The Blooding

by James McGee

  The van had reached the far bank and Quade was only a yard or two away from guiding his horse on to the span when the first call came from the woods on the other side: three screeches in swift succession, answered a moment later by a similar squawk from within the trees on the opposite side of the road.

  Crows, Quade thought. He hated the damned birds. They reminded him of churchyards and tombstones.

  The next sound was more animal than birdlike: a shrill bark that set the nerve ends jangling. It sounded like a dog fox staking claim to its territory. The fog added to the unearthly quality of the moment. So much so that Quade felt a cold shiver dart along the back of his neck.

  Though that was as nothing compared to the way his heart leapt into his mouth when, upon hearing a sudden shout, he saw, through a break in the fog, several dark shapes explode from the trees and fall upon the vanguard troops, howling and hacking like beings possessed.

  A low grunt came from Quade’s left. He turned quickly, in time to see Captain Carradine, 6th Infantry, who’d been riding alongside him, slump sideways and then topple from his saddle. Quade gaped at the feathered shaft sticking out of the captain’s chest.

  Meanwhile, across the bridge, savagery ensued. The sergeant was the first to go down, his throat slashed and pumping blood. A second trooper managed to draw back the hammer on his musket only to die from a crushing blow to the skull before he could pull the trigger. Two of his companions suffered a similar fate. A corporal, more alert than the rest, managed to bring his gun to bear, only to take a knife cut across the belly, which gutted him like a fish. Dropping his musket, he fell to the snow, hands clasped around his spilling entrails. Another trooper fell with an arrow in his neck.

  Gathering his wits, Quade hauled on the reins and yelled at the men marching behind him.

  “Form up! Form up!”

  A burly sergeant, who’d already sensed the danger, rapped out a command and a phalanx of troopers broke from the main body and ran forward. Further down the line, other NCOs were bellowing at the men to turn and protect the flanks.

  Quade stared anxiously across the bridge. Disbelief gripped him. He could make out vague shapes but with the drifting fog it was hard to distinguish friend from foe or how many attackers there were. Behind him, the support troops fingered their weapons nervously as war cries and screams rent the air. A musket spat, but it was impossible to see who’d fired the shot, or if the ball had found its mark.

  Quade drew his sword. “With me!”

  He kicked his horse forward. He was three-quarters of the way across the bridge with the troops on his heels when he saw the shadowy figures darting away from his advance. The attackers, he realized, were breaking off from the fight. Having seen the imminent arrival of a superior force, they were fleeing, back into the forest.

  Heathen bastards! Too cowardly to stand and fight!

  It was only as he reached the end of the bridge that a more disturbing thought suddenly pierced his subconscious. And as two dishevelled figures appeared out of the murk – a corporal, his arms around a wounded trooper, then others following close behind, some hurrying, some staggering – it hit him.

  “No!” he screamed.

  The musket volley sent shock waves through the air. The fog was lit by powder flashes. Two men went down. A third trooper spun away with an arrow in his shoulder.

  Flinching, Quade felt the wind of a ball as it winnowed past his left ear.

  “Back!” he yelled. “Fall back!

  The bulk of the troops coming up behind him were quick to obey, though a handful, ignoring the orders and the risk, broke ranks to run forward and help drag their injured comrades to safety. Another volley sounded, this time from the southern side of the bridge. Troops from the column had formed a defensive line along the creek and were returning fire, although there was little to aim at beyond fog, shadows and smoke.

  Quade, anxious to present a less conspicuous target, dismounted quickly. As Captain Carradine’s riderless horse cantered past him, he spied the corporal from the vanguard and pulled him close. “Report! What did you see?”

  Not yet recovered from the shock of the attack and from the effort of helping his wounded comrade to safety, the corporal blinked. “Savages, Major! They came out of nowhere.”

  “I know that, damn it – I saw them! How many?”

