The Blooding

“Time to go,” Wyatt said. “Saddle up.” He addressed the boy. “You have everything? You won’t be coming back.” The words carried a hard finality.

Tear tracks showing on his cheeks, the boy pointed at the canvas bag slung over his saddle.

Wyatt surveyed the yard – littered with the bodies of Deacon and his men – and the blood-drenched soil now carpeted with bloated flies. It was a world away from the serene, sun-dappled vision that had greeted the Rangers’ arrival earlier that morning.

He glanced towards the three cows in the paddock and the chickens pecking around the henhouse; the livestock would have to fend for themselves. There was enough food and water to sustain them until someone came to see why Archer and his wife hadn’t been to town for a while. There would be others along, too, wondering why the members of the Citizens’ Committee hadn’t returned to the fold.

Let them come, Wyatt thought. Let them see.

The Mohawk warrior handed the boy the reins of his horse and watched critically as he climbed up. Satisfied that the boy knew what he was doing, he wheeled his mount and took up position at the head of the line. With Tewanias riding point, the five men and the boy rode into the stream, towards the track leading into the forest. The dog padded silently behind them.

Halfway across the creek, the Indian turned to the boy and spoke. “Naho:ten iesa:iats?”

The boy looked to Wyatt for guidance.

“He asked you your name,” Wyatt said.

It occurred to Wyatt that in the time they’d spent in the boy’s company, neither he nor any of his men had bothered to ask that question. They’d simply addressed him as “lad” or “son” or, in Donaldson’s case, “young ’un”. Though they all knew the name of the damned dog.

The boy stared at Tewanias and then at each of the Rangers in turn. It was then that Wyatt saw the true colour appear in the boy’s eyes. Blue-grey, the shade of rain clouds after a storm.

The boy drew himself up.

“My name is Matthew,” he said.

1 (#ulink_1faff5fd-4d34-5043-9584-765ed3676def)

Albany, New York State, December 1812

BEWARE FOREIGN SPIES & AGITATORS!

The words were printed across the top of the poster, the warning writ large for all to see.

Hawkwood ran his eye down the rest of the deposition. Not much had been left to the imagination. The nation was at war, the country was under threat and the people were urged to remain vigilant at all times.

He glanced over his shoulder. There were no crowds brandishing pitchforks or torches so he assumed he was safe for the time being. He recalled there had been similar pamphlets on display around the quayside in Boston, presumably the preferred port of entry for an enemy bent on subverting the republic. He wondered how many people read the bills and took note of their content; probably not as many as the government wished.

Fortunately for him.

The bill was stuck on the inside of a hatter’s shop window. Under pretence of casting an eye over the merchandise on display, he studied his reflection in the glass, wondering what a subversive might look like and if he fitted the bill. From what he’d seen of the country and its citizens so far, he thought it unlikely that he’d be stopped and asked for his papers, though in the event he was, the problem would not have been insurmountable.

He was about to walk on when movement in the window caught his attention: another reflection, this time of the scene behind him. A man, dressed in an army greatcoat similar to his own was making his way along the opposite side of the street. He was walking with a cane and Hawkwood could see that he was favouring his right leg.

There had been a rainstorm during the night, which had transformed Albany’s thoroughfares into something of a quagmire. The fact that the capital was built on an incline didn’t help matters and even though the rain had stopped, trying to negotiate the sloping streets on foot was, in some areas, as precarious as wading through a Connemara bog. Quite a few folk were having difficulty maintaining their balance. Though not the two characters walking on firmer feet some fifteen paces or so behind the man with the cane.

Over the years, his duties as a Bow Street officer had brought Hawkwood into contact with criminals of every persuasion and his ability to spot miscreants had been honed to a fine edge. From the way the two men were concentrating on the figure in front, Hawkwood was left in no doubt they were intent on mischief.

A small voice inside his head began to whisper.

Not here, not now. Let them go. It’s not your city. It’s not your problem.

Hawkwood looked around him. There was plenty of traffic about, both vehicular and pedestrian and the street was far from deserted, but everyone else was too intent upon their own business to have noticed anything amiss, including the man in the greatcoat who appeared oblivious to the pair on his tail, despite two sets of eyes burning into his back.

