Читать книгу The Blooding - James McGee - Страница 9

BEWARE FOREIGN SPIES & AGITATORS!

The words were printed across the top of the poster, the warning writ large for all to see.

Hawkwood ran his eye down the rest of the deposition. Not much had been left to the imagination. The nation was at war, the country was under threat and the people were urged to remain vigilant at all times.

He glanced over his shoulder. There were no crowds brandishing pitchforks or torches so he assumed he was safe for the time being. He recalled there had been similar pamphlets on display around the quayside in Boston, presumably the preferred port of entry for an enemy bent on subverting the republic. He wondered how many people read the bills and took note of their content; probably not as many as the government wished.

Fortunately for him.

The bill was stuck on the inside of a hatter’s shop window. Under pretence of casting an eye over the merchandise on display, he studied his reflection in the glass, wondering what a subversive might look like and if he fitted the bill. From what he’d seen of the country and its citizens so far, he thought it unlikely that he’d be stopped and asked for his papers, though in the event he was, the problem would not have been insurmountable.

He was about to walk on when movement in the window caught his attention: another reflection, this time of the scene behind him. A man, dressed in an army greatcoat similar to his own was making his way along the opposite side of the street. He was walking with a cane and Hawkwood could see that he was favouring his right leg.

There had been a rainstorm during the night, which had transformed Albany’s thoroughfares into something of a quagmire. The fact that the capital was built on an incline didn’t help matters and even though the rain had stopped, trying to negotiate the sloping streets on foot was, in some areas, as precarious as wading through a Connemara bog. Quite a few folk were having difficulty maintaining their balance. Though not the two characters walking on firmer feet some fifteen paces or so behind the man with the cane.

Over the years, his duties as a Bow Street officer had brought Hawkwood into contact with criminals of every persuasion and his ability to spot miscreants had been honed to a fine edge. From the way the two men were concentrating on the figure in front, Hawkwood was left in no doubt they were intent on mischief.

A small voice inside his head began to whisper.

Not here, not now. Let them go. It’s not your city. It’s not your problem.

Hawkwood looked around him. There was plenty of traffic about, both vehicular and pedestrian and the street was far from deserted, but everyone else was too intent upon their own business to have noticed anything amiss, including the man in the greatcoat who appeared oblivious to the pair on his tail, despite two sets of eyes burning into his back.

Hawkwood watched as the men’s target turned into a narrow side lane. Immediately, the pair quickened their pace. As they disappeared into the lane after him, Hawkwood sighed.

Damn it, he thought, as he crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being run down by an oncoming carriage. Why me?

Twenty paces into the alley, the man in the greatcoat was down on one knee, with his back to the wall. The cane was in his right hand and he was trying to rise while wielding the stick like a sword to ward off his attackers.

It was a pound to a penny the man’s disability was the reason he’d been singled out. A cripple would be considered easy pickings for a couple of rogues. Hawkwood could see that one of the attackers held a knife, while his companion was brandishing a short cudgel.

There wasn’t as much mud here as there had been on the street so the traction was better and Hawkwood’s boots gave him the grip he needed. He felt disinclined to give the pair fair warning.

Only when they saw their victim’s eyes flicker to one side did they turn. Their eyes were still widening as Hawkwood slammed the heel of his right boot against the cudgel man’s left knee cap. The man yelped and went down, the cudgel slipping from his grasp as he clutched his injured limb. His companion immediately dropped into a crouch, the knife held in front of him. He scythed the blade towards Hawkwood’s throat.

Throwing up his right hand, Hawkwood caught the knife man’s wrist and twisted it to lock the arm before slamming the heel of his left hand against the braced elbow. The man yelled as the bone broke and the knife joined the cudgel on the ground. Hawkwood released the arm and stepped back.

“Your choice, gentlemen,” he said calmly, already knowing the answer. “What’ll it be?”

The two men turned tail. At least they’ve one good arm and one good leg between them, Hawkwood thought as he watched them hobble away. He kicked the discarded weapons into the shadows and reached down to the kneeling man who stared back at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Gripping Hawkwood’s hand and using his cane as support he rose to his feet and brushed himself down, allowing Hawkwood a glimpse of a uniform jacket beneath the coat.

“Well I don’t know who you are, friend, but I’m damned glad you were in the neighbourhood. The name’s Quade. Major Harlan Quade, Thirteenth Regiment of Infantry.”

The major held on to Hawkwood’s hand.

“Hooper,” Hawkwood said. “Captain Matthew Hooper.”

“I’ll be damned. Well, in that case, Captain Hooper, I hope you’ll allow a major to buy a captain a drink.”

Hawkwood ran a quick eye over what he could see of the major’s tunic and smiled. “Happy to accept, sir. It’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

Major Quade was currently on medical furlough from wounds sustained on the Niagara Frontier. Watching him stare into the depths of his whiskey glass, Hawkwood wondered if the major’s invitation might not have been born out of a desire for companionship rather than as a gesture to thank him for coming to the man’s rescue.

Not that it wasn’t gratifying to be appreciated every now and again, but Hawkwood suspected it was the rye that was doing most of the talking and he’d already asked himself: if the major had been in civilian dress and had he not identified himself as a ranking officer, would he still have accepted the offer of a drink?

Probably not, but the greatcoat and a glimpse of the uniform beneath it had made Hawkwood’s decision for him. A military man would likely have information about the disposition of local troops, and given Hawkwood’s current status as a foreign combatant on enemy soil it could prove useful to know which areas were best avoided.

They were seated at a table in the Eagle Tavern, less than a stone’s toss from the Hudson River. It was a comfortable enough establishment, with a generous selection of liquors, a moderately civil staff and, more importantly, a welcoming fire in the hearth.

