The Deserter (2 page)

Thomas Manning eased himself through the gunport of the pitching man o’war and held onto the cannon’s icy barrel as he peered down. Waves leapt and crashed against the
Bellerophon
’s wooden hull. He lifted his eyes to the outline of the rocky and wooded shore, dimly visible in the dawn. Too far to swim? He hesitated. Then swallowing hard, he grabbed his canvas bag with its inflated bladder, tied its line round his waist and threw it into the angry waters below. Then he thrust himself through the gunport, and fell.

The glacial Atlantic shocked his system as down he went under the violent waves. Before he could surface, a surge threw him against the hull, knocking the wind from his lungs. Air, his brain screamed. His legs thrashed him upwards through the foaming water to burst forth, gasping for oxygen. He ingested more saltwater and was thrown against the hull a second time. His feet found the timbers and he rammed himself away. After another struggle, he surfaced again. This time a wave hoisted him, he gulped air and water, got a quick sighting of the shore, and struck out.

Had anyone heard him jump? Those battering seas, tearing wind, flapping yards of canvas, creaking two-hundred-foot-high masts, they would have covered the noise. But to make sure, he swivelled to check the watch lantern by the forecastle. No, it had not been whisked off by some watchman giving the alarm. Thomas Manning had gotten away.

Chilling fast in the paralyzing waters of the bay, he drove for the shore. Waves choked him with spray, lifted and dropped him, but he kept his arms churning, tugging his survival bag behind. Ten minutes in this subarctic water would finish any man; sailing through the Gulf of Saint Lawrence earlier this month, they’d passed a plethora of icebergs. So concentrate, he ordered, pump your legs, ram through the waves, you’ll make it, God is surely with you.

On the man o’war now dropping farther behind him, he had endured the great naval Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, which claimed his Admiral Nelson and his Captain Cooke, and he had survived. For years he had dreamed of this New World where there were no more lashings, no summary British Justice, just the land itself and what you could make of it.

For the last month patrolling Chaleur Bay, he’d watched and waited. He could not allow himself to fail. Rocks, head for those red rocks piled on the beach, not the sand bar, don’t leave traces of a landing: they’ll be after you, all right. Wickett would see to that. Forget all that, he commanded himself, gasping and choking, and forced himself on through the bucking sea. Thoroughly chilled, he began to tire. His sodden canvas bag tugged at him — would it stay afloat? He had tested the bladder in the sea late one night, but not in a storm. And surely the bag must have struck the hull as he had done. Dragging every ounce of effort out of his frozen limbs, he could feel the twine of the precious bag riding lower.

The choppy waves kept thrusting him under, as an arctic cold gripped him, froze his joints, choked his breathing. His exhausted body began to rebel. And behind him, he felt his bag begin to sink. The bladder had failed.

He grabbed at the twine, doing his best to keep it up. But now his frozen hands refused to work. He wound the line around a wrist, but he was so cold, so tired. Lashing out with the other arm, he pressed himself on, but every stroke needed a huge effort. His legs were refusing to obey. He found his senses slipping and he grew disoriented, the chill numbing his mind, choking his heart. The will to survive slipped away.

Hoist up the bag, he exhorted, you can still stay afloat, but no, it dragged him under. Let the line go? These frigid waters were dulling his ability to think, his muscles to respond. Just let the sea take him? So good for it all to be over...

But then he felt the line give a different tug. Had the bag hit bottom? Three fathoms of line, yes, that made sense, so now, so very exhausted, at least he wasn’t doomed by the weight of the bag. Drag it along the bottom. Thomas gulped air as another wavecrest lifted him. He saw rocks about thirty feet away. He threw every ounce of effort into his swim, and began to gain on the shore.

Then, the bag caught. He tried to pull on it while treading water, but his limbs would not respond. Stiffer by the second, he tried grabbing with both hands, only to be pulled under. He let it go and resurfaced, spluttering. The shore seemed so close, so very tantalizing. But that bag was stuck; that line around his waist tethered him. Get rid of it, and come back later? No, never, he’d have to get away from the shore fast, even run for his life. But he needed that bag, those necessities.

