Without even waiting for the colonel to lower his weapon, the man pushed Gower aside with the edge of the bayonet and stamped out the burning pile of papers. “Take the man’s weapon, Peter, and bind his hands.” He turned to Creighton. “What about you? Do you mean to give us any trouble?”
Creighton spread his arms. “I’ve no weapon.”
As the colonel’s hands were tied behind him, he protested, “This is an outrage! I am an officer in His Majesty’s army!”
“You are also a prisoner,” said the short man.
“By whose orders?”
“Mine.” The man bowed, in a fashion that seemed to hold a touch of mockery. “Benedict Arnold, sir, general of the Continental Army, at your service.” He certainly looked nothing like a general, or any sort of officer. But, Creighton had to admit, neither did he fit the popular image of a pirate. In fact, his modest but fashionable brown breeches and russet coat gave him the appearance of a prosperous merchant.
The colonel laughed derisively. “There is no Continental Army. We defeated it.”
“Ah, but we never surrendered, and we signed no treaty.”
“Treaties are for wars. Your pitiful campaign was a rebellion, nothing more.”
The American’s face went tight. Creighton feared for a moment he might shoot the colonel, or impale him. But he answered only with words. “You know, that’s one of the things we can’t abide about you Brits—your damned arrogance.”
Arnold crouched to examine the pile of charred papers, keeping his right leg out straight beside him, as though it pained him to bend it. “It’s a pity we didn’t force the door a minute sooner. These might have proven to be informative.” He tossed the blackened pieces aside, then picked up the diplomatic pouch and peered inside. “Hello. What have we here?” He drew out a sheet of paper that had somehow stuck inside the pouch.
Creighton glanced guiltily at his uncle, whose expression was a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Without speaking a word, he clearly conveyed how low was his opinion of his nephew’s worth.
Arnold’s thick black eyebrows rose. “A letter to the governor of West Florida, from the governor of South Carolina. It appears that our prisoner is to be the colony’s new lieutenant governor. Or was to be, should I say?”
“Gad!” exclaimed the giant. “He should fetch us a pretty price.”
Arnold nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the colonel’s face, as though he were trying recall where he had seen it before. “Colonel Gower, is it? I know that name. You were at Quebec, were you not?”
“I was. My men defended the water gate.”
“Then it’s you I have to thank for this memorable souvenir of my visit to Canada.” The American got awkwardly to his feet, one hand pressing on the thigh of his injured leg.
“It was a visit for which your men paid dearly, I believe,” said the colonel. “Still, we captured far more than we killed. I must say, that surprised me, in view of the little mottoes that were pinned to the caps of those who surrendered: Liberty or Death. Yet when it came down to it, most of them chose to live, even in captivity.”
Arnold raised his cutlass and placed the point against the top button of the colonel’s coat. “And which do you choose, sir? Life in captivity? Or death?”
Colonel Gower did not flinch. “If you mean to hold me for ransom, you’re wasting your time. My government will not negotiate with brigands.”
“Oh, we had no intention of asking for a ransom. We will demand an exchange. And since I’ve often heard it said that one of your soldiers is worth at least three of ours, they’ll no doubt agree to give us three American officers in exchange for you.”
“What about that one?” the giant named Peter said, pointing his sword at Creighton.
The warning look his uncle sent in his direction was every bit as sharp. “No one would give a farthing for me,” Creighton said. “I’m only a servant.” He knew well enough that his speech sounded nothing like a servant’s; if it did, all his years of elocution lessons would have been wasted. But he was just as certain that these uncultured Yankeys would not know the difference.
“What sort of servant?” Peter asked. “Hired or bound?”
“Bound.”
The man nodded sympathetically. “I know how that works. All they do is pay your passage, and you’re theirs for seven years. ’Tis not much different from being a slave.”
Now that Creighton had a better look at him, he realized that the giant was probably only a year or two older than he was. His voice was unexpectedly high, as though it had not yet matured, and his manner of speaking, which was deliberate and earnest, with a trace of a lisp, made him sound a trifle slow-witted.