The major had ordered whiskey and stuck to that throughout. Hawkwood had chosen brandy. The breeze that was coming off the water and eddying up the city’s streets was a bracing reminder that it was already winter. A stack of blazing logs and a warming drink were as good a way as any of keeping the chill at bay.

The taproom was enveloped in warmth. With the combined smells of ale, tobacco and victuals and the subdued murmur of conversation permeating the tavern Hawkwood could easily have shut his eyes and imagined, if only for a few brief seconds, that he was back in London, enjoying a wet at the Blackbird Inn.

Only he wasn’t. He was in Albany, New York, half a world away from Bow Street, trying to find some means of getting home.

Still, he thought, at least there was one advantage to being here.

He didn’t have to speak French.

The voyage from Nantes to Boston had taken thirty-two days, one more than Larkspur’s skipper, Jack Larsson, had forecast and thirty-two days too many, as far as Hawkwood was concerned.

Getting out of Paris in the wake of his last assignment had been achieved without too much difficulty but there had always been a weakness in the plan’s second stage, which had been reliant on Larkspur being intercepted and boarded by a British vessel on blockade duty, whereupon Hawkwood would have revealed his identity and secured safe passage back to England.

Regrettably, no one had allowed for the formidable seamanship of Larkspur’s wily skipper. During the five years the blockade had been in place – which required all neutral ships to submit to a cargo inspection at a British port or be seized as an enemy vessel – Jack Larsson had accrued valuable experience in the art of outwitting the Royal Navy’s squadrons. Now that Britain was actually at war with America, he had become even more adept at avoiding detection.

Thus Larkspur had slipped past the British patrols with ease, presenting Hawkwood with the uncomfortable realization that he was America bound.

The one advantage of the month-long voyage was that it had given him time to gather as much information as he could on the fluctuating state of British–American hostilities.

In Paris, up-to-date intelligence had been impossible to glean. Even though European newspapers carried accounts of skirmishes between the two sides, by the time news from the other side of the Atlantic reached the French newspapers or English ones smuggled in from London, it had to be at least six weeks out of date, if not more; which had left Hawkwood with no option but to tap Captain Larsson and his crew without arousing their suspicions.

First he had to gain their confidence. Aided by fraudulently obtained boarding papers which confirmed his identity as one Captain Hooper – an alias he’d used to good effect on previous missions – Hawkwood had been able to pass himself off as an officer in the First Regiment, United States Riflemen, on recent detachment as an observer to a French Regiment of the Line in Spain.

To his relief, Larsson had accepted ‘Captain Hooper’s’ patchy knowledge of the war as a legacy of his months serving with Bonaparte’s army in the Peninsula; which had left them, at least as far as Larkspur’s skipper was concerned, as fellow Americans, united in their patriotism, desirous of fresh news and looking forward to a safe return home from foreign climes.

But while Larsson was cognisant with American naval exploits, he knew little of the land campaign; what meagre information he had on military activity on the western and northern fronts lacked credible detail. The last dispatch he’d been privy to had been dated mid-September, a week before Larkspur had sailed from Boston.

And anything could have happened since then.

And so, on the cold, misty morning when the dark smudge of the Massachusetts coast finally materialized over Larkspur’s larboard bow, while Hawkwood felt the relief surge through him at having made landfall, he knew he was still a long way from salvation.

He’d accepted from the outset that another sea voyage would be an inevitable consequence of his arrival in America, but the thought of trawling the docks in search of a berth on an east-bound merchantman in the vain hope that this time the vessel would be stopped and boarded by the Royal Navy was not an option he’d been prepared to consider; once bitten, twice shy in that regard.

The only viable alternative was to try to reach the British lines. If he could manage that, he would surely be able to secure passage to England.

To achieve that goal, however, he’d first needed to confirm the whereabouts of the most convenient battlefront; short of enlisting, the easiest way of obtaining that information without drawing undue attention to himself was to consult the newspapers. Thus after disembarking and spending a night in a dockside tavern recommended by Larsson, his first objective had been to find the nearest reading room.

At the Exchange Coffee House, arming himself with a selection of journals – archive copies as well as the latest editions – and securing a seat in a corner with his back to the wall, he’d spent the morning familiarizing himself with the state of the nation. The Boston Patriot and the Washington Intelligencer had both carried a variety of dispatches, ranging from accounts of skirmishes and copies of letters from front-line commanders to the Department of War, to lists of the dead and wounded, notifications of promotions, requests for militia volunteers and even reward notices for deserters. More informative, by far, however, had been The War, the aptly titled New York broadsheet, published specifically in order to cover the conflict.

Concentrating on the latter’s editorial, the first thing that struck him was that the tide of war had taken a much grimmer turn since he’d left France, resulting in grave consequences for both sides of the divide.

The main build-up of forces had been along the borderland between the United States and the Province of Upper Canada, down the line of the Great Lakes, Ontario and Erie, with British and American combatants facing each other along opposite shores of the Niagara and Detroit Rivers.

It had been the British who’d seized the initiative when, back in August, General Isaac Brock crossed the Canadian border and laid siege to Detroit, capturing the town and taking his opposite number, General William Hull, prisoner. There had been several cut-and-thrust sorties since then, with the British continuing to have the edge, culminating in the defeat of a recent American counter-invasion attempt into Canada near Queenston, during which the aforementioned General Brock had lost his life to a sniper’s bullet. But, so far, it looked as though neither side had been able to summon the troops or equipment to wage a decisive land battle.

While the red-coated regiments had shown their superiority in the land war, the same could not be said for the waterborne operations of the Provincial Marine, the Royal Navy force that patrolled the waterways of the St Lawrence River and the northern lakes. The Americans, against all odds, had managed to seal the Marine inside its main base of operations, the port of Kingston at the eastern end of Lake Ontario.

