by James McGee
And then Quade’s injured right leg suddenly buckled and his boots lost their grip.
It was enough of an opening. Hawkwood’s moccasins gave him the traction he needed. Reversing his hold, he rammed the stiletto into Quade’s right bicep. Quade shrieked and pulled back, sword dropping. Letting go of the knife, Hawkwood pivoted. Curving the tomahawk round in a full-blooded strike, he drove the blade deep into Quade’s neck.
Quade made a sound halfway between a sob and a gurgle. Blood spurted as Hawkwood pulled the hatchet free. Quade’s body collapsed on to the snow.
Hawkwood tossed the hatchet aside and sank to his knees as chaos continued to erupt around him. The pain in his shoulder was exquisite. The blue uniforms were pulling back as more grey uniforms appeared, wreathed in smoke from the guns. Other figures were there, too, running among them; scalp-locked warriors, brandishing clubs and guns.
Tewanias.
Desperately, Hawkwood crabbed towards him.
Blood oozed out of a rent in the back of Tewanias’s coat. He groaned as Hawkwood pushed the trooper’s body aside and turned him over. Then his eyelids flickered and he opened his eyes. “Mat-huwa?”
“I am here, rake’niha.”
Tewanias grunted and tried to rise. Hawkwood held him down, pressing his hand against the wound.
Tewanias grimaced. Gripping Hawkwood’s arm, he pulled himself up. He stared desolately around him, at Cageaga’s bloodied, crumpled form and at the bodies of the others. “We are the last?”
Hawkwood nodded. “Ea.”
Hurt filled Tewanias’s eyes when he saw Deskaheh and his brother. He looked up, past Hawkwood’s shoulder.
Hawkwood turned and stared up at the figure standing behind him dressed in an unbuttoned military greatcoat, a rifle-green uniform showing beneath it, a scabbard hanging from his hip.
What the hell was an officer of the 95th doing here?
His heart rose. And then he saw the cap and the differences in the tunic and accoutrements suddenly became apparent. This wasn’t the 95th.
“Captain Hawkwood?”
The enquiry had been made in a distinctive Gallic accent.
Cradling Tewanias, Hawkwood looked at the grey-uniformed men who were moving among the bodies, checking for life and retrieving weapons. Others – marksmen – were attempting to pick off targets among the American back markers.
“Yes,” he responded cautiously.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Charles de Salaberry at your service, Captain.”
“Colonel,” Hawkwood said.
The officer smiled. “Do not worry, Captain. We are Voltigeurs Canadiens. We’re on your side.”
Hawkwood let go a breath. He could see the man was intrigued by the paint on his face. The colonel’s gaze moved down and he frowned. “You’re wounded?”
“I’m all right. My friend is not.”
The colonel dropped to his haunches. “I will see he gets attention.”
“Major Lawrence?” Hawkwood said.
“Ah, yes.” De Salaberry smiled again. “A very brave man.”
“You’re from Lacolle?”
“We are quartered close by. We found him on the road.”
“How many are you?” Hawkwood asked.
“Three hundred and forty. We are a combined force, French Canadian mostly; Voltigeurs, Embodied Militia, Voyageurs, plus some Mohawk auxiliaries.”
“Mohawk?”
“From Kahnawá:ke.”
Hawkwood felt Tewanias stir.
“This is Tewanias, Colonel,” Hawkwood said. “He is also Mohawk. He and his men were—”
De Salaberry laid a hand on Hawkwood’s arm. “I know who he is. Major Lawrence told us of your plan to delay the column.” Staring forlornly at the bodies of the dead warriors, he added softly, “And I see you have paid a heavy price.”
Tewanias shifted and emitted a sharp gasp.
“We need a surgeon,” Hawkwood said.
Regret showed instantly on de Salaberry’s face as he rose to his feet. “I’m afraid our surgeon is not with us. He was called away from the post yesterday. We have his assistant, however – Lieutenant Hersey. He will supervise the transfer to Lacolle.”
“You’ve a wagon?” Hawkwood enquired hopefully.
“No wagon, either, I’m afraid. We will have to improvise. We will construct a litter.”