He threw himself backwards, kicking toward the ship again, still buffeted by waves. He tried looping the line round an arm, but the hands didn’t respond. Dragged under, but holding his breath as he went down, he kicked himself upwards and in a miracle unsnagged the bag. Now, thrust forward! But these last few yards seemed endless. At last a huge wave gathered him and threw him with tremendous force against the boulders on the beach.

His hands and feet thrust forward so that when he struck, smashing his knees and scraping his hands, he protected his head. The wavecrest sucked him back for another throw. But he swivelled and let it throw him sideways and forward, twisting to avoid sharp edges. It drove him into a crevice and, as the water receded, he managed to stay, stranded.

He braced himself for the next wave, wedging his feet and knees against jutting rocks. It struck him and tore at him, but stubbornly he held fast and then, as the water receded, managed to pull himself up higher. The next icy wave washed over him, to no effect. Gathering himself, he heaved his nearly naked body up above the water line. Worn out, he rolled onto his stomach, arched over a boulder, head down, and let the water drain from his spluttering, heaving lungs. His body shuddered mercilessly from the paralyzing cold.

He pictured the other Midshipmen asleep in their hammocks on the cramped orlop deck, with less than five feet of headroom. He had stuffed his Midshipman’s uniform into in his own hammock to simulate a sleeping form. The others might not notice when they got up for the watch at four this morning, but at eight bells, which began the forenoon watch at eight, he’d surely be found out. Not much time left.

He couldn’t stop shaking. The spray from the crashing waves had chilled him so much, almost wiping him out. This May weather was snapping cold. Get up and out of the spray. Unsteadily and still shaking, he tried to rise. How close he’d been to surrender ing! But nothing could stop him now. Except the bag.

His hands could not get a grip on the hempen line. He flexed his icy fingers, moved his arms, swung his shoulders to get the feelings back. Already the darkness was lifting and he saw the outline of the bucking man o’war across the estuary. With wary eye on it, he struggled onto a rock and tugged at the line. Still snagged. Shaking, he bent forward and managed to wind the twine round his frozen hands, and lifted again. No luck.

Now what? Dive out again? Never. But what else? Shaking like a fluttering pennant, he was not at all ready for more of the same. So leave the bag — head off into an unknown woods, with no clothes, no weapons, no knife, no tinderbox, nothing?

You need that bag and those clothes, he ordered, stand up straight, breathe deeply, stretch, swing your arms, get warm, get some strength back, and quick, in you go!

He plunged again into the raging waters. The first wave struck him and threw him flat. But he hit bottom — shallow! He leapt up, swimming, and in two strokes found himself above the snagged bag. As the wave withdrew, his feet hit bottom again, and he leapt, tugging on the bag, and tore it free. A surge knocked him down again, this time pulling him under and out from the beach. Choking great gulps of saltwater, he somehow righted himself and, as the next wave gathered, he aimed for a space between boulders and was thrown up onto the shore again.

Winded, gasping, but now clutching his bag, he clambered up the slippery rocks. Off balance, lurching this way and that, he headed for the cover of spruce trees twenty feet back. Then he let himself fall exhausted on a mound of dead needles. He had arrived in the New World.

Thomas lay, trying to collect his thoughts, a few feet back from the breaking sea. Not much time, he knew.

The rain was stopping and the storm abating: more worry. Would the Captain take off after the privateer they had been chasing? He hoped so. Or would he listen to Wickett and stay here to put the marines ashore? Thomas knew the drill. Wickett would send out three boats: one around the mountain to his left to cut off any escape westward towards Paspébiac, the nearest settlement, some days’ walk away. Another would surely row straight in to the trading post in the centre of the curved shore. A third contingent of marines would row around the eastern cape to cut off any escape towards Pabos, again some three or four days’ walk eastward.