In sifting events into chronological order, it had soon become clear to Hawkwood that in the weeks since the debacles at Detroit and Queenston the Americans had been regrouping with a vengeance, strengthening their troop numbers along the St Lawrence and bolstering their main naval base at Sackets Harbor – across the water from Kingston – where a number of newly acquired merchant vessels had been converted into war ships and transports.

Emboldened by their new-found confidence, the Americans had also undertaken several small but telling raids against British supply convoys and fortifications along the various river routes. Rumours had even been revived which spoke of another possible invasion attempt on Canada.

Two maps displayed in a four-day-old edition of The War had eventually provided the information he’d been searching for: the disposition of British and American forces. One covered the operations around the Detroit River; the other reflected events that had taken place further east in New York State along the northern Canadian border and the Niagara Frontier. Studying the maps carefully while referring to the corresponding dispatches, it hadn’t taken long to deduce that if he was to try to reach the British lines, three escape routes were available to him – none of which looked in the least inviting. There was no need to make a decision there and then, however, because no matter which route he ended up taking, all roads led to one inevitable transit point:

Albany.

What had made him hesitate, though only for a moment, had been the fact that Albany had recently been designated the headquarters of the American Army’s Northern Command.

Deciding that was a bridge he’d have to cross when he came to it, Hawkwood had surreptitiously extracted the New York map page from the newspaper and folded it into his pocket. As he’d left the Exchange, one thought remained uppermost in his mind.

No one had said it was going to be easy.

The coach had left Boston at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. His seaman’s bag having been swapped for a more convenient knapsack, Hawkwood had alighted from the coach at Albany’s State Street terminus at eight o’clock in the evening of the following day, a mere three days after his arrival on to American soil.

And more than twenty years since his departure.

The major caught the pot-man’s eye and raised his empty glass.

“I’ll have the same again and another brandy for my friend.” As the order was borne away, Quade began to massage his right thigh.

“How’s the leg?” Hawkwood asked.

“Stiff as a board and aching like the devil, but the surgeon told me I can probably return to duty by the end of the week.”

Quade didn’t look or sound that enthused by the prospect. From the exchanges they’d had so far, Hawkwood could understand why.

The drinks arrived.

“Whiskey for you, Major,” the pot-man said. “Brandy for the gentleman.”

If you only knew, Hawkwood thought. He took a swallow, savouring the warmth of the alcohol as it passed down his throat, and watched as Quade downed half the contents of the whiskey glass in one go.

“You were telling me about Queenston,” Hawkwood said.

Queenston was where the major had received his wounds. Not that Hawkwood was that curious as to how Quade had come by his injuries. He was more interested in what information the major might have regarding American and British troop emplacements.

The hamlet lay on the Canadian side of the Niagara River, as Hawkwood had discovered from his visit to the reading room. It was also home to a British garrison, one of a string of Crown fortifications that stretched from Niagara in the north, down to Fort Erie in the south, where the river began its spectacular journey to Lake Ontario. It was this length of frontier that formed the apogee to one of Hawkwood’s three possible escape routes.

“Goddamned militia!” Quade’s knuckles gleamed white as he gripped his glass. “Citizen soldiers? Useless bastards, more like! If there’d been a regular in command instead of that fool Van Rensselaer, it would’ve been different. That’s the trouble with political appointees, they’re easily pressured. He was told he had to attack Canada before winter. He should have stood his ground, told them it was too soon. It was the same with his officers. The idiots were demanding he either launch the invasion or let their men go home for Christmas! God save us! Is that any way to run an army? Well, is it?” The major took another swig. “D’you know there weren’t even enough boats for the crossing?”

Beads of perspiration clung to the major’s brow. Whether they were a result of his proximity to the hearth or due to the pain in his leg or the effects of the whiskey, it was hard to tell. Quade wasn’t slurring his words, so the sweat oozing from his pores could just as easily have been a physical manifestation of the resentment he was giving voice to – with scant regard for discretion. Though no one in the vicinity seemed to be paying either of them any attention.

“Is that so?” Hawkwood said.

“And half the vessels had lost their oars!”

From the tone of his voice, Quade sounded as if he was just getting started. Hawkwood braced himself to endure a lengthy rant about the inadequacies of the General Staff before any useful nuggets of information could be gleaned.

But as Quade’s story unfolded, it was difficult not to sympathize, even if he was the enemy. The newspaper accounts of the battle had made much of General Brock’s death, but now it emerged that much of the story had gone unreported. American losses had been considerable.

“I was in the second wave,” Quade continued, the edge in his voice as sharp as a blade. “We used a fisherman’s path to gain the Heights and take their battery – though not before they’d spiked their guns, which we could have done without. Victory should have been ours. With Brock dead, we thought they’d cut and run. What we hadn’t allowed for was his aide-de-camp, Sheaffe, bringing up reinforcements from Fort George or the arrival of his advance party – that breed, Norton, and his damned savages!”

Quade’s face twisted. “They’re what did for us. They occupied the woods at the summit; kept us pinned down with musket fire. All this while Van Rensselaer was still trying to rally his troops into crossing the river. Trouble was, the cowards had seen the redcoats advancing and they could hear the screams.”

“Screams?” Hawkwood said.

“Of the wounded …” Quade lifted his glass and took a swallow, “… and the natives. That’s when the militia told Rensselaer they weren’t prepared to fight on foreign soil! It was their cowardice that left us stranded. Once the rest of Sheaffe’s men arrived, we never stood a chance. Marched towards us as calm as you like. Stopped a hundred and fifty yards out. At that range our muskets were useless. When they fired their volley, we couldn’t see them for the smoke. It was only when it cleared that we realized they’d used it to hide their approach. That’s when they fixed bayonets and charged.”

The American grimaced. “And we ran; every man of us, like frightened jack rabbits. Only there was nowhere to go. We had the drop from the Heights at our backs and the British in front. We tried sending two men out with a white flag, but the savages cut them to pieces. By that time, most of our side were trying to climb down to the river, hoping they’d be able to swim across. You could hear their bodies hitting the rocks, even above the sound of the guns.”

