by James McGee
“Captain Walker’s here, Colonel.”
“What?” Pearce barked, annoyed at the draught and the interruption. “Ah, yes, very well. Send him in.”
The sentry stood back as two figures entered the hut, one dressed in a buckskin coat and wide-brimmed hat, the other wearing a dark cloak.
“Amos,” Pearce said. He inclined his head towards the captain’s companion. “Cornelius.”
The Oneida warrior bowed his head briefly in return.
“You heard?” Pearce said to Walker.
Throwing Quade a glance of acknowledgement, the bearded man removed his hat. “I did.”
Pearce clicked his tongue. “Damnedest thing. The major and I have been discussing the matter. Question is, can we catch the bastards?”
Walker pursed his lips. “Any idea how long they’ve been gone?”
Pearce gnawed the inside of his lip. “We’ve a witness: Corporal Travis. He was out taking a piss some time after midnight. Dark, of course, but he could see the wagon up by the hut. In the early hours, other men reported hearing shots in the distance. Only when the alarm was raised did they put two and two together. Our best estimate is three, maybe four hours ago.”
“We’re assuming they’ll be heading north?” Walker asked.
“Correct.”
“How well do they know the country?”
Pearce looked at Quade.
“I’m not sure,” Quade said.
Walker moved briskly to the table, the Indian at his shoulder. Pearce and Quade followed. Among the papers were several maps. Walker selected one and spread it out. Quade, looking over his shoulder, recognized the outline of Champlain and the north-western part of the state, most of which was blank space. There were shaded areas running north to south to indicate mountainous terrain, while several spidery lines radiating outwards from the west shore of the lake were clearly rivers and tributaries. Dark bean-shaped blobs stuck to the ends of the rivers were, presumably, less significant bodies of water; they could have been small lakes or large ponds for all the information the map provided. None were named. Very few towns featured on the map. Plattsburg was annotated, as was Willsborough to the south and Chazy and Champlain to the north. A solid, inked line struck out north-west from Plattsburg to a dot on the map, marked Chataugay, which looked to be in the middle of nowhere. There, the line forked. One fork continued west, terminating at a spot marked Bombay. The other veered south-west through dots marked Malone and Hopkinton before disappearing off the edge of the map. No other settlements were shown.
“Military road,” Pearce said in answer to Quade’s frown. “Built along old Indian trails. Not as substantial as it looks. Not much more than a bridleway in parts. Right, Amos?”
The bearded man nodded absently and tapped the map just above the dot marked Champlain, where another roughly drawn line ran from a point at the top end of Lake Champlain west to the St Lawrence River. Tracing it with his fingertip, he said, “The border. Runs all the way to St Regis. Ain’t no fences, though. Settlements neither. North or south of the line, all you’re looking at is wilderness. That’s hard country, nothing but backwoods and rivers. Not even people. Hard going for those that know it. Damned sight harder for them that don’t.”
“You’re saying we can catch them?” Quade said.
Walker continued to look at the map. “I’m saying maybe.”
“The weather might help,” Quade ventured. “If the snow persists. It should slow them down.”
“Might do,” Walker agreed, nodding thoughtfully. “We know anything about them?”
Pearce looked at Quade. “Major? You came up from Greenbush. What can you tell us?”
“So far as Lawrence is concerned, nothing.”
“And Hooper?”
Quade hesitated, then said, “In my opinion, he’s the dangerous one.”
“Because?” Walker said.
“It was Hooper who engineered Lawrence’s escape. He assaulted an officer in order to obtain a uniform which enabled him to infiltrate the Greenbush cantonment. He tricked his way into the guardhouse to secure Lawrence’s release. The reports from the men on duty there indicate he killed two soldiers and injured at least two more. That was after setting the stables alight to create a diversion.”
Walker’s eyebrows lifted.
“He purports to have returned recently from the continent – France,” Quade added, and then wondered why he’d felt the need to say that.
“France?” Pearce queried.
