Chapter 180

Moving at twice a human’s pace, he was able to take in all of the sounds of the forest around him and tread lightly enough that his boots made little to no sound as he crossed over piles of leaves and twigs. He listened intently for any noises he could not contribute to animals or nature. Eventually, after about two hours of this slower pace, he heard the sound of pickets in the distance, chatting, shifting their muskets about. They were paying little attention. He rolled his eyes. Thank goodness he wasn’t the enemy.
He went around them, giving the pair a large berth as he continued to find his way closer to camp. He’d need to stop at the next stream and wash his boots. A quick glance down at this uniform told him he’d managed to keep most of the mud from splattering his britches, which was an improvement over his last journey when he’d had to spend more time than he’d bargained for scrubbing mud from his pant legs. Having clean pants was a necessity at this point in his life.
More noises let him know he was getting close to the main line of defense around the camp. This was close enough for his story of leaving his horse behind to be believable. He just needed to find some water, and then he could walk calmly to the nearest guard, hand over his letter of identification, and be escorted to one of General Gates’s superior officers. If he was lucky, eventually, he’d gain an audience with Gates himself, especially since Christian had been charged with scouting out the area nearby to determine where to deploy Morgan’s sharpshooters. While he’d thought he’d spied a good position on his way in, it would be best to discuss it with the General himself if possible.
Finding a narrow body of water, Christian crouched down and scrubbed his boots off, using a brush he carried in a satchel. He’d had to learn to travel light without the use of saddlebags, but not requiring food and other human necessities made that easier. Satisfied that his boots were clean, he stood, dried his hands on a towel from his bag, and dropped the brush inside, securing the clasp and locating his initial letter from his pocket.
The scent of tobacco hit his lungs before he came into sight of the guard. Rules dictated there was to be no smoking while on picket duty. Clearly, these men did not follow the rules. Christian had never tried the substance. Some of his father’s associates smoked pipes from time to time. Christian enjoyed the scent of burning tobacco, but Peter Henry had expressly forbidden his son from taking up the habit as he said it wasn’t becoming of someone of his stature. The temptation was often there, but Christian decided it was too cumbersome to carry a pipe and tobacco with him while he was on foot, so he’d let it go for now. Perhaps one day when he was more settled he could take up a pipe.
He approached the picket line slowly with his hands up, shouting the word he’d been told was being used for code, at least at the moment. The sound of muskets being readied hit his ears. He wasn’t too frightened since he knew a musket ball couldn’t kill him, but the idea of being shot wasn’t appealing either. It might sting as the projectile bounced off of him, and then he’d have some explaining to do. It was one of the reasons why he’d decided to become a dispatcher instead of joining the fight, that and it hardly seemed fair for someone of his skill with a musket to take aim at poor, defenseless human souls, not to mention how easy it would be for him to tear them limb from limb, and they’d hardly be able to get a scratch on him.
“State your business!” a man with a husky voice shouted as Christian stepped from between the trees. Both of these men looked old enough to be Christian’s father, not that his father looked old enough to be his father. They both had wrinkled faces beneath a day or two of growth along their chins. It was unbecoming. A gentleman was always properly shaved, no matter the circumstances. Christian didn’t slow for much when he was running to deliver a message, but he certainly wouldn’t show up in camp looking like a forest animal.
“I’m Captain Christian Henry, dispatched from General Washington in Philadelphia,” he said, holding up his letters. “I have a message for General Gates.”
They didn’t seem to question his authenticity. One of them kept his weapon semi pointed in Christian’s direction while the other stepped over for his papers. He looked at it briefly and nodded. Christian wondered if the man could even read. Was he simply looking at the seal? They shouted for another soldier to join them, and eventually, Christian found himself being escorted through camp to a small farmhouse with a large porch in a wide open field, only the invading forces camped around the serene vista disturbing the peace.
“Wait here,” the soldier insisted, leaving Christian in the front yard near the porch. He glanced over the dwelling. It was a step up from the log cabin he’d grown up in, but not by much. His parents had moved to a much nicer house inside the city proper of Philadelphia a few years back. It was at least twice as large as this place. Christian enjoyed staying there when he visited.
