Storm Tide Page 5

  The summit loomed, but the dragoons’ outriders were getting closer. The two horsemen spread apart like the jaws of a trap, coming up either side of the wagon. There was nothing Cal could do. He still had his father’s rifle slung across his back, but it needed all his strength to steer the wagon. He could not remove his hands from the reins.

  In the corner of his eye, he saw one of the dragoons come up on his right. The other came abreast to his left, a flashing menace steering his mount closer and closer to the rumbling wheels. For a moment, the three of them rode in line.

  A sabre slashed at Cal’s head. He jerked out of the way just in time. The blade struck the seat beside him and was impaled, quivering in the wood. At full gallop, the dragoon tried to pull it free. As he did so, Cal yanked on the reins so that the wagon veered suddenly across the road.

  The dragoon had come in too close. The wagon’s metal-rimmed wheels slammed into his horse’s foreleg and snapped the bone with a crack. Even above the thunder of hooves, the rattle of wheels and the jangle of harness, the beast’s scream was plain and terrible as it collapsed in a tangle of limbs. The wagon’s rear wheels nearly broke the horse’s neck as they raced by.

  Cal hauled on the reins again, dragging the wagon back to the centre of the road. It was like trying to steer a charging buffalo. It moved, but terribly slowly. A ditch ran along the side of the road. For a heart-stopping moment, his right front wheel hung above it, spinning over the void. He felt the cart begin to drop into it. If he hit the ditch at this speed, the cart would be smashed to pieces.

  Then the wheel caught the edge of the road, and bounced back onto it with a bump that tossed Cal two feet in the air. The reins and the whip were thrown out of his hands.

  The team of horses slowed. Cal could see the reins dragging along the ground between the traces. He had to get them back. He unshouldered his rifle and laid it aside. Hanging off the seat one-handed, he lowered himself into the small space between the wagon and the horses. The wheels rumbled beside him; the horses’ hooves pounded inches from his face. The dust they threw up choked and blinded him. He grasped for the reins. The rushing ground scraped his fingertips raw, tearing his nails to bloody stumps. The pain was immense, but he forced himself to keep trying until his hands closed around the leather.

  He hauled himself up onto the seat again. He spat dust out of his mouth and rubbed it from his eyes.

  A sharp point pricked his ribs.

  ‘Stop the wagon,’ said a cut-glass English voice imperiously in his ear.

  The second dragoon was standing on the running board, his sword held to Cal’s breast. He must have ridden alongside the wagon and then leaped aboard while Cal was retrieving the reins. To jump from a galloping horse to a wildly veering wagon was no small feat, but Cal could not appreciate it. He cursed the man for his horsemanship, even as he heard another horse galloping behind the wagon. There must be more dragoons on his tail.

  There was nothing he could do. At the least movement, the dragoon would run him through. The sneer on the man’s face left him in no doubt.

  Yet something stubborn inside Cal would not yield. He snapped the reins, urging the horses to up their pace. He wished he had time to grab his rifle, use the flint to make a spark that could ignite the cargo of powder. At least then his death would not be for nothing.

  ‘You’ve had your warning . . .!’

  The dragoon tensed his arm. Cal braced himself for the lunge. In the split second before it came, he wondered if being stabbed by the sword would hurt. His thoughts flashed to his friends massacred at the arsenal, and he took courage from their example. He would not die less courageously than they had.

  The sword lunged. It was inches from his chest; it could not miss. Yet in those few vital inches, the blade went askew. It angled up, missing Cal’s heart and cutting through the cloth of the shoulder of his coat.

  There was someone else on the wagon. A pair of arms had wrapped around the dragoon’s chest, tugging and beating him. It was not a fair fight. The dragoon was nearly six feet tall, while his attacker appeared to be more of a boy than a man. The Englishman grabbed the arm that held him and forced it back until it almost snapped. The boy cried out in pain.

  Cal wrenched the sword’s hilt from the dragoon’s hands. Without thought or hesitation, he reversed the blade and plunged it into the dragoon’s chest.

  The man went limp. Before Cal could withdraw the sword, a rut in the road jolted the cart. The dragoon tipped over the side and somersaulted to the ground. The wagon bounced again as the wheels rode over his body, crushing whatever life was left in him. Cal gathered the reins tightly.

