by James McGee
Hawkwood tensed as three men in what were clearly military uniforms emerged from a darkened alleyway and crossed the street a few yards ahead of them. The men glanced briefly in their direction but did not linger. Hawkwood released his breath.
“Well, that just took ten years off my life,” Lawrence muttered as he watched the trio fade into the night.
They walked on, their senses heightened, but there were no more surprises. Turning the next corner, they found themselves at the edge of the moonlit basin looking out on to a row of spindly wooden landings against which vessels of various configurations were berthed. A few craft showed lights, but most were in shadow.
The odour coming off the Snake’s tar-painted hull was detectable long before she came into view. It was that as much as her appearance that told them they had the right vessel.
A small, single-masted sloop perhaps forty to fifty feet in length and berthed well away from prying eyes, she had, presumably, been deemed too insignificant to be commandeered by the military. Or maybe it was the smell that had put them off.
“Christ!” Lawrence whispered. “I’ve seen better looking night-soil barges.”
Barely discernible in faded lettering across her transom was the legend Snake. And indeed there was something undeniably sinister in the way her blackened timbers seemed to overlap like scales.
There didn’t appear to be any sign of life aboard, but as Hawkwood and Lawrence drew closer a face appeared over the port gunwale and a sinewy figure rose into view from a hatchway amidships.
“Lookin’ for somethin’?” The enquiry carried no warmth.
“Here to see Captain Stagg,” Hawkwood said. “We’re expected.”
The figure stared at them for several seconds before turning and disappearing from view.
A couple of seconds later it was back.
“Best come this way then.”
They climbed aboard.
In the course of his research into the best route homeward, Hawkwood had learned that the ban on trade with Canada had led to an increase in cross-border smuggling. Being familiar with the smuggling brotherhood of the Kent coast, he was willing to wager that the free-traders active in Vermont and New York State would be similarly inclined when it came to laying patriotism aside in favour of lining their own pockets.
The variety of goods transported across the border here was as diverse as the shipments of contraband that slipped undetected across the Channel, albeit slightly less exotic. In addition to cattle, leather, butter, salt, corn and glass, the smuggling of tea was big business. The previous month, two sloops had been apprehended close to the Canadian border with more than one hundred chests of the finest Assam leaf hidden in their holds. Hawkwood remembered reading that the sloops in question had sailed from Whitehall, and it was this detail that had suggested the possibility of finding a smuggler willing to transport fugitives.
The derogatory tone in the pot-man’s voice when he’d described the commandeering of the ferry and the local shipyard had suggested that his sympathies would lie with the smugglers rather than the authorities. And given the fondness of mariners for taverns, it was natural to assume that the pot-man would have an extensive knowledge of the men that constituted the local smuggling fraternity.
At first the pot-man had been reluctant to release the information – and having met Remus Stagg, Hawkwood could understand the man’s reticence – but all information could be bought for a price. Obtaining Stagg’s name along with his whereabouts had simply been a matter of negotiation. The fact that he’d been sitting only a couple of booths away had been an unexpected dividend.
Prior to the opening of negotiations, Hawkwood had guessed that a not insignificant sum might be involved in securing their passage and he’d asked Lawrence how much he was carrying. As an officer, the major had been permitted to retain the cash he’d had on him when seized. He had dipped into this fund to purchase the jacket and knapsack from the Fort Miller store, but Hawkwood knew that Lawrence was also in possession of English guineas. As veterans of the Spanish campaign, both men had adopted the practice of sewing gold coins into their belt in case they needed to recruit help or bribe their way out of a tight spot.
As Stagg’s response had demonstrated, the value of gold was universal, even if it came with the King’s head stamped on it.
Unsurprisingly, the Snake was as scabrous below deck as above. But then, as Stagg had explained so succinctly, she wasn’t in the business of pleasure boating.