The other American’s curt, intense manner contrasted as sharply with the giant’s as did his size. When he spoke, it was as though every word were a command. “Well,” he said, “your indenture will be an unexpectedly short one. We Patriots are not in the habit of keeping slaves.” He stared at the colonel a moment, as if considering what to do with him. “Lock our prisoner in the captain’s cabin. It looks as though the captain will no longer be needing it.”
“It’s not necessary to confine me,” Colonel Gower assured him. “I am willing to give my word as an officer and a gentleman that I will not attempt to escape.”
“You may be willing to give your word,” said Arnold. “But I am not willing to take it.” He beckoned to Creighton. “You may come with me.” Creighton hesitated and gave a guarded glance at his uncle. The colonel made a slight sideways motion with his head, as if to say, Go with him.
Most of the privateers were aboard the Amity now. Judging from their lack of injuries, they had taken the ship without much of a fight. The dozen or so British sailors and Marines who had come through relatively unscathed—Creighton was relieved to see Lieutenant Hale among them—were being herded together and their legs shackled with chains. Those who had been sorely wounded were being bandaged and given drinks of rum by the Americans. The dead were being wrapped in sailcloth shrouds, weighted with cannonballs, and dumped unceremoniously overboard.
Creighton’s eyes sought out the body of Captain Pierce. He still lay where he had fallen. Someone had been considerate enough to lay him out straight, set pennies on his eyelids, and place his one arm across his chest.
Beyond the captain’s corpse, through the hole that had been blasted in the Amity’s gunwales, Creighton caught sight of the stern of the privateers’ vessel, and of the name that was painted there: Revenge. So Captain Pierce had had his chance to strike back at the rogues who had defeated and disarmed him before, and he had failed—not because he lacked skill or courage, but because the Americans had resorted to treachery and deceit.
A sailor was preparing to wrap Captain Pierce’s body in canvas, but Arnold stayed him. “Let him be until we’ve the time to give him a proper funeral.” He kicked a broken spar out of the way and stepped to the rail of the quarterdeck. “Your attention, gentlemen!” Creighton secretly scoffed at his use of the term to address a pack of pirates. The Americans paused in their various tasks to listen. “I offer these conditions to the crew of the captured vessel. Those who renounce their loyalty to the king and embrace the Patriot cause will be released.”
The Amity’s men stared sullenly at him. Creighton was confident that few, if any, of them would take the offer. Englishmen were not so quick as Americans to forswear their allegiance to their king.
“Of those who agree to these terms,” Arnold went on, “half will be transferred to the Revenge. The other half will stay aboard the Amity, along with some of my crew, to sail her to the port of New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?” Creighton turned to Peter, who stood—or rather loomed—next to him. “New Orleans is in Spanish territory!”
The giant shrugged. “We Patriots had to go somewhere. The Spanish have no more love for England than we do.”
“When you saw the rebellion was doomed, why did you not just surrender?”
Peter laughed. “You may as well ask why we didn’t just hang ourselves, and save King George the trouble.”
“The English don’t hang prisoners of war,” Creighton replied indignantly. “Only traitors.”
“According to the king and his ministers, that’s what we are.” He nodded toward the main deck. “And that’s what they’ll be.” Creighton followed his gaze. Every man of the Amity’s crew who could walk had asked to be unchained; they were crowding about the quarterdeck steps, swearing on the Bible to be loyal to the American cause—every man but one. Lieutenant Hale stood rigidly at the base of the mainmast, the expression on his face as hard and unyielding as the iron shackles that were clamped to his ankles.
———
Hale was locked in the captain’s cabin, along with Colonel Gower. Creighton waited for someone to tell him what to do. When no one did, he retired to his cabin and lay down on his bunk. Though ordinarily he despised having to follow orders, he would actually have welcomed an order or two just now, for he was feeling all adrift, like a ship cut loose from its anchor and tossed about, not by wind, but by the whims of Fate. Each time he was sure that his situation was as bad as it could be, he was plunged into some new and even more dire circumstance.
First he had been banished to Carolina, which would have been cruel enough, but then he had found himself condemned to the still more distant and dismal outpost of Florida. And now he was to be dragged even farther from civilization, to a place that was not even British territory, a place where he would be surrounded not only by red Indians and alligators but by Spaniards and Yankeys.
