She was nearly run over by van Clynne in the hallway.
'There you are, as usual, dallying with the distaff while there is considerable work to be done,' announced the Dutchman in a huff as he entered the room. 'We are under attack. Our forces are retreating to the perimeter of the house.'
'I'm leaving,' said Jake, rising. He stopped short as he turned. 'Where is your beard?'
'I doffed it as a disguise,' said the Dutchman.
'You look like a new man,' said Jake, scooping up his Segallas and grabbing the rifle. 'Come. We have what we came for, thanks to your friend Egans.'
The battle outside was proceeding with great fury, as Daltoons attempted to beat the slowest retreat possible. His men were doughty volunteers, fully imbibed with the spirit of Freedom, brave souls all. But no manner of rhetorical flourish can overcome the fact that they were over-matched.
The British, sensing their superiority, advanced with an aggressive haste that gave Daltoons an idea. Loading his musket and pistol with double shot, he directed his men to continue their withdrawal past the house. He then hid himself in a thick bush as the British continued their advance.
The thick woods and rough terrain made it impossible to proceed as a line, despite the English officers’ efforts. Bayonets drawn, but still occasionally stopping to fire, the redcoats continued down the hill.
The young lieutenant let the British vanguard, perhaps six men in all, pass him before he opened fire. He chose his first victim well, smashing the skull of a British lieutenant with both bullets from his double-packed musket. The shot from his pistol was borne of desperation, but no less accurate. He caught the company sergeant in the chest as the man aimed a shot in revenge. With great war whoops and hosannas, Daltoons gave the general impression that a full squad of men were launching a surprise counterattack.
The redcoats who had advanced down the hillside now had to retreat and deal with this new problem in their flank, or risk being cut off. The main company, meanwhile, immediately sought cover, having seen two of their leaders cut down by the troop of sharpshooters in the wood.
The feint relieved the pressure on his men and would give Jake and the others in the house a chance to escape. But Daltoons had suddenly made himself the acute object of redcoat desire. He dove over the large rock wall that marked the former edge of Bauer's property just as a fresh volley of musket balls punctuated the woods around him.
The lieutenant still had two small pistols in his belt, both loaded, assuming the charges had not been dislodged by his rough travel. Without bothering to check, he took one in his hand and began making his way along the wall toward the river as quickly as possible, half-crouching, half-running.
The woods and brambles, to say nothing of the smoke from their weapons, obscured the redcoats' vision and allowed Daltoons to gain a good lead before they realized where he was. Gradually, the Englishmen figured out that the attack at their side was merely a distraction. Endeavoring to overcome its effects, they redoubled their assault, though handicapped by the loss of their lieutenant and sergeant.
As Daltoons reached the back garden of the mansion, they were testing the defenses at the perimeter on the other side of the house. Not hearing any gunfire, he leapt over the wall and began racing for the lawn overlooking the river. In truth, he thought the American side of the operation had by now concluded, and feared he would reach the river too late to join the boats. He had ceased worrying about being shot; indeed, he had ceased worrying about anything, focusing entirely on the river.
As he reached the path that led down to the water’s edge, the lieutenant became aware of two distinctly different objects in his periphery: the figure of a redcoat sharpshooter taking aim at the woodside ten yards from the mansion's front door, and a considerably more demure, willowy figure, walking as if in a daze from behind the brick wall out onto the lawn.
He recognized Alison, full in the aim of the redcoated demon and his gun.
Chapter Forty-seven
Ten yards might just as well have been ten miles, as far as the accuracy of the small pistol in Daltoon’s hand was concerned. But the young lieutenant had no time to worry about that; indeed, he had no time to worry at all.
'Death to all redcoats!' he screamed, charging the sharpshooter. In the same motion he fired his pistol.
The bullet sailed well wide of its mark, but its effect was precisely what Daltoons wished. The Briton turned and fired not at Alison but at the blur attacking him.
'Mark!' shouted Alison as Daltoons fell to the earth, the side of his chest punctured by the wound. The spell that had taken hold of her vanished as she ran to the man who had just saved her life.
'I'm all right,' he gasped. 'The gun, the gun in my belt.'
Alison looked up and saw the redcoat who had cut down Daltoons advancing with his bayonet. She grabbed the pistol and with a steady hand pulled back the lock at its side to fire.
Nothing happened. Whether the charge was knocked out by Daltoons's efforts or fouled by his blood, the effect was the same. Alison and the lieutenant were defenseless.
It took the redcoat a moment to recover his breath from the sudden fright of being faced down by a pistol. 'So, rebel, you thought you would kill me,' he said, gripping his rifle so he could take a good plunge with the bayonet.
Retreat was cut off by the wall behind her, but in any event, Alison would not have left Daltoons. She threw down the gun and put her hands defiantly to her hips as she rose. 'You're awful damn talky for a private,' she said.
'I will show you the difference between talk and action, you damn rebel,' said the Briton, preparing to lunge. 'You will repent your tart tongue.'
A shot rang out as the man started forward. The bullet took his head and snapped it sideways in a grotesque spiral toward death.
'Her tongue is her best feature by far, I think,' said Jake Gibbs, vaulting over the wall. The rifle in his hand was still smoking.
* * *
Jake and company managed to make their boats well ahead of the British patrol, which was delayed by its need to search and secure the mansion. The ferryman hired by van Clynne now proved his patriotism, getting not only his vessel but the others started into the water as the Americans dove into the river. The man was soon humming a healthy tune, leading the tiny armada around a crag which cut off their pursuers' aim.
Halfway to Jersey, the patriots paused to take stock. Daltoons had lost several of his men, and the young lieutenant lamented not merely their passing but the fact that their bodies had been left unburied.
'You're lucky you're not dead yourself,' said Jake. 'Let me see your chest there.'
'It's not even a scratch,' protested the lieutenant.
'It needs to be examined,' said Alison, pulling aside his coat to do so.
There was not a large amount of blood. A bullet had wedged itself at the side of Daltoons's ribs; though doubtlessly painful, it did not threaten his life.
'It can be plucked out with a knife,' said Alison. 'I have performed the operation before. All we require is a bit of fire.'
'And a good strong dose of whiskey,' advised Jake. 'You will be back in good health after a little rest. And perhaps some nursing. I sense you have a volunteer.' He was not surprised to notice that both the lieutenant and Alison blushed. 'Though I believe she is supposed to be elsewhere on Manhattan at the moment.'
'The girl and I have reached an agreement concerning her disposition,' announced van Clynne. 'There is a certain woman named Hulter on Long Island, who has need of assistance on her farm. Apparently you have already made her acquaintance.'
