense. Marc had chosen eight young and eager subalterns from his regiment at Fort York (Colin Willoughby was put forward by Sir Francis) and armed them with Brown Bess muskets in addition to the traditional sabre and pistol. The horses now galloping along the trail of the assassin, no more than a hundred yards ahead of Marc, were the best that York County could provide. The pounding of their hooves around the next bend could be heard clearly.

“They'll get him soon at this pace!” Hilliard shouted excitedly over to Willoughby.

“If he hasn't swung off the trail into the forest!” Willoughby yelled to Marc.

“I hope they know enough to keep an eye out for that,” Marc said more to himself than to Hilliard or to Willoughby, who seemed to be dropping back. But there was no chance of slowing down to wait for him.

A few seconds later, Willoughby came abreast at a rapid gallop. “Some of the townsfolk are following us!” he shouted.

Eager to be in on the kill? Marc wondered. Or hoping to obstruct justice in some way?

“There they are!” Hilliard shouted.

The rumps of the governor's prize horseflesh came into view as Marc dashed around yet another S curve. He dug both heels in, and his mount—a chestnut mare—responded with a burst of speed that brought Marc alongside Ensign Parker and the others.

“Where is he?” Marc cried.

“Still ahead, sir. We can hear the bugger even when we can't see him!”

“We need to be sure he doesn't deke into the woods. If he's a local, he'll know every deer-trail in the township.”

“We thought of that, sir, but the trees are too thick on either side for a horse to get through. He'd have to go on foot, and then we'd spot his horse.”

“Good thinking, Ensign.”

“I think he's panicked, sir. I think he's beating his mount flat out, and it won't be long before it dies under him.”

“I hope so. We can't push our own animals much farther at this pace.”

As Hilliard and Willoughby joined the main group, Marc took the lead, raising his hand to signal the others to remain
nine or ten strides in his wake so that he could listen to the hoofbeats of the assassin's horse up ahead. The cadence of its gallop was distinctly audible, and it was beginning to flag. A minute or two more and they would have him. Marc's heart was racing in a cadence of its own, driven by anger, excitement, and the sheer thrill of the chase. This was what he had abandoned law and the Inns of Court for! Here he was thundering into danger (the man ahead had, after all, just murdered in cold blood and doubtless would not hesitate to do so again), careless of his safety, hazarding all for his monarch.

Coming around a sharp turn in the trail, Marc at last caught a glimpse of the felon: a mane of grey hair flying in the wind, the glint of the sun on the gun barrel, the pinto beginning to fail under him.

“Halt! In the name of the King!” Marc cried, but it was too late. Felon and mount had swerved into the tangled bush.

Marc swore and reined his horse in as brutally as he dare. If he were to follow the assassin into this narrow passage in the woods, those coming up behind might charge on past him, unaware. It was only seconds, however, before Willoughby and the guards arrived.

“He's a local, all right,” Marc said, catching his breath and stroking the chestnut's neck. “He's gone in there. There must be a track of sorts or else he's trying his luck on foot.”

Marc eased the horse between two stout pine trunks and entered the humid gloom. As he had suspected, they were on a deer-trail that wound tortuously through the dense woods. There was no need to wave the troop into single file.

“We're right behind you, sir!”

Farther back, he could hear the commotion of the camp followers from town as they, too, stumbled into the woods. One of these fellows, with a stentorian bellow, kept calling out “Stop! Stop!” as if mere repetition would shame the fugitive into giving up the chase.

In the dim light, Marc could easily make out the felon's passage, for the trail itself had been unused since heavy rains a few days earlier, and the pinto's hoofprints were registered clearly in the boggy ground, every stricken step of the way.

“That horse can't last more than a minute or two longer in this morass,” Marc called back to Willoughby. “You'd better get your pistol ready. We may need it soon.”

