Captain Minnow's Christmas
Part One

New York Colony, 1776

“Ye’ll not get down this lake tonight, laddie, nor o’er t’other side.  Nae without a boat and nae without a guide.”

“Well a boat’s no problem is it?  Perfectly good rowing boat right there.  What about one of the scouts?  Have you a recommendation, Sergeant Ross?”  

As one question tumbled after another, the grizzled sergeant pulled his blanket higher over his scarlet tunic and shrugged.  The cold, slender moon shone in the dark waters below Crown Point and gilded the snow-covered firs that towered ’round the encampment.  In the dim glow, Ross could just make out the resolved profile of the upright cloaked figure standing next to him.

“Spend your Christmas tucked up with a drop of brandy, sir, like a sensible officer?”

The officer in question cleared his throat.  “Yes, very amusing,” he said, clearly not amused.  “Come on, man.”

“Regular scouts has all scarpered, ain’t they?  Yon Trapper McLeod’s your most likely fellow, if he’s sober,” Ross offered, jerking his chin at toward a log cabin on the edge of the camp.  “Which at this hour on Christmas Eve I doubt very much.”  

Edward Pellew of His Majesty’s Royal Navy stamped his booted feet in the icy snow, whether from frustration or to ward off the seeping cold the sergeant could not say.  Mr. Pellew blew on a hand, flapped his good arm across his chest for warmth, waited.

“His lass might take ye,” said Ross grudgingly.  “She don’t tipple and she’s a better hand with an oar than her pa, drunk or sober.  A better shot and a better tracker, too.” Privately he thought, And beggars can’t be choosers.  Can’t row yourself with that injured wing of yours, now can you, my good sir?

“You cannot be serious, Sergeant.  What sort of woman traipses ’round the wilderness offering guide services to British officers ?”

“A damned scary one if you ask me, sir.”  Ross hawked and spat.    “Half Scots like me and half I-don’t-know-what.  Three hundred per cent wildcat.  But she hates them Yankees down at Fort Ti and she knows this lake and these woods.  She’ll take you south for a side o’ bacon and some baccy for her old man.”

“It’s already past five o’clock and there’s no time to waste.  I haven’t got a choice, have I?” said Pellew intemperately, as he turned on his heel toward the cabin.  Maybe the harridan would take four shillings.

The harridan would not, pointing out there was nowhere between St. John’s and Albany to spend them and she was hardy going to Albany, now was she?  Exasperated, Pellew found Ross again and sent him to “liberate” the appropriate remuneration.  The sergeant knocked on the cabin door half an hour later with a slab of pork and a small bag of cornmeal.   

In the meantime, Pellew sat quietly in a corner holding his tricorne on his knees and watching Nancy McLeod ready herself for the evening’s  excursion.  She had a sturdy pair of leather shoes, woolen stockings and leggings under her thick skirt, and a long coat fashioned from a three-point blanket.  When he explained his intended route, she insisted on arming herself with a long knife and a musket, which she took the time to clean and carefully inspect.

Pellew groaned inwardly but realized it would be pointless to attempt  to dissuade her from taking along a firearm.  He himself carried saber, dirk and pistol but his immediate plans encompassed warfare of an entirely different nature.  Just as well, since his arm had yet to heal properly from the terrific wrenching it had received during a sortie the previous week.  He’d given a sudden and mighty heave to jerk a crewman out of the path of a gun loosed on the deck of the Carleton as it yawed upon the choppy lake.  As luck would have it, the seaman was nearly a giant and his arm had come right out its socket.  

He stretched the arm cautiously, trying not to stare at the girl.  Woman, rather, for she clearly exceeded his twenty years by five or so.  He’d heard of Nancy McLeod, of course.  There weren’t many women at Crown Point and the men were exquisitely aware of each and every one.  Several downtrodden camp followers remained and in fair weather one or two of the officers’ wives had come down from St. John’s.  The ladies were long gone, having been sent back north in early October before the Battle of Valcour, the extended engagement that had left the British more or less in command of the entire lake but the Colonials in possession of Fort Ticonderoga.