Hawkwood looked past de Salaberry’s shoulder.
The colonel saw what had caught Hawkwood’s attention. “He insisted on accompanying us. He was most … ah, persuasive.”
Lawrence was propped between two of de Salaberry’s men. It was obvious they were the only things keeping him upright.
“Fortunately,” de Salaberry added, “I was able to deter him from leading the charge.”
“That would be a first,” Hawkwood said, watching the anguish creep across Lawrence’s face at the sight of the dead warriors.
“Lieutenant Hersey, our medical assistant,” de Salaberry explained, as a green-jacketed officer approached at a run.
As the lieutenant crouched to examine Tewanias’s wound, Hawkwood stood up and walked forward.
Close to, Lawrence looked even paler than he had from a distance. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“What the hell for?”
“This.” Lawrence gazed despairingly at the carnage around him. “We were too damned late.”
“No, Douglas. You weren’t. The bastards are broken. They’re on the run.”
“But Tewanias? His warriors?”
“His men are gone but Tewanias is alive. The medic’s attending him now.”
Lawrence’s face twisted with pain. “Goddamned bastards!”
“You’re hurt.” Hawkwood went to reach out. “How …?”
“I fell off my damned horse.”
Hawkwood stared at him.
“On account of I was shot.”
“Shot? God’s teeth! Not by …?” Hawkwood’s gaze swung accusingly towards the two Voltigeurs.
“Lord, no! It was that bloody Observer fellow we saw back at Plattsburg. I ran into his scouting party. His name’s Walker, by the way, God rot his socks.”
“Was Walker,” Hawkwood said.
“What?”
“Not is,” Hawkwood said. “Was.”
It took a second for the emphasis to sink in. Lawrence’s eyes widened.
“I had a run in with him, too.”
“The devil you say! And …?”
“He lost.”
“Good,” Lawrence spat savagely. “Serves the bastard right.” His chin lifted. “And our friend, Quade? I don’t suppose …?”
“He didn’t make it, either.”
“Then, by God, the drinks are on me.”
“And don’t think I won’t hold you to that,” Hawkwood said wearily.
For the first time, Lawrence allowed himself a weak grin. “Well, someone had better hold me, because if they don’t, I’m going to fall on my arse. By Christ, Matthew, it’s good to see you!”
Drawing himself up, he shrugged off the two Voltigeurs, held out his hand and took an unsteady pace forward.
And promptly collapsed.
As de Salaberry’s men bent to help him, Hawkwood spun quickly. “Colonel!”
De Salaberry looked round.
“We’re going to need another litter,” Hawkwood said.
They transferred Tewanias and Lawrence to Lacolle on litters crafted from cut-down branches. The litter-bearers were Kahnawákeró:non warriors who carried out the task at their own insistence when it was discovered that Tewanias was known to their war captain – though the two men were from different clans. The Mohawk auxiliaries, also with de Salaberry’s full agreement, made litters for the bodies of Tewanias’s men, so that they, too, could be removed from the place of battle.
Hawkwood, hurt but in no serious need of assistance, commandeered Lawrence’s horse.
Arriving at Lacolle, it was not hard to see why the Americans had thought their plan would work. There was nothi
ng to the place. Built on the north bank of a small river, there was no settlement as such, just a stone house, a stable and a sawmill. The blockhouse was the dominant feature. Squat and square and two storeys high, with firing slits cut into the thick log walls. There were unglazed windows with shutters for defence. The first storey overhung the ground floor and there were slits in the overhang floor so the defenders could fire down upon any attackers, not unlike a medieval donjon. Around the blockhouse was a small tented village and several crude huts; accommodation for extra troops and the auxiliaries, de Salaberry explained.
Originally, the post had been built to protect the sawmill as well as a signal beacon, sited to the east where the river flowed into the larger Richelieu River and which, in times of emergency could be used to alert the garrison at Île aux Noix.
So they wouldn’t have needed to ride there for help, Hawkwood thought. If there’d been time for someone to get to the beacon, they could have just lit a fire.
