WE LEFT LANCASTER NEXT MORNING, THOUGH LYELL INSISTED WE first procure some of the local produce. I assumed he meant beer, for the smell of the maltings was everywhere, but instead he led us to a small gunsmith’s shop on the main street where the aroma was more in the way of scorched metal and oil. The proprietor seemed to have stepped directly from the farthest reaches of the American wilderness: his shirt was fringed with leather tassels, and his cap sewn from the fur of some hapless animal he had killed. Stuffed trophies were mounted on the wall, doubtless in testament to his guns’ prowess, though to me they only served as a catalogue of the perils we had to face. A giant bear, his face still contorted in his death snarl, proved particularly unsettling.
Lyell spent some time in conversation with the gunsmith, hefting one gun after another with an expert enthusiasm, and eventually settled on a pair of long rifles.
‘Do you think we will need those?’ I asked nervously.
Lyell ignored me.
‘Is good choice,’ declared the gunsmith. His words were almost unfathomable for the thick German veneer which overlaid them. ‘American guns are best in world. Lancaster guns are best in America. And my guns’ – he winked – ‘best in Lancaster.’
‘Not quite your thirty-two-pound cannon, Lieutenant, but enough to teach our enemies a lesson if they come.’ It was extraordinary how having a gun in his hand could improve the humour of a man like Lyell. To my dismay, he handed one to me. It was surprisingly light for its size.
Lyell took boxes of ammunition and grease patches, and two flasks of powder, and then went to the saddler next door to obtain holsters and gun belts. The purchase of two low-crowned, broad-brimmed hats completed our tout ensemble, and a curious pair of ruffians we must have looked as we rode out of the town with our London suits and our Lancaster hats, the rifles slung over our backs and our spare clothes rolled up in blankets behind our saddles. The presence of Miss Lyell, whose finely tailored habit and upright bearing bespoke her breeding all too clearly, could only have added to the incongruity.
‘Are you sure this is the least conspicuous mode of travel?’ I asked Lyell. We were some three miles out of the town, riding through a rich, cultivated country studded everywhere with brick farmhouses and immense barns. ‘If we were in a coach, we would surely be less obvious.’
‘Our enemies will count on that fact.’ Lyell swayed atop his carthorse. ‘All they would need do is watch the coaching inns. This way, we may travel at our own pace and rest where we choose.’
He did not convince me. Nor, as the days wore on, did my spirits rise. We were in the middle of November now: the last leaves were falling, and the forests which surrounded us became grey and spiny places. The farms we passed grew ever smaller, their dwellings diminishing from proud brick houses to weatherboarded cottages, and then single-roomed cabins whose log timbers still bore the marks of the axes which had hewn them. The fractured, untamed countryside gave us only one road to follow, the government road from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh which Lyell had previously been so eager to avoid. It did us little good. Twelve miles from Lancaster it deteriorated into a rutted track which the vast burden of traffic only served to worsen.
It astonished me: in this remote place, with winter closing its fist and the roads so precarious, I should have thought the population would stay safe at home. Instead, not half an hour went by that we did not meet some fellow travellers: wagonners from Baltimore and Philadelphia carrying English manufactures into the interior, which interested Lyell mightily; packers and packhorses; local countrymen hurrying to the towns to buy curing salt or, more commonly, whiskey; and even whole families who, undeterred by the season, were removing themselves still deeper into the continent with their children and livestock in tow. Their motives were evident, for riding in the opposite direction we often encountered prosperous settlers moving back to the civilization of the coast. In contrast to the threadbare possessions of those going west, the eastbound travellers dressed fashionably, rode handsome mounts and were succeeded by great trains of baggage in carts. Doubtless the hopeful watched these prodigies and dreamed of equal increase to their fortunes, though I fear they deluded themselves, for the former greatly outnumbered the latter.