Quade shook his head, as if to rid himself of the memory. “I don’t know how the hell I made it. Truth is, I was more fearful of what those savages would do if they caught me than I was of falling over the damned cliff. I thought the Mullahs were inventive when it came to torture, but they’re nothing compared to the Iroquois.”

The major cradled his glass in silence for a moment then his eyes met Hawkwood’s. “I took a musket ball in the side and that sent me tumbling. Broke the bone when I landed. One of my sergeants hauled me into the water. Funny thing is, it was one of those missing oars that saved us. We found it adrift on the current and used it to float back to our own shore.”

Quade extended his injured limb and resumed kneading the muscle above his knee. “We left a thousand men behind. It wasn’t a retreat, it was a rout, plain and simple. No other word for it.”

The major had long legs. He was equal to Hawkwood in height and about the same age, give or take a year, though his dark hair was shorter, cut back from a widow’s peak and greying at a faster rate. There was also a gaunt aspect to his features, which, Hawkwood thought, could have been due to his injury. Or it could have been from the trauma of reliving his ordeal. That might also have accounted for the haunted look in his eyes.

It occurred to Hawkwood that the more the major drank, the more his looks matched his mood. For while the alcohol appeared to be having little effect on either his balance or his vocabulary, it grew apparent that he was becoming more morose with each sip. Hawkwood suspected that if Quade were to drink to excess he would not be a happy drunk.

Men like Quade were nothing new; officers unwilling to accept their own failings while finding constant fault with others, usually men of a more senior rank. Though if half of what Quade had told him was true, it was small wonder the man was feeling bloody. The American army appeared to be in a sorry state, with a lack of experienced soldiers of all ranks, not to mention supplies and weaponry and even horses for their recently created dragoon regiments.

According to Quade, some enlisted men were having to fight in bare feet because there was a shortage of boots. The major’s own uniform jacket was brown and not the regulation blue because there was a dearth of indigo cloth.

Hawkwood tried to imagine what the British army would do if there wasn’t enough scarlet weave. It didn’t bear thinking about. But then, until this latest conflict, the Americans hadn’t been involved in a war on home soil since gaining their independence. Little wonder they were at a disadvantage when they were trying to rebuild their army.

The major was from Virginian military stock. It had been the young Quade’s intention to study artillery and engineering at Fort Clinton, until his father advised him that a new professional army was being formed to combat the threat from the north-western Indian tribes who, a year previously in a bloody battle on the Wabash River, had inflicted the greatest defeat upon the United States Army by a native foe. Quade had been one of the United States Legion’s first recruits.

“We got our revenge at Fallen Timbers,” he told Hawkwood. “They had no option after that. They had to sign the damned peace treaty.”

Hawkwood presumed that Fallen Timbers was a battle the Indians had lost. Quade obviously expected him to know about it. Probably best, Hawkwood thought, to remain silent and not disabuse the major of that particular notion.

The Mullahs Quade had referred to were the Berber Muslims. Hawkwood didn’t know much about them either, though he did recall Larkspur’s skipper referring to a war the Americans had fought in the Mediterranean some seven or eight years before against North African pirates.

Following the Legion’s disbanding, Quade had switched his allegiance to the newly resurrected Marine Corps. The Corps had been looking for officers and with the Legion’s mission against the tribes fulfilled, Quade had seen an opportunity for advancement. Since then, by his own admission, the variety of enemy he’d fought against had exceeded that of his father and grandfather.

The major shook his head wearily. “If I’d had any sense, I’d have ignored the call. My ship was in Boston when I heard they were in need of serving officers. Men with experience of engaging with irregulars were especially in demand. I guessed that with my time in the Legion and fighting the Berbers, I had what they were looking for, so I offered my services.”

He gave a rueful smile. “Saw it as the lesser of two evils, my chance to get back to dry land. I’m no sailor, damn it. I always was prone to sea-sickness. Not so good for a Marine, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” He massaged his knee once more. “And look where it got me. That damned river was freezing; it’s a wonder I didn’t come down with pneumonia.”

After his wounds had been treated, Quade was transferred to the hospital at Buffalo, where he’d spent the bulk of his recuperation. With the Americans’ push to invade Canada along the Niagara having stalled, Major Quade had received orders summoning him back to Albany.

“The fact is; I can’t say that I’m looking forward to reporting in,” Quade said quietly, his voice dropping to a whisper, as though he’d suddenly become aware, following his previous indiscretions, that walls could have ears.

“I’m not sure Dearborn’s cut out for command any more than Van Rensselaer was. He’s as old as Methuselah, for a start!” He looked into the fire, staring into the flames for several seconds before pulling back and favouring Hawkwood with a wintry smile. “But you didn’t hear me say that. Forgive me; I’ve a tendency to ramble when I’ve had a few. I meant nothing by it. I dare say you’ll be making your own judgement when the time comes.”

As far as the major was concerned, Captain Hooper was newly arrived from the continent where he’d been on extended service, most recently in Nantes, France, there having undertaken a number of unspecified duties on behalf of a grateful United States Government. Now he was in Albany, awaiting orders from the War Department, on the understanding that he was likely to be assigned to General Dearborn’s Northern Command Headquarters, where his intimate knowledge of British military tactics could be put to strategic use in the current hostilities.

Hawkwood knew that, as masquerades went, it was tenuous at best and downright dangerous at worst, but as his liaison with Quade was only scheduled to last as long as a couple of drinks, hopefully it would suffice.

“It sounds,” Hawkwood said, in an attempt to move the conversation on, “as though the bastards have that part of the frontier sealed up tight. What about Ontario and the St Lawrence? I hear we’ve given a good account of ourselves there.”