The trail arced steeply upwards, and with a sidling lurch, Marc found himself out of the forest entirely and partly blinded by the sun. Ahead lay an extensive clearing—the back field of a farm, most likely—lush with timothy. He could not see the fugitive. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he spotted a rocky, spruce-topped ridge on the eastern edge of the field. At the base of it, not more than fifteen yards away, the pinto pony lay on its side, wheezing, dying. Behind it and rising slowly was the fugitive, with his grizzled chest-length beard and wild shock of grey hair and mud-splotched overalls. He was barefoot. All this Marc saw in a single moment, along with the musket that was pointed straight at his heart. He had been given no time to evade or to retaliate, or even to cry out: the trigger was already being squeezed. What he did feel, in the moment before his certain death, was a twinge of animal terror, then an eerie
calm. If he had to die here, at least his courage would have been tested, and found worthy.

The shot did not come. Instead, the felon turned, scrambled up a path of sorts towards the top of the ridge—and vanished. Perhaps the troop coming up out of the woods behind Marc had decided him against pulling the trigger.

“Are you all right, sir?” Ensign Hilliard asked as he and Willoughby reined in beside Marc. “I saw him pointing the gun your way. I was sure he was going to shoot.”

“He thought better of it,” Marc said calmly. “He's on foot now, climbing that hogback.”

“Let's get after him, then,” Willoughby said. Marc noticed that the young man was now looking flushed. There was nothing like a fox hunt to get a gentleman's blood up, Marc thought.

“I think we'd be better off waiting here,” Marc said.

“Why, sir?” Hilliard said a bit too forcefully. “We can fan out on either side of the ridge and run him to ground.”

“Some of the townsfolk are coming up through the woods,” Marc said. “At least one of them will know something about this terrain that might help us get our man and save us time and energy.”

“Whatever we do,” Willoughby added, “we need to remember that he's got a gun and is quite prepared to use it.”

“Nevertheless, I am ordering every one of you to make every attempt to capture this man alive. The odds are that the murder was politically motivated, and the governor will need to know who was involved and why. Anything less could throw the election, and the colony, into chaos.”

“We'll do our best, sir,” Hilliard said.

The first of the townsfolk following the official posse now emerged into the clearing. His name, he announced when he had stopped panting, was Alvin Chambers, a farmer from York Township. Marc addressed him sharply.

“Where does this hogback lead?”

“It's the height of land hereabouts and runs up that way for pert near two mile,” Chambers said.

“Are there farms on both sides?”

“Here and there, with lots of bush in between 'em.”

“If you have any idea where the gunman might be heading, I command you in the name of the governor and the King to tell me.”

Chambers winced at the authoritative tone of Marc's voice. “We do better 'round here when folks ask us politely.”

“Are you refusing to co-operate with the King's guard, sir?”

“Nope. I wouldn't want to offend Sir What's-His-Name, now would I?”

Ensign Hilliard made a move to thrash the insolent man, but Marc held up his hand. “We'll find the blackguard without your assistance, then.” He wheeled his horse towards the ridge.

“There's an old trapper's cabin up there about a half-mile through the scruff and rock,” Chambers drawled. “No need to go straight up here, though.”

Marc paused but did not look back.

“Just ride on north along the base of the hogback till ya come to the bush and a small crick just inside it. There's a path
there that goes straight up to the cabin. I didn't see who we was chasin', but some of the fellas ridin' behind me figured –”

But Marc had already given the signal to move forward, and whatever the farmer had said was lost in the thud of hoofbeats. Alvin Chambers was soon joined by his friends, and they followed the governor's guard on foot, many of them gesticulating frantically, Marc noted when he glanced back.

“I think we had better keep that rabble well away from us when we catch up to the gunman,” Marc said to Willoughby.

“It's hard to tell whose side they're on,” Hilliard added.

Less than five minutes later, the troop came to the bush again, and they could hear the creek tumbling down the ridge nearby. “Well, they didn't deceive us about this landmark,” Marc said.

“So far,” Hilliard said.

A minute later, Willoughby called out, “I've found the track!”

