The Blooding

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.”

Not ever, he thought.

Indecision showed on Lawrence’s face. He stared about him wildly as if some clue to their whereabouts might manifest itself.

“I don’t know where they’re being held,” Hawkwood said. “It’s a big camp, the alarm’s sounded and we don’t have time to search the place. I’m sorry.”

Lawrence looked him in the eye, then nodded. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

“Up there! Come on!” Hawkwood, pointed towards the pine trees.

As the guardhouse alarm started up again, followed by a ferocious yell:

“Prisoners escaping! STOP THEM!”

Sergeant Dunbar – doubled over and apparently still suffering the effects of the blow to his stomach – had made it out on to the porch and was running the striker around the inside of the metal triangle. Pointing and gesticulating frantically, he yelled again. “STOP THOSE MEN!”

Hawkwood glanced to one side and saw that the sergeant was gesturing in his direction. Two men had responded to his call for help; one of them carrying a pistol, the other carrying what looked like …

Hawkwood stared.

A pike?

“Should’ve locked the bugger in the cells!” Lawrence swore. “Where are those damned horses? No wait, I see them!”

“Stop them, God damn it!” Sergeant Dunbar had abandoned the alarm and was stumbling after them.

“He’s a game sod, though,” Lawrence muttered. “I’ll give him that!”