The Blooding

by James McGee

  It had probably been that simple, Hawkwood reasoned; nothing more than an ill-fated twist of circumstance. A bloody coincidence, in other words, which, ironically, was how he and Major Quade had crossed paths in the first place.

  Bugger it.

  Hawkwood saw it then, as Quade’s jaw pulsed. There was something else gnawing away at the American, beyond the anger brought on by all the baiting. Reading Quade’s face, he realized what it was.

  Harlan Quade’s ire hadn’t been sparked by the killing of two soldiers. It was the personal humiliation he’d suffered as a consequence of having recognized the face on the wanted posters as the man who’d identified himself as Captain Hooper. Once the posters were distributed, Quade knew that there was a very real possibility that someone who had seen them drinking together in the Eagle Tavern would come forward. He’d had no choice but to go before his commanding officer and confess, for the consequences if it was left to someone else to reveal the association would be far worse.

  That must have been an interesting conversation, Hawkwood mused. Who wouldn’t have wanted to be a fly on the wall when Quade had unburdened his soul? And once the word was out, the major’s mortification would have been complete.

  All things considered, it was a miracle the man had held on to his commission. Had a similar lapse of judgement happened to a British officer, he’d have been reduced in rank – unless he had influential friends, of course. From his previous conversation with Quade, Hawkwood guessed the major didn’t have too many of those, an indication that his propensity for castigating senior officers for their failings had won him few allies. The fact he was still a major was probably due to the paucity of regulars with combat experience. In other words, the Americans needed every available officer they could lay their hands on, regardless of whatever serious infraction he might have committed.

  In Quade’s eyes, Hawkwood was now the enemy incarnate. Thanks to their brief liaison, the major’s credibility had suffered a mauling from which he was unlikely to recover any time soon. As a result, he was determined to see to it that Hawkwood paid the ultimate price, even if it meant elbowing the hangman aside and tying the noose himself. Quade’s war had become a personal vendetta.

  Hawkwood wondered when Winans had been made aware that the two men he’d plucked from the dinghy were not who they purported to be. It had to have been after he and Lawrence had left the cabin and accompanied Renner to the fire room. Presumably, that’s when Quade had come crawling out of the woodwork, clutching his wanted poster. But what had alerted Quade to their presence?

  From what Hawkwood could remember of their arrival on the boat, the only witnesses had been the half-dozen crew members who’d been on watch. And therein lay the possible answer.

  While for those on board the Snake the impact had seemed like the end of the world, for Vermont’s passengers, billeted below deck, the sloop’s sinking could well have passed almost without notice due to the steamboat’s greater size and method of propulsion and speed. Put bluntly, so quickly had the traumatic event occurred that the shock and sound of the collision had been obscured by the noise and vibrations created by the Vermont’s engine and massive paddle blades.

  By the time the more observant passengers had questioned why the vessel appeared to have stopped, Hawkwood and Lawrence had been lifted from the water and bundled below. It was only as dawn reasserted itself, when people had begun to stir, that word of the collision had surfaced. Quade must have learned of it when he left his cabin – a privilege of rank – and overheard crew members talking.

  “You’re wondering how I knew it was you?” Quade said, as if reading Hawkwood’s mind. “Captain Winans apprised me of the events surrounding the collision. I was most intrigued to learn that the men we’d taken aboard were army couriers delivering dispatches to General Dearborn. As the names Matthews and Douglas were unfamiliar to me, naturally I enquired as to their descriptions.”

  “Naturally,” Hawkwood said.

  Quade’s lips formed a bloodless gash. “You can imagine my surprise.”

  Hawkwood wondered if it was his imagination or whether he really could detect the faint whiff of alcohol on Quade’s breath. He’d picked it up just after he’d sat down, when Quade had leaned in close. It would help to explain why the major might have missed all the excitement. Maybe he’d been at the rye the night before and had been sleeping it off. As if anger and humiliation weren’t enough; throw in inebriation and you had a recipe for aggression right there.

  “Small world,” Hawkwood murmured.

  Quade smiled again.

