Alexander Key
Pheasants for the Fox
Short story
    In the name of freedom! – the King’s Men were cheated of dinner and their dignity

A handful of the ragged rebel army performs a complicated maneuver to fill an empty stomach and cheat the King’s hangman

    It seems like only a little while ago but my grandfather got it from his grandfather, and the thing was always more vivid in his mind than any other incident of those bitter months when the British hand lay heavy on Carolina. It started the evening of the Singletons’ dinner – beginning in tragedy at Biggin Bridge, and ending two days later in comedy with a shipment of pheasants.
    This is young Gavin’s tale: He had been Captain Gavin James of the Carolina Militia a few months before; lean, hard, and freckled and with an eye always cocked for mischief. Now Gavin’s uniform was in tatters and there was a different look in his eye.
    There was no longer any militia, thanks to His Majesty’s regulars, and in all the South there was not a troop of fighting patriots left save those few score ragged shadows of the swamps, led by a quiet little man with a limp. A foxy little man who was Gavin’s colonel. His name is hallowed in Carolina.
    It was mid-winter; for weeks they had played a game of deadly hide-and-seek, appearing suddenly out of the night to lash themselves on convoy or patrol – and be off again before the enemy could collect its wits and give chase. The enemy did give chase when it could, and every available cavalry unit was ordered out to catch them. The colonel played tag with them while food and powder lasted, then vanished in the swamps like quicksilver.
    He gave his men a short furlough, sending them home to forage and melt down pewter for bullets. And he and Gavin and three others gladly accepted a smuggled invitation to have dinner with the Single-tons. There was Mr. Poyas Bee, the colonel’s old friend whose estates had been confiscated, and young Ted Delancey and Lieutenant Damsey. Alan Ramsey had been captured at the fall of Charleston and had broken parole to ride with the colonel. A quiet, likable, fearless youth, the brigade loved him, and Eve Singleton had promised to be his wife.
    As Gavin said, they all knew they had to be careful that evening. There was a cavalry patrol on every road, and every Whig plantation house in the parish was under suspicion. Bright moonlight made it difficult to avoid being seen.
    Even so, they hardly expected to find a body of Tarleton’s dragoons hiding near the bridge, waiting to seize anyone who might happen along.
    * * *
    All of them should have escaped easily, for they rode the best horseflesh in the tidewater. But the colonel was recognized, and there was a price on his head. High, if he were taken alive. A mass of plunging, shouting riders sought to block him at the bridge, and had it not been for Ramsey, the colonel’s horse would have gone down under a round of pistol fire. But Ramsey wheeled beside him as a shield, and it was Ramsey’s horse that went down.
    “Don’t stop for me!” Ramsey screamed at them. “Hurry, ride on – get the colonel away!”
    There was nothing else to do. They spurred and rode furiously into the night, and it was a long while before the last of their pursuers dropped behind.
    When they finally drew rein in the shadows of the liveoaks behind the Single-ton house – the four of them that were left and the colonel’s Negro – they were sick at heart and bitterly berating themselves for not having' been able to accomplish the impossible.
    “They’ll hang him,” Gavin kept saying. “He broke parole and they’ll hang him for it. They hanged Wayne and the others.” Then he saw the colonel’s face in a pool of moonlight, and stopped. “I – I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled. “Alan was like a brother to me.”
    “Take off your jacket,” ordered Ted Delancey. “You’re bleeding, and we can’t let Eve know—”
    Gavin took off his jacket and Ted bound the small saber-cut in his arm. The others had only a few slashes in their clothing, already in a bad state from much wear. There was some blood on the colonel’s faded greatcoat, though none of it was his own. He took off the coat, absently folding it to hide the stains.
    “Now, Francis,” said Poyas Bee, towering beside him. “It couldn’t be helped. “Carolina can afford to lose Alan – but not you. Alan knew that, and—”
    “I pray to God I can prove worthy of it.” The colonel spoke quietly. “But this will kill Eve. I’ve got to get the boy back somehow. I’ve got to save him if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
    Poyas shook his head. “They’ll never exchange him, Francis. They won’t exchange parole-breakers.”
