Like Mobile, Pensacola lay on the coast of West Florida. Since it was less than two hundred miles from New Orleans, they could reasonably assume that Lieutenant Hale and Colonel Gower had made their way there by now. Creighton knew it would take more than Indians or alligators, or even quicksand, to keep the colonel from carrying out his duty.
Not caring to attract the attention of British ships, Arnold chose for the voyage a sloop that was weathered enough to pass for a fishing vessel and small enough to be manned easily by the three of them. To Creighton’s dismay, they also donned coarse trousers and tunics like those worn by fishermen. In fact, they had been worn by fishermen—and recently, judging from the smell. They couldn’t borrow clothing large enough for Peter; an outfit had to be sewn especially for him. He trampled the items in the dirt to make sure they were appropriately crumpled and soiled.
Creighton had to take no such measures. Every inch of his clothing was liberally stained with substances he preferred not to identify, and they reeked of fish. Still, he was willing to endure almost anything if it meant a chance to settle the score with his uncle.
He knew that what they were undertaking was dangerous. The colonel was no fool. Though they had thought their story out carefully and rehearsed it over and over, Gower was sure to have some doubts about it. Arnold felt that the counterinformation they had prepared would put his doubts to rest. He also seemed certain that the colonel would welcome his former servant back with open arms. What he didn’t know, of course, was that Creighton hadn’t been a servant, and that the colonel had deliberately, heartlessly, left him behind.
Creighton wasn’t so confident about their chances. One thing might work in his favor: the fact that his uncle considered him useless and incompetent. He might never suspect that Creighton was capable of making up his own mind about anything, of deciding for himself where his loyalties lay.
Growing up, Creighton hadn’t had much chance to learn any practical skills. But he did know how to sail a boat. As soon as his son could walk, Harry Brown had, over his wife’s objections, regularly taken him out in the Bristol Channel aboard the Clyde, a little sloop owned by Creighton’s grandfather, Sir Robert. When the major went off to fight in America, Creighton had lost all interest in sailing, as he had in most of the other things his father had taught him.
Even though Arnold’s boat was considerably larger than the Clyde, Creighton handled the rigging and the tiller with a deftness and confidence that seemed to surprise both Arnold and Peter. “I an’t much of a sailor, myself,” Peter confessed. He regarded his huge hands accusingly. “Too clumsy, I guess. Give me something to lift or to pound, and I’m all right, but tying and untying knots . . .” He sighed. “And navigation? I tried to learn to use a sextant once.” He shook his head mournfully. “’Twas was never the same after that.”
Creighton laughed sympathetically. With a furtive glance toward Arnold, who sat forward of the mast, Peter leaned in toward Creighton and said softly, “You know, I an’t any good at deceiving folk, neither. I’ve tried, and they always seem to see through me. I’m afraid that no matter how many times we go over what we’re to say, I’m going to give us away, somehow.”
“Have you told him this?” Creighton asked, inclining his head toward the bow.
“Gad, no!” Peter said, as though the very prospect upset him. “I don’t want him thinking I’m a coward. I an’t. I just don’t want to go botching up the plan, the way I did the sextant.”
Perhaps, Creighton thought, the giant was right; perhaps he was just too honest at heart to lie convincingly. “Do you want me to tell him?” he suggested.
Peter brightened. “Would you? You could explain it better.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” Peter seized his free hand and shook it gratefully—and painfully. “You’re a good friend.”
Creighton didn’t reply. He was thinking of how he’d obtained the pistol so underhandedly, at Peter’s expense.
When he privately broached the subject to Arnold, Creighton made it seem as though leaving Peter out of the plan were his idea. “The fewer players we have in the game,” he said, “the less chance that someone will accidentally show his hand.”
Arnold stared at him a moment, as though offended by the proposal. Then, to Creighton’s surprise, he said, “Your point is well taken.” Arnold drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the gunwales. “However, I don’t want Peter thinking that I don’t trust him. I do. I’d trust him with my life.”
“I understand,” Creighton said. “Don’t worry; I’ll tell him it was my idea.”
———
To enter Pensacola Harbor, they had to sail through a narrow strait between two long, narrow islands—a passage guarded by a British fort. Though Arnold doubted that the garrison there would fire upon an innocent-seeming fishing vessel, he preferred to wait until dark to slip past the fort. They wouldn’t be able to make out any channel markers, but with the sloop’s shallow draft, it was unlikely they’d run aground.
Once night fell, they passed the fort unnoticed and unchallenged and dropped anchor a hundred yards or so from the city’s quay, amid a small fleet of bona fide fishing boats. They slept aboard the sloop and, in the morning, rowed ashore in the dinghy. As Peter shipped the oars and prepared to disembark, Arnold took hold of his sleeve. “Wait.”
