The Blooding
James McGee
Hawkwood’s in America for this gripping, action-packed follow up to the bestselling Ratcatcher - for fans of Bernard Cornwell, Conn Igulden and Patrick O’BrianDECEMBER, 1812Britain is locked in a bitter war with America and Matthew Hawkwood, soldier turned spy, is stranded behind enemy lines.A TERRIFYING PLOTHawkwood heads for the Canadian border, along with former comrade-in-arms, Major Douglas Lawrence. But as they men make their escape, the two men uncover a plot that could turn the British Empire to dust.A PERILOUS JOURNEYPursued by a relentless enemy, Hawkwood and Lawrence set off across the Adirondack Mountains. But they are not alone. Buried deep in Hawkwood’s past is an old alliance – one which could save both their lives and turn the tide of war…
JAMES McGEE
The Blooding
Dedication (#ulink_3b124b65-58e4-5ce4-b9f1-25face67e7c9)
This one is for my cousin, Mark.
Flying free …
O:nen Ontiaten:ro
MOHAWK NAMES (#ulink_a87afccc-d1cc-5f34-a470-300ff8648c71)
The Mohawk at the time the novel is set had no written language. Iroquois vocabulary was originally transcribed by Jesuit missionaries and therefore, even today, there are discrepancies in the origins, spelling and meaning of certain words. I’m indebted to Thomas Deer of the Kanien’kehá:ka Onkwawén:na Raotitióhkwa Language & Cultural Center in Kahnawá:ke, Montreal, for his guidance.
Rotinonshón:ni: “People of the Longhouse” – the Six Nations – Iroquois Confederacy
Kanien’kehá:ka: “People of the Place of the Flint” – the Mohawk
Kaion’kehá:ka: “People of the Marsh” – the Cayuga
Oneniote’á:ka: “People of the Standing Stone” – the Oneida
Ononta’kehá:ka: “People of the Hills” – the Onondaga
Shotinontowane’á:ka: “People of the Great Mountain” – the Seneca
Tehatiskaró:ros: “People of the Shirt” – the Tuscarora
Kaianere’kó:wa: “The Great Law of Peace” – the Constitution of the Six Nations
Oyata’ge’ronóñ: “People of the Cave Country” – the Cherokee
Wendat: “People of the Island” – the Huron
Ahkwesáhsne: “Where the partridge drums” – Mohawk village near St Regis
Kahnawá:ke: “On the rapids” – Mohawk village near Montreal
Kanièn:keh: “Land of the Flint” – Traditional homeland of the Mohawk
Kenhtè:ke: “Place of the Bay” – Mohawk village on the Bay of Quinte, Canada
Anówarakowa Kawennote: “Great Turtle Island” – North America
Atirú:taks: Adirondacks
Kaniatarowanénhne: “Big Waterway” – the St Lawrence River
Ne-ah-ga: Niagara
Oiqué: Hudson River
Senhahlone: Plattsburg
Tanasi: Tennessee
If they are to fight, they are too few;
If they are to be killed, they are too many.
Theyanoguin
Wolf Clan, Kanien’kehá:ka
Warrior, sachem, diplomat, orator
Table of Contents
Cover (#ua17055dd-a55d-5585-a4d0-5216b31451ca)
Title Page (#uc706196f-e88e-54b5-a601-fa4f3105ec61)
Dedication (#ud0d36570-7c63-56ef-99fa-c8b76759837b)
Map (#u26f5f71b-4165-5720-a74a-ce010e6f862a)
Mohawk Names (#uf098fd35-8f67-536f-83c7-11b0643f54d0)
Epigraph (#u64915892-be35-5ff9-bceb-9a489ead93da)
Prologue (#u04ae1b44-92ad-5bf2-b1d9-8c6f769ef16e)
Chapter 1 (#uad9b8665-b754-5d96-80c7-01d710ad16fc)
Chapter 2 (#u5ebfecc9-7b0a-5038-bdc7-e42e09872d86)
Chapter 3 (#uf16fa912-4bec-558b-9aaa-3a234019f3e8)
Chapter 4 (#ud257206e-6950-53a8-aab1-f5bcf4ba03e8)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by James McGee (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_3e423c91-6ec2-51a0-8284-6a8fd898b34d)
Mohawk Valley, New York State, May 1780
Reaching the edge of the forest, Lieutenant Gil Wyatt halted and dropped to one knee. Cradling his rifle, he gazed down at the scene spread below him, his expression calm and watchful.
From his elevated position the ground sloped away gently, gradually widening out into a swathe of rich green meadow-grass speckled with blue violets, through which ran a shallow stream bordered by stands of scarlet oak and white willow. Tree stumps dotted the incline, evidence of the labour that had gone into converting the land and raising the single-storey, timber-built cabin that nestled in the centre of the clearing.
A small cornfield and a well-stocked vegetable patch occupied one side of the dwelling. On the other, there was a paddock containing two horses and beyond that a fenced-in pasture where three dun-coloured milk cows grazed placidly, tails swishing to deter the summer flies. Half a dozen chickens competed for scratchings in the shade of the cabin’s slanted porch.
A barn and a hen house made up the rest of the homestead, along with a clapboard privy and a lean-to that had been affixed to the cabin wall as a storage shelter for winter fuel. A pile of untrimmed branches lay nearby, next to a large oak stump. Driven into the stump were a hatchet and a long-handled woodman’s axe.
There was no sign of the farm’s occupants.
Looks quiet enough, Wyatt thought as he admired the stillness of the setting. Dawn had broken more than an hour earlier but across the surface of the meadow, dew drops shone like diamonds in the soft morning haze.
It was as the lieutenant’s gaze shifted to the plume of woodsmoke rising in a lazy spiral above the cabin’s shingle roof that a shadow moved within the trees on the far side of the clearing. Wyatt tensed and then watched as a young female white-tail stepped out from behind a clump of silver birch.
Releasing his breath, Wyatt remained still. His sun-weathered face, forage cap, moss-green tunic, buckskin leggings and tan moccasin boots blended perfectly with the surrounding foliage. The direction of the smoke had already told him he was downwind so he knew the doe had not picked up his scent. If she had she would have stayed hidden and Wyatt and the four men with him would have been oblivious to her passing; with the possible exception of the individual on Wyatt’s right flank.
Unlike the Rangers, he wore neither shirt nor jacket nor any vestige of a uniform, though his appearance would have left even a casual observer with little doubt as to his calling.
His red-brown torso was bare save for two hempen straps that criss-crossed his chest, from which were slung a powder horn and a buckskin ammunition pouch. A quilled knife sheath hung on a leather cord around his neck. His lower half was clad in a blue trade-cloth breechclout and thigh-length leggings. Leg ties beneath each knee held the legging in place. Like the others, he wore deer hide moccasins.
His head, while shaven, was not unadorned, for at the back of his scalp was a ring of long black hair. Braided into the hair were three black-and-white eagle feathers. As if his hairstyle and dress were not striking enough, there was one more affectation that separated him from his companions. His face, from brow to chin, was concealed behind a rectangle of black paint. Not an inch of his natural colour was visible save for a crescent of white muscle set deep in the corner of each unblinking eye.
His right hand gripped a shortened musket. His left rested on the head of a tomahawk tucked into his waist sash. A maple-wood war club in the shape of a gunstock lay in a sling across his back.
The Indian, whose name was Tewanias, kept his gaze fixed on the doe. He did not flinch as a large yellow-jacket, lured by the smell of bear grease and paint, landed on the back of his left wrist, folded its wings and began to explore his exposed forearm.
The white-tail hovered nervously at the edge of the wood, clearly apprehensive at the thought of venturing into the open, though the fact that she was there at all indicated that she was probably a regular visitor to the clearing and therefore not averse to using the stream to satisfy her thirst, despite its proximity to human habitation.
For a moment it looked as though she might overcome her fear, but at a sudden stream of excited bird chatter erupting from within the forest, the doe froze. With a lightning-fast turn, one swift bound and a flash of pale rump she was gone, swallowed by the dense underbrush.
The Indian’s attention switched immediately towards a point on the opposite side of the stream. Wyatt followed his companion’s gaze to where a natural break in the trees and the beginning of a rough track could just be seen and watched as half a dozen riders cantered into view. They were in civilian dress and each of them carried a musket, resting either across his thigh or strapped across his back.
A sharp hiss came from the man on Wyatt’s left. “Militia!”
“God damn!” another nearby voice spat forcefully. Then, more speculatively, “You think they’re after us, Lieutenant?”
The words were dispensed in a distinctive Scottish brogue.
Without taking his eyes from the riders, Wyatt shook his head, frowned and said softly, “How would they know?”
“Some of their scouts will have got through. They’ll have reported in,” the second speaker, whose name was Donaldson, responded, murmuring, as though to himself, “They must have gotten wind of us by now. They’d have to be blind, otherwise … or bluidy deaf.”
Wyatt pursed his lips. “They’d be coming from Albany in force if that was the case. Our own scouts would have warned us.”
It was a wonder, Wyatt reflected as he watched the horsemen draw closer to the stream, that the expedition had made it this far without being discovered. Though Colonel Johnson had been very careful in his preparations, periodically sending out skirmishers along Champlain’s wooded shoreline in order to fool enemy scouts into thinking the final incursion was merely one in a number of reconnaissance missions and therefore of no specific interest.
Only when the force had finally assembled at Lachine had war bands from the Lake of Two Mountains been dispatched to search for and capture rebel patrols to prevent them from spreading word of the impending raid, thus clearing the path for the main body of troops to come in behind them undetected.
And, incredibly, the plan had worked. More than five hundred men – over three hundred whites and nearly two hundred native allies – had successfully negotiated the landing at Crown Point and completed the nine-day march through enemy territory without a shot being fired.
This morning was the first time Wyatt and his group had sighted a rebel force – either regular or militia. If that’s what this lot were, Wyatt thought. Their dress and weaponry certainly suggested the latter, but then every man who lived in this part of the state, close to what could loosely be termed the frontier, had a gun, for protection as well as a means of providing food for the table. It was possible they were just a group of friends out for a morning’s hunt.
But Wyatt didn’t think so. There was something in the way the riders held themselves that smacked of grim authority. They looked like men with a purpose.
As he watched them walk their horses across the stream in single file, Wyatt began to experience an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.
When Tam started towards the door, ears pricked and grumbling at the back of his throat, Will Archer’s first thought was that it was more than likely a deer. The animals often came to drink at the creek, particularly at this hour, when the sun was just showing over the treetops and the farm was at its most peaceful.
He looked through the window but there was nothing to see, save for the view of the stream and the forest; the same view that greeted him every morning.
Behind him, the dog emitted another low, more menacing growl.
Not a deer then, Archer thought, alerted – though he wasn’t sure why – by the continuing gruffness in Tam’s voice. The hound was extremely good natured as a rule and signs of aggression were rare.
As the first of the riders came into sight Archer’s stomach knotted.
“Will? What is it?”
Archer turned to his wife, who was standing by the table in a flour-dusted linen apron. Her hands were bound in a damp cloth, holding a loaf she’d just removed from the oven. Turning the hot bread on to the board in front of her, she put down the cloth and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, leaving a fresh smudge of flour on her right cheek.
“Stay here,” Archer instructed.
She frowned, concerned by the warning note.
“We have visitors,” Archer said.
Curious as to whom they might be, his wife walked towards him, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked past his shoulder. By now, all six horsemen had forded the stream and were nearing the cabin. Her face went pale.
Archer reached for the loaded musket that was leaning against the wall by the door. Beth Archer laid a hand on his arm.
“It’s all right,” Archer said. “I’ll deal with them.” Gently removing his wife’s hand, he nudged Tam away from the door with his knee. “Good lad, stay.”
Before his wife could offer a protest or the dog follow, Archer cocked the musket and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The hens clucked indignantly as they were forced to step out of his path.
Musket held loosely across his arms, he waited.
The riders slowed their mounts and fanned out, finally stopping in a rough line abreast in front of the cabin’s porch. One of them, a lean man in his forties with sallow features and the stain from an old powder burn on his right cheek, eased his horse forward. He was dressed in a long blue riding coat and a slouch hat. With his right hand resting on the musket laid across his saddle horn, he addressed the man on the ground.
“Morning, William! A fine day, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It was,” Archer said, without warmth.
The rider acknowledged the slight with a thin smile. He considered Archer for several long moments and then said, “You’ll know why we’re here.”
Archer met his gaze. “And you know my answer. You’ve had a wasted journey, Deacon. I’ve already told you; my loyalty’s to the King.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the rider said.
Archer’s eyes moved along the line of horsemen. They were dressed in a similar fashion to Deacon and all, save one, carried the same cold expression on his face. Archer was acquainted with each of them. Four were fellow homesteaders: Deacon, Isaac Meeker – the florid-faced man to Deacon’s right, who farmed land two valleys over – and the surly-looking pair on Deacon’s immediate left, Levi and Ephraim Smede.
The Smede brothers were seldom seen apart. Rumour had it that was the only way the pair could muster one functioning brain between them. When they weren’t helping their father on the family farm, they hired themselves out as labourers to anyone who wanted a wall built or a stream dammed – or someone intimidated.
Axel Shaw, the dour individual on Ephraim Smede’s left, was postmaster over at the settler village near Caughnawaga. Archer turned his attention to the rider at the other end of the line. Curly-haired, with angular features, he was the youngest of the group. Archer could see by the way his hands were fidgeting with his reins that he was more ill at ease than the others, as if he would rather have been someplace else.
“That you, Jeremiah?” Archer enquired pleasantly. “Haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been? How’s Maggie? Beth was hoping to call in on her the next time we picked up supplies at the store.”
The horseman shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed at being singled out. “She’s well, thank you.” Refusing to meet Archer’s eye, his gaze slid away.
“Enough,” the man called Deacon cut in. “We’re not here for a neighbourly chat. This is business.” He looked at Archer. “So, you won’t reconsider?”
“Not now,” Archer said; his tone emphatic. “Not ever.”
The horseman considered the reply then said, “Maybe you should have left with the others.”
Archer shook his head. “I’ve too much sweat and blood invested in this place to walk away.” He stared fixedly at the man on the horse. “Or see it purloined by the likes of you.”
The rider coloured. Recovering quickly, he assumed a look of mock hurt. “You wound me, William. What sort of man d’you take me for?”
“A goddamn traitor,” Archer said flatly.
The humour leached from Deacon’s face. “Not a traitor, Archer. A patriot. Like these men with me; men who’ve had their fill of paying unfair taxes to a country on the other side of the world and not having a thing to show for it.”
“A country you fought for, Seth,” Archer responded, “as I recall. You took the King’s shilling then. Was it so long ago, you’ve forgotten which side you were on?”
“I’ve not forgotten, but a little more remuneration wouldn’t have gone amiss.”
Archer’s eyebrows lifted. “What were you expecting? We defeated our enemies; the King’s enemies; and we lived through it. That should have been reward enough.”
“Not for me,” Deacon snapped. His grip on the musket tightened and then, as if having come to a decision, he intoned solemnly, “William Archer, by the authority vested in me by the Tryon County Committee, you are hereby called to attend the County Board in Albany. There to appear before the Commissioners for Detecting and Defeating Conspiracies, in order that you may swear an Oath of Allegiance to the State of New York and the Congress of the United States of America.”
“No.” Archer shook his head. “I’ve told you: my allegiance is to the Crown, not your damned Congress. Besides, I’ve better things to do than make a wasted journey all the way to Albany and back. I’ve a farm to run; stock to care for.”
Deacon looked out towards the pasture and sneered. “Three milk cows? Not what I’d call a herd.”
Archer stiffened. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
Deacon’s head turned quickly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Archer stared coldly back at him. “Don’t play the innocent, Seth. I know damned well that losing my other two cows was your doing. Wouldn’t be surprised if you paid those two to do your dirty work, either.” Archer indicated the Smedes. “I hear breaking the legs of livestock is one of their specialities.”
Deacon’s eyes darkened. “You need to curb that tongue, my friend. That’s slander. Men have died for less.”
“You’d know about that, too, I expect. And pretty soon, Deacon, you’re going to realize I’m not your friend. So you’d best ride on. There’s naught for you here.”
Archer heard the cabin door open behind him.
Deacon rose in his saddle and tipped his hat. His expression lightened. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Morning to you, Mrs Archer.”
Beth Archer did not reply. She stood in the doorway, the checked cloth in her hands, staring at the line of riders. The flour smudge on her cheek had disappeared, Archer noticed.
Unfazed, Deacon lowered his rump and adjusted his grip on the musket. “Thing is, the Commissioners want reassurance that you’re not passing information to enemy forces.”
Archer sighed. “I’m a farmer. I don’t have any information to pass, not unless they’d like to know how many eggs my bantams have been laying.”
“Anyone refusing to swear allegiance to the Patriot government will be presumed guilty of endeavouring to subvert it.”
Archer’s eyebrows rose. “Commissioners tell you to say that, did they? Must be difficult trying to remember all those long words. Good thing you’re the spokesman and not either of those two.” Archer threw another look towards the brothers.
“There’s still time to recant,” Deacon said.
“Recant? Now you’re sounding like Pastor Slocum. Maybe his sermons are starting to have an effect after all. He’ll be pleased about that.”
“If you renounce Toryism you’ll be permitted to stay with no blemish attached to your character.”
“Well, that’s a comfort. And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll be subject to the full penalty of the law.”
“Which means what?”
“Anyone who refuses to take the oath will be removed.”
“Removed?” Archer felt the first stirrings of genuine concern. “To where?”
“A place where they’re no longer in a position to do damage. Either to another part of the state, or else to a place of confinement.”
“You mean prison.”
“If necessary. It’s my duty to inform you that unless you’re prepared to take the oath, this land becomes forfeit, as do all goods and chattels, which will be sold off for the benefit of the Continental Congress.”
“Sold?” Archer shot back. “The hell you say! Stolen, more like! And how do you propose to do that? You going to hitch it all to a wagon? Or roll everything up and deliver it to Albany in your saddle bags? That, I’d like to see.”
“‘T’ain’t the farm that’ll be heading Albany way, Archer. It’ll be you. You and your family.”
It was Levi Smede who’d spoken. A thin smile played across his sharp-edged face.
Archer stared at him. His finger slid inside the musket’s trigger guard. “You’re threatening my family, now?”
Deacon threw the brother a sharp look before turning back. “I’ve orders to deliver you to the Board, under guard if necessary. It’s up to you.”
“Well, I suppose that answers that question,” Archer said.
“Question?” Deacon frowned.
“Why there’s six of you.”
He looked along the line. Deacon was riding point, but based on their reputations, the Smedes were undoubtedly the more significant threat, though Ephraim was the only one of the two holding a musket. Levi’s was still strapped across his shoulders. Of the other three, Shaw and Meeker, although they had their weapons to hand, would probably hesitate. Jeremiah Kidd, Archer sensed, would be too scared to do anything, even if he did manage to un-sling his musket in time.
Throughout the exchange, Archer had become increasingly and uncomfortably aware that Beth was standing behind him. He knew that it would be no use telling her to go inside. Her independent streak was part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. He was surprised it had taken her this long to come out to see what was happening.
“There’s just you and me,” Deacon said, his voice adopting a more conciliatory tone. “No reason why this can’t be settled amicably. All you’re required to do is ride with us to Johnstown and place your signature on the document. Small price to pay for all of this.”
His eyes shifted to the porch where Beth Archer was framed in the doorway. The inference was clear.
Archer stepped forward. “Go home, Deacon. You’re trespassing. This is my land. I fought for it once. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t do so again.”
Deacon turned his attention away from the house and stared down at him in silence, eyeing the musket. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, if that’s your decision; so be it. Ephraim, Levi …”
So much for “just you and me”, Archer thought.
“Will!” Beth cried, as Levi Smede grinned and drew a pistol from his belt.
Archer threw the musket to his shoulder.
“Inside, Beth!” he yelled, as Deacon brought his gun up.
Archer fired.
The ball struck Levi Smede in the chest, lifting him over the back of his saddle and down into the dust. The pistol flew from Smede’s hand.
Archer was already twisting away when Deacon’s musket went off, but he wasn’t quick enough. The ball punched into his side with the force of a mule kick. Pain exploded through him. Dropping his musket as he fell, he heard another sharp yet strangely distant report and saw Deacon’s head snap back, enveloped in a crimson mist of blood and brain matter. Hitting the ground, he saw Beth draw the pistol from beneath the checked cloth, aim and fire.
Axel Shaw shrieked and clamped a hand to his thigh. Dark blood sprayed across his horse’s flank.
Ephraim Smede, bellowing with rage at his brother’s plight, flinched as another shot rang out and stared aghast as Isaac Meeker’s mount crashed on to its side, legs kicking. Searching frantically for the source of the attack, his eyes were drawn to a puff of powder smoke dissipating in the space between the barn and the hen house.
“Bitch!” Spitting out the obscenity, Smede aimed his musket at Beth Archer. The gun belched flame. Without waiting to see if the ball had struck, he tossed the discharged weapon aside and clawed for his pistol.
Meeker, meanwhile, had managed to scramble clear of his horse. Retrieving his musket, he turned to see where the shot had come from, only to check as a ball took him in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top.
Archer, on the ground, venting blood and trying to make sense of what was happening, found Jeremiah Kidd staring at him in puzzlement and fear. And then Archer realized that Kidd wasn’t staring at him he was staring past him. Archer squirmed and looked over his shoulder. Through eyes blurring with tears he could see four men in uniform, hard-looking men, each carrying a long gun. Two of them were drawing pistols as they ran towards the house.
Another crack sounded. This time it was Kidd who yelped as a ball grazed his arm. Wheeling his horse about, he dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and galloped full pelt in the direction of the stream.
Only to haul back on the reins, the cry rising in his throat, as a vision from hell rose up to meet him.
Wyatt, discharged rifle in hand, stepped out from the side of the barn. He’d been surprised when Archer had shot Smede, assuming that Deacon would be the farmer’s first target. It had taken only a split second to alter his aim, but he’d not been quick enough to prevent Deacon’s retaliation. As a result, Archer was already on his back by the time Deacon met his emphatic demise, courtesy of Wyatt’s formidable, albeit belated, marksmanship.