Should he head for the trading post? If the owner traded with the Indians, he’d be French, and so not friendly to the English, having been conquered by them within living memory. But suppose the trader were English? Worse still. He would support the penalty for sheltering deserters.

So should Thomas make a beeline westward over the mountain, and count on beating the search party? No chance. They were fast rowers and he knew the tactics: string marines out at distances of one hundred feet perpendicular to the shore to form an impenetrable barrier among these bare and wide-spaced trees not yet in bud. Then why not stay hidden here until the danger passed? No, he’d heard dogs in the night at the trading post — the marines would enlist their help. They’d cover this area in no time.

All right, strike back, avoiding the trading post, and head for the river. Its fresh water would sustain him and if he hiked up it, he’d leave no scent for the dogs. But wouldn’t the search party chase him far into the interior? To the north lay one hundred miles of mountain wilderness. No one could reach the distant shores of the great Saint Lawrence River over those snow-covered hills, they’d know that. So no, they probably would counsel against that. Now, he decided, he would just have to head back the river up into the northern hills.

What about Indians? For certain they’d be all over the place no matter where he went. This river — maps showed it large enough to sustain an Indian band. Blood-thirsty savages — the thought froze his already beating heart. They hated Englishmen, he knew. When the French had been chased out of Louisbourg down Cape Breton way, the tribes had harassed the British hard. But wasn’t that a long while ago? He wished he’d paid more attention.

Well at last, he’d arrived; the New World was his. If he could avoid capture.

His breathing had slowed, his lungs felt clearer, and strength was seeping back. With it, his inflamed imaginings began to cool. Everywhere lay danger. So plan slowly, take time, make good decisions. But first, put on those wet clothes. In the light wind they should dry on his body. And then go. Go fast.

Shaking hard, he reached over and wrestled open the knot that closed his bag. Feeling around, he pulled out the trousers he had bartered when the ship had stopped last week for supplies in Paspébiac, several miles to the west. Sheltered by the pines, Thomas rose and tugged them on over his freezing legs. He was so tall that they stopped halfway down his calves, and so large they fell off his waist, but he found the drawstring and tightened it. He reached down and pulled from his bag the special shirt his mother had given him, which he’d carefully kept for this moment. He tugged its dun linen over his nearly dry torso, and then put on his rough North Country jacket, now so sodden. Finally, he sat down to lace up his black boots. The transformation was complete, from Midshipman to man of the soil. Now he was ready for anything.

***

Thomas carried his bag up from the beach into the heavier woods on the low mountain. Well hidden, he could soon make out, on the stormy waters of Port Daniel cove, his anchored British man o’war with sails furled. No abnormal activity as yet. Good. He turned and hurried through patches of snowy underbrush until he caught sight of the river estuary behind the causeway, where the trading post centred on a few nondescript dwellings. Avoid that, he decided. Panting and chilled, he hiked on vigorously through the dim dawn light, stumbling, and twice falling. But the exertion kept him warm and he felt his clothes drying.

Making sure to keep on the hillside until he had passed the trading post, he found the land sloping down-wards. He headed down towards the estuary where the river widened, and where a few ducks and lots of dark geese rode the choppy waters. Glancing northward, he saw the river curving into woods that stretched north-wards for a good hundred miles.

He came upon a path that ran along this side of the river. A route used by traders from the Post? Or a path worn by animals? In any case, fearing to leave a scent, he leapt across, then plunged through low bushes to the edge of the water. Without hesitation, he stepped in.

Freezing. Of course, because the river flowed from those dark northern hills patched with snow. Lifting his knees high, he half walked, half ran along in the water. His ankles began to pain from the cold.

The choppy surface would conceal any rings spreading from his strides, but he edged out from the shore bushes to check the trading post. A second-floor gallery had been built out behind, but he saw no sign of life. Feet aching, he made himself splash forward as fast as he could, carrying his precious bag.

