The Blooding

by James McGee

  “We’ve come too far to turn back. We’ll have to walk them.”

  “It’ll slow us down, which is a bugger.”

  “Can’t be helped.” Hawkwood patted his horse’s neck and eyed the skull. “I’d hate to have to waste a horse and a bullet.”

  “The lad said it was eight miles to Fort Ann,” said Lawrence, gazing into the distance. “There can’t be more than a couple of miles to go.” Drawing himself up, he gave a wry grin. “Ah, well, they do say that exercise is good for the soul.”

  They led their mounts into the trees, where they were relieved to discover that a secondary trail had already been created, a sign that they weren’t the first travellers to have abandoned the log road in favour of a safer course. Although the ground was still exceedingly boggy, it wasn’t as treacherous as the causeway. Invigorated by the improved conditions, they set off along the trail, boots and hooves squelching in harmony.

  It might have been the familiar scent of the woods or the snatches of remembered birdsong that triggered the recollection, Hawkwood would never know, but it was so sudden and so vivid that he felt his breath catch.

  In his mind’s eye he saw a twelve-year-old boy lost in a forest wilderness, surrounded by shadows. Whether the shadows were cast by men or beasts, he did not know. He could not make out details. He knew only that some were friend and some were foe and that his life depended on being able to tell the difference.

  A nuthatch squawked. Jolted from his reverie, he found that Lawrence was gazing at him with a look of amused enquiry.

  “A penny for them,” the major said amiably.

  Hawkwood forced a smile. Lawrence, sensing his comment had hit a nerve, did not press him, a courtesy for which Hawkwood was grateful.

  After a further hour’s trudging, the ground grew firmer and the trail widened out. They remounted.

  Fort Ann lay beyond the next belt of woodland. Reaching the village, they found there was no fort there either, though a few isolated pine stumps from the original stockade remained. A sprawling farmhouse, a couple of barns and a timber mill occupied the site.

  By now it was late afternoon. Keen to make up for lost time, they pressed on. By the time the lights of Whitehall finally appeared it was early evening and Hawkwood felt as if he’d just travelled two hundred miles instead of twenty.

  “Well, whoever named this place certainly had a sense of humour,” murmured Lawrence as the town took shape before them. “Whitehall, indeed! I’ll wager they’ve never been within a thousand miles of Horse Guards.”

  Hawkwood couldn’t fault Lawrence’s pithy observation. Crouched at the bottom of a gorge and dwarfed by the steep slopes that surrounded it, the New York version of Whitehall was as far removed from its London namesake as it was possible to get.

  The only similarity was its proximity to a river. Having followed the course of this particular waterway since Fort Edward, where it had begun life as an insignificant tributary of the Hudson, Hawkwood and Lawrence had been well-placed to observe its changing character. In some stretches it had overreached its banks to create patches of soggy marshland, hence the causeways; from Fort Ann, it had meandered on its way before finally arriving at Whitehall as a sluggish, sixty-yard-wide creek that skirted the village on its eastern flank before emptying into a small harbour basin at the base of a precipitous limestone outcrop.

  They tethered the horses and retrieved their knapsacks. Lawrence slipped the musket strap over his shoulder. “Another town, another tavern,” he intoned, glancing at the weathered sign creaking a few feet above his head. Sotto voce, he added, “Y’know, for two gentlemen on the run, we seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time in plain sight.”

  It was hard to disagree. While they were ahead of the hounds, they were far from safe and every time they engaged somebody in conversation they left a trail, placing themselves in jeopardy.

  On the other hand, they needed information and taverns were prime sources for that. If they wanted to get home it was a risk they had to take.

  “Where will we find the ferry office?” Hawkwood posed the question casually when the pot-man arrived with a brace of whiskies.

  “The landing. It’s over the bridge; other side of the creek.”

  As easy as that.

  “Though it’d be a waste of a walk,” the pot-man added as he placed the drinks on the table. “It’s closed.”

  Lawrence reached for his glass. “Would you know when it opens?”

  “I would not. An’ I doubt anyone else does, either.”

  An odd comment, Hawkwood thought.

