That night he went to bed fully clothed and lay awake, waiting for the house to grow quiet and for the streets of the city to become deserted. Finally he rose, fished the pistol from beneath the bed, and slipped as soundlessly as any Indian out the window of his room, resisting the impulse to swat at the mosquitoes, which had no trouble locating him, no matter how silently he moved.
He made his way through the dark streets as quickly as he could and approached the Cabildo from the rear. The only light came from the room where the guards were posted. Creighton drew out the pistol and, reaching into one of the rifle ports, rapped the end of the barrel against the wooden hatch. There was no reply from inside. He pounded harder, hoping the noise wouldn’t bring the guards down upon him. Finally the little door swung open, and a soft voice said, “Creighton?”
“Hale? I’ve got the pistol.”
“Good lad! Pass it to me.”
Creighton thrust the gun forward and felt Hale take hold of the barrel. But the lieutenant seemed unable to pull it through. Creighton heard metal scrape against brick and mortar, then heard Hale growl, “Odd’s death! It won’t go! The port’s too small!”
Creighton took hold of the pistol’s grip again and pushed. “No!” the lieutenant protested. “Don’t try to force it!” Abruptly Creighton jerked the weapon back. There was an explosion, and the pistol jumped in Creighton’s hand. He heard a grunt of surprise or pain or both from Hale, followed a second later by someone shouting in Spanish.
It took Creighton a moment to grasp what had happened: When he attempted to push the gun through, the hammer had caught on the rough mortar and half cocked itself. Then, when he pulled it back, the hammer had released, struck a spark, and set off the powder.
From within the room came a succession of sounds: a hollow thump; more cries and curses, both in Spanish and in English; frantic scuffling noises. Creighton guessed that the guards had opened the door and were trying to subdue the prisoners.
With the pistol in his hand, Creighton dashed around the building and burst through the front door. In the light from a pair of candles, he could make out the form of a guard standing in the doorway of the prisoners’ quarters, pointing his musket at two men on the floor, locked in a desperate struggle. Hale stood slumped against the rear wall, holding his arm.
Creighton sprang forward, flung one arm around the neck of the guard with the musket, and pressed the pistol to the man’s temple. “Drop it! Drop the gun!”
Whether or not the man understood English, he got the message. “Sí, sí!” he cried, his voice choked. He uncocked the hammer and, with Creighton still clinging to his neck, crouched carefully and laid the musket on the floor.
Hale approached the two struggling men and delivered a swift kick to the second guard’s ribs. The man curled into a ball, groaning and clutching his belly.
Colonel Gower rose unsteadily, dusted himself off, and wiped blood from one corner of his mouth. “Find something to tie up these two.”
Hale pushed past Creighton and his captive. “That was quick thinking,” he said. “I only wish you hadn’t shot me.”
“Sorry. Is it bad?”
The lieutenant shrugged, and then winced. “I’ll live.” He cut the rawhide thongs off the guards’ hats. “Sit down, señor,” he told the guard who was still in Creighton’s grip. He bound the guard’s wrists together, tied them to the man’s ankles, then gagged the man’s mouth with a cloth. Creighton’s throat tightened in sympathy as he remembered how it felt. Hale trussed up the other guard in the same fashion, then locked both men in the room he and the colonel had just occupied.
Gower, meanwhile, had picked up the men’s muskets and taken their powder horns and shot bags off the wall. He approached Creighton and held out a hand. Thinking his uncle meant to express his thanks, Creighton stuck the pistol in his waistband and extended his own hand. The colonel glanced at it, then reached out and took the pistol. “Well, for all his faults, your father was no coward. It appears that you take after him in that respect.”
Hale surveyed the street outside. “It’s all clear, sir; we’d best go.”
“In a moment.” The colonel turned back to Creighton. “Have you learned anything more of any value?”
Creighton fished the page of The Liberty Tree from his waistcoat and handed it to him. The colonel unfolded it and held it close to the candle. “Excellent.” He thrust the paper into his pocket. “See what else you can find out.”
“What else? What do you mean? I’m going with you.”