It was a sociable road, but the combined effect of so many wheels, hooves, paws and feet, to say nothing of the rain, was to churn the path to a mire. The streams and creeks which flowed across our way remained unbridged save by single tree-trunks stripped of their branches, which the locals called Indian bridges; horses and carts had to splash through the water and often sank deep into the muddy, trampled banks. So it was no surprise to me when, on the fourth day from Lancaster, Miss Lyell’s horse went lame. We left it to mend at the next farm we passed and, as gallantry demanded I offer Miss Lyell my own mount, I was left to walk on foot. By the end of the day my legs were frail as straws, and my feet swollen with blisters.
‘How much further to Pittsburgh?’ I asked. I was sitting in the parlour of the inn, my boots and stockings removed as I applied a concoction of bran and vinegar to my feet. Miss Lyell had retired, while her father sat in the chair opposite with a bowl of egg punch.
‘Ten days, perhaps.’
I groaned – audibly, for I had just prodded a blister. ‘I will need another mount, then. I cannot walk all that way.’
‘Of course you can walk. You are a young man in his prime. It cannot be above one hundred and fifty miles.’
‘Look at my feet,’ I implored him. ‘They will be bloody stumps before we have gone half so far.’
Lyell did not appear to have heard me. ‘It will not slow us down much. My horse manages little more than a walking pace.’
‘It will slow you down a great deal when you have to carry me to Pittsburgh.’
‘Pardon me.’
We both looked up. As ever, we had secluded ourselves in a dark corner of the room, but the inn was busy that night and offered little privacy. Now one of the company had approached and stood over us with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
‘I’m sorry for the eavesdropping – I was passing by and couldn’t help but hear it. You were saying you needed a horse?’
‘No,’ said Lyell.
‘Yes,’ I countered.
Of course I did not trust the man – ever since our encounter with Mr Vidal, I had scanned every face I saw for signs of malice – but I refused to countenance walking a hundred and fifty miles over mud and mountain simply to save a few dollars from Lyell’s purse. Besides, this man did not look dangerous. He was clean-shaven and dressed better than most of the customers at the inn: his brown coat was not lavish, but sturdy, and the few repairs in the fabric were neatly sewn. With his greying hair and his lined, weatherbeaten face, he looked no different to the dozens of gentlemen farmers we had met that week.
‘I regret I do not have the funds to purchase your horse,’ said Lyell. ‘Though no doubt he is an admirable beast.’
The man smiled. ‘That’ll be fine, cos I’m not much interested in selling him. I need him to get me home. But I’d be happy to share him with you, walking and riding in turns, if that’d help. All I’d ask is some coin for the feed.’
‘Thank you for your offer, but we do not desire travelling companions. Even Mr Jerrold here would concur in that.’
He looked to me for acquiescence, but I withheld it. ‘How far are you going?’
‘Over the mountains. I’ve a farm at Greensburg. Yourselves?’
‘Our destination is our own affair,’ Lyell muttered.
‘Pittsburgh.’ Lyell’s insensitivity to my plight had angered me, and I relished the chance to contradict him. I was also keen to gain even the partial use of a horse. ‘We would welcome your company, sir.’
He offered me his hand. ‘Zadok Harris.’
‘Martin Jerrold. My disagreeable companion is Mr Lyell.’
Lyell’s eyes burned like coals, but he did not argue the matter further.
I confess I did awake to doubt my wisdom the next morning, but all reservation vanished at the agony I felt just hobbling to breakfast, and the relief when I climbed into Harris’s saddle. Besides, he proved a generous companion. He allowed me to ride far more often than was my due, frequently on the steeper or stonier parts of our path, and his familiarity with the road improved our lot considerably. He quickly saw that we preferred to avoid the more populous inns and taverns, though he was too polite to enquire why, but nonetheless managed to find houses whose unpopularity owed nothing to deficiencies of comfort. These tended for the most part to be owned by Germans, who provided clean beds and good drink and otherwise left us in peace.
Our way now led us into the Blue Mountains. From the time Harris joined us they had been visible, a vast rampart across our path stretching north and south as far as the eye could reach. They rose so steeply from the plain that we needed several hours to climb the few miles to the summit ridge. The air was dank, the slopes covered with gloomy pine forests, and as we crested the top we had to pass through a notch between lowering peaks.
‘This would make a fine spot for an ambush,’ I grumbled.
Harris, walking along the road beside me, looked up. ‘Are you expecting to meet with danger?’
