by James McGee
“What sort of equipment?” Hawkwood asked.
“That’s what I was getting at,” Renner said. “It’s not just been basic supplies. We’ve been transporting a lot of armaments, like those field guns.” Renner jerked his head at the deck cargo. “Small arms, too, along with powder and shot, of course, and tents. And then there were the troop carriers. I—”
“Troop carriers?” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence’s head came up. Even though they were out of the paddlewheel’s range, his shoulders and coat collar shone with water droplets.
Renner turned. “Batteaux. Well over a hundred of them; it took several convoys. They were quite a sight, I can tell you; strung out in lines on the lake.”
Hawkwood didn’t have to look at Lawrence to know what he was thinking. It was a certainty that the boats Renner was talking about were the batteaux constructed during the military’s takeover of the Whitehall shipyard.
“We were shuttling troops before then, though,” Renner said. “If you include the sick and wounded, we must have transferred more than a couple of thousand, all told.”
“To Plattsburg,” Hawkwood said.
“And some to Cumberland Head. All save the terminally sick. Those we delivered to Crab Island.”
“What’s at Crab Island?”
“A hospital. It’s new. Parts of it are still under construction. Built especially for the war, they say.”
“There’s not one at Burlington?” Lawrence asked.
“There is, but the good citizens of Burlington didn’t want the soldiers filling up their hospital beds.” There was an abrasive edge to Renner’s voice.
“Why not?”
“They were too sick.”
“Too sick?” Lawrence echoed warily. “What was wrong with them?”
“Dysentery, typhus, smallpox, pneumonia – take your pick. The pneumonia’s proved particularly virulent. It’s spread beyond the barracks. I understand there have been more than fifty civilian deaths so far.”
Lawrence grimaced. “In that case, you can’t blame the townsfolk. But moving men when they’re in that condition – that’s not good.”
“It was General Dearborn’s orders, on the advice of Surgeon-Major Lovell.”
“That’s madness,” Hawkwood said. “What if some of the men you took to Plattsburg were sick without anyone knowing? They’d spread the diseases even further.”
“That’s why the Plattsburg townsfolk haven’t welcomed them with open arms either. The army’s been forced to set up camp a couple of miles out of town, only there aren’t the facilities to house them, which is why they needed the tents, as temporary accommodation until proper huts are built.”
“Hell, tents won’t see them through the winter. If that’s all they’ve got, a lot more are going to fall ill and a lot more are going to die. They should have left them to see the winter out where they were, then transfer them come the thaw.”
“Bloody generals,” Lawrence muttered. He threw Hawkwood a knowing look and shook his head vexedly. “Was it ever thus?”
“I heard that Fulton was making a military version of his steamship,” Hawkwood said after a pause.
Renner looked grateful for the change of subject. “I heard the same rumour, but I doubt there’s anything in it. It’s too impractical, even for Fulton.”
“How so? From what you’ve told us it would be most useful, given the speed and the fact it’s less dependent on the weather.”
“It would indeed be useful,” Renner agreed. “And you wouldn’t have to rely on the wind to bring your guns to bear. But tell me, if you were in command of a British frigate and you wanted to put Vermont out of action, what would you order your gunners to aim at? Her smokestack? Her masts and rigging? What?”
Hawkwood thought about it. “Neither. I’d aim for one of those.” He jerked a thumb towards the paddlewheel, flinging up water behind Renner’s shoulder.
“Precisely. They’re a big enough target. One well-aimed shot and she’d be dead in the water. Oh, we’ve masts, a spread of canvas and two steering positions, but without those paddles she’d be a sitting duck and about as much use as a floating bathtub.”
Renner stared off thoughtfully towards the New York shore. When he turned back, his expression was lighter than it had been. “I dare say you’ll be glad to be back on dry land after your adventures.”
“Damned glad,” Lawrence responded with a smile. “All this water; it’s been the cause of far too much excitement for my liking.”
