AUTHOR'S NOTE: During the American Revolution, it was common practice for wealthy families in sympathy with the rebellion to board Colonial officers in their homes for brief periods, particularly in winter. (Many Americans also bearded British troops, but seldom voluntarily!) Since monied patriots were major contributors to the rebellion's war effort, and because playing host to high-ranking Colonial officers was quite prestigious, these arrangements could be mutually beneficial in the extreme. No one could deny, however, that they did entail a certain element of risk.
 

New England's snowfall had been depressingly heavy this year. Though no blizzard to rival the winter of 1778, it had slowed the War for Independence to a crawl and sequestered her garrisons in silent corners of the countryside, awaiting a day when the roads would once again be passable.

Maine had, as usual, received the worst of nature's frigid wrath. Everywhere, villages lay snowbound, and idle ships dotted the coastline like dark skeletons, landlocked by a cold so bitter even the bay salt water had partially succumbed to its paralysis.

The stillness smothered everything. Like death, Barnabas thought. It was as though the world had died and been covered with a shroud of gleaming white. For a moment he forgot the constant, rhythmic away of the saddle beneath him; he blocked out the stinging cold and cutting wind by closing his eyes and mind against them and thinking of home. Of Collinwood. He pictured the proud, pillared house with warm light glowing in its windows. He thought of his mother, Naomi, and of Uncle Jeremiah, both of whom awaited him there. Then he thought of his room, the comfort of its hearth, and the luxury of a warm bed that be had taken for granted all those years -- until now.

The memory of the room's warmth was pleasant, until it called to mind the dream he had had the night before departing. Why should he have dreamt of strange, dark winged things -- bats that were not quite bats - - which hovered outside his window, twisting and changing into grotesque, misshapen things with eyes the hue of blood? Demon's eyes... Aunt Abigail would say the Devil had visited him. But why that dubious honor should be afforded him he did not know. He wasn't even certain he believed in a devil.

He opened his eyes, pushing the memory away, letting it dissipate into the cold. His horse, breathing clouded vapor into the night air, trudged after the rider before it, spared, for now, the task of breaking their path through the four-foot drifts. The snowy hillocks reflected back a near-full moon, its light diffused through harsh, unyielding clouds.

Barnabas exchanged his right hand for his left on the reins, and flexed gloved fingers that had long ago lost all sensation. He could hear his father's horse close behind. In front of him, Captain Forquet lead their silent trio into the night, and though he wore no uniform, his carriage, beneath the woollen greatcoat was nonetheless that of a soldier.

The wind stilled. They had been climbing a rise for some time and now were descending a gradual, wooded slope toward a road that was ultimately to bring them into Collinsport. The snow was not so deep here, and the trees broke its monotony. Somewhere in the shadows of the leafless forest an owl cried. It was the first sound uttered by another living thing that Barnabas had heard in hours.

He nearly collided with Forquet's mount, and was forced to pull his own up short, startled that the captain had halted so abruptly.

"Is something wrong?" He did not know why he whispered the question. Perhaps the forbidding woods seemed to require secrecy.

"I trust not," Forquet replied aloud. "But the others should have met us by now." He nudged his gelding forward and they continued in silence to the bottom of the slope, where once more the captain halted. "Your road, Msr. Collins. is barely navigable. Let us hope my friends are delayed due to that inconvenience, and for no other reason."

Joshua Collins nodded brusquely, rubbing his own gloved hands together "I will assume it is only that," he said. "There are no reports of British troops this far to the north."

"Reports and reality often differ." Forquet's anxiety was plain by the tone of his voice. His eyes, had the clouded moonlight allowed, would have revealed the same veiled fear; that the men they were to meet on this road might have been captured or killed, a contingency that would surely have damaged the rebellion's chances of succeeding. "We'll ride east for a time," he announced. "We should meet them coming this way before we have gone far."

