by James McGee
“Reverend?” Johnson said, frowning.
“With your permission, Colonel. I’d like to go with them.”
Johnson stared at him. “What? No. Out of the question.”
The pastor’s expression changed. His face took on a hard cast. “In that case, Colonel, I’m afraid I must insist.”
It occurred to Johnson that the pastor was on horseback while he was on foot, not a good position to be in when you were trying to assert your authority. Climbing into his saddle, he fixed the pastor with a flinty stare.
“Insist, Reverend? Need I remind you who’s in command here?”
De Witt shook his head though his expression did not alter. He suddenly looked a different man to the one Johnson had been introduced to; more purposeful, a man whose confidence had been restored. “I assure you that’s not necessary, Colonel. If I gave the impression of having suggested anything other than that, I apologize. I certainly meant no disrespect. However, the boy was placed in my care. If I may quote the good book: ‘What man of you having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness and go after that which is lost, until he find it?’” The pastor drew himself up. “I consider the boy to be one of my flock. I am responsible for him, therefore, and he is lost in the wilderness, is he not?”
Johnson stared at the pastor. “I’m familiar with the parables, Reverend. So forgive me if I ask whether your motive in wanting to go with my men is to find the boy or to earn absolution for not keeping your eye on him in the first place?”
The pastor flinched. “He’s twelve, Colonel. He has no one other than those of us on this march. He was in my care and I neglected him. I intend to make amends. Besides, there is an advantage in my joining the search.”
“Really? How so?”
“I may have failed him, but he does know me. He does not know these men.” The pastor swept a hand to encompass the corporal and his party. “After what he saw happen to his guardians, what do you think he might do if he sees these strangers bearing down upon him?”
There was a silence. Scott leaned in close. “He could have a point, sir. They’re fine soldiers, but they do have the look of the ruffian about them. No offence, Corporal,” he added, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder.
“None taken, sir,” Stryker responded drily.
“I’m also another pair of eyes, Colonel,” De Witt said. “And I know the place where he might have left the column. It could save time, and time is of the essence, is it not? I’m assuming your scouts would have advised us if the enemy was in the vicinity. They have not done so. There would appear to be little risk, therefore, in my joining the search.”
Johnson flicked a glance towards his second-in-command. Scott looked back at him and shrugged.
What harm could it do?
Johnson turned, collecting his thoughts. “They’ll be out overnight.”
“I’ve a warm blanket and a coat, and I have provisions in my saddlebag. I’m used to the inconvenience, Colonel, believe me.”
“And are you armed, Reverend?”
“I am, sir.”
At least you didn’t say, “the Lord will protect me”, Johnson thought. He held the pastor’s gaze for several long seconds and then sighed resignedly.
“Very well. While it goes against my better judgement, you may ride along with Corporal Stryker and his men. But know this, sir: they will make no allowances. It will be your job to keep up with them. And you will obey the corporal at all times. You understand me?”
“Perfectly, Colonel. Thank you.”
Johnson turned. “Corporal Stryker, this gentleman will assist you in the search.”
“Very good, sir.” Stryker’s face stayed neutral. Then, with a sideways glance to where the preacher had taken his wife’s hand, he enquired in a low voice, “And if we can’t find the boy, Colonel?”
Johnson followed Stryker’s gaze. “Assuming you’ve exhausted all avenues, you are to return to the column. You do not have long. As I believe Captain Scott has informed you, I expect to depart Bulwagga at midday tomorrow. You have until then to catch us up. The Marine will not wait. The safety of the remaining civilians is paramount. Much as it pains me to say so, I cannot jeopardize the lives of two hundred for the sake of one, even if he is a child. I cannot. So I’m relying on you and your men, Corporal. Find the boy and bring him home. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man.” Johnson stole another glance at the preacher and saw that De Witt and his wife had parted company. Turning back to the corporal, he steered his horse aside. “All right – on your way. We’ll see you at Bulwagga.”