It had been Jem Beddowes, Wyatt’s fellow Ranger, who’d shot Meeker’s horse from under him. Beddowes had been aiming at the rider, but the horse had shied at the last moment, startled by the volley of gunshots, and the ball had struck the animal instead, much to Beddowes’ annoyance. His companion, Donaldson, had compensated for the miss by shooting Meeker in the shoulder, which had left the fourth Ranger – Billy Drew – and Tewanias with loaded guns, along with two functioning rebels, the younger of whom, to judge by the way he was urging his horse towards the stream, was fully prepared to leave his companions to their respective fates.
Isaac Meeker, meanwhile, having lost his musket for the second time, pushed himself to his knees. Wounded and disoriented, he stared around him. His horse had ceased its death throes and lay a few feet away, its belly stained with blood from the deep wound in its side. Deacon and Levi Smede were sprawled like empty sacks in the dirt, their mounts having bolted. Half of Deacon’s face was missing.
He looked for Shaw and saw that the postmaster had fallen from his horse and was on the ground, trying to crawl away from the carnage. The musket looped across Shaw’s back was dragging in the dirt and acting like a sea anchor, hampering his progress. He was whimpering in agony. An uneven trail of blood followed behind him.
A fresh shot sounded from close by. Not a long gun this time, but a pistol. Meeker ducked and then saw it was Ephraim Smede, still in the saddle, who had fired at their attackers. Meeker looked around desperately for a means by which to defend himself and discovered his musket lying less than a yard away. Reaching for it, he managed to haul back on the hammer and looked for someone to shoot. He wasn’t given the chance. Ranger Donaldson fired his pistol on the run. The ball struck the distracted Meeker between the eyes, killing him instantly.
Ephraim Smede felt his horse shudder. He’d been about to make his own run for the stream when Billy Drew, having finally decided which of the two surviving riders was the most dangerous, took his shot.
The impact was so sudden it seemed to Smede as if his horse had run into an invisible wall. One second he was hunkered low in the saddle, leaning across his mount’s neck, the next the beast had pitched forward and Smede found himself catapulted over its head like a rock from a trebuchet. He smashed to the ground, missing Shaw’s prostrate body by inches. Winded and shaken, he clambered to his knees.
He was too engrossed in steadying himself to see Ranger Beddowes take aim with his pistol. Nor did he hear the crack nor see the spurt of muzzle flame, but he felt the heat of the ball as it struck his right temple. Ephraim Smede’s final vision before he fell was of his brother’s lifeless eyes staring skywards and the dark stain that covered Levi’s chest. Stretching out his fingers, he only had time to touch his brother’s grubby coat sleeve before the blackness swooped down to claim him.
Determining the rebels’ likely escape route had not been difficult and Wyatt, in anticipation, had dispatched Tewanias to cover the stream’s crossing place.
It was the Mohawk warrior’s sudden appearance, springing from the ground almost beneath his horse’s feet, that had forced the cry of terror from Jeremiah Kidd’s throat. The mare, unnerved as much by her rider’s reaction as by the obstacle in her path, reared in fright. Poor horsemanship and gravity did the rest.
The earth rose so quickly to meet him, there was not enough time to take evasive action. Putting out an arm to break his fall didn’t help. The snap of breaking bone as Kidd’s wrist took the full weight of his body was almost as audible as the gunshots that had accompanied his dash for freedom.
As he watched his horse gallop away, Kidd became aware of a lithe shape running in. He turned. His eyes widened in shock, the pain in his wrist forgotten as the war club scythed towards his head.
The world went dark, rendering the second blow a mere formality, which, while brutal in its execution, at least saved Kidd the agony of hearing Tewanias howl with triumph as he dug his knife into flesh and ripped the scalp from his victim’s fractured skull. Brandishing his prize, the Mohawk returned the blade to its sheath and looked for his next trophy.
Archer knew from his years of soldiering and by the way the blood was seeping between his fingers that his condition was critical. He looked towards the porch, where a still form lay crumpled by the cabin door. A cold fist gripped his heart and began to squeeze.
Beth.
Hand clasped against his side, Archer dragged himself towards his wife’s body. He tried to call out to her but the effort of drawing air into his lungs proved too much; all he could manage was a rasping croak.
Why hadn’t she done as she was told? he thought bleakly. Why hadn’t she stayed inside? His slow crawl through the dirt came to a halt as a shadow fell across him.
“Don’t move,” a voice said gently.
He looked up and found himself face to face with one of the uniformed rifle bearers.
A firm hand touched his shoulder. “Lieutenant Gil Wyatt, Ranger Company.”
“Rangers?” Archer blinked in confusion and then, as the significance of the word hit him, he made a desperate grab for Wyatt’s arm. “My wife; she’s hurt!”
“My men will see to her,” Wyatt said. He flicked a glance at Donaldson, who crossed swiftly to the cabin. “Let me take a look at your wound.”
“No!” Archer thrust away Wyatt’s hand. “She needs me!”
He tried to push himself off the ground, but the effort proved too much and he sank down. “Help her,” he urged. “Please.”
Wyatt looked off to where Donaldson was crouched over the fallen woman. A grim expression on his gaunt face, the Ranger shook his head. Laying his hand on Archer’s shoulder once more, Wyatt helped him sit up. “I’m so very sorry. I’m afraid we’re too late. She’s gone.”
The wounded man let out a cry of despair. Knowing that nothing he could say would help, Wyatt scanned the clearing. Twenty minutes ago, he had been up on the hill, admiring the tranquillity. Now the ground seemed to be strewn with bodies. As Donaldson covered the woman’s face with a cloth, Wyatt turned back to her husband.
Archer made no protest as Wyatt prised his hand from the wound, but he could not suppress a gasp of pain as the Ranger opened the bloodied shirt.
One glance told Wyatt all he needed to know. “We must get you to a surgeon.”
The nearest practitioner was in Johnstown, but to deliver the wounded man there would be asking for trouble. An army surgeon and a brace of medical assistants had accompanied the invasion force. They were the farmer’s best chance.
Although, given his current condition, Wyatt doubted whether the wounded man would survive the first eight yards, let alone the eight miles they’d need to traverse across what was, in effect, hostile country.
He looked off towards the paddock, where the horses were staring back at him, ears pricked. Wyatt could tell they were skittish, no doubt agitated by the recent skirmish, but it gave him an idea.
“Is there a cart or a wagon?” he asked.
“The barn,” Archer replied weakly. He tried to point but found he couldn’t lift his arm.
“Easy,” Wyatt said. Cupping the farmer’s shoulder, he called to his men. “Jem! Billy! There’s transport in the barn! Hitch up the horses! Smartly now!”
As he watched them go, he heard a murmur and realized the farmer was speaking to him. He lowered his head to catch the words.
“You’re Rangers?” Archer enquired hoarsely as his lips tried to form the question. “What are you doing here?”
“We came for you,” Wyatt said.
“Me?”Puzzlement clouded the farmer’s face.
“You and others like you. We’re here under the orders of Governor-General Haldimand. When he learned that Congress was threatening to intern all Loyalists, he directed Colonel Johnson to lead a force across the border to rescue as many families as he could and escort them back to British soil.”
Archer stared at him blankly. “Sir John’s returned?”
“Two nights ago. With five hundred fighting men, and a score to settle. Scouting units have been gathering up all those who wish to leave, from Tribe’s Hill to as far west as the Nose.”
“There’s not many of us left.” Archer spoke through gritted teeth. “Most have already sold up and gone north after having their barns burned down and their homes looted, or their cattle maimed or poisoned.” Sweat coating his forehead, he winced and pressed his hand to his side until the wave of pain subsided enough for him to continue. “All for refusing to serve in home defence units. This wasn’t the first visit I’d had but this time they were threatening to throw me in prison and take my farm.”
“Those men were militia?”
“Citizens’ Committee. They were under orders to take me to Johnstown to pledge allegiance to the flag. I told them to ride on.” The farmer bowed his head. “I should have gone with them.” He looked towards the cabin and his face crumpled.
“You weren’t to know it would end like this,” Wyatt said softly. “If I’d realized who they were, I’d have given the order to intercede sooner.”
His face pinched with pain and grief, Archer looked up. “How many have you gathered so far?”
“A hundred perhaps, including wives and children and some Negro slaves. They’re all at the Hall. It’s the rendezvous point.”
There was no response. Wyatt thought the farmer had passed out until he saw his eyelids flutter open, the eyes casting about in confusion before suddenly opening wide. As Wyatt followed his gaze in search of the cause, the breath caught like a hook in his throat.
Ephraim Smede came to with blood pooling along the rim of his right eye socket. He blinked and the world took on a pinkish sheen. He blinked again and his vision began to clear. He was aware that the gunfire had ceased but an inner voice, allied to the pain from the open gash across his forehead, told him it would be better to remain where he was so he lay unmoving, listening; alert to the sounds around him.
A few more seconds passed before he raised himself up. He did so slowly. His first view was of his brother’s corpse. Beyond Levi, he could see the bodies of their companions, along with the two dead horses. Pools of blood were soaking into the ground, darkening the soil. Flies were starting to swarm.
He could hear voices but they were low and indistinct. He couldn’t see who was speaking because the rump of Isaac Meeker’s dead nag blocked his line of sight.
It occurred to Smede that he was probably the only one of Deacon’s party left alive. From the looks of Axel Shaw, he must have bled to death. There was no sign of Kidd, but Smede doubted the youth would have survived the ambush – or stuck around if he had.
Which meant he was on his own, with a decision to make. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to his brother’s glassy stare and a fresh spark of anger flared within him.
As his gaze alighted on Levi’s pistol.
A low moan came from close by. Smede dropped down quickly. He held his breath, waiting until the sound trailed off before cautiously raising his head once. Will Archer was propped some twenty paces away. One of the green-clad men was with him; he shouted something and two of the attackers ran immediately towards the barn.
Another movement drew Ephraim’s attention. A second pair was rounding up the horses. One of them, Ephraim saw to his consternation, was an Indian. His startled gaze took in the face paint and the weapons that the dark-skinned warrior carried about him. There was also what appeared to be a lock of hair hanging from his breechclout.
Bile rose into the back of Ephraim’s throat. Escape, he now realized, wasn’t only advisable; it was essential.
He watched through narrowed eyes, nerves taut, as the two Rangers pulled open the barn door and disappeared inside. Quickly, his gaze turned back to the pistol lying a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder.
Now,he thought.
Concealed by Meeker’s horse, Smede inched his way towards the unguarded firearm until he was able to close his fingers around the gun’s smooth walnut grip.
He took another deep breath, gathering himself, waiting until the Indian’s attention was averted. One chance at a clear shot; that’s all he would get.
And then he would run.
He knew the woods like the back of his hand; if he could just make it to the trees, the forest would hide him.
Maybe.
His main fear was the Mohawk, because the pistol, with its single load, was all he had. But his brother’s killer came first. An eye for an eye, so that Levi could go to the grave knowing that his brother had exacted revenge. So …
In one fluid motion, Smede snatched up the gun, rose to his feet, took aim, and fired.
As the blood-smeared figure tilted towards them, Wyatt, caught between supporting the wounded Archer and reaching for his weapon, let out a yell. Alerted by his cry, Tewanias and Donaldson both turned.
Too late.
The ball thudded into Archer’s chest and he collapsed back into Wyatt’s arms with a muffled grunt.
Whereupon Ephraim Smede, who was about to launch himself in the direction of the woods, paused, his features suddenly distorting in a combination of shock, pain and disbelief. Mouth open, he uttered no sound as his body arched and spasmed in mid-air.
As Wyatt and the others looked on in astonishment, Smede’s legs buckled and, one hand clutching the spent pistol, he pitched forward on to his face.
It wasn’t until the body struck the ground that Wyatt saw the stem of the hatchet that protruded from the base of Smede’s skull and the slim figure that, until then, had been blocked from view by Smede’s temporarily resurrected form.
“No!” Coming out of his trance, Wyatt threw out his arm.
Tewanias, whose finger was already tightening on the trigger, paused and then slowly lowered his musket. A frown of puzzlement flickered across the war-painted face.
Wyatt felt a tremor move through Archer’s body. It was obvious from the uneven rise and fall of the wounded man’s chest that death was imminent.
The eyes fluttered open one last time and focused on Smede’s killer with a look that might have been part relief and part wonderment. Then his expression broke and he grabbed Wyatt’s sleeve and pulled him close.
Wyatt had to bow his head to catch the words:
“Keep him safe.”
The farmer’s head fell against Wyatt’s arm. Wyatt felt for a pulse but there was none. He looked up.
The boy, though tall, couldn’t be much more than eleven or twelve years old. For all that, the expression on his face was one that Wyatt had seen mirrored by much older men when the battle was over and the scent of blood and death hung in the air.
A shock of dark hair flopped over the boy’s forehead as his eyes took in the scene of devastation, his jaw clenching when he saw the body on the porch. Running across the clearing to where Wyatt was crouched over the farmer’s body, he fell to his knees.
Close to, Wyatt could see tear tracks glistening amid the grime on the boy’s face. A trembling hand reached out and gently touched the dead man’s arm.
“Aunt Beth told me to hide in the cellar, but I came back up.” The boy looked to where Ephraim Smede’s corpse lay in the dirt. “I saw that man shoot her. Then he fell off his horse and I thought he was dead. But he was only pretending.”
The boy’s voice shook. “I wanted to warn you, but there was shooting out front, so I went round the back by the woodpile. I saw the man pick up the gun. I was too scared to call out in case he saw me. I picked up the axe thinking I might scare him. Only I was too late. He …” The boy paused. “He shot Uncle Will, so I hit him as hard as I could.”
The boy’s voice gave way. Fresh tears welled. Letting go of the farmer’s arm, he lifted a hand to wipe the wetness from his cheeks and looked over his shoulder, his jaw suddenly set firm. “He won’t hurt anyone again, will he?”
“No,” Wyatt said, staring at the axe handle. “No, lad, he won’t.”
An equine snort sounded from close by. Wyatt, glad of the distraction, saw it was Tewanias and Donaldson returning with the captured mounts. Behind them, Billy Drew, flanked by Jem Beddowes, was leading one of the two farm horses, harnessed to a low-slung, flat-bed cart.
As they caught his eye, Wyatt gently released the farmer’s body, stood up and shook his head. “Sorry, Billy. We won’t be needing it after all.”
“He’s gone?” Drew asked.
“Aye.”
“Son?” Drew indicated the boy.
“Nephew,” Wyatt said heavily. “Far as I can tell.”
“Poor wee devil,” Drew said. Then he caught sight of the axe. “Jesus,” he muttered softly.
“What’ll we do with them?” Donaldson enquired, indicating Deacon and the other dead Committee members.
“Not a damned thing,” Wyatt snapped. “They can lay there and rot as far as I’m concerned.”
“Seems fair.” Donaldson agreed, before adding quietly, “And the other two?”
“Them we do take care of. They deserve a decent burial, if nothing else. See if you can find a shovel. It’s a farm. There’ll be one around somewhere.”
“And then?” Beddowes said.
“And then we report back.”
“The boy?”
“He comes with us,” Wyatt said. “We might as well take advantage of the horses, too.” He turned. “Can you ride, lad?”
The boy looked up. “Yes, sir. That one’s mine. He’s called Jonah.” He indicated the horse that Billy Drew had left in the paddock. It was the smaller one of the two.
“There was tack in the barn,” Beddowes offered.
Wyatt turned. “Very well, saddle him up and take this one back. Make sure he’s got plenty of feed and water. We’ll see to the rest.” Wyatt addressed the boy. “You go with Jem; show him where you keep Jonah’s blanket and bridle.”
Hesitantly, the boy rose to his feet. Wyatt waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to the others.
“All right, we’d best get it over with.”
They buried Archer and his wife in the shade of a tall oak tree that grew behind the cabin, marking the graves with a pair of wooden crosses made from pieces of discarded fence post. Neither one bore an inscription. There wasn’t time, Wyatt told them.
Donaldson, whose father had been a minister, was familiar with the scriptures and carried a small bible in his shoulder pouch. He chose the twenty-third psalm, reading it aloud as his fellow Rangers bowed their heads, caps in hand, while the Indian held the horses and looked on stoically.
The scalp had disappeared from the Mohawk’s breechclout. When he’d spotted it, Wyatt had reminded Tewanias of the colonel’s orders: no enemy corpses were to be mutilated. It was with some reluctance that Tewanias returned to the river and laid the scalp across the body of its original owner.
“Let it act as a warning to those who would think to pursue us,” Wyatt told him. “Knowing we are joined with our Mohawk brothers will make our enemies fearful. They will hide in their homes and lock their doors and tremble in the darkness.”
Wyatt wasn’t sure that Tewanias was entirely convinced by that argument, but the Mohawk nodded sagely as if he agreed with the words. In any case, both of them knew there were likely to be other battles and therefore other scalps for the taking, so, for the time being at least, honour was satisfied.
The boy stood gazing down at the graves with Wyatt’s hand resting on his shoulder. The dog, Tam, lay at his side, having been released from the cabin when, under Wyatt’s direction, the boy had returned to the house to gather up his possessions for the journey.
Donaldson ended the reading and closed the bible. The Rangers raised their heads and put on their caps.
“Time to go,” Wyatt said. “Saddle up.” He addressed the boy. “You have everything? You won’t be coming back.” The words carried a hard finality.
Tear tracks showing on his cheeks, the boy pointed at the canvas bag slung over his saddle.
Wyatt surveyed the yard – littered with the bodies of Deacon and his men – and the blood-drenched soil now carpeted with bloated flies. It was a world away from the serene, sun-dappled vision that had greeted the Rangers’ arrival earlier that morning.
He glanced towards the three cows in the paddock and the chickens pecking around the henhouse; the livestock would have to fend for themselves. There was enough food and water to sustain them until someone came to see why Archer and his wife hadn’t been to town for a while. There would be others along, too, wondering why the members of the Citizens’ Committee hadn’t returned to the fold.
Let them come, Wyatt thought. Let them see.
The Mohawk warrior handed the boy the reins of his horse and watched critically as he climbed up. Satisfied that the boy knew what he was doing, he wheeled his mount and took up position at the head of the line. With Tewanias riding point, the five men and the boy rode into the stream, towards the track leading into the forest. The dog padded silently behind them.
Halfway across the creek, the Indian turned to the boy and spoke. “Naho:ten iesa:iats?”
The boy looked to Wyatt for guidance.
“He asked you your name,” Wyatt said.
It occurred to Wyatt that in the time they’d spent in the boy’s company, neither he nor any of his men had bothered to ask that question. They’d simply addressed him as “lad” or “son” or, in Donaldson’s case, “young ’un”. Though they all knew the name of the damned dog.
The boy stared at Tewanias and then at each of the Rangers in turn. It was then that Wyatt saw the true colour appear in the boy’s eyes. Blue-grey, the shade of rain clouds after a storm.
The boy drew himself up.
“My name is Matthew,” he said.
1 (#ulink_1faff5fd-4d34-5043-9584-765ed3676def)
Albany, New York State, December 1812
BEWARE FOREIGN SPIES & AGITATORS!
The words were printed across the top of the poster, the warning writ large for all to see.
Hawkwood ran his eye down the rest of the deposition. Not much had been left to the imagination. The nation was at war, the country was under threat and the people were urged to remain vigilant at all times.
He glanced over his shoulder. There were no crowds brandishing pitchforks or torches so he assumed he was safe for the time being. He recalled there had been similar pamphlets on display around the quayside in Boston, presumably the preferred port of entry for an enemy bent on subverting the republic. He wondered how many people read the bills and took note of their content; probably not as many as the government wished.
Fortunately for him.
The bill was stuck on the inside of a hatter’s shop window. Under pretence of casting an eye over the merchandise on display, he studied his reflection in the glass, wondering what a subversive might look like and if he fitted the bill. From what he’d seen of the country and its citizens so far, he thought it unlikely that he’d be stopped and asked for his papers, though in the event he was, the problem would not have been insurmountable.
He was about to walk on when movement in the window caught his attention: another reflection, this time of the scene behind him. A man, dressed in an army greatcoat similar to his own was making his way along the opposite side of the street. He was walking with a cane and Hawkwood could see that he was favouring his right leg.
There had been a rainstorm during the night, which had transformed Albany’s thoroughfares into something of a quagmire. The fact that the capital was built on an incline didn’t help matters and even though the rain had stopped, trying to negotiate the sloping streets on foot was, in some areas, as precarious as wading through a Connemara bog. Quite a few folk were having difficulty maintaining their balance. Though not the two characters walking on firmer feet some fifteen paces or so behind the man with the cane.
Over the years, his duties as a Bow Street officer had brought Hawkwood into contact with criminals of every persuasion and his ability to spot miscreants had been honed to a fine edge. From the way the two men were concentrating on the figure in front, Hawkwood was left in no doubt they were intent on mischief.
A small voice inside his head began to whisper.
Not here, not now. Let them go. It’s not your city. It’s not your problem.
Hawkwood looked around him. There was plenty of traffic about, both vehicular and pedestrian and the street was far from deserted, but everyone else was too intent upon their own business to have noticed anything amiss, including the man in the greatcoat who appeared oblivious to the pair on his tail, despite two sets of eyes burning into his back.
Hawkwood watched as the men’s target turned into a narrow side lane. Immediately, the pair quickened their pace. As they disappeared into the lane after him, Hawkwood sighed.
Damn it, he thought, as he crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being run down by an oncoming carriage. Why me?
Twenty paces into the alley, the man in the greatcoat was down on one knee, with his back to the wall. The cane was in his right hand and he was trying to rise while wielding the stick like a sword to ward off his attackers.
It was a pound to a penny the man’s disability was the reason he’d been singled out. A cripple would be considered easy pickings for a couple of rogues. Hawkwood could see that one of the attackers held a knife, while his companion was brandishing a short cudgel.
There wasn’t as much mud here as there had been on the street so the traction was better and Hawkwood’s boots gave him the grip he needed. He felt disinclined to give the pair fair warning.