He was seated at a table in the lantern-lit stern cabin which, Hawkwood presumed, passed for the crew’s quarters, along with a tiny galley. Half a dozen cubbyholes ringed the eating area, each one housing a narrow cot and a dubious-looking blanket. There were no concessions to privacy. Along with the pervading smell of the tar that coated her outer hull, the compartment stank of sweat and bilge water.
Hawkwood wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but there appeared to be something approaching a smile of welcome on Stagg’s face. He did not rise to greet them but remained seated, dismissing his crewman with orders to ready the boat for departure. As soon as they were alone, he came straight to the point.
“You have the fee?” Shadows played across his expectant face.
Hawkwood dug out a bag from his coat pocket. “Sixty dollars. Thirty Spanish, the rest in English guineas. I trust that meets with your approval?”
“It will when I’ve counted it.” Stagg held out his hand.
Hawkwood and Lawrence watched as the coins were emptied out of the bag and tallied. When he’d confirmed the amount, Stagg slid the coins back into the bag, pulled the drawstring tight and slipped the lot inside his waistcoat.
Only then did the smile reach his eyes. “Welcome aboard, gents! Nice to have you with us!”
His eyes switched to the musket slung over Lawrence’s shoulder. “Expectin’ trouble, Mr Jones?”
“Family heirloom,” Lawrence responded blithely. “Belonged to my father. Feel quite naked without it.”
Stagg’s eyes moved to Hawkwood.
“Oh, he’s the marksman,” Hawkwood said.
Stagg frowned and then nodded assent. “Aye, well if we need food for the pot, I’ll give you a shout. As for the accommodation, if you were expecting your own cabin you’re in for a disappointment. Sixty dollars may have bought you passage but it ain’t bought any home comforts. You’ll be bunking down with the crew. There are six of us and there’ll always be at least two on deck, so there’s a pit each. As far as your bellies are concerned, you’ll eat when we eat. There’re no guest privileges here.”
“How long’s the journey likely to take?” Lawrence asked.
“We won’t be callin’ in anywhere, so three days, with a fair wind. Four at the outside.” Stagg got to his feet. “Remember, gentlemen, Snake’s a working boat, so try not to get under our feet,” he added drily.
Having launched his parting shot, he left the cabin.
Lawrence turned. “Is it my imagination, or has our captain mellowed since last we spoke?”
“I suspect our sixty dollars has had some influence in that regard,” Hawkwood said. “Though I doubt we’ll be singing sea shanties together any time soon.”
Lawrence smiled. “Ah, well, better a grin than a grimace, eh?”
They stowed the knapsacks and the musket in a couple of the cubbyholes and followed Stagg on deck. By this time Snake had slipped her mooring and was being pushed clear of the jetty.
As he stood in the breeze blowing across the harbour basin, Hawkwood pondered the reason for Snake’s night-time departure. Perhaps it had something to do with the three men in military gear who’d crossed their path earlier. This far from the border, there’d be no Customs service; it would be up to the local militia to combat smuggling. Presumably they were the ones Stagg was attempting to avoid.
Light showed over the port rail and Hawkwood could just make out a line of slipways ranged along the shoreline. Several vessels were drawn up on them, in various
stages of construction, each part-built frame looking like the exposed ribcage of some beached animal. The shipyard, Hawkwood presumed, where the military was assembling its fleet of troop carriers. To starboard, tucked in at the foot of the hill, was the unmanned ferry landing. A line of lights flickered dimly on an adjacent slope, spaced along the vague outline of something solid; a fortification of some kind. It was hard to make out details.
“New blockhouse,” Stagg’s voice grated behind them. “Case you were wonderin’. Nothing like havin’ the army camping out on your doorstep.”
“Just as well we’re on our way, then,” Lawrence whispered.
Stagg growled an order to the crew. To Hawkwood’s surprise, they did not raise the sail. Instead, leaving one crew member to man the tiller, the remaining four picked up two sets of oars that had been lying alongside the upturned dinghy secured amidships and, after dropping them into the rowlocks, they began to scull the Snake through the ink-black water. There was no rasp of metal, which suggested that all the housings had been well greased.
