The Blooding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thieving bastard had stolen that, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

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

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

He decided to go with the second option.

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

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

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

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Private Van Bosen, sir.”

“Private Rivers, Captain.”

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

Jeffard flicked a nervous glance towards his companions.