  He stared at his saviour. It was Aidan.

  ‘How did you get here?’ he gasped. And then, not waiting for an answer, ‘You saved my life.’

  Over his shoulder, Cal saw Maverick loping along, easily keeping pace with the wagon.

  ‘Maybe you are not as useless as I thought,’ he said, trying to hide his emotions.

  Aidan’s eyes glowed with defiance.

  Cal saw blood on Aidan’s shirt. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Aidan grinned and showed him a hole in the fabric. ‘You rammed that dragoon’s sword so far through him you nearly skewered me as well. My first war wound. It is only a scratch.’

  ‘There is time yet for another. There are more dragoons coming.’

  Looking back, Cal could see them riding up the road behind. He handed the reins to Aidan.

  ‘Drive on to Duxbury. There are patriots there who will take charge of the powder. I will slow our pursuers.’

  His rifle still lay on the floor of the wagon where he had discarded it. Cal slung it over his shoulder, then whistled to his horse. Maverick cantered closer, until he was barely a foot from the moving wagon. Cal reached out, grabbed the pommel of the saddle and sprang. His leg went over, and he landed cleanly in the saddle. Maverick didn’t break stride.

  The wagon raced down the far side of the hill, swaying wildly as Aidan struggled to steer it. Cal prayed his little brother could regain control. He circled Maverick around. Some way back, he found the dead dragoon’s horse, munching grass at the side of the road. The dragoon’s carbine was still holstered beside the saddle, along with a finely made pistol. Cal took them both.

  There were three dragoons galloping towards him. Cal dismounted, to steady himself, and aimed the rifle, which had the longest range. Kneeling, he trained it on the leading horseman. His arms ached from driving the horses, but they did not tremble as he sighted his enemy.

  It was a long shot, against a moving target in the dark. The flash of powder blinded him, so he didn’t see the bullet strike. As his vision cleared, he saw the horse still galloping towards him. But there was no rider. He lay in the road, writhing and screaming, as the other two dragoons rode past.

  Calmly, Cal reloaded and fired again, at the next-nearest dragoon. But this time, his target swerved and the bullet went wide.

  The remaining men were closing quickly. With no time to reload the rifle, Cal had two bullets ready, one in the carbine and one in the pistol. But both his weapons were short-range: he could not be sure of hitting the targets until they were nearly on him.

  He swung himself back into Maverick’s saddle. He levelled the carbine, forcing himself to hold steady until the dragoons were so close he could see the sweat foaming on their horses’ flanks.

  A hardened soldier would have aimed for the horse as the bigger target. Cal, still raw and unwilling to harm an innocent animal, shot at the rider. He missed. He threw the carbine aside and drew the pistol. The men were so close now he could not afford another wasted shot. The pistol exploded in the darkness, and one of the dragoons went down.

  Only one remained. But he was on him. A sabre sliced at Cal, and he parried it desperately with his pistol. It stopped the blow, but the pistol was knocked spinning out of his hand.

  The dragoon circled around to come at him again. Cal had no weapons, not even a knife. As the dragoon closed at speed, Cal’s only defence was the horse under him. He tugged the reins and kicked Maverick’s flanks. The horse bounded forwards, leaping over the ditch at the roadside into the adjacent field just as the dragoon’s sabre whistled through the air where Cal’s head had been.

  With a ‘huzzah’ like a fox hunter, the dragoon gave chase. Cal had an advantage: he had been roaming this country since he could walk and knew it like his own garden. But the dragoon rode like the Devil himself. Even in the dark over unfamiliar ground, he cleared every fence and ditch. No matter how hard he rode, Cal could not shake him.

  Galloping over the damp earth was draining Maverick’s strength. His ears were back, his flanks white with sweat. Cal didn’t dare look around, but he could hear the jangle of the dragoon’s spurs edging closer and closer. He rode through a small stand of trees, face pressed against Maverick’s mane so that he did not have his head whipped off by a low branch. As they emerged from the woods, he saw another fence ahead and managed to balance himself before Maverick launched them over it.