Quade’s eyes flashed as he nodded in agreement. “Thanks to Chauncey! About time the bastards got a taste of their own medicine! Now they know what it’s like to be bottled up with nowhere to go!”

From his reading, Hawkwood knew that Commodore Isaac Chauncey, former Officer-in-Charge of the New York navy yard, was the newly appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Great Lakes Navy. Since his transfer to Sackets Harbor in October, the Americans had taken the war to the British with a vengeance. With their successful blockade of Kingston, it was now the United States who ruled the waves on Lake Ontario and the upper reaches of the St Lawrence, and not the Provincial Marine as had previously been the case.

“The Limeys need the Marine to help keep their supply routes open.” Quade said. “We sever those and hopefully we can wear the sons of bitches down. We’ve made a good start. They’re already having difficulty supplying their southern outposts. Once winter sets in, it’ll be impossible to move anywhere. Not that either side will want to, so both armies are going to be snow-bound until March, which means we’ll be ready for them come the thaw.”

Hawkwood manufactured a smile in support of Quade’s rekindled optimism. From the major’s point of view, the reversal of fortune following the Queenston and Detroit defeats was a much-needed boost to national morale, but all Hawkwood could see was the shutting down of his second prospective escape route.

Not that either option had held much appeal, due more to their geography than their military significance. It was four hundred miles to the Niagara frontier and at least two hundred to the St Lawrence, with each route involving a heavily defended river crossing at the end of it.

The third option was looking more inviting by the minute. But then it always had. Quade’s disclosures had merely confirmed what Hawkwood had already decided. If he was to have any chance of reaching safety, he should discount the western paths and take the shortest of the three routes: north, up through New York State. If he made for the closest point on the Canadian border, his journey would still involve the negotiation of a river but, unlike the Niagara and St Lawrence, the Hudson, because of its course, had the potential to be an ally rather than an enemy. Winter was approaching fast, however. If he was going to start his run, he’d need to do it quickly.

Though it wasn’t as if he’d be heading into unknown territory.

The flames in the hearth danced as a new batch of customers entered the tavern, bringing with them a heavy draught of cold air from the street outside. Hawkwood looked towards the door. The new arrivals were in uniform; grey jackets, as opposed to the tan of Quade’s tunic. As they took a table in the corner of the taproom, Quade eyed them balefully over the rim of his now-empty glass.

“Pikemen,” he murmured scornfully. “God save us. It’ll be battleaxes next.”

Hawkwood knew his puzzlement must have shown, for Quade said, “My apologies; a weak jest. They’re Zebulon Pike’s boys. Fifteenth Infantry. He’s had them in training across the river.”

“Across the river” meant the town of Greenbush. Hawkwood had been surprised and not a little thankful to discover that Albany wasn’t awash with military personnel. It had turned out that General Dearborn had set up his headquarters not in the town but in a new, specially constructed compound on the opposite side of the Hudson. This was much to the relief of the locals, who, while mindful of the economic advantages of having an army camped on their doorstep, didn’t want the inconvenience of several thousand troops living in their midst. It was a compromise that suited all parties.

“Battleaxes?” Hawkwood said, confused.

“Pike has this notion to equip his men with pole-arms. He’s introduced a new set of drills: a three-rank formation. First two ranks armed with muskets, the third with pike staffs. He reckons it’ll enable a battalion to deploy more men in a bayonet charge.”

“It does sound medieval,” Hawkwood agreed warily.

Quade grunted. “That was my thinking, though there could be some sense in it, I suppose. Most third ranks are next to useless when it comes to attacking in line. Even with bayonets fixed, their muskets are too short to be effective. A line of twelve-foot pikes would certainly do the trick. Would you face a line of men armed with twelve-foot pikes?”

“Only if I had fifteen-foot pikes,” Hawkwood said. “Or lots of guns.”

“So, maybe I stand corrected,” Quade said. “I’m sure they’ll give a good account of themselves when it’s required.” He eyed the recent arrivals. “They’ll be enjoying their last drink before heading north to join the rest.”

“The rest?” Hawkwood said.

There was a pause.

“They did tell you that Dearborn’s in Plattsburg,” Quade said. “Didn’t they?”

Hawkwood raised his glass and took a swallow to give himself time to think and plan his response.

“I only landed in Boston a few days ago. No one’s told me a damned thing.”

Quade shook his head and made the sort of face that indicated he despaired of all senior staff.

“Typical. Just as well we met then, though you’d have found out eventually. He’s been there since the middle of last month. Winter quarters. Pike’s up there with him. I’ve no doubt my orders will be to join them, which is why I’m in no hurry to return to the bosom. I’ve a day or two of freedom left and I intend to make the most of them.”

He sighed, stared into his glass and then, clearly making a decision, stood it on the table between them.

“Another?” Hawkwood asked.

To Hawkwood’s relief, the major shook his head. “Thank you, that’s most generous, but on this occasion I’ll decline. I’ve a prior appointment and, no disrespect, Captain, but she’s a damned sight prettier than you are!” Quade grinned as he reached for his coat and cane. “A tad more expensive, but definitely prettier.”

“In that case, Major,” Hawkwood said, “don’t let me detain you.” He waited until Quade had gained his feet and then accompanied the major as he tapped his way towards the door.

On the street, the major paused while buttoning his coat. “If you’re free, why don’t you join me?”

“Another time, perhaps,” Hawkwood said.

Quade, not in the least put out, smiled amiably. “As you wish. If you should change your mind, you’ll find us on Church Street – the house with the weathercock on the roof. The door’s at the side. There’s a small brass plate to the right of it: Hoare’s Gaming Club. It—”

Seeing the expression on Hawkwood’s face, the major chuckled and spelt out the name. “Yes, I know, but what would you have it say – the Albany Emporium? Anyway, as I was saying, it caters for the more – how shall I put it? – discerning gentleman, so you’d be in excellent company. A lot of the senior officers from Greenbush take their pleasure there.”