He also enjoyed visiting his sister’s large home not far from his parents’. She was still happily married, with a brood of children. The last time he’d seen her, Abigail had begun to show her age. Her wrinkles and extra pounds were unbecoming, and he’d avoided going back to her estate on his most recent trip to Philadelphia. He hadn’t asked, but he assumed, whenever she looked in the mirror, Abigail regretted her decision not to transform. She would continue to age while he would keep his youthful appearance for centuries to come.
Not that it was always pleasant being mistaken for someone half his age. Christian tried his best to look older than the seventeen-year-old face he wore proclaimed to the world, but no one believed he was his true age of thirty, no one who didn’t know what he was anyway.
The sound of footsteps on the porch brought his eyes back from the roofline. He’d been expecting an adjunct or aide, but when he looked into the eyes of General Horatio Gates himself, he recognized the man at once. Christian gave a bow. The man’s greatness on the battlefield superseded him.
General Gates waived at him to stand. “Not necessary.” A modest expression took over his face before he asked, “You have orders for me, from General Washington?”
“Not orders, exactly,” Christian clarified, drawing the second letter from his pocket. It was difficult to explain, so he’d let the general’s words suffice.
General Gates took the letter and read it over, a smile taking over his face as he read that he was about to have some much needed assistance. When he was done, his eyes scanned back over the document from top to bottom. “Very well, then,” he said, handing the letter to one of the men who’d followed him out. “On your ride in, did you have an opportunity to look for a potential site for the deployment of Morgan’s men?”
Christian nodded. “I believe there’s a position near Bemis Heights.” General Gates raised an eyebrow, his expression conveying he was familiar with the area, at least to some degree. “It is densely wooded with a trajectory that would give Morgan’s sharpshooters the benefit of high ground and thick coverage.”
Gates nodded. “I’ll send one of my officers with you to scout it out. Where is your ride?”
“I left my horse a few miles back,” Christian said, keeping his tone nonchalant. He wouldn’t say why unless the general asked.
He didn’t. “You may borrow one of mine.”
Christian thanked him and waited for Gates to assign one of his men the duty of riding back with him to Bemis Heights, an area Christian only saw because of the particularly strange route he’d made into Saratoga from Philadelphia. He had veered further east than would’ve been necessary if he’d come on horseback, but skirting around potential British threats had dictated the movement, that and his idea that the high ground there would be of much benefit to Gates and Morgan’s men. Familiarity with the area had paid off.
From the top of the rise, it was difficult to see anything at all, and that’s why Christian thought this would work so well for sharpshooters. “If they dig in here, it will be impossible for the British to see them, and they should certainly have the element of surprise.”
“Here?” the soldier, by the looks of his uniform, a colonel, asked. His powdered wig was slightly askew as he took off his hat and ran a hand through his faux hair. “How will we see when they’re coming?”
“A lookout,” Christian said, trying not to sound sarcastic. It seemed obvious to him. “He’ll give the signal. They’ll be able to see those bright red coats through the trees.”
The officer looked around a bit using a looking glass to peer off into the distance. Christian had played around with a newer version of the one he had in his hand, holding it up to a single eye, Wouldn’t it work better with two glasses? One over each eye?
The colonel lowered the device. “Yes, yes. This could work,” he said nodding adamantly. “Those ridiculous red coats will make perfect targets against the leaves and other foliage.”
He made the statement as if he’d just thought of it himself, but Christian only agreed. No sense in annoying a higher officer. “Very well then, I’ll report back to Gates at once. You can go retrieve your own horse, and be on your way.”
“If you don't mind, I will accompany you back to camp to make sure General Gates has no other information to pass along to General Washington.
Again, the colonel nodded and then spurred his horse. Christian followed, pleased that the location was acceptable to this agent of Gates. With any luck Morgan would be set up here, and the red coats would get what they had coming--lots of bullet wounds to the chest.