    They stood there a minute in the shadows, saying nothing, dreading the moment when they must enter the house. They’d started out almost gaily this evening, the war momentarily behind; but the blackness and the bitterness of it clung to them. If they’d just killed him outright, Gavin thought, it wouldn’t have been so bad. That would have been a decent death and a man can take it that way. But Alan would be hauled out and strung from a gibbet with all Charleston to watch. He’d be made an example of, like Wayne—
    The colonel straightened. “Oscar,” he spoke to his Negro. “Go down to the foot of the lane and keep watch. I’ll have Uncle Billy bring you a bite.” And to the others: “Careful; not a word of this. Act as if nothing happened. Perhaps I can think of something.”
    He plucked Gavin’s sleeve and moved to the edge of the moonlight. The four gave the grounds a careful scrutiny and then ran to the side veranda of the house.
    The Singletons’ Negro was waiting at the door. He admitted them quickly and bolted and barred the door behind them.
    “Whar’s Marse Alan?” he asked.
    “Detained,” the colonel answered smoothly.
    “Law! Miss Eve she gwine have fits. Hit’s been a month since she seen ’im.”
    Gavin swallowed. He followed dumbly into the drawing room, unmindful of the pain that was beginning to stab through his arm. The room was not as opulent as it had been. The silver candlesticks were missing, as well as several other articles of value. He watched the colonel limp about the place, a slim, dark little man with somber black eyes and an attitude of perpetual listening. The colonel pinched out the candles, and jauntily stretched his thin shanks beside the thick ones of Poyas Bee in front of the fireplace. Only his eyes, brooding and hard as jet, showed how he must be feeling.
    Gavin was speculating on how the two lone women that remained of the Single-tons could ever set a table these days, when the Negro opened the dining-room door. Eve’s grandmother entered.
    She was a tall, imperious old lady with white hair, there was something indomitable about her that the war had not broken, even though it had taken her sons, imprisoned her husband and left her penniless. She came forward supporting herself on a cane, one thin white hand extended graciously.
    “Francis!” she said. “Poyas, you obese rascal! Gavin – Ted!” She looked at them searchingly. “Where’s Alan?” she asked suddenly. “What happened to him?”
    * * *
    He was merely detained on a little errand,” the colonel answered easily. He raised his patrician nose and sniffed with apparent delight. “Goose! Roast goose! By the saints in heaven, madam, how did you ever manage a goose? I didn’t know there was one left south of the Waccamaw!”
    Her lips thinned. “There wouldn’t have been – if those people had had their way.” She made a movement with her cane in the direction of Charleston, at present occupied by the various troops of George III. The slight twitch of her mouth was more eloquent than a witch’s curse. “I hid that goose in the attic, Francis, and whenever anyone came to rob me I sent Uncle Billy up to pull a stocking over its head to keep it quiet.”
    Their laughter sounded a little forced to Gavin. He felt the old lady’s eyes upon him, piercing, shrewd.
    She said slowly, “I can’t understand about Alan. Gavin, your arm is bandaged under your jacket, and you’re not acting right. And Francis, there are fresh stains on your boots.” She stopped and tapped her cane. “Tell me – what happened this evening?”
    Gavin studied a patch on his knees. The colonel sighed and his shoulders sagged.
    “We had trouble at the bridge,” he spoke gently. “Tarleton’s men. The boy turned to protect me, and his horse went down. They caught him.”
    Poyas Bee clenched and unclenched his big hands. “It was impossible to do anything – too many of the devils. If – if we’d just had a few more of the brigade—”
    “We mustn’t let Eve know yet,” the colonel implored. “I – I’ve been trying to think of something. There’s always the chance—”
    The old lady shook her head. “Better the truth now than later. You know they’ll never exchange him.”
    There was a sudden crash of china in the dining room; they jerked around, mute. Through the partly opened door Gavin saw Eve frozen by the table, white knuckles pressed against her throat. With a choked cry she whirled and disappeared.
    He stared stricken at where she had been, still seeing her: a frail goddess in a black gown with golden candlelight splashing her hair, her face a tragic cameo.
    “Damn,” Gavin muttered. “Oh damn.”