Only when they saw their victim’s eyes flicker to one side did they turn. Their eyes were still widening as Hawkwood slammed the heel of his right boot against the cudgel man’s left knee cap. The man yelped and went down, the cudgel slipping from his grasp as he clutched his injured limb. His companion immediately dropped into a crouch, the knife held in front of him. He scythed the blade towards Hawkwood’s throat.
Throwing up his right hand, Hawkwood caught the knife man’s wrist and twisted it to lock the arm before slamming the heel of his left hand against the braced elbow. The man yelled as the bone broke and the knife joined the cudgel on the ground. Hawkwood released the arm and stepped back.
“Your choice, gentlemen,” he said calmly, already knowing the answer. “What’ll it be?”
The two men turned tail. At least they’ve one good arm and one good leg between them, Hawkwood thought as he watched them hobble away. He kicked the discarded weapons into the shadows and reached down to the kneeling man who stared back at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Gripping Hawkwood’s hand and using his cane as support he rose to his feet and brushed himself down, allowing Hawkwood a glimpse of a uniform jacket beneath the coat.
“Well I don’t know who you are, friend, but I’m damned glad you were in the neighbourhood. The name’s Quade. Major Harlan Quade, Thirteenth Regiment of Infantry.”
The major held on to Hawkwood’s hand.
“Hooper,” Hawkwood said. “Captain Matthew Hooper.”
“I’ll be damned. Well, in that case, Captain Hooper, I hope you’ll allow a major to buy a captain a drink.”
Hawkwood ran a quick eye over what he could see of the major’s tunic and smiled. “Happy to accept, sir. It’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
Major Quade was currently on medical furlough from wounds sustained on the Niagara Frontier. Watching him stare into the depths of his whiskey glass, Hawkwood wondered if the major’s invitation might not have been born out of a desire for companionship rather than as a gesture to thank him for coming to the man’s rescue.
Not that it wasn’t gratifying to be appreciated every now and again, but Hawkwood suspected it was the rye that was doing most of the talking and he’d already asked himself: if the major had been in civilian dress and had he not identified himself as a ranking officer, would he still have accepted the offer of a drink?
Probably not, but the greatcoat and a glimpse of the uniform beneath it had made Hawkwood’s decision for him. A military man would likely have information about the disposition of local troops, and given Hawkwood’s current status as a foreign combatant on enemy soil it could prove useful to know which areas were best avoided.
They were seated at a table in the Eagle Tavern, less than a stone’s toss from the Hudson River. It was a comfortable enough establishment, with a generous selection of liquors, a moderately civil staff and, more importantly, a welcoming fire in the hearth.
The major had ordered whiskey and stuck to that throughout. Hawkwood had chosen brandy. The breeze that was coming off the water and eddying up the city’s streets was a bracing reminder that it was already winter. A stack of blazing logs and a warming drink were as good a way as any of keeping the chill at bay.
The taproom was enveloped in warmth. With the combined smells of ale, tobacco and victuals and the subdued murmur of conversation permeating the tavern Hawkwood could easily have shut his eyes and imagined, if only for a few brief seconds, that he was back in London, enjoying a wet at the Blackbird Inn.
Only he wasn’t. He was in Albany, New York, half a world away from Bow Street, trying to find some means of getting home.
Still, he thought, at least there was one advantage to being here.
He didn’t have to speak French.
The voyage from Nantes to Boston had taken thirty-two days, one more than Larkspur’s skipper, Jack Larsson, had forecast and thirty-two days too many, as far as Hawkwood was concerned.
Getting out of Paris in the wake of his last assignment had been achieved without too much difficulty but there had always been a weakness in the plan’s second stage, which had been reliant on Larkspur being intercepted and boarded by a British vessel on blockade duty, whereupon Hawkwood would have revealed his identity and secured safe passage back to England.
Regrettably, no one had allowed for the formidable seamanship of Larkspur’swily skipper. During the five years the blockade had been in place – which required all neutral ships to submit to a cargo inspection at a British port or be seized as an enemy vessel – Jack Larsson had accrued valuable experience in the art of outwitting the Royal Navy’s squadrons. Now that Britain was actually at war with America, he had become even more adept at avoiding detection.
Thus Larkspur had slipped past the British patrols with ease, presenting Hawkwood with the uncomfortable realization that he was America bound.
The one advantage of the month-long voyage was that it had given him time to gather as much information as he could on the fluctuating state of British–American hostilities.
In Paris, up-to-date intelligence had been impossible to glean. Even though European newspapers carried accounts of skirmishes between the two sides, by the time news from the other side of the Atlantic reached the French newspapers or English ones smuggled in from London, it had to be at least six weeks out of date, if not more; which had left Hawkwood with no option but to tap Captain Larsson and his crew without arousing their suspicions.
First he had to gain their confidence. Aided by fraudulently obtained boarding papers which confirmed his identity as one Captain Hooper – an alias he’d used to good effect on previous missions – Hawkwood had been able to pass himself off as an officer in the First Regiment, United States Riflemen, on recent detachment as an observer to a French Regiment of the Line in Spain.
To his relief, Larsson had accepted ‘Captain Hooper’s’ patchy knowledge of the war as a legacy of his months serving with Bonaparte’s army in the Peninsula; which had left them, at least as far as Larkspur’s skipper was concerned, as fellow Americans, united in their patriotism, desirous of fresh news and looking forward to a safe return home from foreign climes.
But while Larsson was cognisant with American naval exploits, he knew little of the land campaign; what meagre information he had on military activity on the western and northern fronts lacked credible detail. The last dispatch he’d been privy to had been dated mid-September, a week before Larkspur had sailed from Boston.
And anything could have happened since then.
And so, on the cold, misty morning when the dark smudge of the Massachusetts coast finally materialized over Larkspur’s larboard bow, while Hawkwood felt the relief surge through him at having made landfall, he knew he was still a long way from salvation.
He’d accepted from the outset that another sea voyage would be an inevitable consequence of his arrival in America, but the thought of trawling the docks in search of a berth on an east-bound merchantman in the vain hope that this time the vessel would be stopped and boarded by the Royal Navy was not an option he’d been prepared to consider; once bitten, twice shy in that regard.
The only viable alternative was to try to reach the British lines. If he could manage that, he would surely be able to secure passage to England.
To achieve that goal, however, he’d first needed to confirm the whereabouts of the most convenient battlefront; short of enlisting, the easiest way of obtaining that information without drawing undue attention to himself was to consult the newspapers. Thus after disembarking and spending a night in a dockside tavern recommended by Larsson, his first objective had been to find the nearest reading room.
At the Exchange Coffee House, arming himself with a selection of journals – archive copies as well as the latest editions – and securing a seat in a corner with his back to the wall, he’d spent the morning familiarizing himself with the state of the nation. The Boston Patriot and the Washington Intelligencer had both carried a variety of dispatches, ranging from accounts of skirmishes and copies of letters from front-line commanders to the Department of War, to lists of the dead and wounded, notifications of promotions, requests for militia volunteers and even reward notices for deserters. More informative, by far, however, had been The War, the aptly titled New York broadsheet, published specifically in order to cover the conflict.
Concentrating on the latter’s editorial, the first thing that struck him was that the tide of war had taken a much grimmer turn since he’d left France, resulting in grave consequences for both sides of the divide.
The main build-up of forces had been along the borderland between the United States and the Province of Upper Canada, down the line of the Great Lakes, Ontario and Erie, with British and American combatants facing each other along opposite shores of the Niagara and Detroit Rivers.
It had been the British who’d seized the initiative when, back in August, General Isaac Brock crossed the Canadian border and laid siege to Detroit, capturing the town and taking his opposite number, General William Hull, prisoner. There had been several cut-and-thrust sorties since then, with the British continuing to have the edge, culminating in the defeat of a recent American counter-invasion attempt into Canada near Queenston, during which the aforementioned General Brock had lost his life to a sniper’s bullet. But, so far, it looked as though neither side had been able to summon the troops or equipment to wage a decisive land battle.
While the red-coated regiments had shown their superiority in the land war, the same could not be said for the waterborne operations of the Provincial Marine, the Royal Navy force that patrolled the waterways of the St Lawrence River and the northern lakes. The Americans, against all odds, had managed to seal the Marine inside its main base of operations, the port of Kingston at the eastern end of Lake Ontario.
In sifting events into chronological order, it had soon become clear to Hawkwood that in the weeks since the debacles at Detroit and Queenston the Americans had been regrouping with a vengeance, strengthening their troop numbers along the St Lawrence and bolstering their main naval base at Sackets Harbor – across the water from Kingston – where a number of newly acquired merchant vessels had been converted into war ships and transports.
Emboldened by their new-found confidence, the Americans had also undertaken several small but telling raids against British supply convoys and fortifications along the various river routes. Rumours had even been revived which spoke of another possible invasion attempt on Canada.
Two maps displayed in a four-day-old edition of The War had eventually provided the information he’d been searching for: the disposition of British and American forces. One covered the operations around the Detroit River; the other reflected events that had taken place further east in New York State along the northern Canadian border and the Niagara Frontier. Studying the maps carefully while referring to the corresponding dispatches, it hadn’t taken long to deduce that if he was to try to reach the British lines, three escape routes were available to him – none of which looked in the least inviting. There was no need to make a decision there and then, however, because no matter which route he ended up taking, all roads led to one inevitable transit point:
Albany.
What had made him hesitate, though only for a moment, had been the fact that Albany had recently been designated the headquarters of the American Army’s Northern Command.
Deciding that was a bridge he’d have to cross when he came to it, Hawkwood had surreptitiously extracted the New York map page from the newspaper and folded it into his pocket. As he’d left the Exchange, one thought remained uppermost in his mind.
No one had said it was going to be easy.
The coach had left Boston at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. His seaman’s bag having been swapped for a more convenient knapsack, Hawkwood had alighted from the coach at Albany’s State Street terminus at eight o’clock in the evening of the following day, a mere three days after his arrival on to American soil.
And more than twenty years since his departure.
The major caught the pot-man’s eye and raised his empty glass.
“I’ll have the same again and another brandy for my friend.” As the order was borne away, Quade began to massage his right thigh.
“How’s the leg?” Hawkwood asked.
“Stiff as a board and aching like the devil, but the surgeon told me I can probably return to duty by the end of the week.”
Quade didn’t look or sound that enthused by the prospect. From the exchanges they’d had so far, Hawkwood could understand why.
The drinks arrived.
“Whiskey for you, Major,” the pot-man said. “Brandy for the gentleman.”
If you only knew, Hawkwood thought. He took a swallow, savouring the warmth of the alcohol as it passed down his throat, and watched as Quade downed half the contents of the whiskey glass in one go.
“You were telling me about Queenston,” Hawkwood said.
Queenston was where the major had received his wounds. Not that Hawkwood was that curious as to how Quade had come by his injuries. He was more interested in what information the major might have regarding American and British troop emplacements.
The hamlet lay on the Canadian side of the Niagara River, as Hawkwood had discovered from his visit to the reading room. It was also home to a British garrison, one of a string of Crown fortifications that stretched from Niagara in the north, down to Fort Erie in the south, where the river began its spectacular journey to Lake Ontario. It was this length of frontier that formed the apogee to one of Hawkwood’s three possible escape routes.
“Goddamned militia!” Quade’s knuckles gleamed white as he gripped his glass. “Citizen soldiers? Useless bastards, more like! If there’d been a regular in command instead of that fool Van Rensselaer, it would’ve been different. That’s the trouble with political appointees, they’re easily pressured. He was told he had to attack Canada before winter. He should have stood his ground, told them it was too soon. It was the same with his officers. The idiots were demanding he either launch the invasion or let their men go home for Christmas! God save us! Is that any way to run an army? Well, is it?” The major took another swig. “D’you know there weren’t even enough boats for the crossing?”
Beads of perspiration clung to the major’s brow. Whether they were a result of his proximity to the hearth or due to the pain in his leg or the effects of the whiskey, it was hard to tell. Quade wasn’t slurring his words, so the sweat oozing from his pores could just as easily have been a physical manifestation of the resentment he was giving voice to – with scant regard for discretion. Though no one in the vicinity seemed to be paying either of them any attention.
“Is that so?” Hawkwood said.
“And half the vessels had lost their oars!”
From the tone of his voice, Quade sounded as if he was just getting started. Hawkwood braced himself to endure a lengthy rant about the inadequacies of the General Staff before any useful nuggets of information could be gleaned.
But as Quade’s story unfolded, it was difficult not to sympathize, even if he was the enemy. The newspaper accounts of the battle had made much of General Brock’s death, but now it emerged that much of the story had gone unreported. American losses had been considerable.
“I was in the second wave,” Quade continued, the edge in his voice as sharp as a blade. “We used a fisherman’s path to gain the Heights and take their battery – though not before they’d spiked their guns, which we could have done without. Victory should have been ours. With Brock dead, we thought they’d cut and run. What we hadn’t allowed for was his aide-de-camp, Sheaffe, bringing up reinforcements from Fort George or the arrival of his advance party – that breed, Norton, and his damned savages!”
Quade’s face twisted. “They’re what did for us. They occupied the woods at the summit; kept us pinned down with musket fire. All this while Van Rensselaer was still trying to rally his troops into crossing the river. Trouble was, the cowards had seen the redcoats advancing and they could hear the screams.”
“Screams?” Hawkwood said.
“Of the wounded …” Quade lifted his glass and took a swallow, “… and the natives. That’s when the militia told Rensselaer they weren’t prepared to fight on foreign soil! It was their cowardice that left us stranded. Once the rest of Sheaffe’s men arrived, we never stood a chance. Marched towards us as calm as you like. Stopped a hundred and fifty yards out. At that range our muskets were useless. When they fired their volley, we couldn’t see them for the smoke. It was only when it cleared that we realized they’d used it to hide their approach. That’s when they fixed bayonets and charged.”
The American grimaced. “And we ran; every man of us, like frightened jack rabbits. Only there was nowhere to go. We had the drop from the Heights at our backs and the British in front. We tried sending two men out with a white flag, but the savages cut them to pieces. By that time, most of our side were trying to climb down to the river, hoping they’d be able to swim across. You could hear their bodies hitting the rocks, even above the sound of the guns.”
Quade shook his head, as if to rid himself of the memory. “I don’t know how the hell I made it. Truth is, I was more fearful of what those savages would do if they caught me than I was of falling over the damned cliff. I thought the Mullahs were inventive when it came to torture, but they’re nothing compared to the Iroquois.”
The major cradled his glass in silence for a moment then his eyes met Hawkwood’s. “I took a musket ball in the side and that sent me tumbling. Broke the bone when I landed. One of my sergeants hauled me into the water. Funny thing is, it was one of those missing oars that saved us. We found it adrift on the current and used it to float back to our own shore.”
Quade extended his injured limb and resumed kneading the muscle above his knee. “We left a thousand men behind. It wasn’t a retreat, it was a rout, plain and simple. No other word for it.”
The major had long legs. He was equal to Hawkwood in height and about the same age, give or take a year, though his dark hair was shorter, cut back from a widow’s peak and greying at a faster rate. There was also a gaunt aspect to his features, which, Hawkwood thought, could have been due to his injury. Or it could have been from the trauma of reliving his ordeal. That might also have accounted for the haunted look in his eyes.
It occurred to Hawkwood that the more the major drank, the more his looks matched his mood. For while the alcohol appeared to be having little effect on either his balance or his vocabulary, it grew apparent that he was becoming more morose with each sip. Hawkwood suspected that if Quade were to drink to excess he would not be a happy drunk.
Men like Quade were nothing new; officers unwilling to accept their own failings while finding constant fault with others, usually men of a more senior rank. Though if half of what Quade had told him was true, it was small wonder the man was feeling bloody. The American army appeared to be in a sorry state, with a lack of experienced soldiers of all ranks, not to mention supplies and weaponry and even horses for their recently created dragoon regiments.
According to Quade, some enlisted men were having to fight in bare feet because there was a shortage of boots. The major’s own uniform jacket was brown and not the regulation blue because there was a dearth of indigo cloth.
Hawkwood tried to imagine what the British army would do if there wasn’t enough scarlet weave. It didn’t bear thinking about. But then, until this latest conflict, the Americans hadn’t been involved in a war on home soil since gaining their independence. Little wonder they were at a disadvantage when they were trying to rebuild their army.
The major was from Virginian military stock. It had been the young Quade’s intention to study artillery and engineering at Fort Clinton, until his father advised him that a new professional army was being formed to combat the threat from the north-western Indian tribes who, a year previously in a bloody battle on the Wabash River, had inflicted the greatest defeat upon the United States Army by a native foe. Quade had been one of the United States Legion’s first recruits.
“We got our revenge at Fallen Timbers,” he told Hawkwood. “They had no option after that. They had to sign the damned peace treaty.”
Hawkwood presumed that Fallen Timbers was a battle the Indians had lost. Quade obviously expected him to know about it. Probably best, Hawkwood thought, to remain silent and not disabuse the major of that particular notion.
The Mullahs Quade had referred to were the Berber Muslims. Hawkwood didn’t know much about them either, though he did recall Larkspur’s skipper referring to a war the Americans had fought in the Mediterranean some seven or eight years before against North African pirates.
Following the Legion’s disbanding, Quade had switched his allegiance to the newly resurrected Marine Corps. The Corps had been looking for officers and with the Legion’s mission against the tribes fulfilled, Quade had seen an opportunity for advancement. Since then, by his own admission, the variety of enemy he’d fought against had exceeded that of his father and grandfather.
The major shook his head wearily. “If I’d had any sense, I’d have ignored the call. My ship was in Boston when I heard they were in need of serving officers. Men with experience of engaging with irregulars were especially in demand. I guessed that with my time in the Legion and fighting the Berbers, I had what they were looking for, so I offered my services.”
He gave a rueful smile. “Saw it as the lesser of two evils, my chance to get back to dry land. I’m no sailor, damn it. I always was prone to sea-sickness. Not so good for a Marine, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” He massaged his knee once more. “And look where it got me. That damned river was freezing; it’s a wonder I didn’t come down with pneumonia.”
After his wounds had been treated, Quade was transferred to the hospital at Buffalo, where he’d spent the bulk of his recuperation. With the Americans’ push to invade Canada along the Niagara having stalled, Major Quade had received orders summoning him back to Albany.
“The fact is; I can’t say that I’m looking forward to reporting in,” Quade said quietly, his voice dropping to a whisper, as though he’d suddenly become aware, following his previous indiscretions, that walls could have ears.
“I’m not sure Dearborn’s cut out for command any more than Van Rensselaer was. He’s as old as Methuselah, for a start!” He looked into the fire, staring into the flames for several seconds before pulling back and favouring Hawkwood with a wintry smile. “But you didn’t hear me say that. Forgive me; I’ve a tendency to ramble when I’ve had a few. I meant nothing by it. I dare say you’ll be making your own judgement when the time comes.”
As far as the major was concerned, Captain Hooper was newly arrived from the continent where he’d been on extended service, most recently in Nantes, France, there having undertaken a number of unspecified duties on behalf of a grateful United States Government. Now he was in Albany, awaiting orders from the War Department, on the understanding that he was likely to be assigned to General Dearborn’s Northern Command Headquarters, where his intimate knowledge of British military tactics could be put to strategic use in the current hostilities.
Hawkwood knew that, as masquerades went, it was tenuous at best and downright dangerous at worst, but as his liaison with Quade was only scheduled to last as long as a couple of drinks, hopefully it would suffice.
“It sounds,” Hawkwood said, in an attempt to move the conversation on, “as though the bastards have that part of the frontier sealed up tight. What about Ontario and the St Lawrence? I hear we’ve given a good account of ourselves there.”
Quade’s eyes flashed as he nodded in agreement. “Thanks to Chauncey! About time the bastards got a taste of their own medicine! Now they know what it’s like to be bottled up with nowhere to go!”
From his reading, Hawkwood knew that Commodore Isaac Chauncey, former Officer-in-Charge of the New York navy yard, was the newly appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Great Lakes Navy. Since his transfer to Sackets Harbor in October, the Americans had taken the war to the British with a vengeance. With their successful blockade of Kingston, it was now the United States who ruled the waves on Lake Ontario and the upper reaches of the St Lawrence, and not the Provincial Marine as had previously been the case.
“The Limeys need the Marine to help keep their supply routes open.” Quade said. “We sever those and hopefully we can wear the sons of bitches down. We’ve made a good start. They’re already having difficulty supplying their southern outposts. Once winter sets in, it’ll be impossible to move anywhere. Not that either side will want to, so both armies are going to be snow-bound until March, which means we’ll be ready for them come the thaw.”
Hawkwood manufactured a smile in support of Quade’s rekindled optimism. From the major’s point of view, the reversal of fortune following the Queenston and Detroit defeats was a much-needed boost to national morale, but all Hawkwood could see was the shutting down of his second prospective escape route.
Not that either option had held much appeal, due more to their geography than their military significance. It was four hundred miles to the Niagara frontier and at least two hundred to the St Lawrence, with each route involving a heavily defended river crossing at the end of it.
The third option was looking more inviting by the minute. But then it always had. Quade’s disclosures had merely confirmed what Hawkwood had already decided. If he was to have any chance of reaching safety, he should discount the western paths and take the shortest of the three routes: north, up through New York State. If he made for the closest point on the Canadian border, his journey would still involve the negotiation of a river but, unlike the Niagara and St Lawrence, the Hudson, because of its course, had the potential to be an ally rather than an enemy. Winter was approaching fast, however. If he was going to start his run, he’d need to do it quickly.
Though it wasn’t as if he’d be heading into unknown territory.
The flames in the hearth danced as a new batch of customers entered the tavern, bringing with them a heavy draught of cold air from the street outside. Hawkwood looked towards the door. The new arrivals were in uniform; grey jackets, as opposed to the tan of Quade’s tunic. As they took a table in the corner of the taproom, Quade eyed them balefully over the rim of his now-empty glass.
“Pikemen,” he murmured scornfully. “God save us. It’ll be battleaxes next.”
Hawkwood knew his puzzlement must have shown, for Quade said, “My apologies; a weak jest. They’re Zebulon Pike’s boys. Fifteenth Infantry. He’s had them in training across the river.”