The Amity had been so badly crippled by cannon fire that Creighton assumed it would be several days before she could be made seaworthy. He prayed that while they were dead in the water, another British vessel would turn up—preferably one that was better armed—and make the Americans pay in blood for their villainy.
But somehow the privateers, aided by their new conscripts, managed to get the schooner under way in only a few hours. Soon after they set sail, the giant entered Creighton’s cabin—this time in the normal fashion, for the door could no longer be bolted. He nodded amiably. “I hope you don’t object to a roommate.”
Creighton sat up, scowling. “As a matter of fact I do. I don’t like sharing accommodations with anyone, let alone a pirate.”
Peter stared at him reproachfully. “I’m not a pirate. I’m a corporal in the Patriot army.”
“Of course you are. And I’m a rear admiral in the Ethiopian navy.”
“Do they have a navy?” Peter asked. Then he flushed a little and laughed. “I see. You’re making a joke. Stupid me, I’m ready to believe anything.” He sat on the other bunk and pulled off his boots, wincing as he did so. “These boots. They make my toes curl up like caterpillars. It’s hard to find boots big enough for these feet of mine.” He lifted one of the appendages in question, which, with the addition of claws and fur, would not have looked out of place on a bear.
Creighton was about to repeat his protest, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was that feeling of being alone and adrift. He felt the need of company, and unless he wished to be locked up with his uncle and Lieutenant Hale, he would have to settle, like Robinson Crusoe, for whatever company he could get.
“I warrant you’re feeling about the same way my feet feel, an’t you?” said Peter.
Creighton gave him an incredulous look. “What do you mean?”
“You know—free. Unbound.”
Creighton had all but forgotten that he was supposed to be an indentured servant. No wonder the giant had been baffled by his high-and-mighty behavior. No servant would dare to be so cheeky. He sighed. He had always considered himself a capable actor. The theatricals that were presented semiannually were the one aspect of school in which he excelled. But he’d always been given the role of a gentleman, usually something of a dandy, such as Sir Anthony in The Rivals. Pretending to be lower-class and servile promised to be far more challenging and not nearly as enjoyable.
“I know all about it,” Peter was saying. “That’s how my father came to the Colonies—as bound servant to a surveyor. Lucky for him the man died, and he took over the trade.”
Creighton yawned broadly. “Fascinating.”
Peter gave him a baffled look. “Excuse me for saying so, but for a fellow who’s been rescued from bondage, you don’t seem to me to be very grateful.”
“Grateful? You expect me to be grateful, when I’m being hauled off to no-man’s-land? Couldn’t you just set me ashore at Mobile or Biloxi?”
Peter stared at him again, as though uncertain whether or not he was joking. “That’s English territory.”
“Of course. That’s the point. I am English, you know. What in the world will I do in New Orleans—presuming that I don’t die right away from some tropical disease?”
Peter shrugged his broad shoulders. “Take up a trade?” he suggested.
“A trade? What sort of trade? Highway robbery?” Then he reminded himself that he was not playing the part of a gentleman. He sighed again, more deeply. He had been a servant for only a few hours and already he was deathly sick of it.
In the morning Creighton asked, as humbly as he could manage, whether he might talk with Colonel Gower for a few moments. Peter looked surprised. “Faith, I’d have thought you’d want no more to do with him.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, he’s the one you were indentured to, an’t he?”
“Oh,” Creighton said. “Yes. He is. But you see . . . he owes me a month’s wages.”
Peter frowned in puzzlement. “I never heard of a bound servant being paid wages.”
“That’s because you’re an American. We do things differently in England. Now, I’m going to go see him, all right?”
Since Peter could find no reason to refuse, he let Creighton into the captain’s cabin and stood guard at the door. Hale was sitting in a chair by the window, still shackled. He raised a hand in greeting, but before he could say anything, the colonel sprang up from the captain’s desk and confronted Creighton. “Have you learned anything?”
“Learned anything? How do you mean?”
“Any information that may be of use to us?”
“I didn’t know I was expected to be a spy.”
“You’re an Englishman. You’re among the enemy. You are expected to learn whatever you can about them.”
Creighton thought a moment. “I know that we’re headed for New Orleans.”
The colonel sniffed. “I could have guessed that. Anything else?”
