Jean-Baptiste glanced at his son with distaste. Justin’s habits had become gross; even his once trim form had thickened. “This is unseemly. Calm yourself.”

  “Calm myself?” Justin snapped. “How can I calm myself? Fifteen ships that I had every right to expect would be mine—stolen from me!”

  “Come, Justin,” Elizabeth said irritably. “Even I know half of those ships have been taken by the British; many of the rest are shut up in New York.” She shifted uncomfortably as both men stared at her unblinkingly. “Well, they can’t be worth very much.”

  “This is an affair of importance,” Justin said. “You’d better retire.”

  She rose angrily. “The ships were, after all, to be mine.”

  “I said retire. Absent yourself.”

  For a moment their eyes locked, then hers slid away. Not a week gone, as they lay tangled nakedly, he’d put his hands around her throat and squeezed. She hadn’t been sure he’d stop. His eyes looked now as they had then. She hurried from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “Woman or not,” Jean-Baptiste said, “she is correct. And we may make use of that. With proper representation the ships in New York, and at least some of those taken as prizes, will be transferred to the proper heir, your wife, and so to you.”

  “But—”

  “Enough, Justin. Remember that you are a Fourrier. When a civilized form of government rules this land, merchants will bow to you and to all of your blood.” He thought of the bastard upstairs and grimaced. “Of your blood. Yes. And men such as Fallon may be disposed of without difficulty or question. Now, are you prepared to bring your mind to matters of importance?”

  “Certainly,” Justin replied with a bitter laugh. “Though when I have to enter my own home by night for fear of arrest by mechanics and shopkeepers—Well, as you say, to important things. The courier met us where you said he would. The British should have left New York by now, though he couldn’t or wouldn’t say how many or who commands.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Archibald Campbell with the Seventy-first Regiment, two battalions of Hessians—No matter, I will tell you later.” He noted his son’s look. “I find it well to have eyes among my friends as well as among my enemies. But go on.”

  “I’ve scouted the best landing sites, and I’ll take my men south before dawn to act as scouts and guides. Have those fishermen of yours take this map out to Campbell when his ships come down the coast. The best site is marked. The Girardeau plantation.”

  In the first frosty December light on the Savannah River, Justin watched from concealment with half a dozen of his men. The first boats had grounded. British soldiers were leaping out to wade ashore. He stepped out with his arms held clear to show he was unarmed. Instantly a dozen cocked muskets were aimed at him.

  “I’m Justin Fourrier. Your commanding officer should be expecting me.”

  A redcoated captain pushed through the soldiers. “Fourrier, do you say?” He spoke with a heavy Highland brogue. “I’m Cameron. Seventy-first Regiment of Foot. The cross of Saint George.”

  “The torch of King George,” Justin replied, as agreed. “Carolina to the Royal Standard. Now, Captain Cameron, at the head of that causeway over there to the high ground, you’ll find some sentries. I haven’t taken them; I wouldn’t risk an early alarm.”

  “You did right, Mr. Fourrier. We ken how to take care of sentries. If you wait here, the colonel will be ashore soon. No doubt he’ll want to talk to you. All right, Highlanders, follow me.” He disappeared up the causeway followed by his men in their flat Scottish bonnets. Musket fire racketed as Justin joined his men and mounted.

  After a time some soldiers returned with Cameron’s body and put it on a boat. Later still some horses were swum ashore. And all this time no one paid any attention to Justin and his men. He sat his horse and fumed. The rebels were getting time to prepare. He’d mapped every path and trail around Savannah with the full expectation of leading the British Army to a surprise attack. Now the bastards would be ready and waiting. Finally more officers arrived, among them a lieutenant colonel. He rode to meet them.

  “Colonel Campbell? I’m Justin Fourrier. I’ve half a dozen of my scouts here, and another thirty toward the city—”

  “Very good,” said Campbell as he swung into the saddle. “You and your men may prove invaluable. I intend to attack before sunset. Major Heath, get the Hessians and the Loyalists ashore and move them up to join the Seventy-first. Mr. Fourrier, shall we take a look at what this American General Howe has to offer?”