But what about Wickett? Would the ship be putting out to sea again? Or would Wickett prevail and get the Captain to send in landing parties? Better climb a tree.

Ahead, he saw a half-dead spruce.

Bag around his neck, he struggled up the scratchy trunk until he could see, over the sandbank and through the bare trees, the masts of his ship. Sails still furled — that meant search parties. Quickly, he clambered down and forced himself ever faster through the water. The sun had not yet risen. Early bird calls from

unfamiliar warblers and the gossiping of crows bespoke the beauties that surrounded him in this dawn, now breaking into hard light.

Hope surged strong. Keep wading, keep going, he told himself, but his ankles ached horribly. Without any feeling in his feet, he tended to trip. His freezing wet clothes were almost dry so he made sure not to fall and drench them all over again. Here, on the banks of the Port Daniel river, all he had to do was evade capture.

Ahead, a low cedar bent out over the water. He hurried forward, sat, and with both hands massaged his numb ankles and feet. How they hurt! But the vision of the landing party and their baying dogs spiked his brain. No time. Put your boots back on. Push on quickly. But for a few moments he stayed, rubbing and praying.

Perhaps now he should take to the bank and race along the trail; he’d make much better time. But the words of his mentor at Raby Castle came back: caution must prevail. The dogs would be coming, avoid leaving them any scent. If they did not find him quickly, surely the Captain would override Wickett and give his previous Admiralty orders priority, rather than staying too long to search for some deserter. Privateers from the American Colonies plied the coast, striking at local ships and other British commerce. The
Billy Ruffian
was here solely to provide safe passage for the schooners bound for Europe, or indeed South America and Africa with their cargoes zf fish and lumber. He must remain out of sight and scent for at least two full days. So get going fast. With circulation vaguely restored, he splashed handfuls of water over the trunk of the tree to get rid of his scent and jumped down. When he did, he glanced up and through cedars forty feet away, he saw a face. Bronzed, broad features, dark eyes. An Indian. Shivers shook his spine. In an instant, the face had disappeared. Nothing. He listened. No sound. Was it a mirage? Should he go search the ground, the dead leaves and moss, for a footprint?

Fear swarmed over him. He grabbed his bag, forgetting caution, and set off at once through the underbrush up the sloping hill due west. Run, run fast. Oddly enough, he was far more afraid of that one face than a boatload of Wicketts. He leapt over the trail, fearful of the dogs, but had he not travelled far enough upstream? He pushed through the evergreens and reached a maple forest of wide trunks, but plenty of smaller growth springing up. Using the rising sun behind him as a guide, he made for the destination he had picked out while on the ship. Westward up the bay towards Paspébiac, he had seen an opening in the cliffs that indicated a stream. Fresh water — only a day or two’s hike from here. Once there, he’d make camp and, being far from habitation, should find himself safe for the time being.

Would the Indians have dogs? Fool, he thought, Indians need no help in following a trail. So what could he do to hide his progress? Avoid patches of mud and melting snow? But even on this carpet of old leaves and moss, just one disturbance of leaf or twig would betray him. If they wanted to track him, they’d find him.

Panting hard, he tried to force them out of his mind and just keep going. But terror had a way of gripping him. He’d heard so many sailors’ tales. How they would strip the flesh off you while you were alive, and eat it in front of you. Or tie you to a stake over a fire, and then cut your heart out. His imagination leapt with more and more gruesome yarns, until he found himself actually shaking. Forget that, he ordered. Be positive: look, you’re in this beautiful country, a free man! Everything you asked of your Maker, He has given you: the survival through many naval engagements, the crossing of the Atlantic, and now this territory — all yours for the taking. No, the Good Lord would support him.

Head down, leaping fallen trees, racing across open patches, concentrating on moving swiftly, Thomas did not bother to look up. When he did, he stopped short. Four Indians stood waiting.