The Wild One (45 page)

~~~~

Prologue

The moon was rising.

Earlier in the day, and throughout much of
the previous one, it had been raining. Now, the last clouds filed
swiftly out to sea, riding above trees still bare of leaves and
allowing the moon to turn the steeples, rooftops and cobblestoned
streets of Boston to silver. In the harbor, the bows of the great
warships swung slowly around as the spring tide began to come in.
In timber-framed houses all across the town, lamps glowed at doors,
faint candlelight shone from behind windows, chimneys spewed wood
smoke toward the stars. All was peaceful. All was quiet. The town
was settling in for the night.

Or so it seemed.

History would remember two lanterns hung in
the Old North Church, the midnight ride of Paul Revere, and at
daybreak, the battle of Lexington and later, Concord, that would
open the American Revolution.

But there were some things it would not
remember.

On the second floor of Newman House, whose
owner resentfully let rooms to the King's officers, a captain in
the proud scarlet regimentals of the Fourth Foot sat at his desk,
finishing the letter he'd begun earlier to his family in far-off
England. . . .

Newman House, 18 April, 1775

My dear brother, Lucien,

It has just gone dark and as I pen these
words to you, an air of rising tension hangs above this troubled
town. Tonight, several regiments — including mine, the King's Own —
have been ordered by General Gage, commander in chief of our forces
here in Boston, out to Concord to seize and destroy a significant
store of arms and munitions that the rebels have secreted there.
Due to the clandestine nature of this assignment, I have ordered my
batman, Billingshurst, to withhold the posting of this letter until
the morrow, when the mission will have been completed and secrecy
will no longer be of concern.

Although it is my most ardent hope that no
blood will be shed on either side during this endeavour, I find
that my heart, in these final moments before I must leave, is
restless and uneasy. It is not for myself that I am afraid, but
another. As you know from my previous letters home, I have met a
young woman here with whom I have become attached in a warm
friendship. I suspect you do not approve of my becoming so
enamoured of a storekeeper's daughter, but things are different in
this place, and when a fellow is three thousand miles away from
home, love makes a far more desirable companion than loneliness. My
dear Miss Paige has made me happy, Lucien, and earlier tonight, she
accepted my plea for her hand in marriage. I beg you to understand,
and forgive, for I know that someday when you meet her, you will
love her as I do.

My brother, I have but one thing to ask of
you, and knowing that you will see to my wishes is the only thing
that calms my troubled soul during these last few moments before we
depart. If anything should happen to me — tonight, tomorrow, or at
any time whilst I am here in Boston — I beg of you to find it in
your heart to show charity and kindness to my angel, my Juliet, for
she means the world to me. I know you will take care of her if ever
I cannot. Do this for me and I shall be happy, Lucien.

I must close now, as the others are gathered
downstairs in the parlour, and we are all ready to move. May God
bless and keep you, my dear brother, and Gareth, Andrew, and sweet
Nerissa, too.

Charles

"Captain? Forgive my intrusion, sir, but
everyone's waiting downstairs for you. It's nearly time to
leave."

"Yes, I am sensible to it. I shall be down
directly, and do thank everyone for their patience with me, Ensign
Gillard." The captain scanned his letter. "Not worried about
tonight, now, are you?" he asked conversationally, not looking up
as he folded the correspondence.

"Well, not exactly worried, sir, but . . .
well, do you have a bad feeling about this mission?"

Lord Charles raised his head and regarded
him quietly for a moment. "And here I thought it was me," he
admitted, his expression both amused and reassuring.

""Everything will be all right, won't it,
sir?"

"Of course, Gillard." The smile broadened.
"Isn't it always?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is." Gillard grinned
back. "I'll leave you now, sir."

"Thank you. I shall be down in a
moment."

Gillard closed the door, and dipping his
quill in the ink once more, the officer wrote his brother's address
across the front of the letter:

To His Grace the Duke of Blackheath,
Blackheath Castle, nr Ravenscombe, Berkshire, England

There. It was done.

Putting down his pen, Lord Charles Adair de
Montforte rose to his feet, picked up his hat and sword, and,
leaving the letter propped on his desk, strode boldly out of the
room, down the stairs, and to his fate.

A fate so tragic that even Gillard's
premonition could not have foreseen its very horror.