  “Ain’t it just?”

  11

  Based on what they could see from Vermont’s rail – a collection of unprepossessing dwellings fanning out from the steamboat landing – Plattsburg had little to recommend it. Indeed, it was hardly worth coming on deck for, save of course, that Hawkwood and Lawrence had no choice in the matter.

  In the absence of a purpose-built brig, Quade had confined them to a windowless storage locker for the remainder of their passage, with two armed troopers posted outside the door in case they’d harboured delusions of escape. The fire room lay on the other side of the bulkhead and the heat and noise generated by the furnace had been unrelenting. The sound of the steamboat’s paddles being thrown into reverse – the signal that they were finally about to dock – couldn’t have come soon enough.

  Which was more than could be said for the manacles that had been secured about their wrists by the escort tasked to deliver them topside, where a gloating Quade had been waiting to greet them.

  He indicated the restraints. “I had one of the boat’s mechanics fashion them as a precautionary measure. Not too uncomfortable, I trust?”

  “I’ve known worse,” Hawkwood said.

  The smirk vanished, to be replaced by a frown. Lawrence stifled a grin and, manacles clinking, blew into his cupped hands.

  Hawkwood looked over to where the last pieces of cargo were being unloaded. A wooden hoist had been rigged to offload the cannon and other heavy goods from the boat, while troops had formed a human chain to pass the lighter items down the gangplank and on to the mule-drawn wagons waiting in line on the quayside. He wondered if the soldiers were a permanent on-board fixture or if, like Quade, they’d been on their way to a new posting. Either way, their presence had proved annoyingly inconvenient.

  When the last item of cargo had been transferred, the major gave the order for Hawkwood and Lawrence to be taken ashore. Guarded fore and aft, they were led towards the gangplank. About to descend, Hawkwood paused and looked aft to where Captain Winans and First Officer Renner were standing side by side.

  Hawkwood inclined his head in a silent acknowledgement, though he couldn’t have said what made him do it. At first, neither man reacted. Then, just as Hawkwood turned away, the captain nodded back while next to him Renner smiled ruefully before dropping his eyes towards the deck.

  “You do realize,” Lawrence whispered from behind, “that fraternizing with the enemy’s a capital offence.”

  Hawkwood spoke over his shoulder. “For them or me?”

  “Them,” Lawrence responded with a grin. “Your name’s already on Quade’s list.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Hawkwood said. “But he should have been more careful.”

  Lawrence frowned. “How so?”

  Hawkwood looked to where Quade was brushing a speck of dirt from his sleeve, and smiled ominously.

  “Bastard should’ve carved it in stone.”

  They were marched away from the quay.

  At least two of the wagons had space enough in the back to have accommodated both prisoners and escort, but Hawkwood suspected that making them walk allowed Quade to feed his vanity, basking in his own glory as he rode on the wagon behind. Having suffered the slings and arrows, the major wanted everyone to see that he was the one who’d made the capture. That way, his name and credibility would be restored. Delivering the fugitives in person was to be the cherry on the cake
. His loyalty proven, promotion could only be a recommendation away. No wonder he was smiling.

  Hawkwood, meanwhile, was studying the road.

  The thick coating of mud indicated that it had rained recently but the surface had frozen hard in the interim and the slush trapped between the ridges and in the deeper wagon ruts and around the roots of the trees and in the lee of the buildings where the sun had failed to reach suggested that a fair amount of snow had fallen, too.

  Above them the sky was bleached of colour and denser clouds were moving determinedly across from the north. Winter had sent out feelers and a warning that heavier snow could only be a day or two away. When it arrived, hell would surely follow.

  Dropping his gaze, Hawkwood looked beyond the lead wagon. They were coming up to the river.

  The Saranac did not flow directly into the main body of Lake Champlain but into a small bay on the lake’s northern rim. The road traced the bay’s western edge. At the point where it turned inland, away from the river mouth, the view opened up, revealing an uninterrupted panorama all the way around the bay to where a protective, low lying, forested promontory formed its eastern shore.

  Hawkwood felt his elbow nudged.