Gower shook his head. “You’re of more use to me here. If you came with us, you’d only slow us down.”
Hale gave the colonel a look of surprise. “Surely, sir, the boy deserves—”
Gower raised a hand to cut him off. “He will remain here. Those are my orders.”
“You can’t give me orders!” Creighton cried. “I’m not a soldier! I’m coming with you!”
The colonel’s only reply was a hard, warning glance. He turned and strode from the room.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Hale said softly, and followed.
For a moment Creighton stood there, dumbfounded. Then he ran outside and seized the colonel’s arm. “You can’t leave me—” he started to protest.
Gower yanked his arm free, raised the pistol, and brought the barrel down hard on top of his nephew’s head. Creighton crumpled to the ground, dazed, unable to move, unable to think, unable to see anything except a sort of dark haze all around, into which two slightly darker shadows were blending, disappearing.
He had no idea how long he lay there, on the cusp of consciousness, before he heard the guards begin pounding on the door of their cell and calling for help. At first Creighton was glad; whoever came to their aid could help him, too. But some other part of his brain said that if he was discovered here, it would be obvious that he’d helped the English prisoners escape; the two guards would identify him.
He tried to get to his feet and nearly passed out. Even crawling on hands and knees was an effort. Though it sent pain shooting through his skull, he managed to shuffle around the end of the building, where he wouldn’t be seen. After a minute’s rest, he grabbed hold of a small tree and pulled himself upright a few inches at a time. He leaned against the trunk for another minute or two, until he heard voices and the rattle of muskets coming from the watch house. Then he forced himself to move.
In the past, when he’d been ill or injured, he’d been well looked after. His mother had put him to bed at once, summoned a doctor, and instructed a maid to see to his every need. It was all so gratifying that he had sometimes invented or exaggerated some complaint just so he could lie abed for a few days and be pampered. Now here he was, in worse distress than ever before in his life, and there was no one to care for him. He didn’t even have a home to go to. He had to go somewhere, though, before the city watch stumbled upon him, and there was nowhere to go but Dr. Franklin’s house—though he wasn’t at all sure he could reach it or, in his confused state, even find it.
Later on, he would recall his passage through the dark streets the way one recalls a nightmare. His feet seemed rooted to the ground; each step was a struggle. He had no clear sense of where he was or where he was going; he only staggered on and on endlessly, through a vague, featureless landscape, trusting that, at some point, he would wake and find himself safe in his bed.
———
When he did finally become fully conscious again, he was indeed in bed. For a delirious moment he convinced himself that he was home and that all the misery he had been through, from the abduction to his uncle’s betraying and deserting him, had been part of a fevered dream, brought on by some illness that had left his head hurting unmercifully and his face hot and swollen.
Then he opened his eyes and saw the mosquito netting draped over him like a shroud, and he knew that he had dreamed none of it. He squeezed his eyelids shut again, so hard and so long that tears seeped from beneath them.
There was a soft rapping on his door, and Sophie’s anxious voice. “Creighton? Vas-tu bien? Are you all right?”
Creighton wasn’t sure how to answer. With the truth? That he was as badly off as he could possibly be, short of being captured by Indians or being up to his neck in quicksand? No, she’d only ask why. It was better to lie.
“Creighton?” she called again.
It took him a moment to get his voice working, and even then it sounded feeble and hoarse. “I think I’m ill.”
“Ah, c’est dommage. May I come in?”
“No!” Creighton replied, so vehemently that it sent a stab of pain through his aching head. “I’m . . . I’m not dressed.” Another lie. He was fully clothed, but his clothing was streaked with dirt and dried blood. That would be hard to explain. So would the blood-caked lump on top of his head, and the mosquito bites that had ravaged his unprotected face.
“Shall I send for le médecin . . . the doctor?”
“No! No. It’s nothing serious, I’m sure. If I could just rest for a while . . .”
“Mais, oui. I will bring you some tea or some bouillon later on, then.”
Creighton smiled faintly. It was a little like being home, at least. “Yes. That would be nice.”