  Justin followed, gritting his teeth. “Colonel, there’s no time to waste. We should be attacking now.” Campbell acted as if he hadn’t heard. Several of the other officers stared at him rudely, clearly surprised that he’d spoken without being addressed.

  At the edge of a copse looking toward the city they drew to a halt. Campbell and his brother officers put their heads together, excluding him. They were waiting, all right. He could see their lines plainly, one end fastened on the town and the river, the other on the swamp. The only way at them was straight ahead. Damn it, if the British hadn’t delayed so in—Wait. The only way. No it wasn’t.

  “Colonel. I think I know a way to outflank them.”

  Campbell snapped his spyglass shut. “If you do, I’d appreciate your telling me. I don’t enjoy the idea of sending my men into this frontally. Look at that. The stream, and those mud flats. We’ll have to cross both. What is this way of yours?”

  “There’s a path through that swamp. I’ve used it more than once going to and from the city. It’s not much, but I can lead troops over it. And they’ll come out behind the rebel lines.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. I said you’d be invaluable. But not you, Mr. Fourrier. You’re too valuable to risk in something of this nature. Tell off one of your men for it.”

  “The only one who’s traveled it with me is my manservant. Pompey! Get up here. Him, Colonel. He can take them, and he’ll do it right because he knows I’ll have his hide if he doesn’t.”

  “Very well,” Campbell said. “Sir James? Where’s Baird? Oh, there you are. Sir James, you’re to take the light infantry and the New York Loyalists and follow this black fellow. He’ll lead you through the swamps to a place behind the rebel rear. I shall use the Seventy-first and the North and South Carolina Loyalists to hold their attention to the front. When you strike their rear, I shall attack. Good then. Off with you, and God speed.”

  Hold their attention? How did he intend doing that, unless he was going to make that frontal attack? Justin shook his head.

  Moments later Campbell gave him his answer. He formed the Seventy-first, marched them into the open, and then back again. The effect on the rebels was galvanic. Shouting ran from one end of the American line to the other. Their artillery opened fire, spraying shot indiscriminately. Even muskets were let off, though there was no chance of the ball traveling that far. When the rebel fire began to slacken, Campbell repeated his performance, and the rebels repeated theirs.

  Then, suddenly, there was a tumult from the rebel flank, shouting and the din of musketry. Baird was out of the swamp. Campbell moved the Seventy-first forward, and the Loyalists. This time they advanced on the rebel lines.

  “Forward,” Justin barked, and put spur to his horse. His men followed him toward the collapsing American army.

  They pursued, sabering men whose only thought was to flee, until a message from the colonel brought them back.

  An hour later they marched behind Campbell into Savannah.

  25

  Michael rolled over in his cot. Drums were rattling furiously in the night. Sentries around the encampment bellowed, and Charlestown Neck began to stir with men answering the summons. What was it this time? he wondered. Another riot in the city, or a farm burned by Tory partisans? He sat up with a sigh and started pulling on his uniform. A solider trotted past the flap of his tent.

  “You there! Soldier! What’s the alarm this time?”

  The man shifted his wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other and spat. “Don’t know, Colonel. Don’t think anybody knows. One thing. They do say the officer what brung the word from headquarters was white as a sheet.” He disappeared at a run.

  As Michael hunted up Louis, the Legion readied their horses with the creak and jingle of leather and harness. “Everyone present, Louis?”

  “All present, Colonel. We can ride in ten minutes, perhaps less.” He looked eager. The feeling was contagious. Surely this was more than the usual night alarm.

  “Not until I’ve discovered where we ride to,” Michael said dryly. “In the meantime, put a hot meal into everyone. If this is what it seems to be, it may be a while before their next one. Distribute double issues of rations and ammunition. And no one mounts until we move. I want those horses fresh.”