“Creek’s too narrow for us to tack,” Stagg said from behind Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Rowing’s easier an’ quicker.”
The breeze began to pick up, nipping at Hawkwood’s flesh. He heard Lawrence grunt with the shock of it. There were no other moving vessels in sight and Hawkwood wondered if there were more craft out there like the Snake, sailing without lights on a clandestine mission. Despite the moonlight, Hawkwood doubted whether anyone on shore would be able to make out much more than a patch of shadow moving silently over the water, there one minute, gone the next; a figment of someone’s imagination, hopefully.
The creek extended north in a gradual left-hand dog-leg before narrowing sharply until there were less than fifty yards between the banks. A stone flipped casually from either side of the boat would have struck land. Though he was no sailor, Hawkwood could see the difficulty boat crews would have if they relied solely on the wind to take them into such a tight funnel.
Lawrence nudged Hawkwood’s arm and murmured softly, “You want to stand watch or shall I?”
“You don’t trust our captain?”
“Let’s just say the jury has the matter under consideration.”
“In that case, get some rest, Major. I’ll take the first stint.”
Lawrence turned to go and then paused. “Y’know, I think it’s about time we dispensed with rank, don’t you? Given our circumstances.”
Lawrence had spoken quietly even though Stagg had moved further along the deck and wasn’t close enough to overhear. The nearest crew member was the helmsman, whose attention was centred on maintaining their course and awaiting his skipper’s instructions.
“It’s been a while since I was captain of anything,” Hawkwood said. “The name’s Matthew.”
“Douglas,” Lawrence said with a grin.
Hawkwood smiled. “I remember.”
Lawrence clapped him on the shoulder. “And it’s been a while since I slept with a loaded musket. Here’s hoping I don’t move around and blow my bloody head off.”
“If you do,” Hawkwood said, “I’ll be asking Stagg for a refund.”
“Ha! Good man. You do that. You can put it towards the funeral expenses.”
With a final chuckle, Lawrence turned and made his way below as Stagg returned aft. Arriving at the stern, he ordered the helmsman to the bow while he took command of the tiller.
It occurred to Hawkwood that, despite his aversion to matters nautical, the movement of the Snake’s deck beneath his feet was, as well as being instantly familiar, strangely comforting.
He studied the rowers as they continued their steady pull. A couple were similar to Stagg in stature. The others were not as hefty, but their sinewy frames suggested a tough resilience. Irrespective of the difference in their builds, from the way they handled themselves and drove the oars they all looked to be very fit men. The trim and pace of the boat had not faltered once, suggesting they had worked together for some time.
None of them had acknowledged the arrival of their two passengers. Hawkwood suspected that too had much to do with the chain of command. Stagg was the skipper, the one who made the decisions, who negotiated the jobs, paid the wages, and put food on the table. His word was law. If the rest of his crew were curious about his acceptance of Hawkwood and Lawrence’s presence, they were keeping it to themselves.
The Vermont and New York shorelines glided by in eerie silence, save for the soft splash of the oars. Vermont to starboard; New York to port. In the darkness it was just possible to make out some details as the wooded hills began to give way to a skein of marshy backwaters along both sides of the main channel. Moving north, the eastern shore then merged into a series of rocky headlands, while the western shore grew more undulating before giving way to marshland once again. Thin glimmers of light indicated the presence of isolated homesteads.
Hawkwood felt the tension slipping away. As long as he and Lawrence remained on the move, every mile covered was a victory gained. But that didn’t mean they could relax. In that regard the cold was an ally, for it prevented sleep. Nevertheless the constant dipping of the oars was beginning to have a hypnotic effect upon his senses. It was something of a relief, therefore, when Lawrence emerged from below a few hours later and said softly, “Your turn.”
“Wasn’t I supposed to give you the tap?” Hawkwood said.
