They crossed the low ridge and went slowly down the other side. The border was somewhere around here, no one was quite sure. Jacques stopped suddenly and cocked his head. Phillipe came up beside him.
“What is it?”
“Be quiet!” his brother whispered hoarsely. “There is something out there — I heard a noise.”
“Deer — ”
“Deer don’t rattle, crétin. There again, a clinking.”
Phillipe heard it too, but before he could speak dark forms loomed up before them. Mounted men.
“Merde! Customs — a patrol!”
Jacques cursed under his breath as he struggled his revolver from his pocket. His much-treasured Lefaucheaux caliber.41 pin-fire. He pointed it at the group ahead and pulled the trigger.
Again and again.
Stabs of flame in the darkness. One, two, three, four shots — before the inevitable misfire. He jammed the gun into his pocket, turned and ran, pulling the horse after him.
“Don’t stand there, you idiot. Back, we go back! They cannot follow us across the border. Even if they do we can get away from them. Then later get around them, use the other trail. It’s longer — but it will get us there.”
Slipping and tugging at the horses they made their way down the hill and vanished into the safety of the forest.
There was panic in the cavalry patrol. None of them had ventured into this part of the mountains before and the track was ill-marked. Heads down to escape the rain, no one had noticed when the corporal had missed the turning. By the time it grew dark they knew that they were lost. When they stopped to rest the horses, and stretch their legs, Jean-Louis approached the corporal who commanded the patrol.
“Marcel — are we lost?”
“Corporal Durand, that is what you must say.”
“Marcel, I have known you since you peed yourself in bed at night. Where are we?”
Durand’s shrug went unseen in the darkness. “I don’t know.”
“Then we must turn about and return the way we came. If we go on like this who knows where we will end up.”
After much shouted argument, name-calling and insults, they were all from the same village, the decision was made.
“Unless anyone knows a better route, we go back,” Corporal Durand said. “Mount up.”
They were milling about in the darkness when the firing began. The sudden flashes of fire unmanned them. Someone screamed and the panic grew worse. Their guns were wrapped about to keep them dry; there was no time to do anything.
“Ambush!”
“I am shot! Mother of God, they have shot me!”
This was too much. Uphill they fled, away from the gunfire. Corporal Durand could not stop them, rally them, not until the tired horses stumbled to a halt. He finally assembled most of them in the darkness, shouted loudly so the stragglers would find them.
“Who was shot?”
“It was Pierre who got it.”
“Pierre — where are you?”
“Here. My leg. A pain like fire.”
“We must bandage it. Get you to a doctor.”
The rain was ending and the moon could be seen dimly through the clouds. They were all countrymen and this was the only clue they needed to find their way back to camp. Exhausted and frightened they made their way down from the hills. Pierre’s dramatic moaning hurrying them on their way.
“Lieutenant, wake up sir. I’m sorry — but you must wake up.”
Lieutenant Saxby Athelstane did not like being disturbed. He was a heavy sleeper and difficult to waken at the best of times. At the worst of times, sodden with drink like this, it was next to impossible to stir him. But it had to be done. Sergeant Sleat was getting desperate. He pulled the officer into a sitting position, the blanket fell to the ground, and with a heave he swung him about so that the lieutenant’s feet were on the cold ground.
“Wha… what?” Athelstane said in a blurred voice. Shuddered and came awake and realized what was happening. “Take your sodding paws off of me! I’ll have you hung for this…”
Sleat stepped back, desperate, the words stumbling from his mouth as he rushed to explain.
“It’s them, sir, the Canadian militia patrol, they’re back…”
“What are you babbling about? Why in Hades should I care at this time of night?”
“They was shot at, Lieutenant. Shot at by the Yankees. One of them is wounded.”
Athelstane was wide-awake now. Struggling into his boots, grabbing at his jacket, then stumbling out of his tent into the driving rain. There was a lantern in the mess tent which was now crowded with gabbling men. A few of the volunteer militia could speak some broken English, the rest none at all. They were backwoods peasants and totally useless. He pushed through them, thrusting them aside, until he reached the mess table. One of their number was lying on the table, a filthy cloth tied about his leg.
“Will someone bloody well tell me what happened,” Athelstane snarled. Corporal Durand stepped forward, saluted clumsily.
“Eet was my patrol, sir, the one you ordered out that we should scout along the Yankee border. We rode as you told us to, but took too long. The weather it was very bad…”
“I don’t want the history of your sodding life — just tell me what you found.”
“We were at the border when it happened, many Yankees, they attacked suddenly, fired at us. Pierre here is wounded. We fought back, fired at them and drove them back. Then they went away, we came back here.”
“You say you were at the border — you are sure?”
“Sans doute! My men know this country well. We were very close to the border when the attack she came.”
“Inside Canada?”
“Oui.”
“You have no doubt that the bloody Yankees invaded this country?”
“No doubt, sir.”
Lieutenant Athelstane went to the wounded militiaman and unwrapped the rag from his leg; he groaned hoarsely. There was a bloody three-inch-long gash in his thigh.
“Shut your miserable mouth!” Athelstane shouted. “I’ve cut myself worse while shaving. Sergeant — get someone to wash this wound out and bandage it correctly. Then bring the corporal to my tent. We’ll see if we can’t make some kind of sense of this entire affair. I’ll take the report to the colonel myself.”
Lieutenant Athelstane actually smiled as he walked back through the lines. It would be jolly nice to get away from the frog militia for a bit, back in the mess with his friends. That was something to look forward to. He hadn’t bought this commission with his inheritance just to be buried out here in the forest. He would write a detailed report of this night’s business that would get the colonel’s attention and approval. Invasion from the United States. Cowardly attack. Fighting defense. It would be a very good report indeed. He would show them the kind of job he could do. Yes, indeed. This really was worth looking forward to.
“A word, sir, if I could,” Harvey Preston said.
Charles Francis Adams looked up from the papers on his desk with irritation, his concentration broken. “Not now, Preston — you can see that I am working.”
“It is about the servants, sir.”
“Well, yes, of course. Best to close the door.”
When Secretary of State Seward had secured for Adams the position of minister to Great Britain it was Abraham Lincoln himself who offered him congratulations. Adams was no stranger to the Presidential Mansion — after all his father had been President — and his grandfather as well. But this had been a very different occasion. Lincoln had introduced him to an Assistant Secretary of the Navy, one Gustavus Fox. For a navy man Fox had a great interest in matters of security. English servants, important papers, state secrets and the like. He had recommended the appointment of Preston, “A former military man” as house manager. Or butler, or major-domo. His exact role remained unclear. Yes, he did indeed manage Adams’s house, keeping an eye on the cook and hiring the servants.