“Tie your horses up here,” Marc ordered. “Ensign Parker will stay with them and make sure these locals don't get any farther than this. The rest of us will proceed with caution, on foot, up to the cabin. Bring your rifles and have them ready to fire. I'll lead the way. No one is to make any move until commanded to do so. Lieutenant Willoughby will walk directly behind me and cover me, should I come under fire.”

Ensign Parker sighed theatrically, while the seven other ensigns eagerly followed Marc's lead. After a long winter of gaming, grouse-hunting, and wenching—relieved by endless hours of idling—they were primed for action.

The path was steep and stony, following the line of least resistance. Scrub pine and barbed bushes blocked any view of what might lie above. Ten minutes of laboured climbing saturated the officers' uniforms with sweat. There was nothing in sight except more bush.

“We could be headed into a trap, sir,” Hilliard suggested.

Marc did not reply, and the ensign decided he had offered enough unsolicited advice for one day.

A few minutes later, they clambered awkwardly up over a projecting ledge. Marc whispered, “There it is,” and signalled for silence.

Perched on a rocky outcrop at the highest point of the hogback was an ancient log hut, windowless and scarcely big enough to confine one medium-sized bull. A hole in the roof was the only chimney, but no smoke drifted out of it into the steamy afternoon heat. The ground immediately around the cabin was bare, making it impossible to approach it under cover. Between Marc and what appeared to be the only door in the hut, the slope was precipitous but dotted with scrub trees or overgrown bushes. With luck he might be able to crawl up close enough to negotiate with the killer without getting shot before he could begin.

A shadow moved in the doorway. Their quarry had come to roost.

Marc turned to his men, who had all come up behind him and were peering anxiously upwards. Several began loading their Brown Besses. Willoughby's pupils were the size of the buttons on his tunic. Half an hour ago he had seen a corpse with a gaping hole in it for the first time; now the muzzle of
a loaded gun might well be aimed at him. Suddenly Marc felt the full weight and responsibility of command: decisions that he would have to make in the next few minutes could put in jeopardy both his own life and the lives of those who trusted his judgment. He took a deep breath.

“I'm going to sneak up as close as I can to the cabin,” he said quietly. “I want you to cover me in case I'm spotted. But do not fire at the fugitive, merely send a volley over his head to keep him lying low inside, and then only when I give the signal by raising my sabre or uttering a command. If I am shot, then Lieutenant Willoughby will take over the unit and issue orders. Even so, if you must shoot, try to wound him only.”

“Understood,” Willoughby said, fighting for breath.

“Will he not try to escape by running back along the ridge the way he came?” Hilliard asked timidly.

“Perhaps,” Marc said, “but I think he's decided, one way or another, to make his stand.” That such a decision clearly put Marc's life at risk was a grim possibility. They felt it to a man.

Without further ado, Marc set out. He moved quickly between clumps of brush, pausing at each to squint upwards at the hut. Three-quarters of the way there he realized with a sigh that his feathered shako and scarlet tunic would make him visible even if he had had a granite boulder to hide behind. But the gunman had made no move to warn him off or to put a bullet through his head. Perhaps in his exhaustion and remorse, he had decided to wait for Marc's arrival and then throw himself upon the King's mercy.

Marc was now about thirty yards or so beyond his men and
no more than fifteen yards from the hut itself. It was, he could see now, a hovel: crumbling and pathetic in its slow collapse. The stench of offal and rotted vegetables was overpowering, even at this distance. Suddenly, the gunman appeared in the doorway, his eyes, deep in their sockets, gleaming feverishly. He still held the gun, an aging hunting musket, in one hand.

“Put the gun down, sir,” Marc shouted gently in his direction, “and no one will get hurt. I represent Lieutenant-Governor Head, and I need to talk to you.”

The old fellow moved the gun as if to drop it, but it seemed permanently mortised to his right hand, and, instead, it began to rise alarmingly upwards. But something in the man's startled stare caused Marc to relax his guard. He stood up slowly and, without taking his eyes off the gun, raised his arm and barked out a single order: “Hold your fire!”