“Then fear not, Captain. It won’t be long.” Renner pushed himself away from the rail. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll take my leave. There are duties to which I must attend. Please feel free to explore should the mood take you. Mind where you step, though. I dread to think what the captain would say if one of you went overboard and we had to stop and pick you up again! We’re behind schedule as it is and Captain Winans hates to be late. You have been warned!” Renner added with a smile before bidding them farewell and heading off along the deck.
Hawkwood and Lawrence watched him go.
“Plattsburg,” Lawrence muttered, leaning back against the rail. “That’s damned inconvenient. I had thought our luck was holding.” He turned, his face serious. “You think our captain suspects anything?”
Hawkwood straightened. “Hard to say. He strikes me as a man who keeps his cards close to his chest.”
Lawrence grunted. “Probably as well we didn’t deviate too far from the truth, then. So long as we remember what names we’re travelling under. I’d only just got used to Smith and Jones, damn it. Thank God none of Stagg’s crew survived. That could have proved awkward.”
“True. And the fact that our enemy turned out to be the captain’s enemy did us no harm.”
“We can but hope,” Lawrence agreed. “All things considered, things could be worse. We could be stranded on the Caldwell road, up to our arses in mud.”
“I suppose we could try and seize the boat,” Hawkwood mused. “Sail her to Canada. Cross the lines that way.”
“We tried that once, remember?” Lawrence allowed a small smile to form. “Look where it got us.”
“And this time there are no oars, as far as I can tell.”
“Indeed.” Lawrence grinned. “So, any ideas on where we go from here?” The major cursed as a burst of spray, carried on the breeze, lanced across their exposed faces.
“Only one,” Hawkwood said. “Off this bloody deck. Young Renner might think this is the future of maritime conveyance but if we stay out here any longer we’re going to need another change of clothes, the amount of water those damned wheels are kicking up. I don’t know about you, but I function better in the dry. Let’s take our captain’s advice and make ourselves comfortable below.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Lawrence responded. “After you.”
“Not this time,” Hawkwood said. “This time you go first.”
They turned for the companionway, only to find their route blocked.
“Back so soon, Mr Renner?” Lawrence quipped.
The first officer touched his forehead in salute. “Captain Winans conveys his compliments, gentlemen, but he wishes to speak with you.”
“Does he?” Lawrence smiled. “Did he say what it’s concerning?”
Renner looked apologetic. “Sorry, sir, can’t help you there. I’m afraid steamboat captains are often cut from the same cloth as generals. They tend not to confide in the lower ranks.”
Lawrence chuckled and clapped Renner on the shoulder. “The lad’s a quick learner. Very well, Mr Renner, on the basis that it’s got to be a damned sight drier down there than it is up here, we’re with you!”
As they went down the ladder and made their way aft, Hawkwood was again struck by how much headroom there was below deck compared to other more conventional craft. Aboard Vermont there was no need to adopt a Simian crouch, an occupational hazard common to every sailing vessel Hawkwood had ever been on. Here, you could walk upright
without ducking to avoid overhead beams. And with the interior bulkheads painted a uniform white, the steamboat seemed unnaturally roomy compared to a ship of the line, despite its modest dimensions.
As for the cacophony of creaks and groans and the calling of hands to their stations – sounds common to all vessels under sail – they were non-existent. Instead, there was only the all-pervasive rumble of the paddlewheels pushing her through the water, a constant reminder that Vermont’s progress was due to artificial contrivance rather than nature’s whim.
The smells were markedly different, too. This vessel was free of the rank odours associated with mildewed timbers or the press of humanity in a confined space. Instead, the over-riding aromas were of grease and burning pinewood.
Arriving outside the captain’s cabin, Renner knocked and waited for a reply.
“Enter!”
Renner opened the door and led them in before moving aside. Captain Winans was standing by his chart table, hands clasped behind his back. He gave a taciturn nod.
“Thank you, Mr Renner. You may carry on.”
