The Custom of the Army Read Online Free PDF Page B

to get past him to the encampment.
    Another spark grew upstream, and another beyond it: more fireships. The boats were in the water now, mere dots in the darkness. If they could fend off the fireships, the
Harwood
might be saved from immediate destruction; Grey’s fear was that whatever was going on in the rear of the encampment was a ruse designed to pull men away from the shore, leaving the ship protected only by her marines. The French could then send down a barge loaded with explosives, or a boarding craft, hoping to elude detection while everyonewas dazzled or occupied by the blazing fireships and the raid.
    The first of the fireships had drifted harmlessly onto the far shore and was burning itself out on the sand, brilliant and beautiful against the night. The short gentleman with the remarkable voice—clearly he was a sergeant, Grey thought—had succeeded in rallying a small group of soldiers, whom he now presented to Grey with a brisk salute.
    “Will they go and fetch their muskets, all orderly, sir?”
    “They will,” Grey said. “And hurry. Go with them, Sergeant—it is Sergeant?”
    “Sergeant Aloysius Cutter, sir,” the short gentleman replied with a nod, “and pleased to know an officer what has a brain in his head.”
    “Thank you, Sergeant. And fetch back as many more men as fall conveniently to hand, if you please. With arms. A rifleman or two, if you can find them.”
    Matters thus momentarily attended to, he turned his attention once more to the river, where two of the
Harwood
’s small boats were herding one of the fireships away from the transport, circling it and pushing water with their oars; he caught the splash of their efforts and the shouts of the sailors.
    “Me lord?”
    The voice at his elbow nearly made him swallow his tongue. He turned with an attempt at calmness, ready to reproach Tom for venturing out into the chaos, but before he could summon words, his young valet stooped at his feet, holding something.
    “I’ve brought your breeches, me lord,” Tom said, voice trembling. “Thought you might need ’em, if there was fighting.”
    “Very thoughtful of you, Tom,” he assured his valet, fighting an urge to laugh. He stepped into the breeches and pulled them up, tucking in his shirt. “What’s been happeningin the camp, do you know?”
    He could hear Tom swallow hard.
    “Indians, me lord,” Tom said. “They came screaming through the tents, set one or two afire. They killed one man I saw, and … and scalped him.” His voice was thick, as though he might be about to vomit. “It was nasty.”
    “I daresay.” The night was warm, but Grey felt the hairs rise on arms and neck. The chilling screams had stopped, and while he could still hear considerable hubbub in the camp, it was of a different tone now: no random shouting, just the calls of officers, sergeants, and corporals ordering the men, beginning the process of assembly, of counting noses and reckoning damage.
    Tom, bless him, had brought Grey’s pistol, shot bag, and powder, as well as his coat and stockings. Aware of the dark forest and the long, narrow trail between the shore and the camp, Grey didn’t send Tom back but merely told him to keep out of the way as Sergeant Cutter—who, with good military instinct, had also taken time to put his breeches on—came up with his armed recruits.
    “All present, sir,” Cutter said, saluting. “ ’Oom ’ave I the honor of h’addressing, sir?”
    “I am Lieutenant-Colonel Grey. Set your men to watch the ship, please, Sergeant, with particular attention to dark craft coming downstream, and then come back to report what you know of matters in camp.”
    Cutter saluted and promptly vanished with a shout of “Come on, you shower o’ shit! Look lively, look lively!”
    Tom gave a brief, strangled scream, and Grey whirled, drawing his dagger by reflex, to find a dark shape directly behind him.
    “Don’t kill me, Englishman,” said the Indian who had led them to