The Blooding Page 19

  That was not the only reason Tewanias was cautious. The Stone People – as the Oneida were known by the tribes within the Six Nations – had been given that name by their enemies. Legend had it that if they knew they were being pursued, the Oneida could transform themselves into rocks to escape capture.

  Tewanias hoped that wasn’t an omen. His hand moved to his neck, only for it to pause when he remembered that he had presented his totem to the boy. No matter, he thought. The Oneida were spineless dogs and no match for a war chief of the Kanien’kehá:ka, the Eaters of Men.

  He remained still, senses alert, listening to the chatter of the forest as the water flowed swift and clear about his feet. Around him, rocks and boulders had formed a pattern of natural bridges and weirs, over which the stream tumbled in a series of shallow, silvery cascades.

  Nothing appeared untoward. About to move off, however, his eyes were suddenly drawn to a clump of snakeroot by the side of the path ahead. He paused.

  There was a patch of damp earth at the base of the plant. Tewanias sniffed the air. There was something else present, too: the pungent odour of human piss. He slipped the war club from his back, knowing, even as he did so, that he had profoundly underestimated his enemy’s guile. The palm print had been placed there not by accident but by design.

  Sensing movement at the perimeter of his vision, he pivoted just in time to see a dark human form rise up on the opposite bank, accompanied by a thrumming sound as a slender metal object whickered across the narrow stream, sunlight glancing off the spinning blade.

  Jerking his head aside, he felt the displacement of air across his skin as the hatchet flicked past his cheek and thudded into the tree beside his ear, scattering bark chips like rain.

  There was no time to dwell on how or when the Oneida runner had discovered he was being stalked. Just as Tewanias had drawn upon the signs and sounds of the woods to aid him in his tracking, so the Oneida scout must have used the same resources to detect his enemy’s presence and bait a trap to ensnare him.

  The sound of the musket shot was flat and loud. The ball struck Tewanias on his right side; punching him backwards. The war club fell from his grasp.

  Then he was dropping, too.

  Not a spineless dog after all, Tewanias thought, as he hit the water. Through a haze of pain he saw the Oneida leap from the bank with a howl and hurtle across the stream towards him. Dressed in cloth kilt and leggings, with a single feather woven into his tufted hair, one half of his face coloured red, the other half black, the Oneida was painted for war. His right hand gripped the hilt of a short, broad-bladed sword; his left, a military-issue carbine.

  Ignoring the pain, Tewanias scrabbled vainly for the knife at his waist.

  With a savage yell, the Oneida raised his sword above his head and drove it down towards Tewanias’s throat. Tewanias rolled, felt the kiss of the blade as it ripped through the skin of his upper arm, heard the clang as the sword glanced off the rock beside his head. He slashed his knife towards his attacker’s thigh and heard an exhalation of pain as the blade parted the Oneida’s flesh. But the speed of his opponent’s reaction told him that he had inflicted only superficial damage. The Oneida twisted aside and slammed the butt of his carbine down towards Tewanias’s knife hand, trapping it against the rocks on the bed of the stream. As he raised the sword, his mouth split into a grin of triumph.

  Pinned and unable to move his arm, his blood darkening the stream, Tewanias launched a kick towards the Oneida’s crotch. He saw the Oneida wince as his moccasined foot made contact, but he knew it had been a pitiful effort. Staring up at his opponent, at the murderous expression on the red-and-black face, he waited for the death blow to fall.

  Savouring the moment, the Oneida drew back his sword, grinned again and thrust downwards.

  And his right eye exploded.

  The sword blade missed Tewanias’s throat by a hair’s breadth as the Oneida’s corpse slumped sideways, the smile still affixed. Released from the weight on his wrist, Tewanias pulled his arm free and stared in disbelief at the body draped across him and at the blood trickling from the ruined eye socket and skull. As the echo of the shot died away, he pushed the dead man from him and raised himself out of the water, blood dripping from his wounds.

  Wy-att, he thought immediately.

