by James McGee
Hawkwood told him.
“Good God Almighty!” Lawrence said after the telling was over. He stared at Hawkwood in astonishment. “Bonaparte? You actually went to Paris to overthrow Bonaparte?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Hawkwood said wistfully.
“Well, of that I have no doubt. And Grant? Colquhoun-bloody-Grant! I’ll be double damned! There we were, thinking the Frogs had killed the bugger! I need another drink! Where’s that damned jug?”
Lawrence poured himself a fresh mug, from which he took a deep swallow before shaking his head in wonderment as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just been told. “Bonaparte! Good God!”
“So, what about you, Major?” Hawkwood said. “What’s your story? I saw in the guardhouse ledger that you were captured at Oswegatchie. That’s up on the St Lawrence, correct?”
“Which carries a certain irony, don’t you think?” Lawrence made a face. “But you’re right about the location. Though there’s some who call it Ogdensburg. That’s the trouble with the Americans – they can’t seem to make their bloody minds up.”
“What happened? Where’s the rest of the Fortieth? Did you get separated?”
“Separated?” Lawrence looked surprised by the question. “Ah, yes, well, you could say that, seeing as the rest of the regiment is in Spain.”
Hawkwood frowned, mystified. “Then, what the hell are you doing here?”
A fresh smile broke out across Lawrence’s face. “Unlike you, I’m here on purpose. Or at any rate, the Army’s purpose. I was assigned.”
“On your own? To do what?”
“Recruit the natives.”
Hawkwood stared at him, dumbstruck.
“Ha!” Lawrence chuckled at Hawkwood’s expression. “Thought that’d strike a chord!”
Just as well we’ve eaten, Hawkwood thought as he watched Lawrence take another sip, or else we’d both be in our cups.
Not that he was feeling particularly fatigued. And Lawrence was showing no signs of flagging either. He suspected it was the excitement of the night that was keeping them awake. Sleep was never going to come easy after being shot at and spearing a man through the guts with a twelve-foot pike – no matter how tired you thought you might be.
“Can I just begin by saying that, although my being here is in part your fault, I bear you no ill will,” said Lawrence. “And the same goes for Major Grant.”
“Me?” Hawkwood said, recovering and wondering if he’d misjudged Lawrence’s capacity for absorbing alcohol, though the major’s comment had been delivered in a tongue-in-cheek tone. “What did I do? And what on earth does Col Grant have to do with it?”
“He inherited your contacts with the guerrilleros when you returned to London, yes? Ended up as Wellington’s chief exploring officer?”
“That’s right,” Hawkwood said warily, wondering where this was leading.
“So who do you think took over Grant’s liaison duties after he was captured by the Frogs?”
Hawkwood was about to plead ignorance when the answer dawned on him.
“You’re not serious?”
“Damned right, I’m serious. If it wasn’t for me taking on his mantle, they wouldn’t have posted me to the Canadas and I wouldn’t have been captured and we wouldn’t be having this chinwag. If I were a God-fearing man, I’d say that your coming to my rescue was a clear case of Divine intervention.” Lawrence shook his head. “Since I’m not, let’s put it down to happy coincidence.”
“Bloody hell!” Hawkwood said.
“Quite so,” Lawrence responded. “Strange how chance takes a hand, ain’t it? I felt sure I was imagining things when I saw you back at the ferry landing.”
“That makes two of us,” Hawkwood said. “How did you end up taking over Grant’s role?”
Lawrence put down his tankard and picked up a poker. After steering a couple of glowing log ends away from the edge of the hearth, he replaced the poker, reclaimed his drink and sat back. “It was following our last adventure, when you and I said our goodbyes and I returned to Spain. There was a lot of bad feeling after the Badajoz affair, and Wellington—”
“Badajoz?” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence fixed Hawkwood with a questioning gaze. “You know about the victory, obviously?”
“I read about it.”
