Читать книгу The Blooding - James McGee - Страница 11

It was just after eight o’clock in the evening when Captain Maynard Curtiss of the 11th Regiment of Infantry emerged on to a darkened Church Street. As the door to the club closed softly behind him, he buttoned up his greatcoat, adjusted his hat and awarded himself a wide grin of satisfaction. He had just spent the last hour with a very attractive and, it had to be said, rather energetic young lady by the name of Jessica, and he was feeling not only replete but somewhat over-awed by the dexterity of his own performance.

Admittedly, Jessie was a whore and thus her enthusiasm and the praise she’d lavished upon him for the pleasure he’d provided during their riotous coupling might have had more to do with the fact that she was being paid for her time rather than it being a true reflection of her client’s expertise between the sheets. But that knowledge in no way detracted from the captain’s sense of well-being as he made his way down the quiet moonlit street.

To counteract the cold breeze that was coming in off the river, he turned up his coat collar. Increasing his stride, he headed for the alleyway and the shortcut between Church Street and Court Street that would lead him to his eventual destination, the South Ferry terminal. There was a hint of rain in the air and he had no desire to be caught out in the wet.

The alley was empty and the tread of the captain’s footsteps seemed to echo in the darkness. A few people had been out on the main streets, wrapped up against the cold as they’d hurried off to hearth and home. In this less salubrious part of the town, the citizens most liable to be abroad were either drinkers or parlour-house punters like the captain. Given the distinct nip in the air, even these hardy souls preferred to remain indoors, in the warmth, indulging in their chosen pastime. The only others willing to brave the cold were the prospective passengers heading for the last ferry to Greenbush before the service shut down for the night.

Curtiss had travelled not more than fifty paces when he realized that he might have company. It wasn’t any particular sound that had alerted him to the possibility. More a feeling in his bones, a sense that someone was watching.

He paused and stole a quick glance over his shoulder. A stooped figure, clearly the worse for wear, a knapsack across its back, was weaving unsteadily down the alleyway towards him, left hand outstretched, using the wall as guidance. There was a brief silvery glint as a beam of moonlight glanced off an object held in the figure’s right hand. Curtiss felt a flash of fear until he saw that the reflection had come not from a blade but from a glass bottle. As he watched, the figure lifted the bottle to its lips and took a hefty swig from the contents, almost overbalancing in the process, despite the fact that one hand was still braced against the brickwork.

Grimacing with distaste at such a pathetic display of drunkenness, the captain turned and continued on his way, keen to return to the comfort of his billet, there to enjoy one last tot of whiskey and to bask in the warm memory of his recent exertions before he finally retired for the night.

Another thirty paces and it occurred to Curtiss that, whoever the drunk was, his footsteps were inaudible. This struck Curtiss as unusual, given the noise his own boots were making as they scuffed their way through the dirt and the occasional puddle. Not unduly concerned, more curious than suspicious, he turned again, half-expecting to see a comatose form sprawled face down in the dirt several yards behind him.

It wasn’t the sight of the figure looming two feet away from him that caused the captain to take a quick step back so much as the knowledge that the man had managed to cover the distance between them not only in a matter of seconds but in total silence as well.

There were no street lamps in the alleyway. That convenience had yet to penetrate Albany’s narrow dockside lanes. What illumination there was came from the candlelight that spilled weakly from gaps in a few badly fitting shutters and the pale moon that hung, suspended like a pearl, high above the surrounding chimney pots.

As he stared at the shadowy form before him, Curtiss had a fleeting impression of a dark-haired individual as tall as himself. The captain’s startled gaze flickered across what he could see of the man’s features, to the dark eyes set in a hard face and the two ragged scars that ran in parallel furrows across the upper curve of the man’s left cheekbone.

Curtiss never saw the blow that struck him and thus had no chance of defending himself. One second he was standing in the alley, the next he was coming to his senses, face down in the dirt, feeling as if he’d just been run over by a coach and four – several times.

He raised his head cautiously, and then wished he hadn’t as a sharp bolt of pain lanced through his jaw and speared its way into the backs of his eyeballs. Letting out a groan, he winced and sank down again. Confused by his situation, he lay still for several seconds until the nausea had subsided and then tried again. This time, he made it as far as his knees. He reached up and felt along the side of his head. His hand came away damp and sticky and he stared blankly at the stain on the tips of his fingers. He realized, with some apprehension, that he was staring at his own blood, as black as pitch in the moonlight.

The nausea overtook him again and he reached out with the same hand, pressing the now-bloodied palm against the wall to keep himself upright. As he did so, he had a sudden vision of a dark-clad figure performing a similar manoeuvre not so long ago. He closed his eyes as a fresh bout of dizziness arrived and then, as the moment passed and his mind began to clear, his memory reasserted itself.

There had been a man, he remembered; a stranger, who, using the shadows of the night and the captain’s own footfalls to mask his presence, had followed him into the alleyway; a tall man who had first appeared drunk and whom he had then turned to confront.

After which …

Fuzzy as to the exact sequence of events, Curtiss hauled himself up until he had gained his feet, then slumped back against the wall. No sooner had he done so than he let out a gasp as his spine made contact with the cold hard surface of the bricks. It was then he realized that his memory wasn’t the only thing he was lacking.

His overcoat and uniform tunic were gone, too; which would explain why he was suddenly so damned cold.

Curtiss looked around fearfully. He was in a narrow passageway leading off the alleyway he’d been walking down. There were no candle-lit windows in the passage, only a couple of murky doorways. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he thought back to the last thing he remembered and tried to bring the face of the man who’d robbed him to mind.

