by James McGee
Retching, Hawkwood felt his right wrist grabbed. Letting go of the oar, he reached up with his left hand for the dinghy’s gunwale.
“Hold on!”
With a supreme effort he managed to hoist both elbows over the side of the boat. Then, with Lawrence braced against the side and holding on to his sodden coat, he was able to haul himself unceremoniously out of the water. As he lay fighting for breath at the bottom of the dinghy, he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder and heard Lawrence say, “I think the bastard’s stopping.”
Shivering violently, Hawkwood raised himself up. There was no sign of the Snake. The steamboat’s aft section filled his field of vision. Sparks were still shooting from her thin smokestack, but Hawkwood saw that she was indeed reducing speed. Her paddles were slowing. Then the beat of her engine changed and he knew she was going into reverse.
Lawrence muttered something. Not catching the words, Hawkwood looked up to find that Lawrence was staring at the name painted across the steamboat’s stern.
Vermont.
“I’ll be damned,” Lawrence swore hoarsely. “Whatever the hell that beast is, it looks as if we’ve caught the bloody ferry after all.”
10
“Special couriers, you say?”
“Bearing dispatches for General Dearborn. Yes, sir.”
Hawkwood tipped the rest of the brandy into his coffee and gripped the mug tightly, grateful for the warmth spreading slowly through his palms and fingertips. He took a swig and wondered how long it would be before he stopped shivering and was able to feel his toes again. A while, probably, though he knew that the tremor in his hands and the throbbing in his head came not only from his submersion in the lake’s cold waters and the effects of the brandy but also from the engine vibrations pulsing through the deck beneath his feet, and the turning of the paddlewheels on the other side of the bulkheads.
They were seated in the steamboat’s stern cabin, dressed in borrowed jackets and trousers, courtesy of the crew’s slop chest. Their own clothes had been taken away to be dried off in the fire room, wherever and whatever the hell that was. The steamboat’s captain had assured them that they would be returned in a wearable condition probably within the hour or shortly thereafter, which seemed to Hawkwood to be more than a tad optimistic.
The captain’s name was Winans. Smartly dressed in a dark blue pea-coat, he was a sturdily built man with close-cropped grey hair, matching beard, a solemn expression and the practice of clasping his hands behind his back as if he was striding across the quarterdeck of a frigate rather than the aft compartment of a smoke-belching paddle boat.
His brisk, economic manner suggested he was not a man who suffered fools gladly. Indeed, this trait had betrayed itself soon after he’d provided his uninvited passengers with their dry wardrobe, at which point he’d demanded to know who they were and what the devil did they think they were doing sailing a vessel without lights?
Hawkwood’s response did not seem to mollify him in the least, for he continued glowering at them, leaning across his chart table in an adversarial pose.
“And you were aboard the sloop, why?” he demanded.
To buy himself time, Hawkwood raised the mug to his lips and took another slow drink, exaggerating the shakiness in his grip.
“There’s not a lot to tell, sir. Captain Douglas and I were on our way from Albany. We heard the Caldwell road was flooded and decided it would be best if we continued the rest of the way by boat. We got as far as Whitehall but found we’d missed the schooner. Unfortunately, we ran into a little trouble with our choice of an alternative vessel.”
Captain Winans’ chin lifted. “Go on.”
“Damned crew turned out to be Federalist sympathizers, didn’t they?”
“On a contraband run,” Lawrence cut in. “Bound for St Johns. They thought they could make a bit extra by handing us over to the British.”
“Smugglers?”
“That’d be one word for them,” Lawrence grated. “Traitorous scum, more like.”
Hawkwood smiled ruefully. “We weren’t in uniform. I imagine someone spotted the regimental branding on our mounts and took a guess that we might not be what we seemed. It was our own damned fault – we should have been more attentive. Being so close to journey’s end made us careless.”
“They attacked just before you struck us,” Lawrence continued. “Captain Matthews and I managed to subdue a couple of them, but it wouldn’t have been long before we were overwhelmed. Might seem an odd thing to say, sir, given what’s taken place, but it was a damned good job you happened along when you did.” Lawrence hesitated and then enquired speculatively. “You haven’t picked any of them up, I take it?”