“Part of the story he concocted in order to pass himself off as an American officer. Said he’d been there on behalf of the president.” Quade snorted derisively.
“Did he indeed?” Pearce said, interested, in spite of himself. “Doing what?”
“‘Unspecified duties’ was how he termed it. Said he’d been assigned to Dearborn’s command in order to pass on his know-ledge of British military tactics. Not that it matters, since he’s patently not who he claims to be.”
“Perhaps,” Pearce murmured.
“Sir?” Quade said.
“It’s been my experience that even the most pernicious deception often contains an element of truth.”
Quade frowned. “I don’t follow, Colonel.”
“Perhaps he really was there. Maybe not France, but on the continent, as you put it. His conduct thus far indicates a strong familiarity with military matters. He’s certainly a soldier, and a well-trained one at that. About our age, would you say, Major? Give or take a few years. Given that Britain’s been at war with the French pretty much these past twenty years, he’s had plenty of opportunity to hone his craft. If he wasn’t in France, my guess would be the Peninsula. Either way, it would confirm your point about him being dangerous. Hell, the trail of bodies he’s left behind tells us that much.
“So, in answer to your question, Amos, I think it’s safe to assume that, while they might not be familiar with the country, they’ll be used to campaigning, which makes them used to hardship. We send anyone after them, they’ll have to be good.”
Walker’s eyes flicked to the Indian and then back to Pearce. “They are, Colonel. Don’t you worry about that.”
Pearce eyed Cornelius and the tattoos across his face. “You’ll send some of your observers?”
“It’s our best chance. They can travel a damned sight faster than white troops.” Walker squinted at Pearce. “My question, Colonel, is when they do catch up with them, you want them dead or brought back?”
When, not if, Quade noted.
Pearce, who’d been looking at the map, straightened. “Dead would be acceptable. Proof of death would be required.”
A look passed between the two men. Walker turned to his companion but did not speak. The Oneida, his face like stone, returned his gaze.
He wants their scalps, Quade realized; the image this conjured up, usually unpalatable, took on a more pleasing dimension. To Walker, he said, “Won’t the weather hamper your men, Captain?”
“Not by much.” Walker grinned. “Always a track to follow, if you know what to look for.”
“And if they manage to cross the border? Will your men continue the pursuit?”
Walker waved a dismissive hand at the map. “What border? Oneida don’t recognize borders, Major. Their ancestors have hunted this land for a thousand years. Hell, longer than that. Didn’t need no maps then; don’t follow them now. A line on a piece of paper don’t mean shit to them. So, don’t you worry none about borders – they won’t.”
“It’s not their reaching the border that bothers me,” Pearce snapped. “It’s two spies passing on word about our flotilla.”
Walker nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. Getting to the border ain’t the same as reaching the lines. They’d have a ways to go before they do that. Not far, but it’ll give us more time to catch them.”
Pearce looked pensive.
“They’ll be trying for Île aux Noix?” Quade said.
The island lay in the middle of the Richelieu
River, which flowed out of Champlain and ran due north all the way to its confluence with the St Lawrence, some forty miles above Montreal. Like so many strategic fortifications in the region, it had changed hands over the years. The French had built the ramparts, the British had captured them and the Americans had taken them during the Revolution, losing them a year later following their retreat from Quebec, at which point they had returned to British hands. Since then, the original fortifications had been extended and a shipyard added and it had become the Crown’s main frontier post in the region.
Pearce and Walker exchanged glances. It was Walker who spoke. “That’s the nearest garrison of any size. But it ain’t the closest outpost.”
Turning to the map, the captain pointed to a spot in the hinterland west of the Richelieu and north of the borderline, where there was a small drawn symbol half the size of the captain’s fingernail and shaped like a squat, square-sided mushroom. “That is.”
At the end of the captain’s gnarled fingertip was a dot marked Lacolle.
“Goddamn it to hell,” Pearce said.