“Across the river” meant the town of Greenbush. Hawkwood had been surprised and not a little thankful to discover that Albany wasn’t awash with military personnel. It had turned out that General Dearborn had set up his headquarters not in the town but in a new, specially constructed compound on the opposite side of the Hudson. This was much to the relief of the locals, who, while mindful of the economic advantages of having an army camped on their doorstep, didn’t want the inconvenience of several thousand troops living in their midst. It was a compromise that suited all parties.
“Battleaxes?” Hawkwood said, confused.
“Pike has this notion to equip his men with pole-arms. He’s introduced a new set of drills: a three-rank formation. First two ranks armed with muskets, the third with pike staffs. He reckons it’ll enable a battalion to deploy more men in a bayonet charge.”
“It does sound medieval,” Hawkwood agreed warily.
Quade grunted. “That was my thinking, though there could be some sense in it, I suppose. Most third ranks are next to useless when it comes to attacking in line. Even with bayonets fixed, their muskets are too short to be effective. A line of twelve-foot pikes would certainly do the trick. Would you face a line of men armed with twelve-foot pikes?”
“Only if I had fifteen-foot pikes,” Hawkwood said. “Or lots of guns.”
“So, maybe I stand corrected,” Quade said. “I’m sure they’ll give a good account of themselves when it’s required.” He eyed the recent arrivals. “They’ll be enjoying their last drink before heading north to join the rest.”
“The rest?” Hawkwood said.
There was a pause.
“They did tell you that Dearborn’s in Plattsburg,” Quade said. “Didn’t they?”
Hawkwood raised his glass and took a swallow to give himself time to think and plan his response.
“I only landed in Boston a few days ago. No one’s told me a damned thing.”
Quade shook his head and made the sort of face that indicated he despaired of all senior staff.
“Typical. Just as well we met then, though you’d have found out eventually. He’s been there since the middle of last month. Winter quarters. Pike’s up there with him. I’ve no doubt my orders will be to join them, which is why I’m in no hurry to return to the bosom. I’ve a day or two of freedom left and I intend to make the most of them.”
He sighed, stared into his glass and then, clearly making a decision, stood it on the table between them.
“Another?” Hawkwood asked.
To Hawkwood’s relief, the major shook his head. “Thank you, that’s most generous, but on this occasion I’ll decline. I’ve a prior appointment and, no disrespect, Captain, but she’s a damned sight prettier than you are!” Quade grinned as he reached for his coat and cane. “A tad more expensive, but definitely prettier.”
“In that case, Major,” Hawkwood said, “don’t let me detain you.” He waited until Quade had gained his feet and then accompanied the major as he tapped his way towards the door.
On the street, the major paused while buttoning his coat. “If you’re free, why don’t you join me?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Hawkwood said.
Quade, not in the least put out, smiled amiably. “As you wish. If you should change your mind, you’ll find us on Church Street – the house with the weathercock on the roof. The door’s at the side. There’s a small brass plate to the right of it: Hoare’s Gaming Club. It—”
Seeing the expression on Hawkwood’s face, the major chuckled and spelt out the name. “Yes, I know, but what would you have it say – the Albany Emporium? Anyway, as I was saying, it caters for the more – how shall I put it? – discerning gentleman, so you’d be in excellent company. A lot of the senior officers from Greenbush take their pleasure there.”
Another reason for giving the place a wide berth, Hawkwood thought. “Well, I’ll certainly bear that in mind, Major, if I find myself at a loose end.”
“Ha! That’s the spirit! All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, eh? Besides, we’re at war. Who’s to say we shouldn’t enjoy what could be our last day on earth before we head to the front?”
“I thought everyone was going to be snowed in for winter,” Hawkwood said. “There won’t be a front until March.”
“Ah, but the ladies don’t know that, do they?”
God save us, Hawkwood thought.
As an ear-splitting shriek shattered the surrounding calm.
Hawkwood pivoted. Heart in mouth, he paused as a broad grin of delight opened up across the major’s face.
“Ha!” Quade exclaimed gleefully. “Had the same effect on me, the first time I heard it. Thought it was the cry of the banshee come to carry me off! They do say it’s caused seizures in at least half a dozen of the city’s older female folk. Not seen her before? Quite a sight, ain’t she?”
The major pointed with his cane.
As his pulse slowed to its normal rate, Hawkwood, embarrassingly aware that other passers-by had not reacted as he had, looked off to where Quade was indicating. They had come to a halt adjacent to the river. Only the width of the street and a patch of open ground separated them from the quayside and the vessels moored alongside it.
The Hudson was Albany’s umbilical. It was from the busy wharves and slipways crowding the mile-long shoreline that goods from the city’s granaries, breweries and timber yards were transported downriver to the markets of New York, one hundred and fifty miles to the south.
Scores of cargo sloops and passenger schooners competed for mooring space with smaller barges and hoys. It could have been a scene lifted from the Thames or the Seine, had it not been for the tree-clad hillsides rising from the water on the opposite shore and the extraordinary-looking vessel that was churning into view beyond the intermediary forest of masts and rigging. The throbbing sounds that enveloped the craft as it manoeuvred towards the jetty were as curious as its appearance and like nothing Hawkwood had heard before.
There was no grace in either its movement or its contours. Compared to the other craft on the river, it occurred to Hawkwood that the clanking behemoth, with its wedged bow and wall-sided hull had all the elegance of an elongated canal boat, while the thin, black, smoke-belching stove-pipe poking up from the boat’s mid-section wouldn’t have looked out of place on the roof of a Cheapside tenement.
The threshing sound was explained by what appeared to be two large mill wheels, their top halves set behind wooden housings on either side of the hull, forward of the smoke-stack. They were, Hawkwood saw, revolving paddles; it was their rotation that gave the vessel its momentum through the water.
Another drawn-out screech rent the air, sending a flock of herring gulls, already displaced by the first whistle, wheeling and diving above the nearby rooftops in raucous protest.
Quade moved to Hawkwood’s side. “She’s the Paragon, up from New York. She can do six and a half knots at a push. Seven dollars a ticket, I’m told, and it only takes thirty-six hours. It takes the schooners four days. You’ve not seen any of them in action?”
Hawkwood shook his head and watched as the steamboat shuddered and slowed. For a few seconds the clattering from her paddles seemed to diminish before suddenly increasing in volume once more. Hawkwood realized the wheels were now revolving in the opposite direction and that the vessel was travelling in reverse.
“Takes ninety passengers,” Quade said matter-of-factly as the boat’s stern started to come round. “Fulton used to swear they could turn on a dollar – the boats, that is, not the passengers. Don’t know if that’s strictly true. No one’s thrown a dollar in to find out.” He chuckled.
For a moment Hawkwood thought he might have misheard.
“Fulton?” he repeated cautiously, trying to keep his tone even.
“Robert Fulton,” Quade said. He looked at Hawkwood askance. “Good God, man, you must have heard of him! How long did you say you’d been away?”
Hawkwood said nothing. His mind was too busy spinning.
Fulton?
It had to be the same man. Robert Fulton, American designer of the submersible, Narwhale, in which Hawkwood had fought hand to hand with Fulton’s associate, William Lee, beneath the dark waters of the Thames, following Lee’s failed attack on the newly launched frigate, Thetis.
Hawkwood had killed Lee and left his body entombed at the bottom of the river, inside Narwhale’s shattered hull. It seemed like an age ago, yet memory of a discourse he’d had with the Admiralty Board members and the scientist, Colonel William Congreve, prior to the discovery of Lee’s plan, slid into his mind. Hawkwood heard an echo of Congreve’s voice telling him that at the same time as Fulton had been petitioning the French government to support his advances in undersea warfare, he’d also been experimenting with steam as a means of propulsion.
Hawkwood stared at the vessel, which was now side on to the quay, and watched as mooring lines were cast fore and aft. While Fulton’s dream of liberty of the seas and the establishment of free trade through the destruction of the world’s navies might lie in tatters at the bottom of the Thames, it appeared that his plans for steam navigation had achieved spectacular success.
“Can’t say the schooner skippers are best pleased,” Quade said. “They’ve lost a deal of passenger trade since the steamboats started running.”
“How many are there?” Hawkwood asked.
“I believe it’s five or six at the last count. I do know that two of them operate alternating schedules up and downriver. Others are used as ferries around New York harbour.”
“I’ll be damned,” Hawkwood said, nodding as if impressed. “Y’know, the time’s gone so quickly … I’m blessed if I can remember when they did start.”
“Back in ’07.” Quade leaned on his stick and gazed admiringly at the boat as the gangplank was extended. “If you recall, Clermont was the first. It made its maiden run that August.”
The year after Fulton had left London to return home. The British government had thought that his departure meant they would hear no more of the American and his torpedoes – until Lee’s appearance five years later.
“Of course,” Hawkwood said. “How could I forget?”
“Not the most amenable fellow, I’m told,” Quade murmured. “Arrogant, and not much liked, by all accounts, though you can’t deny he’s a clever son of a bitch. There’ve been rumours he’s trying to design some kind of military version, but last I heard, he’s not in the best of health, so I wouldn’t know how that’s proceeding.”
With the steamship now berthed and its passengers disembarking, Hawkwood was able to take stock of her. She was, he guessed, about one hundred and fifty feet in length, with the top of the smoke-stack rising a good thirty feet above the deck. There were two masts: one set forward and equipped for a square sail, the other at the stern, supporting a fore and aft rig. The sails, Hawkwood presumed, were to provide her with additional impetus if her engine failed. The paddle wheels had to be at least fifteen feet in diameter. There was no bowsprit and no figurehead. Even to an untrained eye, with no attempt having been made to soften her lines, it was plain the vessel had been constructed entirely for purpose. As if to emphasize the steamboat’s stark functionality, the top of the cylindrical copper boiler, set into a rectangular well in the centre of the deck and from which the smoke-stack jutted, was fully exposed, not unlike the protruding intestines of a dissected corpse.
“They say the machine that controls her wheels has the power of thirty horses,” Quade offered admiringly. “I’ve no idea how they work that out. I can only assume they tied them to her bow and held a tug of war. Your guess is as good as mine.” The major shook his head in wonder. “Y’know, there’s also a story that Fulton tried to interest Emperor Bonaparte in an undersea boat, and when that didn’t work he changed his allegiance and approached the Limeys for funding. Sounds a bit far-fetched, if you ask me. Not sure I believe it, frankly.”
“It does sound unlikely,” Hawkwood agreed.
“Well, he’s on our side now, and that’s the main thing,” Quade said. He reached into his coat and dug out a pocket watch. Flipping the catch, he consulted the dial and tutted. “Damn, I should go – wouldn’t like young Lavinia to start without me. If they do insist on sending me up into the wilds, this could be our last ah … consummation for a while.” Snapping the watch shut, he looked at Hawkwood and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re sure you won’t …?” He left the suggestion hanging open.
Hawkwood shook his head. “Enjoy yourself, Major.”
Quade tucked the watch away and grinned. “Oh, I intend to, don’t you worry.” He extended his hand. “My thanks for your intervention, Captain. It was good to meet you. We’ll likely run into each other again, I expect, after we’ve taken up our duties; either here or at Greenbush. They’re small towns, when all’s said and done. That’s if they don’t send us to Plattsburg, of course. Or if you’d like to meet for a libation before then, you’ll likely find me at the Eagle or Berment’s. I’ve taken a room there.”
“That’s most kind, Major. Thank you.”
“Excellent, then I’ll bid you good day.”
And with a final wave of goodbye, Major Quade limped off to his assignation.
Hawkwood watched him go and wondered idly if the major’s leg would hold out during his impending exertions.
Coat collar turned up, he gazed out over the water. The sky was the colour of tempered steel. Colder weather was undoubtedly on the way, bringing snow, and it was more than likely the river would eventually freeze over. Could steamboats navigate through ice? Hawkwood wondered. Perhaps, if it wasn’t too thick. But, presumably, if the weather really did close in, even they’d be forced to stop running.
Hopefully, he’d be long gone by that time.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the page he’d torn from The War in the Exchange’s reading room. It wasn’t the most comprehensive map, and it was probably safe to assume that the hand-drawn features had been copied from a much more detailed engraving, so the scale was undoubtedly out of proportion as well, yet all the relevant information appeared to be in place.
Most of New York State was outlined, from Vermont in the east across to the St Lawrence River and the Niagara Frontier in the west. Major towns were marked, as were the main rivers and the largest lakes. The front lines were represented by cannons and flags. Small crenellated squares and anchors showed forts and naval bases. Crudely drawn arrows indicated advances and retreats. The symbols were at their most prolific around the western borderlands, confirming what Major Quade had told him.
Albany, rather than Greenbush, was shown due to its significance as the state capital. It was surmounted by a drawing of a fort topped by the stars and stripes. The next nearest American military presence deserving of capital letters and distinguishable by another tiny fort, was Plattsburg, where Dearborn had set up his winter camp.
Hawkwood shifted his gaze north, at the river and the landscape that lay beyond. He’d been fresh from a return visit to the State Street coach office and mulling over the choices that had been presented to him by the ticket clerk when he’d encountered the major. Now that Quade had confirmed his suspicions over which was the most advantageous route to Canada, there was still the mode of transport to consider. Hawkwood had no intention of walking all the way to the border.
Albany had received its capital status due to it having become the centre of commerce for the north-eastern states. Post roads ran through the city like spokes on a wheel. The most important one – referred to by the clerk as the Mohawk Turnpike – which led directly eastwards through Schenectady to Utica and on to Sackets Harbor, Hawkwood had already dismissed. It was only when the clerk had listed the intermediate halts along the route, that a cold hand had clamped itself around his heart at the mention of one particular name.
Johnstown.
It was a name from a life time ago and one he’d not thought of for many years. Knowing that his reaction must have shown and aware that the clerk was giving him an odd look, Hawkwood had forced his mind to return to the present.
There was an alternative route, the clerk told him. The northern turnpike, which formed part of the New York to Montreal post road. Though, unfortunately, it was also prone to flooding after heavy rain. In fact, the clerk had warned, stretches of it between Albany and Saratoga had already become impassable due to the recent torrents.
What about the river? Hawkwood had enquired, his mind half occupied with trying to shut out the echo from his past.
The clerk had shaken his head. The Hudson was only navigable as far as Troy, six miles upstream. There might be batteaux travelling further north, but Hawkwood would have to investigate that possibility himself by talking to one of the local boat captains.
Hawkwood had been on the point of turning away when the clerk said, “Might I suggest the ferry to Troy, sir? You could pick up the eastern post road there. It runs all the way to Kingsbury and from there along the old wagon road to Fort George, where it links on to the turnpike you would have taken. See here …”
The clerk had referred Hawkwood to the wall behind his counter, upon which was suspended, to use the clerk’s own description, ‘this most excellent map by Mr Samuel Lewis of Philadelphia’. Following the clerk’s finger, Hawkwood had seen that both roads were clearly defined.
Two choices, then, Hawkwood thought as he folded his own map away. Remain in Albany until the northern post road was passable, which could turn out to be a very long wait; or try the ferry route. If he chose the latter, at least he’d be on the move and heading in the right direction.
Johnstown.
The name continued to hover at the corner of his mind, like an uninvited guest hidden behind a half-opened door. Hawkwood pushed the memories away, back into the shadows, forcing himself to concentrate on the more pressing task in hand.
The jetty for the local ferries lay at the end of the steamboat quay. It struck Hawkwood as he set off that the clerk had failed to mention the steamboat when giving him his directions. Hawkwood assumed that was because Albany and not Troy was the vessel’s terminus. Either that or the clerk had a questionable sense of humour and had wanted Hawkwood to get the shock of this life if and when the damned thing turned up and he was in the vicinity.
In which case, the plot had worked.
It was a pity Nathaniel Jago wasn’t here, Hawkwood reflected. His former sergeant and staunch ally, who’d protected his back from Corunna to the slums of London’s Ratcliffe Highway, would certainly have had something to say on the matter, even if it was only to remark that they were both a bloody long way from home.
And even as that thought crossed his mind, there rose within him the reality that the statement would only have been half. For Hawkwood was probably closer to home now than he had been at any time in the last thirty years.
Johnstown.
The slow clip-clop of iron-shod hooves and the creak of an ungreased axle came from behind. Hawkwood stepped aside to allow the vehicle room.
It was as he glanced up that he became aware of the expressions on the faces of the people around him. Some appeared curious; others strangely subdued, while a few displayed a more unfathomable expression which could have been interpreted as sympathy. Intrigued, Hawkwood followed their gaze.
It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.
Of the dozen or so uniformed men seated or slumped in the back of the mud-splattered wagon, more than half wore their tunics in full view while the rest wore theirs beneath shabby greatcoats. All were bare-headed save for a couple sporting black shakos. The ones whose heads were not bowed gazed about listlessly, their pale, unshaven faces reflecting the resignation in their eyes.
It was not the sight of their drawn features that caused Hawkwood’s throat to constrict, however. It was the colour of their jackets. Stained with dirt and sweat they may have been, but there was no hiding their scarlet hue.
The men in the wagon were British redcoats.
As if the uniforms weren’t sufficient evidence, the mounted officer and the six-man escort marching to the rear of the vehicle and the manacles the red-coated men were wearing left little doubt as to their identity and status.
As prisoners.
A voice called out from the onlookers.
“Who’ve you got there, Lieutenant?”
The mounted officer ignored the enquiry and kept his eyes rigidly to the front. The last man in the escort line was not so reticent.
“You blind?” he muttered sarcastically from the corner of his mouth. “Who d’you think they are?”
Emboldened, the questioner tried again. “So, where’re you taking ’em then? Home for supper?”
Someone laughed.
The wagon halted. The lieutenant rode his horse past the head of the vehicle. As he dismounted and entered the ferry office, the less reclusive trooper, cocky at having been nominated the fount of all knowledge, jerked a thumb at the landing stage. “Ferrying ’em to Greenbush. They’ll be quartered in the guard house before we move ’em on to Pittsfield.”
“Where’ve they come from?” a man standing near to Hawkwood asked.
The soldier sniffed and shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. I heard they were taken near Ogdensburg. We’ve only been with ’em since Deerfield. We’d’ve had to march the bastards if the lieutenant hadn’t commandeered the wheels.”
“Don’t look much, do they?” someone muttered in an aside.
You wouldn’t either, Hawkwood thought, if you’d had to march most of the way from Ogdensburg and then been shackled to the back of a bloody prison cart.
Hawkwood had no idea which British regiments were serving on the American continent and he wasn’t close enough to the wagon to get a good view of the insignia, though the green facings on a couple of the tunics suggested their wearers might have been from the 49th, the Hertfordshires, while the red facings could have represented the 41st Regiment of Foot.
The lieutenant returned. “All right, Corporal! Move them down to the landing. You can board the ferry when ready.”
As the driver released the brake and flicked the reins to nudge the horses forward, the escort shouldered their muskets.
“Here we go,” the talkative one murmured.
The novelty over, the spectators began to drift away and Hawkwood looked towards the men on the wagon. Pittsfield was, presumably, the nearest prison of any note where captured enemy were being held.
His eyes roamed over the tired faces, seeing in them the worn expressions of men who’d come to accept their personal defeat. Two or three looked to be half asleep; either that or they’d chosen to feign exhaustion as a means of avoiding the stares of onlookers and of exhibiting fear in the face of their captors.
The wagon jerked into motion. As it did so, one of the greatcoat-clad soldiers shifted position. Until then, his features had been concealed by the coat’s upturned collar. As he turned, his face came more into view.
Had Major Quade not mentioned Fulton by name, causing Hawkwood to revive memories of Narwhale and the events surrounding William Lee’s assassination plot, the mere turning of the prisoner’s head might not have amounted to anything.
Except …
It took a second or two and even then Hawkwood didn’t really believe it. But as he stared at the wagon’s occupants, the man in the greatcoat looked up. At first, there was no reaction; the soldier’s gaze moved on. And then stopped. It was then that Hawkwood saw it; the slight moment of hesitation before the prisoner’s face turned back. In a movement that would have been imperceptible to those around him, Hawkwood saw the soldier’s eyes fix on his and widen in mutual recognition.
And, immediately, Hawkwood knew that every move he’d been planning had just been made redundant.
2 (#ulink_7b4d633b-d068-51cf-9825-a17ec6b20c13)
May 1780
Tewanias led the way, with the Rangers and the boy following in single file behind. The dog kept pace, sometimes running on ahead, at other times darting off to the side of the trail, nose to the ground as it investigated interesting new smells, but always returning to the line, tongue lolling happily and tail held high as if the journey were some kind of game.
They walked the horses, letting the beasts set their own pace. Save for the occasional bird call, the woods were dark and silent around them. Talk was kept to a minimum. The only other sounds that marked their progress were the rhythmic plod of hooves on the forest floor and the soft clinking of a metal harness.
Every so often, a rustle in the undergrowth would indicate where a startled animal had broken from cover. At each disturbance the Indian and the Rangers and the boy would rein in their horses and listen intently but thus far there had been no indication that they were being followed.
As they rode, Wyatt thought back to the events that had taken place at the cabin, only too aware of how fortunate they’d all been to have emerged from the fight without suffering so much as a scratch, though it had been clear that the Committee members, having been taken completely by surprise, had possessed neither the discipline nor the instinct to have affected an adequate defence, let alone a counter-attack. Save, that is, for the one who’d somehow come back to life and shot Will Archer. Despite Wyatt’s attempts to erase it, the nagging thought persisted:
If we’d checked the bodies, Archer would be alive. Maybe.
It was small comfort knowing that by opening fire on the Citizens’ Committee, the farmer had been the one who set in motion the gun battle that had left eight people dead in almost as many minutes, having acted intuitively and in self-defence.
Wyatt’s mind kept returning to the expression on the boy’s face when Ephraim Smede had fallen to the ground, the hatchet embedded in his back. There had been no fear, no contrition or revulsion; no regret at having killed a man. Neither had there been satisfaction or triumph at having exacted restitution for the deaths of his aunt and uncle. Instead, there had been a calm, almost solemn acceptance of the deed, as if the dispatching of another human being had been a task that had to be done.