  The corporal blanched, his breath clouding. “Can’t rightly say, sir. Never got a chance to count. Seven or eight maybe. Not many, but they were on us before we knew they were there. We got off a round or two, but …” The corporal shook his head helplessly before casting a terrified eye towards the forest over his shoulder.

  Quade looked back across the bridge. The smoke was dissipating fast. The bodies of the dead were coming to light. They were sprawled across the snow like piles of empty sacking, the majority of them on the north side of the creek. A couple lay on the bridge, while both the trooper shot by an arrow and Captain Carradine had ended up face down on the bank. Of the attackers there was no sign. Presumably, they were back in the woods, reloading, and waiting.

  But who in God’s name were they?

  There had been nothing from the scouts to warn that the enemy had been primed. All the signs had indicated that the redcoats were still a-bed. But, then, the attackers hadn’t been redcoats, they’d been Indians, which was even more confusing. Where had they come from? Were they scouts for a bigger party, perhaps?

  Quade was considering that possibility when a fresh outburst of musketfire came from the other side of the bridge. Ordinarily, given the range, the shots might have gone wide or dropped short, but a couple had found their targets due to the troopers being closely packed together. The reports were followed by a chorus of triumphant yelps, answered immediately by a retaliatory fusillade.

  “Hold your fire!” a sergeant roared as he looked for an officer and fresh orders. “Wait till you can see the bastards!”

  Fifty yards along the line, a private stared in disbelief at the arrow sprouting from his chest. He fell forward, his weight snapping the shaft in two. Galvanized by the prospect of further arrows raining down, his companions immediately loosed off their muskets.

  The shots were met with more derisory whoops.

  “I said cease firing, damn it!” The sergeant caught Quade’s eye. “Savages are taunting us, sir.”

  That they were, Quade thought, and wondered how many guns were deployed among the trees. The ambush had been typical of the hit-and-run tactics perfected by irregulars. On this occasion it had also served to lure the column into a counter-attack which had led to the second ambush. It had been a well thought out move. Quade chided himself for not anticipating it. Men had died because he’d been slow on the uptake. It wouldn’t happen again.

  He looked up. It might have been his imagination but it appeared that the fog was starting to thin. A dull light was permeating through the trees, turning the snow from grey to white. Dawn wasn’t that far off. He realized suddenly that there had been no catcalling for a minute or two. He wasn’t sure which was the more terrifying; the catcalls themselves or the silence that preceded them.

  He ordered a casualty count. Six confirmed dead and eight wounded. There would be more to come, as those numbers were based on the troopers whose fates had been witnessed by their comrades and on the number of walking wounded who’d made it to the safe side of the bridge. Some bodies were still on the north side of the creek, their condition unknown as they were too far out of reach. Quade bit back an expletive and wondered how many of the wounded were able to walk and, more importantly, fight. Wounded men constituted a greater inconvenience to an army than dead ones because they could slow the rate of the march and it took a disproportionate number of personnel to care for them. Dead men didn’t need tending. They only needed burying.

  Not that the number of casualties had depleted the fighting effectiveness of the column to any great degree. Six dead out of more than four hundred, though worrisome, was not a catastrophic loss. The effect t
he deaths would have on the rest of the troops, however, could not be dismissed. Many would have seen the bodies of their comrades scattered across the snow and, human nature being what it was, they would be wondering who might be next. Such fear could prey on the mind, especially when it involved Indians. The word would be spreading. Were more on the way, coming to reinforce the ambushers?

  The corporal had spoken of seven or eight warriors. Quade was prepared to gamble that the total number of attackers was indeed small, perhaps a dozen to fifteen guns at the most. Notwithstanding the bridge having the potential to be a killing ground, there was a limit to the firepower such a small number of shooters could discharge successfully against a much larger body of well-armed troops. All he needed to do was get the men across the bridge. Force of numbers would do the rest. But he’d have to move fast.