They moved east without further discussion, and Barnabas studied the back of Forquet's bulky coat, wondering if he had a wife and family in France. What had persuaded him, and so many of his countrymen, to leave home and hearth and cross an ocean to aid a handful of dissidents against the Crown of England? At seventeen, Barnabas knew little of the complexities of political alliances, but that no love lay between the crowns of France and England he was very much aware. When they had made their rendezvous tonight, and when they had safely guided their guests to the safety of Collinwood's walls, perhaps he would be able to ask the captain for answers to some of his questions. There would be time then, for they would all be sequestered in the house until the thaw of first spring.

Again, he thought of Collinwood, and of Jeremiah, who always before had accompanied his brother Joshua on journeys such as this. Why Joshua had chosen this time to take his son. previously considered too young to participate in the Collins' wartime weapons trade, was something of a mystery. Just as it was a mystery to Barnabas why Jeremiah, a mere three years his senior, had always seemed to have Joshua's trust and confidence, commodities be was still struggling to gain.

Three days ago it had almost seemed that Joshua would regret his decision. He had anticipated no difficulty with this meeting, yet when they had arrived in Bangor, Forquet had not been at the inn -- their assigned meeting place. They'd waited three days, only to find that the captain, who arrived alone instead of in the company of the expected infantrymen, would require their services in a different -- and more dangerous -- manner. His party, already delayed by the Storm, had been ambushed en route to the inn by two lone British officers. One of his men had been fatally wounded; the remaining two had pursued one of their attackers, while Forquet, agreeing to rendezvous with them at the inn, had gone alone after the other, methodically tracking and dispatching him.

"I must beg you for your help, Msr. Collins," he had said, whispering even though there were no other patrons in the inn's tiny dining room. "It is still our intention to purchase your weapons, but I would beg you, postpone our transaction for a time. In fact, Msr., if it is possible you'd be willing to house three dislocated allies for a time, it is certain our final bargain would be much more to your liking."

Joshua Collins had been puzzled by this request. "My home is open to any patriot," he had insisted. "But you'll forgive me, captain, if I must ask why this is necessary?"

"Because we cannot assume these two Britons acted independently. The chance is great they are part of a division and we cannot afford to meet with that, whatever it may be. You may think me overcautious, but I have not told you everything. I have good reason to be careful, and to seek a place of safety until the roads are clear. You see, one of my companions is an officer of some importance. I cannot tell you his name; if we are apprehended it is better you not know it. Msr. Gage and I were to escort him on to Philadelphia after we had concluded our business with you, to attend a certain 'private' meeting. That is why we traveled out of uniform. Now, however, I find our itinerary must be altered. I cannot risk further movement in this blizzard with the threat of an English patrol at our backs. And if my friends do not overtake and kill that second soldier, our danger may be all the greater."

Joshua had carefully checked with each of his most reliable sources before they'd departed. There had been no known troop movements (on either side) anywhere between Bangor and Collinsport. But all his sources put together could not constitute proof. A weapons smuggler, even more often than a soldier, was obliged to contend with uncertainty.

So they had ridden to the intended rendezvous. Barnabas wondered if be would have been permitted to accompany this transaction had his father known of the strange turn it would take. He knew the answer. But he was glad his family would be host to the officers. There were many things he wished to learn.

* * *

From the snow-laden branches of a barren elm, the owl watched a figure clad in red make its way across the uneven ground below. It climbed a shallow bank, this strange red thing, and crouched beside the road, waiting.

Lt. William Barrett of His Majesty's Royal Army examined his two pistols and the powder in his cask, checking to be certain the snow hadn't damaged them when he had fallen. His horse had collapsed beneath him some hours ago, and not to be defeated by the misfortune, he had elected to double back on his pursuers and surprise them before they happened on the animal's corpse. He was glad he had taken the extra pistol; it appeared he would have need of it. There were two rebels after him. One shot would not be enough. Damned stupid idea Dunne had had -- attacking these rustics in the first place. They certainly didn't ride or track like farmers, though. From the look of it, they were more likely rebel conspirators. Whatever they were, one thing was certain. They had some special interest in seeing he did not rejoin his patrol.

Assured that his powder was dry, he loaded and packed both weapons, then settled in to wait. His legs were numb and his uniform soaking before he heard the riders approaching. But his vantage point was good. He sighted them, even in the darkness, in plenty of time to take careful aim at the foremost rider. He pulled back the hammer, waited until they were nearly upon him, then carefully squeezed the trigger.