The reply was curt. “We have not. As far as we’ve determined, you and Captain Matthews are the only survivors.” Winans looked to his first officer for confirmation. “Mr Renner?”
Renner, a dark-haired young man with a round, mobile face and the air of someone trying to appear more mature than his years stood by the door. He straightened. “That’s the size of it, sir. Some scraps of wreckage, but no bodies. Fog didn’t help us, mind,” he added pointedly.
At the mention of bodies, the captain’s jaw flexed. Hawkwood guessed that Winans was contemplating the entry this would necessitate in the steamboat’s log. Presumably such collisions could have a detrimental effect on one’s career prospects.
“You ask me,” Lawrence muttered darkly, “drowning was too good for the bastards.”
Captain Winans stared hard at Lawrence, his eyes scrutinizing the graze on the major’s forehead. He frowned. Then, shoving the charts aside, he drew a notepad towards him and picked up his pen. “I shall require details. The name of the vessel was …?”
“The Snake,” Hawkwood said, “out of Whitehall. The master’s name was Stagg.”
It was almost comical the way the captain’s pen paused in mid-air. A tiny bead of ink dropped from the nib to the notepad beneath, splattering minute black speckles across the open page.
“Remus Stagg?” Captain Winans said, glancing towards his first officer, who was staring at Hawkwood, slack-jawed, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard either.
“You knew him?” Hawkwood said. Thinking, Christ, that’s all we bloody need!
Captain Winans’ mouth took on a downward curve as he dabbed the inkstains with the corner of his sleeve. “I think it would be fair to say that we are not … unfamiliar with his activities.”
“He’s a black-hearted rogue, is what he is!” Renner interjected sharply, earning an admonishing glance from his captain.
“Was,” Lawrence corrected. “Now, he’s fish bait.”
A pregnant silence followed. Hawkwood watched as an approving smile broke across First Officer Renner’s face.
In contrast, as befitting his rank, Captain Winans’ expression remained tactfully neutral. After several seconds thought, he cleared his throat. “The crew; how many were there?”
“Six,” Hawkwood said. “Including Stagg. If you require names, I can provide a couple. Walter Maddox and one that Stagg called Cyrus. I couldn’t tell you any of the others.”
Not that I give a damn.
Lawrence gave an apologetic shrug. “Can’t help you either, Captain. I’m sorry.”
Winans absorbed the information in silence and wrote down the names. “I see,” he said pensively. “Well, I dare say their families will come forward when the vessel’s loss becomes known.” He looked at Hawkwood. “And the dispatches you were carrying? What of those?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “As far as we know, they’re at the bottom of the lake. We did try to retrieve the pouch, but it all happened so damned quickly. There wasn’t time to gather anything. All we have are the clothes we were standing in.”
Which wasn’t strictly true, for they also had the last of the guineas; half of which Hawkwood had transferred from his jacket to the hollowed heel of his boot. The rest were inside Lawrence’s belt.
The cap
tain favoured Hawkwood with an unexpectedly wry smile. “It’s fortunate you weren’t in your nightshirts then. Though I dare say your quartermaster will be able to replace some of the items you lost.”
“I expect so,” Hawkwood said. “There was nothing of sentimental value.”
Unless, of course, you counted Lawrence’s father’s mythical bloody musket.
Captain Winans continued to stare hard at Hawkwood and for several seconds his gaze did not falter. Finally, putting down his pen, he placed his palms on the chart table and pushed back his chair. “In that case, I believe our business here is done. I have all the relevant information. Unless either of you has anything pertinent to add …?”
“No, sir,” Hawkwood said, putting down his drink and rising to his feet. Lawrence did the same.
Winans stood. “Very well. I shall leave you in Mr Renner’s capable hands while I attend to my report. Vermont has undergone some refurbishment since the … ah … military requisitioned her services and our passenger facilities are not what they were. Nevertheless, I think you’ll find them agreeable enough, at least for the duration of your passage.”
