by James McGee
Angry and frustrated at having been, as he saw it, let down by yet another senior officer’s incompetence, Quade had decided to take his grievance directly to the man he should have gone to in the first place: Colonel Zebulon Pike. In Albany, Quade had been less than complimentary about Pike and his notion of how to re-equip frontline troops. Since then, it appeared the major had undergone a change of heart; a pragmatic reversal based on Quade’s realization that, if he was to see retribution visited upon Hawkwood, he would need a powerful ally. And who better than Colonel Zebulon Pike, commanding officer of the troopers Hawkwood had killed in Greenbush? No one could accuse Quade of not seizing his chance. By presenting Hawkwood and Lawrence to the colonel-in-charge, Quade would see his own worth increase and both he and Pike would have their revenge.
And justice, true military justice, as viewed by Major Harlan Quade, would be served. Quickly and comprehensively.
Moreover, when the rank and file learned that their officers had exacted swift and fulsome revenge for the killing of their comrades, their allegiance to Quade and Pike would be that much stronger. If asked, they would follow those officers to hell and back.
“Major Quade believes you’re a spy as well as a murderer,” Pike said, bunching the handkerchief in his fist. There were minute beads of perspiration lining up across the top of his upper lip, Hawkwood noticed. The man was looking decidedly less well as the conversation progressed.
“The major has a vivid imagination,” Hawkwood said. “Not that it matters, seeing as you’re going to shoot us anyway. But I’ve had better things to do, frankly. Hell, until Quade dragged us here, I didn’t think you had anything worth spying on.”
Hawkwood saw the two white men at the table tense. Pike’s chin came up again. “Explain yourself!”
“This place,” Hawkwood said. “This camp, the condition of your men. They’re in no fit state to fight a war. I doubt they were up to the job even when Madison threw down the damned gauntlet back in June.” He flicked a glance towards Quade. “Your regular troops have had no fighting experience. Neither have most of your officers, save for people like the major here. Those who did fight in your revolution are likely too damned old to be efficient. General Dearborn, for example. That’s why you call him ‘Granny’, yes?”
Hawkwood had picked that up from the newspapers. It was debatable whether it was a term of affection or ridicule. He saw Quade flinch.
“And your men are housed in this hellhole while the militia have buggered off home for Christmas. It’s no wonder you suffered bloody noses at Detroit and Queenston. If Quebec could see this place, they’d be wondering what all the fuss was about. You Americans are no threat. I wasn’t sure about that until the major shipped us here. Now I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I know it for a fact.”
“You know nothing!” Quade cut in. “Soon, you’ll see—”
“Major!” Pike said sharply, before running the handkerchief across his lips.
“If you’re thinking about the boats,” Hawkwood said, “we saw those too. Mind you, that many, they’d be hard to miss.” He smiled at Quade. “Cat’s out of the bag, Major. You should have brought us the long way round.”
“You’ve got yourself quite an armada, Colonel,” Lawrence said. “We’re impressed. We heard about the batteaux back in Whitehall. Didn’t put two and two together until we came here, though.”
“I’m still not convinced,” Hawkwood said. “Can’t see the snow holding off for much longer. Winters here can be a bitch. So, if you’re going, you’ll need to move soon. Meanwhile, your men are dropping like flies. It doesn’t look promising.”
Then Pike coughed.
It wasn’t a small cough, the sort to subdue a tickle at the back of the throat. Neither was it a polite cough that a person might use to draw attention to what was about to be said. No, this was a sudden, deep, wet, throat-clearing cough that started down in the lungs and exploded in a crescendo of hacking and hawking that sounded as though Pike’s internal organs were being torn loose and would soon be expelled across the insides of the hut.
Hawkwood and Lawrence took a step back and watched as Pike launched into a series of cacophonous eruptions which, one after another, expectorated large gobbets of yellow-green phlegm into the handkerchief he was pressing desperately to his mouth. The spasms continued for several seconds until, finally, eyes watering and clutching his belly, Pike managed to haul himself to a nearby chair where he collapsed in a heap, chest heaving as he fought for breath.