    The shadows of war and death crept closer, seemed to fill the room with their coldness. Poyas prodded the logs in the fireplace. The old lady stood rigid, eyes boring through the shuttered window as if she could see through the waste of forest and swamp to the streets of Charleston. A fury was in her. “No, they’ll not exchange him,” she spoke hoarsely. “They’ll hang him – like Wayne and the others.”
    “And all because he broke parole,” came the colonel’s voice, quiet but with a bite like a poniard. “Because he refused to sign as a British subject and fight his friends. That’s Lord Rawden for you. Wayne’s case was identical.”
    “Damn the scoundrels!” Gavin burst out. “They’ve broken every article of the capitulation themselves, and yet they’ll show no mercy when—”
    The colonel touched his arm. “Hush, lad. They haven’t hanged him yet.”
    The dining room door swung wide. “Dinah!” announced the Singletons’ Negro.
    * * *
    It was strange, Gavin thought many times afterward, how so much came to depend upon a chance bit of gossip that Eve told while the colonel was carving the goose.
    Eve sat on Gavin’s right, talking a stream of nonessentials and determined, he saw, not to give in to her feelings. He had a sudden sharp envy of Alan, then his heart turned over when he glanced clown and saw Eve’s hands shredding a lace handkerchief in her lap.
    “Have you ever eaten pheasant, Colonel Marion?” Eve was asking brightly. “I had it once in London.”
    “I prefer our American turkey,” answered the colonel.
    “Of course, so do I,” she hurried on. “But Commandant Balfour doesn’t. He made his friend Captain Bullock promise to bring him several crates of pheasants when the Bristol returns from England. Uncle Tom mentioned it in his last letter he smuggled from the city.”
    “Devil take Balfour!” grumbled Poyas. “The scoundrel will be eating those pheasants at my country place. He’s been using it for his orgies.”
    The colonel stopped carving and Gavin saw his nose twitch faintly, like a fox testing a scent. “And Lord Rawdon?” he asked.
    The old lady sniffed. “I’ve heard the fat crocodile is off inspecting the forts and won’t be back for a week. Probably afraid you’ll enter some of them. Balfour has the parish to himself.”
    Gavin blinked hungrily at the goose, but the colonel set down his carving knife. “Do you know when the Bristol is due?”
    “She was hove-to off the bar last night. They say there’s a bad ground swell running, and that no boat will be able to enter or leave the harbor for several days.”
    “Hm—” The colonel sat motionless, black eyes suddenly brilliant. Gavin utterly forgot the goose, though he had not eaten since morning. He stared across the table, keenly attentive.
    “Do hurry, Francis,” Eve’s grandmother spoke sharply. “The boys are starving.”
    “Um – yes.” Absently the colonel picked up the carving knife. Instantly he set it down, and with a quick gliding movement he was out of his chair and standing by the window, listening. Gavin and the others sprang up in swift alarm, the rapid screeching of an owl tingling in their ears.
    “Gavin, was that Oscar?”
    “No doubt of it, sir. If that’s some of Eve’s redcoat admirers come to call, we could do with a prisoner or two.”
    “Not here. Might bring retaliations.”
    The shrill blast of Oscar’s hunting horn ended speculation. Ominous, insistent, it demanded flight and gave no second to spare. Before the sound of it was an echo Gavin was racing through the house behind Poyas and Ted, the colonel close at his heels. The colonel paused at the steps, speaking hurriedly to Eve.
    “Kitten,” Gavin heard him say. “If luck’s with us we’ll have your boy safe before the week’s up. Now stop worrying about him.”
    Gavin could hear her relieved sobbing as they ran across the grounds. Her grandmother was calling sharply, “Wait, Francis – you forgot the goose! Your men need it!”
    “No time for that now,” he said with a jerk over his shoulder. “I’m more interested in pheasants.”
    * * *
    They reached the oaks and leaped into their saddles, only a short distance ahead of a line of horsemen that came pounding up the lane. “Straight across the field and take the fence,” ordered the colonel, calmly as if there were no price upon his head. “Then follow Oscar. Save your powder, Gavin – we’ll need it later.”
