Lieutenant Hale lowered the colonel’s body onto the grass and stood. “I’ll have to let the governor know. If I were you, I wouldn’t stay around to see what he does about it.”
“Why should I leave?” Arnold said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“They have laws here against dueling. Usually the governor looks the other way, but considering that it’s his lieutenant governor, and considering he’s dead . . .”
“I suppose you’re right. Will you give me an hour’s start before you inform anyone?”
Hale considered a moment, then nodded. “One hour.”
Arnold beckoned to Creighton. “Come.” Creighton hesitated, and then, not knowing what else to do, went with him. “I don’t like to leave,” Arnold said, “without having learned anything about Washington.”
“You should have thought of that before you challenged the colonel. Besides—” Creighton broke off, still unsure how far he could trust Arnold.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He glanced at the general’s bloody coat. “Shouldn’t we tend to that wound?”
“It can wait.”
“Where will we go now?”
“Back to New Orleans. I had hoped to free Washington before the attack on Pensacola. I’m afraid the British might kill him just to keep him out of our hands.”
“Pensacola? I thought the attack was to be on Mobile!”
“The plans changed. I only told Gower that so he would send his troops there and leave Pensacola unprotected.”
“Oh. But—why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“There was no need for you to know. Besides . . . I wasn’t certain I could trust you.”
“Not trust me?”
“Well, you are English, after all.”
“Only by birth.” Creighton was silent a moment, then said, “What does the number 135 mean?”
“It’s our code for Pensacola. Why?”
“And what does the number 46 mean?”
“It’s the code for Washington. Why do you ask?”
“And what does St. Marks, number four mean?”
Arnold gave him an exasperated glance. “St. Marks is a British fort, fifty miles or so east of here.”
“Do they have a prison?”
“Probably, but—”
“Then number four could be a cell number?”
“I suppose,” Arnold said impatiently. “Why?”
“Those were the last words my uncle spoke. I thought he might be telling us where to find Washington.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s his way of atoning for his sins. Besides, what else could it mean?”
Arnold didn’t reply. They walked on in silence until they reached the State House, then Arnold halted. “I have a task for you. Go to your uncle’s quarters. Bring back his spare uniform, and the official seal he keeps in his desk.”
Creighton gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”
“I can’t explain now.”
“I thought you trusted me.”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask you to do this, would I?” He handed Creighton a small brass key. “For the desk.”
“Where did you get this?”
“From his waistcoat pocket, when I bent over him just now. We’ll meet at the dock, where we left the dinghy, in half an hour.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get my ribs bandaged, and then to fetch Peter.”
“Oh. I never told you. They caught Peter trying to deliver the message to O’Reilly.”
Arnold cursed softly. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. He got away, but they may have apprehended him by now.”
“Perhaps not. Peter is more clever than he lets on. I’ll see what I can learn. Half an hour, at the dock.”
Creighton wanted to ask how he was supposed to make off with the colonel’s uniform and seal without attracting suspicion, but Arnold was already gone. He took a deep breath and headed for the State House. Peter wasn’t the only one who could be clever.
He strode into the colonel’s antechamber as though he owned it and nodded to the young clerk. “My uncle sent me to fetch his spare uniform. It needs to be cleaned and pressed for the ball tomorrow night.”
“Ball?” the clerk said. “There’s to be a ball? No one told me.”
“Nine o’clock, at the governor’s mansion” Creighton called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the colonel’s quarters. Swiftly he detoured to the desk, which was out of the clerk’s sight. The state seal lay in the very first drawer he unlocked. He pocketed it, then moved on to the bedchamber just as the clerk appeared in the doorway.
“I wonder why I wasn’t invited,” the fellow said rather forlornly.
“I couldn’t say.” Creighton lifted the colonel’s uniform from the wardrobe. As an afterthought, he snatched up a blanket, too. “Would you like me to get an invitation for you?”
“Could you?” the clerk said, then added confidentially, “I have my eye on the governor’s daughter, you know!”
Creighton patted his shoulder. “Good for you. Aim high, that’s what I always say. I’ll have that invitation for you by tomorrow morning.” He winked broadly. “Don’t tell anyone, eh?”
“Not a word,” the clerk vowed. “Thank you!”
“Don’t mention it.” Once outside, Creighton rolled the uniform up in the blanket, then proceeded to the docks. There was no sign of Arnold. He climbed into the dinghy. The sun had dropped behind the buildings now, and the mosquitoes were coming out. Creighton unwrapped the uniform and draped the blanket over himself for protection.