“Aye, sir.”
Renner left, closing the door behind him.
As traps went, Hawkwood had to admit that Winans had laid his rather well. Though, if the cabin door had opened outwards instead of inwards it might not have worked. As the door swung back it acted as a screen, masking the uniformed figure who was standing silently behind it. It was only as Renner pulled the door shut that Hawkwood caught the human form at the edge of his eye and turned. As Winans brought the pistol out from behind his back, the blue-coated figure limped into full view.
Eyes dark with fury, his own pistol pointing at Hawkwood’s head, Major Harlan Quade spoke in a voice strumming with rage.
“You black-hearted son of a bitch! I’ve a mind to shoot you where you stand, so help me!”
Hawkwood doubted whether Renner had been party to his captain’s intentions. The first officer’s delivery of the summons appeared to have been without guile, suggesting he’d not been taken fully into his captain’s confidence. It had been a sound move. Had Renner been in on the plan, his demeanour would probably have been a lot more guarded and that might have alerted Hawkwood and Lawrence that all was not as it should be.
“Hello, Major.” Hawkwood smiled wearily, though his mind was racing. “How’s the leg? Lost the cane, I see. That’s good.”
A small vein pulsed at the side of Quade’s throat like a worm trying to burrow out through his skin. Wrong-footed by Hawkwood’s apparent lack of consternation, and perhaps disappointed that he’d not been presented with an excuse to shoot, his gaze moved from Hawkwood to Lawrence and then back again. “You bastard! You Goddamned Limey bastard!” His finger whitened on the trigger.
“Major!” Winans warned sharply.
For a moment Hawkwood had been convinced that Quade’s anger would get the better of him, but thanks to Winans’ intervention the major stood down. Letting his breath out slowly, Hawkwood looked for the nearest escape route. From what he could see, there didn’t appear to be one.
Lawrence, who’d been staring at the American in shock and bewilderment, turned and enquired cautiously, “Friend of yours?”
“Old acquaintance,” Hawkwood corrected. “Allow me to present Major Harlan Quade, Thirteenth Regiment of Infantry.”
“Ah, yes.” Collecting himself, Lawrence brought his heels together and rewarded Quade with a formal nod. “Your servant, Major.”
Still simmering, Quade’s eyes narrowed as if he was unable to decide whether Lawrence was mocking him or being genuinely courteous.
Captain Winans broke the tension. “It would appear introductions are unnecessary. I suggest you both take a seat.”
Hawkwood and Lawrence remained standing. Hawkwood knew Lawrence was waiting for him to make the first move. All he had to do was say the word.
But then Winans laid down his pistol within close reach and said, “As you wish, though if you are contemplating something rash, I would advise you to reconsider. I doubt you’ll want to risk exiting by the stern windows, and there are armed men posting themselves outside the door even as I speak.”
From the passageway there came the sound of boots hitting the deck.
Hawkwood caught Lawrence’s eye and gave a small shake of his head.
Not yet. The chance may come later.
They took the proffered seats. It was all they could do. The brandy and coffee mugs had been removed, Hawkwood noticed. No home comforts this time around.
Captain Winans picked up a sheet of paper from the table. His eyes hardened.
“You can put that away,” Hawkwood said. “We know what it says.”
Winans looked down at the wanted poster and then at Hawkwood. “You’re not denying you are the men described here, Hooper and … Lawrence?”
“I don’t think there’d be much point. Do you?” Hawkwood said evenly.
Winans’ eyebrows lifted. Despite Quade’s presence, he’d clearly been expecting a denial. He consulted the poster again. “And these charges?”
“Greatly exaggerated.”
“Two men dead?” Quade spat out the words. “Four wounded? You call that exaggerated?”
“No, Major. I’d call it casualties of war.”
Quade went rigid, as if he couldn’t believe what Hawkwood had just said. The pistol rose.
Hawkwood tensed, knowing that if he did try to fling himself aside, Quade would undoubtedly shoot, and at that range he’d have to be the worst shot in the world not to hit his target.