  Then he heard the bark. Thinking that the runner had not been alone, he reached for the dropped war club, his eyes searching the bank for the source of the sound. And then his eyes widened in surprise.

  Above him on the bank was a large dog. Standing in front of the dog, feet in the water, gazing down at him with a questioning look in his blue-grey eyes was a slim, dark-haired boy holding a discharged army pistol.

  7

  December 1812

  It was approaching noon and although the day had turned surprisingly mild, a bank of low cloud to the north-west implied that rain was a possibility as Hawkwood and Lawrence rode their tired mounts into Fort Edward.

  Located close to marshland on a bend on the east side of the river, there was little to distinguish the settlement from any of the other unprepossessing villages they’d ridden through that morning; a couple of dozen houses, an assortment of clapboard-fronted stores, a brace of scruffy-looking taverns, a livery stable and a small, white-painted church abutting a cemetery fringed by alder bushes.

  There was no fort, despite the name, though there had been one once. The coach-office clerk in Albany had drawn attention to its pedigree when he’d referred Hawkwood to his choice of north-bound post roads. Originally a stockade and trading post and strengthened during the French and Indian War, it had been used as a training camp for British irregulars and a base from which to launch cross-border raids against Quebec. Last manned during the Revolution but then vacated, all the military buildings were long gone, worn away by neglect. Now, where stone bastions and gun batteries had once stood guard over river and wetland, there were only grassy mounds and a weed-filled dry moat. From the look of the local architecture, it wasn’t hard to guess where most of the foundations had ended up.

  They had set off before dawn. Only the landlord and a sleepy stable boy had witnessed their departure. Asking after their destination, the landlord had merely wished them a safe journey when Hawkwood revealed that they were on their way to Bennington, Vermont. Judging by the landlord’s manner, the enquiry was merely for the sake of conversation. Hawkwood suspected that any answer would have sufficed; nevertheless he took the opportunity to wrong-foot any pursuers that might turn up at the tavern asking awkward questions with a misdirection.

  Mindful that they would be travelling in daylight, they had agreed that it would be best to proceed at a steady, unhurried pace rather than attract attention. But once on the road, they’d discovered that the landlord had been correct in his prediction that they would encounter little traffic at this time of year. Apart from the occasional farm cart, they had the highway to themselves. So wherever the terrain permitted they urged their mounts onward at the gallop.

  Eventually the speed they had been maintaining, combined with the state of the roads, began to take its toll. Realizing that the horses needed rest, Hawkwood called a halt at the next settlement they came to. Not that he wasn’t glad of the excuse to take a break; it had been six months since he’d last ridden and the past two days had brought into play muscles that he’d forgotten he possessed. Aches were starting to appear in all sorts of inconvenient places.

  Lawrence, on the other hand, seemed to be suffering no adverse effects. He’d proved he was at home in the saddle during their escape from the cantonment. When they’d first met back in London, the major hadn’t looked the equestrian sort, but appearances were often deceptive. No doubt Lawrence’s skills had been well-honed during his time in Spain, negotiating the high winding trails of the Sierra de Guadarrama. Traversing New York State must seem positively sedentary by comparison.

  Leaving the horses at a livery stable to be fed and watered, they made their way to the nearest taver
n. As he followed Lawrence into the smoky interior, there hovered at the back of Hawkwood’s mind the knowledge that, by now, word of the events at Greenbush was sure to be radiating outwards like the ripples in a pool, spread not just by military personnel but by the civilian population as well. In all likelihood, descriptions of the prisoner and the individual who’d aided his escape were already circulating, possibly by poster bill, so the sooner they were on the road again, the better. But while their mounts enjoyed the respite, it made sense for Hawkwood and Lawrence to make use of the facilities as well, providing they kept their wits about them and didn’t linger too long.

  Ignoring the seats by the fire and the communal dining table, they chose a table on its own, close to the front window, from where they could view the street and at the same time observe the rest of the room.