Just before the light drained entirely from the sky, Arnold appeared at the end of the dock, carrying a bundle under one arm. He lowered himself into the boat and untied it from its mooring.
“You didn’t find Peter, I take it.”
The general shook his head. “We’ll have to leave without him.”
“We can’t!” Creighton protested. “They know he’s a spy! It’s only a matter of time before they catch him!”
Arnold sat down and took up the oars. “And if we stay, they’ll have three prisoners instead of one.” He pushed the dinghy away from the dock and began to row toward the sloop in the harbor. “I’m sorry, but Peter knew the risks involved. He’ll understand.”
“I’m relieved that someone does,” Creighton said, “because I don’t. I don’t see why things that are considered unacceptable or immoral in ordinary life—killing, treachery deserting your friends—somehow become accept able when they’re performed in the name of a cause.”
“They don’t become acceptable,” Arnold replied. “But they do become necessary. War reduces us to the necessities. We can no longer afford such luxuries as conscience and compassion.”
Creighton stared at the dark figure silhouetted against the water. The general’s words reminded him of something his uncle had said, about how his father had let his judgment be impaired by compassion. At the time, he hadn’t understood what Gower meant; now he thought perhaps he did understand.
He had always believed, growing up, that countries—or at least his country—waged war according to an unwritten code of honor, like the one that governed dueling. Now he realized how it really worked: When two opponents—or two armies, or two different ways of life or thought—met and clashed, then rules and ideals and honor were left behind, along with homes and families.
As they neared the sloop, Creighton fancied he saw a shadowy shape appear momentarily at the starboard rail, then merge again with the other shadows. “I think there’s someone aboard!” he called softly, over the splash of the oars.
Arnold shipped the oars and, reaching beneath his coat, drew out the pistol. The dinghy bumped gently against the hull of the sloop. Arnold signaled to Creighton to tie the boat fast, then hoisted himself over the rail. Creighton waited tensely for the sound of a struggle, or a cry, or a shot. There was nothing. Growing anxious, he stood on the seat of the dinghy and peered over the gunwales of the sloop.
“It’s all right,” a voice said, nearly in his ear, severely startling him. “It’s just me.”
“Peter?” Creighton climbed aboard. “How did you get out here?”
“Swam,” the giant said.
“I’m glad to see you. We feared you’d been taken.”
Peter laughed. “I’m not that easily captured.”
“Hoist the dinghy and the anchor,” Arnold called, “and we’ll get under way.”
“To where?” Peter asked.
“St. Marks.”
“St. Marks?” Peter whispered to Creighton. “What’s there?”
“Well,” Creighton replied, “we’re hoping that General Washington is.”
———
They reached Apalachee Bay, where St. Marks was situated, the following afternoon. Arnold raised the Union Jack atop the mast, then handed Creighton the bundle he had brought aboard. “Put that on.”
Creighton unwrapped it. It was a British corporal’s uniform. “Where did this come from?”
“The guardhouse.”
“Didn’t its owner object?”
“As I recall, his exact words were, ‘Take it, take it, just don’t shoot.’”
As Creighton was getting into the unfortunate corporal’s coat, something pricked his ribs. Deep in an inside pocket he discovered a small dagger, the sort soldiers used for cutting up meat and bread—and, in a quarrel, one another. He shifted it to a more comfortable spot.
Arnold, meanwhile, had donned Colonel Gower’s uniform. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find one for you,” he told Peter. “You know how it is.”
“I know.” The giant gave a sigh of resignation.
Arnold disappeared into the sloop’s cabin and emerged half an hour later, carrying an official-looking document sealed with wax that bore the impression of the seal of West Florida. “Orders from the governor,” he explained as he tucked the paper inside his coat, “authorizing us to transport the prisoner to Pensacola.”
“Do you think they’ll believe it?” Creighton asked.
“I’m sure they will,” Arnold said. “Unless, of course, they don’t.”
St. Marks could hardly be called a proper settlement; there was nothing there but a limestone fort, a tavern, a few warehouses, and half a dozen dwellings. They dropped anchor in the bay, and Creighton and Arnold stepped into the dinghy. “Good luck,” Peter said wistfully.
“You’ll do the rowing,” the general told Creighton. “No self-respecting British officer would stoop to such a menial task. The Brits put a lot of stock in appearances; if we look as though we know what we’re doing, they’ll assume we do.”
“You don’t have a very high opinion of my . . . my former countrymen, do you?”