  At Moultrie’s headquarters everything was confusion. Everyone ran, even to cross the guardroom. Michael tried to stop one of the officers, to find out what was happening, but they all pulled away with shouts of “Urgent!” or “No time!” He couldn’t even gain the same room with Moultrie.

  A mud-splattered man in the blue of a lieutenant colonel of Continentals strode in shouting over his shoulder. “Get that saddle on another horse. I ride back within the hour.”

  “Johnny!” Michael said. “Johnny Laurens! What the hell’s going on?”

  “No time! I—Oh, it’s you, Michael.” Laurens looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. “All hell’s broke loose. The British have Savannah.”

  “That’s impossible! We’d a rider from there two days ago.”

  “Their ships appeared in the river one day, they landed the next, and by nightfall they had the city. Don’t ask me how. Three-quarters of the American army are dead, wounded, captured, or missing. General Lincoln arrived in Purrysburg expecting a retreating army and found a starving pack of refugees with muskets for only half of them.”

  “Lincoln? Who’s Lincoln?”

  Laurens laughed tiredly. “Seems as if it’s all happening at once, doesn’t it? The Congress, finally, are replacing Robert Howe. They sent us General Benjamin Lincoln. Looks like your old family doctor, round nose, round chins, round belly. But he’s a good man. Methodical.”

  “Methodical? Not exactly a prime quality for a field general.”

  “Don’t worry. I said he’s a good man. He was second in command to Gates at Saratoga. Look, I must go in to General Moultrie, now. When I come out—”

  “I’d better be getting back to camp. But try to pry some orders out of them in there.”

  A few minutes after Laurens went in, a captain panted out with a folded paper, a few lines scribbled on it over Moultrie’s signature. The Legion would stand ready to ride on a moment’s notice, but would not move until further instructions. What they were already doing.

  Something that had been buzzing in the back of his head finally came to the front. Lincoln had been second to Gates at Saratoga. That was where the battle was won by Arnold and Morgan, but the credit was taken by Gates. If this Lincoln was anything like his former commander it would be a bad time for the Carolinas.

  The three months following Lincoln’s arrival were frantic, and usually futile. At first they marched and countermarched along the border as if Lincoln couldn’t make up his mind what to do. Then General Augustine Prevost moved up from Florida to take command of the British. Suddenly the redcoats took Sunbury, and then Augusta. And just as suddenly Lincoln decided to strike into Georgia with the bulk of the army, leaving Moultrie with twelve hundred men to defend the state.

  On the third of May in 1779 Michael sat his horse on Tulfinny Hill, studying the Coosahatchie River some fifty miles south of Charlestown, no more than forty above Savannah. Where there should have been three or four good fords were now two dozen places to cross after the dry April. Only the alligator holes were deep.

  Time to report. He snapped his spyglass shut with a sigh and turned his horse.

  In Moultrie’s tent the general was bent over a map, measuring distances with a pair of dividers. “It doesn’t look good, Fallon. Another message from Lincoln insisting this is a feint.”

  Michael traced a line north from Purrysburg. “One hell of a feint, General. Prevost and the whole damned army.” The Legion had been blooded along that line. Ebenezer. Dupont’s plantation. Bee Creek Bridge. “He’ll come around. He always does. I just wish he didn’t take so damned long to make up his mind.”

  Moultrie snorted. “You know better than to talk of your superior officers that way. But I will agree, privately, that he could be a touch quicker. With luck, however, we may hang on here long enough for him to be convinced and turn back. Your last report of Prevost put him just this side of Bee Creek, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can’t stop him from crossing the Coosahatchie. It’s impossible to cover every possible ford. Once he crosses, however, he cannot afford to pass us by. This site is perfect for defense. With luck, we can bloody him severely. I just hope Colonel Laurens returns quickly.”

  “Johnny, sir?”

  “He still thinks he’s with General Washington,” Moultrie laughed. “They must use large numbers of troops for everything up there. I sent him to bring in the sentries from the river, and he requested three hundred and fifty men for it.”

