The Blooding Page 11

  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.”