~~~~

The waiting was terrible.

Fourteen-year-old Will Leighton lay
stretched out flat on his stomach behind a granite wall, his musket
propped between two boulders and trained on the ominously still
road along which the King's troops would come.

Easy!
He told himself, his heart
pounding.
You're a man now! A grownup!
But he was so tense
he felt sick. So jittery he kept forgetting to breathe. Off to his
right, several others, all members of the Woburn militia under
Major Loammi Baldwin, also lay hidden. None of them looked as
nervous as he felt. Eyes flinty beneath their tricorns, they stared
toward the road.

Waiting.

Will tried to imitate their gritty
expressions, but all he could hear was the fierce pounding of his
heart. His elbows dug into the spongy, rain-soaked earth. Dampness
seeped up through his clothes, chilling his skin, making him
shiver. In the maple above, a chickadee flitted from branch to
branch, trilling its innocent song:
chickadee-dee-dee;
chickadee-dee-dee.

And from fifteen feet away, Baldwin spoke
the words they'd all been waiting for:

"Here they come. Get ready, boys, to let 'em
have it."

And now Will felt a sensation like needles
prickling all up and down his spine as he heard it too: Dogs,
barking an alarm from somewhere down the road. Distant shouts,
sporadic musketfire, the steady rattle and stamp of hundreds of
approaching men. Will's hand went sweaty and began to shake. Any
moment now, the king's troops, on their way back to Boston after
what everyone said was terrible fighting at Concord, would come
around the bend and into view.

He swallowed, the taste of fear metallic on
his tongue. Nearby, his cousin Tom narrowed his eyes, spat, and
brought his musket to full-cock.

"Oh, we'll let 'em have it, all right. Come
on, you bastards . . . We've been waiting for this moment for
years
."

And come they did. Will's eyes widened and
his heart quailed as the troops, nearly a thousand men strong,
streamed around the bend like a river of blood. They were an
awesome and terrible sight. Mounted officers in scarlet coats rode
alongside them waving swords and barking orders. Sunlight flashed
from bayonets, gorgets and pewter buttons. But closer scrutiny
revealed the signs of battle. Many, limping painfully, had all they
could do to walk; others were borne on litters and in carts, and
still others were so bloody that their breeches, snow white only
hours earlier, were as red as their wool coats. There was
exhaustion in their eyes. Desperation in their faces.

But Will, who'd heard all about what had
happened at both Lexington and Concord earlier this day, felt no
pity.

And neither did Baldwin as he roared,
"
Fire!
"

From both sides of the road, a barrage of
musket shot slammed into the unsuspecting troops, catching them in
a deadly crossfire. Horses, screaming, bolted in terror. Soldiers
fell dead as colonial muskets banged out, instantly cutting them
down. Redcoat officers, shouting commands, sent their horses
charging to and fro, trying to restore order and organize the
troops into fighting formation, and soon answering volleys of shot
were plowing into the surrounding trees and enveloping the rocky
pasture in thick, acrid smoke.

Discharging his musket and retreating behind
a massive oak, Will reloaded, his hands shaking so badly that he
spilled half his black powder down his leg. He rammed the ball and
wadding home, his nerves shot as all around him yelling minutemen
ran past, diving behind rocks and trees to aim and fire and reload
once more. He brought his musket up again, just in time to see a
wild-eyed young ensign break rank and sprint toward them from out
of the drifting smoke, leaping a stone wall and yelling at the top
of his lungs, "Come out and fight fairly you cowards, you damned
rebel wretches! Show yourselves and do battle like brave men, not
skulking Indians!"

"Gillard,
get back
!" shouted a
redcoat captain, splendid in scarlet and white, the blue facings of
his uniform proclaiming him to be one of the King's Own — and sent
his horse charging down on the runaway ensign at a full gallop.