  It was said a bad workman blamed his tools. Hawkwood had enough faith in his own ability as a marksman, however, to know that in all likelihood it had been a fault with the musket that had caused him to miss the shot, though in his own defence Quade had only been in view for a second. Had it been a Baker rifle, the chances were Quade would now be lying in the snow with a bullet through his heart. But that wasn’t the case. As a result, by the time Hawkwood had reloaded, he was wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off using a damned bow.

  That thought notwithstanding, the trap had worked well, thanks to Tewanias who, when Hawkwood had enquired about a possible place of ambush, had known exactly the spot to head for. The forest and the fog had lent the necessary cover and, while it was no Thermopylae, the bridge had provided an ideal choke point.

  But although breathing space had been won, the respite was likely to be short-lived. It wouldn’t be long before Quade led his men back over the creek and Hawkwood knew that when that time came, his meagre band of warriors would have no option but to give way. Though that didn’t necessarily mean they would run.

  If his time in Spain with the guerrilleros had taught him anything it was that you didn’t have to meet the enemy head-on to be effective. Havoc could be visited upon a foe in many ways, if the right strategy was employed. Hawkwood’s strategy was based on the Iroquois understanding of forest warfare and the Americans’ fear of native auxiliaries, which was why he’d told Tewanias and Cageaga to use their traditional weapons – tomahawks, clubs and knives – and that no quarter was to be given.

  It was also why he’d wanted warriors armed with bows. Swift to deploy – an Iroquois warrior could launch fifteen arrows in the time it took to load a musket – the bow had the advantage of being a silent killer, capable of delivering death without warning. To the Americans, it was a weapon used by savages who lived beyond the borders of civilized men, who fought without honour, who treated their prisoners in ways too awful to mention. A bow, when added to an arsenal, could instil terror. And it had done just that.

  Hawkwood had guessed that its use might also lull Quade into believing that his men, greater in number and armed with muskets and cold steel, were the superior force when compared to illiterate aboriginals whose weapons were those derived from wood and sinew.

  And so it had proved, but it had been a ruse that could only be used once.

  Quade, knowing the element of surprise had now been lost, would be reassessing the situation. He’d be calculating how many were arrayed against him and how best to retaliate. He would also be seething with rage that his plans had been thrown into disarray. Thus caution was liable to be thrown to the winds, giving way to impatience and rash decisions. Or so Hawkwood hoped.

  From what he knew of the man, there was no way, having come this far, that Quade would simply scurry back to Plattsburg, tail between his legs. Knowing it was imperative that he got to Lacolle before word of his advance reached the garrison at Île aux Noix, he’d be intent on securing his goal.

  So, with the fog starting to disappear, it wouldn’t be long before he made his move. For Major Harlan Quade was a man with something to prove, a man whose career depended on the success of this mission. And there was no way he’d allow a paltry wooden bridge and a handful of ignorant savages to stand in his way.

  16

  As he followed Oneas down the snow-covered forest track, Lawrence wondered how and where his guide had learned to ride. There had been no horses in the village and yet, watching how the Mohawk controlled his mount, it had become clear this was one warrior who was at home in the saddle.

  It had to be in the blood, he’d decided. Domesticated dogs traced circles when lying down because that was how their wolf ancestors had flattened vegetation to make their beds; the habit was inbred. Perhaps it was the same with the Mohawk. Maybe they were descended from a race of ancient horse lords? Given their range of skills, it would have been interesting to have had warriors of the Kanien’kehá:ka fighting alongside him in Spain. That would have given the French something to think about.

  The fog had precluded all thoughts of hard galloping and with no familiar reference points Lawrence was unsure how far they were from their destination. They had to be close. They had passed over a creek a mile or so back; the impact of the horses’ hooves on the bridge timbers had sounded like drumbeats as they had cantered across, even with the depth of the snow. A short distance further on, they had come across the first sign of military activity.

  Initially, as they approached, it had been hard to make out the exact shape of the structure. Only as they slowed and drew closer and the fog parted before them did Lawrence realize what he was seeing.