But once again Quade held fire. Instead, he fixed Hawkwood with a cold and calculating glare.
“I doubt the tribunal will see it that way.”
“Tribunal?” Lawrence’s chin came up. “What tribunal?”
Thinking Lawrence was about to lunge from his chair, Quade took a strategic step backwards. A humourless smile touched his lips. “My country, Major; my rules.” He turned to Hawkwood. “As for you, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware, the penalty for spying is death by hanging.”
“What?” Lawrence gasped. “You’re mad! He’s no spy!”
We already had this conversation with Stagg, Hawkwood thought.
“Then where’s his uniform?” Quade responded archly.
“It’s at the bottom of the damned lake, of course! The same place as mine!”
Quade shook his head. “I’m afraid that defence won’t wash, Major. While your bona fides as an officer and a prisoner of war are a matter of record it’s clear to me this man is of a different hue. I believe him to be an agent, in the pay of the British Government through its representatives in Montreal, sent here to observe the disposition of American troops and to report their strengths and movements to his superiors. Tell me, Hooper, were those two men in the alley in your pay? Was that how you engineered our meeting, so that you could gain my confidence and milk me for information?’
“And I broke one of their arms to make it look real? Sorry, Major, nothing so devious. I was simply a concerned citizen who happened to be passing by.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“That’s up to you. It was obviously a mistake. I should have left you there. It would have saved us all a deal of bother.”
Quade dismissed Hawkwood’s retort with another icy glare and turned to Lawrence. “As for his connection to you, Major; that raises a number of issues. His infiltration of the Greenbush camp, for example, suggests prior knowledge of its layout, no doubt supplied to him by Federalist sympathizers. And we know fine well what their agenda is,” Quade finished smugly.
“Agenda? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t play the innocent. It’s common knowledge the war’s created divisions along our northern borders. Divisions the British are only too eager to exploit. Who’s to say our Captain Hooper – if Hooper is even his real name – wasn’t sent here to liaise with Federalist cadres in order to plot further dissent, perhaps to try and persuade the New England states to
abandon the Republic and align themselves with the Canadas?”
Lawrence gaped. “Good God! You are out of your bloody mind!”
Ignoring Lawrence’s outburst, Quade swung back to Hawkwood. “You may think you played me for a fool, sir, but I will see you subjected to military justice and hanged, by Christ! You’ll not find it so funny when they slip the noose around your neck!”
“You’re probably right about that,” Hawkwood said. “Though I should warn you that’s the second time in a day I’ve been threatened with the gallows, and the last person who made the threat didn’t fare too well. I’m not here to spy. I never was. All I’m trying to do is get home.”
“Slaughtering anyone who stands in your way.”
“No one slaughtered anyone, Major,” Hawkwood said wearily. “It was self-defence.”
Even as he uttered the words, Hawkwood knew how pathetic they sounded. Had he been in either Quade’s or Winan’s shoes, he’d have been looking down at himself with the same withering expression on his face.
He wondered how, of all the boats he could have taken, Quade had ended up on this one.
His medical furlough at an end, the major would have reported to Greenbush for his orders. He’d been due to proceed to Plattsburg to join Dearborn’s Northern army, Hawkwood remembered, which should have put him on the Fort Edward road. But as Hawkwood and Lawrence had found out, that was impassable due to storm damage.
That would have left a stage ride either to Whitehall and the schooner’s erratic schedule or a longer overland journey to Burlington from where, thanks to military requisitioning, the steamboat followed a more regular timetable. Of the two, the Burlington route would have been the more sensible option.
Thus, presumably, while Hawkwood and Lawrence had been voyaging their way down the lake aboard the Snake, a seething Major Quade had been rattling his way north. Arriving at Burlington, he’d secured passage on the most convenient military transport to Plattsburg which, as bad luck would have it, had been the recently commandeered Vermont.