Another reason for giving the place a wide berth, Hawkwood thought. “Well, I’ll certainly bear that in mind, Major, if I find myself at a loose end.”

“Ha! That’s the spirit! All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, eh? Besides, we’re at war. Who’s to say we shouldn’t enjoy what could be our last day on earth before we head to the front?”

“I thought everyone was going to be snowed in for winter,” Hawkwood said. “There won’t be a front until March.”

“Ah, but the ladies don’t know that, do they?”

God save us, Hawkwood thought.

As an ear-splitting shriek shattered the surrounding calm.

Hawkwood pivoted. Heart in mouth, he paused as a broad grin of delight opened up across the major’s face.

“Ha!” Quade exclaimed gleefully. “Had the same effect on me, the first time I heard it. Thought it was the cry of the banshee come to carry me off! They do say it’s caused seizures in at least half a dozen of the city’s older female folk. Not seen her before? Quite a sight, ain’t she?”

The major pointed with his cane.

As his pulse slowed to its normal rate, Hawkwood, embarrassingly aware that other passers-by had not reacted as he had, looked off to where Quade was indicating. They had come to a halt adjacent to the river. Only the width of the street and a patch of open ground separated them from the quayside and the vessels moored alongside it.

The Hudson was Albany’s umbilical. It was from the busy wharves and slipways crowding the mile-long shoreline that goods from the city’s granaries, breweries and timber yards were transported downriver to the markets of New York, one hundred and fifty miles to the south.

Scores of cargo sloops and passenger schooners competed for mooring space with smaller barges and hoys. It could have been a scene lifted from the Thames or the Seine, had it not been for the tree-clad hillsides rising from the water on the opposite shore and the extraordinary-looking vessel that was churning into view beyond the intermediary forest of masts and rigging. The throbbing sounds that enveloped the craft as it manoeuvred towards the jetty were as curious as its appearance and like nothing Hawkwood had heard before.

There was no grace in either its movement or its contours. Compared to the other craft on the river, it occurred to Hawkwood that the clanking behemoth, with its wedged bow and wall-sided hull had all the elegance of an elongated canal boat, while the thin, black, smoke-belching stove-pipe poking up from the boat’s mid-section wouldn’t have looked out of place on the roof of a Cheapside tenement.

The threshing sound was explained by what appeared to be two large mill wheels, their top halves set behind wooden housings on either side of the hull, forward of the smoke-stack. They were, Hawkwood saw, revolving paddles; it was their rotation that gave the vessel its momentum through the water.

Another drawn-out screech rent the air, sending a flock of herring gulls, already displaced by the first whistle, wheeling and diving above the nearby rooftops in raucous protest.

Quade moved to Hawkwood’s side. “She’s the Paragon, up from New York. She can do six and a half knots at a push. Seven dollars a ticket, I’m told, and it only takes thirty-six hours. It takes the schooners four days. You’ve not seen any of them in action?”

Hawkwood shook his head and watched as the steamboat shuddered and slowed. For a few seconds the clattering from her paddles seemed to diminish before suddenly increasing in volume once more. Hawkwood realized the wheels were now revolving in the opposite direction and that the vessel was travelling in reverse.

“Takes ninety passengers,” Quade said matter-of-factly as the boat’s stern started to come round. “Fulton used to swear they could turn on a dollar – the boats, that is, not the passengers. Don’t know if that’s strictly true. No one’s thrown a dollar in to find out.” He chuckled.

For a moment Hawkwood thought he might have misheard.

“Fulton?” he repeated cautiously, trying to keep his tone even.

“Robert Fulton,” Quade said. He looked at Hawkwood askance. “Good God, man, you must have heard of him! How long did you say you’d been away?”

Hawkwood said nothing. His mind was too busy spinning.

Fulton?

It had to be the same man. Robert Fulton, American designer of the submersible, Narwhale, in which Hawkwood had fought hand to hand with Fulton’s associate, William Lee, beneath the dark waters of the Thames, following Lee’s failed attack on the newly launched frigate, Thetis.

Hawkwood had killed Lee and left his body entombed at the bottom of the river, inside Narwhale’s shattered hull. It seemed like an age ago, yet memory of a discourse he’d had with the Admiralty Board members and the scientist, Colonel William Congreve, prior to the discovery of Lee’s plan, slid into his mind. Hawkwood heard an echo of Congreve’s voice telling him that at the same time as Fulton had been petitioning the French government to support his advances in undersea warfare, he’d also been experimenting with steam as a means of propulsion.

Hawkwood stared at the vessel, which was now side on to the quay, and watched as mooring lines were cast fore and aft. While Fulton’s dream of liberty of the seas and the establishment of free trade through the destruction of the world’s navies might lie in tatters at the bottom of the Thames, it appeared that his plans for steam navigation had achieved spectacular success.

“Can’t say the schooner skippers are best pleased,” Quade said. “They’ve lost a deal of passenger trade since the steamboats started running.”

“How many are there?” Hawkwood asked.

“I believe it’s five or six at the last count. I do know that two of them operate alternating schedules up and downriver. Others are used as ferries around New York harbour.”

“I’ll be damned,” Hawkwood said, nodding as if impressed. “Y’know, the time’s gone so quickly … I’m blessed if I can remember when they did start.”

“Back in ’07.” Quade leaned on his stick and gazed admiringly at the boat as the gangplank was extended. “If you recall, Clermont was the first. It made its maiden run that August.”

The year after Fulton had left London to return home. The British government had thought that his departure meant they would hear no more of the American and his torpedoes – until Lee’s appearance five years later.

“Of course,” Hawkwood said. “How could I forget?”