Only when he’d seen his uncle lying mortally wounded in Wyatt’s arms had the boy’s expression changed, first to tearful concern, followed swiftly by pain and ending in a deep, infinite sadness when he’d looked towards Beth Archer’s body. Even at that tender age he seemed to understand that the balance of his life had, from that moment, been altered beyond all understanding.
Wyatt had accompanied the boy to Beth Archer’s corpse. He’d watched as the child had knelt by her side, taking the woman’s hand in his own, holding it against his cheek. For a moment Wyatt had stood in silence, waiting for the tears to start again, but that hadn’t happened. When he’d laid his hand on the boy’s shoulders telling him that they had to leave and that there were graves to be dug, there had been a brief pause followed by a mute nod of understanding. Then the boy had risen to his feet, jaw set, leaving the Rangers to prepare the burials, while he’d returned to the cabin to gather his few belongings and retrieve the dog.
It wasn’t the first time Wyatt had seen such stoicism. He had fought alongside men who, having survived the bloodiest of battles, had displayed no emotion either during the fight or in the immediate aftermath, only to be gripped by the most violent of seizures several hours or even days afterwards. Wyatt wondered if the same thing was going to happen to the boy. He would have to watch for the signs and deal with the situation, if or when it happened.
The Rangers, partly out of unease at not knowing what to say but mostly because they were all too preoccupied with their own thoughts, had maintained a disciplined silence in the boy’s presence. Wyatt wasn’t sure if that was the best thing to do in the circumstances, but as he had no idea what to say either, he had followed suit and kept his own counsel. Without making it obvious what he was doing, he kept a watchful eye on their young charge. Not that the boy seemed to notice; he was too intent on watching Tewanias. Whether it was curiosity or apprehension at the Mohawk’s striking appearance, Wyatt couldn’t tell. Occasionally, Tewanias would turn in his saddle, and every time he did so the boy would avert his gaze as if he’d suddenly spotted something of profound interest in the scenery they were passing. It might have been amusing under different circumstances, but smiles, on this occasion, were in short supply.
They’d been travelling for an hour before the boy became aware of Wyatt’s eyes upon him. He reddened under the Ranger’s amused gaze. Tewanias was some thirty yards ahead, concentrating on the trail and when the boy had recovered his composure he nodded towards the warrior, frowned and enquired hesitantly: “Your Indian, which tribe does he belong to?”
Wyatt followed the boy’s eyes. “He’s Mohawk. And he’s not my Indian.”
The boy flushed, chastened by the emphasis Wyatt had placed on the word “my”. “Uncle Will said that the Mohawk were a great tribe.”
“The Mohawk are a great tribe.”
The boy pondered Wyatt’s reply for several seconds, wondering how to phrase his next question without incurring another correction.
“Is he a chief?”
“Yes.” Wyatt did not elaborate.
The boy glanced up the trail. “Why does he keep staring at me?”
“Same reason you keep staring at him,” Wyatt said evenly.
The boy’s head turned.
“He finds you interesting,” Wyatt said and smiled.
“Why?”
“Why do you find him interesting?” Wyatt countered.
The boy thought about his reply. “I’ve never been this close to an Indian before.”
“Well, then,” Wyatt said. “There you are. He’s never been this close to anyone like you before.”
“Me?”
“A white boy,” Wyatt said. Thinking, but not voicing out loud: who killed a man with an axe.
The boy fell silent. After several seconds had passed he said, “Why does he paint his face black?”
“To frighten his enemies.”
The boy frowned. He stared hard at the Ranger.
“I don’t need paint,” Wyatt said, “if that’s what you were thinking. I’m frightening enough as it is.”
A small smile played on the boy’s lips.
It was a start, Wyatt thought.
It was close to noon when the woods began to thin out, allowing glimpses of a wide landscape through gaps in the trees ahead. Wyatt trotted his horse forward to join Tewanias at the front of the line.
“Stand! Who goes there?”
The riders halted. Two men stepped into view from behind the last clump of undergrowth before the trees gave way to open ground. Wyatt surveyed the red jackets, muddy white breeches, tricorn hats with their black cockades and muskets held at the ready. The uniforms identified the men as Royal Yorkers; the colonel’s regiment. Wyatt knew that Tewanias would have detected the duo from a long way back. Indeed, he’d have done so even if the men had been dressed in leaf coats and matching hoods, but there had been no need to give a warning. The Mohawk had known that the soldiers posed no threat.
Good to know the piquets are doing their job,Wyatt thought. Though what the troopers would have done if the returning patrol had turned out to be of Continental origin was unclear. Fired warning shots and beaten a hasty retreat, presumably, or stayed hidden until they’d passed and then sounded the alert.
He addressed the soldier who’d given the order. “Lieutenant Wyatt and party, returning from a reconnaissance. Reporting to Captain McDonell.”
The corporal ran his eye around the group, noting the hard expressions on the unshaven faces. His gaze did not falter when it passed over Tewanias, but flickered as it took in the boy, who looked decidedly out of place among his fellow riders.
“That your hound, Lieutenant?” The corporal jerked his chin towards the dog, which was sniffing energetically at his companion’s gaiters.
“Best tracker in the state,” Wyatt said.
“That so?” The corporal regarded the dog with renewed interest. “What’s his name?”
“Sergeant Tam.”
The corporal gave Wyatt a look. “Well, when the sergeant’s stopped sniffing Private Hilton’s crotch, sir, you’ll find the officers down by the main house.”
Wyatt hid a smile at the trooper’s temerity. “I’m obliged to you. Carry on, gentlemen.”
Raising knuckles to their hats, the two piquets watched as the men and the boy rode on.
Private Hilton hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, spat into the bushes and cocked an eyebrow at his companion’s boldness in the face of a senior rank. “Sergeant Tam?”
The corporal shrugged. “Wouldn’t bloody surprise me. You know what Rangers are like.”
Private Hilton sniffed lugubriously. “Scruffy beggars, that’s what. If they’ve given the dog stripes, wonder what rank they’ve given the Indian?”
The corporal, whose name was Lovell, pursed his lips. “I heard tell some of ’em have been made captains, but if you want to ask him, be my guest.”
Private Hilton offered no reply but scratched his thigh absently, his nose wrinkling in disgust as his hand came away damp. Wiping dog slobber from his fingers on to his uniform jacket, he shook his head.
“Bleedin’ officers,” he muttered.
Quietly.
Emerging from the treeline, Wyatt reined in his horse and stared out at a rolling countryside punctuated with stands of oak, pine and hemlock. The estate was spread across the bottom of the slope. It covered a substantial area, comprising barns, storehouses, workshops, grist and saw mills, a smithy and several cottages, and could easily have been mistaken for a small, peaceful village had it not been for the tents and uniformed troops gathered at its heart.
One building, set apart from the others by virtue of its size and architecture, caught the eye. Sheathed in white clapboard, and with leaf-green shutters, the mansion, which was built on a slight rise, was protected at the front by a circle of yellow locust trees and at the rear by two enormous stone blockhouses.
As they approached the camp perimeter, Wyatt’s attention was drawn towards several dark smudges moving slowly across the south-eastern horizon. The plumes of smoke were too black and too dense to be rising from cooking fires. Somewhere, off beyond the pinewoods, buildings were ablaze. As he watched, more drifts began to appear, like lateen sails opening to the wind. The fires were spreading. For a second he thought he could smell the burning but then, when his nose picked out the scent of coffee, he knew the aromas were emanating from the field kitchen that had been set up in the lee of one of the blockhouses.
In the camp itself, all appeared calm. There were no raised voices; no officers yelling orders, putting the men through their drills. There was, however, no hiding the purposeful way the soldiers were going about their business or the sense of readiness that hung in the air. There were no musket or rifle stands. Every man carried his weapon to hand in case of attack. Wyatt glanced towards the boy who, to judge from the way his eyes were darting about, was overawed by the appearance of so many troops.
A peal of girlish laughter came suddenly from Wyatt’s right. He turned to where half a dozen children were engaged in a game of chase on the lawn beneath the trees. A knot of adults, all dressed in civilian clothes, was keeping a close watch on the high spirits; families who’d made their own way or who’d been delivered to the Hall by the other patrols. Wyatt wondered if their numbers had swelled much since he’d left.
Standing off to one side was a group of two dozen Negroes, of both sexes, some with children in hand. Servants and farm workers, either collected from the surrounding districts or who’d arrived at the Hall of their own volition in the hope of joining the exodus.
Halting by the first blockhouse, Wyatt and the others dismounted and secured their mounts to the tether line.
“Wait here,” Wyatt told the boy. “Keep your eye on the horses and make sure Tam stays close. Don’t let him run off, else he’ll end up in one of their stews.” He jerked a thumb at a dozen Indian warriors who were gathered around a circular fire pit above which a metal pot was suspended from a tripod of wooden stakes.
The boy’s eyes widened.
“It was a jest, lad,” Wyatt said quickly, smiling.
Behind him, he thought he heard Tewanias mutter beneath his breath.
“Best keep him near, anyway,” Wyatt advised, indicating the dog. “We won’t be long.”
To Donaldson, Wyatt said quietly, “Look after them. I’m off to report to the captain.” He turned away, paused and turned back. “See if one of you can rustle up some victuals. And some coffee. Strong coffee.”
Leaving the others, Wyatt and Tewanias, long guns draped across their arms, made their way to the group of officers gathered around a table strewn with papers that had been set up on the grass close to the mansion’s rear entrance.
As Wyatt and Tewanias approached, a green-coated officer glanced up and frowned.
“Lieutenant?”
“Captain.” Wyatt tipped his cap.
As the officer straightened, Tewanias moved to one side, grounded his musket and rested his linked hands on the upturned muzzle. He looked completely at ease and unimpressed by the ranks that were on display.
Captain John McDonell glanced over Wyatt’s shoulder towards the tether line. He was a tall man; gangly and narrow-shouldered with a thin face and a long nose to match. A native of Inverness, with pale features and soft Scottish lilt, McDonell always reminded Wyatt of a schoolmaster. The captain’s bookish appearance, however, was deceptive. Prior to his transfer to the Rangers he’d seen service with the 84th Regiment of Foot and had survived a number of hard-fought engagements, including St Leger’s expedition against Fort Stanwix. He’d also helped defend British maritime provinces from Colonial attacks by sea and on one memorable occasion had led a boarding party on board an American privateer off Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, capturing the ship and crew and delivering them into Halifax in chains.
“Who’ve you got there?” McDonell asked.
“Name’s Matthew,” Wyatt said.
The captain nodded as if the information was only of passing interest and then he frowned. Something in the equation was missing, he realized. He turned his attention back to the Ranger. “Where’s his family?”
Wyatt’s expression told its own story.
McDonell sighed. “All right, let’s hear it.”
“We ran into some opposition,” Wyatt said.
Behind McDonell, the officers gathered around the table paused in their discussion.
Instantly alert, McDonell’s chin lifted. “Regulars or militia?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Neither. Citizens’ Committee.”
McDonell’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I’d not have taken them for a credible threat.”
“They weren’t,” Wyatt said.
Pondering the significance of Wyatt’s terse reply, the captain waited expectantly.
“Turns out they were on an incursion of their own. We interrupted them.”
“Go on.”
“We were at the Archer farm,” Wyatt said. “We—”
“Did you say Archer?”
The interjection came from behind McDonell’s left shoulder. A bewigged, aristocratic-looking officer dressed in a faded scarlet tunic stepped forward.
Wyatt turned, remembering to salute. “Yes, Sir John. William Archer. We were tasked to bring him to the Hall. His homestead is … was … on the other side of the Caroga.”
Colonel Sir John Johnson matched McDonell for height but where the captain was thin the colonel was well set, with a harder, fuller face. His most prominent features were his dark blue eyes and his beaked nose, which gave him the appearance of a very attentive bird of prey.
“My apologies, Colonel,” McDonell said quickly. “Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Wyatt; 4th Ranger Company.”
“Lieutenant.” The colonel’s gaze flickered sideways towards Tewanias before refocusing on the Ranger.
“Colonel,” Wyatt said.
“You said you were at what was the Archer homestead.”
“I regret that both William Archer and his wife were killed in the exchange, Colonel.”
A look of pain crossed the colonel’s face. His eyes clouded. “Tell me,” he said.
The two officers listened in silence as Wyatt recounted the events of the morning.
“Bastards!” McDonell spat as Wyatt concluded his description of the skirmish. “God damned bloody bastards!”
The colonel looked towards the boy.
“He’s Archer’s nephew,” Wyatt said.
Sir John said nothing for several seconds and then turned back. He shook his head wearily and sighed. “No, actually, he isn’t.”
“He referred to Archer as his uncle,” Wyatt said, confused.
The colonel’s expression softened. “For the sake of convenience, I dare say. Though, I’ve no doubt that’s how he came to look upon them.”
Wyatt looked to McDonell for illumination, but none was forthcoming.
Removing his wig, Sir John ran a calloused hand across his cropped hair. Though not yet forty, flecks of grey were beginning to show through the darker follicles. “The boy and the Archers were not related. They were his guardians. The boy’s father entrusted him to them.”
“You knew them, sir?” McDonell said, unnecessarily, he realized, as soon as the words were out.
“The father. He was a good man. His name was Hooper. Ellis Hooper.”
McDonell frowned. “I know that name.” He stared at the colonel, as if seeking confirmation.
“We were comrades in the French and Indian War. He was with me at Lake George and at Niagara when we fought alongside the Iroquois auxiliaries under my father’s command, though we were barely old enough to heft a musket.”
A rueful smile touched the colonel’s face before he added, “Ellis Hooper was a Loyalist through and through. Because of his allegiance to me, the Continentals put a price on his head. He was with me when I made my run in ’76 and he was one of my first recruits when Governor Carleton granted me permission to form the Royal Greens.”
Wyatt knew the story. There wasn’t a man serving under Sir John’s command who didn’t. It was the stuff of legend, of tales told to raw recruits as they sat huddled around the camp fires at night.
Sir John’s father, William, had built the estate. Arriving in the valley in the late 1730s, he’d made his fortune trading furs with the voyageurs and the Six Nations, the Iroquois tribes who’d held dominion over the vast region of forests, lakes and mountains that lay between the Hudson River and the great waters of Ontario and Erie. It had been William who’d supervised the construction of the Hall and founded the settlement that was to bear the name of his eldest son: Johnstown.
Such had been his skill in diplomacy and his standing among the Six Nations that Sir William had persuaded the Iroquois to side with King George against the armies of the French. For his services, the Crown had awarded him a baronetcy and appointed him Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the entire Northern states.
Sir John had inherited the lands and title upon his father’s death. He’d also inherited his father’s loyalty to the King, to the dismay of the leaders of the burgeoning republic who’d tried to persuade the son to swear allegiance to the new Congress. When persuasion failed, a less subtle approach had been attempted.
The level of intimidation had been so aggressive that in the interest of self-preservation, Sir John had gathered about him a company of Loyalist supporters and Indian allies to act as a protective shield and to defend the interests of the King. Fearing the formation of a private army, the local Committee of Safety, with the Tryon County Militia at its back, had immediately ordered all Loyalists in the county to relinquish their weapons. It had then placed their leader on parole under the order that he would not take up arms against the new government.
Unbowed, Sir John, while agreeing to the demand, had continued to show dissent. An arrest warrant had been issued. Forewarned, Sir John, along with more than one hundred and fifty followers and helped by a trio of Iroquois guides, had evaded capture by fleeing north through the mountains to gain safety across the Canadian border.
It had taken them nearly three weeks, during which time their provisions ran out and they were forced to forage for roots and leaves before they’d eventually stumbled, half starving, into an Iroquois village on the St Lawrence River.
As soon as he reached the safety of Canada, Sir John had petitioned the Governor for permission to raise a force capable of taking the war back to the enemy. With authority granted, the King’s Royal Regiment of New York, under their new colonel, had begun recruiting. The first to sign up had been the men who’d accompanied him into exile.
“He was with us at Stanwix,” McDonell said, looking contrite.
“He was.” The colonel’s voice dropped. “He fell at Oriskany.”
“Oh, dear God, yes,” McDonell said, looking even more crestfallen. “Why did I not remember?”
The operation had formed part of an invasion plan devised by British generals to gain control of the Hudson River Valley and cut off New England from the rest of the American colonies, thus creating a vantage point between the Hudson and Lake Ontario from where Crown forces could direct operations against the Continental army.
The strategy had involved a two-pronged attack, launched from Montreal. The main force, led by General John Burgoyne, had marched south towards Albany by way of Lake Champlain, while a diversionary force under the command of General Barry St Leger, with Sir John Johnson as his second-in-command, had driven through the Mohawk Valley, intending to approach Albany from the west. It had been the Royal Yorkers’ first major campaign and it was to have been the opportunity for Sir John to exact revenge on those who’d forced him into exile the year before.
St Leger’s force had made it as far as Fort Stanwix, a Patriot outpost controlling a six-mile portage between the Mohawk River and Wood Creek known as the Oneida Carry, where they’d encamped and laid siege to the American garrison. The plan had been to capture the fort and secure Burgoyne’s eastern flank.
News of St Leger’s advance had spread, however, and a relief column of New York Militia under the command of Major General Nicholas Herkimer was sent to assist the beleaguered garrison. On hearing the column was on its way, St Leger dispatched a force of Royal Yorkers, Jaeger riflemen and native auxiliaries under the command of Sir John Johnson to intercept. The ambush had taken place some six miles from the fort, at the bottom of a narrow ravine through which ran a shallow three-foot-wide dribble of water called the Oriskany Creek.
Even three years after the event no one knew for certain how many men had perished. Some reports said the Patriots lost 450 dead, the British 200, and because of that it had been deemed a British victory. Native losses had been put around 100, but the numbers were speculative. What was not in dispute was the degree of butchery that had been perpetrated in a fight that had lasted more than six hours. When the ammunition ran out, men – both white and Indian – had fought hand to hand with knife and tomahawk. It was said that the rock-strewn waters of the Oriskany had flowed red with the blood of the slain for weeks afterwards, while the stench of the rotting corpses had carried for miles on the warm summer winds. It was also rumoured, though never confirmed, that some prisoners, captured by Indians, had been taken from the field and eaten in ritual sacrifice.
“He was one of the turncoats,” McDonell said.
Catching Wyatt’s expression upon hearing the term, Johnson said softly, “It’s not what you think, Lieutenant.”
The colonel stared down at the wig he was holding. A small spiky leaf was trapped in the weave. He picked it out and flicked it away, watching it spiral to the ground. He looked up.
“We learned from rebel prisoners that Herkimer had dispatched messengers to the fort commander requesting that a sortie be sent to meet the relief column. We thought we could use the request to our advantage by passing off our own men as that relief party. The plan was to infiltrate them into the militia’s ranks and then, hopefully, create mayhem and in the confusion capture Herkimer’s senior officers.”
The colonel shook his head. “Regrettably, our ruse was discovered. Given the time we had, our only disguise was to turn our uniforms inside out. When one of the militia saw the green linings to our coats and recognized a former neighbour whom he knew to be a Loyalist, he raised the alarm. We lost more than thirty men in the first volley. Those that didn’t perish in the second fusillade were hacked to pieces, mostly by Oneida warriors fighting on the rebel side. Ellis Hooper was one of those slain. We found his body when the Americans withdrew from the field.”
The colonel placed the wig back on his head, straightening it with both hands. His face was set tight. “He was an exceptionally brave man.” Looking past Wyatt’s shoulder towards the tether line, he added softly, “Who never lived to see his son again.”
“The mother?” McDonell asked, though his tone suggested that he already knew the answer.
“Died in childbirth, alas, the year before Ellis Hooper and I made our escape to Canada. The boy would have had a sister, had mother and child lived.”
Wyatt knew it wasn’t his place to broach the subject of why Hooper had not remained in the valley with his son. Some might have accused him of abandonment, but many a good man had found himself facing the same dilemma and made the same choice as Hooper, Sir John Johnson among them.
The colonel’s own wife had been pregnant with their third child when he’d received the warning that troops were on their way to transport him to New York. A pregnant woman would never have made the journey through the mountains, certainly not with two young children in tow, so he’d been forced to leave his family behind.
Ellis Hooper and the rest of Sir John’s men had prices on their heads; if they had stayed, they would have been subject to the same prospective fate as their colonel – and an imprisoned man could no more provide for his family than a dead one. But for a man who was alive and free there was always hope that his family would remain untouched by the authorities, which meant there was every possibility that they’d be able to affect their own escape in due course, as had been the case with Sir John’s wife, whose own subsequent flight to freedom with, by then, three children in hand, had been every bit as dramatic as her husband’s.
Sir John sighed. “Hooper and Archer were friends of long standing, as were their wives. It was natural Hooper would choose them to look after the boy. I recall him telling me that Elizabeth Archer had lost a child – a boy – and that she and her husband would look after his son as though he were their own. It was always his intention to return at a later date and take him back to Canada, which is even more heart-breaking when you consider the reason we’re here now.”
The colonel looked off towards where the children were playing and then he turned to Wyatt. “I’d deem it a personal favour, Lieutenant, if you’d make sure the boy is placed with someone suitable, a good family who’ll take him under their wing for the journey north.”
“I’ll see to it, Colonel.”
“Good man.” Sir John looked over Wyatt’s shoulder at Tewanias, who hadn’t moved a muscle during the entire exchange. “Skennenko:wa ken, Tewanias?”
The Mohawk straightened. “Skennenko:wa, Owassighsishon.”
Sir John smiled at McDonell’s bemused expression. “Don’t look so perplexed, Captain. Merely a greeting between old friends.”
“Owassighsishon?” McDonell said. “I’m not familiar—”
“It’s the name they have for me; it means He-who-made-the-house-to-tremble. Don’t ask me which house as I’ve no damned idea.”
McDonell was given no chance to respond for at that moment the colonel’s attention was diverted once more, this time by the approach of another lieutenant in the uniform of a Royal Yorker. After acknowledging Wyatt’s presence with a nod, he saluted briskly and announced, “We’ve retrieved the barrels, Colonel.”
A smile lit up the colonel’s face. “Have you? Splendid! Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be with you directly.” He turned to Wyatt. “You’ll see to the boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt said.