  They had come back onto the road – on high ground, where the road hugged close to a cliff. Cal rode on, trying to coax every last ounce of strength from his tiring horse. It was like a nightmare, chased by a remorseless enemy who never seemed to lose pace. The dragoon was almost alongside him. Cal swayed and veered, dancing to keep out of reach of the flickering sword point, but he was running out of options.

  Maverick slowed. The horse had given his all. Cal looked back. In the moonlight, the dragoon’s helmet hid his eyes in shadow, but his mouth was open in a warlike snarl. He raised his sword as he spurred alongside Cal, ready for the stroke that would slit him from shoulder to belly.

  With the last of his strength, Maverick leaped. Cal wasn’t ready for it. The jump almos
t bounced him out of his saddle. Without thinking, he clenched his thighs against Maverick’s flanks and wrapped his hands in the horse’s mane. He didn’t know why the horse had launched himself. All he saw was a dark blur sweeping beneath him, before the thud of the horse’s landing nearly unseated him again.

  A crack in the ground yawned behind, a narrow gully where the cliff had crumbled away. Maverick had seen it and reacted in time. The dragoon’s horse galloped into the hole, smashing into the opposite bank so hard it broke its neck. The dragoon was thrown from his saddle. He flew over the cliff edge, bouncing down the steep slope until he landed in a tangle of limbs on the rocks below.

  Cal drew Maverick to a halt, horse and rider breathing so deeply their hearts might burst. Cal hardly had the strength to lift his head, but as the pounding in his ears subsided he heard a familiar rumble a distance away. He looked up.

  He was in a dip between two hills. The road came down the slope behind him, bent inland to avoid the gully where the dragoon had fallen, then straightened towards the summit of the next hill. Almost at the top, was the wagon. Cal saw the powder kegs piled in the back, and the small figure of Aidan perched on the driver’s seat. Fixed on his task, Aidan hadn’t seen the battle behind him.

  The wagon was safe. Cal felt a surge of fraternal pride: he wanted to hug his brother. They had done it together. Sam Hartwell and all the friends they’d lost had not died for nothing.

  But something was wrong. As Aidan reached the top of the hill, Cal could see his silhouette come into sharper focus. Not against the stars, but against a dull orange haze glowing behind the hill.

  The wagon seemed to pause at the summit, then disappeared over the other side.

  Cal felt a terrible sense of dread. Forgetting his exhaustion, he kicked Maverick forwards. The horse responded sluggishly. He was half lame, too exhausted to muster more than a trot. The orange light grew brighter as they climbed the hill, but however much Cal kicked, begged and cajoled the beast, he was too slow.

  They crested the hill and Cal’s heart stopped. The British were there. How they had managed it – if word had raced ahead, if someone had betrayed them, if it was sheer bad luck – he didn’t know. But there they were. Waiting for him.

  They had felled trees across the road at the bottom of the hill. Braziers burned at either end, lighting up a dozen soldiers with fixed bayonets behind the barricade. There was no way through.

  Further down the slope, Cal could see Aidan leaning back on the reins, trying desperately to slow the horses. But the wagon kept rolling. It gathered pace as its momentum took it down the hill.

  Suddenly Aidan fell back. The horses pulling the wagon broke free and galloped away. In horror, Cal realised the dragoon’s sabres must have nicked the harness: now it had snapped. The wagon continued on, out of control. It was going to smash into the barricade.

  ‘Jump, Aidan!’ Cal screamed at the top of his lungs.

  He thought Aidan would do it. His little brother stood up on the driver’s box, looking around in disbelief. He seemed poised to leap. But whether he couldn’t bring himself to make the move, or if he stayed loyal to the last to his brother’s instructions not to leave the wagon, he didn’t try to abandon the vehicle.

  Cal kicked Maverick’s flanks and charged forwards, thinking he might yet snatch Aidan off the cart. Panicked by the sight of the runaway wagon rushing down on them, some of the soldiers started to flee. Others watched open-mouthed, but one or two with cooler heads opened fire. Muskets flashed.

  The wagon hit the barricade with the speed of a charging bull. The front wheels shattered; the frame snapped. The soldiers were skittled like ninepins. The braziers were knocked over, spilling their hot coals. Kegs of gunpowder were hurled in the air and smashed open. Cal saw Aidan thrown high, tossed over the barricade and landing on the far side like a rag doll.