Though it set his head pounding, he dragged himself to the washstand, where he gingerly rinsed most of the dried blood from his hair and scrubbed some of the dirt from the knees of his breeches. Then, exhausted, he lay down and covered himself with the linen sheet.
Not long afterward the door to his room opened. He turned his head painfully, expecting to see Sophie bearing a tea tray. It was Dr. Franklin. “Sophie tells me you’re not feeling well. I thought I’d look in on you.”
“It’s nothing much,” Creighton said weakly. “Probably just a touch of ague.”
“Perhaps, but we need to be sure it’s not the yellow fever.” He bent and, putting on his split-lensed spectacles, peered at Creighton’s face. “Why, you’re covered with bites, my boy. Is there a hole in your netting?”
“No. I probably just knocked it aside, tossing and turning.”
“Hmm.” He removed the glasses and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. “And is that how you came by the gash on your head, as well?”
Creighton averted his eyes from the old man’s penetrating gaze. “No,” he said, but his brain was too muddled to concoct a reasonable explanation.
Franklin pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down. Creighton tensed, expecting questions, accusations. Instead, the old man said casually, “You know, it’s too bad we got the paper printed up so quickly. I’ve just learned some news that would have made a compelling story. Now, unless we print up a special edition, it will have to wait until next week.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands over his belly. “Would you like to know what the news was?”
Though Creighton suspected he already knew, he swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat and said, “All right.”
“It seems that the two English prisoners made their escape from the Cabildo late last night, aided by a third person.”
“Oh?” Creighton said as nonchalantly as he could. “Have they been caught?”
“No. The authorities believe they stole a boat and made their way downriver.” He paused. “All three of them, apparently.”
“Well,” Creighton said. “That’s good.”
Franklin’s eyebrows went up. “Good? How so?”
“I was indentured to the colonel, remember. I can’t say I’m sorry to be rid of him.”
“No, I suppose not. Unfortunately we had hoped to exchange him and the lieutenant for some of our own captured officers. So, as you may imagine, we Patriots are not so happy about losing them. General Arnold is particularly upset. If he were to catch any of the three, it would go hard with them.”
Creighton swallowed hard again. “Is there any chance of that?”
Franklin drummed his fingers together thoughtfully. “I’d say that depends.”
“On what?”
The doctor leaned forward. “On what you have to tell me, and whether or not I believe it.”
Creighton considered denying any part in the escape and any knowledge of it. But there was little chance that he could fool the shrewd old man, even for a moment. His only hope was to tell the truth—or something close to it. He held his throbbing head with both hands and sighed. “I helped them escape.”
“I know that. What I’d like to know is why. You seem to have no fondness for your former master. Why help him?”
“I didn’t do it for him. I did it for Lieutenant Hale. He was my friend.”
“I see.” Franklin examined Creighton’s skull. “And the ostrich egg on your head?”
Creighton was ready with a plausible answer. “The colonel tried to force me to go with him. When I resisted, he struck me.”
“And then left you behind?”
“I believe he thought he’d killed me.” Creighton ruefully fingered the lump. “I thought he had, too, for a time.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t. A blow to the head is nothing to sneeze at.” He regarded Creighton long and thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that it can damage a person’s memory. It hasn’t done that to you, has it?”
“No,” Creighton said.
“Then everything you’ve told me is true?”
“On my honor.”
This reply seemed to satisfy the old man. He pushed back his chair and rose. “I don’t see that anyone else needs to know about this,” he said. Then he shook a warning finger at Creighton. “One thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I wouldn’t go anywhere where you’re likely to encounter those two guards.”
“Does that mean you don’t want me to interview them for your newspaper?”
Franklin laughed. “I think not. In fact, I don’t want you doing much of anything for a day or two, except resting. When you feel up to reading a book, let me know and I’ll bring you some.”
“Thank you,” Creighton said. “And not just for the books.”
The old man took a moment to reply, as though he were weighing Creighton’s words. Finally he said, “Yes, well, I’ve given you a lot of rope, you know. See that you don’t hang yourself with it.”