The Blooding

by James McGee

  “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

  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 elabora
te.

  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.