    They swept into the moonlight amid a scattering of shots, five blooded horses that had taken much plate in former sweep-stakes. They lifted easily over the fence. In the blackness on the other side Gavin hurled taunts at their white cross-belted pursuers. “You can’t catch the Fox on that bunch of crow-bait! Get off and walk!” He was furious at leaving the goose untouched.
    He galloped on, following the pale blur of the colonel’s white Arabian. The nasal curses from the rear died away. Single file they walked their horses through the black dark of long moss and crowding trees, with the swamp-bred Oscar leading. Gavin was conscious of his hunger, and his arm throbbed.
    “Francis,” came Poyas Bee’s disembodied voice. “What in mercy’s name were you promising Eve awhile ago?”
    “That I’d get Alan back.”
    “Gad, but I say!”
    They halted in a glade beside a spring where a shaft of moonlight cut through the overhead tangle. The Negro, sensing that the stop might be a lengthy one, slid out of his saddle and set a tuft of flax to smoldering in the pan of his pistol. He built a fire with it and took several small yams from his saddlebag to bake in the coals.
    “Francis,” said Poyas. “I’ve known you for forty years, and you’ve never made a rash promise. But it’s obvious they’ll never exchange the boy – even if we had a ranking prisoner. To get him back we’d have to enter Charleston and tear the provost apart!”
    “That may not be necessary,” answered the little man. “Oscar, where’s the north road?”
    The Negro pointed, mumbling directions.
    The colonel looked from Gavin to Ted.
    “Gavin, I’ve a big job for you, but that can wait a bit. Ted, you and Oscar hit the north road and locate Horry or McCottry. I want all the men they can get, and they must be at the old camping-spot tomorrow night.” He thrust something into Ted’s hand. “A leg I salvaged from the platter. Divide it with Oscar. Haste, lad!” Gavin watched them leave in amazed silence. He slouched down by the fire, hugging his arm while he stared at the colonel.
    The colonel studied the fire. “Poyas,” he said thoughtfully. “To save a man’s life and Eve’s happiness, have I permission to burn down your house?”
    “Eh? My house? Are you crazy? Certainly you can burn the damned thing down! It’s been harboring a skunk and a whole bevy of buzzards. If I had three houses you could burn them all down. But what good will it do?”
    “Drive out the vermin, for one thing. But possibly the stables will be sufficient. Gavin, let’s look at your arm. It’s got to be in good shape tomorrow.”
    * * *
    McCottry’s men arrived at dusk the next evening. Two dozen ragged, dirty partisans, some in tattered broadcloth and linen, some in buckskins, a few in remnants of uniforms that had once been the pride of the Carolina Militia. They carried an assortment of weapons ranging from long rifles to fowling pieces, no two of the same bore. Little campfires began to glow in the hidden stretch of dry ground between the great buttressed trunks of cypresses. The men were jubilant. They had raided a grist mill that morning and there was hominy to cook.
    Gavin, back from an errand at the Singletons, found the red-headed McCottry talking earnestly with the colonel. Each had a slab of bark piled high with hominy. They looked up hopefully as Gavin approached. “Any news from the city?” asked the colonel.
    “Not a thing,” said Gavin. “But here’s a sealed note for you that was left at the house. It’s from that pack of mutton-eaters that spoiled our dinner last night. It’s addressed plain Mister Marion. Haven’t they any respect for American officers?”
    “None whatever,” said the colonel, breaking the seal. He read the note carefully and his patrician nose began to twitch again. “Excellent!” he mused. “Gives us something to work on.” He handed the note to Gavin.
    Gavin read it aloud. “‘Sir: The goose was excellent and we are surprised the Fox had no tooth for it. Perhaps pheasant will suit him better. The tides permitting, we will be honored to serve him one at the Commandant’s country place Friday night, and will treat him to a noose afterward ! ’”
    Gavin swore. McCottry’s red hair seemed to bristle. “The sons o’ so-and-soes!” he bellowed. “I’d give my right arm for the powder and men to accept that invitation!”
    “Powder or no,” purred the colonel, we’ll accept it anyhow.”
    Gavin was dumfounded. “But, sir, we’ve not even a scant round apiece! Besides, Mr. Bee’s place is on the Camden highway; they’ve put up a blockhouse a stone’s throw from it and the whole region is swarming with regulars. At the first shot in that part of the parish we’d have the enemy on us from every direction and they’d bottle us in the woods.”