Though he’d employed considerable stealth to conceal his approach, the stranger hadn’t looked like a footpad. Which was not to say there was anything benign about his attacker; those saturnine features – not to mention the scars – had marked him out as the last person you’d want following you into a dark alleyway. And yet Curtiss had allowed him to do precisely that. He should have been more observant from the start. Probably would have been, had his mind not been filled with the memory of his recent entanglement with the nubile Jessica. If only he’d avoided the shortcut and taken a more public route home.

And what kind of footpad was it that stripped a man of his coat and tunic instead of just rifling through his pockets and making off before he regained consciousness? It wasn’t as if the man didn’t have a greatcoat of his own. Curtiss couldn’t recall what his assailant had been wearing under it. That much was a blur.

Groggily Curtiss felt delicately for his head wound, probing the bump. What the devil had the man hit him with? The bottle? Perhaps the scoundrel had used a fist and he’d hit his head when he’d fallen to the ground. Using the wall for support, he began making his way cautiously towards the entrance to the passageway, but had proceeded only a couple of yards when his boot made contact with something lying on the ground. He flinched, the sudden movement sending another shock wave through his skull. Hesitantly, ignoring the pain, he forced himself to look down. In the spectral gloom, the bundle at his feet appeared to be a body. Summoning resolve, he peered closer.

To his immense relief, he saw that he had been mistaken. There was no body. What he was looking at was an empty coat – his own coat, he realized with a start – that had been folded and propped against the wall. His boot had snagged in the sleeve, causing the garment to fall open. Gingerly Curtiss crouched to pick the coat up; head swimming, he waited for the nausea to subside before shaking out the garment and put it on. He let go a thankful sigh as the cloth enveloped him: warm again. Well, almost.

Without thinking, he patted the pockets and frowned when he heard the clink of money. Further investigation revealed he was still in possession of his change. He withdrew the coins and stared down at them. Why would someone steal his jacket and yet leave his finances intact? Curtiss sucked in his cheeks. Not a good idea; the pain was a sharp reminder. Checking further, Curtiss discovered that his pocket watch was there, too. Apparently the only item that had been purloined, apart from his tunic, was a small tin containing some tapers and his flint and steel.

Curtiss, his mind awash with confusion, emerged hesitantly into the alleyway. There was no one around, no faces at any of the windows or doors that might have witnessed the assault. He considered his options. The obvious thing to do was to inform the constables that he’d been the victim of a robbery, but he could imagine the looks on their faces as he told them that the only items stolen were his army tunic and fire-making tools. What kind of thief would leave his coat folded on the ground with his money and watch still inside?

Thoughts of his watch had Curtiss reaching back into his pocket. He lifted the timepiece out, consulted the dial and groaned. He’d missed the damned ferry. There wasn’t another one scheduled until the morning. From past experience, Curtiss knew that it was well-nigh impossible to cadge a ride with anyone trustworthy after dark, so he was stuck. Marooned might have been a better description.

But at least he had money, and therefore the means to pay for a room. Things could have been a lot worse. He could have been lying in the dark with his throat slit from ear to ear. That thought sent another shard of pain scooting through the back of his skull.

Burrowing into his coat, Curtiss decided there was no alternative. Cutter’s Tavern was just around the corner, and the accommodation there was a sight more comfortable than his billet in the officers’ quarters. Galvanized by the thought of a dram and a seat by the tavern’s roaring fire, Captain Curtiss quickened his pace.

Maybe, after he’d warmed his insides, he could warm the rest of his person by retracing his steps to Hoare’s Gaming Club and revisiting the delectable Jessica. After all, there was nothing more likely to garner sympathy in a young lady’s bosom than a gentleman’s sorry tale of woe. Mrs Delridge, the club’s proprietress, might even be sufficiently touched by his plight to offer a discount.

Cheered by that prospect, Captain Curtiss took new bearings and headed for the first of his goals.

After all, it wasn’t as if a missing tunic was the end of the world. The quartermaster would undoubtedly moan about the difficulty of finding a replacement, but that was the way of quartermasters. The loss would be rectified and the militia would survive.

Like me, Curtiss reflected thankfully as he continued on his way.

Ten yards further on, though, it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing his hat.

The thieving bastard had stolen that, too.

Hawkwood cursed under his breath. The captain’s uniform chafed like the devil. It didn’t help that the tunic was tighter than he’d expected around the chest and underneath the arms, and that the sleeves were on the short side. The hat fitted well enough, though, for which Hawkwood was grateful. Since leaving the army he’d abandoned headwear, unless it was part of some disguise he’d had to adopt in the course of his duties as a peace officer. Thus even though the damned thing was relatively secure on its perch it still felt decidedly unnatural.

He had, however, drawn the line at purloining the captain’s breeches. He’d no intention of going back on the self-imposed rule that had stood him in good stead through the years: never wear another man’s trousers.

The tunic had been a different proposition. Hawkwood knew he needed it to give him authority. So while the thing might be bloody uncomfortable, it was ideal for his purposes. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to bear the discomfort for too long.

He’d been waiting in the shadows opposite the gaming club entrance for almost an hour when he spotted a suitable candidate: someone of his own height and build, in officer’s garb.

He hadn’t expected it to go so well. There had been a moment when his intended victim had turned round, but Hawkwood had planned for that eventuality by collecting an empty bottle from the window sill of a nearby tavern to use as a prop. Pretending to be tipsy had given him something to do with his hands, and as most law-abiding citizens were repelled by drunkards the ruse had proved a sound one. The final approach had been tricky, but matching his own footsteps with those of his target had enabled him to get up close. Before his victim had time to react, Hawkwood had launched a blow to the carotid that cut off the blood supply as effectively as a tourniquet.