Tom narrowed his eyes and raised his musket.
"He's mine, the son of a bitch."

And fired.

Will would remember it for the rest of his
life: The deafening roar of Tom's musket. Half the young ensign's
face going up in a fountain of blood. His body seeming to trip and
somersault, rolling over and over in the just-greening grass before
it slammed up against the granite wall that Will had just
vacated.

"Got 'im!" crowed Tom, thrusting his musket
skyward a second before a ball sliced through his neck, instantly
killing him.

Will had no time to react, for at that very
moment the captain's horse exploded out of the smoke, sailing over
the stone wall like an apparition. Five feet from where the ensign
lay screaming in agony, he pulled the animal up and leaped from the
saddle. Ignoring the lead whining about him, he ran to the young
soldier, lifted him in his arms and carried him back toward the
fretting, wild-eyed horse.

Will stood transfixed. Never had he seen
such steely courage, such selfless devotion to a subordinate. The
captain's hawkish face was hard, his eyes the December-ice clarity
of aquamarine, and as he turned his back on Will and gently hoisted
the soldier up into the saddle, Will knew he was going to have to
kill him.

He leaped out of hiding.

Fired.

And
oh my God
missed.

The captain turned his cool, level stare on
Will, one pale, arched brow lifting with the sort of surprised
annoyance that any well-seasoned warrior might show a colonial
bumpkin trying to irritate the finest army in the world. Will's
stomach flipped over. Nausea strangled his throat. Too terrified
even to reload, he froze as the captain picked up his ensign's
musket and trained it dead-center on Will's chest. The blue eyes,
so competent, so self-assured, so very, very dangerous, narrowed a
second before the redcoat would have blown him into eternity.

"Don't shoot!" Will squeaked, and his voice
cracked, revealing his age — or rather lack of it.

The captain realized Will's youth at the
same moment the weapon discharged and jerked the musket skyward,
trying to deflect his fire. Flames roared from that long and
terrible muzzle, shooting straight over Will's head. The gun's
fierce kick, combined with the unnatural angle at which it had been
fired, threw the officer off balance. As he stepped backward to
regain it, his heel sank into a hollow in the soft April earth and
he fell straight into the wall of granite, the musket flying from
his hand and the back of his skull striking one sharp, lichen-caked
boulder with an awful, thudding
crack
. For a moment, he
seemed to gaze up at Will in astonishment as he lay there
spread-eagled against the rocks; then the pale blue eyes lost focus
and clouded over, their thick lashes coming down like a curtain on
the last act as his head slid sideways, leaving a smear of blood on
the boulder behind him.

For a moment, Will stared at the dead man in
horror.

Then he turned and fled.

Letter from General Thomas Gage,
Commander-In-Chief of His Majesty's forces, to Lucien de Montforte,
His Grace the Duke of Blackheath . . .

My dear Duke,

I regret to inform you that whilst on a
mission to Concord to seize arms that the rebels had secreted
there, your brother, Captain Lord Charles de Montforte, was engaged
in fighting and fatally injured. From all accounts, His Lordship
fought bravely and selflessly, bringing glory to his family's name
and tears throughout his regiment upon confirmation of his
death.

Enclosed herein is the regimental gorget
taken from Lord Charles's body immediately prior to burial in
Concord, along with a letter that his servant, Billingshurst, found
propped on his desk the day of his death. His dress regimentals
will follow. I hope that these will bring you some comfort in this
darkest of hours. Your brother was greatly respected and admired by
both superiors and subordinates; he was ambitious and supremely
confident in his own abilities, but like the best-loved commanders,
never crossed that fine line into arrogance. He was an asset to
this army, to his country, and a beloved friend to all who knew and
served under and with him.

Respectfully yours,

Genl. Thomas Gage

Chapter 1

"Make sure you whip the butter well when you
churn it this morning, Amy. And for goodness sake, do add more salt
this time," sniffed Mildred Leighton as she strode huffily past her
sister. "There's nothing worse than bland butter, and you never do
seem to get it right."