“They’ve given me no reason to.”
“Well, it’s a pity you never met my father.”
“Was he anything like your uncle?”
Creighton laughed. “God, no. He was good-humored, and kind, and patient—even with me.”
“Really?” Arnold said. “He must have been extraordinary, then.”
Creighton glanced sharply at the general, wondering whether he was jesting or not. Arnold gave no sign one way or the other. “Speaking of my uncle, are you putting on his identity as well as his uniform?”
“No. I’ll use my own name. Someone here may have fought against me, and might recognize me.”
“And if they do?”
He shrugged. “I’ve changed my loyalties, remember?”
The sentry at the gate clearly put his faith in appearances. When Arnold approached, he came to attention and saluted so vigorously that it knocked his hat awry. “Sir!” Arnold returned the salute with an indifferent air befitting an arrogant British officer.
“Colonel Arnold,” Creighton said briskly, “to see the commandant.”
“I’ll have to ask you to leave any weapons here, sir,” the guard said apologetically. “Captain’s orders.”
Arnold hesitated, then withdrew the pistol he had concealed beneath his coat. “That’s all I have.” The guard took him at his word, but wasn’t so trusting with a mere corporal. He patted Creighton’s clothing briskly and then, satisfied that he was unarmed, said, “Follow me, sir!” He led them through the gate and across the parade ground to the officers’ quarters, where he handed them over to a clerk. The clerk in turn showed them into the commandant’s chambers. The youthful commandant, a mere captain, fairly leaped from his chair in his eagerness to greet his high-ranking guest. “How may I assist you, sir?”
Arnold handed over the sealed document. “His Excellency has instructed me to collect a rebel prisoner you’re holding here.”
“Oh? What prisoner?”
“He didn’t inform me. I presume that information is in the orders.”
The captain broke the seal and perused the writing inside. His expression changed abruptly from eager to troubled. “It—it says here that he wants Washington.”
“Is that a problem?”
Frowning, the captain read the letter again, as though to be certain he’d understood it properly. “Well . . . yes, actually. You see, I’ve only just assumed command here, and, frankly, I’ve no idea what the man looks like, or what cell he’s in. There’s undoubtedly a list of prisoners here, somewhere . . .” He began rummaging through the pile of papers on his desk.
“I was told he would be in cell number four.”
“Ah. Number four, is it?” The captain put the document in his desk, then took his sword belt and hat down from the wall and put them on. “I’ll accompany you.”
They crossed the parade ground again and descended a set of steps into a stone cellar, where rows of heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron lined a cobbled corridor. One of the doors stood ajar, revealing a guard stretched out on a bunk, sound asleep. The commandant scowled and shook the man roughly. “Get up, Private.”
Yawning, the guard got to his feet and saluted lazily. “It’s Sergeant, sir.”
“Not any longer. Which is cell number four?”
“Why, the fourth one, sir.”
“Open it.”
“Yes, sir.” He shuffled to one of the massive doors, turned an iron key in the lock, and with some effort, pushed open the door. The captain gestured for them to enter. “Your prisoner, sir.”
“I hope he’s in good health.” Arnold stepped through the doorway, and Creighton followed.
The cell was not as cramped or as dismal as he’d feared, but neither was it fit quarters for a captured officer, particularly a general. The room was poorly lighted by a small window, barred with iron, set above eye level so that all that could be seen through it was a square of sky. When Creighton’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the furnishings consisted of a desk, a chair, and a narrow bunk. It was a moment before he noticed the figure huddled in the corner, at the head of the bunk.
He had expected the prisoner to be in uniform. Instead the man wore an ordinary shirt and breeches, a bit tattered but reasonably clean. When they entered, the man was curled into a ball, his arms wrapped about his legs, his head slumped forward onto his knees. Now he raised his countenance to them slowly, apathetically, as though he had little interest in learning who his visitors were.
His face was clean-shaven and his hair had been recently trimmed, not very neatly. It was difficult to make out his features in the dim light. Arnold stepped forward and peered into the man’s face. “Damn!” he said softly. “It’s not Washington!”
“Not Washington?” Creighton echoed in dismay. “Then who?”
Arnold crouched down before the prisoner. “What’s your name, man?” The prisoner gazed at him blankly, as though he were speaking a foreign tongue. “Are you American?”
The man shook his head almost imperceptibly. “English,” he said. His voice was faint and hoarse.
“What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”
The reply was so feeble that Creighton could scarcely hear, but he could have sworn that the man said, “Brown. Harry Brown.”