Nancy’s mother might have been French or even a native, for she herself was nothing like her taciturn sandy-haired father, now snoring unevenly behind a checked curtain.  She was lithe and dark, her thick hair bound in a single braid, her smooth skin the color of a hazelnut.  Her eyes seemed to glint with some wayward thought whenever she gazed at Pellew in the firelight.  And she had already shown herself willing to speak her mind with asperity.

She had probably been born at Crown Point, or somewhere nearby.  Not only did she trap with her father, but by the look of things she kept an astonishingly tidy house for him as well.  A cross-stitch sampler was nailed to the wall and, even more surprisingly, three books had been carefully placed upon the rough mantel.  His coxswain Martin had mentioned that the trapper’s girl might flirt with a man one day and cut his heart out with her tongue the next, but wasn’t known to grant her favors.   “More’s the pity,” Martin had sighed.

Once Nancy had hung up the meat Ross had delivered, she slung a cloth bag across her shoulder, picked up her musket and nodded her readiness.  Pellew opened the door with a little bow, saying “Miss McLeod” as a courtesy as she passed through.

Miss McLeod rolled her eyes and strode toward the shore, where there ensued a short, sharp exchange over which craft to take.  “Foolish not to take my canoe,” she said flatly, adding “Sir,” as an afterthought.  “It’s quieter, lighter, easier to hide.”

Edward mistrusted canoes and insisted on one of His Majesty’s rowboats, clapped together only this spring at the St. John’s shipyard.
“Come now, Miss McLeod, this vessel is perfectly seaworthy,” he said, attempting humor but losing patience.

“A canoe’s made for these waters, easier to handle,” she replied, in a tone that might be used for reasoning with stubborn children.  “And faster,” she mumbled under her breath

“Ah,” said Edward.  “I see. If you’re not up to the rowboat . . . .”

The pale moonlight allowed him to take in Nancy’s expression, an unmistakably condescending smirk. “You’re paying, so it’s your choice,” she drawled.  “The rowboat it is.”

It was practically his lucky rowboat.  In November, he’d been puttering along the shore and come within minutes of capturing the Yankee general, Benedict Arnold.  Arnold had been scouting toward Crown Point in a rowing boat of his own when Pellew had spotted him and given chase.  The lake being only a mile wide at that point, Arnold had achieved the eastern shore with enough of a lead to plunge headlong into the trees and was swallowed up at once by the wilderness.

Nancy McLeod had snorted when she heard the story, sure that any able bodied man in a canoe could overtake any other in a row boat and have breath left over with which to whistle.

“Stow that forward,” Pellew said to Ross, who balanced a bulging waxed-canvas sack in his arms. Nancy stepped into the boat to sit on the strut and fix the oars while Edward settled himself in the bow and wrapped his heavy boat cloak close around him.

And so it was that he found himself being rowed silently along the looming Lake Champlain shoreline beneath the still-rising crescent moon.   He was unsure whether the undertaking would prove entirely successful but remained confident in his decision to make the effort on this particular evening.  On such a clear night they would only have to travel within three miles or so of the fort to give the Colonials their unexpected Christmas present.

* * *

There was little wind, which kept the chill from the lake just bearable.  Still, when Nancy pulled one of the thick wool scarves from around her neck and passed it back to him, Edward took it gratefully.  If the wind came up, he’d tie it over his hat and not think twice about it.  

She stopped rowing for a moment and they had an urgent whispered conversation about the route.  If he wanted to be put ashore opposite the fort, Nancy thought it would better to cross near Crown Point where the water was narrow.  Edward wanted to scout the American outposts north of the fort before making for the eastern shore.  

“Aye, aye, Captain Minnow,” she hissed.  “He who pays the piper calls the tune.”

“The name’s Pellew,” he snapped back.  “Turn the boat east if you please.”

Her soft laugh was taunting as she backed her left oar.  “Aye, sir.  Captain of HMS Minnow, I presume.”

His rank was nothing certain he had to admit--acting lieutenant since Valcour and acting commander of the *Carleton* as well.  He could have returned to England in October and been promoted at once, but he was proud of the trust placed in him, and had been glad to remain in New York through the winter.

Glad until this evening at least, for Miss McLeod had the knack of making his blood boil.  Ah, well, p’rhaps that’s as good a way to stay warm as any, he thought ruefully.  He shifted his position slightly and rubbed his aching arm.


Go to  Part 2