The strike had been taught to him by Chen, an exiled Shaolin priest Hawkwood had met in London. They sparred together in a cellar beneath the Rope and Anchor public house. Chen had cautioned that, if delivered too robustly, there was a danger such a blow could kill. He had then proceeded to demonstrate the precise speed at which the strike had to be delivered in order to subdue rather than maim or kill, by using the technique against Hawkwood. After being laid out half a dozen times, Hawkwood had got the idea. As the unfortunate Captain Curtiss had discovered to his cost, Chen’s former pupil had learned his lesson well.

Suitably attired, Hawkwood was on the ferry by the time the captain stumbled out of the alleyway. The three hundred yard crossing proved uneventful, though the numbing wind that eddied downriver from the northern reaches offered a prophecy of wintry conditions ahead. In the darkness it was difficult to make out the far bank; the high bluffs that dominated the eastern shore cast dark shadows over the Greenbush waterfront. All that could be seen were the lights from the rag-tag collection of houses huddled behind the landing stage, which seemed to be drawing the ferry like a moth to a candle flame.

The vessel – if the flat-bottomed, punt-shaped barge could be called such a thing – was not overladen. There were only half a dozen passengers, all male. Three were in uniform, presumably heading back to barracks after a night out. The others could have been military men in civilian dress or Greenbush residents; Hawkwood had no way of knowing. One of the uniformed men had been drinking heavily, or at least beyond his capacity. He spent the short voyage voiding over the ferry’s gunwale, his retching almost matching in volume the wash of water against the hull and the rasp of the ropes as they were hauled through the pulley rings.

Hawkwood was glad of the distraction this provided, for he’d no wish to engage his fellow passengers in conversation. Even the most cursory enquiries would inevitably reveal his ignorance of both his regiment and the cantonment to which he was heading. And the less opportunity anyone had to study and memorize his features, the better. He had, therefore, affected a show of distaste for the vomiting and removed himself from his fellow passengers, gazing out over the rail while immersing himself in the darkness of the night and thoughts of what his next move might be.

It was a fact of war that even the best-laid plans had a tendency to fall apart upon first contact with the enemy. On hostile ground, with limited access to resources, Hawkwood had no alternative but to improvise. And time was running out.

The cantonment lay at the end of a well-trodden dirt road that rose in a steady incline stretching a mile and a half from the landing stage. Hawkwood knew the way. He’d made a dry run that afternoon. Had he not had the benefit of studying the lie of the land in daylight he would have found it impossible to find his way now, with the trees creating deep dense shadows across the path.

Hoisting his knapsack on to his shoulder, he increased his stride and forged up the trail. He kept up the pace for several minutes before halting. His long coat rendering him almost invisible in the blackness, he listened for the other ferry passengers; long seconds passed before his ears picked up the sounds of slow stumbling progress further down the hill. No threat there; he moved on.

Soon the ground began to level off and the trees started to give way. Lights that had hitherto been the size of fireflies grew into patches of candle-glow spilling from windows and from lanterns as the cantonment appeared before him.

The camp was large, probably close to two hundred acres. Even in daylight it had been difficult to determine the exact boundaries, for there were no perimeter walls or fences separating the place from the outside world. Hawkwood could not determine whether this was a monumental dereliction of security or because the army deemed it impractical or unnecessary.

From what he’d seen during his afternoon sortie, the buildings were in good condition. Quade had told him that work on the site had only commenced in March, with the last of the barracks erected in September. Hawkwood doubted the paintwork would look so pristine after the winter snows and the spring thaw had wreaked their havoc.

Courtesy of Major Quade, he also knew that the cantonment could accommodate four to five thousand troops, close to three-quarters of the total complement of the American regular army. As a divisional headquarters, it boasted impressive facilities: living quarters for soldiers and officers of field rank and below: stables; a smithy; a powder magazine, armoury and arsenal; a multitude of storage areas and essential workshops; a guardhouse; and a hospital. The dominant feature, however, was the parade ground. It straddled the centre of the camp and was bordered by soldiers’ barracks – four blocks on either side – and by officers’ quarters at either end. The accommodation wings had been easy to identify by the manner in which the soldiers entered and exited the buildings. Not that there appeared to be that many personnel about, which confirmed Quade’s account of General Dearborn having transferred the bulk of his command to Plattsburg. That might also explain why precautions appeared to be so lax.

As part of his reconnaissance, Hawkwood had scanned the approach roads for sentry posts, but like the perimeter safeguards they’d been conspicuous by their absence. Even now, there appeared to be no piquets on duty at the access points. Could the Americans really be that complacent? Were they so confident in their might and their independence that they assumed no one would dare breach their unguarded perimeter? Well, he was about to prove them wrong.

Opening his greatcoat buttons so as to reveal a glimpse of the tunic beneath, he drew himself up, adjusted his hat, and strode confidently into the lions’ den.

It had been a few years since Hawkwood had last set foot in an army compound, but even if he’d been delivered into the cantonment blindfolded and in pitch-dark, he would have found his bearings almost immediately. Military camps the world over had an odour and an atmosphere all of their own. And so it was with Greenbush.

Hawkwood’s objective was the cantonment’s southern corner. He’d already marked the site of the stables but they would have been easy to find by sense of smell alone. The combination of horse piss, shit, leather and straw was unmistakable. The three blocks of stalls formed a U-shape around a yard, with a farrier’s hut positioned in the centre. Illuminated by lanterns hanging alongside the stable doors, the place looked to be deserted. It couldn’t be that easy, surely?

It wasn’t.