Winans looked towards the stern window. “I see the fog’s almost lifted. We’ve an hour yet before we reach Plattsburg. I suggest you make yourselves comfortable until then.”
Stepping out from behind his chart table, Captain Winans drew himself up. “I’m sorry we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”
“Unfortunate for Stagg maybe,” Lawrence said with a smile as he shook Winans’ proffered hand. “Not for us. We can’t thank you enough, sir. It would have been a damned tiring row had you not stopped to pick us up.”
Hawkwood kept his face straight. “I’ll be submitting my own report, of course, Captain. General Dearborn will want a full account of the incident. I can’t say that I’m looking forward to explaining how Captain Douglas and I allowed ourselves to be hoodwinked by scoundrels, but you may rest assured the general will be fully informed of the role you and your crew played in delivering us from Remus Stagg’s clutches.”
For a moment Winans appeared disconcerted by this. Then a new light glimmered in his eyes. At first Hawkwood thought it was gratitude he was seeing, but then he realized it was more than that. There was relief there, too.
It confirmed his suspicions; for all his air of authority, Captain Winans had been wary lest he and his crew be held responsible for the collision. Had they been so inclined, the men he knew as Douglas and Matthews could have made his life very difficult by levelling accusations of reckless seamanship or, worse, gross negligence on his part. Those fears had dissipated now that he had discovered the identities of the men who had perished and the nature of their business.
Hawkwood’s false admission that he and Lawrence feared they may have been negligent in letting themselves to be taken by Stagg had helped their cause. By massaging the facts and by promising to portray the captain as their saviour, Hawkwood had convinced Winans that the three of them were now allies by virtue of a shared sense of culpability. It meant Hawkwood and Lawrence wouldn’t have to look over their shoulders for the duration of the voyage to Plattsburg.
The Northern Army’s winter quarters and home to several thousand American troops.
And the very last place on earth they wanted to be.
Watching the gang of stokers feed the supply of pine logs into the furnace’s open maw, it occurred to Hawkwood that if anyone was of a mind to wonder what the pits of hell might be like they’d be well advised to pay a visit to a steamboat’s fire room.
Never had a place been so aptly named. The heat was ferocious, and the heightened activity and noise made it impossible to follow Renner’s attempts to explain the vessel’s inner workings, as much of his commentary was drowned out by the pounding of the machinery. The odd words that Hawkwood did manage to pick up between the hissing and the clanking and the roaring of the flames might as well have been in Mandarin for all the sense they made. So, while Renner waxed lyrical about reciprocating engines, steam generators, crank shafts and gauges, Hawkwood and Lawrence exchanged the slop chest’s seconds for their own attire – retrieved from one of the boiler rails – and did their best to appear impressed whenever Renner looked to them for a reaction.
They returned to the deck with their ears ringing. The drop in temperature that greeted them was a welcome relief, but it didn’t take long for the rawness of the day to make its presence felt. Not that the cold deterred Renner from his determination to extol the rest of the steamboat’s virtues.
Forced to pit his voice against the noise from the starboard paddlewheel revolving loudly only a few feet away, his face lit up. “Quite a sight, yes? She’ll do five knots fully stoked!”
“Five? Really?” Lawrence arched his eyebrows in dutiful amazement. “Why, that’s close to—”
“Six miles an hour!” Renner finished effusively, unconcerned by the spray from the blades misting the air where they stood.
“Well, by God!” Lawrence shook his head as though thoroughly awed by the revelation. “Six!” He blinked water out of his eye and caught Hawkwood’s gaze. “Would you credit that?”
“Rain or shine,” Renner added, his face and jacket growing damper by the minute. “Makes no difference.”
“I can see why she was requisitioned,” Hawkwood said. “She must beat anything the British have.”
“Oh, they’ve nothing to touch her. Nothing,” Renner responded, guiding them towards the stern, away from the pounding paddles and the relentless deluge. “She’ll do Whitehall to St Johns and back in two days. Takes the schooner at least a week, sometimes two.”