  Michael had to smile. “A quarter of our force to bring in sentries? I hope you didn’t—”

  A rattle of musketry came from down the river, and again, fiercer. Moultrie looked suddenly ill. “As a matter of fact, I did.” Michael whirled for his horse, but the general flung out a hand to stop him. “No, Colonel! I’ll not risk my entire cavalry at this juncture. You’ll send out one squadron only, with orders to help if they can and retreat if they can’t. In any case, I want a rider back here immediately with a report.”

  Michael watched thirty Legionnaires disappear into the trees, heading downriver with Louis at their head. Drums were beating assembly in the camp behind the hill. Soldiers had already begun to march to their places on the slope. To a civilian they’d have looked impressive, but he knew if things had been bad before, they were worse now. Those men were militia for the most part, with a thin cadre of Continentals. Many of them had been planting crops a month before. How well would they stand up to three or four times their number of British regulars?

  An hour later the squadron was back, surrounded by limping, dispirited infantry. Many hobbled along, musket for a crutch, or were supported by friends. There were dozens of litters, including some hung between horses, but he saw with relief that none seemed to bear the Legion men. The ranks on the hill stirred at the sight, and a murmur ran through them. Some officers had to force men back into line.

  An officer with a torn coat and no hat, a rag tied around his forehead, stopped at the foot of the hill as if nerving himself. Finally he climbed to General Moultrie’s tent and saluted, swaying.

  “Well, Captain Shubrick,” Moultrie said, “where’s Colonel Laurens?”

  “Johnny is wounded, sir,” the captain replied. Suddenly he stiffened, staring straight ahead, and made a formal report in a flat monotone. “Pursuant to Colonel Laurens’s orders on reaching the river, we crossed over to engage what were believed to be foraging parties of the enemy. It developed that they were instead advance elements of the enemy main body. We found ourselves engaged against approximately four times our number. After sustaining numerous casualties, including Colonel Laurens, I assumed command and retreated back across the river, where I fell in with elements of Fallon’s Irish Legion. Sir.”

  “Damn, blast, and hell!” Moultrie made a gesture that took in the men returning from the river and those in ranks on the hill. “It’ll take a sennight to convince those men they could face a corporal’s guard of ragpickers after this. If we fight today, they’ll run at the first shot. What in the hell was Johnny—Hell, that doesn’t matter, now. Colonel Fallon. Put the Legion out as a screen between the British and us. Keep them off us if you can. We’ll fall back to Salkehatchie Chapel. Baker! Send dispatches off to General Lincoln and Governor Rutledge. Say what’s happened, and tell them to come fast, before the British snaffle us all.”

  The Legion skirmished and fell back, skirmished and fell back, screening what was left of Moultrie’s force all the way to Charlestown. In less than a week they were back in the city, waiting once again.

  On May 10, returning from patrol, Michael led his men through gaps in the unfinished abatis, the tangle of uprooted trees with sharpened limbs pointed toward the enemy. At the old city gates he swung out of the saddle. Moultrie was waiting.

  “Colonel Fallon,” Moultrie said patiently, “I am not aware of any army in which a lieutenant colonel personally leads scouting patrols.”

  “Even a colonel needs exercise, General.” He fell in beside Moultrie, leading his horse, as the general started back into the city. “There’s more than dragoons on the Neck, sir. Prevost has most of his army across the Ashley River Ferry. If we’d made a stand, we could’ve stopped him there.”

  “Yes. If that were all there were to it.”

  A party of backcountry militia passed, their only uniforms sashes worn over homespun coats, and a group of black workmen, shovels on their shoulders, headed for the entrenchments. “This militia would have disappeared out on the Neck. Even now, with water on three sides and entrenchments to the front, we lose twenty every time Prevost goes burning and looting. I find it hard to blame them. They want to take their families to safety. Speaking of families, what of yours? Mrs. Fallon has left the city, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes, thank God.” Michael laughed. “She announced that she’d better see to the planting.” For a moment they walked on. “General, you say that there is more to it than I know. Can you tell me what it is?”