‘Lieutenant Jerrold does not fear danger.’ Miss Lyell was as quick as she was misguided to defend my honour. ‘He was at Trafalgar, you know, and I myself have seen him withstand a far superior foe almost single-handed.’
‘You’re far from the sea here, Lieutenant.’
‘With further to go.’ Looking ahead, I could see a deep valley chequered with small squares of farmland, and another ridge of mountains beyond. They did not look far away, barely half a mile, but I guessed the distance was deceptive. My heart sank.
‘Mr Jerrold.’ The sudden urgency in Harris’s voice spun me about. He was staring into the forest, still as stone. ‘Do you keep a running ball in your rifle?’
I nodded, craning forward on the horse to try and see what had so alarmed Harris. ‘What is it?’
‘Something moving in the woods.’
‘A fox?’
‘Bigger than a fox. A bear, or maybe a man.’
In that lonely place, neither was welcome. ‘What is he doing?’
‘Hard to see. Give me your gun.’
In the panic of the moment I did not think to question him. Fumbling with the strap, I pulled the rifle over my head and passed it down to him. He thumbed back the lock with expert hands, and raised it to his shoulder.
‘What is he doing?’ hissed Lyell. I could not tell whether he referred to Harris or the creature in the woods, but the American answered for both.
‘I can’t see for sure – he’s hidden in the trees. Maybe …’
The blast of a shot echoed like cannon-fire in the stony notch, rolling away down the mountain. In the aftermath, I thought I heard a scuffling in the trees, though it might equally have been the wind blowing the leaves.
‘Did you hit him?’ Lyell had dismounted from his horse and was cowering in its shadow, the rifle in his hand.
Harris shook his head. My rifle had pitted his cheek with black powder grains, and must have given him a fair kick in the shoulder, but he remained entirely composed. ‘Whatever it was, it’s gone now. Do you want to try finding it?’
‘No.’ For once, Lyell and I spoke as one. Running around lonely woods in pursuit of an enemy who might or might not exist did not seem a sensible course.
With many glances over our shoulders, and taut fingers on our rifle triggers, we descended from that place as quickly as we could.
We were almost a week in the mountains, a seemingly endless round of hauling ourselves up steep slopes only to trip down the reverse; of roads forever doubling over themselves; of a cheerless, broken country which left me utterly dispirited. Even Miss Lyell was no comfort: the inns offered little more than mattresses on attic floors by way of bedrooms, and there was never an opportunity for a private moment together. Worse, she seemed to be forming an attachment to Mr Harris. When he rode, she sidled her horse close to his and affected great delight in his conversation – tales of Indian raids and battles in the revolution and wild animals which all passed three feet over my head. But when I rode I could not catch her gaze, for her attention was forever directed downwards. She even begged Harris to school her in her riding, which service he performed with much arranging of her knees just so, and a firm hand on her back to perfect her posture. He did not effect any change at all that I could notice, but she seemed well pleased by it.
On the fifth day, at the top of another interminable ridge, Harris called a halt. ‘This is it,’ he announced.
I looked around. I could see nothing of consequence, not even a tumbledown shack for travellers to recover from the ascent, as was sometimes offered. Surely this could not be Pittsburgh.
‘This is where the east ends and the west starts.’ Harris swept an arm backwards. ‘Behind us, the rivers run down to the Atlantic. Ahead, they all flow west to the Mississippi.’
‘Is that an ocean, Mr Harris?’ Miss Lyell asked.
He chuckled. ‘No, ma’am. She’s a river, biggest in the world, I guess. All you can see, and as far as you can go beyond that – no-one knows for certain how far – is her basin, all draining south towards Mexico. There’s no turnpikes or highways to speak of in that country, for you don’t need them with the river. She carries it all: settlers and travellers, trade and war, the full length of the land.’
‘It sounds magnificent,’ breathed his eager pupil. ‘Far grander than the mean little rivers we have in England. Will we see it on our journey?’
‘I’d hope not, not if you’re stopping at Pittsburgh. That’s but the head of the Ohio, and there’s a thousand miles of that before you meet the Mississippi.’