Barrels? he thought. Movement over by the doorway to the mansion made him turn and watch as four Royal Yorkers in dirt-stained uniforms and an equally dishevelled Negro civilian emerged from the house, carrying between them two large wooden casks.
Wine? Wyatt frowned. It seemed unlikely.
“Well done, William!” Sir John clapped the Negro on the back, sending puffs of dirt into the air.
Intrigued, Wyatt hovered as the barrels were deposited on the ground. A bayonet was produced and a lid was levered off. It looked at first glance as if the cask was full of old sacking.
Odd, Wyatt thought, until the top layer was removed.
Wyatt had never seen a pirate’s treasure trove unearthed but he suspected it probably wouldn’t look much different to the sight that met his eyes. The barrel was stuffed to the gunnels with what was clearly a fortune in silver plate. Salvers, decanters, tankards, punch bowls, coffee jugs, gravy boats, condiment shakers, even serving spoons; all individually wrapped. He stared as each object was divested of its Hessian cocoon and placed reverentially on the ground.
“Belongs to my family,” the colonel explained. He seemed unconcerned that Wyatt was loitering. “Bequeathed me by my father. We weren’t able to take it with us when we went north, so we concealed it beneath the floor in the cellar.” Sir John indicated the manservant, who was brushing himself down. “William here was the only person we entrusted with the hiding place. He’s kept it safe these past four years. Well, this time, it’s coming with me. I’ll not have those damned rebels lay their hands on it. I’ve seen too many friends who’ve had their inheritance usurped by those scoundrels.” He watched as the last piece of silverware was exposed before turning to the lieutenant. “There should be around forty pieces all told. Split the load. One item per man. Full inventory to be taken.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant turned and waved an arm towards a small detachment of troops waiting by the blockhouse. “Number Two Company, fall in! Quartermaster to me! Sharply now!”
The troops ran across to form a line and began to open their knapsacks. The Quartermaster produced his ledger and licked the point of his pencil. As the plate was distributed, a description of each item was written alongside the name of the soldier to whom it had been entrusted.
Wyatt couldn’t help but smile to himself. How, he wondered, would the army function without lists? It didn’t matter if they concerned cockades, cannons or the colonel’s heirlooms; lists were as integral to military life as marching and muskets.
Having satisfied himself that the inventory was being conducted to the required standard, the colonel turned to McDonell and the other officers who’d been with him around the table and who’d been observing the disinterment with considerable interest.
“Right, gentlemen – back to business. As I recall, we were conducting a situation report. Captain Anderson?”
A dark-haired, thin-faced officer dressed in the uniform of a Grenadier stepped forward.
“Colonel?”
“The patrols that were sent to retrieve our people should have returned by now. How many civilians have we collected?”
“By my count, one hundred and fifty-two, Colonel.”
The colonel looked towards Wyatt. “Better amend that, Captain. Make the total one hundred and fifty-three.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve also acquired thirty-two Negro servants.”
“Very good. Prisoners?”
Captain Anderson consulted his figures. “Twenty-seven in total, mostly civilians …”
There was a pause, then Anderson continued “… including Sammons and his brood.”
A nerve flickered along the colonel’s jawline. “Release those that are too young or infirm. We gain nothing by subjecting them to the rigours of the return march.”
“And Sammons?” Anderson enquired tentatively.
Several officers exchanged glances. After the colonel’s escape and following his wife’s departure from the valley the mansion and grounds had been seized by the Tryon County Commissioners, who’d appointed local Patriots to act as caretakers until the property could be sold. The Sammons clan, former neighbours of the colonel, had been selected for the task. The patriarch, Sampson Sammons, along with his three sons, had been among the first prisoners captured by the raiding party upon its arrival at the Hall, where the colonel, in a deliberate display of bravado, had set up his temporary headquarters.
“You can let the old man go; Thomas, too. Jacob and Frederick aren’t going anywhere save to Canada with us.” The colonel smiled. “The walk will do them good.”
The comment drew satisfied grins all round. Jacob Sammons was the Commissioners’ chief overseer at the Hall. His face, when he’d realized who’d come to interrupt his slumbers in the dead of night, had been a picture to behold.
For the family’s part in the occupation of the estate, the father would remain free to reflect on his impudence on the understanding that two of his sons were to be marched as prisoners to a Canadian stockade by the very man whose property they had usurped.
Justice had been served.
“Yes, sir …” The captain paused once more. “And the militia captain, Veeder?”
“Release him, too. He’s given me his word that, if we let him go now, he’ll look upon it as the first half of an exchange. He’s promised me the Americans will reciprocate and free one of our own: Lieutenant Singleton. You may recall he was wounded and taken prisoner during the Stanwix engagement.”
Anderson frowned. “You trust Captain Veeder’s word, sir?”
“He gave it as an officer, and I knew the family in happier times so I see no reason to doubt him. He comes from good stock. His brother’s a lieutenant colonel in the county militia. I think it’s a risk worth taking if we can get Singleton back. Three years’ incarceration is enough for any man.”
Still looking sceptical, Anderson managed to force a nod. “Very good, sir.”
Sir John turned. “It would appear, gentlemen, that in the light of what we’ve accomplished, our enterprise has been rather successful, though a number of Captain McDonell’s raiding parties have yet to report back – correct?”
“Yes, sir,” McDonell said.
The colonel looked up to where the smoke clouds were staining the eastern sky. “The evidence would indicate that they’ve been performing their duties admirably. In which case it’s time we started to organize our withdrawal. I’d hate to think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”
The officers smiled dutifully.
The colonel picked up his hat from the table and brushed it down. “Prepare to dismantle the camp. Also, the civilians need to be advised of their responsibilities. It took us nine days to get here from Champlain. We’ll need to step up the pace if we’re to get back to the rendezvous point without mishap. Our enemies may have slept through our arrival, but they know we’re here now and will, I suspect, be most anxious to make our acquaintance. Captain Duncan, how many fresh horses have we acquired?”
“Sixty-seven, Colonel.”
“Very good. We can put them to use as baggage animals and as mounts for the elderly and the youngest children. The ablest of the ladies and the older children will have to walk with the men. You’d better tell them they should wear suitable attire. They’ve been told to travel light, I take it? See to it they adhere to that. Anything they can’t carry gets left behind. No exceptions.”
He turned to a stocky officer with salt-and-pepper hair. “As to the troops: Captain Scott, your regulars are to act as escort. Captain Leake’s Independents and the other irregulars are to deploy as individual commanders see fit. The same goes for your riflemen, Captain Friedrich, if you’d be so kind. We will have use of them, should a delaying tactic be required.”
A slim, officious-looking officer, with hair so blond it was almost white, dressed in the uniform of a Hessian Jaeger, inclined his head. “At your command, Colonel.”
“Good. Well, unless there’s anything else …? No? Excellent. In that case, let’s get to it. Dismissed.” Sir John turned abruptly. “That includes you, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt said quickly, though there had been drollness in the colonel’s tone rather than rebuke. “Leaving now.”
He paused, struck by the expression on the colonel’s face. Sir John continued to hold the Ranger’s gaze before giving a small, almost imperceptible nod. Acknowledging the unspoken message, Wyatt summoned Tewanias to him. With the Mohawk at his shoulder, he headed back to the tether line.
“Why can’t I stay with you?”
The boy was mounted on his horse. The dog lay stretched out on the grass alongside.
The question took the Ranger by surprise, as did the look of apprehension in the blue-grey eyes. It was the first time the boy had shown anything approaching trepidation or doubt.
“Colonel’s orders. He wants all civilians to travel together.”
A frown creased the boy’s face. “Why?”
“He wants to keep you safe.”
“Can’t you do that?”
Too many damned questions,Wyatt thought, for a twelve-year-old. Though he wasn’t sure if that was, in fact, the boy’s age. As with the name, he hadn’t bothered to enquire. It hadn’t seemed relevant. It still didn’t, not really, because there had been little doubt the boy was older than his years would suggest. But then, Wyatt thought, taking a man’s life could add years to a person; it didn’t matter if they were twelve, twenty-five or seventy. He remembered how he’d felt, the first time.
Wyatt shook his head. “My men and I have to scout the trails. We might run into trouble. It’s all right, though. You’ll be safe with Reverend De Witt.” Wyatt turned. “Isn’t that so, Reverend?”
The question was greeted with matching smiles from a burly, ruddy-complexioned man in a wide-brimmed black preacher’s hat, black breeches and waistcoat, and a sturdy yet homely woman in a navy-blue dress and bonnet. The reverend’s hand rested paternally upon the shoulder of a small, auburn-haired girl of around nine years old. A grey mare stood saddled and ready behind them.
The woman laid a proprietorial hand on the pastor’s arm before he could respond to Wyatt’s question. “The young man will be as safe as houses, Lieutenant. Don’t you fret.”
The pastor nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, Mother! The more the merrier! That’s what I always say!”
Wyatt wondered if, despite the attempt at humour, the preacher wasn’t trying a little too hard to exude a confidence he might not be feeling, in order to reassure his wife and young daughter and perhaps himself that they were about to embark on nothing more arduous than an afternoon stroll through the countryside.
Though, maybe, Wyatt thought, noting again the solid, square shoulders and the brawny muscles along the pastor’s upper arms, De Witt wasn’t quite the humble shepherd he made himself out to be. In fact, having already elicited details from some of the pastor’s fellow travellers, Wyatt knew he couldn’t have been.
Wyatt had learned that De Witt was pastor to a small community on the eastern side of the Dadenoscara Creek, who’d come to the attention of the Commissioners for, supposedly, inciting disaffection against the State of New York from his Sunday pulpit. As a consequence, the pastor had been served with an order to appear at the Albany County Sessions to answer charges of sedition. Having seen what had befallen former neighbours and fellow Tories who’d faced the same accusation, and knowing that his calling offered no protection against a charge of treason, the pastor had accepted Sir John’s alternative summons to join with other Loyalist families in their flight to the Canadian border.
It had been the sight of the pistol butt protruding from one of the mare’s saddle bags as well as De Witt’s more obvious credentials that had prompted the Ranger to take the preacher aside and enquire quietly if he and his wife might be willing to look after a couple of strays in the person of a twelve-year-old orphan boy and a racoon hound of a more indeterminate pedigree.
When the pastor had asked after the boy’s parents, Wyatt had seen no reason to hold back. Neither, after revealing what he knew of the boy’s background, had he spared details in describing how Will and Beth Archer had died. What he had not disclosed was how the boy had dispatched one of his guardians’ attackers with a hatchet. The last thing he’d wanted was for either De Witt or his wife to think that they would be taking some delinquent ne’er-do-well under their wing.
The reverend, who’d known of the Archers through mutual acquaintances within the Loyalist community, had turned pale at the telling. When he’d summoned his wife to apprise her of the situation, the anguish in her face had mirrored that of her husband.
“Oh, my dear Lord – the poor wee boy!” she’d gasped, lifting a hand to her throat in horror.
“Can’t argue with that, ma’am, but probably best not to make a fuss over him,” Wyatt had advised. “From my dealings with the lad, I’d say he’s got true grit and then some. My sense is he’s strong enough not to need any reminders. He just needs to sit for a spell. It’ll hit him hard eventually and when that happens—”
“You can rest easy on that score, Lieutenant,” the pastor had reassured Wyatt firmly. “Esther and I’ll not crowd him. War makes orphans of us all in one way or another, and Mrs De Witt and I have seen more than our share of pain in that regard. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in ministering to those who’ve suffered a loss, it’s that people vent their sorrow in all sorts of ways. With some, it leaks out a few droplets at a time, while others keep the grief bottled up so tight it’s like watching water rising behind a dam, so that when the hurt becomes too much to bear—” The pastor clenched a fist against his chest. “Well, I don’t have to tell you. All we can do is offer comfort if and when that happens and place our trust in the Lord.”
Not being a particularly religious man, Wyatt wasn’t sure if the pastor had been expecting him to say ‘Amen’ at that point, but he’d made do with a solemn nod, which had evidently sufficed.
“What’s his name?”
For a moment, Wyatt thought the girl had directed her question at him, but when he turned he saw that it was the boy who was being addressed. There was an awkward silence.
“His name’s Tam,” Wyatt said, thinking: He can kill a man with an axe, but he’s lost his tongue to a preacher’s daughter?
At the mention of his name the dog pricked up his ears.
“And that’s Matthew,” Wyatt added.
“Does he bite?” the girl asked nervously.
“No,” Wyatt said. “Leastways, Tam doesn’t. Can’t say as I can speak for his master.”
Wyatt’s reply drew a bark of laughter from De Witt.
The girl giggled as she held her hand out to the dog. To her delight, Tam rose to his feet and licked at her outstretched fingers. With his interrogator distracted, the boy caught Wyatt’s eye. For the second time he looked awkward and unsure. Shifting in his saddle, he stared off over Wyatt’s right shoulder, to where Tewanias was standing.
The war paint was gone. While the effect was not as fearsome, there was no disguising the Mohawk chief’s striking features, his calm repose and the strength of his gaze.
Curious as to the boy’s obsession with the stern-faced warrior, Wyatt said, “If you want to say ‘goodbye’, it’s O:nen ki’ wahi’.”
“Interesting-looking fellow,” De Witt mused, breaking into Wyatt’s thoughts. “He’s Mohawk, yes?”
Wyatt hid his surprise. Most civilians took one look at an Indian and thought heathen savage. For a preacher to show such equanimity, no matter how enlightened, was unusual.
“Yes,” Wyatt said.
“O:nen ki’ wahi’, Tewanias,” the boy called softly.
There was no response. It was as though the Indian had not heard or had chosen not to acknowledge the words. Several seconds went by. Wyatt saw the expectancy on the boy’s face give way to confusion and then to disappointment. The slim shoulders drooped. It was at that point that the warrior’s expression changed. It was, Wyatt thought, like watching someone awaken from a trance.
When the Mohawk raised his head the pastor’s daughter was first to react, letting out a sharp gasp and shrinking back against her mother’s skirts, her play with the dog forgotten. Moving with cat-like grace, Tewanias lifted his musket and strode directly towards her.
The pastor tensed.
“No,” Wyatt said quickly. “It’ll be all right.”
Paying no heed to the reaction he’d provoked, Tewanias halted beside the boy’s horse. Wordlessly, he reached up with his free hand and removed from around his neck a rawhide thong from which was suspended a small piece of carved yellow bone. He held it out. Finally, he spoke.
“O:nen ki’ wahi’, Mat-huwa.”
“Take it,” Wyatt instructed. He realized he’d been holding his breath, though he wasn’t sure why.
The boy accepted the offering, turning it over in his hands, examining it closely. He turned to Wyatt. “How do I say—”
“Niá:wen,” Wyatt said. There was dried blood, he noticed, and what looked like a matted clump of hair and tissue adhering to the edge of the war club that was strapped across the Mohawk’s back; residue from the attack on the horseman at the Archers’ farm. He wondered if the pastor or his wife had noticed. Hopefully not; the club face wasn’t in their direct line of sight.
“Niá:wen, Tewanias,” the boy said, slipping the thong over his head and around his neck. He held the piece of bone in his hand and stared at it once more, slowly massaging its smooth surface with the ball of his thumb.
“Anowara.” It was the Indian who spoke.
“It means turtle,” Wyatt said. “Tewanias is a war chief of the Turtle clan. That’s his totem.”
“Well, bless my soul,” De Witt murmured softly as the Mohawk stepped back.
Amen to that, Reverend, Wyatt thought.
With Tewanias by his side, he looked about him. The preparations for departure were almost complete. Tents had been struck and fires doused. The stolen horses had been formed into a line and troops were checking their packs, settling into ranks, readying themselves for the march. Those Loyalists who’d chosen to remain behind were saying their final goodbyes, hugging and clasping the hands of those about to embark.
Had Wyatt not known differently, the scene might have suggested that some festivity had been taking place and that guests were preparing to wend their way home after a picnic or a barn-raising, instead of stealing away from a homeland that no longer saw them as legitimate citizens. Though, as he’d walked the grounds, he’d seen that there were many who were in tears at the thought of abandoning all that was familiar in exchange for an arduous journey towards an uncertain future.
A faint call sounded from up ahead. As the order was taken up by NCOs stationed down the line, a mood of anticipation ran through the column. The civilians began to gather themselves.
Wyatt held out his hand. “Take care, Matthew.”
Fingering the amulet, it took a second for the boy to respond, but when he did his grip was firm.
“We won’t be far,” Wyatt said. “Don’t forget that. You might not see us, but we’ll be there.”
“Stay safe, Lieutenant,” De Witt said.
“You, too, sir.” Wyatt shook the pastor’s hand, winked at the girl, who had re-emerged from hiding, and tipped his hat to Mrs De Witt. “Ma’am.”
De Witt took hold of his daughter’s waist, helped her feet find the shortened stirrups and, with his wife holding the bridle, lifted her gently on to the mare’s back.
He addressed Wyatt over his shoulder. “How’s your knowledge of the scriptures, Lieutenant? Exodus, Chapter 12, Verse 51: ‘And it came to pass the selfsame day that the Lord did bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt by their armies.”
Wyatt shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, Reverend. I’m afraid my knowledge of the good book isn’t that good. Though from what I do recall, when the Israelites took their leave they were heading for Canaan not Canada, and it took them forty years. If that’s the colonel’s plan, we’re going to need a few more supplies.”
De Witt grinned. “I’m not sure how Colonel Johnson would take to being compared to Moses!”
“Well, if Canada does turn out to be the Promised Land, Reverend, you make sure you put some of that milk and honey aside for Tewanias and me.”
“I surely will, Lieutenant. It’ll be my pleasure.”
A fresh call came from up ahead. De Witt checked his daughter was secure, took hold of the bridle from his wife, adjusted the knapsack that rested across his shoulders and, with a final nod to the Ranger, coaxed the horse into motion.
“Walk on, Nell,” he said.
Wyatt presumed the reverend was talking to the mare. He had a feeling the pastor’s daughter was called Libby.
As the preacher and his family merged with the rest of the column, the boy summoned his dog and, holding the reins in his right hand and clutching the amulet in his left, he nudged his horse forward to join them. He made no attempt to look back.
“The boy shows courage,” Tewanias murmured softly as he stared after the preacher and his party.
“He does that,” Wyatt said.
The Mohawk had spoken in English. Wyatt had long become immune to his friend’s arbitrary use of language. As well as English, Tewanias was competent in French and the various Iroquois dialects. There never seemed to be a logical reason why he chose to converse in any one of them in particular and Wyatt had come to suspect that Tewanias switched back and forth for no better reason than he enjoyed being contrary.
The two men waited until the remainder of the column was on the move, then made their way to where the rest of the patrol was waiting.
Wyatt immediately registered the grim expression on Donaldson’s face.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Scouts have reported back. Seems the local militia’s woken up. The call’s gone out: all members are to collect their weapons and assemble at Johnstown.”
Wyatt shook his head dismissively. “They won’t risk attacking us – we outnumber them two to one.”
“They’ve sent messengers to Albany,” Donaldson said.
Reinforcements,Wyatt thought. He swore softly and looked off to where the last of the column was disappearing into the trees. It was almost ninety miles to Champlain, where the vessels of the Provincial Marine were waiting. Ninety miles of near-virgin forest through which the only means of passage was a labyrinth of old military roads cut during the French-Indian wars, and ancient Iroquois trails, none of which had been adequately mapped.
The colonel had led civilians to safety through a wilderness once before, but that last occasion had involved less than two hundred souls, all of them men, most of whom had been used to living off the land. This current exodus included women and children. Adding their number to the invasion force meant there would be almost seven hundred bodies on the move; the majority of them on foot. Wyatt thought about the pastor and his implicit faith in God and of the forces that would be arrayed against them.
Better start praying now, Reverend. We’re going to need all the help we can get.
3 (#ulink_a8ed01f0-af02-538c-a592-7425b35801f3)
December 1812
It was just after eight o’clock in the evening when Captain Maynard Curtiss of the 11th Regiment of Infantry emerged on to a darkened Church Street. As the door to the club closed softly behind him, he buttoned up his greatcoat, adjusted his hat and awarded himself a wide grin of satisfaction. He had just spent the last hour with a very attractive and, it had to be said, rather energetic young lady by the name of Jessica, and he was feeling not only replete but somewhat over-awed by the dexterity of his own performance.
Admittedly, Jessie was a whore and thus her enthusiasm and the praise she’d lavished upon him for the pleasure he’d provided during their riotous coupling might have had more to do with the fact that she was being paid for her time rather than it being a true reflection of her client’s expertise between the sheets. But that knowledge in no way detracted from the captain’s sense of well-being as he made his way down the quiet moonlit street.
To counteract the cold breeze that was coming in off the river, he turned up his coat collar. Increasing his stride, he headed for the alleyway and the shortcut between Church Street and Court Street that would lead him to his eventual destination, the South Ferry terminal. There was a hint of rain in the air and he had no desire to be caught out in the wet.
The alley was empty and the tread of the captain’s footsteps seemed to echo in the darkness. A few people had been out on the main streets, wrapped up against the cold as they’d hurried off to hearth and home. In this less salubrious part of the town, the citizens most liable to be abroad were either drinkers or parlour-house punters like the captain. Given the distinct nip in the air, even these hardy souls preferred to remain indoors, in the warmth, indulging in their chosen pastime. The only others willing to brave the cold were the prospective passengers heading for the last ferry to Greenbush before the service shut down for the night.
Curtiss had travelled not more than fifty paces when he realized that he might have company. It wasn’t any particular sound that had alerted him to the possibility. More a feeling in his bones, a sense that someone was watching.
He paused and stole a quick glance over his shoulder. A stooped figure, clearly the worse for wear, a knapsack across its back, was weaving unsteadily down the alleyway towards him, left hand outstretched, using the wall as guidance. There was a brief silvery glint as a beam of moonlight glanced off an object held in the figure’s right hand. Curtiss felt a flash of fear until he saw that the reflection had come not from a blade but from a glass bottle. As he watched, the figure lifted the bottle to its lips and took a hefty swig from the contents, almost overbalancing in the process, despite the fact that one hand was still braced against the brickwork.