Creighton shook his head. “Listen, I can’t go on pretending to be a servant, as you told me to. It’s too . . .”
His uncle glared at him. “Too what?”
“Too embarrassing. Too demeaning.”
“More demeaning than being locked up?” the colonel demanded. He gestured toward Hale. “More demeaning than being shackled, like a common criminal? If they believe you’re nothing more than a bound boy, they’ll not regard you as a threat. They’ll talk freely in front of you.”
“But I don’t want—” Creighton protested.
Gower put up a hand to silence him. “Soft! They’ll hear you.” He hooked a finger in Creighton’s waistcoat and drew the boy nearer to him, so near that Creighton could make out for the first time the color of his uncle’s narrow, deep-set eyes. They were a cold gray, like lead. “Now you listen to me. It doesn’t matter what you want or do not want. We will need an ally outside these walls. God knows if I had a choice, I would not have chosen you. But you’re all we have. And the more you ingratiate yourself with our enemies, the more they come to trust you, the more valuable you will be to us.”
Creighton stared at the colonel incredulously, as though the man had suggested he ingratiate himself with the alligators. “You want me to make friends with the Americans?”
“Not in reality, of course. You will only seem so. You will, as it were, be flying false colors.”
Like those of highwaymen, the daring exploits of spies had always held a good deal of romantic appeal for Creighton. But the prospect of turning spy himself gave him pause. It wasn’t that he was a coward; he might have undertaken the task if it had been for a good cause. Doing it because his uncle ordered him to did not seem a particularly good cause. But perhaps the chance to strike back at the people who killed his father was. “I don’t know. I’m not certain I can do it.”
“Neither am I. But I suggest you try.”
“And if I don’t?” The colonel was hardly in a position to demand anything of him, after all, or to punish him if he didn’t comply.
He expected the colonel to respond with anger, with an order, a command. Instead the man said calmly, “Clearly it’s no use appealing to your sense of honor or duty, so let me just point out that sooner or later—whether it is through ransom or exchange or some other means—we will gain our freedom and return to English soil.”
“So?”
“So,” the colonel went on, with the confident air of a cardplayer who knows he holds the winning hand, “I imagine you’ll want to go with us.”
Creighton did his best to bluff. “And what will my mother say when she learns that you’ve deserted me?”
The colonel shrugged. “How would she learn it? England is a long way off. I can write to her whatever I like, and she has no alternative but to believe it—just as she believed what I told her about your father.”
“My father? What do you mean?”
The colonel turned away and seated himself again at the captain’s desk. Creighton started after him. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
Lieutenant Hale stepped forward and blocked his way. “Gently, lad. Calm yourself.”
“I want to know what he means!” Creighton leaned over the desk. “Did you lie to us in some way about my father’s fate?” he shouted. “Did you?”
The door to the cabin opened and the giant strode in, his pistol drawn and cocked. “What’s going on here?” He trained the gun on Hale, who was restraining Creighton.
The lieutenant let go of the boy and shuffled back a few steps. “He’s a bit upset, that’s all.”
Peter glanced at Creighton. “What’s the trouble? Won’t he part with your wages?”
Creighton was so agitated that he might have blurted out the truth had his uncle not spoken first. “Wages? Is that what you came here for? Why did you not simply say so?” The colonel dug a handful of coins from the pocket of his waistcoat and tossed them onto the desktop. “There. You see how simple everything is if you just make it clear what you want?”
Creighton stared at the coins. They were, of course, not what he wanted at all. What he wanted was to go home—that, and to know whatever it was that his uncle was withholding from him about his father. But it was clear that the only way he could hope to obtain either of those things was to give the colonel what he wanted.
“An’t that right?” Peter asked.
Creighton looked up at him, confused. “What?”
Peter pointed to the coins. “An’t that what you had coming?”
“Oh. Yes.” Hesitantly, Creighton picked up a shilling and turned it between his fingers. Though the money was only a pretense, he had the uneasy feeling that if he accepted it, if he kept up the pretense, he would be agreeing to act as the colonel’s spy. Yet what choice did he have? As he thrust the money into his waistcoat pocket, he caught the look on his uncle’s face—the complacent look of a man who had, as usual, gotten his way—and for the first time Creighton had an inkling of what it felt like to be a servant.