    The colonel chuckled. “I’m quite aware of that, so we’ll take extra pains to attract no attention. Gavin, you know the plan of Mr. Bee’s grounds. Think you can reach the stables and leave without being caught?”
    “If I handled it alone, and at night, sir, I know I could. Daylight would be another matter; the main building is near the house, with not a scrap of cover near.”
    “Then pray that our chance comes at night.” He looked at McCottry. “Captain, find two men who know the bay country east of the Wando. Better pick seamen. Have them report before noon tomorrow on how soon the bar can be crossed, and the time the tide turns for the next two days. If they pick up any news of the Bristol, so much the better. Pack them off and hurry back.”
    The colonel glanced over at Poyas Bee who had been hunched silent and bewildered beyond the fire. “Poyas, remember that stretch of corduroy road below your place?”
    “It’s still there,” grumbled Poyas. “And a more fiendish bit of jungle—”
    “True. There’s a slope before you reach it, and your house is on a slope on the other side of the swamp. Coming from the city, can you see your place in the distance before you dip into the bottoms?”
    “Very plainly at night, with all the windows lighted.”
    “So I thought. Very well; tell the men to get some rest. We’re going road-building at midnight.”
    McCottry returned. The colonel picked up a stick and began making scratches on the ground. “Here’s that corduroy road below the Bee place. At midnight post sentries at either end of the stretch, and string men along at intervals with axes. I want that, road torn to glory and put together again so it’ll look as if no one had tampered with it. No noise, mind. Just loosen the edges of the timbers at the worst spots and remove some of them. But don’t touch the center. Understand?”
    Both Gavin and McCottry grinned. “In other words,” said McCottry, “you want that road fixed so it’ll be plain hell for a coach and four to go over it, but so that a mounted patrol won’t notice anything wrong.”
    “Exactly. And watch out for the patrols – they come through all hours. And no noise.”
    “Aye, sir!”
    * * *
    Late the next afternoon Gavin tethered his horse in the timber a mile behind the old Bee mansion, and removed a small iron kettle tied to the saddle. For hours he had studied every detail of what he would do from this moment on. His mission was the most dangerous of all. The success or failure of the entire scheme depended upon what course he would follow in the event of certain emergencies – some of which were bound to appear.
    If he failed, Alan Ramsey would hang. And Eve – But he couldn’t allow himself to think of that now.
    He glanced quickly at the big silver watch loaned him by Poyas Bee, and then proceeded to do a curious thing. Hiding his cap and sword in the palmettos, he took some of the charcoal that filled the kettle and carefully blackened his hands and face. Afterward he built a fire in the kettle.
    When the charcoal began to glow red he started off through the woods, picking his way cautiously as he drew nearer the house, and stopping occasionally for a look at the watch. It was still daylight, a fact that worried him considerably.
    The colonel’s plan was simple in skeleton, intricate in details. Much depended upon chance, but success would come only with every man doing his part with clocklike precision. Daylight made his own job doubly difficult and hazardous.
    He reached a high rail-fence and set the kettle down. Through the underbrush that lined the rails he could see an expanse of pasture; and, at the far end, the white-washed structures of the barn and stables connected by a roofed runway. The rail fence led to within fifty yards of the nearest building. Beyond that the only cover was a few gnarled oaks. Several dragoons were putting their mounts over the bars at the circular track near the barn.
    Leaving the kettle hidden at the fence he slipped to a vine-strangled magnolia behind him and climbed high into the network of branches. The dense evergreen foliage shielded him completely. He clung there, waiting, eyes straining upon the spot where the distant Camden highway dipped down into the swamp.
    He could barely make out the top of a tall tree there, shaggy with moss. There was another man in that tree, he knew, and that man was just as closely watching another spot far away on the road leading from Charleston.
    Gavin’s eyes flicked anxiously to his watch, then back to the highway. Shadows lengthened. A chill, salty wind began to blow from the coast, carrying a hint of rain. He cursed it and forgot that his arm was beginning to bleed again from the climb. Rain meant disaster.