“Aye, well it wasn’t near as glorious as the journals might have made out. In fact, it was anything but. Our losses were appalling. And when our troops did finally take the city, they went on a three-day killing spree. Men, women, even children, were put to the sword. It was ghastly, a bloody massacre.” He gave a shudder at the thought of it. “You can imagine what it did to our relations with the Spanish. Naturally, Wellington wanted bridges rebuilt as soon as possible, and one way to achieve that was to have British officers working with their Spanish counterparts to try and smooth things over.
“My colonel volunteered me for the role; he knew my Spanish was good. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was spending more time delivering dispatches to the local guerrilla commanders than I was marching with my regiment.
“In the course of all this, I worked with Grant, got to know him a little. After he was captured, and because I was already entrenched with the guerrilleros, I was tasked to take over the running of some of his courier routes.”
“But how did you end up here?”
Lawrence eyed Hawkwood over the rim of his mug. “When you were in Spain, did you ever come across Lieutenant-Colonel Pearson?”
“Can’t say the name means anything.”
“A hell of a soldier; wounded at Aldea de Ponte and sent home, unfit for active service. Not good for a man of his calibre. Anyone else would probably have drunk himself into a stupor. Luckily, a friend came to his rescue.” Lawrence paused to let Hawkwood take the bait.
“And this friend just happened to be …?”
“General Prevost, Governor-General of Canada.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Ain’t it just. They served together in Martinique. Rather than see him put out to grass, Prevost offered him a staff position as Inspecting Field Officer of Militia in Canada. He was already en route when hostilities broke out. Didn’t take him long to see that improvements were needed. Came up with quite a few, one of which was establishing a web of paid informants. To liaise with them, he recruited special, ah … correspondents, I suppose you’d call ’em – like the ones employed by your Alien Office – to gather intelligence from behind the American lines. That got him to thinking about the way Grant had recruited the guerrilleros in Spain and Portugal. He thought it might be possible to try the same tactic with the indigenous tribes. It worked during the Revolution – why not now?”
“So they sent for you,” Hawkwood said.
“Grant wasn’t available, on account of he’d been captured, so the generals decided I was the man for the job. I received my marching orders in October. Hardly drew breath before they had me on a packet out of Lisbon.”
Lawrence smiled thinly. “Put the Indian Department’s nose out of joint, of course: Pearson bringing in his own man. There’s a rift deep between the department and the military. The army reckons most of the department’s officials are corrupt and only out to feather their own nests. There’s a fair number who’ve married into the tribes, so they’ve a vested interest in the Nations remaining neutral. It protects their positions.
“Now that we’re at war, as far as the army’s concerned, those who ain’t with us are agin us. It wants the Nations to take a positive stance. If we’re to defend the Canadas, as we must, we need the tribes on our side.
“For that to happen, we have to convince the leaders that their best interests lie with us and not the Americans.” Lawrence sighed. “And there’s the rub. The Indian Department would prefer the peace chiefs to be in charge. The army, for obvious reasons, wants the war chiefs to hold the reins. Up until a month or so ago, it was what the Frogs call impasse.”
“What change
d?”
“His Majesty’s government realized war was imminent so the army got its way. When the civil governor went back to England for a spot of leave, he was replaced by General Brock. When he was killed at Queenston Sheaffe took over. He was on the Niagara too, along with a fellow called John Norton. I won’t even attempt to pronounce his Indian name. He has a Cherokee father and a Scottish mother and he’s the son-in-law of Joseph Brant, the chap who led the Nations and fought alongside us in the Revolution.”
“Thayendanega,” Hawkwood said softly.
Lawrence paused. “I do believe that was his Mohawk name, yes. You’ve heard of him?”
“A long time ago.”
Lawrence paused for Hawkwood to elaborate, but when he saw that wasn’t going to happen, he went on: “Soon as Sheaffe became Commander, he rewarded Norton with a title: Captain of the Indian Confederation, in recognition for his action at Queenston.”
A memory of one of Quade’s outbursts entered Hawkwood’s mind.
“That breed, Norton, and his damned savages!”