  “Looks like young Renner’s suspicions were correct,” Lawrence murmured.

  Taking in the scene on the far side of the river mouth and along the adjacent bay shore, Hawkwood was thinking exactly the same thing.

  Batteaux – a veritable fleet of them, too many to count at first glance – were drawn up along the shoreline. The smallest were perhaps thirty feet in length while others were almost twice that and much wider in the beam. A number of the larger ones had been layered with planking and lashed together to form pontoon jetties, to which the smaller ones had been secured. Stores had been piled upon them, ready to be loaded.

  Some vessels had been hauled on to the beach and over-turned, exposing their flat underbellies, sharp ends and shallow draught. It was a shape that had changed little over the years. It hadn’t needed to. Constructed chiefly from pine – though sometimes oak was used for the bottoms and uprights – batteaux had been carrying men and cargo in the Canadas and the northern states for the past two centuries.

  Men – soldiers, Hawkwood assumed – were at work on the up-turned hulls. The air resonated with the sound of saws and mallets and with the heady scent of pine. The latter emanated both from the boats’ timbers and the sap in the oakum that was used to caulk the seams. The scene was one of intense activity.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a strong and sudden shove between his shoulder blades.

  “Move!”

  Hawkwood kept his temper in check. There was no point in retaliating. Disarming the trooper would have been easy, even manacled as he was. Trouble was, there were four troopers guarding them, all armed with muskets. No one could out-run a musket ball. Besides, where would they run to?

  A wooden bridge appeared before them. The timbers grumbled loudly beneath the vehicles’ weight. Hawkwood gazed down at the swift-flowing water below. No reprieve there. The stream was too shallow to provide refuge. Besides, he’d already suffered one ducking. What was the point of another?

  The settlement was changing as they moved inland. More buildings were coming into view. A few whose façades hinted at some kind of public service seemed quite new, suggesting there was more prosperity here than had first met the eye; probably a benefit of the pre-war, cross-border trade with Canada. The rest were the usual mix of houses, taverns, churches, stores and livery stables.

  In the spring and summer, with the trees in full bloom, Hawkwood thought the place would probably have looked pleasant and welcoming. But not today, not with the winter skies and the bitter wind blowing off the bay. Though he had to concede that the gloom he attributed to the settlement could have been due to his and Lawrence’s collective mood. It wasn’t easy maintaining a cheerful disposition with the threat of a hangman’s noose looming over you.

  It struck him as curious that their arrival had not drawn more attention. A few people had turned their heads to observe the procession from the harbour, but if they noticed the two civilians in greatcoats flanked by soldiers, they gave no sign. From the general air of indifference, it seemed Plattsburg’s residents had grown used to the movement of troops and equipment. A string of loaded wagons and a handful of marching men weren’t anything new.

  Which had to be especially galling for Quade, Hawkwood reflected, given his obvious desire to be the centre of attention. Serve the crowing bugger right. What had he expected, a carpet of palm fronds?

  The lead wagon came to a halt and one of the escorts turned. “We’re here, Major.”

  “Here” was a large red-brick building that didn’t so much imply civic responsibility as shout it from its gabled rooftop, though notwithstanding the substantial frontage with its white-shuttered windows, clock tower and portico entrance, the words PLATTSBURG COURTHOUSE engraved into its Roman-style lintel did rather give the game away.

  As the wagons moved off, a wooden sign to the right of the door caught Hawkwood’s eye. Carved into it, with considerably less precision than the words above the lintel, was the designation: HEADQUARTERS, UNITED STATES ARMY, NORTHEN DEPT.

  Lawrence, following Hawkwood’s gaze, noted the misspelling and rolled his eyes. “Christ,” he whispered. “No wonder they’re bloody losing.”

  Hawkwood did not reply. As he surveyed the building, a vision of Remus Stagg’s grinning visage came suddenly to mind as did a well-known phrase: revenge is sweet.

  If the bastard was looking down on them – or, as was more likely, looking up – there was no doubt Stagg would be laughing his bloody head off.