‘Some day you must take me,’ said Miss Lyell. ‘It sounds most romantic; I should so love to see it.’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
Unlike Miss Lyell, I had no desire to tour the geological marvels of the western states. The closer we came to Pittsburgh, the more keenly I felt the obligation of my mission weighing on me. Learn what you can of Mr Tyler and his scheme, then stop it, Nevell had told me. I had done little enough towards the first part of that instruction; as to the second, it seemed hopeless. Lyell’s conversation with Mr Merry had demonstrated the scale of their ambitions. If they had stolen fleets and armies to overthrow South America, what enormities might they purpose here – and how could I hope to stop them?
And then there was the letter. At the very least, I had to deliver that. I had thought that with the end of the journey in sight my apprehensions would lift, but in fact the opposite was true. I became obsessed by the fear that having travelled so far, through such dangers, the package would be snatched from my hands at the last; that a cruel fate was toying with me. Each rustling leaf or snapping branch had me whipping around in panic, while every time I saw a traveller approaching along our road, however distant, I was at once convinced he must be some agent of the enemy, and did not relax until he was well past. No wonder Miss Lyell spurned my company for Harris’s.
The penultimate day of our journey was to be our last with Harris. We were approaching Greensburg, where he kept his farm; he had invited us to stay the night, and assured us that we could make Pittsburgh in an easy day’s walk or ride. He had even offered me the use of his horse, which I could return on my way back.
‘Perhaps you and your father’ll be able to stay for longer, when you’ve finished your business in Pittsburgh,’ he pressed Miss Lyell. ‘Maybe even for Christmas. December’s no time for a young lady to be battling those mountains.’ We were in the last days of November, the nights already marked by a stiff frost that began to thaw only in the mid-morning.
‘The water on the road freezes, and it’s like climbing sheets of glass,’ Harris was saying. ‘You could break all four of your horse’s legs, to say nothing of your own, and be trapped up there for days. Sometimes it’s weeks before the mails can get through. Greensburg may not be London, but I figure we could keep the fires going and find some way to amuse you over Christmas.’
‘I should like that very much, if Papa will allow it.’
‘You’d be most welcome too, of course, Lieutenant.’
I tried to summon a smile. ‘I fear I must decline. My duties command haste.’
Lyell grunted some approving comment – presumably he wanted me well away from his daughter – but she, to my surprise, would have none of it. ‘But you must join us. It will be so gay if you are there, and we would tremble to think of you crossing those horrid mountains all alone. Do you not think so, Mr Harris?’
Her words inspired pathetic gratitude in me, though I doubted they pleased Mr Harris. True, he had never shown me anything but kindness and civility, but I suspected he would far rather have Miss Lyell to himself. Before he could demur, something in the road caught his eye.
‘A turkey,’ he said, pointing to the plump shape pecking at the road ahead of us. ‘How far off do you reckon it is?’
‘Two hundred yards?’
‘My dollar says you can’t hit it with your rifle from here.’
I suspected his dollar spoke truly, but I could not show unwilling. I unslung the rifle from my back, trained it on the gobbling bird and discharged it. A sore shoulder, an agitated turkey, and a dollar less in my purse were my only rewards.
Harris turned to Lyell. ‘If I may?’
He took Lyell’s rifle and squinted down the barrel, swaying it left and right, for my initial shot had sent the bird scurrying away. With my ears still ringing, his shot sounded curiously flat. Nor did he seem to have fared any better than I, for the turkey continued to run about in the road, flapping its wings as it darted this way and that.
‘Your American woodsman’s skills are not all you have led us to believe,’ I teased him. ‘At least my dollar is safe.’
Two hundred yards away, the bird suddenly toppled over to the ground.
Harris cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘It may be your dollar’s not so safe as you suppose.’
As we walked up to the dead bird I saw the full genius of Harris’s marksmanship. He had not just hit the turkey, he had shot its head clean off at the neck. The red pouch on its throat still heaved as blood flooded into the road. Miss Lyell looked at Harris in awe, while even her father was impressed.
‘I’d venture there is not a man in England who could match that trick,’ he said.