Stryker touched his cap. “Colonel.”
“God go with you, Thaddeus,” Mrs De Witt called softly. Clutching her daughter’s hand, she watched as the five riders cantered back down the trail. Then, squaring her shoulders, she collected her belongings and with a final glance towards her disappearing husband, she took her place in the line.
“Let’s hope God’s listening,” Scott murmured. “If they don’t find him, the lad doesn’t have a hope in hell.”
Johnson said nothing. With a contemplative Scott by his side, he watched in silence until the search party was out of sight, at which point Scott turned to him. “Awaiting your orders, sir.”
Johnson continued to stare down the trail.
“Are you all right, Colonel?” Scott asked.
Realizing he’d been holding his breath, Johnson let it out slowly. “There are times, Thomas, when I wish I was just another bloody ranker. That way I wouldn’t have to make such God-awful decisions.”
Scott remained silent. After several seconds, Johnson ran his hand through his hair and said heavily. “Let’s get them moving.”
“Yes, sir.”
They’d travelled less than half a mile when Scott stiffened in his saddle as two men appeared suddenly from a gap in the trees ahead of them. Had the men not been bearded, from a distance it would have been hard to tell if they were white or Indian, for they were burnt brown by the sun and dressed in native fashion: blue cotton shirts, buckskin leggings and moccasins. Ammunition and supply pouches hung across their shoulders and both men carried long guns.
“Scouts,” Scott announced unnecessarily as the duo jogged effortlessly towards them.
“Mr Boone, Mr Cavett,” Johnson said, addressing the men as they drew level. “You have fresh news, I take it?”
Boone, the taller and swarthier of the pair, nodded. “We do, Colonel and it ain’t good.” Turning his head to one side, he spat a stream of black mucus on to the ground. “Militia’s catching up.”
“God damn!” Scott said.
“From what direction?” Johnson asked.
“Take your pick, Colonel,” Boone said, transferring the tobacco plug from the inside of his left cheek to the inside of his right. “There’s a combined force of Continentals and militia coming up round Lake George by way of the Albany road, heading for Champlain. I’m guessing it aims to get there before us. Word is Governor Clinton himself is leading ’em.”
“Is he indeed?” Johnson said. “I’m honoured. And there are others, you say?”
“Another division from the New Hampshire Grants headin’ out by way of Ticonderoga. It plans to rendezvous with Clinton’s men.”
“Anyone else?”
“We did hear the Tryon County Militia mustered at Johnstown – Third Battalion,” the scout added.
“That’s Veeder’s battalion,” Scott said. “Maybe he’s annoyed that we released his brother.”
Johnson smiled thinly as Boone said, “Aye, well I don’t reckon we’ll be hearing from them. They’re too far behind. Also, it seems they’re being diverted back to the Mohawk.”
Boone grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “There’s a rumour Brant and his warriors were seen south of the river. Militia thought it prudent to stay and offer a defence if the heathens attempt a crossing.”
Johnson awarded himself a
pat on the back. During the raid, to draw Patriot attention away from the column’s escape route, the scouts had let slip false word that a band of Mohawk auxiliaries was also on the rampage. The decoying tactic appeared to have worked.
“Well, you were right, sir,” Scott said brightly. “They fell for it. Should keep the bastards occupied for a while.”
“All warfare is based on deception,” Johnson murmured.
Scott looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Your father?”
“Sun Tzu,” Johnson said with a smile.
Boone frowned. “He an Iroquois, Colonel?”
“Different tribe, Mr Boone, but as good as. Clinton’s militia – how close to us, would you estimate?”
The scout pursed his lips. “Hard to say, seeing as they ain’t chasing us, exactly. They’re trying to cut us off. Given our current position, maybe a day to intersect.”
“Hell fire,” Scott swore.