“That sealed it,” Lawrence said. “They might as well have crowned him King of the Iroquois, because as far as the army’s concerned that’s what he is. So now they have a war chief – their war chief – as leader of the Nations. Norton can use his influence to persuade the tribes to fight for us. The Indian Department’s hopping mad, of course. It’s worried that with a war chief as leader, if the tribes ever decide to turn against His Majesty’s government they’ll wreak havoc among the whites.”
“There’s a risk of that?”
“Not if we keep them sweet.”
“You think that will work?”
Lawrence shrugged. “So long as we have Norton in our corner. There are other inducements. The main one being that if Canada falls to the Americans it won’t only be the British who’ll lose, but the Nations, too. There’ll be nothing to stop the Yankees from taking everything, including Indian land. Not that there’s much left of it, mind you, but they’ll have even less if we lose. We can’t let that happen.
“Norton’s doing a good job persuading the Indians on the Canadian side of the line to join us but it’s the ones in residence on this side of the border I was sent to convince. We know they’re veering towards neutrality and that some have been in secret correspondence with their Canadian brothers advocating that. We want them to see things differently. Pearson believes the Iroquois to be a pragmatic people who’ll side with the nation most likely to emerge victorious. Our successes at Detroit and Queenston will show them we have the resources and the skill to defeat the Americans.
“I wasn’t here more than five minutes before Pearson called me in. He’s not a man who believes in prevarication. And he’s no diplomat! The Canadians have taken to calling him ‘Tartar’ Pearson behind his back. Well deserved, too – I can vouch for that!
“Anyway, he decided there was no time to lose. I was sent across the river on the back end of a raiding party.”
“So what went wrong?”
“We wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sheer bad luck, simple as that; not helped by the fact there were more of them than there were of us. I was supposed to slip through the lines while the raid was taking place, but I never made it. My guide was killed and I was taken prisoner – the mackerel caught in a net full of haddock, you might say.
“So much for Pearson’s plan. He’ll be fuming, I expect. Probably just as well I’m here rather than there.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Y’know, back in London, when I said that I hoped we’d meet again, this wasn’t at all what I had in mind. But, by God, I’m glad to see you!”
“Likewise, Major,” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence’s brow creased. “That reminds me – wasn’t there a lady? Rather exotic, too, as I recall. Whatever became of her? Did you and she …?”
“She died,” Hawkwood said.
“Oh, my dear fellow, I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be,” Hawkwood said. “She was a murderous bitch.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows took off again.
“She was a French spy. Killed at least two people and came close to assassinating the Prince Regent. She got what she deserved. Justice was dispensed.”
Lawrence stared at him. After a pause, he enquired cautiously, “Er … by your hand?”
“And a bullet from a Baker rifle, yes.”
“My God,” Lawrence said again, though his voice was muted this time. He took a sip from his mug, grimaced at the taste and laid it down on the table in front of him. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a watch. “Remember this?”
It was the watch that had brought the two of them together. A pickpocket had lifted it from Lawrence’s sash while the major was watching a bare-knuckle bout. Hawkwood, who’d been involved with a criminal case nearby, had witnessed the theft, retrieved the timepiece and returned it to its grateful owner. There was an inscription on the back of the casing:
Lieutenant D.C. Lawrence, 40th Regiment.
A gallant officer.
With grateful thanks, Auchmuty.
February 1807
The watch had been given to Lawrence by his commanding officer, as a mark of respect and in honour of his lieutenant’s bravery during the attack on Montevideo. As a result of which Lawrence had received his captaincy.
“Only a couple of hours until dawn,” Lawrence observed. “We should probably make use of the accommodation while we can.” He laid back on the settle, stretched out his legs and drew his coat about him. “So what’s our next move?”
“Continue north; head for Canada. With luck, we’ll make it before the weather turns.”
Lawrence tucked his head on to his chest. “Splendid. And did you have a particular route planned?”
Hawkwood summoned the Lewis map to mind. “Maybe. It’ll depend on the state of the roads. There’s been heavy flooding along some stretches of highway. We might have to make it up as we go.”