The general drew a knife from a sheath at his waist and, lifting the hem of his tunic, began picking at the stitches with the point of the weapon. “I’ve a task for you—one that’s as important as ours.” From the fold of the hem he withdrew a sheet of paper that had been rolled tightly. “I want you to find the Boar’s Head Tavern and deliver this to the proprietor, a fellow with the curious name of Pedro O’Reilly. He’s a Patriot sympathizer.” Arnold handed the paper to Peter. “As I’m sure you realize, you dare not let this fall into anyone else’s hands. What it contains is not counterinformation, but the real thing.”
Peter nodded solemnly. After looking about his person for several moments, obviously wondering where best to hide the paper, he thrust it into his shoe. “Where should we meet, and when?”
“At the tavern. If we don’t turn up in two days’ time, it will mean . . . well, if we don’t turn up, I want you and O’Reilly to take the sloop and return to New Orleans. Will you do that?”
The giant stared at him, as though not certain Arnold was serious. “Leave you here, you mean? I—I couldn’t—”
“Those are your orders, Corporal. Can I trust you to carry them out?”
Peter swallowed hard and nodded again. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Arnold shook his hand. “We’ll see you in a day or two, then, with any luck.”
As Peter climbed onto the wharf and strode off, Creighton said, “I thought you were confident that our plan would succeed.”
“I am,” Arnold replied. “But as Dr. Franklin was fond of saying, ‘Expect the best; prepare for the worst.’”
———
The harbor was guarded by a massive stockade fort. Across the city square from the fort lay the State House. As they neared it, Creighton felt the pain in his skull returning; he stopped and put a hand to his head.
Arnold regarded him with an expression that seemed more contemptuous than concerned. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“Yes, yes. Just give me a moment.” Creighton drew a deep breath and tried to convince himself that this was just another role he was playing, no different from those he had played in school theatricals. But there was a difference: Back then, if he turned in an unconvincing performance, the worst he could expect was a few catcalls from the audience. If he failed in this performance, he was likely to suffer the same fate as his father.
His mother had said often enough that he would leave this world at the end of a rope. But she had assumed it would be his wild behavior that did him in. She would never have imagined—nor would he—that he might put his neck in jeopardy by turning traitor. Well, if he was bound to prove her prediction true, better it should happen in the service of a cause than as punishment for some petty crime.
“All right,” he said at last. “I’m ready.”
Before they reached the State House, a stocky, uniformed figure emerged from it. For a moment Creighton failed to recognize him, his uniform was so uncharacteristically neat and spotless. “Lieutenant Hale!” He hurried forward, forcing himself to smile broadly.
Hale seemed not to recognize him at first, either, probably because of the grimy tunic he wore. Then the lieutenant’s face broke into a grin. “Good Lord! Creighton!” He shook the boy’s hand enthusiastically. “How did you manage to escape, lad?”
“I had General Arnold’s help.” He gestured toward the general, who lagged several yards behind.
Hale glanced toward the American with a look that held equal amounts of astonishment and suspicion. “Arnold?”
Creighton nodded. “He’s come over to y—to our side.”
Hale frowned doubtfully. “Why?”
“He’s lost faith in the Patriots, he says.”
“And you believe him?” Hale kept his voice low so Arnold couldn’t hear.
“Why shouldn’t I? Why else would he help me?”
“I don’t know. To gain our trust, maybe, so he can spy on us.”
“No, it’s quite the opposite. He’s prepared to tell you all about the Americans’ plans.”
“Is he?” Hale regarded the general thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll see what Colonel Gower thinks.” He approached Arnold and greeted him warily. “Sir. I must say, I’m surprised to see you here.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Arnold replied, his voice convincingly bitter, “if you’d seen, as I have, the pitiful state into which the Patriot cause has fallen. They no longer talk of independence, only of revenging themselves upon the British—even if it means joining forces with Spain or France.” He spat in the dirt, as though the words had left a foul taste in his mouth. “If I’m to serve a monarch, I’d rather it was one who speaks English and doesn’t worship the pope.”
Hale nodded. “I see. I’m sure the colonel—pardon me, the lieutenant governor—will want to hear what you have to say.” He turned to Creighton. “I imagine you’d just as soon not talk to the colonel?”
“No, no, I don’t mind seeing him,” Creighton said with far more enthusiasm than he felt.
“Oh? I thought that after—”
Creighton interrupted Hale before he could reveal how and why the colonel had left him behind. “I’ve concluded that being with the colonel somewhere civilized is better than being on my own at the end of nowhere.”
Hale laughed. “I don’t know how civilized you’ll find it here. It’s still a far cry from England. And we have just as many mosquitoes as New Orleans—maybe even more.”
“You must like it here well enough, to have stayed.”