The forefront rider was pitched sidelong into the snow, dead before he struck it, and Barrett scrambled onto the road to confront his companion, nearly succeeding, in his haste, in being run down by the dead man's frenzied horse. The second rider, fighting to control his own startled mount, was reaching into the lining of his homespun cloak.

"Take it out," Barrett demanded, and raised the second pistol high enough to be visible in the moonlight. "Drop it over there."

Regarding him warily, the rider hesitated, then complied. His weapon fell with a soft crunch beside the dead man, landing near a spreading patch of red staining the snow. Barrett moved closer to take the fidgeting horse by the nose band. "What is your name?"

He might as well have been addressing the horse. But then, he hadn't really expected an answer. Able now to discern the other's features, Barrett found himself stricken with an odd touch of remorse. The man on this horse was little more than a boy -- certainly no older than his own son. Twenty, perhaps. Twenty-two at most.

"Would you prefer to give me some reason why I shouldn't send you after your companion?" He forced grim authority into his voice. It was a threat he did not feel. "I suppose," he went on, "you're going to deny that you were tracking me; that you intended to kill me."

The young man's eyes met his with a force that surprised him. "I do not deny it." The voice was strong and -- he hadn't mistaken it -- tinged with a familiar accent.

"You are a Frenchman."

The dark eyes bore into him. "I am a fur trader from Quebec."

"Of course you are." Barrett's pistol never wavered. "Get down from there, fur trader."

For an augmented moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the younger man moved as though to obey Barrett's command. He was half way to the ground when he savagely jerked the rein, snapping the animal's head painfully back. Flailing hooves threw Barrett backward; he was not fast enough to avoid being struck. The pistol in his hand discharged, and in almost the same moment he heard the horse scream, followed closely by the scrabbling sound of something -- or someone -- running into the brush. Dazed, he struggled to sit up. A hand pressed to his throbbing forehead came away wet with his blood. He scooped up a handful of snow and gingerly pressed it to the wound. Damned horse must have raked him with a shoe. The animal lay now in the snow beside the dead man, near death itself. And its rider...

Barrett retrieved his weapon from the icy ground, pulled the other from his sash and hastened to reload them both. The Frenchman's pistol still lay where he had thrown it. At least he would be tracking unarmed prey.

He searched the saddlebags of the dying horse before setting off, finding a linen kerchief with which to bind his head. Then, with his knife, he carefully cut the reins free, coiled them in a circle and shoved them deep into a pocket. He would need something with which to bind the prisoner...

* * *

"There should have been some sign by now." Forquet had paused again to peer at the virgin snow in front of them.

"Perhaps," Joshua offered, "they simply had more difficulty overtaking their half of the ambush party."

The captain shook his head. "We were to have met here in any case."

He spurred his mount forward again, and Barnabas had been about to follow when his father came alongside him. "We must be destined to have a very important houseguest indeed," he said. "To be the object of this much concern, can he be less than a colonel? A general, perhaps?"

Barnabas shivered and pulled the collar of his cloak together as they rode on. "If he is lost in this icy waste, he may be a very stiff general by now."

Joshua grunted. "We may all end up frozen if we're out in this much longer."

They continued in Captain Forquet's path, but for as far down the road as the moonlight would allow them to see, there were no signs of riders.

* * *

"That is far enough, my trader friend." Barrett halted his quarry in a birch copse less than an hour after setting after him. "Stand where you are, and put your hands behind you."

While the younger man silently obeyed, Barrett secured his hands with the severed leather rein. "Now we walk," he said. "South and east."

His prisoner asked softly, "How far away is your patrol, leftenant?"

"Not farther than your feet can carry you, Frenchman. Move."

"But perhaps," the prisoner said as they walked, "farther than yours may carry you."

Barrett frowned, touching his bandaged forehead. The cloth was damp with blood. "You should pray I cannot bring you there. You would find my superiors decidedly unsympathetic to France's alliance with rebels."

"To be sure. France, on the other hand, has no tolerance for tyranny."