Hawkwood watched as the men’s target turned into a narrow side lane. Immediately, the pair quickened their pace. As they disappeared into the lane after him, Hawkwood sighed.

Damn it, he thought, as he crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being run down by an oncoming carriage. Why me?

Twenty paces into the alley, the man in the greatcoat was down on one knee, with his back to the wall. The cane was in his right hand and he was trying to rise while wielding the stick like a sword to ward off his attackers.

It was a pound to a penny the man’s disability was the reason he’d been singled out. A cripple would be considered easy pickings for a couple of rogues. Hawkwood could see that one of the attackers held a knife, while his companion was brandishing a short cudgel.

There wasn’t as much mud here as there had been on the street so the traction was better and Hawkwood’s boots gave him the grip he needed. He felt disinclined to give the pair fair warning.

Only when they saw their victim’s eyes flicker to one side did they turn. Their eyes were still widening as Hawkwood slammed the heel of his right boot against the cudgel man’s left knee cap. The man yelped and went down, the cudgel slipping from his grasp as he clutched his injured limb. His companion immediately dropped into a crouch, the knife held in front of him. He scythed the blade towards Hawkwood’s throat.

Throwing up his right hand, Hawkwood caught the knife man’s wrist and twisted it to lock the arm before slamming the heel of his left hand against the braced elbow. The man yelled as the bone broke and the knife joined the cudgel on the ground. Hawkwood released the arm and stepped back.

“Your choice, gentlemen,” he said calmly, already knowing the answer. “What’ll it be?”

The two men turned tail. At least they’ve one good arm and one good leg between them, Hawkwood thought as he watched them hobble away. He kicked the discarded weapons into the shadows and reached down to the kneeling man who stared back at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Gripping Hawkwood’s hand and using his cane as support he rose to his feet and brushed himself down, allowing Hawkwood a glimpse of a uniform jacket beneath the coat.

“Well I don’t know who you are, friend, but I’m damned glad you were in the neighbourhood. The name’s Quade. Major Harlan Quade, Thirteenth Regiment of Infantry.”

The major held on to Hawkwood’s hand.

“Hooper,” Hawkwood said. “Captain Matthew Hooper.”

“I’ll be damned. Well, in that case, Captain Hooper, I hope you’ll allow a major to buy a captain a drink.”

Hawkwood ran a quick eye over what he could see of the major’s tunic and smiled. “Happy to accept, sir. It’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

Major Quade was currently on medical furlough from wounds sustained on the Niagara Frontier. Watching him stare into the depths of his whiskey glass, Hawkwood wondered if the major’s invitation might not have been born out of a desire for companionship rather than as a gesture to thank him for coming to the man’s rescue.

Not that it wasn’t gratifying to be appreciated every now and again, but Hawkwood suspected it was the rye that was doing most of the talking and he’d already asked himself: if the major had been in civilian dress and had he not identified himself as a ranking officer, would he still have accepted the offer of a drink?

Probably not, but the greatcoat and a glimpse of the uniform beneath it had made Hawkwood’s decision for him. A military man would likely have information about the disposition of local troops, and given Hawkwood’s current status as a foreign combatant on enemy soil it could prove useful to know which areas were best avoided.

They were seated at a table in the Eagle Tavern, less than a stone’s toss from the Hudson River. It was a comfortable enough establishment, with a generous selection of liquors, a moderately civil staff and, more importantly, a welcoming fire in the hearth.

The major had ordered whiskey and stuck to that throughout. Hawkwood had chosen brandy. The breeze that was coming off the water and eddying up the city’s streets was a bracing reminder that it was already winter. A stack of blazing logs and a warming drink were as good a way as any of keeping the chill at bay.

The taproom was enveloped in warmth. With the combined smells of ale, tobacco and victuals and the subdued murmur of conversation permeating the tavern Hawkwood could easily have shut his eyes and imagined, if only for a few brief seconds, that he was back in London, enjoying a wet at the Blackbird Inn.

Only he wasn’t. He was in Albany, New York, half a world away from Bow Street, trying to find some means of getting home.

Still, he thought, at least there was one advantage to being here.

He didn’t have to speak French.