The Blooding

by James McGee

  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 i
n 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.

  “Don’t look at them!” Hawkwood snapped. “Look at me!”

  The trooper swallowed and found his voice. “Taking a break between duties, Captain. We were about to return to our posts when you arrived.”

  “Of course you were,” Hawkwood said witheringly. “Nice try. Shame you’ve been rumbled. If I were you, I’d practise those excuses. You can put down the dice; I’ve a job for you.”

  He paused, watching as a chastened Jeffard did as he was told, allowing the silence to stretch to breaking point before adding, “I’m here because I have urgent dispatches for both General Dearborn and Colonel Pike. I need two good mounts, saddled, fully equipped and ready to depart in ten minutes. Manage it quicker than that and you can finish your game.” He turned to the others. “Anyone else on duty here, or is this it?”

  A flustered nod from Van Bosen. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Just us, sir.”

  Hawkwood vented a silent sigh of relief as he waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, well, whichever it is, I don’t care, frankly. Only, with the three of you, it won’t take long, will it? Ten minutes, gentlemen. I’ll expect those damned animals to be ready or I’ll want to know why. Don’t make me put the three of you on a charge. That happens and you’ll be shovelling shit till doomsday.”

  Giving them no chance to respond, Hawkwood turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  As soon as he was outside and out of sight, he moved swiftly towards the shadows cast by the farrier’s hut. Tucking himself against the wall, he waited. A few seconds later, he watched as the three troopers left the tack room and hurried towards the adjacent stable block. The moment they disappeared inside, Hawkwood, his movement concealed by the intervening hut, crossed to the stable block on the opposite side of the yard. Grabbing a lantern from the wall, he hauled back the door. He was immediately assailed by the pungent aroma of hay, horse sweat and fresh droppings.

  The stalls were set out along both sides of a central aisle. Beyond the reach of the lantern glow, dark forms stirred restlessly in the shadows. Straw rustled. A soft whickering sound eddied around the walls as the stable’s occupants caught his scent. He moved down the aisle, treading carefully. He had no desire to panic the animals. At least not yet.

  As he looked for an empty stall, he prayed that Jeffard and his cronies were as inefficient as they had appeared to be. With luck, the brew they’d been drinking would slow them down long enough to allow him the valuable seconds he needed.

  Two stalls had been left vacant. Hawkwood picked the one furthest from the door and looked for a supply of dry straw. Bales of it were stacked in a storage area at the end of the aisle. Laying aside the lantern and working quickly, he broke open one of the bales, gathered the contents in his arms and piled the bulk of it loosely against the slatted walls of the empty stall, trailing the rest out into the aisle.

  Then he set it alight.

  He used the lantern. He’d been planning to use the stolen flint and steel to start the fire, but they weren’t needed. The accelerants had been provided for him. He watched anxiously as the first tentative flames scurried along the dry stalks. When he was confident the fire had taken hold, he tossed the lantern to one side and backed away, unlatching the doors to the stalls as he went. By the time he reached the main door, the first of the horses was already stamping the ground and snorting nervously.

  Exiting the stable, Hawkwood propped the outer door open as far as it would go and retraced his steps to the farrier’s hut. He made it to the tack room just as Corporal Jeffard led the first of the saddled horses into the yard.

  Hawkwood counted to five and strode arrogantly into view. His sudden appearance had the desired effect: the troopers started in surprise. The less time they had to think, the less likely they would be to question his orders or, more inconveniently, his identity. Hawkwood wanted them on tenterhooks as to what this supercilious bastard of an officer would do next. From their expressions, the ruse appeared to be working.

  “Well done, Co
rporal,” Hawkwood drawled. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  The corporal drew himself up. “They’re sound, Captain. They ain’t been out for a day or two, so they’ll be glad of the exercise.”

  Then they won’t be disappointed, Hawkwood thought, running a critical gaze over the animals. “All right, gentlemen. You’ve redeemed yourselves. You may return to your, ah … duties.”

  A grin of relief spread across the corporal’s face. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  At that moment Private Van Bosen lifted his gaze to a point beyond Hawkwood’s shoulder and gasped hoarsely, “Oh, Christ!”

  The exclamation was accompanied by the unmistakable clatter of hooves coming from the other side of the farrier’s hut.

  Hawkwood, Corporal Jeffard and Private Rivers spun round in time to see a dark mass of stampeding horses careering noisily towards the open end of the stable yard and the darkness beyond.

  “Jesus!” Jeffard stared in horror and disbelief at the vanishing animals.

  Hawkwood frowned. “I smell smoke.”

  “Bloody stable’s on fire!” Rivers yelped as the realization hit him.

  Turning to Jeffard, who was holding the reins of the two saddled horses, Hawkwood barked, “Wait here! Don’t let them go! You two, with me! Move!”

  The blaze had spread quicker than he had anticipated. The interior of the stable looked to be well alight, though the fire had yet to reach the roof. From inside, the fizzle of burning straw and the splintering of timber could be plainly heard. It wouldn’t be long before flames were dancing around the open door. Smoke was starting to pour through the gaps in the shingles, further darkening the already overcast night sky.

  Hawkwood pushed Van Bosen towards the fire. “Don’t just stand there, man! Get buckets! We can save it! You, too, Rivers! I’ll go for help!”