The post housed forty-five militia and twenty-three Mohawk auxiliaries, who might have been able to defend their position against three times their number, but to fend off four hundred attackers for any length of time would have been wishful thinking. What Quade hadn’t allowed for had been de Salaberry and his Voltigeurs and the other militia units and auxiliaries who’d been quartered in the nearby woods and on farms a couple of miles further along the Lacolle to Montreal road. The Americans’ intelligence had been lacking on every count.
The surgeon’s name was Brossard. Having returned to the post from visiting a militia captain with a broken leg, he turned his attention to the now conscious Lawrence in a hastily arranged surgery set up in the blockhouse. It wasn’t the worst field hospital Hawkwood had been in, by any stretch.
“God must have been looking down on you, Major,” the surgeon declared cheerfully as he examined the wound, grunting as his probing discovered the ball lodged only a centimetre beneath the skin. “I suspect most of its energy was spent on the journey from muzzle to muscle, which suggests either weak powder or else the shooter was at the limit of his range. If so, it was a remarkable shot,” he added admiringly, as he extracted the offending projectile with the aid of a small pair of forceps.
He looked equally fascinated when he was directed to the wounds in Lawrence’s abdomen, to which wads of congealed root and moss still adhered. To Hawkwood’s utter surprise, Brossard murmured in appreciation as he peeled away the poultices.
“These native medicines are a wonder. The Indians have forgotten more about the healing properties of forest plants than we’ll ever know. I’ve adopted a number of their remedies myself and have found them to be most efficacious in the treatment of wounds and maladies.”
Humming quietly to himself, Brossard retrieved a clay jar from his supply cabinet and measured out a handful of the earthy-smelling contents. Grinding them into a powder with a pestle and mortar and into a paste with the addition of what looked like melted beeswax, he applied the salve in an even layer to each of Lawrence’s wounds, though not before dousing the areas liberally with half the contents of a small whiskey bottle, prompting an impressive stream of obscenities from what, up until then, had been a relatively passive patient.
“My father was a physician, too,” Brossard explained, when Lawrence had stopped blaspheming. “He marched with Montcalm and learnt many secrets from Huron medicine men.” He added smilingly, “And now, here we are: sons of French soldiers along with Huron and Mohawk who were once sworn enemies, all coming together to serve an English king. Life is strange, is it not?”
Lawrence, he advised, if all went well, would be fit enough to travel in two days.
Tewanias’s deeper bayonet wound was of greater concern. Swabbing it as best he could, Surgeon Brossard then took the unusual step of consulting his patient for advice. Tewanias sent word for the Kahnawákeró:non war captain, who in turn summoned his own healer, Brossard being happy to defer to native lore.
Fascinated, Hawkwood watched as, between them, medicine man and surgeon – using ingredients from Brossard’s pharmacy mixed with herbs from the healer’s pouch – set about concocting their own potions which they then administered both directly to the wound and orally. They would know the benefit, the Kahnawákeró:non healer told them, by the morning of the third day.
Tewanias, while not ready to fight a battle, was on his feet by the evening of the second day, when Colonel de Salaberry came and took Hawkwood aside.
“If the major is fit, you must both depart in the morning. I have dispatches for the military authorities in Montreal. A courier will be leaving here at first light. You can travel with him. From Montreal, Major Lawrence can return to his duties. As for you, Captain, it’s late in the season but there should be a schooner available to transport you downriver to Quebec. From there, you will be able to secure passage to England. Do not delay, otherwise there will be no journey home, certainly not for you, not for another four months. The weather will not permit it.”
I’ll bear that in mind,” Hawkwood said, and went to tell Tewanias the news.
“I am deeply sorry, rake’niha,” were his first words.
The Mohawk war captain stared into his eyes. “For what?”
“For bringing death to your village.”
Tewanias frowned and gathered his blanket around him. “Did you speak false words to the council?”
“I spoke what I believed to be the truth.”
“Then you should not feel blame. Cageaga, Effa, Deskaheh, Chohajo and the others were Kanien’kehá:ka, men of free will. The choice to follow you was theirs, as was their choice to leave, which they could have done at any time. They knew the danger.”