  “How so?” Lawrence enquired innocently.

  “Because there ain’t no ferry service, that’s how so.”

  Lawrence’s smile remained fixed. “Since when?”

  “A month back. Suspended due to the hostilities. The military went and commandeered all large vessels, includin’ the Vermont. Services required elsewhere, so they said. Whatever that means.”

  The Vermont, Hawkwood assumed, being the name of the ferry.

  “And there’s nothing else?” Lawrence asked.

  “The old schooner ain’t due back fer a week.”

  As opposed to the new schooner? Hawkwood thought, but didn’t say. Presumably, the new one had ended up under military control along with the other “large” vessels.

  “That’s our only choice?” Lawrence asked.

  The pot-man’s face soured “Rumour has it they’ll be commandeerin’ her as well. Batteaux’ll be the only things left, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Lawrence frowned. “Batteaux?”

  “Military took charge of the shipyard, too. Been building fleets of ’em. Workin’ day and night. Been hard sleepin’ sometimes on account of the hammerin’.”

  “I can imagine,” Lawrence said. He glanced towards Hawkwood and raised an eyebrow over the top of his glass.

  Hawkwood knew the major was making a direct translation from the French; after all, what else would they be building in a shipyard if not boats?

  The pot-man, his store of relevant information exhausted, took Lawrence’s comment as his cue to depart and moved off in search of another table. As soon as he was out of earshot, Hawkwood explained to the major that an American “batteau” was a shallow-draught craft constructed primarily for river usage. The smallest could be operated by one man, while the largest needed half a dozen oarsmen and could carry up to ten tons of cargo. In the colonies, they had been deployed by the military to transport troops and supplies through the wilderness.

  “That’s a bugger.” Lawrence sighed. “Seems we were sold a pup. Maybe we should retire to Fort Edward and shoot that damned waiter.”

  “Not until I’ve finished my drink.”

  “Looks as though it’s the border and the Vermont road, then,” Lawrence ventured.

  Hawkwood did not reply. Lifting his glass, he rotated it gently, watching as the contents swirled, catching the candle light.

  “I know that look – I recognize it from our London adventure.” Lawrence lowered his own glass and leaned close. “What’s on your mind?”

  Hawkwood gazed into the glass. “Jago’s first rule of commerce.”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “A friend of mine, Nathaniel Jago – first-class sergeant and former member of the smuggling fraternity. He has a saying: ‘Never let political differences get in the way of turning a profit.’”

  “How does that help us?”

  “There may be an alternative to the Vermont road.”

  Lawrence looked sceptical. “You’re not proposing we wait a week for the schooner to return? We can’t tarry that long. It’d be asking for trouble.”

  “I agree. And there’s bad weather on the way, too. The last thing we want is to be snowed in here.”

  Lawrence baulked at the thought. “It’ll be that bad?”

  “You can count on it.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  Hawkwood smiled. “Finish your drink, Major. I
do believe it’s time for a refill.”

  “Oh Lord,” Lawrence groaned, as Hawkwood raised his arm to summon the pot-man. “There’s that bloody look again.”

  “Remus Stagg?” Hawkwood said.

  The heavy-set man seated alone in the booth at the back of the taproom made no reply. Instead, tearing a crust from the loaf by his elbow, he squeezed the bread between his fingers and dipped it into the small pool of gravy that had settled at the bottom of his otherwise empty plate. When the bread had been soaked to his satisfaction he delivered it to his waiting mouth. Chewing deliberately for several seconds he swallowed, wiped his lips with a none-too-clean napkin and reached for the glass at his elbow. Only then did he look up.

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “I’m Smith,” said Hawkwood, before jerking a thumb at Lawrence. “He’s Jones.”

  “That so?” The seated man made no attempt to hide his scepticism.

  “Well, it’ll do for the time being,” Hawkwood said evenly.

  Stagg’s right eyebrow rose. He stared hard at the two men, calculating whether or not they constituted a threat. Deciding they didn’t – at least not immediately – he said in a gravelled voice, “So? You want somethin’?”

  “We’re looking for a passage north.”