‘At least we’ll sup well this evening.’ Harris squatted by the carcass. With an expert hand, he tied off the bleeding neck, then bound the feet. ‘Obliged if you could help me get him on my saddle,’ he said to Lyell.
Lyell slid off his horse and lifted the trussed bird, while Harris tried to make it fast to his pommel. It took some time, for the rope was too short.
‘I think I’ve another length somewhere here.’
Harris unbuckled his saddlebag and delved inside, leaving Lyell holding up the bird like a butcher. Miss Lyell watched from her mount, while I kept care of the rifles.
‘I believe you’ve some papers in your bag, Mr Lyell,’ said Harris conversationally, still rummaging for the rope.
Lyell stiffened, though the upside-down turkey carcass in his hands did little to bolster his dignity. ‘What the devil do you know about them?’
‘Not so much. But I know I’d like to take them from you.’
At first I thought I had misheard. Lyell was still standing there with the dripping turkey, and Harris had barely raised his voice. Then Miss Lyell uttered a small gasp, touching her hand to her mouth as Harris turned back to face us. There was no rope in his hands, but instead a bristling pair of pistols. One was trained on Lyell, the other, almost absent-mindedly, towards me.
‘You’ll keep hold of that bird if you don’t mind,’ said Harris. ‘Stays your hands from mischief. And you, Mr Jerrold, you’ll hold onto the rifles. You could pull the trigger if you liked, but I’ve a notion you’d find you’d forgotten to reload.’
‘Damn you, Harris!’ Lyell’s face was as red as the turkey’s gullet. ‘You cannot do this to us.’
‘Well now, the way I see it, it’s me who’s got the guns – the loaded ones, anyhow. I guess I can do pretty much as I like.’
He looked about. None of us contradicted him.
‘Good. Now, Miss Lyell, if you’ll get down off your horse and look in your father’s saddlebag, I’ve a notion you’ll find a packet of papers.’
Miss Lyell’s face was pale as ice as she dismounted and walked stiffly to her father’s horse. She still had her reticule on her arm, I noticed: it seemed an incongruous frippery in our desperate plight.
‘Are these the papers?’
‘Bank drafts? Cheques?’
She scanned them quickly, then nodded.
Lyell’s face was contorted in anguish, and his arms trembled from the weight of the turkey, but he made a stoic attempt at negotiation. ‘Those drafts are worth one hundred thousand dollars, Mr Harris. You could take half for yourself, and leave without violence.’
Harris chuckled. ‘I could take it all for myself, with or without the violence. But I figure my superiors wouldn’t care for that, so I’ll just hold on to them for safe keeping. And your papers too, Mr Jerrold.’
What little composure I had retained drained away. I slumped forward, leaning on the rifle for support. The turkey’s blood suddenly seemed thick in my nose, and the urge to wretch almost overwhelmed me. It was as I had feared: I had come so far, so close, only to fail. Again.
‘I’d prefer that you didn’t reach out the package yourself, Lieutenant. Who knows what else you might find in there. If you’ll oblige me again, Miss Lyell, I expect you’ll find it inside his coat on the right. It doesn’t do to clap your hand on your valuables each time you pass a stranger,’ Harris told me. ‘Sends something of a signal, if someone’s watching.’
Miss Lyell stepped towards me so that we stood facing each other awkwardly, like lovers. She slipped her hand into my coat, and I felt it brush over the butt of the pistol in my belt. As our eyes met, I shook my head the merest fraction. Harris still had his gun trained on us.
She found the package and pulled it free. Without realizing, I had been holding my breath; now, as the package slipped from my pocket, I exhaled, as though she drew my very life from me.
She turned back to Harris. ‘You are a perfect villain,’ she informed him, holding out the bundled papers.
He ignored the insult. ‘As you’ll see, my hands are a bit full just now. You keep those for the moment, and get back on your horse.’
A spur of hope rose in me: once mounted, she could yet be away with the precious papers. Harris must have seen it in my face, for he laughed.
‘She’ll be coming with me. Being a man of finance, Mr Lyell, you’ll appreciate it’s always wise to take insurance. I’m thinking you’ll be less likely to come charging after me if you know your bullet’s liable to hit your beautiful daughter here.’