The snow had fallen steadily for more than two hours before it began to ease. By the time dawn finally arrived the land was covered in a crisp white blanket while every leaf on every tree was decorated with a coating of hoar frost. Finding a path across the icy ground, through hollows and along ridges and over half-frozen streams where one slip could easily lead to a turned ankle or worse, had become a test of endurance. As a result, what had begun as a purposeful hike soon slowed to a weary trudge.
There had been no signs of human habitation since the cabin but plenty of evidence in the snow telling them they were not alone. Animal tracks abounded. Deer and hare slots, mostly, though on one occasion they had come across a set that was recognizably feline in nature. A lynx, Hawkwood deduced from the size of the pug marks, hoping he wasn’t mistaken and that it wasn’t one of the bigger mountain cats out on the prowl.
He tried not to think about the signs they were leaving in their own wake. Maintaining caution, they had avoided open ground as much as possible, sticking close to the treeline where the cover was better and where the surface was less prone to indentation, using established deer trails whenever they could.
Every so often, they paused and took stock. As yet, there was nothing to suggest that the Americans had taken up the chase, but Hawkwood was not about to let that lull him into a false sense of security. Had the roles been reversed, the fact that his quarry had established a lead would not have deterred him from pursuing them.
He and Jago had once chased a smuggler halfway across the English Channel, at considerable risk to themselves; there had been no question of allowing the bastard to escape, not with the blood of two British naval officers and several French prisoners of war on his hands. Memories of his own recent escape from Paris also came to mind; he’d been followed every step of the way by a policeman named Vidocq because Hawkwood had killed one of his officers.
Between them, he and Lawrence had taken the lives of at least six American troopers. No commander could afford to let that go unpunished, else he would lose the respect of his men. The Americans might be some way behind, but they were coming. The only hope was to reach the British lines before their pursuers caught up. And before the snow began to fall in earnest. Which was not going to be easy, with Lawrence’s strength flagging.
Though he was trying hard not to show it, the wound was clearly causing Lawrence considerable discomfort. Constant movement over rough terrain had started it bleeding again. But there was no prospect of rest and recuperation. If the weather stayed as it was, it could take two days to reach their goal, and any deterioration would lengthen the journey considerably. They could not afford to drag it out longer by halting for frequent rest breaks. Telling themselves that the quicker they reached the lines, the sooner a doctor could take a look at Lawrence’s wound, they pressed on, not even stopping to eat.
Chewing strips of pemmican as they walked had helped keep the hunger pangs at bay, but their dwindling supplies wouldn’t sustain them for the rest of the journey. Hawkwood was keeping a watchful eye out for game. There wasn’t time to rig traps and catch prey, but they had weapons and ammunition, making it possible to hunt for food. They also had the tools to light a fire. Water wasn’t a problem, either, not with so much snow about. And there were plenty of streams and they had canteens. The main concern was finding shelter.
Their chances of finding another ruined cabin were so remote as to be nonexistent. They needed to find something though; the prospect of spending a night in the open did not make the heart sing. Hawkwood hoped some refuge would present itself soon, because from the sky’s sullen tint, the earlier snowfall had only been a foretaste of what was to come.
By late morning the sun had yet to show itself. While the frost had eventually disappeared, the woods remained snow-bound and eerily gloomy, wrapped in an expectant hush, as if the day was holding its breath. Occasionally a bird’s twitter would interrupt the silence, but for the most part the only sound, apart from their breathing, was the soft crunching of snow beneath their boots.
The deer trail gradually petered out. Snow-capped rocks and boulders began to break up the surface ahead of them. Piled atop and against one another as if by some giant hand, they reminded Hawkwood of the ruined fortifications they’d sailed past on their voyage up the lake. He thought longingly of his stinking cubbyhole on the Snake; that had been the last time he’d had anything approaching a decent night’s sleep.