  “Are you? An’ what makes you think I give a rat’s ass?”

  Hawkwood ignored the riposte. He knew it was Stagg’s way of letting them know who was king of the castle.

  “We arrived too late for the ferry. When we asked around for any captains preparing to depart who might be willing to take on a couple of passengers, your name was mentioned.”

  “Was it now?” Stagg’s expression changed from irritation at having his supper interrupted to instant suspicion. “An’ who by?”

  “Sorry, can’t help you there; didn’t catch the fellow’s name. We were in one of the other taverns. Not even sure which one now.”

  Stagg’s gaze flickered past Hawkwood and round the edge of the booth, probing the taproom’s darker nooks. His eyes narrowed as they alighted on the pot-man who’d served Hawkwood and Lawrence, and who was moving furtively towards the kitchen with a tray of leftovers and dirty plates. Watching until the pot-man had disappeared from view, he turned back. “Sorry, Mr … Smith, was it? ’Fraid you were misinformed.”

  “That’s a pity.” Hawkwood shared a glance with Lawrence and shrugged. “Looks like we’ll have to take our business elsewhere.”

  He’d chosen the word on purpose. “Business” suggested there was money to be made. He watched as a spark of interest glowed briefly in the other man’s eyes.

  Lawrence, who had been watching for it, too, said quickly: “Allow us to stand you a drink anyway, Captain. Call it recompense for disturbing you. It’s the least we can do.”

  Stagg hesitated.

  Come on, Hawkwood thought. Come on.

  Stagg considered the offer for all of two more heartbeats before tipping back his head and draining his glass in a single swallow. “I’ll take a whiskey.”

  Catching the eye of a passing servant girl, Lawrence pointed to Stagg’s empty glass and held up three fingers.

  The girl glanced towards Stagg, as if seeking his approval. Stagg nodded obliquely. As she picked up the glass along with the dirty plate and cutlery, Hawkwood and Lawrence slid into the booth and took their seats.

  Hawkwood waited a couple of seconds before leaning forward. “If you can’t help us, Captain, is there anyone you can recommend? We’d make it worth their while.”

  They fell silent as the girl returned. Setting the fresh glasses down, she looked hesitantly in Stagg’s direction. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Aye,” Stagg said. “You can tell Cooter I’ll be wanting a word with him later.”

  Although he’d spoken firmly rather than sharply, the girl blanched. Giving a quick nod, she hurried towards the kitchen.

  Cooter must be the pot-man, Hawkwood surmised; he wondered what chastisement would be meted out when the luckless fellow attended Stagg’s summons. Evidently the bullish seaman ruled the roost hereabouts, using the tavern as a handy niche from which to conduct business and dispense justice or largesse to his acolytes. He’d probably had his eye on Hawkwood and Lawrence from the moment they’d entered and had seen them engage the pot-man in conversation.

  “A toast –” Hawkwood raised his drink – “to private enterprise.”

  “Ha!” Lawrence grinned. “I’ll drink to that!”

  Stagg said nothing, though Hawkwood could see the man’s mind working as he reached for his whiskey. After taking a swallow, he sat in silence, toying with his glass. His hands were big and strong, well suited to hauling rope or, as was just as likely, dealing out recrimination. Finally he looked up. “How far north?”

  There was a cautious silence which stretched for several seconds.

  “As far as we can go,” Hawkwood replied.

  “You do know there’s a war on?” Stagg said.

  “So we’ve heard. Is that a problem?”

  “To some.” Stagg took another swig.

  But not to you, Hawkwood thought.

  Stagg put down his drink but kept a hold of it. “It’ll cost you.”

  “We were expecting that,” Lawrence said. “But as Mr Smith mentioned; we’d see our pilot was well … compensated.”

  Stagg studied what remained of his whiskey. Then he raised his head. “How well?”

  “Are we to take it you’ve changed your mind?” Hawkwood asked.

  As if giving the matter further consideration, Stagg continued to stare at his glass, his lips pursed in concentration. Then he said, “Depends. How were you plannin’ on payin’?”

  “Coin of the realm,” Hawkwood said. “Naturally.”