Someone laughed, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the evening. Hawkwood paused, looking for the source, and saw a faint beam of light leaking from a door at the end of the left-hand stable block. As he moved towards it, his ears caught the low murmur of voices and another dry, throaty chuckle. The exchange was followed by a rattling sound, as though several small pebbles were being rolled around the inside of a hollow log.

He paused, aware there were two choices now open to him. The first was to continue by stealth alone in the hope that he could achieve his objective without being discovered, which was unrealistic. The second carried an equal amount of risk, but was more overt and would involve a lot more nerve. If he could pull it off, though, he’d undoubtedly save time.

He decided to go with the second option.

Placing his knapsack against the wall, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Three men, coarse-faced and lank-haired, dressed in unbuttoned tunics, were seated at a rough table surrounded by walls festooned with tack. A small pile of coins and a tin mug sat by each man’s elbow. In the centre of the table a half-empty bottle of rye whiskey stood next to a lantern and a wooden platter containing a hunk of bread, some sliced ham and a wedge of pale yellow cheese with a small knife stuck in the centre of it.

One of the men was holding a wooden cup. He gave it a shake as Hawkwood walked in; the resulting rattle was the sound that had been audible from the yard. Not pebbles in a log but wooden dice. The dice man’s hand stilled and three sets of eyes registered their shock and surprise. Clearly, evening inspection by a ranking officer was not a regular occurrence.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Hawkwood fixed his attention on the man holding the dice. He waited two seconds, then demanded brusquely: “Your name – remind me.”

The dice man scrambled upright. “Corporal J-Jeffard, sir.” His gaze flickered nervously to the collar and top half of the tunic, made visible by Hawkwood’s unbuttoned greatcoat.

“Ah, yes,” Hawkwood said, injecting sufficient disdain into his voice to inform everyone in the room who was in charge. “Of course. Labouring hard, I see.”

The corporal reddened. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Hawkwood swung towards the other two, both of whom had also risen to their feet. One of them was trying to fasten his collar at the same time. Recognizing a losing battle, he gave up. Whereupon, reasoning that it might be better if he assumed at least some sort of military pose, he dropped his hands to his sides. His companion followed suit. The movement tipped his chair on to its back. All three men flinched at the clatter.

Hawkwood could smell the alcohol on their breath. “And you are …?” he enquired.

“Private Van Bosen, sir.”

“Private Rivers, Captain.”

Hawkwood viewed the bottle and the mugs. “Care to explain, Corporal?”

Jeffard flicked a nervous glance towards his companions.

“Don’t look at them!” Hawkwood snapped. “Look at me!”

The trooper swallowed and found his voice. “Taking a break between duties, Captain. We were about to return to our posts when you arrived.”

“Of course you were,” Hawkwood said witheringly. “Nice try. Shame you’ve been rumbled. If I were you, I’d practise those excuses. You can put down the dice; I’ve a job for you.”

He paused, watching as a chastened Jeffard did as he was told, allowing the silence to stretch to breaking point before adding, “I’m here because I have urgent dispatches for both General Dearborn and Colonel Pike. I need two good mounts, saddled, fully equipped and ready to depart in ten minutes. Manage it quicker than that and you can finish your game.” He turned to the others. “Anyone else on duty here, or is this it?”

A flustered nod from Van Bosen. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Just us, sir.”

Hawkwood vented a silent sigh of relief as he waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, well, whichever it is, I don’t care, frankly. Only, with the three of you, it won’t take long, will it? Ten minutes, gentlemen. I’ll expect those damned animals to be ready or I’ll want to know why. Don’t make me put the three of you on a charge. That happens and you’ll be shovelling shit till doomsday.”

Giving them no chance to respond, Hawkwood turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

As soon as he was outside and out of sight, he moved swiftly towards the shadows cast by the farrier’s hut. Tucking himself against the wall, he waited. A few seconds later, he watched as the three troopers left the tack room and hurried towards the adjacent stable block. The moment they disappeared inside, Hawkwood, his movement concealed by the intervening hut, crossed to the stable block on the opposite side of the yard. Grabbing a lantern from the wall, he hauled back the door. He was immediately assailed by the pungent aroma of hay, horse sweat and fresh droppings.

The stalls were set out along both sides of a central aisle. Beyond the reach of the lantern glow, dark forms stirred restlessly in the shadows. Straw rustled. A soft whickering sound eddied around the walls as the stable’s occupants caught his scent. He moved down the aisle, treading carefully. He had no desire to panic the animals. At least not yet.

As he looked for an empty stall, he prayed that Jeffard and his cronies were as inefficient as they had appeared to be. With luck, the brew they’d been drinking would slow them down long enough to allow him the valuable seconds he needed.

Two stalls had been left vacant. Hawkwood picked the one furthest from the door and looked for a supply of dry straw. Bales of it were stacked in a storage area at the end of the aisle. Laying aside the lantern and working quickly, he broke open one of the bales, gathered the contents in his arms and piled the bulk of it loosely against the slatted walls of the empty stall, trailing the rest out into the aisle.

Then he set it alight.

He used the lantern. He’d been planning to use the stolen flint and steel to start the fire, but they weren’t needed. The accelerants had been provided for him. He watched anxiously as the first tentative flames scurried along the dry stalks. When he was confident the fire had taken hold, he tossed the lantern to one side and backed away, unlatching the doors to the stalls as he went. By the time he reached the main door, the first of the horses was already stamping the ground and snorting nervously.

Exiting the stable, Hawkwood propped the outer door open as far as it would go and retraced his steps to the farrier’s hut. He made it to the tack room just as Corporal Jeffard led the first of the saddled horses into the yard.