“Then we should pick up the pace,” Johnson said. “We must get to Champlain before they do. The Marine’s waiting, but it can’t risk a confrontation. If we don’t make it, the boats will leave without us. And it’s a bloody long walk to the border – assuming we can avoid a fight.”
“The civilians won’t take too kindly to the added mileage,” Scott said.
“Indeed.” Johnson looked back to the scout. “Very well, Mr Boone, I thank you for the intelligence. I’d be obliged if you’d replenish your provisions and return to the field. See what else you can find out. It’s clear from your report that the enemy knows or has guessed our intentions. They probably haven’t determined our exact route, but they’ve deduced we’re heading for Champlain. That means we’re up against it.”
Johnson addressed his second-in-command: “Captain Scott, kindly inform the company commanders of the situation. They are to increase the pace, but subtly. We don’t want to spread panic among the civilians.”
Scott pursed his lips. “What about …?”
“If Corporal Stryker and his men fail to find the boy before nightfall and the enemy comes between us, they will have to take their chances. How good is Stryker?”
“Better than any damned militia, that’s for sure,” Scott said.
“Then I’ve no doubt they will make the rendezvous on time,” Johnson responded confidently. He turned to the scout. “How many men would you say Governor Clinton has to hand, Mr Boone?”
“’Bout fifteen hundred, give or take.”
“Dear God!” Scott paled and sucked in his breath. “That many?”
“We gave ’em a bloody nose, Colonel. They mean to get their own back,” Boone said. “One way or t’other.”
Johnson absorbed the comment. “I doubt they’ll march at night, which means we may yet have the advantage. So we move now and we move fast.” He addressed Scott. “Smartly, Thomas. Smartly.”
“Yes, sir.”
As his second-in-command cantered away, Johnson looked back down the column, thinking of the boy and the men he’d dispatched to look for him.
And the Devil take the hindmost, he thought bleakly.
5
December 1812
“How long before they come after us, do you think?” Lawrence asked, his tone suggesting speculation rather than worry.
Hawkwood shrugged. “Difficult to say. From what I saw, they’d be hard pushed to find their own arses in the dark, so it could be some time. It’ll have taken a while for them to round up their damned horses. And they had a blaze to put out. My guess is that should keep them busy ’til dawn, so we’ve a few hours in our favour.”
“Ah,” Lawrence murmured. “The fire; I’d forgotten about that.”
Hawkwood smiled ruefully. “A diversion was all I could think of. I heard they were planning to ship you off to Pittsfield, wherever the hell that is, so I didn’t have much time.”
Lawrence chuckled. “Well, I’m damned glad you used it wisely, my dear fellow! I could tell you were a resourceful bugger the first time I clapped eyes on you. Good to see you haven’t changed.”
The major raised his mug and in a lowered voice said, “To brothers-in-arms and confusion to the enemy!”
“Whomever they may be,” Hawkwood responded. The two men drank.
There had been no need for Lawrence to speak softly. They were alone in the taproom. The weathered sign hanging above the door had identified the inn as Peake’s Tavern. Anxious to snatch some sleep before daylight, and none too keen on bedding down outdoors in the cold and rain, they’d seen a light on in the window and stopped to enquire whether there might be a room available for what was left of the night.
The landlord had peered at them blearily before shaking his head. What rooms the tavern did possess were already taken, but if they were prepared to invest in a jug and a couple of tankards they were welcome to make use of the settles by the fire. The least he could do, he’d told them, for our brave infantrymen.
Hawkwood was still wearing his stolen tunic while Lawrence’s uniform was partially visible at the collar of his greatcoat. As the latter was neither regulation blue nor make-do grey but British scarlet, Hawkwood assumed their host was either colour blind or conveniently unfamiliar with American regimental colours. Whatever his motivation, the offer had been gratefully accepted.
After they’d seen their mounts quartered in the adjoining and equally unprepossessing stable, they had returned to the taproom’s warmth. Too late for a hot supper as well, the landlord had advised them apologetically, but there was bread and some cheese and a wedge of beef pie, which they were welcome to if they didn’t mind the latter being served cold.