Grimacing with distaste at such a pathetic display of drunkenness, the captain turned and continued on his way, keen to return to the comfort of his billet, there to enjoy one last tot of whiskey and to bask in the warm memory of his recent exertions before he finally retired for the night.
Another thirty paces and it occurred to Curtiss that, whoever the drunk was, his footsteps were inaudible. This struck Curtiss as unusual, given the noise his own boots were making as they scuffed their way through the dirt and the occasional puddle. Not unduly concerned, more curious than suspicious, he turned again, half-expecting to see a comatose form sprawled face down in the dirt several yards behind him.
It wasn’t the sight of the figure looming two feet away from him that caused the captain to take a quick step back so much as the knowledge that the man had managed to cover the distance between them not only in a matter of seconds but in total silence as well.
There were no street lamps in the alleyway. That convenience had yet to penetrate Albany’s narrow dockside lanes. What illumination there was came from the candlelight that spilled weakly from gaps in a few badly fitting shutters and the pale moon that hung, suspended like a pearl, high above the surrounding chimney pots.
As he stared at the shadowy form before him, Curtiss had a fleeting impression of a dark-haired individual as tall as himself. The captain’s startled gaze flickered across what he could see of the man’s features, to the dark eyes set in a hard face and the two ragged scars that ran in parallel furrows across the upper curve of the man’s left cheekbone.
Curtiss never saw the blow that struck him and thus had no chance of defending himself. One second he was standing in the alley, the next he was coming to his senses, face down in the dirt, feeling as if he’d just been run over by a coach and four – several times.
He raised his head cautiously, and then wished he hadn’t as a sharp bolt of pain lanced through his jaw and speared its way into the backs of his eyeballs. Letting out a groan, he winced and sank down again. Confused by his situation, he lay still for several seconds until the nausea had subsided and then tried again. This time, he made it as far as his knees. He reached up and felt along the side of his head. His hand came away damp and sticky and he stared blankly at the stain on the tips of his fingers. He realized, with some apprehension, that he was staring at his own blood, as black as pitch in the moonlight.
The nausea overtook him again and he reached out with the same hand, pressing the now-bloodied palm against the wall to keep himself upright. As he did so, he had a sudden vision of a dark-clad figure performing a similar manoeuvre not so long ago. He closed his eyes as a fresh bout of dizziness arrived and then, as the moment passed and his mind began to clear, his memory reasserted itself.
There had been a man, he remembered; a stranger, who, using the shadows of the night and the captain’s own footfalls to mask his presence, had followed him into the alleyway; a tall man who had first appeared drunk and whom he had then turned to confront.
After which …
Fuzzy as to the exact sequence of events, Curtiss hauled himself up until he had gained his feet, then slumped back against the wall. No sooner had he done so than he let out a gasp as his spine made contact with the cold hard surface of the bricks. It was then he realized that his memory wasn’t the only thing he was lacking.
His overcoat and uniform tunic were gone, too; which would explain why he was suddenly so damned cold.
Curtiss looked around fearfully. He was in a narrow passageway leading off the alleyway he’d been walking down. There were no candle-lit windows in the passage, only a couple of murky doorways. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he thought back to the last thing he remembered and tried to bring the face of the man who’d robbed him to mind.
Though he’d employed considerable stealth to conceal his approach, the stranger hadn’t looked like a footpad. Which was not to say there was anything benign about his attacker; those saturnine features – not to mention the scars – had marked him out as the last person you’d want following you into a dark alleyway. And yet Curtiss had allowed him to do precisely that. He should have been more observant from the start. Probably would have been, had his mind not been filled with the memory of his recent entanglement with the nubile Jessica. If only he’d avoided the shortcut and taken a more public route home.
And what kind of footpad was it that stripped a man of his coat and tunic instead of just rifling through his pockets and making off before he regained consciousness? It wasn’t as if the man didn’t have a greatcoat of his own. Curtiss couldn’t recall what his assailant had been wearing under it. That much was a blur.
Groggily Curtiss felt delicately for his head wound, probing the bump. What the devil had the man hit him with? The bottle? Perhaps the scoundrel had used a fist and he’d hit his head when he’d fallen to the ground. Using the wall for support, he began making his way cautiously towards the entrance to the passageway, but had proceeded only a couple of yards when his boot made contact with something lying on the ground. He flinched, the sudden movement sending another shock wave through his skull. Hesitantly, ignoring the pain, he forced himself to look down. In the spectral gloom, the bundle at his feet appeared to be a body. Summoning resolve, he peered closer.
To his immense relief, he saw that he had been mistaken. There was no body. What he was looking at was an empty coat – his own coat, he realized with a start – that had been folded and propped against the wall. His boot had snagged in the sleeve, causing the garment to fall open. Gingerly Curtiss crouched to pick the coat up; head swimming, he waited for the nausea to subside before shaking out the garment and put it on. He let go a thankful sigh as the cloth enveloped him: warm again. Well, almost.
Without thinking, he patted the pockets and frowned when he heard the clink of money. Further investigation revealed he was still in possession of his change. He withdrew the coins and stared down at them. Why would someone steal his jacket and yet leave his finances intact? Curtiss sucked in his cheeks. Not a good idea; the pain was a sharp reminder. Checking further, Curtiss discovered that his pocket watch was there, too. Apparently the only item that had been purloined, apart from his tunic, was a small tin containing some tapers and his flint and steel.
Curtiss, his mind awash with confusion, emerged hesitantly into the alleyway. There was no one around, no faces at any of the windows or doors that might have witnessed the assault. He considered his options. The obvious thing to do was to inform the constables that he’d been the victim of a robbery, but he could imagine the looks on their faces as he told them that the only items stolen were his army tunic and fire-making tools. What kind of thief would leave his coat folded on the ground with his money and watch still inside?
Thoughts of his watch had Curtiss reaching back into his pocket. He lifted the timepiece out, consulted the dial and groaned. He’d missed the damned ferry. There wasn’t another one scheduled until the morning. From past experience, Curtiss knew that it was well-nigh impossible to cadge a ride with anyone trustworthy after dark, so he was stuck. Marooned might have been a better description.
But at least he had money, and therefore the means to pay for a room. Things could have been a lot worse. He could have been lying in the dark with his throat slit from ear to ear. That thought sent another shard of pain scooting through the back of his skull.
Burrowing into his coat, Curtiss decided there was no alternative. Cutter’s Tavern was just around the corner, and the accommodation there was a sight more comfortable than his billet in the officers’ quarters. Galvanized by the thought of a dram and a seat by the tavern’s roaring fire, Captain Curtiss quickened his pace.
Maybe, after he’d warmed his insides, he could warm the rest of his person by retracing his steps to Hoare’s Gaming Club and revisiting the delectable Jessica. After all, there was nothing more likely to garner sympathy in a young lady’s bosom than a gentleman’s sorry tale of woe. Mrs Delridge, the club’s proprietress, might even be sufficiently touched by his plight to offer a discount.
Cheered by that prospect, Captain Curtiss took new bearings and headed for the first of his goals.
After all, it wasn’t as if a missing tunic was the end of the world. The quartermaster would undoubtedly moan about the difficulty of finding a replacement, but that was the way of quartermasters. The loss would be rectified and the militia would survive.
Like me, Curtiss reflected thankfully as he continued on his way.
Ten yards further on, though, it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing his hat.
The thieving bastard had stolen that, too.
Hawkwood cursed under his breath. The captain’s uniform chafed like the devil. It didn’t help that the tunic was tighter than he’d expected around the chest and underneath the arms, and that the sleeves were on the short side. The hat fitted well enough, though, for which Hawkwood was grateful. Since leaving the army he’d abandoned headwear, unless it was part of some disguise he’d had to adopt in the course of his duties as a peace officer. Thus even though the damned thing was relatively secure on its perch it still felt decidedly unnatural.
He had, however, drawn the line at purloining the captain’s breeches. He’d no intention of going back on the self-imposed rule that had stood him in good stead through the years: never wear another man’s trousers.
The tunic had been a different proposition. Hawkwood knew he needed it to give him authority. So while the thing might be bloody uncomfortable, it was ideal for his purposes. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to bear the discomfort for too long.
He’d been waiting in the shadows opposite the gaming club entrance for almost an hour when he spotted a suitable candidate: someone of his own height and build, in officer’s garb.
He hadn’t expected it to go so well. There had been a moment when his intended victim had turned round, but Hawkwood had planned for that eventuality by collecting an empty bottle from the window sill of a nearby tavern to use as a prop. Pretending to be tipsy had given him something to do with his hands, and as most law-abiding citizens were repelled by drunkards the ruse had proved a sound one. The final approach had been tricky, but matching his own footsteps with those of his target had enabled him to get up close. Before his victim had time to react, Hawkwood had launched a blow to the carotid that cut off the blood supply as effectively as a tourniquet.
The strike had been taught to him by Chen, an exiled Shaolin priest Hawkwood had met in London. They sparred together in a cellar beneath the Rope and Anchor public house. Chen had cautioned that, if delivered too robustly, there was a danger such a blow could kill. He had then proceeded to demonstrate the precise speed at which the strike had to be delivered in order to subdue rather than maim or kill, by using the technique against Hawkwood. After being laid out half a dozen times, Hawkwood had got the idea. As the unfortunate Captain Curtiss had discovered to his cost, Chen’s former pupil had learned his lesson well.
Suitably attired, Hawkwood was on the ferry by the time the captain stumbled out of the alleyway. The three hundred yard crossing proved uneventful, though the numbing wind that eddied downriver from the northern reaches offered a prophecy of wintry conditions ahead. In the darkness it was difficult to make out the far bank; the high bluffs that dominated the eastern shore cast dark shadows over the Greenbush waterfront. All that could be seen were the lights from the rag-tag collection of houses huddled behind the landing stage, which seemed to be drawing the ferry like a moth to a candle flame.
The vessel – if the flat-bottomed, punt-shaped barge could be called such a thing – was not overladen. There were only half a dozen passengers, all male. Three were in uniform, presumably heading back to barracks after a night out. The others could have been military men in civilian dress or Greenbush residents; Hawkwood had no way of knowing. One of the uniformed men had been drinking heavily, or at least beyond his capacity. He spent the short voyage voiding over the ferry’s gunwale, his retching almost matching in volume the wash of water against the hull and the rasp of the ropes as they were hauled through the pulley rings.
Hawkwood was glad of the distraction this provided, for he’d no wish to engage his fellow passengers in conversation. Even the most cursory enquiries would inevitably reveal his ignorance of both his regiment and the cantonment to which he was heading. And the less opportunity anyone had to study and memorize his features, the better. He had, therefore, affected a show of distaste for the vomiting and removed himself from his fellow passengers, gazing out over the rail while immersing himself in the darkness of the night and thoughts of what his next move might be.
It was a fact of war that even the best-laid plans had a tendency to fall apart upon first contact with the enemy. On hostile ground, with limited access to resources, Hawkwood had no alternative but to improvise. And time was running out.
The cantonment lay at the end of a well-trodden dirt road that rose in a steady incline stretching a mile and a half from the landing stage. Hawkwood knew the way. He’d made a dry run that afternoon. Had he not had the benefit of studying the lie of the land in daylight he would have found it impossible to find his way now, with the trees creating deep dense shadows across the path.
Hoisting his knapsack on to his shoulder, he increased his stride and forged up the trail. He kept up the pace for several minutes before halting. His long coat rendering him almost invisible in the blackness, he listened for the other ferry passengers; long seconds passed before his ears picked up the sounds of slow stumbling progress further down the hill. No threat there; he moved on.
Soon the ground began to level off and the trees started to give way. Lights that had hitherto been the size of fireflies grew into patches of candle-glow spilling from windows and from lanterns as the cantonment appeared before him.
The camp was large, probably close to two hundred acres. Even in daylight it had been difficult to determine the exact boundaries, for there were no perimeter walls or fences separating the place from the outside world. Hawkwood could not determine whether this was a monumental dereliction of security or because the army deemed it impractical or unnecessary.
From what he’d seen during his afternoon sortie, the buildings were in good condition. Quade had told him that work on the site had only commenced in March, with the last of the barracks erected in September. Hawkwood doubted the paintwork would look so pristine after the winter snows and the spring thaw had wreaked their havoc.
Courtesy of Major Quade, he also knew that the cantonment could accommodate four to five thousand troops, close to three-quarters of the total complement of the American regular army. As a divisional headquarters, it boasted impressive facilities: living quarters for soldiers and officers of field rank and below: stables; a smithy; a powder magazine, armoury and arsenal; a multitude of storage areas and essential workshops; a guardhouse; and a hospital. The dominant feature, however, was the parade ground. It straddled the centre of the camp and was bordered by soldiers’ barracks – four blocks on either side – and by officers’ quarters at either end. The accommodation wings had been easy to identify by the manner in which the soldiers entered and exited the buildings. Not that there appeared to be that many personnel about, which confirmed Quade’s account of General Dearborn having transferred the bulk of his command to Plattsburg. That might also explain why precautions appeared to be so lax.
As part of his reconnaissance, Hawkwood had scanned the approach roads for sentry posts, but like the perimeter safeguards they’d been conspicuous by their absence. Even now, there appeared to be no piquets on duty at the access points. Could the Americans really be that complacent? Were they so confident in their might and their independence that they assumed no one would dare breach their unguarded perimeter? Well, he was about to prove them wrong.
Opening his greatcoat buttons so as to reveal a glimpse of the tunic beneath, he drew himself up, adjusted his hat, and strode confidently into the lions’ den.
It had been a few years since Hawkwood had last set foot in an army compound, but even if he’d been delivered into the cantonment blindfolded and in pitch-dark, he would have found his bearings almost immediately. Military camps the world over had an odour and an atmosphere all of their own. And so it was with Greenbush.
Hawkwood’s objective was the cantonment’s southern corner. He’d already marked the site of the stables but they would have been easy to find by sense of smell alone. The combination of horse piss, shit, leather and straw was unmistakable. The three blocks of stalls formed a U-shape around a yard, with a farrier’s hut positioned in the centre. Illuminated by lanterns hanging alongside the stable doors, the place looked to be deserted. It couldn’t be that easy, surely?
It wasn’t.
Someone laughed, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the evening. Hawkwood paused, looking for the source, and saw a faint beam of light leaking from a door at the end of the left-hand stable block. As he moved towards it, his ears caught the low murmur of voices and another dry, throaty chuckle. The exchange was followed by a rattling sound, as though several small pebbles were being rolled around the inside of a hollow log.
He paused, aware there were two choices now open to him. The first was to continue by stealth alone in the hope that he could achieve his objective without being discovered, which was unrealistic. The second carried an equal amount of risk, but was more overt and would involve a lot more nerve. If he could pull it off, though, he’d undoubtedly save time.
He decided to go with the second option.
Placing his knapsack against the wall, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Three men, coarse-faced and lank-haired, dressed in unbuttoned tunics, were seated at a rough table surrounded by walls festooned with tack. A small pile of coins and a tin mug sat by each man’s elbow. In the centre of the table a half-empty bottle of rye whiskey stood next to a lantern and a wooden platter containing a hunk of bread, some sliced ham and a wedge of pale yellow cheese with a small knife stuck in the centre of it.
One of the men was holding a wooden cup. He gave it a shake as Hawkwood walked in; the resulting rattle was the sound that had been audible from the yard. Not pebbles in a log but wooden dice. The dice man’s hand stilled and three sets of eyes registered their shock and surprise. Clearly, evening inspection by a ranking officer was not a regular occurrence.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
Hawkwood fixed his attention on the man holding the dice. He waited two seconds, then demanded brusquely: “Your name – remind me.”
The dice man scrambled upright. “Corporal J-Jeffard, sir.” His gaze flickered nervously to the collar and top half of the tunic, made visible by Hawkwood’s unbuttoned greatcoat.
“Ah, yes,” Hawkwood said, injecting sufficient disdain into his voice to inform everyone in the room who was in charge. “Of course. Labouring hard, I see.”
The corporal reddened. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Hawkwood swung towards the other two, both of whom had also risen to their feet. One of them was trying to fasten his collar at the same time. Recognizing a losing battle, he gave up. Whereupon, reasoning that it might be better if he assumed at least some sort of military pose, he dropped his hands to his sides. His companion followed suit. The movement tipped his chair on to its back. All three men flinched at the clatter.
Hawkwood could smell the alcohol on their breath. “And you are …?” he enquired.
“Private Van Bosen, sir.”
“Private Rivers, Captain.”
Hawkwood viewed the bottle and the mugs. “Care to explain, Corporal?”
Jeffard flicked a nervous glance towards his companions.
“Don’t look at them!” Hawkwood snapped. “Look at me!”
The trooper swallowed and found his voice. “Taking a break between duties, Captain. We were about to return to our posts when you arrived.”
“Of course you were,” Hawkwood said witheringly. “Nice try. Shame you’ve been rumbled. If I were you, I’d practise those excuses. You can put down the dice; I’ve a job for you.”
He paused, watching as a chastened Jeffard did as he was told, allowing the silence to stretch to breaking point before adding, “I’m here because I have urgent dispatches for both General Dearborn and Colonel Pike. I need two good mounts, saddled, fully equipped and ready to depart in ten minutes. Manage it quicker than that and you can finish your game.” He turned to the others. “Anyone else on duty here, or is this it?”
A flustered nod from Van Bosen. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Just us, sir.”
Hawkwood vented a silent sigh of relief as he waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, well, whichever it is, I don’t care, frankly. Only, with the three of you, it won’t take long, will it? Ten minutes, gentlemen. I’ll expect those damned animals to be ready or I’ll want to know why. Don’t make me put the three of you on a charge. That happens and you’ll be shovelling shit till doomsday.”
Giving them no chance to respond, Hawkwood turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
As soon as he was outside and out of sight, he moved swiftly towards the shadows cast by the farrier’s hut. Tucking himself against the wall, he waited. A few seconds later, he watched as the three troopers left the tack room and hurried towards the adjacent stable block. The moment they disappeared inside, Hawkwood, his movement concealed by the intervening hut, crossed to the stable block on the opposite side of the yard. Grabbing a lantern from the wall, he hauled back the door. He was immediately assailed by the pungent aroma of hay, horse sweat and fresh droppings.
The stalls were set out along both sides of a central aisle. Beyond the reach of the lantern glow, dark forms stirred restlessly in the shadows. Straw rustled. A soft whickering sound eddied around the walls as the stable’s occupants caught his scent. He moved down the aisle, treading carefully. He had no desire to panic the animals. At least not yet.
As he looked for an empty stall, he prayed that Jeffard and his cronies were as inefficient as they had appeared to be. With luck, the brew they’d been drinking would slow them down long enough to allow him the valuable seconds he needed.
Two stalls had been left vacant. Hawkwood picked the one furthest from the door and looked for a supply of dry straw. Bales of it were stacked in a storage area at the end of the aisle. Laying aside the lantern and working quickly, he broke open one of the bales, gathered the contents in his arms and piled the bulk of it loosely against the slatted walls of the empty stall, trailing the rest out into the aisle.
Then he set it alight.
He used the lantern. He’d been planning to use the stolen flint and steel to start the fire, but they weren’t needed. The accelerants had been provided for him. He watched anxiously as the first tentative flames scurried along the dry stalks. When he was confident the fire had taken hold, he tossed the lantern to one side and backed away, unlatching the doors to the stalls as he went. By the time he reached the main door, the first of the horses was already stamping the ground and snorting nervously.
Exiting the stable, Hawkwood propped the outer door open as far as it would go and retraced his steps to the farrier’s hut. He made it to the tack room just as Corporal Jeffard led the first of the saddled horses into the yard.
Hawkwood counted to five and strode arrogantly into view. His sudden appearance had the desired effect: the troopers started in surprise. The less time they had to think, the less likely they would be to question his orders or, more inconveniently, his identity. Hawkwood wanted them on tenterhooks as to what this supercilious bastard of an officer would do next. From their expressions, the ruse appeared to be working.
“Well done, Corporal,” Hawkwood drawled. “There’s hope for you yet.”
The corporal drew himself up. “They’re sound, Captain. They ain’t been out for a day or two, so they’ll be glad of the exercise.”
Then they won’t be disappointed, Hawkwood thought, running a critical gaze over the animals. “All right, gentlemen. You’ve redeemed yourselves. You may return to your, ah … duties.”
A grin of relief spread across the corporal’s face. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
At that moment Private Van Bosen lifted his gaze to a point beyond Hawkwood’s shoulder and gasped hoarsely, “Oh, Christ!”
The exclamation was accompanied by the unmistakable clatter of hooves coming from the other side of the farrier’s hut.
Hawkwood, Corporal Jeffard and Private Rivers spun round in time to see a dark mass of stampeding horses careering noisily towards the open end of the stable yard and the darkness beyond.
“Jesus!” Jeffard stared in horror and disbelief at the vanishing animals.
Hawkwood frowned. “I smell smoke.”
“Bloody stable’s on fire!” Rivers yelped as the realization hit him.
Turning to Jeffard, who was holding the reins of the two saddled horses, Hawkwood barked, “Wait here! Don’t let them go! You two, with me! Move!”
The blaze had spread quicker than he had anticipated. The interior of the stable looked to be well alight, though the fire had yet to reach the roof. From inside, the fizzle of burning straw and the splintering of timber could be plainly heard. It wouldn’t be long before flames were dancing around the open door. Smoke was starting to pour through the gaps in the shingles, further darkening the already overcast night sky.
Hawkwood pushed Van Bosen towards the fire. “Don’t just stand there, man! Get buckets! We can save it! You, too, Rivers! I’ll go for help!”
Leaving them, Hawkwood ran back to where Corporal Jeffard was struggling to hang on to the two mounts. Both were now straining at the reins, having picked up the smell of the fire, and the scent of fear from their fleeing stable mates.
“Give them to me!” Hawkwood stuck out his hand. “Fetch water! I’ll alert the camp! If it spreads to the other blocks, we’re done for! Go!”
Jeffard, mouth agape, passed the reins over.
“Go!” Hawkwood urged. “Go!”