Hawkwood counted to five and strode arrogantly into view. His sudden appearance had the desired effect: the troopers started in surprise. The less time they had to think, the less likely they would be to question his orders or, more inconveniently, his identity. Hawkwood wanted them on tenterhooks as to what this supercilious bastard of an officer would do next. From their expressions, the ruse appeared to be working.

“Well done, Corporal,” Hawkwood drawled. “There’s hope for you yet.”

The corporal drew himself up. “They’re sound, Captain. They ain’t been out for a day or two, so they’ll be glad of the exercise.”

Then they won’t be disappointed, Hawkwood thought, running a critical gaze over the animals. “All right, gentlemen. You’ve redeemed yourselves. You may return to your, ah … duties.”

A grin of relief spread across the corporal’s face. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

At that moment Private Van Bosen lifted his gaze to a point beyond Hawkwood’s shoulder and gasped hoarsely, “Oh, Christ!”

The exclamation was accompanied by the unmistakable clatter of hooves coming from the other side of the farrier’s hut.

Hawkwood, Corporal Jeffard and Private Rivers spun round in time to see a dark mass of stampeding horses careering noisily towards the open end of the stable yard and the darkness beyond.

“Jesus!” Jeffard stared in horror and disbelief at the vanishing animals.

Hawkwood frowned. “I smell smoke.”

“Bloody stable’s on fire!” Rivers yelped as the realization hit him.

Turning to Jeffard, who was holding the reins of the two saddled horses, Hawkwood barked, “Wait here! Don’t let them go! You two, with me! Move!”

The blaze had spread quicker than he had anticipated. The interior of the stable looked to be well alight, though the fire had yet to reach the roof. From inside, the fizzle of burning straw and the splintering of timber could be plainly heard. It wouldn’t be long before flames were dancing around the open door. Smoke was starting to pour through the gaps in the shingles, further darkening the already overcast night sky.

Hawkwood pushed Van Bosen towards the fire. “Don’t just stand there, man! Get buckets! We can save it! You, too, Rivers! I’ll go for help!”

Leaving them, Hawkwood ran back to where Corporal Jeffard was struggling to hang on to the two mounts. Both were now straining at the reins, having picked up the smell of the fire, and the scent of fear from their fleeing stable mates.

“Give them to me!” Hawkwood stuck out his hand. “Fetch water! I’ll alert the camp! If it spreads to the other blocks, we’re done for! Go!”

Jeffard, mouth agape, passed the reins over.

“Go!” Hawkwood urged. “Go!”

Jeffard turned tail and ran. Pausing only to snatch up his knapsack, Hawkwood climbed on to the first horse. Coiling the reins of the second in his fist, he dug in his heels and spurred the frightened animals out of the yard. As he did so, he saw from the corner of his eye two figures running frantically with buckets towards the smouldering building.

When he was clear, Hawkwood looked back. There were no flames to be seen as yet, but it could only be a matter of time before they became visible. It was doubtful the corporal and his friends would be able to cope on their own. Soon, they’d have to decide whether to carry on trying to save the stable block, or let it burn while they led the remaining horses to safety. From what Quade had told him about the chronic shortage of horseflesh available to the American army, they’d be anxious to preserve at all costs the few they did have.

Either way, they had enough to keep them busy for the moment.

Leaving the scene of impending chaos behind him, he urged the horses up the trail and into the trees. It was darker in among the pines and the last thing he wanted was for the animals to stumble, but he was committed now so he prayed that animals accustomed to carrying dispatches at the gallop would be agile enough not to lose their footing on the uneven slope.

Keeping to the higher ground, he could just make out the rectangular shape of the soldiers’ barracks below him and the latrine blocks attached to each one. Lights showed dimly behind shuttered windows. From what he could see, most of the garrison was slumbering, oblivious to the drama unfolding at the other end of the camp.

A break appeared in the path. Hawkwood paused and took his bearings before dismounting. The last of the barrack blocks was now in sight. At any moment Corporal Jeffard and the two privates would tire of wondering why no help had arrived and decide to sound the alarm for themselves. When that happened, all hell would surely break loose. Tethering the horses to a tree, he made his way down the slope using the woods as cover.

The camp guardhouse lay at the north-eastern corner of the cantonment at the end of a short path linking it to the parade ground. Two-storeys high and built of brick and stone, its entrance was protected by a wooden porch.

And an armed sentry.

Hawkwood waited until the sentry’s back was turned before emerging from the trees at a leisurely pace. He was twenty yards away from the building when the challenge came.

“Halt!” The sentry stepped forward, musket held defensively across his chest. “Who goes there?”

Hawkwood kept walking. “Captain Hooper, with orders from the colonel. Stand down, Private. You’ve done your job.” Hawkwood hardened his gaze, letting it linger on the sentry’s face. “Who’s the duty sergeant?”

Recognizing the uniform and disconcerted by the clipped authority in Hawkwood’s voice, the sentry hesitated then stood to attention. “That’ll be Sergeant Dunbar, sir.”

“And is he awake?” Hawkwood forged a knowing smile to give the impression that he and Dunbar were old comrades.

“Yes, sir.” The sentry relaxed, allowing himself a small curve of the lip.

“Glad to hear it.” Hawkwood raised a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him. Carry on.”

“Sir.” Flattered at having been invited to share a joke with an officer, the sentry shouldered arms and resumed his stance.

Hawkwood let out his breath.

Not far now.

It didn’t matter which army you fought for, guardhouses were always cold, cheerless places, built for purpose and furnished with only the most basic of amenities. So Hawkwood knew what he was going to see even before he passed through the door. There’d be a duty desk, above which would be affixed a list of regulations and the orders of the day; an arms rack; a table and a couple of benches; probably a trestle bed or two; a stove and, maybe, if the occupants were sensible and self-sufficient enough, a simmering pot of over-brewed coffee and a supply of tin mugs.