“Not the most amenable fellow, I’m told,” Quade murmured. “Arrogant, and not much liked, by all accounts, though you can’t deny he’s a clever son of a bitch. There’ve been rumours he’s trying to design some kind of military version, but last I heard, he’s not in the best of health, so I wouldn’t know how that’s proceeding.”

With the steamship now berthed and its passengers disembarking, Hawkwood was able to take stock of her. She was, he guessed, about one hundred and fifty feet in length, with the top of the smoke-stack rising a good thirty feet above the deck. There were two masts: one set forward and equipped for a square sail, the other at the stern, supporting a fore and aft rig. The sails, Hawkwood presumed, were to provide her with additional impetus if her engine failed. The paddle wheels had to be at least fifteen feet in diameter. There was no bowsprit and no figurehead. Even to an untrained eye, with no attempt having been made to soften her lines, it was plain the vessel had been constructed entirely for purpose. As if to emphasize the steamboat’s stark functionality, the top of the cylindrical copper boiler, set into a rectangular well in the centre of the deck and from which the smoke-stack jutted, was fully exposed, not unlike the protruding intestines of a dissected corpse.

“They say the machine that controls her wheels has the power of thirty horses,” Quade offered admiringly. “I’ve no idea how they work that out. I can only assume they tied them to her bow and held a tug of war. Your guess is as good as mine.” The major shook his head in wonder. “Y’know, there’s also a story that Fulton tried to interest Emperor Bonaparte in an undersea boat, and when that didn’t work he changed his allegiance and approached the Limeys for funding. Sounds a bit far-fetched, if you ask me. Not sure I believe it, frankly.”

“It does sound unlikely,” Hawkwood agreed.

“Well, he’s on our side now, and that’s the main thing,” Quade said. He reached into his coat and dug out a pocket watch. Flipping the catch, he consulted the dial and tutted. “Damn, I should go – wouldn’t like young Lavinia to start without me. If they do insist on sending me up into the wilds, this could be our last ah … consummation for a while.” Snapping the watch shut, he looked at Hawkwood and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re sure you won’t …?” He left the suggestion hanging open.

Hawkwood shook his head. “Enjoy yourself, Major.”

Quade tucked the watch away and grinned. “Oh, I intend to, don’t you worry.” He extended his hand. “My thanks for your intervention, Captain. It was good to meet you. We’ll likely run into each other again, I expect, after we’ve taken up our duties; either here or at Greenbush. They’re small towns, when all’s said and done. That’s if they don’t send us to Plattsburg, of course. Or if you’d like to meet for a libation before then, you’ll likely find me at the Eagle or Berment’s. I’ve taken a room there.”

“That’s most kind, Major. Thank you.”

“Excellent, then I’ll bid you good day.”

And with a final wave of goodbye, Major Quade limped off to his assignation.

Hawkwood watched him go and wondered idly if the major’s leg would hold out during his impending exertions.

Coat collar turned up, he gazed out over the water. The sky was the colour of tempered steel. Colder weather was undoubtedly on the way, bringing snow, and it was more than likely the river would eventually freeze over. Could steamboats navigate through ice? Hawkwood wondered. Perhaps, if it wasn’t too thick. But, presumably, if the weather really did close in, even they’d be forced to stop running.

Hopefully, he’d be long gone by that time.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the page he’d torn from The War in the Exchange’s reading room. It wasn’t the most comprehensive map, and it was probably safe to assume that the hand-drawn features had been copied from a much more detailed engraving, so the scale was undoubtedly out of proportion as well, yet all the relevant information appeared to be in place.

Most of New York State was outlined, from Vermont in the east across to the St Lawrence River and the Niagara Frontier in the west. Major towns were marked, as were the main rivers and the largest lakes. The front lines were represented by cannons and flags. Small crenellated squares and anchors showed forts and naval bases. Crudely drawn arrows indicated advances and retreats. The symbols were at their most prolific around the western borderlands, confirming what Major Quade had told him.

Albany, rather than Greenbush, was shown due to its significance as the state capital. It was surmounted by a drawing of a fort topped by the stars and stripes. The next nearest American military presence deserving of capital letters and distinguishable by another tiny fort, was Plattsburg, where Dearborn had set up his winter camp.

Hawkwood shifted his gaze north, at the river and the landscape that lay beyond. He’d been fresh from a return visit to the State Street coach office and mulling over the choices that had been presented to him by the ticket clerk when he’d encountered the major. Now that Quade had confirmed his suspicions over which was the most advantageous route to Canada, there was still the mode of transport to consider. Hawkwood had no intention of walking all the way to the border.

Albany had received its capital status due to it having become the centre of commerce for the north-eastern states. Post roads ran through the city like spokes on a wheel. The most important one – referred to by the clerk as the Mohawk Turnpike – which led directly eastwards through Schenectady to Utica and on to Sackets Harbor, Hawkwood had already dismissed. It was only when the clerk had listed the intermediate halts along the route, that a cold hand had clamped itself around his heart at the mention of one particular name.

Johnstown.

It was a name from a life time ago and one he’d not thought of for many years. Knowing that his reaction must have shown and aware that the clerk was giving him an odd look, Hawkwood had forced his mind to return to the present.

There was an alternative route, the clerk told him. The northern turnpike, which formed part of the New York to Montreal post road. Though, unfortunately, it was also prone to flooding after heavy rain. In fact, the clerk had warned, stretches of it between Albany and Saratoga had already become impassable due to the recent torrents.

What about the river? Hawkwood had enquired, his mind half occupied with trying to shut out the echo from his past.

The clerk had shaken his head. The Hudson was only navigable as far as Troy, six miles upstream. There might be batteaux travelling further north, but Hawkwood would have to investigate that possibility himself by talking to one of the local boat captains.