  A waiter, sleeves rolled to the elbow and wiping his hands on a greasy apron, materialized out of the gloom. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

  “Rye,” Hawkwood said, “and whatever’s on the board.”

  The slate upon which the daily fare was scrawled was too far away to be read clearly through the dinginess and the tobacco fumes.

  “There’s venison stew, roast potatoes and carrots.”

  “So long as it’s hot,” Hawkwood said.

  The response was a dry sniff. “Should be; been on the stove since Tuesday.”

  As Hawkwood tried to remember what day it was, Lawrence grinned. “With luck, the whiskey’ll hide the taste,” he murmured as the waiter left with their order. There was no rancour in the remark. Both of them had long experience of making do when food was scarce; on the march, a day-old stew would have been considered a veritable banquet.

  Two glasses arrived, along with an earthenware jug from which the waiter poured two liberal measures before leaving them to it. Lawrence took a tentative sip. “Well, it ain’t Bowmore’s.” Adding with a sly wink while raising his glass in a mock toast, “Any port in a storm, though, eh?”

  The major rested his drink and unbuttoned his coat. A plain brown jacket, purchased from a general merchandise store in Fort Miller, a village eight miles south of Fort Edward, had replaced his scarlet tunic. The tunic was tucked away in a knapsack similar to Hawkwood’s that had been bought at the same establishment. Lawrence planned to re-don the scarlet when they got to the border, as a precaution against being used for target practice by an over-enthusiastic British piquet.

  Hawkwood was again clad in his own clothes. While the stolen uniform had served its purpose, now he needed no disguise beyond a mud-splattered coat and boots. With no distinguishing facings to draw the eye, they were just two more road-weary travellers in search of a drink and a meal, and thus no different to anyone else in the room.

  The food turned out to be surprisingly good. When they finished, they pushed their empty plates to one side and Hawkwood surveyed the room over the rim of his glass. The tavern was enjoying a brisk trade and no one had given them a second glance. He considered stretching his legs and then decided it was probably best not to get too comfortable.

  “Damn it,” Lawrence muttered.

  Hawkwood followed his gaze. Spots of rain were hitting the window.

  The waiter returned for the empty plates. About to bear them away, he paused. “Would you gentlemen be heading north, by any chance?”

  Hawkwood tensed. He felt Lawrence do the same. The question, however, had been rhetorical; without waiting for a reply, the waiter indicated the droplets of water running down the window pane. “If’n you are, you’re in for a delay. There’s no road the far side of Glens Falls. Bridge is down and the mud’s axle-deep. There’s wagons been stuck there half a day, they say, backed up through to Caldwell. Some folks have been taking the Whitehall road. If the ferry’s in service, it’ll take you to Ticonderoga. Quicker’n the road, that’s fer sure. You’ll be able to pick up the highway from there.”

  The waiter gave another nod in the direction of the window. “Thought I’d mention it, seein’ as the rain’s settin’ in and we’ve run out of rooms.” He allowed himself a crooked grin before adding, “Now, anything else I can get you? ’Nother whiskey or a beverage? Coffee pot’s clean – cook scrubbed it this morning.”

  “We’ll take the coffee,” Hawkwood told him, digesting the information about the disruption to traffic. That would explain why they’d encountered no south-bound coaches during their ride. “We’ll settle the account, too.”

  “Whitehall?” Lawrence murmured when the waiter had departed. “If that’s not an omen, I don’t know what is.”

  It was time to bring out the reading-room map. Waiting until the coffee and the bill had been delivered, Hawkwood pulled the folded page from his pocket. Lawrence drew his chair closer.

  Hawkwood found Albany and traced the river north, up the shepherd’s-crook squiggle that was the Hudson River. Lake George and Lake Champlain were represented by two parallel, dark-coloured elongated shapes that resembled claw marks.

  “There.” Hawkwood tapped the paper.

  Whitehall lay at the southern tip of Lake Champlain. Above it was a small anchor.

  “Ticonderoga’s here.” Hawkwood indicated a point a quarter of the way up Champlain, where the two bodies of water appeared to touch.