They didn’t mind at all, Lawrence had replied, while throwing Hawkwood a broad wink behind the landlord’s back.
Having seen to the food, the landlord had bid them a good night. His only instruction upon departing for his own bed had been for them to keep an eye on the fire and to prevent the embers from falling out of the hearth.
Consisting of three houses and the tavern, the hamlet was too small to warrant a name. From what they could tell in the darkness, there wasn’t a lot to recommend the place other than its position in relation to the post road and its distance from Greenbush.
It had been after midnight when they arrived. Hawkwood had been unsure how far they’d travelled until he spotted the mileage marker on the hamlet’s outskirts. If the figure was accurate, Albany lay some twenty-five miles behind them. He would have preferred to put a greater distance between them and their pursuers, but there were risks involved in travelling over unfamiliar country in the dark at speed. And even though their horses were army dispatch mounts and thus used to being ridden hard, it was clear they had reached their limit. Had they been domestic nags, he reflected, they’d likely have expired several miles back. The only respite the sweat-caked animals had been given was when they slowed to walking pace upon approaching any village on their route, so as avoid waking the slumbering townsfolk and drawing notice to themselves.
For the most part they had stuck to the main road, maintaining their direction north, up through Troy to Lansingburgh, where Hawkwood had thought about using the bridge to re-cross the river. Realizing that this would entail yet another crossing of the Hudson further upstream, probably at Fort Edward, he had opted to remain on the east bank.
As the warmth of the fire penetrated his bones, he gazed into the flames and thought about the chaos they’d left behind them. By this time Sergeant Dunbar would have been ordered to recount the evening’s events to his superiors, as would Corporal Jeffard and his card-playing associates. If there was one thing that Hawkwood knew about military procedure it was that every mother’s son involved in the fracas would be trying his level best to plant the blame on someone else. Part of him did wonder if the camp commander might not think it was a waste of his already over-stretched resources sending men to chase the fugitives. With luck, he would deem it an incident best swept under the carpet and his actions would be dictated by fear of high command finding out that one man
, acting alone, had managed to breach the cantonment’s inner sanctum and break a prisoner out of the guardhouse.
He dismissed the thought as wishful thinking. At least one man, possibly two, had died and several others had been wounded, not to mention the damage to the stables and the loss of two horses. No, the army would be looking for retribution.
Which was all the more reason for Hawkwood and Lawrence to grab what sleep and sustenance they could while they had the opportunity. With a few hours’ recuperation under their belts they’d be able to continue their journey at sun-up and still be ahead of any pursuit party.
Lawrence’s voice cut into Hawkwood’s thoughts.
“So, my dear fellow, I think it’s about time you explained what the devil you’re doing here, don’t you?”
Hawkwood wondered how much he should divulge. Since it really didn’t matter in the long run, he smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m trying to get home.”
Lawrence frowned over the rim of his mug. “From where?”
“France,” Hawkwood said.
The mug almost slipped from Lawrence’s grasp. “France! Good God! Well, I hate to cast aspersions, but your navigation leaves a lot to be desired! Shouldn’t you be pointing the other way?”
“It’s a long story,” Hawkwood said with mock weariness.
Lawrence fixed him with a perceptive stare. “Well, we’ve a fire in the grate, food in our bellies and a drink in our hands – and neither of us has a bed to go to. So, if you’ve the inclination to regale me, I’m all ears. If I should nod off, though, don’t be offended. Just take my drink away and let me sleep.”
Stretching out his legs in front of the hearth, the major lifted a hand in a regal salute. “Proceed.”
Hawkwood studied him for a moment and then grinned. “All right, Major; you asked for it. Tell me, what do you know about the Alien Office?”
Lawrence blinked. “Not a damned thing. What’s that when it’s at home?”