The officer at the table was already moving to Pike’s side, concern flooding his face. Pointing to Hawkwood and Lawrence, he rapped out an order to Quade. “Major, get them out of here! You!” he snapped to one of the escorts. “Fetch Surgeon Gilliland – now!”
As the escort made a rapid exit, the officer turned to the white man behind him. “Wine, Amos! Quickly!”
Hastily, the civilian poured wine into a glass from a decanter on the table. He handed it to the officer, who, holding the glass to Pike’s lips, watched anxiously as the colonel gulped the liquid down. “Easy, Zeb, easy. The doctor’s on his way.”
Looking up, he cursed. “God damn it, Quade! I told you to get those bastards out of here! Secure them in one of the huts. We’ll deal with them later.”
Quade stared down at Pike and then jerked his head at the remainder of the escort. “Out.”
“Wait!”
The croak had come from Pike. His fellow colonel opened his mouth to object but Pike brushed him away. Pain creased his face. Quade had turned, but it was Hawkwood that Pike addressed, through gritted teeth.
“Consider this a delay, Hooper. It sure as hell ain’t a reprieve. I will see you shot. I’ll give the order to the damned firing party myself.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Colonel,” Hawkwood said as a shove from behind thrust him towards the door.
They had only just made it outside when a fresh bout of coughing began.
“All this way,” Lawrence said, “when they could have left us in the damned gaol. At least there were beds.” He shook his head and smiled grimly. “We do end up in the most forlorn bloody places, don’t we?”
They were in one of the recently erected huts. Spacious, it wasn’t. Neither was it furnished. Four log walls, and a shingle roof. Shavings littered the floor and the walls were only half-caulked. There was no window either. From that omission Hawkwood suspected the hut was probably intended as enlisted men’s accommodation rather than an officer’s. At the moment, though, with no fireplace, as far as protection against the weather was concerned, it wasn’t much more than a wind-break secured with a clasp and padlock.
Lawrence cocked an eyebrow. “You reckon Simonds knows we’ve been brought here?”
His voice was couched low. The padlock wasn’t the only device keeping them in the hut. Quade had stationed two armed men outside the door. If there was any justice, they’d be slowly freezing to death.
Hawkwood blew into his cupped hands. “My bones tell me it’s all Quade’s doing.”
“Sly bugger. He gave the order and rode on ahead. Got his two penn’orth in first. Probably knew Simonds would have other things on his mind. Equipping all those batteaux, for example.” Lawrence smiled ruefully. “I believe we hit a nerve in there, don’t you? Good God, if looks could kill.” Peering about him, he let out a grunt. “Y’know, I used to think it was only the poor who didn’t have a pot to piss in. Seems it applies to prisoners, too. I doubt we treat captured Americans so harshly.”
Lawrence stared down at his manacled wrists. “Bastards aren’t taking any chances. It doesn’t bode well, does it?”
Lawrence’s features lay in shadow. With the onset of twilight, the only light that penetrated the windowless hut came through gaps in the walls. And as their cell grew darker it had become colder, too. But at least they had their greatcoats. Some of the soldiers they’d seen on their way through the camp didn’t even possess that luxury. Hawkwood wondered how many men had perished from sickness
and exposure since the camp had been set up. Now he and Lawrence had usurped someone’s valuable living space, and all because Quade had a temper.
Lawrence joined Hawkwood on the floor, pulling his coat beneath and around him as best he could. “I hope whatever Pike’s suffering from isn’t catching. The bugger looked as if he was on his last legs.”
“He’s in good company,” Hawkwood said, thinking again of the men festering in the encampment below them.
“Makes me wonder if they’re going to have enough men to man those boats,” Lawrence said, his voice a murmur. “From what I saw coming up the hill, there’s not many that looked in fighting shape.”
“That’s why they stuck them out here.”
Lawrence frowned. “Well, yes. Renner told us the locals didn’t want them spreading disease.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then, what?”
“It’s not just a question of the townsfolk not wanting them. The reason the sick men have been moved here is because the army doesn’t want them contaminating troops who are fit.”