Jeffard turned tail and ran. Pausing only to snatch up his knapsack, Hawkwood climbed on to the first horse. Coiling the reins of the second in his fist, he dug in his heels and spurred the frightened animals out of the yard. As he did so, he saw from the corner of his eye two figures running frantically with buckets towards the smouldering building.
When he was clear, Hawkwood looked back. There were no flames to be seen as yet, but it could only be a matter of time before they became visible. It was doubtful the corporal and his friends would be able to cope on their own. Soon, they’d have to decide whether to carry on trying to save the stable block, or let it burn while they led the remaining horses to safety. From what Quade had told him about the chronic shortage of horseflesh available to the American army, they’d be anxious to preserve at all costs the few they did have.
Either way, they had enough to keep them busy for the moment.
Leaving the scene of impending chaos behind him, he urged the horses up the trail and into the trees. It was darker in among the pines and the last thing he wanted was for the animals to stumble, but he was committed now so he prayed that animals accustomed to carrying dispatches at the gallop would be agile enough not to lose their footing on the uneven slope.
Keeping to the higher ground, he could just make out the rectangular shape of the soldiers’ barracks below him and the latrine blocks attached to each one. Lights showed dimly behind shuttered windows. From what he could see, most of the garrison was slumbering, oblivious to the drama unfolding at the other end of the camp.
A break appeared in the path. Hawkwood paused and took his bearings before dismounting. The last of the barrack blocks was now in sight. At any moment Corporal Jeffard and the two privates would tire of wondering why no help had arrived and decide to sound the alarm for themselves. When that happened, all hell would surely break loose. Tethering the horses to a tree, he made his way down the slope using the woods as cover.
The camp guardhouse lay at the north-eastern corner of the cantonment at the end of a short path linking it to the parade ground. Two-storeys high and built of brick and stone, its entrance was protected by a wooden porch.
And an armed sentry.
Hawkwood waited until the sentry’s back was turned before emerging from the trees at a leisurely pace. He was twenty yards away from the building when the challenge came.
“Halt!” The sentry stepped forward, musket held defensively across his chest. “Who goes there?”
Hawkwood kept walking. “Captain Hooper, with orders from the colonel. Stand down, Private. You’ve done your job.” Hawkwood hardened his gaze, letting it linger on the sentry’s face. “Who’s the duty sergeant?”
Recognizing the uniform and disconcerted by the clipped authority in Hawkwood’s voice, the sentry hesitated then stood to attention. “That’ll be Sergeant Dunbar, sir.”
“And is he awake?” Hawkwood forged a knowing smile to give the impression that he and Dunbar were old comrades.
“Yes, sir.” The sentry relaxed, allowing himself a small curve of the lip.
“Glad to hear it.” Hawkwood raised a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him. Carry on.”
“Sir.” Flattered at having been invited to share a joke with an officer, the sentry shouldered arms and resumed his stance.
Hawkwood let out his breath.
Not far now.
It didn’t matter which army you fought for, guardhouses were always cold, cheerless places, built for purpose and furnished with only the most basic of amenities. So Hawkwood knew what he was going to see even before he passed through the door. There’d be a duty desk, above which would be affixed a list of regulations and the orders of the day; an arms rack; a table and a couple of benches; probably a trestle bed or two; a stove and, maybe, if the occupants were sensible and self-sufficient enough, a simmering pot of over-brewed coffee and a supply of tin mugs.
He wasn’t disappointed. The only items he hadn’t allowed for were the four leather buckets lined up along the wall just inside the door; fire-fighting for the use of, as the inventory might well have described them.
Four buckets aren’t going to be nearly enough, was Hawkwood’s passing thought as he turned his attention to the man behind the desk, who was already rising to his feet at the unexpected and probably unwelcome arrival of an officer.
“Sergeant Dunbar,” Hawkwood said, making it a statement, not a question. “Just the man.”
Always pander to the sergeants. They’re the ones who run the army. It’s never the bloody officers.
The sergeant frowned. “Captain?” he said guardedly.
Hawkwood didn’t bother to reply, but allowed his gaze to pass arrogantly over the other two men in the room, both of whom were in uniform, muskets slung over their shoulders. Relief sentries, presumably, either just returning from their circuit or about to begin their rounds. They straightened in anticipation of being addressed, but Hawkwood merely viewed them coldly in the time-honoured manner of an officer acknowledging the lower ranks; which is to say that, aside from noting their existence, he paid them no attention whatsoever. Neither man appeared insulted by the slight. If anything, they seemed relieved. Let the sergeant deal with the bastard, in other words.
“Everything in order here?” Hawkwood enquired.
The sergeant continued to look wary. “Yes, sir. All quiet.”
“Good. I’m here on the colonel’s orders: I need information on the prisoners that were transported from Deerfield earlier today.”
Caution flickered in the sergeant’s eyes. “Yes, sir.” Turning to his desk and the ledger that lay open upon it, he rotated the book so that Hawkwood could view the cramped script. “Names entered as soon as they arrived, Captain. Eleven, all told; one officer; ten other ranks.”
“Very good.”
Hawkwood ran his eyes down the list. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the name he was looking for. Keeping his expression neutral, he scanned past the name to the prisoner’s rank and regiment and place of capture: major, 40th Regiment, Oswegatchie.
“Is there a problem, sir?” The sergeant frowned.
Hawkwood recognized the defensive note in Dunbar’s query. Like guardhouses, duty sergeants were the same the world over: convinced that nothing ran smoothly without their say so and that even the smallest hint of criticism was a direct insult to their rank and responsibility. The other truth about sergeants was that every single one of them worth his salt had the knack of injecting precisely the right amount of scepticism into his voice to imply that any officer unwise enough to suggest there might be the cause for concern was talking out of his arse.
“Not at all, Sergeant. Everything’s as I’d expected. Nice to see someone’s keeping a tight rein on things around here.”
Hawkwood allowed the sergeant a moment to preen, then assumed a pensive look. He let his attention drift towards the two privates.
The sergeant waited expectantly.
Hawkwood returned his gaze to the ledger and pursed his lips. “We’ve received intelligence suggesting there may be an attempt to free the prisoners.”
The sergeant’s eyebrows took instant flight. “From what quarter, sir?”
Hawkwood didn’t look up but continued to stare ruminatively at the ledger while running his finger along the list of names.
“That’s the problem: we’re not sure. My guess is it’s some damned Federalist faction that’s refused to lie down. Or the Vermonters. This close to the border, it’s certain they’ve been keeping their eyes open and passing on information to their friends in Quebec.”
Hawkwood was relying on information he’d siphoned from Major Quade; support for the war was far from universal among those who depended for their livelihood on maritime trade and cross-border commerce with the Canadian provinces.
The sergeant stared at Hawkwood, not quite aghast at the thought but close to it. “You think there’ll be an attack on the camp, sir?”
Dunbar had not spoken loudly. Nevertheless the disbelief in his voice must have carried for Hawkwood sensed the two sentries pricking up their ears.
“Not if I can help it, Sergeant. Frankly, I doubt the bastards could raise enough of a mob for that to happen. No, if there is to be an attempt, they will employ subterfuge – that’s what we must guard against.”
“Subterfuge, sir?”
“Deception, Sergeant Dunbar. Deception.”
“Well, they’ll have to be damned quick, sir. We’re only holding them for one night. They’re off to Pittsfield in the morning.”
“True, Sergeant, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be vigilant. That’s the thing about deception: you never know where and when it’s going to be used. That’s why I’m here.”
The sergeant’s eye moved towards the heavy wooden door at the back of the room. Then he turned to Hawkwood and frowned. “Sir?”
That way to the cells, then, Hawkwood thought.
“I’m to inspect the facilities, to reassure the colonel that we’ve done everything possible. No criticism implied, Sergeant, but you know how it is: the colonel climbs on my back and I climb on yours. It’s the army way.”
Hawkwood had no idea who the colonel-in-charge was, but there was bound to be one somewhere and Sergeant Dunbar, he hoped, would come to his own conclusion on which one it might be.
The sergeant gave Hawkwood a look which spoke volumes. “Indeed, sir.”
“Let’s get it over with then, shall we? Might as well start with the officer. Lead the way.”
“Sir.”
The sergeant reached for a set of keys hanging from a hook on the wall behind him, then turned to the two privates. “All right, McLeary, make yourself useful. Fall in with the Captain and me while we check the prisoner. Jennings, you stay here and try to look alert. This way, sir.”
Sergeant Dunbar had no sooner stepped forward to lead Hawkwood across the room when a distant bell began to clang.
The sergeant paused in mid stride. His head came up. He looked at Hawkwood. “That’s an alarm, sir.”
Hawkwood turned. “You’re right. Find out what’s happening, Jennings.”
“Sir?”
“At the double, man!”
The private broke into a run. Hawkwood turned back. “It’s probably nothing. Carry on.”
The sergeant hesitated, then thought better of questioning an officer and unlocked the door.
There weren’t as many cells as Hawkwood had been expecting. Just six of them, arranged along a stone-walled corridor lit by a solitary lantern.
Dunbar lifted the lantern off its hook. “He’s in the one at the end. Got the place to himself at the moment, as you can see.”
Though conscious of Private McLeary hovering at his shoulder, Hawkwood betrayed no concern. “Has he given you any trouble?”
The sergeant shook his head. “Been as good as gold. Can’t tell you about the rest. You’ll have to check with the provost.” Adding as an afterthought: “… sir.”
It was cold in the corridor, with no stove provided for the prisoner’s comfort. As the three men made their way past the empty cells their footsteps echoed off the walls. Halting beside the last door, Dunbar held up the lantern. “Here we are.”
Hawkwood peered through the bars. The cell’s stark, almost bare interior, just discernible in the gloom, made the main guardroom look positively opulent. A pallet bed and a slop bucket were the only furnishings. An empty set of shackles hung from one wall.
“As you can see, sir, all secure. Only a fool’d try to break in. Plus they’d have me to deal with,” the sergeant added darkly.
“Good God, keep the damned noise down, can’t you? It’s been a bugger of a day and a fellow needs his sleep!”
The request came out of the dark recesses of the cell. Hawkwood could just make out an indistinct shape stretched out upon the bed. As he watched, the shape stirred and materialized into the figure of a man who, after casting aside the single blanket, sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
“My apologies, Major,” Hawkwood said drily. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“A bit late for that. The damage is done. Is this a social visit, by the way? If so, it’s a damned strange hour to come calling.”
The figure stood and approached the bars. As he did so, his features became visible.
The face wasn’t as florid as Hawkwood remembered, though that could have been due to the candlelight. He’d lost some weight, too; a change that hadn’t been immediately apparent during the few seconds that their eyes had locked at the ferry terminus. The red hair was now toned down by a sprinkling of grey; the subtle changes, lending him a more distinguished and grittier cast than there had been before. But while circumstance could alter an individual’s looks there was no doubt in Hawkwood’s mind as to the identity of the man that stood before him.
Major Douglas Lawrence, 1st Battalion of His Majesty’s 40th Regiment of Foot. The same officer who, on a misty morning in Hyde Park, close to the Serpentine, had stood by Hawkwood’s side and acted as his second in a duel against an arrogant son of the nobility, one John Rutherford Esquire.
“My apologies again, Major,” Hawkwood said. “I dare say the accommodation isn’t up to the standard you’re used to, either. I’m afraid Greenbush can’t compete with Knightsbridge.”
Which was close to where the pair of them had last parted company. Hawkwood prayed that neither Sergeant Dunbar nor Private McLeary would attach any significance to the exchange – and that the prisoner would.
It was time to find out. Stepping forward, he removed his hat, allowing his face to catch the light.
Shock showed instantly in the prisoner’s eyes but only for a second. It was enough. Hawkwood flicked a glance towards McLeary and the musket he was holding.
He was to wonder later if it was the light of recognition that had shown so briefly on Lawrence’s face that caused Sergeant Dunbar’s sixth sense to suddenly snap to attention.
“Seen enough, Cap—” was as far as the sergeant got before the words died in his throat and he took a quick step backwards, realizing, that the deception referred to by this anonymous officer was no longer a possibility but a terrible reality.
As yet another alarm began to clang; this time a lot louder and much closer to home than the first.
Hawkwood identified the sound immediately. Someone was running the metal striker around the inside of the alarm triangle hanging from the underside of the guardhouse porch.
Spinning his hat towards the sergeant’s face, Hawkwood went for the man with the gun first, sweeping the musket barrel aside before driving the heel of his other hand up under the base of the sentry’s nose. This time, there was no attempt to pull the punch and he felt the cartilage rupture.
As the trooper went down Hawkwood pulled the musket free, pivoting quickly as the lantern dropped to the floor with a clatter, followed by a muffled grunt.
The sound was all Sergeant Dunbar could manage, given that Lawrence’s arm was wrapped tightly around the sergeant’s throat. Having dropped the lantern, the sergeant was trying to break free. His feet were scrabbling for purchase as he clawed at the arm, but without success. Ignoring the beseeching look on the man’s face, Hawkwood reversed the musket and drove the butt hard into the sergeant’s belly.
As the sergeant collapsed to the floor, Hawkwood reached for his key ring.
He was stooping over the prone body when Private Jennings ran in from the guardroom.
“Fire, Sergeant! The stables—”
The sentry skidded to a halt. His jaw went slack as he took in the scene. Had his musket been slung over his shoulder and not held in the port arms position, Hawkwood might have given the man the benefit of the doubt, but there was no time. As Jennings brought his weapon up, Hawkwood reversed the musket he was holding and fired.
The ball slammed into Jennings’ shoulder, punching him against the wall. As the musket fell from his grip, Hawkwood scooped up the keys, threw the discharged musket aside and sprang to the cell door.
There was a sudden silence from outside. The sentry who had been sounding the alarm was no doubt on his way to investigate the sound of the shot.
It took two attempts to find the right key before the bars swung open.
“Quick march, Major!” Hawkwood urged.
Lawrence needed no further encouragement. The two men sprinted for the door, reaching the guardroom at the same time as the incoming sentry. Astonishment flooded the trooper’s face as it had his colleague’s. Recovering more swiftly than his fellow troopers, however, he swung his musket round.
Far too soon.
There was a sharp crack and a flash as Lawrence swept up and fired Trooper Jennings’ still primed weapon. The sentry screamed as his jaw blew apart and he went down. With the wounded man’s shrieks rising in volume, Hawkwood led the way outside.
The cantonment was now wide awake. Hawkwood looked past the row of soldiers’ barracks towards the southern perimeter. Beyond the trees, flames from the burning stables were now licking into the night sky. Men were rushing towards the blaze, many in a state of semi-undress, too distracted to have heard the shots from inside the guardhouse. Hawkwood thought he could hear the sound of hooves over the increasing shouts of panic.
“I take it that’s your doing?” Lawrence said, in awe.
“What were you expecting? A guard of honour?” Hawkwood headed towards the trees. “This way, I’ve horses waiting.”
Lawrence grabbed his arm. “What about the others?”
Hawkwood knew Lawrence was referring to the captured redcoats. “Sorry, Major. I can’t help them. Not this time.”
Not ever, he thought.
Indecision showed on Lawrence’s face. He stared about him wildly as if some clue to their whereabouts might manifest itself.
“I don’t know where they’re being held,” Hawkwood said. “It’s a big camp, the alarm’s sounded and we don’t have time to search the place. I’m sorry.”
Lawrence looked him in the eye, then nodded. “You’re right. Forgive me.”
“Up there! Come on!” Hawkwood, pointed towards the pine trees.
As the guardhouse alarm started up again, followed by a ferocious yell:
“Prisoners escaping! STOP THEM!”
Sergeant Dunbar – doubled over and apparently still suffering the effects of the blow to his stomach – had made it out on to the porch and was running the striker around the inside of the metal triangle. Pointing and gesticulating frantically, he yelled again. “STOP THOSE MEN!”
Hawkwood glanced to one side and saw that the sergeant was gesturing in his direction. Two men had responded to his call for help; one of them carrying a pistol, the other carrying what looked like …
Hawkwood stared.
A pike?
“Should’ve locked the bugger in the cells!” Lawrence swore. “Where are those damned horses? No wait, I see them!”
“Stop them, God damn it!” Sergeant Dunbar had abandoned the alarm and was stumbling after them.
“He’s a game sod, though,” Lawrence muttered. “I’ll give him that!”
“You men! Halt!” The order came from the pikeman who, along with his companion, was running hard now.
The man with the pistol paused and took aim. A crack sounded, accompanied by a bright powder flash. Hawkwood ducked and felt the wind from the ball as it tugged at his collar. There were only the two pursuers, as far as he could see. Three, including the sergeant. Everyone else was mesmerized by the fire.
Lawrence had reached the horses. Untying them, he hooked the musket strap over his shoulder, grabbed the reins of the nearest one and vaulted into the saddle. “Hurry!” he called.
The pikeman had made up ground and drawn ahead of the second trooper. As his attacker ran in, it struck Hawkwood that the pike looked ridiculously long and unwieldy and not the ideal weapon to grab in the heat of the moment. Presumably this was one of Colonel Pike’s men, and he’d been trained to reach for his pike the same way a rifleman was drilled: when reveille or the alarm sounded, it wasn’t your breeches or your boots or even your cock you reached for. It was your “BLOODY RIFLE, you idle bugger!”
That would certainly explain why this particular trooper had on his breeches and his boots and an under-vest, but no shirt or tunic. Not that his attire was of any interest to Hawkwood, who had his hands full trying to avoid being spitted like a hog on boar hunt.
In a three-rank advance and as a defence against cavalry, the pike was moderately effective. But when it came to close combat, if you didn’t incapacitate your target with your first thrust, you might as well be armed with a warming pan. As his enemy rushed at him, pike held in both hands, Hawkwood did the one thing his opponent didn’t expect. He attacked.
The trooper was already committed and it was the pike’s length that was his undoing; that and the fact that Hawkwood had reached the trees. The closeness of the trunks left no space to manoeuvre such a cumbersome weapon. As the pike-head jabbed towards him, Hawkwood darted inside his attacker’s reach, clasped the weapon with two hands – one either side of the trooper’s leading grip – and rotated the shaft downwards, away from his opponent’s hips. Caught off balance, the pikeman’s only recourse was for his left hand to let go, allowing Hawkwood to gain control of the weapon, twist the shaft out of the pikeman’s right hand and drive it back up into the trooper’s throat.
As the pikeman went down, Hawkwood heard Lawrence yell. He turned to see the second man had caught up and was charging in, his pistol raised as a club.
He was less than ten paces away when Hawkwood hurled the pike.
It had been an instinctive act, but the consequences proved catastrophic for his attacker. The length of the pike meant it did not have far to travel. The running man stopped dead, his face frozen into a mask of disbelief as the steel tip sank into his chest. Dropping the pistol, he fell to the ground, hands clasped around the wooden shaft protruding from his body.
There was a scream of rage as Sergeant Dunbar saw his men dealt with so comprehensively. And then Lawrence was there with the horses.
“Move your arse, Captain!”
Grabbing the dead man’s pistol and thrusting it into his coat pocket, Hawkwood threw himself into the saddle.
Behind them, Dunbar, fighting for breath after his exertions, had fallen to his knees.
Lawrence turned as Hawkwood found the stirrups and brought his mount under control. “Which way?”
Hawkwood quickly surveyed the bodies of the two troopers and the dark figures running about the parade ground like demented termites. The cantonment appeared to be in total disarray.
“North. We head north.”
Lawrence grinned. “Excellent! After you!”
“Yes, sir, Major!”
As they dug their heels into the horses’ sides, Hawkwood couldn’t help but grin in return. Relief at having accomplished what he had set out to do was surging through him. And the only cost had been a hat. A more than fair exchange for the freedom of one British officer, in anyone’s book.
Especially as he’d hated wearing the bloody thing anyway.
4 (#ulink_2d9d2cfa-ccda-5d6b-bf1f-998b9c2b7776)
May 1780
From his vantage point at the head of the column, Sir John Johnson turned to view the ranks of uniformed men marching in file behind him. They were a formidable fighting force, as good as any he’d served alongside; tough, fearless and loyal, he was proud of each and every one of them. When the right men fought for a cause, he thought as he gazed at their gritty, determined faces, they were well nigh unstoppable.
It was approaching midday and though the forest canopy provided a welcome shade, it was still oppressively warm. Ignoring the sweat trickling down the inside of his tunic, he addressed the man riding by his side. “How are they faring, Thomas?”
Captain Thomas Scott turned and looked over his shoulder, beyond the first phalanx of troops, to where a string of tired-looking civilians could be seen emerging slowly from around a bend in the trail.
“A few more blisters, a sprained ankle or two; nothing too calamitous.”
“The surgeon’s taken a look?”
Scott turned back. “He has. He tells me we won’t have to put any of them out of their misery just yet.”
“And the prisoners?”
“Cursing your name with every breath, sir.”
Johnson smiled. He’d become used to his second-in-command’s dry sense of humour. Scott, a former lieutenant in the Company of Select Marksmen, had been assigned to the expedition by Governor Haldimand. Even though their time together had been short, the two officers had formed a strong bond.
“Splendid! I’d feel insulted if they weren’t.”
Scott returned the smile, shifted in his saddle and winced. The colonel and he were the only officers on horseback; their mounts had been donated by a Loyalist sympathizer whose farm lay adjacent to the invasion route. Neither of the animals had taken kindly to having a new rider and it showed in their skittishness. To add to his discomfort, Scott, unlike his colonel, was not a natural horseman.
“We’ll take a rest,” Johnson said, reining in. “Thirty minutes. It’ll give the stragglers a chance to catch up. Pass the word. Deploy piquets. The men may smoke if they wish.”
“Yes, sir.” Hoping his relief didn’t show, Scott turned his horse about and trotted back down the column to relay the order.
The colonel rested his hands on the pommel. Taking a deep lungful of air, he let it out slowly and gazed about him, first at the forest and then at the trail running through the trees ahead of them. Though it was referred to as a road, the description was a misnomer. In reality it was no more than a rough dirt track; for the most part wide enough to accommodate a heavy wagon or half a dozen men marching abreast, but here and there, in short stretches where the path had become overgrown, there was hardly room for two men to walk side by side.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/james-mcgee/the-blooding/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.