“Wives are without husbands, rake’niha.” Hawkwood thought about Kodjeote and added, “Mothers are without sons.”
“Wives and mothers are also Kanien’kehá:ka. They will understand.”
“It would have been better if I had not returned.”
Tewanias laid a hand upon his arm. “No, Mat-huwa. Do not say that. The Great Spirit guided you here for a purpose. It was in order for us to meet again, so that you could open our eyes to the threat from the Yan-kees and we could make ready for the battle that lies ahead.”
“And Cageaga and the others?”
“We will carry them back to Gaanundata and prepare them for their journey into the sky world.”
“We?” Hawkwood said.
“Hickonquash, war captain of the Kahnawákeró:non, and some of his warriors will travel with me. A number are blood kin to the people of my village.”
“Will you remain in Gaanundata?”
“That, I do not know,” Tewanias said heavily.
“The Great King beyond the Water has promised you land in Canada. You will be safe there.”
“The council will decide. Hickonquash will speak with them also.”
“The Americans will know that you helped us defeat their soldiers.”
Tewanias’s head lifted. From the way he held himself, Hawkwood knew that while the Mohawk chief looked as though he was on the mend, there was a possibility that the wound would yet prove fatal. The next few days would be critical.
“What is your meaning?”
“The Americans will seek to punish those who fought with the soldiers of the Great King.”
“Ea, that may be so, but now the Yan-kees have tasted our wrath and they will know the Kanien’kehá:ka will not be cowed.”
“It was always so,” Hawkwood agreed. “And I will make it known how warriors of the Kanien’kehá:ka fought and gave their lives so that all the peoples of Canada can remain free.”
A shadow moved across the Mohawk war captain’s face. “And will you return to Anówarakowa Kawennote – America?”
“I do not think so, rake’niha.”
Tewanias gazed at him. “Then let us be grateful for the days we have been given. Let us spend our last evening by the fire and talk of old friends and brave warriors who are no longer with us, and when the mornin
g comes and the fire has turned to ash, let us remember these times and pray to the Great Spirit to guide our footsteps from this place.”
“I would like that,” Hawkwood said softly.
Snow had fallen during the night, but it had been a light feathering and not enough to deter the colonel from sending out his dispatch riders: one to the garrison on the Île aux Noix, the other to Montreal, via the north road.
“Gentlemen,” De Salaberry greeted Hawkwood and Lawrence warmly, “I confess I’m rather sorry to see you go. It’s been a while since we had such … stimulating company. Major Lawrence, I do not know how long this war will last, but it would not surprise me if our paths were to cross again. When that time comes, I only hope that it is under less … shall we say … dramatic circumstances.”
They were in de Salaberry’s quarters, which weren’t a whole lot different from Colonel Pike’s back in Plattsburg, Hawkwood noted. There were the same Spartan furnishings – bed, dresser, desk, chair and campaign chest – and the same earthen floor. The only difference was the open fire instead of a metal stove.
“So long as your surgeon remembers that whiskey’s for sipping and not for slopping, I shall look forward to it, too, Colonel.”
De Salaberry grinned. “I will tell him. Though, it might have been worse. He could have used my best cognac.”
Lawrence chuckled and then winced.
“Be sure to have your wounds looked at again by the surgeon in Montreal,” de Salaberry added chidingly.
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
“No, Major. Thank you.”
De Salaberry turned to Hawkwood. “And I have a message from Surgeon Brossard for you, too, Captain. Get your wounds checked, as well. They may not be vexing you at the moment, but we both know what conditions are like on-board ship. The last thing you need is for an infection to take hold while you are at sea. I’d hate to think of them wrapping your remains in a sail and dropping you overboard weighted down with lead shot.”
“Can’t say as I’d like it, either, Colonel,” Hawkwood said.
De Salaberry smiled and held out his hand to each of them in turn. “Good, then I wish you both a safe journey.”
The colonel returned to his desk and Hawkwood and Lawrence left the room. They were half a dozen paces away when the door opened suddenly behind them. The colonel stuck his head out and smiled. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I almost forgot …”