“You mean the able men are housed elsewhere?”
“It’s a thought.”
Lawrence pursed his lips. “It’d make sense. Closer to town, possibly?”
“Renner said they’ve been ferrying troops to Cumberland Head. That’s the opposite side of the bay. Maybe there’s another encampment there. Though some might be more conveniently located. There’s a good chance they’re being housed in the gaol.”
“Because?”
“I heard laughter – and there’s not many find those places amusing. It’s no palace, but I think there are men in there who are relieved to be living within brick walls rather than canvas ones. It’d be cramped, so there wouldn’t be vast numbers – a couple of hundred, perhaps, kept relatively warm and fed and grateful for it because they know the alternative is a transfer to this place if they do fall ill.” Hawkwood shrugged. “They may have set up tents within the walls that we didn’t see.”
“So young Pike drew the short straw stuck out here.”
“And paid the price,” Hawkwood said. “Looked like he’s sick as a dog, too.”
“I doubt he’ll stay here,” Lawrence said, “if he’s as ill as he looks. Him being a colonel, they’ll probably move him into town, commandeer someone’s house. Losing foot-sloggers is hard enough, but senior officers are in serious short supply.” He scratched his unshaven chin. “Those two not in uniform were an intriguing mix; the Indian, especially. Fearsome-looking fellow, despite the jewellery.”
“Oneida,” Hawkwood said, without thinking. “Bear clan.”
Lawrence tilted his head. “And how in God’s name would you know that?”
“Another long story,” Hawkwood said, after a pause.
Lawrence leaned back against the wall and regarded Hawkwood with wry amusement. “Now, why did I know that’s what you were going to say?”
Lawrence waited expectantly but when Hawkwood stayed silent he ran a hand across his own stubbled jaw. “Before I crossed the border, I was told the Yankees employ their own force of native intelligence gatherers. They call it their Observer Corps; Indians commanded by white officers. I’m wondering if that’s what those two were.” Adding in a subdued tone, “I’m told they’re exceedingly cruel to their captives. That they torture the living and mutilate the dead.”
Hawkwood drew his legs up and rested his hands on his knees. “It’s nothing new. The Spanish irregulars castrate French prisoners. It’s a way of spreading fear among their enemies.”
“It’s barbaric,” Lawrence said, with a shudder.
“It’s war,” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence looked at him.
“It’s why we put up with it; why we want them on our side. It’s why people like you, me and Grant are sent in behind enemy lines on recruiting expeditions. In Spain it was the guerrilleros. Over here it’s the Iroquois. We’d be foolish not to use them.”
Lawrence’s right eyebrow rose in query. “No matter what atrocities they might commit?”
“Better to have them inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.”
Lawrence thought about that. Falling silent, he rested his head back against the wall. When he glanced to his side, he saw that Hawkwood’s eyes had closed. Staring at the hard, scarred face, Lawrence smiled to himself. Finding sleep was like exploiting the presence of food and water. You took advantage of it whenever you could because you never knew when the chance to rest would come again. And at least they had shelter, unlike many of the poor devils outside. It was cold but both of them had known worse, having survived winters in the Spanish mountains when four wooden walls would have been considered a luxury.
Thinking about what he knew of Hawkwood’s past history, Lawrence pondered upon the chain of circumstances that had thrown them together. It was truly remarkable that their paths should have crossed again, and in America, of all places; the pair of them strangers in a strange land. And yet a question nagged. Hawkwood, after only one brief sighting and without any verbal reference, had known both the tribe and the clan of that nameless Indian warrior. How was that possible? There had to be a logical explanation. But what that might be, Lawrence had no idea.
Taking a leaf out of Hawkwood’s book, he closed his eyes. Conserve energy when you can, that was the soldier’s creed. It was only as his eyelids drooped that he realized just how weary he was. Despite the cold, sleep came quickly.
It was still dark when he opened his eyes. He didn’t know what time it was. He was about to consult his watch when he looked to his side and saw that Hawkwood’s head was turned and that his eyes were also open. The glow of a lantern wavered through the gap in the logs. Footsteps sounded. Then came the grate of the padlock being released.
