Storm Tide Page 4

  Abigail glanced out of the window, where Aidan was picking his way across the stable yard.

  ‘I am more worried for Aidan. Where Cal leads, he will follow. He idolises his older brother.’

  ‘I idolised my older sister Constance, once,’ said Theo. ‘It brought me nothing but heartache.’

  C

  al returned for supper, as he had promised. He stared at his plate, made no conversation, and retired to bed early. Aidan followed. Shortly afterwards, Theo and Abigail extinguished the candles and went to their bedroom.

  At a quarter to midnight, Cal rose from his bed. The horses snuffled and whinnied as he opened the stable door, but they calmed at the familiar sound of his voice. He saddled Maverick, and retrieved a heavy bundle hidden under a pile of hay. He tied it to the saddle and wrapped cloths around the big stallion’s hooves so that they would make no noise on the cobbles. He led the horse by the bridle until they were clear of the farm before he took off the cloths and started to ride.

  He was convinced nobody had seen him depart.

  The night was dark. The moon hid behind ragged clouds, giving the merest light to guide him along the road. He was terrified that Maverick might catch his hoof in a hole, ending everything before it began. But the sure-footed horse did not let him down. Soon terror was replaced by elation: the midnight ride, the smell of the horse and the cold wind in his face. Maverick’s hooves struck sparks from the stones in the road, flickering around his feet. It was apt, Cal thought. Tonight, he would ignite a revolution.

  The others were waiting for him at the bridge. Dim figures circled their horses, cracking nervous jokes and checking their weapons. Some had dressed as Indians; others wore scarves wrapped around their faces and their hats pulled low. They had been busy. Most of the bridge timbers had been lifted and carried to the riverbank, leaving only a few planks spanning the river.

  ‘You’re late,’ said one of the riders. His face was hidden, but Cal recognised the white blaze on the horse’s nose. It belonged to Sam Hartwell.

  ‘I had to wait till Pa was asleep,’ Cal explained. ‘Otherwise, I couldn’t have brought this.’

  He unwrapped the blanket tied to the back of his saddle. Moonlight gleamed on the long, lethal barrel of his father’s rifle.

  The other boys gasped. All of them could shoot, and had rifles hanging on the wall at home. Some of the bolder ones had brought them. But this was different. This was the weapon of a hero, the gun that had chased the French out of North America and won the battle of Fort Royal. Cal’s father rarely spoke of his exploits to others, but Cal had recounted the stories.

  They gathered round, touching its blackened brasswork and scarred wood.

  ‘He’ll thrash you if he knows you took it,’ warned Sam, jealous of his friend.

  ‘It’ll be back by sunup and he’ll never know,’ said Cal. ‘Unless we stand around talking all night.’

  Without waiting, he kicked his horse and rode over the bridge. The skeletal timber seemed too narrow and frail to hold the weight of the boy and his horse, but Maverick picked his way across unerringly. Sam, not wanting to be outdone, spurred after him. The others fell in behind, until only one – George Hartwell, Sam’s younger brother – was left on the far bank.

  ‘You stay here,’ Cal told George. ‘You know what to do.’

  George clutched his rifle and gave a trembling salute. The others tipped the remaining bridge timbers into the stream, until only a single plank remained. Cal circled around and kicked Maverick into a canter. Riding with his friends around him and his father’s rifle slung over his shoulder, Cal felt nothing but pure savage joy. Confidence coursed through him; stealth was forgotten in the thrill of the moment. The horses’ hooves drummed on the road. Some of the boys could not help letting out whoops of delight, intoxicated by youth and war. It was like every game of soldiers they had ever played, but now marvellously real.

  No one could have missed their progress through the townships and farmsteads of Massachusetts colony. But the shutters on the houses remained closed, and anyone who heard them stayed in their beds. These were dangerous times to be abroad.

  Soon the air thickened with the salty smell of the sea. They dismounted and tethered their horses to a rail fence, hidden from the road by a copse of trees. No one joked or hollered now. The deadly seriousness of what they were about to do was sinking in.