    Without knowing it, he prayed, childish words that had never passed his lips since he was a small boy. The watch measured and discarded time in his pocket, its steady ticking filling his ears like Fate beating an anvil.
    * * *
    All at once he grunted a delighted oath and went sliding down through the branches without regard for cloth or flesh. From the tree he was watching had come a brief flash and a wisp of smoke. That would be Ted Delancey touching off a few precious measures of powder on a plate.
    Gavin reached the kettle, snatched it up by the handle and ran along the rail fence until he came to the turn near the barn. The open kettle glowed a tell-tale red and the heat scorched his hand. He found a piece of bark and covered it, then crawled through the fence rails and flattened in a patch of high grass just beyond.
    It was barely dusk. He’d prayed for darkness, had counted on it. If he could wait only a little while it would be dark enough – but he couldn’t wait even a minute. The thing had to be done now.
    If he could just cross this open stretch of ground in front of him, and not be seen...
    He began squirming through the grass, easing the kettle along beside him. The dragoons had left, but there were several grooms busy at one edge of the stable. Candles were being lit in the house and he could plainly hear men’s voices and feminine laughter.
    Gavin sniffed. “A little party with the wenches from the taverns, eh? Very well, my lads; I’ll give you some entertainment you’ll not forget!”
    The grass was thinning. He was glad he had blackened his hands and face – that helped a little. Then he reached smooth bare ground; the only cover between himself and the barn was a small leaning oak. There were more oaks to the left, but they lay too close to the stable runway where four grooms stood talking.
    Gavin crawled into the open, keeping the oak between himself and the grooms. They were looking idly in his direction and he knew they would see him any moment now. They couldn’t help but see him.
    For a half second he debated whether to get up and make a dash for the barn’s side door, or merely to walk there casually – as if he were on legitimate business.
    He got up, forced himself to walk forward slowly. He lowered his head, shuffled his feet along servant fashion. The twilight was deepening. No one could tell who he was.
    One of the grooms stared at him, followed him with his eyes.
    Gavin gained the stable door.
    His heart hammered madly as he groped through the darkness of the place to a bin sharp in his memory. His nostrils flared with the familiar smells of bundled fodder and hay, and oiled harness hanging from the racks.
    From outside came a cockney snarl: “I seen ye sneakin’ in there, ’Enry! Git yer blarsted carcass to the kitchen before I flay ye alive!”
    Gavin felt fodder in his hand and instantly heaved the kettle of charcoal upon it. One glowing stick fell at his feet and he kicked it back. Smoke flared upward.
    He stood there resolutely until flames were leaping high over the fodder, until he was sure it was beyond control.
    A hoarse shout whirled him around and sent him leaping for the door. A square form with a whip blocked the way. The whip-lash stung his cheek as he leaped forward; he smashed into the fellow and they went rolling in a cursing tangle outside. Gavin kicked free and spun to his feet, but the other grooms were on him before he could get away.
    His fist crunched against flesh and bone and a man went down. A sentry’s musket roared, and all at once the grounds seemed to be covered with hurrying, shouting figures. He hadn’t realized so many men could appear so quickly.
    He lashed out viciously with both fists, kicking as he went, and then dove like a flash through the closing circle and clawed upright. No one was in his way now. His toes dug in and he was off like a rocket across the pasture.
    There was no need to look back. High above the wind’s moan was a ghastly crackling sound, and a great column of red was making his shadow dance in front of him.
    * * *
    It was not until much later that night that Gavin had the pleasure of meeting Captain Elias Bullock. From what he saw of the stout captain, and from what Poyas Bee and the others told him afterward, it was not hard to reconstruct the details of that journey from the coast.
    Captain Elias Bullock, of His Majesty’s ship Bristol, should have been in an amiable mood that evening. The harbor had shown him all the courtesies due a naval officer commanding fifty guns. Balfour’s coach had been waiting for him at the dock, and there was a crack company of dragoons escorting him through the country. He had one entire seat of the coach to take care of his ample bulk, and the other seat was piled high with cases of old wine and various delicacies that he and Balfour would soon share together. And as an extra treat for his good friend Balfour, there were four crates of live pheasants lashed to the coach top, and another two made fast behind.