They climbed to their feet as the door swung open.
“Hot food and a warming pan would be nice,” Lawrence murmured.
It wasn’t to be.
A gruff voice ordered them outside.
They emerged to discover four troopers armed with muskets. A horse-drawn wagon waited behind them.
Hawkwood studied the troopers. They were dressed against the cold in long grey coats, black shako caps and scarves. There was nothing odd about that, save for the scarf wrapped around each man’s face so that only his eyes and the bridge of his nose was visible, thus rendering him effectively anonymous. That was why the order to leave the hut had sounded so gruff, Hawkwood realized; because it had been muffled.
What? They think we wouldn’t know they’re the same quartet who transported us here?
And then it dawned on him that the troopers’ faces were concealed not because he and Lawrence might recognize them, but to hide them from anyone else who happened to observe their departure. At the back of his brain, a warning bell began to ring.
One of the troopers – Hawkwood assumed it was the one who’d given the order – jerked a thumb towards the wagon.
“Where to now?” Hawkwood asked.
There was no reply.
A lantern hung from a strut behind the driver’s seat. It provided little illumination, though in its vapid glow Hawkwood saw that the back of the wagon held two upright, bucket-sized wooden casks.
The first pair of troopers boarded the vehicle. Only when Hawkwood and Lawrence were seated did the second pair climb up after them. At which point, the first pair split up, one into the driver’s seat, the other to the front of the wagon, where he angled himself so that he faced backwards. As the second pair settled themselves down in the rear, the driver clicked his tongue and with a flick of the reins the wagon moved off.
Hawkwood looked out over the encampment. There was a moon but it wasn’t shedding much light and it was hard to make out details. Shrouded figures moved among the tents and bivouacs. Other blanketed forms lay huddled around the edges of the cooking fires. No laughter here. Instead, the night was broken by harsher sounds: the whimpering of the sick and the suffering. Hawkwood shivere
d as a chorus of coughs and groans, carried upon the breeze, broke out across the hillside, contaminating the night.
“Dear God,” Lawrence whispered, his expression mirroring his horror.
Their path, Hawkwood saw, was heading downhill, away from the main encampment, towards the woods.
“You know when I said the last time that I didn’t like the look of where they were taking us?” Lawrence murmured, following Hawkwood’s gaze. “Well, now, I really don’t like where we’re going.”
The trees drew them in. Noises from the camp began to fade. There were no animal sounds, no night screeches, no rustling in the undergrowth. There was just the creaking of the wagon boards and the splintering of pine cones beneath the wheels as they trundled across the forest floor. Their escorts had yet to utter a single word.
Hawkwood’s eyes flickered towards the casks. One of them appeared to be leaking. The liquid seeping from the crack in the staves looked like watery gruel. There was no smell coming off them, or at least none that he could detect. Surreptitiously, he allowed his gaze to linger on the leaking cask’s lid. It looked secure enough, though what might have been a trickle of the same soupy liquid had formed a thin rime around the lip. It was hard to see clearly in the darkness.
As if from a great distance, he heard Stagg’s voice in his ear.
I’ve got more’n forty tubs of prime potash takin’ up space in the hold …
As the words came back to him, he realized what he was most probably looking at and a knot formed in his stomach.
The wagon’s right front wheel hit a tree root and the vehicle bounced. A fresh line of seepage appeared around the rim of the cask lid. Hawkwood saw that they were nearing the edge of the wood.
Another part of the camp? he wondered. They hadn’t travelled that far, perhaps half a mile.
“Smells like a bloody latrine,” Lawrence muttered under his breath, as the trees thinned out and the clearing opened up before them, and at once his face crumpled.
With the forest casting black shadows across the open space, Hawkwood’s first impression was that he was looking at a clutch of wooden fence posts that had been left in the ground to rot. It was only as the wagon drew closer to the hummock in which they were planted that he realized these weren’t fence posts at all, they were shovel handles. And the hummock wasn’t a natural hummock, either. It was a mound of excavated soil.