  A squat tower stood on a hill ahead, silhouetted against the starry ocean sky beyond. A fire smouldered in a brazier, downwind and a safe distance away. One spark inside the tower would turn the hill into a crater. Three sentries huddled around the brazier, talking in low voices.

  ‘I cannot believe they do not defend it better,’ whispered Cal.

  ‘That fool of a governor has underestimated us again,’ said Sam. ‘We will make him pay for his mistake.’

  The tower was the British royal arsenal. In all their years of rule, the British had never allowed powder mills in their colonies. Every grain of gunpowder had to be imported from Britain. In Massachusetts, this was where it came to be stored.

  There was a pause. The members of the Army of the Blood of Liberty stared uncertainly at each other. They had spent months discussing their plan, but now they were ready for action, no one was willing to make the first move.

  ‘Enough,’ said Cal. ‘I did not come here to skulk in a ditch.’

  He jumped back on his horse and, with a twitch of his reins, brazenly rode up the path towards the arsenal.

  The sentries saw him coming. They ran forwards and levelled their muskets.

  ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘A friend,’ gasped Cal, making his voice hoarse and ragged. He had hidden his rifle from sight. ‘I came from Fairfield. A group of men are dismantling the bridge.’

  The soldiers looked agitated.

  ‘They mean to cut us off,’ cried one. ‘Without the bridge, the general cannot reinforce us from Boston.’

  A lieutenant emerged from the guardhouse. He looked Cal up and down, reassured by his well-cut coat and polished boots.

  ‘The devil you say!’ he cried. ‘Sergeant, muster the men. We will march out to Fairfield and teach those Yankee rebels a lesson in the King’s power.’

  Soon all the guards except two had formed a column outside the tower. Their white cross belts gleamed in the darkness. Cal led them back to the bridge, walking his horse so they could keep up. He spoke cordially with the lieutenant, amused at how easy it was to fool the man. The lieutenant was garrulous. He had asked the governor many times for more men, he complained; had begged him to move the powder store to the safety of Boston, never mind the risk to civilians. The governor insisted that moving the powder would be seen as an act of weakness.

  Cal nodded. It was not hard to feign sympathy. He only had to repeat the things he had heard his father say.

  At last they reached the bridge.

  ‘Where are the rascals?’ The lieutenant advanced towards the bridge, holding his lantern high. He wondered if he had been hasty in trusting Cal. ‘If you have brought us on a fool’s errand . . .’

  His voice trailed off as he took in the view of the dismantled bridge. Only one narrow board remained, spanning the river like a tightrope. The water flowing freely underneath was clearly visible.

  ‘We must have interrupted them at their work,’ said the lieutenant. ‘They will learn they cannot get away so easily.’

  ‘They could be miles from here by now,’ said his sergeant.

  At that moment, fire flashed in the darkness. A shot rang out from the far bank, though the bullet went well wide. It was a deliberate shot off target, though the British were not to know that. George Hartwell had played his part to perfection.

  ‘Get over the bridge!’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘We cannot let them destroy it before we cross.’

  In single file, his men ran across the plank and fanned out on the other side, muskets aimed uncertainly on the darkness. Soon Cal was the only one left behind.

  ‘Come over,’ called the lieutenant. ‘You must ride to Boston and inform the general we need reinforcements.’

  Cal dismounted and walked to the river’s edge. With a deft kick of his boot, he knocked the last plank off its support. Then he manhandled it with all his strength until it fell in the water with a splash. The rushing current swept it away.

  The lieutenant stared at Cal. In the darkness, he thought it must have been an accident.

  ‘You clumsy oaf!’ He glanced over his shoulder, though no more shots had been fired. ‘Now you are stranded on the wrong side.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Cal. ‘It is you who are on the wrong side. I am exactly where I want to be.’ He tipped his hat. ‘You may give my regards to the general yourself – when you are on the boat to London, where you belong.’

  And before the astonished soldiers could realise what had happened, he turned his horse and galloped back to the arsenal.