The lieutenant shrugged. “The colonel asked me to be his aide. It’s something to do, until I’m given another shipboard command. My main objection to it is that he expects me to always look ‘presentable’”—he flicked the front of his waistcoat with his fingertips, as though chasing invisible motes of dust—which he takes to mean ‘perfect.’” He gave an amused glance at the fragrant fisherman’s garments Creighton wore. “I seem to recall a time when you took me to task for my slovenly appearance.”
———
It was a pity, Creighton thought later, that his uncle had no interest in card games. The man would never have to worry about betraying his hand, for he was a master at guarding his emotions. He gave no indication whether he was happy to see his nephew, or dismayed, relieved, or resentful. He only looked down his long nose at Creighton in that wolflike manner of his, and said, “You’ve saved me the trouble of sending a rescue party out after you.” Though Creighton was certain the colonel would have done no such thing, he held his tongue.
Gower didn’t appear particularly surprised by Arnold’s defection, either, or particularly suspicious. He seemed to consider it perfectly logical, as though anyone in his right mind would, of course, side with the British. If the colonel bore any grudge over the way the Americans had treated him, he showed no sign of it.
“We can use a man with your experience in battle,” he told Arnold. “I’m sure there’ll be a commission for you—not as a general, of course, but perhaps a major. I understand you have no love for the Spanish or the French.”
“Quite the contrary,” Arnold replied.
“Good. My government anticipates that hostilities with one or the other are inevitable. Perhaps you can help enlighten us on that matter.”
“Yes. I expect I can.”
Gower turned to Lieutenant Hale. “Will you see that my nephew is provided with suitable quarters?”
Arnold stared at him, then at Creighton. “Your nephew?”
The colonel gave him a curious look. “I assumed you knew that.”
Arnold frowned and shook his head as though impatient with himself. “Of course. I was so used to thinking of him as your bound boy.”
The colonel seemed to accept this. “If you will excuse us, gentlemen, Mr. Arnold and I have many things to discuss. Come; we’ll have tea in my chambers . . . or do you prefer coffee?” The colonel made the question sound more like a challenge, or perhaps a test to determine just how loyal to England the general was prepared to be.
Arnold obviously recognized this, for he replied, “Tea will be very satisfactory, thank you.”
Hale led Creighton across the street to the guardhouse, where he installed the boy in a room next to his own. “It’s not spacious,” the lieutenant admitted, “but I think you’ll find it comfortable enough. The tick is filled with feathers and not dried grass like those in the barracks.”
Creighton sat on the mattress and bounced lightly up and down. “It’s fine. Better than I had back in New Orleans.” He hoped his words sounded more sincere to Hale’s ears than they did to his own. The truth was, for all its shortcomings, he would have much preferred to be back in New Orleans.
Though he hadn’t dared admit it, even to himself, he had secretly been a little afraid that once he was back on English soil, his newfound loyalty to the American cause might fade. He needn’t have worried. He felt like a stranger here, like an enemy, in fact, even to his uncle. Especially to his uncle.
The colonel might be able to put his old injuries and enmities aside, but Creighton couldn’t. The wounds were too deep and too many. That Gower had caused Harry Brown to turn traitor and to hang would have been bad enough; he had compounded it by sealing Franklin’s fate as well. Like the bruise left by Gower’s pistol, the memory of these things nagged at Creighton constantly. Sometimes it was barely perceptible; other times it surged up with an intensity that nearly staggered him.
“Your head’s still hurting you, I see,” Hale said.
“What? Oh, only a little now and again.”
“That was a nasty blow he dealt you—and an unnecessary one.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have insisted on going with you. It would have made your escape harder if I had.”
“Maybe. It wasn’t all that hard, though—aside from having to pole that plaguey boat upstream.” Hale frowned at the memory, and laid a hand on the arm Creighton had accidentally winged.
“I’m truly sorry about shooting you. I hope it’s healed all right.”
“Oh, yes. I drenched it with brandy. It takes more than that to slow me down. Well, I’ll let you settle in. If you need anything, let me know, will you?”
“Well, there is one thing I could use.”
“What’s that?”
Creighton plucked distastefully at the front of the smelly tunic. “Some new clothing.”
Hale grinned. “Done.” He started for the door, then turned back. “You never told Arnold you were the colonel’s nephew, did you?”
Creighton hesitated, then shook his head.
“Why not?”
Despite the pain in his skull, Creighton managed to come up with a credible answer. “Because I wanted to be sure of his motives. I didn’t want him helping me only in hopes of getting a reward from my uncle.”
Hale laughed. “That’s little chance of that. The colonel is as chary with his money as he is with his affections.”
Creighton nodded glumly, thinking suddenly of his mother. As far as affections were concerned, at least, it was a family trait.