Miss Lyell gasped, and staggered backwards. The papers fell from her arms into the muddy road. For a second, Harris’s gaze dropped towards them in irritation, but even as I considered whether I could draw my pistol he had snapped his attention back to us. Besides, it had been two days since I checked the priming, and there was every chance it would not discharge. Mr Harris, I felt, was not the sort of man to allow misfires.
‘Pick those up,’ Harris told Miss Lyell. And then, more concerned: ‘What are you doing?’
Ignoring the papers, Miss Lyell had opened her reticule and was fumbling inside it. With three of us to cover now and only two guns, Harris’s pistols swayed uncertainly between us.
‘I feel faint,’ Miss Lyell announced. Indeed, her cheeks, pale at the best of times, were now marble-white, and it was with obvious difficulty that she kept from fainting. ‘I must have my vinaigrette.’
She pulled a small silver box from her reticule. Snapping open the lid, she held it beneath her nose and breathed deeply. A little vigour returned to her face.
‘You’d best make sure you’ve enough of that,’ Harris cautioned her. ‘I won’t care to see you falling from your horse every mile and slowing me up.’
‘You are a vile thief, Mr Harris,’ said Lyell. ‘If you were in England, you would indubitably be hanged for your temerity. Even in America, I am quite certain that justice will overtake you. I will personally ensure it.’
‘Justice? Mr Lyell, it’s justice I’m after; and it’s you it’s overtaken.’
The gun in Harris’s right hand jerked at Lyell. Miss Lyell, who had returned the vinaigrette to her reticule, now fumbled for it again, though she would need more than vinegar to compose herself if Harris made good his threat.
‘What? Will you murder me on the road like a common highwayman?’
‘It’s lucky for you I haven’t already done just that. If I didn’t think my boss would rather have you alive to confess to your treason, I—’
As suddenly as if he had been felled by the gods, Harris broke off, took one step backwards, and collapsed onto the ground. His arms flopped out, still grasping their pistols, though he would never fire them again. A small round hole had been punched plumb through the centre of his forehead.
Such was the confusion of my senses it was only then that I became aware of the bang, the loud explosion which had punctuated the argument. The acrid smell of powder reached my nostrils and I turned. Miss Lyell was standing quite still, her legs apart, her chest heaving under the bosom of her dress which had an unsightly black stain splashed across it. In one hand she held her reticule, and in the other, still raised, a tiny pistol barely five inches long. A curl of smoke rose from the muzzle.
‘You … you shot him,’ I stammered. Relief and shock and disbelief mingled in my voice, in marked contrast to Miss Lyell, whose face remained composed, her eyes very bright.
Her father crouched by Harris’s body. ‘Dead.’ With little reverence for the departed, he frisked Harris’s coat. A flask, a knife, a pouch of tobacco and a few dollars in change were all he found. ‘Take this,’ he ordered, thrusting the money into my hands. ‘If the corpse is found, they may believe he was murdered by thieves. And pick up your package.’
Dumbly, I did as he instructed. We dragged the body into the woods by the roadside and covered it with fallen branches and leaves. It would do little to deter the scavengers, but even Lyell could not bring himself to leave Harris entirely exposed in death. Then we hurried back to the horses.
‘Leave that,’ said Lyell as I struggled to move the turkey’s carcass. ‘It will explain the blood on the road. Now, let us be on our way. Mr Harris was no ordinary brigand: he knew precisely what we carried, and he scrupled at nothing to seize it. It defies imagination that he did not have accomplices.’
That got me back on my horse quick enough. I could only wonder in misery at the attention my package had attracted since leaving England: first Fothergill rummaging for it under my bed, then Mr Vidal trying to snatch it on the Princeton coach, and now Harris’s effort at highway robbery. If they represented their respective nations, then it seemed I had Britain, Spain, and now America ranged against me. Nor had it escaped my notice that each encounter brought ever greater dangers. Perhaps next time they would simply put a bullet in my skull and take the package from my dead hands.
It was not a consoling thought to carry with us as we carried on down the road.