Free Jack Absolute by C.C. Humphreys Page B

every man there,
     one after the other. ‘But rest assured, gentlemen, wherever they choose to stand and fight, they will be beaten, and beaten
     soundly.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘Fairly, of course, dear Captain. We will seek to instruct, to correct, not to humiliate. But
     we will beat them nonetheless. And then we will seize the prize.’
    Since the attention was on him anyway, and recognizing a cue when he saw one, Jack ventured, ‘Which is, sir? Can you now tell
     us the final goal of all these endeavours?’
    A knock prevented Burgoyne’s immediate reply. A servant entered, one of the Baron’s; he spoke softly in the German’s ear,
     who then passed the message on to his interpreter.
    ‘A cousin of the General seeks permission to join us. His ship has just arrived.’
    Burgoyne looked less than pleased, the playwright in him upset at the interruption to the flow of dialogue and the suspense
     he’d created. Nevertheless, he nodded and the servant withdrew.
    ‘Now, what matter were we discussing? Ah yes, something minor like crushing a revolution, wasn’t it?’ Having seized back attention
     with a laugh, Burgoyne gestured to Jack. ‘Would you be so good, Captain Absolute? That decanter of port, about a dagger’s
     length below Saratoga.’
    Jack placed the decanter as instructed, kept his fingers on it as he spoke. ‘And this is, General?’
    He already knew, as did most of the men there. But no one would deny Burgoyne his moment. He returned slowly to the head of
     the table, laid his pipe carefully down, placed his palms on to the wood, leaned forward so that lamplight played on his face.
    ‘Albany. The heart of the country. When General Howe and I rendezvous there, New England will be split in two. Washington’s
     armies will scatter or starve. We will have won back the Colonies for the Crown.’
    There was a short silence, only just long enough for the words to be absorbed. Not quite long enough for anyone to huzzah,
     or declare a toast, because another knock came and the door opened. Jack, his back to it, his hand still on the port decanter
     that was Albany, did not turn at first. Instead he looked at Kapitan von Spartzehn, rising to his General’s right.
    ‘Gentlemen, ladies. May I have the honour to present the Baron’s cousin – Adolphus Maximillian Gerhardt, the Count von Schlaben.’
    Jack’s hand slipped. The decanter fell forward. Somehow it didn’t break, but its neck, pointed at Burgoyne, coursed red liquid
     up the line of glasses and vessels that delineated the Northern Campaign. Like a river of blood it flowed to the table top,
     straight between the General’s hands, and began to drip there, fat drop after drop, on to the floor. For the moment, it was
     the only sound in the room.
    Jack turned. In the doorway stood the man he’d last seenon a snowy Hounslow Heath. The Count von Schlaben’s grey eyes returned his gaze. Jack couldn’t read them. He didn’t need to.
     He knew what was written there: the same sense of foreboding caught earlier on the deck, in memories, in the scent of familiar
     trees, in the light green of a dress.

– FIVE –
Reunion
    Jack’s first thought was of a weapon. Swords had been left in cabins, cutlery cleared away. So he righted the decanter he’d
     upset and stepped away from the table, clutching it by the neck. It was of lead crystal, heavy. He didn’t think it would shatter
     well and give him a fistful of glass to thrust. But it was eminently throwable.
    Jack’s pick-up was not obvious, his move away from the table covered by the general squeak of chairs slid back, of men rising
     from their places to be introduced. But he saw the man in the doorway glance briefly down at his now full hand. Jack was beginning
     to learn that the Count von Schlaben missed nothing.
    ‘General Burgoyne, a thousand apologies for this late intrusion. A boatmen’s dispute on the dockside left me stranded. These
     Canadians seem very prickly about their