Snow crunched beneath their boots. Barrett uttered an obscenity at his captive's political insult. "Since Philip wrested Normandy from King John, the English have made a habit of hating you Frenchmen Now I think I know why."

"You've hated us longer than that. Philip routed Richard Lionheart from Chateau Gaillard on the Seine long before he routed feckless John from Normandy."

Barrett's eyes narrowed. "You're damned well-schooled in history -- for a fur trader. What are you really, Frenchman? A colonial spy? A smuggler, perhaps?"

The younger man smiled tightly and said nothing.

"To hell with your French arrogance," Barrett spat. "And this farmer's uprising with it." Wearily, he added, "God for peace and England again."

The prisoner laughed grimly. "Well," he said softly, "God for peace."

Too tired to care, Barrett let the insult pass. He strove to keep hold of his pistol and concentrated on placing one foot before the other. Soon -- within hours if he was fortunate -- they would reach his patrol's encampment.

* * *

Something lay in the road ahead. Barnabas first recognized the indistinct shape as that of a fallen horse, but they were nearly upon it before they realized that just beyond it lay the body of a man.

With panic dictating his movements, Forquet vaulted from his horse and went to his knees in the snow. He lifted the corpse, already stiff with rigor mortis and cold, and turned its bloodless face into the moonlight. Barnabas looked away, visions of the black, deathly things of his dream swimming in his head.

"It is Msr. Gage," Forquet breathed, but there was no hint of relief in the statement. Clearly, his remorse for this man was as deep as his concern for the one still missing.

Joshua, who had ridden a short distance further, called back to them. "There are tracks," he reported. "Two men. On foot. They lead south into the brush. And there are tracks of a horse trailing reins going off the road to the north -- probably riderless."

Forquet rose to peer in one of the directions indicated. "Two men?"

Joshua dismounted and knelt to examine the body himself. "They're two hours ahead of us, Captain. This man has been dead at least that long."

"Yes, but they are on foot. We might easily overtake them before dawn."

"Captain..." Apprehension was plain in Joshua's voice. "I do not mean to be unaccommodating. But when I brought my son on this journey, I did not intend to expose him openly to war."

Forquet looked at Barnabas, who still sat his horse, and saw in the youngster's eyes a clear resentment of the father's words. Nonetheless, he nodded. "You are right of course. I should not ask such a thing of you. Either of you."

Joshua bristled slightly. "Don't mistake me, captain. I have done my share of fighting in this war. Three years ago a British musket nearly saw to it that I'd fought my last. Under any other circumstances, I would be more than willing to pursue your officer. But I will not endanger my son's life."

Forquet peered down at the tracks in the snow. "You have your responsibilities, Msr. Collins. As I have mine."

"Father, no." Barnabas slid from the saddle and navigated the well-trampled ice to his father's side. "You cannot let him go alone..."

"Your father's concerns are valid." Forquet interceded. "I do not know if these men are traveling together, or if they are together, which of them may be the prisoner of the other. To follow, not knowing that, is dangerous."

"I don't care. I want to go with you."

Joshua spoke sternly. "I have already forbidden that."

Defiance clouded Barnabas' reply. "The same way you've forbidden me manhood? Some younger than I have been serving in the militia for months!"

He had expected to see an indignant reaction to his outburst. Stricture, reprimand, even rage, he had anticipated. But the response he received surprised him. Joshua turned away and moved back to the side of his brown and white mare. His voice, when he spoke, reflected not anger, but bitter resignation. "How vital to the cause of this war is the life of your officer, Captain Forquet? Enough to risk your own life for his?"

"Because he is my friend, I would risk the world for him. But because he is also a man General Washington himself deems indispensable... well, for that reason, I would risk any life to save his. I would beg any man's help -- any child's -- whether I had a right to ask it or no.

Joshua remounted, deliberately avoiding Barnabas' gaze, and rode off the road into the path the footprints had taken. Barnabas, incredulous at his father's uncharacteristic surrender to reason, had not even noticed Forquet's offhanded reference to him as a "child." He wished Jeremiah had been here to witness this moment.