  B

  y the time he returned, the operation was in full swing. The Army of the Blood of Liberty had made short work of the remaining sentries. They lay trussed up in the guardhouse, tarred and feathered, while the stout door to the magazine stood wide open. By the light of many lanterns, men rolled out the casks and loaded them onto hay wagons, which had appeared as if from nowhere. They laughed and sang as they worked, drunk on their victory. The scene was more like a carnival than a military operation.

  Cal found Sam Hartwell in the throng.

  ‘They will see these lights all the way from Boston,’ Cal worried.

  ‘Let them,’ Sam answered. There was brandy on his breath. ‘Now that the bridge is down, General Gage himself can do nothing to stop us.’

  ‘There are other bridges.’

  ‘We will be gone long befor
e the British can cross them.’

  ‘Then we had best hurry.’

  Cal joined the line of men passing the barrels down to the waiting wagons.

  ‘There’s enough powder here to blow up the Houses of Parliament!’ shouted one of his friends.

  ‘Or start a war,’ said another.

  ‘And finish it,’ added a third.

  Cal didn’t answer. He was staring at one of the youths coming out of the tower. He was shorter than the others, struggling with the weight of the barrel he carried, which half-hid him. A scarf covered his nose and mouth. Yet for all that, there was something unmistakably recognisable about him.

  Cal strode over and snatched the barrel from the youth’s hands. Behind the scarf, his eyes widened. The boy turned to go; Cal reached out to grab him. His hand caught the scarf and pulled it away.

  ‘Aidan?’ Disbelief gave way to fury. He lifted his brother and pinned him against the wall. ‘Ma and Pa will kill you if they knew you were here.’

  ‘You’re here,’ said Aidan.

  ‘That’s different. I told you – this is not for you.’ In his anger, he could hardly speak. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I stole a horse, followed you to the meeting place. After that, it was easy.’

  ‘I won’t let you put yourself in danger.’

  ‘I won’t let you hog all the glory for yourself.’

  They stared at each other. If they had been back at the farm, they would have settled this with their fists. But it would be stupid to start a fight in the middle of a military operation.

  And then he heard it.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Over the clatter of barrels and general merriment, no one else had noticed. But Cal had keen ears, and a sharp sense for danger. He listened closely.

  The noise came again. The urgent blast of a horn.

  Cal let Aidan go and jumped on top of a hay wagon. From its height he could see clearly down the hill. A line of lights was strung out across the valley, moving towards them at a brisk speed. They were torches, carried by men on horseback with flowing capes and bright, sharp blades.

  ‘Dragoons!’ Cal shouted. ‘The dragoons are coming.’

  He had never expected them to arrive so fast. They must have swum their horses across the river – unless they had had advance warning of the raid.

  He saw Aidan standing beside the cart, his young face looking up expectantly.

  ‘Are we going to fight?’

  In an instant, the merry mood around the tower turned to chaos. Some of the young men fled, others formed a line facing the charging dragoons. They seemed small compared to the long rifles they carried.

  ‘We have to get the powder away,’ said Cal. He glanced at Maverick, tethered to a rail in front of the guardhouse. ‘Do you think you can ride him?’

  Aidan’s eyes widened with shock and delight. Cal had never let him touch his horse before, had boxed his ears when he even sneaked into his stall and tried to stroke him.

  Aidan took Maverick’s bridle gingerly. The horse twitched to feel the unfamiliar hand on the rein; Aidan shied away. But he would not let fear hold him back. Lifting his foot as high as it would go, he stepped into the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. It seemed impossibly high.

  ‘Now get away from here as fast as possible,’ said Cal, leaping from the wagon.

  Aidan’s face fell as he realised why Cal had entrusted him with the horse.

  ‘I want to fight.’

  ‘This is no place for you.’ Cal glanced at the ragged line preparing to face the dragoons. Their rifles were unsteady in their hands, elevated at all angles like straws from a haystack. ‘In a few moments, this will be a bloodbath.’