Lawrence folded his arms, snuggled down and let out a low chuckle. “Ha, nothing new there, eh?”
“Story of my life, Major,” Hawkwood said.
But he was talking to himself. Lawrence was already asleep.
It had been four days since the old man’s passing.
The entire village had turned out for the feast in honour of their departed brother and prophet, Ayonhwathah. Now, in the pale light of morning, they gathered to watch as the deceased’s relatives accompanied the body from the long-house to the waiting scaffold.
With great solemnity, the corpse bearers carried the litter through the village and out to the place that had been chosen at the edge of the forest. The mourners followed closely behind, many weeping openly as the procession made its way towards the ten-foot-high elm-bark platform. The scaffold timbers creaked as the blanket-wrapped bundle was laid to rest and his weapons – hunting knife, tomahawk, war club and carbine – were placed alongside him. When the final items had been added – a pipe and a full tobacco pouch – a black bear skin was drawn across the corpse to protect it from the wind, rain and snow.
Perched in the surrounding trees, a flock of crows fixed their gimlet-bright eyes upon the small baskets of food that hung from the scaffold; left there to sustain the deceased’s spirit on its journey into the afterlife.
When all the baskets and the water pots had been secured, the ladder was taken down and the funeral fire was lit. The fire was neither large nor fierce enough to consume the corpse, for that was not its purpose. It was there to deter scavengers and to help the dead man’s spirit prepare the food.
When the flames had been reduced to small flickering tongues, the mourners turned and with heavy hearts began to wend their way back towards the village, their lamentations gradually fading in volume as they re-entered their houses, where the grieving would continue.
On the evening of the ninth day Kodjeote left his bed to tend the funeral fire. The night was dark and clear and bitterly cold, and the ground, already veneered with a thin f
rost, crackled beneath his feet.
He paused as a low pale shape padded soundlessly through a patch of moonlight in front of him; letting out his breath when he recognized it as one of the village dogs. The animal stopped and stared at him through yellow eyes before it moved on, into the night.
As Kodjeote approached the fire, the robed figure standing guard there rose to its feet.
“Was it not Deskaheh’s turn to tend the flames?” Cageaga said, frowning.
“I could not sleep, Uncle,” Kodjeote said. “I told Deskaheh I would take his place.”
“He did not ask it of you?” the older man enquired suspiciously.
Kodjeote shook his head. “The choice was mine.” His gaze turned from his uncle to the scaffold’s slender framework, outlined against the stars. “Deskaheh says he cannot remember the last sky burial.”
Deskaheh was Kodjeote’s brother and his senior by five years.
“He’s too young,” Cageaga grunted. “It took place before he was born.”
“Did you see it?” Kodjeote asked. “Do you remember?”
“I remember it was a long time ago.”
“Why have we not placed him in the ground?”
“Because this was his wish.”
“For the flesh to fall from his bones for all to see and for the birds to peck at his eyes?” Kodjeote said doubtfully.
The response was curt: “No, it is so his journey from the earth to the sky world will be a short one.”
“The Christian fathers say the dead should be buried below the earth and—”
“The Christian fathers say a lot of things,” Cageaga sniffed dismissively. “Just because the white man tells us something does not mean we have to take their word for it.” Cageaga’s face darkened. “That is how our lands were stolen from us.”
“So you believe in the Great Spirit?”
“More than golden idols and wooden crosses.”
Kodjeote looked pensive.
“When the time comes, we will bury him. Not because the Black Robes say so, but because that has always been our custom.”
The Black Robes were the Jesuit missionaries – les prêtres français – who had come to the land of the Iroquois to spread the word of their god. Their first converts had been the Huron, enemies of the Mohawk. When Kodjeote’s ancestors had launched raids against Huron villages, they had returned with Black Robe prisoners. Many of the priests had died under torture, while others had been ransomed to the authorities. Some, however, had forged bonds with their captors and had remained, hoping to persuade the Iroquois to abandon their beliefs. Over the years, they had won many converts, until the Christian god had as many followers as the old religion.