Forquet's softly accented voice interrupted the thought. "Do you know how to fire a pistol?" he was asking. "It might he wise for you to carry one."

"I know how," he answered truthfully.

Forquet bent to remove a supply of both powder and shot from the corpse. From the snow nearby, he retrieved a French-made pistol. All of these he pressed into Barnabas' hands, the pistol last of all. "Use it wisely, my young friend. You may find, when you must fire it at a man, that he bears little resemblance to a practice target." He resumed his own mount with that, and started after Joshua.

The objects, alien to Barnabas' touch, were quickly secreted beneath his cloak before he rode after the others.

* * *

Seeking prey, the owl flew beneath a westward-drifting moon and grumbled at the new intruders encroaching on his hunting ground.

Lt. Barrett leaned against a hollow oak and tried in vain to clear the haziness from his vision and the persistent pounding from his head. His prisoner, not as weary of walking as he, stood ankle deep in the snow and gazed at him, a curious mixture of enmity and concern.

"You are in need of a physician's attentions, leftenant," he said. "And we are walking the wrong way for that."

Barrett kept a giddy hold on the grip of his weapon. "Pray that I drop, then, if you know how to pray." Grimacing, he touched his throbbing forehead and waited until the roar in his ears had subsided before going on. "I suppose," he said then, you are a Papist. A good Frenchman would scarcely be anything else, would he?"

"I believe in God, if that is what you're asking."

"It isn't. You've a damned fine talent for evasiveness, though, haven't you? Not like any French spy I've ever encountered, and not out of any peasant stock either. No... I'd guess you for a nobleman, landed and titled from the cradle. Am I right?"

The dark eyes seemed to glisten at that, but his captive gave no answer. Heavy hearted, Barrett looked him up and down. "What kind of bloody aristocracy sends its children to fight a foreign war? I have a son in Devonshire older than you. He still attends the university."

The point of his pistol drooped, and snapped up again when the Frenchman took a step toward him. "Don't assume," he said through clenched teeth, "that mere sentimentality's prevented me from killing you and having done with it. I know you're no fur trader, and you know I know it. What you are I've yet to learn, but I will, in time, If not, then my superiors will have the honor."

A single, sharp sound. like the snapping of a twig hidden under snow, ruptured the silence behind them. Barrett whirled and saw only the trees. But the moment was sufficient for his prisoner to reach him, and denied the use of his hands, to leap and kick outward with both feet. Barrett's pistol went off with the impact of the blow. Both men fell as two figures, shouting, erupted from the trees.

* * *

Forquet saw a flash of red coat scrambling into the undergrowth and fired after it, but he did not give chase. As Joshua approached, Forquet knelt to unbind the man struggling to sit up in the snow. He seemed to resist the captain's effort. "Take care for yourselves, Anton," he said breathlessly. "I am all right, but that kingsman is still armed!"

Joshua paled, realizing for the first time that only two thirds of their trio had emerged from the trees. "Barnabas..."

His own pistol in hand, he charged back into the brush. Forquet and the rescued companion came close on his heels.

* * *

Not far sway, the object of their concern stood holding a dazed British officer at gunpoint. They had literally blundered into one another. Barnabas, preparing to close their surrounding triangle, had been holding his newly-acquired pistol in hand when Barrett had broken through the undergrowth.

Barnabas had come face to face with a prospect that openly terrified him. The hand that held his pistol quivered uncontrollably. And the man facing him, his head wrapped in a blood-stained cloth, had eyes that piercingly said this boy would not have the courage to shoot him

The eyes were right.

Barnabas watched, horror-stricken, while the soldier drew a pistol from his sash. For a terrible. eternal moment, its black muzzle stared at him like a single gaping eye. Then a thumb reached for the hammer, began to pull it back...

"Touch the trigger, my friend, and you'll be taking a hasty trip to hell." The voice was Joshua's. He came out of the gloom behind the soldier, who judiciously permitted his pistol to drop into the snow at his feet. Though the danger had passed, Barnabas found he still could not move. He felt rather than saw his father's eyes on him, on the gun he still held and had not found the strength to fire. His father would have expected that; he knew his son had never found the strength to kill any living thing. But Captain Forquet had expected something more of him, something found exclusively in the demesne of manhood that the last few moments had proven him not yet able to reach. He wanted to scream, to cry out in rage at his own cowardice, but that, too, would have been the reaction of a child.

