The Blooding

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.

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