    * * *
    But it had been a hard month, the crossing unusually rough, and the Bristol had lain several days beyond Charleston bar, rolling in a nasty ground swell, waiting for a flood tide when that seething stretch of white water could be crossed safely. Even then the Bristol had scraped her keel badly and come within an inch of grounding.
    All of which had been hard on his touch of gout, and the madly racing coach was doing nothing to improve it. He thrust his beefy head and shoulders out of the window and bellowed at the nearest dragoon. “How much more of this infernal drive?”
    “Only a few miles, sir.”
    He spat, scowling at the vague shapes of trees flicking by. Damnable country. Black timber, black swamps, black water. Most confoundedly dismal region he’d ever seen. What the scoundrels saw in it worth fighting for was beyond comprehension. He tried to relax and think of the perfume and soft arms that would soon be his.
    There was sudden confusion ahead; the coach slowed. He leaned out of the window again. “What’s the matter?” he roared.
    “I don’t know, sir – the place is afire!”
    “What place, blast ye?”
    “The commandant’s! Look – beyond the swamp!”
    He stared, saw the pillar of red mounting star-high in the distance.
    “It’s the barn, the stables! Great thunder – this wind will take it to the house!” Captain Bullock’s fist pounded against the window frame. “By my faith, what’s keeping ye? Get on! Get on! Help put the cursed blaze out!”
    The leading dragoons spurred away, shouting. The coach plunged down the road, and in a minute began to heave and sway like a small boat in a gale. A case of wine tumbled from the front seat upon his gouty leg. He sprang to the window.
    “Heave to, blast ye! Are ye trying to kill me?” And to the guard behind him: “Ride on! All hands! Help save the house!”
    “We were ordered to stay by you, sir,” snapped the lieutenant in the rear. “There’s the danger of certain rascals in these swamps—”
    “Devil take the rascals – do as I tell you!” Rage choked him. He held on grimly while the last of the dragoons raced past and the coach continued, slower, but with thumping, jarring crashes that threatened to rend the axles. A hurricane on the north Atlantic would have been infinitely preferable to this. He flung open the door, cursing the driver, the horses, the road.
    Then speech failed him utterly. Swift dark forms of men were leaping from the shadows. The driver cried out hoarsely, but a terse order silenced him and brought him to the ground, arms high, knees weaving as a ring of rifle barrels surrounded the coach. Captain Bullock’s hand streaked to his sword, but quicker hands pulled him down, bound him and gagged him and dragged him into the swamp.
    In thirty seconds the coach had been stripped of its cargo, and food, wine and crates of frightened pheasants followed the Bristol’s master. A quiet voice spoke to the coachman, “Take this note to Balfour. If he values the captain’s life or effects, he must carry out these instructions to the letter.”
    The road was suddenly empty again. The only sounds were the nervous stampings of the horses and the calls of owls. The coachman dropped the letter as if it had been a hot iron, picked it up, and then he scrambled white and shaken back to his seat.
    * * *
    The next day turned warm and fair, but Captain Bullock was past noticing such details. For the greater part of the night he had ridden a horse that might have been bred by Satan; it was his first experience mounted and it had been without a saddle, feet bound under him. He was cold, wet to his hips, mud-spattered, and the splendor of his dress uniform was forever departed.
    His broad British face had been sorely treated by thorns and mosquitoes and now resembled an expanse of beefsteak. He had no idea where he was, except that it was a crude camp in a swamp.
    All around him lay the gloom of moss and cypress, a maze of black water lanes, bog, and dismal tangles that were beyond his power as a navigator.
    A freckled and hard-eyed young fellow in disreputable buckskins came before him, bowed politely, and offered a mass of boiled white stuff served on a slab of bark.
    “Your breakfast, sir,” said Gavin James.
    Captain Bullock choked. “Animal food!” he bellowed, and shook his fist at the grinning faces about him. “I’ll have the fare that men eat, or none at all!”
    A dark, shoddy little man limped over. “My apologies, Captain, but it is excellent fare. We’ve been living upon it for a long time.”
    “Ye’re a liar and a blackguard, and I’ll see that ye’re all hanged before the week’s up!”
    “Unless you are rapidly exchanged,” purred the little man, “I fear you’ll be hanged yourself.”