  “Can’t say as I’m taken with the view,” Lawrence said ruminatively. “You’d think they’d have provided us with a decent room. I’ve a good mind to complain.”

  “We could always ask to be moved,” Hawkwood said.

  Lawrence sniffed. “I doubt it’d be much of an improvement. There’d still be bloody bars in the way.” Turning away from the cell window, he shoved his hands down into his coat pockets. “Mind you, it’s a damn sight better than some barracks I’ve been in.”

  That was probably true, Hawkwood thought. The cell measured ten paces by ten paces; encasing two hard wooden cots and a bucket in the corner. A thin mattress on each bed and an equally thin blanket to go with it. Not that dissimilar to his last gaol: L’Abbaye, the military prison on the Place Sainte-Marguerite in Paris. The only difference being that this place didn’t smell as bad and the guards spoke English.

  Hawkwood was surprised they’d been housed together. Maybe there was a shortage of cells. The noises that permeated the building did seem to indicate an unusual number of occupants, given what he’d seen of the place. In fact, the sounds that were audible were interesting in themselves, because prisons in his experience were quiet places, the inmates usually having been cowed into silence either by the confining grimness of their surroundings or by the men placed in charge of them. Any human utterances tended to be the vocalization of despair or as a result of mistreatment, whether it be punishment for rule-breaking to bloody disputes between individuals over some personal infringement.

  The rarest human sound in a prison was laughter, but Hawkwood’s ears had picked up the echoes of laughter on several occasions. It seemed an odd juxtaposition, though not one worth dwelling upon.

  Lawrence lowered himself on to his cot, gazed about him, and sighed despondently. “Well at least we tried.”

  Hawkwood, stretched out, laced his hands behind his head. “We’re not dead yet, Major.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.” Lawrence smiled. “You do know how to dash a fellow’s hopes.”

  “But I have been thinking,” Hawkwood said.

  “About what?”

  “Those batteaux.”

  Lawrence regarded him quietly for a second. “Aye, I’ve been thinking about them, too. If I were a betting man,
I’d say young Renner hit the nail on the head when he said there was something brewing.”

  “They weren’t off-loading the boats, they were loading them.”

  “Indeed. But for what?”

  “There’s only one thing it could be.”

  Lawrence looked sceptical.

  “It would explain the number of craft, the ordnance, the stores, and the troops – everything,” Hawkwood said.

  “They could just be preparing the boats for winter.”

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  Lawrence made a face. “No, you’re right. It did look as though they were getting them ready for use. From what we saw, I’d say they’re close to whatever it is they’re planning. But an invasion?”

  “It’s not that far to the border. And they have the steamboat to assist them. You heard Renner say how fast the Vermont can travel. They wouldn’t even have to row the damned boats. They could use the steamboat to tow them. After all, that’s how they got them here. They’d reach Canada in no time.”

  “It’d be madness,” Lawrence said, then added doubtfully, “wouldn’t it? You said yourself, it’s too late in the year.”

  “Maybe not, provided the snow holds off. Even if it doesn’t, they might think it was worth the gamble. With the right troops, they could establish a bridgehead. Then, come the thaw …” Hawkwood left the possibility hanging.

  Lawrence looked pensive. “I’m not yet familiar with the location of all our garrisons. Where’s the nearest one? Does your map tell you?”

  “It didn’t survive my swim in the lake. I could be wrong, but from memory, there’s a military fort on the Île aux Noix, up on the Richelieu River. No idea of its size; it could house a brigade or three men and a dog for all I know.”

  It was probably just as well, Hawkwood thought, that the map was lost. Had it been found when they’d been ordered to turn out their pockets upon delivery to the gaol, Quade would have seized on it as further proof that he was an enemy spy. Why else would he be in possession of a map illustrating the battle fronts? The fact that it had clearly been torn from a well-respected newspaper available to any Tom, Dick or Harry would not have appeased the major one jot. Quade would simply have applied his own interpretation to the “evidence”, insisting that Hooper was using the map to direct him to American positions so that he could conduct his own reconnaissance. In the face of that sort of manic fervour, you just couldn’t win.