He wasn’t disappointed. The only items he hadn’t allowed for were the four leather buckets lined up along the wall just inside the door; fire-fighting for the use of, as the inventory might well have described them.

Four buckets aren’t going to be nearly enough, was Hawkwood’s passing thought as he turned his attention to the man behind the desk, who was already rising to his feet at the unexpected and probably unwelcome arrival of an officer.

“Sergeant Dunbar,” Hawkwood said, making it a statement, not a question. “Just the man.”

Always pander to the sergeants. They’re the ones who run the army. It’s never the bloody officers.

The sergeant frowned. “Captain?” he said guardedly.

Hawkwood didn’t bother to reply, but allowed his gaze to pass arrogantly over the other two men in the room, both of whom were in uniform, muskets slung over their shoulders. Relief sentries, presumably, either just returning from their circuit or about to begin their rounds. They straightened in anticipation of being addressed, but Hawkwood merely viewed them coldly in the time-honoured manner of an officer acknowledging the lower ranks; which is to say that, aside from noting their existence, he paid them no attention whatsoever. Neither man appeared insulted by the slight. If anything, they seemed relieved. Let the sergeant deal with the bastard, in other words.

“Everything in order here?” Hawkwood enquired.

The sergeant continued to look wary. “Yes, sir. All quiet.”

“Good. I’m here on the colonel’s orders: I need information on the prisoners that were transported from Deerfield earlier today.”

Caution flickered in the sergeant’s eyes. “Yes, sir.” Turning to his desk and the ledger that lay open upon it, he rotated the book so that Hawkwood could view the cramped script. “Names entered as soon as they arrived, Captain. Eleven, all told; one officer; ten other ranks.”

“Very good.”

Hawkwood ran his eyes down the list. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the name he was looking for. Keeping his expression neutral, he scanned past the name to the prisoner’s rank and regiment and place of capture: major, 40th Regiment, Oswegatchie.

“Is there a problem, sir?” The sergeant frowned.

Hawkwood recognized the defensive note in Dunbar’s query. Like guardhouses, duty sergeants were the same the world over: convinced that nothing ran smoothly without their say so and that even the smallest hint of criticism was a direct insult to their rank and responsibility. The other truth about sergeants was that every single one of them worth his salt had the knack of injecting precisely the right amount of scepticism into his voice to imply that any officer unwise enough to suggest there might be the cause for concern was talking out of his arse.

“Not at all, Sergeant. Everything’s as I’d expected. Nice to see someone’s keeping a tight rein on things around here.”

Hawkwood allowed the sergeant a moment to preen, then assumed a pensive look. He let his attention drift towards the two privates.

The sergeant waited expectantly.

Hawkwood returned his gaze to the ledger and pursed his lips. “We’ve received intelligence suggesting there may be an attempt to free the prisoners.”

The sergeant’s eyebrows took instant flight. “From what quarter, sir?”

Hawkwood didn’t look up but continued to stare ruminatively at the ledger while running his finger along the list of names.

“That’s the problem: we’re not sure. My guess is it’s some damned Federalist faction that’s refused to lie down. Or the Vermonters. This close to the border, it’s certain they’ve been keeping their eyes open and passing on information to their friends in Quebec.”

Hawkwood was relying on information he’d siphoned from Major Quade; support for the war was far from universal among those who depended for their livelihood on maritime trade and cross-border commerce with the Canadian provinces.

The sergeant stared at Hawkwood, not quite aghast at the thought but close to it. “You think there’ll be an attack on the camp, sir?”

Dunbar had not spoken loudly. Nevertheless the disbelief in his voice must have carried for Hawkwood sensed the two sentries pricking up their ears.

“Not if I can help it, Sergeant. Frankly, I doubt the bastards could raise enough of a mob for that to happen. No, if there is to be an attempt, they will employ subterfuge – that’s what we must guard against.”

“Subterfuge, sir?”

“Deception, Sergeant Dunbar. Deception.”

“Well, they’ll have to be damned quick, sir. We’re only holding them for one night. They’re off to Pittsfield in the morning.”

“True, Sergeant, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be vigilant. That’s the thing about deception: you never know where and when it’s going to be used. That’s why I’m here.”

The sergeant’s eye moved towards the heavy wooden door at the back of the room. Then he turned to Hawkwood and frowned. “Sir?”

That way to the cells, then, Hawkwood thought.

“I’m to inspect the facilities, to reassure the colonel that we’ve done everything possible. No criticism implied, Sergeant, but you know how it is: the colonel climbs on my back and I climb on yours. It’s the army way.”

Hawkwood had no idea who the colonel-in-charge was, but there was bound to be one somewhere and Sergeant Dunbar, he hoped, would come to his own conclusion on which one it might be.

The sergeant gave Hawkwood a look which spoke volumes. “Indeed, sir.”

“Let’s get it over with then, shall we? Might as well start with the officer. Lead the way.”

“Sir.”

The sergeant reached for a set of keys hanging from a hook on the wall behind him, then turned to the two privates. “All right, McLeary, make yourself useful. Fall in with the Captain and me while we check the prisoner. Jennings, you stay here and try to look alert. This way, sir.”

Sergeant Dunbar had no sooner stepped forward to lead Hawkwood across the room when a distant bell began to clang.

The sergeant paused in mid stride. His head came up. He looked at Hawkwood. “That’s an alarm, sir.”

Hawkwood turned. “You’re right. Find out what’s happening, Jennings.”

“Sir?”

“At the double, man!”

The private broke into a run. Hawkwood turned back. “It’s probably nothing. Carry on.”