Captain Forquet came to stand before him, silently holding out a hand. Barnabas did not acknowledge his presence. Instead, he dropped the pistol and turned away, running for the clearing and the tethered horses.

Forquet watched him go before bending to retrieve the weapon. He handed it to his associate, and there was a clear, unspoken exchange between them as the pistol transferred hands. A moment later, Forquet said, "We have a duty, _mon general_."

When the last words were spoken, Barrett and his former captive looked at one another. The Briton's eyes widened. "General," he echoed, and stepped forward in spite of the threat of Joshua's gun. "God's blood, what a feather I nearly took home! I know you now. I should have guessed it long ago. I think I nearly did at that. These colonials may renounce all titles of nobility, but they are still not too proud, are they, to accept the collusion of the Marquis de Lafayette?"

No one responded to his outburst. In the clearing beyond, one of the horses nickered impatiently. Forquet and his general locked gazes while Joshua Collins held the Englishman at bay. Then Lafayette, as though Barrett were not standing there before him, said tiredly, "It is not necessary to kill him, Anton."

Forquet looked grimly indulgent. "We cannot permit him to reach a patrol with news of your whereabouts."

"I did not mean that. We will... we will take him with us."

Forquet shook his head. "We are already short by one mount. And we are more than five days ride from any place to deliver a prisoner of war. The general will forgive me, but our responsibility is plain."

Three times, young Lafayette turned the French pistol over in his hands. He looked, to Joshua, very much like the boy who'd just run from this place. Yet in another sense, he looked old -- old with the weight of responsibilities far beyond his years.

The boy general looked at Captain Forquet with hollow eyes. "Does each time you kill a man make killing easier, Anton? I fear I've never found it so." As though suddenly finding it repulsive. be abruptly shoved the pistol into Forquet's hands. "You attend to it, then."

He did not look back at the British leftenant, but followed a younger man's prints in the snow to the place where the horses waited. Gray sunlight had begun to filter through the clouds, but he was unaware of it. He saw only the grey of his own soul, and its weariness with killing...

* * *

Barnabas, standing with Joshua's mare, saw him come out of the wood and pause beside Forquet's black gelding. He watched this man, who was surely no older than Jeremiah, place both hands atop the gelding's saddle and stare into emptiness, horror, pain and dread all written in his face. He was waiting for something...

When the shot rang out, the Marquis de Lafayette closed his eyes and did not open them again until the crunching of their boots in the snow heralded the return of Forquet and his companion. For a distended moment, no one spoke. Then Forquet, with his matter-of-fact simplicity, said, "I would the circumstances were better suited to making introductions, _mon general_, but we have little time to linger. Msr. Joshua Collins and his son have kindly offered to guide us to the hospitality of their home -- until the roads are clear again and the threat of a British patrol is gone.

"We are, however, some four hours' ride from Collinwood," Joshua interjected. "If you would prefer to find some closer shelter, or make camp for a while and rest..."

"No, Msr. Collins." The young general slid a foot into the gelding's stirrup and swung into the saddle, accepting the reins from Forquet. "If the three of you do not mind, I would prefer to go on to your Collinwood. I assure you, I shall be better able, there, to appreciate your aid and your hospitality."

Murmuring an acceptance, Joshua handed his mare to the captain and turned to equip Barnabas' mount to allow for double riding.

Nothing more was said of the somber event in which they'd all just taken part. But the sound of the gunshot still rang in Barnabas' ears, and the dark, deathly things of his dream would return to haunt him that night and on many nights to come.

* * *

Dawn watched them ride from the clearing. It cast its questioning rays upon the thing they left behind; an unmoving, scarlet-clad figure sprawled doll-like in the snow.

From his overhead perch, the owl gazed down at it too, and wondered why all but this one were finally leaving his domain. Deciding that, for now, it posed no threat, he called out one last time to the sinking moon, and closed his eyes to sleep.
 

- The End --