“I saw the Paragon in Albany,” Hawkwood said, bracing himself against the trembling of the deck.
“Did you indeed? She’s new – launched last year. Twice our tonnage; a little faster, too, I believe.” A small smile dimpled the first officer’s face. “Fulton always was a braggart. He has a rather annoying tendency to argue that bigger is better.” Renner tapped the steamboat’s rail affectionately. “That’s not necessarily the case.”
Hawkwood sensed that a question was expected. It seemed churlish to disappoint.
“Fulton didn’t build this boat?”
“He did not. She’s the captain’s own, born and bred.”
“Captain Winans?”
“Yes, sir. He and his brother. They started out as ship’s carpenters. They worked for Fulton when he built the Clermont. Served their apprenticeship, you might say. From that, they were able to set up their own yard.” Renner waved a hand towards the Vermont side of the lake. “She was launched at Burlington, back in ’09. That’s when they set up the Whitehall to St Johns ferry route, to link the gap between the Montreal to St Johns stage and the Whitehall to Troy run. That was before the war, of course; before she was commandeered. In those days, all we carried were civilians and the odd item of freight. Now it’s corporals and commissary and whatever else the army wants us to deliver.”
As he spoke, Renner jerked his chin towards the steamboat’s bow.
Hawkwood looked. It had been dark and foggy when he and Lawrence had been helped aboard, cold and dripping and thankful to be alive. Neither of them had been in a fit state to take an inventory of the tarpaulin-covered objects taking up most of the deck space forward of the steamboat’s smokestack and boiler well. Now, with the view transformed by daylight, some of the Vermont’s cargo was revealed.
To a civilian, the items would have been of no interest. Hawkwood’s familiarity with army ordnance, however, gave him a different perspective. His experienced eye could detect the shape of artillery pieces even when they were broken into components and partially covered over. As far as he could tell from the barrel sizes, they weren’t large calibre. Six-pounders, at a guess; each one maybe two thousand pounds dead weight. The rest of the goods stacked closely either side of them could have consisted of anything from rifles to roundshot or even a regimental goat, it was impossible to tell. But the guns stood out.
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“Seems a bit late in the season to be transporting field guns,” Hawkwood ventured. “I’d have thought everything would have been secured in winter quarters by now.”
“You’d know more about that than me, Captain.” As he spoke, Renner looked off towards the surrounding forestland. “All I can tell you is it’s a good job we’ve a plentiful supply of fuel on the doorstep, the number of trips we’ve been making back and forth. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said …”
Renner paused abruptly. As Hawkwood and Lawrence waited expectantly he offered an embarrassed smile. “My apologies. Far be it from me to question the general’s strategy. I mean no offence.”
“None taken, Mr Renner,” Hawkwood countered quickly. “On the contrary, we’re most interested in your take on things. Captain Douglas and I have been up on the Niagara these past few months. We’ve not been privy to all that’s happened on the Champlain front. I dare say you’ve learned by now that generals don’t always confide in the lower ranks, so if you’ve some scuttlebutt you’d like to share, feel free. It might give us an indication of what we can expect when we report to our regiment.”
Renner’s smile remained. Reassured, his eyes showed a degree more humour than had been there before, though when he finally spoke there remained a note of caution in his voice.
“I was about to say that, given the level of preparations, it seems reasonable to suppose there’s something brewing.”
“Such as?” Lawrence frowned and drew closer.
“That, I wouldn’t know, but as Captain Matthews said, it’s late in the year to be moving this much artillery, and yet the army’s had us ferrying men and supplies from Burlington at such a rate …” Once more, Renner’s voice trailed off.
“Yes?” Hawkwood prompted.
Renner made another apologetic face. “At such a rate one would think the army is afraid it’s running out of time.”
“That’ll be due to the weather, surely,” Lawrence observed.
“Aye, probably,” Renner agreed, but there was uncertainty in his voice. “Vermont’s faster than the schooner and she’s not hampered by rain or lack of wind. For every return trip the schooner makes, Vermont will make three, which would indicate they want the equipment transported as quickly as possible, before the lake’s iced in.”