    The colonel turned aside. “Poyas – Gavin,” he said. “The honors are yours. You have your instructions.”
    “Aye,” the big Poyas grunted. “But if I know Rawdon, he’ll make no compromise.”
    “You forget, Payos. My Lord Rawdon is away inspecting the forts. The matter rests entirely with the captain’s friend, Mr. Balfour.”
    * * *
    An hour later Gavin and Poyas Bee stood beside a dark creek. Gavin had a white flag in his hand. Facing him on the opposite bank was one of His Majesty’s dragoons, also with a white flag.
    “The Commandant,” said the dragoon coldly, “finds your request ridiculous. He is willing, however, to exchange five rebels for Captain Bullock.”
    “No trade,” snapped Poyas. “We’ll take twenty men – and Lieutenant Alan Ramsey. We have the ranking prisoner and you’ll have to exchange him according to precedent.”
    The dragoon smiled crookedly. “Ramsey cannot enter into this discussion. There is a gibbet waiting for him. It’s time you devils had another example like Wayne.”
    “Very well,” answered Poyas. “Hang him, and you have my word for it we’ll hang Captain Bullock.”
    “Faith, you scoundrel! You’d never dare—”
    Poyas turned away. He was a good horse-trader. Gavin grinned behind his flag.
    “Wait!” the dragoon called uneasily. “I have to make some manner of exchange. You can have your twenty men – but I can’t include Ramsey. Such a thing would be preposterous!”
    Poyas shrugged. “Twenty men – and Lieutenant Ramsey. You have until night to bring them.”
    The dragoon stood working his jaws, anger making his face as red as his coat. Poyas jerked his thumb at Gavin. Gavin slipped behind a tree to a black horse that carried the Bristol’s master securely lashed upon its back. He untied the gag from Bullock’s mouth.
    “Get me out o’ here!” Bullock shouted. “Devil take that fool Ramsey!” His hoarse voice cracked to a wail. “I can stand being hanged, but for the love o’ heaven, hurry and take me off this hell-bred brute they call a horse!”
    The dragoon wet his lips. “Right, sir. Twenty men and Alan Ramsey. Er, ah – on one condition.”
    “Well?” said Poyas.
    The dragoon seemed embarrassed. “Er – the commandant demands his pheasants back.”
    “Pheasants!” screamed Bullock. “Stop quibbling and get me off this – this—”
    “One crate,” said Poyas.
    “Make it two,” urged the dragoon.
    Poyas smiled broadly. “You’ve made a trade, young man.”
    * * *
    Back in the gray gloom of the camp, Gavin slumped by the colonel’s fire. He was tired to the bone, and hungry. His eyes greedily followed Oscar’s black hands, busily turning three pheasants broiling over the coals. Opposite him the colonel sat against a cypress root, chin sunk in the collar of his ragged greatcoat. He, too, watched the progress of the meal.
    “Enough birds to feed all the men, Oscar?” he asked.
    The black man’s face beamed with a smile more jovial than summer sunlight. He ducked his head vigorously.
    “Yassuh. An’ some to spare.”
    The colonel smiled faintly. He glanced over at Gavin. “Lad, after you’ve eaten and rested a bit, you’re delegated to choose a brace of the fattest birds and take them over to the Singletons. Eve should know that Alan is calling this evening.”
    Absently the colonel groped for his record-book, then let it slide back into his pocket. His thin face sank deeper into his coat collar and his fingers pressed against his brow. Gavin, watching him, knew he was not asleep. He could almost read the colonel’s thoughts.
    The last few days were but an interval in a more grim game. The future clung about him, heavy with its menace, its doubts. There was the dread need of powder, work to be done with it. There was that ultimate day when the invader must be finally driven from the land.
    But to Gavin the issue seemed no longer in doubt. Not when one followed a fox like the colonel who kept the Tory roosts trembling, who could snatch a doomed man from the gibbet even as he planned greater raids for tomorrow.
    There were many other – perhaps more important – things to think about. But Gavin forgot them.
    Impatiently, Gavin sniffed the aroma of the pheasants.

    1939
    (Argosy, vol. 287, #6, January 28, pp.50-60)

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