For Lawrence wasn’t the only one who was feeling the pain of the march. Hawkwood, too, was tiring. Just the effort of lifting one foot in front of the other had begun to tell. And if he was fighting to stay awake, then Lawrence had to be suffering tenfold with that wound in his side. To reassure himself that all was well, he looked back over his shoulder to find that Lawrence had come to a halt several paces away, his face as white as the snow. He was breathing hard and clutching his side. Hawkwood stepped forward quickly, just in time to catch him as he swayed and almost fell.
Lawrence swore, straightened, and then offered an apologetic smile. “Not as hale as I thought I was, damn it.”
“We’ll stop a while. Rest our legs.”
Lawrence did not demur. As Hawkwood reached beneath his arm to help him to a nearby boulder, Lawrence let go a rueful sigh. “I’m not sure that’ll make much difference.”
Hawkwood wasn’t listening.
One hundred paces away, within the trees, he’d seen movement.
“What?” Lawrence asked, suddenly alert.
It had been no more than a hint; a shapeless form, half-hidden, that had been there one second and gone the next.
“Matthew?” Lawrence said cautiously.
“I thought I saw something …” Hawkwood let go of Lawrence’s arm and slid the musket from his shoulder.
Lawrence squinted back the way they had come. With no sunlight filtering light down through the canopy, the woods were draped in shadow, differing shades of grey against the lighter-coloured snow. Even with so many trees devoid of foliage, trying to penetrate the forest’s interior was well-nigh impossible. It might as well have been twilight rather than close to midday.
They waited and watched. All was silent. No birdsong, Hawkwood noticed.
Lawrence fingered his musket apprehensively. “I don’t see anything.”
Hawkwood didn’t either. Seconds slid by. The tension began to ease. Fatigue, he suspected, was making him see things that weren’t there. Fear of pursuit, too. That was all it could be.
And then …
If a whisper could take form, that’s what Hawkwood saw, as whatever it was passed ghost-like through a gap in the trees, dark against the snow but with insufficient texture for identification to be made.
“I see it!” Lawrence hissed. He eased back the hammer on his musket. Hawkwood did the same.
They counted off the seconds. One … two …
There was a sudden blur of motion. Hawkwood’s h
eart leapt into his mouth as an antlered buck burst from the woods less than seventy paces away and bounded into an area of deeper brush, where it was immediately erased from view.
They stared after it.
“Sweet lord!” Lawrence breathed. He lowered his gun and shook his head in weary amusement at having been alarmed by nothing more threatening than a nervous whitetail.
They kept their eyes on the spot where the animal had vanished. It did not reappear.
“Would have looked nice in a pot,” Lawrence murmured wistfully.
Hawkwood used the heel of his hand to release the lock on his musket, conscious of just how hard his heart was hammering. A bloody deer. That’s all it had been.
But spooked by something, he thought uneasily.
A call rang out from the woods close by and to their right.
Blue jay, thought Hawkwood. There was no time for a warning. He spun, heeling the musket hammer to full cock.
Lawrence swore as a brown-clad figure burst from the forest on their left. Hawkwood fired. The figure was thrown back with a cry, a war club pitching from his hand. Another musket banged. Hawkwood felt a tug on his sleeve as the ball sliced through his coat, then Lawrence pushed him towards the shelter of the boulders.
It occurred to him that the first warrior might have sprung the attack in order to draw fire, because once a musket was discharged, it took too long to reload in close-quarter combat. He was about to warn Lawrence to save his shot when a second warrior sprinted from cover. With no time to aim, Lawrence turned and brought his musket up quickly. Instinctively bringing the gun against his belly to brace it, he pulled the trigger and the long gun spoke. The recoil slammed against Lawrence’s wound. He staggered and started to go down, his face twisting in agony and remorse at seeing his shot go wide.
The attacker celebrated Lawrence’s miss with a high-pitched bark. Tomahawk in hand, he sprinted forward. Hawkwood felt his innards contract as three more painted warriors ran from the trees. Two were armed with a short-barrelled carbine each; the third carried a sword and club.
Hawkwood pivoted towards the struggling Lawrence. “Up, dammit!”