The sergeant hesitated, then thought better of questioning an officer and unlocked the door.

There weren’t as many cells as Hawkwood had been expecting. Just six of them, arranged along a stone-walled corridor lit by a solitary lantern.

Dunbar lifted the lantern off its hook. “He’s in the one at the end. Got the place to himself at the moment, as you can see.”

Though conscious of Private McLeary hovering at his shoulder, Hawkwood betrayed no concern. “Has he given you any trouble?”

The sergeant shook his head. “Been as good as gold. Can’t tell you about the rest. You’ll have to check with the provost.” Adding as an afterthought: “… sir.”

It was cold in the corridor, with no stove provided for the prisoner’s comfort. As the three men made their way past the empty cells their footsteps echoed off the walls. Halting beside the last door, Dunbar held up the lantern. “Here we are.”

Hawkwood peered through the bars. The cell’s stark, almost bare interior, just discernible in the gloom, made the main guardroom look positively opulent. A pallet bed and a slop bucket were the only furnishings. An empty set of shackles hung from one wall.

“As you can see, sir, all secure. Only a fool’d try to break in. Plus they’d have me to deal with,” the sergeant added darkly.

“Good God, keep the damned noise down, can’t you? It’s been a bugger of a day and a fellow needs his sleep!”

The request came out of the dark recesses of the cell. Hawkwood could just make out an indistinct shape stretched out upon the bed. As he watched, the shape stirred and materialized into the figure of a man who, after casting aside the single blanket, sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

“My apologies, Major,” Hawkwood said drily. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“A bit late for that. The damage is done. Is this a social visit, by the way? If so, it’s a damned strange hour to come calling.”

The figure stood and approached the bars. As he did so, his features became visible.

The face wasn’t as florid as Hawkwood remembered, though that could have been due to the candlelight. He’d lost some weight, too; a change that hadn’t been immediately apparent during the few seconds that their eyes had locked at the ferry terminus. The red hair was now toned down by a sprinkling of grey; the subtle changes, lending him a more distinguished and grittier cast than there had been before. But while circumstance could alter an individual’s looks there was no doubt in Hawkwood’s mind as to the identity of the man that stood before him.

Major Douglas Lawrence, 1st Battalion of His Majesty’s 40th Regiment of Foot. The same officer who, on a misty morning in Hyde Park, close to the Serpentine, had stood by Hawkwood’s side and acted as his second in a duel against an arrogant son of the nobility, one John Rutherford Esquire.

“My apologies again, Major,” Hawkwood said. “I dare say the accommodation isn’t up to the standard you’re used to, either. I’m afraid Greenbush can’t compete with Knightsbridge.”

Which was close to where the pair of them had last parted company. Hawkwood prayed that neither Sergeant Dunbar nor Private McLeary would attach any significance to the exchange – and that the prisoner would.

It was time to find out. Stepping forward, he removed his hat, allowing his face to catch the light.

Shock showed instantly in the prisoner’s eyes but only for a second. It was enough. Hawkwood flicked a glance towards McLeary and the musket he was holding.

He was to wonder later if it was the light of recognition that had shown so briefly on Lawrence’s face that caused Sergeant Dunbar’s sixth sense to suddenly snap to attention.

“Seen enough, Cap—” was as far as the sergeant got before the words died in his throat and he took a quick step backwards, realizing, that the deception referred to by this anonymous officer was no longer a possibility but a terrible reality.

As yet another alarm began to clang; this time a lot louder and much closer to home than the first.

Hawkwood identified the sound immediately. Someone was running the metal striker around the inside of the alarm triangle hanging from the underside of the guardhouse porch.

Spinning his hat towards the sergeant’s face, Hawkwood went for the man with the gun first, sweeping the musket barrel aside before driving the heel of his other hand up under the base of the sentry’s nose. This time, there was no attempt to pull the punch and he felt the cartilage rupture.

As the trooper went down Hawkwood pulled the musket free, pivoting quickly as the lantern dropped to the floor with a clatter, followed by a muffled grunt.

The sound was all Sergeant Dunbar could manage, given that Lawrence’s arm was wrapped tightly around the sergeant’s throat. Having dropped the lantern, the sergeant was trying to break free. His feet were scrabbling for purchase as he clawed at the arm, but without success. Ignoring the beseeching look on the man’s face, Hawkwood reversed the musket and drove the butt hard into the sergeant’s belly.

As the sergeant collapsed to the floor, Hawkwood reached for his key ring.

He was stooping over the prone body when Private Jennings ran in from the guardroom.

“Fire, Sergeant! The stables—”

The sentry skidded to a halt. His jaw went slack as he took in the scene. Had his musket been slung over his shoulder and not held in the port arms position, Hawkwood might have given the man the benefit of the doubt, but there was no time. As Jennings brought his weapon up, Hawkwood reversed the musket he was holding and fired.

The ball slammed into Jennings’ shoulder, punching him against the wall. As the musket fell from his grip, Hawkwood scooped up the keys, threw the discharged musket aside and sprang to the cell door.

There was a sudden silence from outside. The sentry who had been sounding the alarm was no doubt on his way to investigate the sound of the shot.

It took two attempts to find the right key before the bars swung open.

“Quick march, Major!” Hawkwood urged.

Lawrence needed no further encouragement. The two men sprinted for the door, reaching the guardroom at the same time as the incoming sentry. Astonishment flooded the trooper’s face as it had his colleague’s. Recovering more swiftly than his fellow troopers, however, he swung his musket round.

Far too soon.

There was a sharp crack and a flash as Lawrence swept up and fired Trooper Jennings’ still primed weapon. The sentry screamed as his jaw blew apart and he went down. With the wounded man’s shrieks rising in volume, Hawkwood led the way outside.