  Felled tree trunks; angled across the road as if they’d been borne aloft by some cataclysmic event and then deposited from a great height. The result was an abattis; a crude barrier constructed to deny vehicular access to attacking forces, which probably explained the lack of wheel marks earlier on. Any locals would have known about this deterrent and would have found an alternative route. An enemy transporting guns and wagons and other heavy equipment would be halted in its tracks until the barrier had been removed or destroyed. A properly constructed abattis, used in conjunction with a ditch and a gun battery, was a formidable rampart, easily capable of disrupting an advance. This one was a lot simpler, but it was nevertheless a very effective form of defence.

  In order to pass they would have to guide the horses along the verge between the logs and the edge of the wood, rather as he and Hawkwood had had to do when negotiating the military road on their way to Whitehall. In doing so, Lawrence could see by the cuts in the timber that the trees had only recently been felled.

  Beyond the defence work, the road lay open once more. It occurred to Lawrence that, if Quade was coming, if Hawkwood and Tewanias’s warriors failed in their efforts to delay his advance, the log jam certainly would. Not for long, perhaps, but every second counted and the longer it took the column to reach Lacolle, the better. As they urged the horses on, he wondered if any more obstacles lay ahead.

  The shot came out of nowhere.

  Lawrence ducked as Oneas threw up his arms. At the sound of the second report, his horse let out a whinny and he felt the shudder as the ball thudded home. His mount stumbled then immediately recovered and he thought they were safe – until he leaned forward and the horse’s front legs buckled. The next thing he knew, the road was coming up to meet him. Fearful that he might be struck by a flying hoof or crushed by the weight of the animal collapsing on top of him, there was little he could do save pull his feet from the stirrups and try to roll clear.

  Any hopes that the snow might cushion his fall were displaced as soon as he hit the ground. There was no give in the surface at all. It was solid earth beneath snow. The musket slung across his shoulder didn’t help, and when the stock caught the base of his spine as he landed, the pain of it knocked the breath from his body and brought tears to his eyes. Winded and half-stunned, for one terrible moment he wondered if he’d actually suffered permanent injury. When he found he could feel his arms and legs, relief surged through him.

  Wincing as another stab of pain scoo
ted across his lower back, he pushed himself off the snow. Oneas lay forty paces away. Remarkably, his horse had not run off. Instead, it was waiting only a few yards further on, trembling but unharmed. The fact that it had remained in attendance, as it had done when its previous master, Lieutenant Nevens, had taken his tumble, suggested it was army-trained and not intimidated by either gunfire or the loss of its rider.

  Lawrence looked for the source of the shots. He ducked back down behind his mount’s heaving flank as two figures emerged from the woods on the other side of Oneas’ body: a white man and an Indian. The white man was dressed in a fur-lined buckskin coat and wide-brimmed hat. The Indian wore a similar coat but his head was bare, revealing a greying scalp lock. Both carried long guns and both were instantly familiar. It was the pair from Colonel Pike’s headquarters, the Oneida warrior and the individual whom Pike’s fellow colonel had addressed as Amos. Lawrence swore softly. It looked as though he’d just found Quade’s advance scouts.

  A rattling sigh broke from his horse’s mouth. The animal shuddered and then grew still. Across the snow, the two shooters advanced cautiously.

  And Oneas’ right arm moved.

  To Lawrence, it looked as if the Mohawk was trying to raise himself. He did not succeed. Moving swiftly and silently, the Oneida warrior ran forward, pulled a knife from his waist, bent down, and drew the blade across Oneas’ exposed throat.

  As, gingerly, Lawrence eased the musket strap from his shoulder.

  He fired as the Oneida rose to his feet. The ball struck the Indian in the upper chest and he was thrown backwards. The white man paused in a half crouch, as Lawrence tossed the musket aside and picked up the pistol he’d taken from his saddle holster. “Move an inch and I will shoot you dead.”