The Blooding

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.”