  He slapped Maverick hard on the hindquarters. The horse sprang forwards, almost throwing Aidan from the oversized saddle. Cal waited long enough to see him regain his balance and disappear into the night. Then he jumped up on the wagon again, snatched the whip from the driver’s seat and cracked it over the horses’ backs. He had to get the powder away.

  The Army of the Blood of Liberty fired. In the forests of the back country, any one of them could have hit a squirrel from two hundred paces. In the dark, with the King’s cavalry bearing down on them, their volley was uneven and let loose too soon. Their shots went wide or buried themselves in the earth.

  The dragoons touched their spurs and galloped forwards, closing the gap while the young men struggled to reload. Smoke and noise and panic made their fingers fumble. The dragoons, the cream of the British army, did not hesitate. Riding almost knee to knee, they made a solid wall of steel and horseflesh bearing down on the defenders.

  Cal turned his attention to his own horses. The musket shots had frightened them into full gallop, sending the heavy-laden wagon hurtling down the track. It jolted him nearly out of his seat. It took all his strength on the reins to stop the wagon careering into a ditch.

  He heard screams behind him, a few shots and the sickening sound of hooves snapping bone. He risked another glance back.

  The torches around the powder magazine revealed carnage. The Army of the Blood of Liberty was no longer an army, though there was plenty of blood being spilled. The dragoons rode over the defeated rebels, allowing their horses to trample them and kick in their skulls. Some of the young men fought with whatever came to hand; others tried to surrender. The dragoons butchered them all. They had been frustrated in Boston for months, listening to the ridicule and threats of the patriot citizens. Now they had their chance to teach the rebel colonists a lesson.

  The dead were boys Cal had grown up with, friends he had known all his life. To see them crushed or dying on the end of British sabres left him numb. All those long evenings sitting around talking of bloodshed and liberty had not prepared him for this. He prayed Aidan was now far away.

  All Cal wanted to do was to make sure his friends had not died in vain. If he could deliver the powder safely, it would change the fortunes of the rebel army at a stroke. Cal held on tight to the panicking horses as they galloped into the night. The wagon swayed and rocked. It was like riding a log in a rushing river. He could only cling on.

  He passed a milestone and joined the coast road. Away to his left, the ocean lay calm and untroubled in the moonlight. The road wound along the shore, cresting hills and splashing through the little streams that flowed into the sea. The horses began to tire. Cal eased his grip on the reins.

  The dark shapes of farm buildings lined the road. Cal didn’t stop. Perhaps the inhabitants were patriots, willing to hide his wagon and its cargo, but he did not want to take the risk. By morning, the British would have patrols searching every property in the county, and it would go ill with the farmer if they found a wagonload of stolen black powder in his barn.

  The wind off the sea drove the clouds away. The moon shone through, lighting up the land in a palette of grey and silver. Cal glanced back.

  His heart stopped. There were horsemen, half a mile away and closing fast. The dragoons. The moonlight picked out the white belts and silver buckles on their uniforms, and the naked steel of the swords they carried.

  He lashed his team with his whip, goading them back up to speed. The wagon bounded forwards. Its wheels spun so fast he thought the axles would snap.

  But the tired horses could not keep up that pace for long. Yoked to the heavy-laden wagon, straining every muscle to keep it moving, they could not possibly outrun the cavalry, who were fresh and hungry for blood. A hill loomed ahead.

  Cal’s mind raced through his options. He could abandon the wagon and run for it, but with a clear moon he would struggle to outpace the dragoons. If he was caught, he would either be killed on the spot, or more likely taken to Boston to be paraded as a rebel before being publicly executed. As a traitor, they would hang him until he was nearly dead, then disembowel him and burn his entrails in front of his dying eyes, before tearing his body into four pieces.

  He would not abandon the powder.

  Two of the dragoons broke out of the pack and galloped ahead. They meant to chase him down before he reached the top of the hill, when the downward slope would give the wagon more momentum. Cal lashed his horses. Their coats steamed, and foam flecked their nostrils. They strained against the traces with all their strength, as if they understood how desperate his danger was.