Chapter 22
“The cabin is down here.” Peter directed the cart into a bumpy track that wound through a tunnel of trees. “I brought Trey as far as I could so we’d be beyond the battle.” His words were underlined by the blasting of artillery just east of them.
The lane ended at a weathered log cabin. Chickens scrabbled around the yard, glancing up incuriously before returning to their hunt. Gordon guessed they’d been turned loose from their cages so they wouldn’t starve before the cabin’s owners could return.
“If the redcoats find this spot, those chickens are history,” Josh remarked as he halted the cart in front of the cabin. “Did you have to break in, Peter?”
The young man nodded, looking apologetic. “The lock was very simple. I didn’t want to leave Trey lying out in the open. I left some money and a note of apology. I also left both of our rifles under the table. I didn’t feel strong enough to carry them.”
Gordon and Josh followed Peter inside. Trey lay with his eyes closed on a simple pallet of old blankets that his friend had fashioned in front of the cold fireplace. The crude bandages on his left shoulder and leg were stained with blood, but he opened his eyes when they entered. “Grandpa!” He looked ready to weep with relief.
“Don’t worry, Trey,” Josh said in his deep, comforting voice. “This is a good friend you have here. He came straight to the warehouse, then guided us back.”
Trey’s exhausted gaze moved to Peter. “He saved my life. If the British had found me, I’d be dead, like Hank McComas and Danny Wells.” He swallowed hard. “I really liked them both.”
“Were they the ones who shot General Ross?” Gordon asked sympathetically.
“I’m not sure who fired the shot that took him down,” Trey said painfully. “Three of us fired at once and we’re all sharpshooters, so it could have been any one of us. General Ross was knocked from his horse and an aide caught him before he hit the ground. His troops gave a kind of howl of anguish and rushed forward to attack us. Hank and Danny were both killed under the tree they’d used as a shooting platform. I . . . I’m sure they’re dead. I was hit twice but I was farther away so it wasn’t so bad.” His face screwed up and he looked very young. “I’m not dead yet. Am I going to die?”
Gordon removed the leg bandage, poured on whisky to clean it, then applied a fresh bandage. “Some day, but it won’t be today. The musket ball that struck your left thigh went straight through the muscle without hitting any major blood vessels.”
Trey’s jacket was already off, so it was easy to examine the shoulder wound. “A ball grazed over your shoulder.” He poured more brandy, then fashioned a pad and bandage. “Inflammation is always a danger, but you’re young and strong and you’ll be home with your grandmother very soon. You should be fine. In the future you can brag to girls that you’re a hero of the Battle of Baltimore.” Which was no more than the truth.
Trey gave a rusty little laugh, then gasped when Josh and Gordon carefully lifted the blanket he lay on from both ends, using it as a stretcher to carry him outside to the cart. As Peter fashioned a blanket canopy to keep the sun out of his friend’s eyes, Gordon returned to the cabin and added to the money Peter had left.
Then he collected the rifles, powder, and ammunition, and closed the door. With luck, the owners would return to find their cabin intact and the money sufficient to excuse the home invasion.
They set off at a slower pace than when they’d arrived so Trey wouldn’t be jolted more than absolutely necessary. Josh drove while Peter gave directions. Gordon sat in back with Trey and loaded both rifles, then concealed them under the blankets. He could pull one out and shoot quickly, but hoped he wouldn’t have to.
Shortly after they turned onto the main Philadelphia Road, a squad of American soldiers led by a lieutenant stopped the cart and brusquely demanded an explanation of what they were doing so close to the battle lines.
“My wounded friend and I were in the advance guard of sharpshooters,” Peter explained. He indicated his bandaged arm. “I’m no good now, so I was told to take my friend Trey back for medical treatment.”
The young officer peered into the back of the cart, seeing the bloodied bandages. He asked Gordon, “Who are you?”
“A surgeon, George Gordon.” He showed his blistered hands and Americanized his accent. “But I’ve put in time digging fortifications this last week, too.”
The lieutenant accepted that and waved them on. “Best get out of here fast. The City Brigade is holding off the British so far, but if they break . . .”
He shook his head wordlessly, then continued with his patrol. He’d barely noticed Josh, probably considering him a slave and of no account.
As they headed west toward Baltimore, Trey said, “You tried to warn me that war isn’t glamour and glory.”
“Yes, but it’s one of those things that must usually be learned firsthand,” Gordon said. “At least you survived your baptism by fire.”
“So far.” Trey gave a crooked smile. “Were you an officer in the British Army? I heard Miss Callista call you Captain Audley once.”
“I’ve commanded a ship or two, but I’ve never been a formal soldier with a rank and uniform. Obeying orders is not my strong point,” he replied. “But I’ve had to fight for my life more than once. Surviving pirates in the South China Sea is serious combat.”
“Really?” Trey’s eyes opened wide. “That’s not just a story you’re telling to distract me?”
“Entirely true. I’ve fought on other occasions, too. Usually against bandits or pirates. Not fighting for my country, just defending myself and my friends from vicious people who wanted to kill us for whatever reason.”
Trey closed his eyes and was so silent that Gordon thought he must be asleep or unconscious. They were halfway back to the warehouse before he asked in a thin whisper, his eyes still closed, “They say General Ross was a good and honorable man, and I might have killed him. Am I a hero or a villain?”
Gordon laid his hand on Trey’s. “Both. Neither. The hell of war is killing strangers, many of whom are decent, honorable men with friends and family who love them. Ross is such a man. But the British Army has no other officers here who are his equal. With him gone, they may withdraw, or if they attack our fortifications, they may not do as good a job of it. That could save many American lives.”
After another long silence, Trey said, “I thought soldiering would be grand and honorable. Now I don’t think I like it very much.”
“Which proves you’re wise beyond your years. You’ve done your duty. You can take pride in that even if you don’t like what you did.”
“Thank you,” Trey whispered. He said no more on their trip back to the warehouse, but Gordon saw a glint of tears under his eyes.
Being yanked into adulthood wasn’t easy.