Chapter 1
Longbourn, February 2, 1776
Thomas,
I regret to inform you that our father’s illness has progressed to a point non-plus. As recommended by his physician, we are preparing an extended stay for him in Bath.
As I work with our steward, economies of expenditures are taking place rapidly. All we Bennets are thus affected, some more than others.
The enclosed document is a certified copy of a lieutenant’s commission purchased for you. With the successful completion of your education at Oxford, the estate has, as promised, finalised its support.
I forward the best wishes from the Longbourn servants: Hodgeson, Cook, and those wishing to be remembered by you.
Lieutenant Bennet, how well that sounds!
Benedict Bennet
A lieutenancy? Alone in his chambers at Oxford, Thomas Bennet chuckled wryly; his brother did not miss an opportunity to remind him of the lack of value of a younger brother’s existence. Never mind that; he had grown accustomed to proving his worth and would not shy away from the need to do so again.
Five years later, Captain Bennet lay still behind the protruding root of a large maple he hoped was aiding in his concealment. He attempted to keep his heavy breaths silent. He did not want to be found; his life depended upon his remaining undiscovered. The sounds of nature all about him announced their presence with verve; he was the lone dissenter.
No one I know in England would recognise me now, he mused. His face had been dulled by American dirt and grime, all the better to blend into the surrounding woods of Johnstown, New York. He lay motionless, all but unrecognisable. The small world of the forest lived around him but was oblivious to him as an intruder, as he had joined them as one of their own.
The sight of blood was nothing new to him. As a captain in the King’s Royal Regiment reserve, he had experienced his fair share of battles and seen many men die. He had witnessed the rebels’ courage as they were being overrun and watched them fight with the savagery of animals. He had seen them sacrifice their very lives for their homesteads. The previous day’s disastrous defeat, including the capture of his armourer and batman, illustrated how the upstarts excelled at changing from a defensive fighting position to attacking strategic assets.
As the sun set, he made his departure. He crept through the underbrush, keeping close to the trees for cover, and quietly made his way west, out of the enemy’s sight. He knew that if he could make it to the landing on Lake Oneida, he could rendezvous with his commander, Major Sir John Ross.
After three days on foot, moving from abandoned farmhouses to rickety lean-to trusses, the repetitive boom of artillery alerted him of an altercation. Realising he had nearly crawled into a flank position of three colonial scouts, he froze, hoping he had not drawn their attention. But the winds shifted, carrying the heavy air of spent saltpetre. Bennet choked as his lungs fought for clean air. Fully aware he had given up his position, he pulled his knife and readied to fight.
Three enemy soldiers turned upon him, two tripping over their muskets. He ended their lives quickly. The remaining sentry reared and thrust a bayonet forward. Bennet parried the attack, his fencing expertise from his university years guiding his defence. He slashed his enemy’s thigh; the man hissed and fell to his knees. Suddenly his chin jerked upwards and a knife blade cut across his throat. As his foe sank to the ground. Bennet smiled at his armourer, who had apparently escaped capture and found him.
“Sergeant Reeves,” he whispered. He noticed the bloody bandage covering his forehead and right eye. “What of Hill?”
“I set him down a way back. He ain’t in as good a shape as me.”
“Lead on,” Bennet commanded.
The men crept quietly and slowly, stopping frequently to assess their environment. Where Reeves had said he had left their compatriot, a trio of colonials sat. A moan from a prostrate, red-coated man caught their attention. Reeves sneered and pulled his dirk.
“This is not the Seven Dials, Sergeant,” whispered Bennet. Although Reeves hailed from London’s most dangerous slums, the battlefield gave quarter to none. Bennet had time and time again warned caution to him, but his vocabulary did not contain the word.
“I be coming up the rear.” Reeves ran off.
Bennet crawled to within yards of the trio. He spied Hill on the ground, bloody and groaning, and stepped towards him. As the three enemy soldiers fumbled for their muskets, Reeves plied his talents, rapidly adding three more dead colonials to his tally. With their position secure, Bennet attended to his injured batman.
Over the next days, the trio travelled as fast as they could towards the safety and promise of Lake Oneida. Five days later, they stumbled into the British-occupied landing. While his men received medical care, Bennet reported on all that had occurred since the skirmishes outside of Johnstown—describing the colonial tactics, the death of the enemy commander, and the heavy munitions loss. His success, audacity, and—admittedly—luck, seemed to impress his audience, not least his commanding officer.
That Captain Bennet had eluded capture spoke of his competence; his constancy to his injured men said much of his character, a trait lacking in much of the British officer corps.
“Command has a new assignment for you,” said Major Ross. “You will take the first secure transport, when your men are ambulatory, and return to England. The adjutant will have your order packets ready on the morrow.”
Ross stood, and Bennet followed suit. “Do you have further questions?”
“I do not, sir.”
“Then I wish you Godspeed, Captain.”