The cantonment was now wide awake. Hawkwood looked past the row of soldiers’ barracks towards the southern perimeter. Beyond the trees, flames from the burning stables were now licking into the night sky. Men were rushing towards the blaze, many in a state of semi-undress, too distracted to have heard the shots from inside the guardhouse. Hawkwood thought he could hear the sound of hooves over the increasing shouts of panic.

“I take it that’s your doing?” Lawrence said, in awe.

“What were you expecting? A guard of honour?” Hawkwood headed towards the trees. “This way, I’ve horses waiting.”

Lawrence grabbed his arm. “What about the others?”

Hawkwood knew Lawrence was referring to the captured redcoats. “Sorry, Major. I can’t help them. Not this time.”

Not ever, he thought.

Indecision showed on Lawrence’s face. He stared about him wildly as if some clue to their whereabouts might manifest itself.

“I don’t know where they’re being held,” Hawkwood said. “It’s a big camp, the alarm’s sounded and we don’t have time to search the place. I’m sorry.”

Lawrence looked him in the eye, then nodded. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

“Up there! Come on!” Hawkwood, pointed towards the pine trees.

As the guardhouse alarm started up again, followed by a ferocious yell:

“Prisoners escaping! STOP THEM!”

Sergeant Dunbar – doubled over and apparently still suffering the effects of the blow to his stomach – had made it out on to the porch and was running the striker around the inside of the metal triangle. Pointing and gesticulating frantically, he yelled again. “STOP THOSE MEN!”

Hawkwood glanced to one side and saw that the sergeant was gesturing in his direction. Two men had responded to his call for help; one of them carrying a pistol, the other carrying what looked like …

Hawkwood stared.

A pike?

“Should’ve locked the bugger in the cells!” Lawrence swore. “Where are those damned horses? No wait, I see them!”

“Stop them, God damn it!” Sergeant Dunbar had abandoned the alarm and was stumbling after them.

“He’s a game sod, though,” Lawrence muttered. “I’ll give him that!”

“You men! Halt!” The order came from the pikeman who, along with his companion, was running hard now.

The man with the pistol paused and took aim. A crack sounded, accompanied by a bright powder flash. Hawkwood ducked and felt the wind from the ball as it tugged at his collar. There were only the two pursuers, as far as he could see. Three, including the sergeant. Everyone else was mesmerized by the fire.

Lawrence had reached the horses. Untying them, he hooked the musket strap over his shoulder, grabbed the reins of the nearest one and vaulted into the saddle. “Hurry!” he called.

The pikeman had made up ground and drawn ahead of the second trooper. As his attacker ran in, it struck Hawkwood that the pike looked ridiculously long and unwieldy and not the ideal weapon to grab in the heat of the moment. Presumably this was one of Colonel Pike’s men, and he’d been trained to reach for his pike the same way a rifleman was drilled: when reveille or the alarm sounded, it wasn’t your breeches or your boots or even your cock you reached for. It was your “BLOODY RIFLE, you idle bugger!”

That would certainly explain why this particular trooper had on his breeches and his boots and an under-vest, but no shirt or tunic. Not that his attire was of any interest to Hawkwood, who had his hands full trying to avoid being spitted like a hog on boar hunt.

In a three-rank advance and as a defence against cavalry, the pike was moderately effective. But when it came to close combat, if you didn’t incapacitate your target with your first thrust, you might as well be armed with a warming pan. As his enemy rushed at him, pike held in both hands, Hawkwood did the one thing his opponent didn’t expect. He attacked.

The trooper was already committed and it was the pike’s length that was his undoing; that and the fact that Hawkwood had reached the trees. The closeness of the trunks left no space to manoeuvre such a cumbersome weapon. As the pike-head jabbed towards him, Hawkwood darted inside his attacker’s reach, clasped the weapon with two hands – one either side of the trooper’s leading grip – and rotated the shaft downwards, away from his opponent’s hips. Caught off balance, the pikeman’s only recourse was for his left hand to let go, allowing Hawkwood to gain control of the weapon, twist the shaft out of the pikeman’s right hand and drive it back up into the trooper’s throat.

As the pikeman went down, Hawkwood heard Lawrence yell. He turned to see the second man had caught up and was charging in, his pistol raised as a club.

He was less than ten paces away when Hawkwood hurled the pike.

It had been an instinctive act, but the consequences proved catastrophic for his attacker. The length of the pike meant it did not have far to travel. The running man stopped dead, his face frozen into a mask of disbelief as the steel tip sank into his chest. Dropping the pistol, he fell to the ground, hands clasped around the wooden shaft protruding from his body.

There was a scream of rage as Sergeant Dunbar saw his men dealt with so comprehensively. And then Lawrence was there with the horses.

“Move your arse, Captain!”

Grabbing the dead man’s pistol and thrusting it into his coat pocket, Hawkwood threw himself into the saddle.

Behind them, Dunbar, fighting for breath after his exertions, had fallen to his knees.

Lawrence turned as Hawkwood found the stirrups and brought his mount under control. “Which way?”

Hawkwood quickly surveyed the bodies of the two troopers and the dark figures running about the parade ground like demented termites. The cantonment appeared to be in total disarray.

“North. We head north.”

Lawrence grinned. “Excellent! After you!”

“Yes, sir, Major!”

As they dug their heels into the horses’ sides, Hawkwood couldn’t help but grin in return. Relief at having accomplished what he had set out to do was surging through him. And the only cost had been a hat. A more than fair exchange for the freedom of one British officer, in anyone’s book.

Especially as he’d hated wearing the bloody thing anyway.