“No need, my dear fellow.” Lawrence smiled. “If we may return temporarily to our respective ranks, as a major to a captain, I’m giving you a direct order: get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”
Hawkwood didn’t have the energy to argue. He went below, located his cubbyhole and climbed into his cot. He felt something hard strike his knee and realized that Lawrence had transferred guardianship of the musket. Smiling to himself, Hawkwood stretched out, still in his coat, and drew the blanket across his body. Within minutes, he was asleep.
When he awoke, he was aware of two things. It had grown colder and the deck was canted, so they must be under sail. Making his way topside, he found that dawn had broken and that the sky was the colour of wet slate. Stagg was manning the tiller.
“Mr Smith.”
“Captain,” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence was leaning against the dinghy, gazing out over the starboard gunwale. His coat carried a light coating of spray. He turned and smiled. “You slept well?”
“Strangely, yes. Did I miss anything?”
“Nothing of note. We’re out of that damned river at last, and we’ve just passed Ticonderoga.” Lawrence indicated a bleak-looking promontory a mile or so behind them on the port side.
There wasn’t a lot to see: a curve of muddy foreshore behind which a bare, tree-denuded slope rose towards a two-hundred-foot-high summit strewn with rocks and clumps of immature woodland and what appeared to be the remains of massive stone ramparts nestling among them like stubs of broken teeth.
“There was a better view from the south,” Lawrence said. “Not that there’s much left of the place, mind.”
Hawkwood had lost count of the abandoned forts they’d passed along their route. Most, like the one occupying the hill behind them, had changed hands so many times it was hard to remember who’d built them in the first place. Their stones were steeped in blood; not just British but French, American and Indian, along with a host of other nationalities. Now there was nothing to show for all that sacrifice of life but these moss-covered ruins. And in their midst, men were at war yet again.
The dawn light revealed sweeping vistas of both shores. Along the Vermont side the woodland was broken up by areas of meadowland – some of it under cultivation – while in the distance a range of dark mountains could be seen crouching beneath heavy skies. It was New York, however, that provided the more dramatic backdrop. There, the land rose sharply from pine-covered bluffs towards a series of misty ridges beyond which a backdrop of rugged, snow-powdered peaks stretched the entire length of the horizon.
“Reminds me of Scotland,”
Lawrence murmured softly.
“That where your family’s from?” Hawkwood asked.
Gazing across the water, Lawrence shook his head. “Not directly. My mother’s Scottish. My father was from Carlisle. We used to travel north to visit my mother’s family. They were highland stock. I saw something of the country when I was a boy.”
“You didn’t join a border regiment?”
“Too damned cold.” Lawrence mimed a shiver and smiled. “I went south to seek my fortune.”
“London?”
Lawrence turned and grinned. “No, Chester, where I met up with a very persuasive recruiting sergeant.”
“You came up through the ranks?”
“I did indeed. My first posting was to Ireland, then St Vincent, garrison duty in Gibraltar – which was where I picked up my Spanish – Malta, Egypt, and then on to South America.”
“Montevideo,” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence looked back at him. “Ah, you got that from the watch.”
“That, too,” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence smiled then. “So you do remember? I recall when our paths first crossed in London you denied we’d met before.”
“I remember that, too,” Hawkwood said. “I apologize. I wasn’t on my best behaviour.”
Lawrence chuckled. “Apology accepted.”
“And then the Peninsula?” Hawkwood said, bringing them back to the present.
“Aye. And now here we are in America. Curious how things turn out. By the way, did you know the Fortieth was formed in the Canadas?”
“I didn’t, no.”
“Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia – would you believe? New Scotland. There’s irony in there somewhere. They were with Wolfe when he took Quebec. Fought in the Revolution, too. I think it’s called coming full circle.”
Lawrence shook his head at the mystery of it.
“Heads, gentlemen!” Stagg called from behind them. “Coming about!”
Stagg moved the tiller over and Hawkwood and Lawrence ducked and then stood braced as the deck swayed beneath them. There was a groan as the boom swung across and as the mainsail snapped taut Stagg’s crew jumped to haul fast on the sheets. As the sloop righted herself, Stagg eased back on the helm.