  “Spanish or American?”

  Hawkwood shrugged. “Either. Or guineas. Take your pick.”

  At the mention of guineas, Stagg began to nibble the inside of his lower lip. Hawkwood knew then that they had him on the hook.

  “Could be I’m open to persuasion,” Stagg said eventually. “Wouldn’t be a pleasure cruise, mind. Snake ain’t built to take passengers. We usually deal in … dry goods.”

  “We’ve no baggage,” Lawrence said, “save what we’re carrying. We wouldn’t take up a lot of room.”

  “How much persuasion?” Hawkwood asked.

  “We are talking about the border, yes?”

  Prevarication, Hawkwood decided, was pointless. “We are.”

  Stagg held Hawkwood’s gaze. His eyes took on a nefarious glint. “Fifty dollars would cover it.”

  Lawrence gasped. Fifty dollars was a monstrous sum, an outrageous sum. Hawkwood managed not to betray any reaction, but in his mind’s eye he saw a poster at the steamboat landing in Albany advertising fares to New York at seven dollars. Whitehall to the Canadian border was roughly the same distance.

  “Good God, man!” Lawrence protested with a smile. “We’re not after buying your damned boat. We only want to charter it.”

  “That’ll be each,” Stagg said.

  The smile slid from Lawrence’s face.

  Hawkwood shook his head. “Too rich for our blood. We’ll leave it. Best if we try elsewhere.”

  “Good luck with that,” Stagg said. “There’s not another Whitehall boat’ll carry you.”

  “How come?”

  “No one moves cargo out of the basin without my say so, be it human or freight. ’Course, you could always hang around for a week and wait for the schooner to dock, but something tells me you’re after an earlier departure. Ain’t my place to enquire why that should be. Your reasons are your own.” The corner of Stagg’s mouth lifted again. “Which is why it’ll cost you fifty dollars … each.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Twenty-five,” Hawkwood said. “Each.”

  Stagg shook his head in what appeared to be genuine amusement. “By God, I do like a man with a sense of humour, Mr Smith. I surely do. But, please – that’s perilously close
to a personal insult.”

  “Really?” Hawkwood said. “And there was I thinking it was more than generous. After all, it’s not as though we’d be your only cargo, is it? It’s not as though you’d be making a special run, right?”

  Stagg stared at him.

  “And as this is a private transaction, it’d be just between us and you. No other crew involved. That’s fifty dollars in your hand. Free and clear.”

  Which is what we’ll be, he thought as he left the phrase hanging. If the bugger agrees.

  There was another, longer silence.

  “Seventy,” Stagg said eventually.

  “Sixty,” Hawkwood countered, thinking: God save us. That’s more than three months’ salary for a Runner!

  Stagg gazed into his drink as if turning things over in his mind. His fingers played against the side of the glass like a flautist covering the stops. Finally, he looked up and with a show of reluctance that didn’t fool anyone, he announced, “All right, Mr … Smith. Seeing as you did stand me a whiskey, you’ve just bought yourselves passage.”

  “Excellent,” Hawkwood said. “When?”

  Rising, Stagg drained his glass and set it down on the table. “Happens you’re in luck. We cast off at midnight. Harbour basin, end jetty. You got the name? She’s called Snake.”

  “I remember,” Hawkwood confirmed. “We’ll be there.”

  “Best not be late, else you will be waitin’ for the schooner.”

  They watched him walk away.

  “I’ll be damned,” Lawrence said, stunned by the speed of the final transaction. He turned to Hawkwood and raised his glass. “Looks as if we are on our way home.”

  Hawkwood smiled. “What did I tell you, Major? First rule of commerce. Works every time.”

  Thinking, Nathaniel, this is another one I owe you.

  There were no street lamps. The moon was the only source of illumination. It hung in the sky like a pearl pendant, throwing shadows into the alleyways and casting the hills in coal-black silhouettes as, collars raised, Hawkwood and Lawrence headed for the harbour. There weren’t many people around. The few that were paid them no attention. The only moment of apprehension occurred when Lawrence let out a warning hiss: “Eyes right!”