Hawkwood had been on the point of turning away when the clerk said, “Might I suggest the ferry to Troy, sir? You could pick up the eastern post road there. It runs all the way to Kingsbury and from there along the old wagon road to Fort George, where it links on to the turnpike you would have taken. See here …”

The clerk had referred Hawkwood to the wall behind his counter, upon which was suspended, to use the clerk’s own description, ‘this most excellent map by Mr Samuel Lewis of Philadelphia’. Following the clerk’s finger, Hawkwood had seen that both roads were clearly defined.

Two choices, then, Hawkwood thought as he folded his own map away. Remain in Albany until the northern post road was passable, which could turn out to be a very long wait; or try the ferry route. If he chose the latter, at least he’d be on the move and heading in the right direction.

Johnstown.

The name continued to hover at the corner of his mind, like an uninvited guest hidden behind a half-opened door. Hawkwood pushed the memories away, back into the shadows, forcing himself to concentrate on the more pressing task in hand.

The jetty for the local ferries lay at the end of the steamboat quay. It struck Hawkwood as he set off that the clerk had failed to mention the steamboat when giving him his directions. Hawkwood assumed that was because Albany and not Troy was the vessel’s terminus. Either that or the clerk had a questionable sense of humour and had wanted Hawkwood to get the shock of this life if and when the damned thing turned up and he was in the vicinity.

In which case, the plot had worked.

It was a pity Nathaniel Jago wasn’t here, Hawkwood reflected. His former sergeant and staunch ally, who’d protected his back from Corunna to the slums of London’s Ratcliffe Highway, would certainly have had something to say on the matter, even if it was only to remark that they were both a bloody long way from home.

And even as that thought crossed his mind, there rose within him the reality that the statement would only have been half. For Hawkwood was probably closer to home now than he had been at any time in the last thirty years.

Johnstown.

The slow clip-clop of iron-shod hooves and the creak of an ungreased axle came from behind. Hawkwood stepped aside to allow the vehicle room.

It was as he glanced up that he became aware of the expressions on the faces of the people around him. Some appeared curious; others strangely subdued, while a few displayed a more unfathomable expression which could have been interpreted as sympathy. Intrigued, Hawkwood followed their gaze.

It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.

Of the dozen or so uniformed men seated or slumped in the back of the mud-splattered wagon, more than half wore their tunics in full view while the rest wore theirs beneath shabby greatcoats. All were bare-headed save for a couple sporting black shakos. The ones whose heads were not bowed gazed about listlessly, their pale, unshaven faces reflecting the resignation in their eyes.

It was not the sight of their drawn features that caused Hawkwood’s throat to constrict, however. It was the colour of their jackets. Stained with dirt and sweat they may have been, but there was no hiding their scarlet hue.

The men in the wagon were British redcoats.

As if the uniforms weren’t sufficient evidence, the mounted officer and the six-man escort marching to the rear of the vehicle and the manacles the red-coated men were wearing left little doubt as to their identity and status.

As prisoners.

A voice called out from the onlookers.

“Who’ve you got there, Lieutenant?”

The mounted officer ignored the enquiry and kept his eyes rigidly to the front. The last man in the escort line was not so reticent.

“You blind?” he muttered sarcastically from the corner of his mouth. “Who d’you think they are?”

Emboldened, the questioner tried again. “So, where’re you taking ’em then? Home for supper?”

Someone laughed.

The wagon halted. The lieutenant rode his horse past the head of the vehicle. As he dismounted and entered the ferry office, the less reclusive trooper, cocky at having been nominated the fount of all knowledge, jerked a thumb at the landing stage. “Ferrying ’em to Greenbush. They’ll be quartered in the guard house before we move ’em on to Pittsfield.”

“Where’ve they come from?” a man standing near to Hawkwood asked.

The soldier sniffed and shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. I heard they were taken near Ogdensburg. We’ve only been with ’em since Deerfield. We’d’ve had to march the bastards if the lieutenant hadn’t commandeered the wheels.”

“Don’t look much, do they?” someone muttered in an aside.

You wouldn’t either, Hawkwood thought, if you’d had to march most of the way from Ogdensburg and then been shackled to the back of a bloody prison cart.

Hawkwood had no idea which British regiments were serving on the American continent and he wasn’t close enough to the wagon to get a good view of the insignia, though the green facings on a couple of the tunics suggested their wearers might have been from the 49th, the Hertfordshires, while the red facings could have represented the 41st Regiment of Foot.

The lieutenant returned. “All right, Corporal! Move them down to the landing. You can board the ferry when ready.”

As the driver released the brake and flicked the reins to nudge the horses forward, the escort shouldered their muskets.

“Here we go,” the talkative one murmured.

The novelty over, the spectators began to drift away and Hawkwood looked towards the men on the wagon. Pittsfield was, presumably, the nearest prison of any note where captured enemy were being held.

His eyes roamed over the tired faces, seeing in them the worn expressions of men who’d come to accept their personal defeat. Two or three looked to be half asleep; either that or they’d chosen to feign exhaustion as a means of avoiding the stares of onlookers and of exhibiting fear in the face of their captors.

The wagon jerked into motion. As it did so, one of the greatcoat-clad soldiers shifted position. Until then, his features had been concealed by the coat’s upturned collar. As he turned, his face came more into view.

Had Major Quade not mentioned Fulton by name, causing Hawkwood to revive memories of Narwhale and the events surrounding William Lee’s assassination plot, the mere turning of the prisoner’s head might not have amounted to anything.

Except …

It took a second or two and even then Hawkwood didn’t really believe it. But as he stared at the wagon’s occupants, the man in the greatcoat looked up. At first, there was no reaction; the soldier’s gaze moved on. And then stopped. It was then that Hawkwood saw it; the slight moment of hesitation before the prisoner’s face turned back. In a movement that would have been imperceptible to those around him, Hawkwood saw the soldier’s eyes fix on his and widen in mutual recognition.

And, immediately, Hawkwood knew that every move he’d been planning had just been made redundant.