  One of the powder kegs rolled away across the road. Its staves had cracked, making it oscillate like an egg, and leaving a trail of black powder spilling through the gaps. It trundled lazily across the road in the direction of one of the toppled braziers, towards the embers glowing in the dust.

  The barrel nudged up against them and stopped.

  A flash shot across the road like lightning as the powder trail ignited. Then the landscape vanished in a ball of fire, so vast and bright it was as if the noon sun had appeared in the middle of the night. Cal shielded his eyes. A split second later the force of the blast punched him hard and he was nearly thrown from the saddle. The noise punctured his ears like a thunderclap, followed by silence as he went deaf.

  Peering through his fingers, he saw the scene like some soundless vision of Hell. Smoke poured into the night. The frame of the wagon burned like the skeleton of an enormous dying animal. More fires flared as other barrels caught alight and exploded, making a dull popping sound in his shocked ears. Fragments of wood and men lay strewn over the ground.

  Aidan was somewhere in the inferno. Ignoring the blood running from his nose, the ache in his ears and the smoke in his eyes, Cal urged Maverick forwards. The horse reared onto his hind legs, shying away from the fire. Even Cal could not persuade him on. He dismounted and ran through the burning debris, remembering just in time to unbuckle his cartridge box so it did not explode in the heat. The fire scalded his face and burned his skin, but Cal was insensible to pain. He scrambled over the remains of the barricade and jumped down on the far side.

  Aidan lay where he had fallen, a shadow spread-eagled on the ground. Cal ran to him. The sleeve of Cal’s shirt was on fire, but he ignored it. He kneeled beside Aidan and tried to lift him.

  The moment Aidan’s head left the ground, it flopped back like a broken hinge. The force of the landing had snapped his neck. He had died instantly.

  Tears ran down Cal’s face, cool against the blisters bubbling up on his seared skin. His brother was dead. The powder was destroyed. All was lost.

  Something stirred on the ground a distance away. A British soldier lay under one of the logs that had been thrown back by the force of the blast. He was alive.

  Cal walked over and looked down. The log had broken the soldier’s leg and pinned him to the ground, but it had also shielded him from the violence of the explosion. The eyes staring up at Cal were raging.

  ‘Get this bloody weight off me,’ the soldier said through gritted teeth.

  Cal hesitated, paralysed by a storm of emotions. The soldier’s fury seemed to exhaust itself.

  ‘Please,’ the soldier begged.

  He was helpless. Cal crouched down beside him. He noted the relief in the man’s face as he reached for the log. It was heavy, but Cal was used to clearing brush and chopping firewood on the farm. He could save him.

  But no one had saved Aidan.

  A great emptiness opened inside Cal, as if his heart was collapsing into itself. How would he tell his father? His mother? He imagined walking into the kitchen in the farmhouse, his mother’s smile crumbling to despair. The fury rising in his father’s eyes.

  It was not my fault Aidan followed me, he told himself, trying to make himself believe it. It was not my fault. However many times he repeated it, he knew his father would never accept it.

  A long, wickedly spiked bayonet was tucked in a loop on the soldier’s belt. Cal pulled it out. Guilt rose inside him to an almost unbearable pitch. He wished he had ridden Maverick right into the fireball when the powder kegs went up, to obliterate himself and his shame. The sharp point of the bayonet glimmered in the firelight. He wanted to drive it into his heart.

  It was not my fault.

  Guilt hardened to anger. He hurt so badly, but his father would offer no comfort. He would blame him for everything. It was so unfair.

  Hot liquid dribbled down his face. He wiped it away, thinking it must be tears and ashamed of it. But when he looked at his hand, he saw it was wet with blood.

  Had he been hurt? He looked down, focusing on his surroundings again. The British soldier lay beneath him, with the bayonet piercing his throat. The blood on Cal’s face must have fountained out of an artery, though it had already subsided to a dribble. The soldier’s neck was a mess of open wounds where he had been repeatedly stabbed, so hard that in the end the bayonet had gone right through his neck and stuck upright in the earth beneath.