  Lawrence stared thoughtfully at the illustration. “It’s a risk, it being a naval base but Whitehall is close to Vermont.”

  “On the border, or as near as.”

  A border which ran north, bisecting Lake Champlain’s entire length all the way to the Canadian line.

  Lawrence said, “I’m told the good citizens of Vermont don’t have quite the same enthusiasm for the war as other easterners. Have you heard that?”

  Hawkwood nodded.

  “So it could suit us very well.”

  “You mean if we’re discovered they may offer us sanctuary?”

  “It’s possible. Worth thinking about, anyway.”

  There was some merit to this, Hawkwood thought, though the idea of throwing themselves upon the mercy of the local populace on the off chance they’d be of a Federalist persuasion wasn’t the most sensible reason for a making a detour, the possibility shouldn’t be discounted.

  “How far is it?” Lawrence asked.

  “Hard to tell; this map’s bloody useless.” Hawkwood tried to bring the coach-office map to mind. “Twenty miles; maybe a bit more.”

  Lawrence’s head lifted. His eyes took on a shine. “If our friend in the apron’s right and the road’s not in too bad a state, we could be there tonight.”

  Hawkwood thought about the ferry. Although he’d just spent a month at sea, he’d never felt entirely at ease on water. He preferred solid ground beneath his feet to the rolling of waves. And lake waters could get very choppy. And Lake Champlain was a very big lake.

  But Whitehall to Ticonderoga by way of Champlain couldn’t be that great a distance and, with their intended road now blocked, it made sense to at least consider the alternatives.

  After all, there was the first rule of evasion to consider:

  Moving targets were harder to hit.

  “Well, this is jolly,” Lawrence said.

  The major was being sarcastic; it wasn’t jolly at all. It was anything but.

  They were Whitehall-bound. The cloudburst, which had begun as soon as they’d left the tavern, had stopped after just thirty minutes. Unfortunately it had done its damage, turning the already muddy road into a fetlock-deep sludge that threatened not only to suck the shoes from the horses’ hooves but the hooves themselves from the horses’ legs. The going had not been easy.

  There were two ways of getting to Whitehall from Fort Edward, the boy at the livery stable had told them. The first was to stay on the post road as far as Kingsbury then turn east at the Whitehall sign. The alternative route was to take the fork to Fort Ann and join the Kingsbury to Whitehall road there. As the latter promised to shave at least four miles off their journey, it had seemed the sensible option, but Hawkwood was now wondering
if the shortcut was worth the bother, because he was staring at the object that had caught Lawrence’s attention.

  The road between Fort Edward and Fort Ann was military in origin, as evidenced by its construction, which in several stretches consisted of hundreds of cut-down trees laid side by side to form corduroy causeways. It was a means by which vehicles and cannon could be transported over soft soil and marshland and one with which both Hawkwood and Lawrence were very familiar. Unfortunately, these causeways had succumbed to the ravages of time and it didn’t take a genius to understand why coaches preferred to take the long way round. Many of the logs had rotted away, leaving chasms wide enough to swallow wheels and break the axles of even the stoutest wagon or gun carriage. And vehicles weren’t the only casualties: discoloured bones littered the underbrush at the side of the road, the remains of beasts of burden that had suffered broken legs.

  It was a horse’s skull, complete with a bullet hole where the animal had been put out of its misery, that had prompted Lawrence’s comment. The skull was resting on a shattered wagon wheel and the image was so symmetrical it had obviously been placed there as a warning to others. Both men dismounted.

  “Bloody engineers.” Lawrence shook his head in mock disgust. “Couldn’t build a chicken coop if their lives depended on it, never mind a road.”

  “It’s done well to have lasted this long,” Hawkwood said. “It must be sixty years since these logs were laid down.”

  “You think it’s going to be like this all the way to Whitehall?” Lawrence frowned pensively as he surveyed what had started out as a sturdy, solid surface but which now resembled a wooden jetty that had lost an argument with a mud slide.