by James McGee
As darkness gave way to dawn, the mood of the troops lifted and by sun-up the sound of their progress had become a determined tramp. The men’s breath clouded the air as they marched while around them frost clung to the trees like droplets of white lace.
The order to advance had come from Colonel Pearce, retaining command due to Colonel Pike’s continued confinement. The objective: to capture and hold the blockhouse at Lacolle and create the first stepping stone on the road to Montreal, Quebec and the subsequent expulsion of the British from the Canadas, at which point the Revolution would have reached its natural conclusion.
The colonel was not expecting serious opposition. It had been reported that Lacolle was staffed by only a token force – forty or so militia and a couple of dozen native irregulars. Four regular companies would be more than enough to secure the ground; regulars, because the militia had been deemed unreliable after the fiasco at Queenston when they had refused to cross the river. Though the point was moot since the latter were all back in their homes and bedding down for the winter anyway.
There had been a worry that sickness spread by patients brought to Plattsburg from Burlington would reduce the number of troops available for the mission, but by segregating the fitter men, Pearce and Pike had ensured that there were more than sufficient numbers to staff the final assault of the year before the northern roads became impassable. At the moment, the snow was an inconvenience rather than a barrier and the lure of establishing a bridgehead while the British posts at both Lacolle and Île aux Noix were so conveniently under-manned was too attractive to ignore.
Île aux Noix, being the larger of the two outposts, housed more troops than Lacolle. It boasted a detachment of Royal Artillery equipped with three-pounder guns and companies of the 100th Regiment of Foot. On paper, at least, it appeared that the American force was outnumbered. Colonels Pearce and Pike, however, were counting on the element of surprise to swing the odds in their favour.
News that a relatively small column of US infantry was on the march was unlikely to set pulses racing on the other side of the border, unlike, say, the forward advancement of several thousand men and an entire artillery battery – though they were ready to follow, by both barge and road, as soon as the first position was secured. The fact that the men were travelling light, without tents or equipage, would lead an observer to assume that the manoeuvre was no more than a transfer of personnel, which happened all the time, particularly with America anxious to reinforce its defences against the threat of a possible British invasion.
The Provincial Marine did have at its beck and call an armed schooner and three gunboats, but they’d already been laid up for the winter. Pearce and Pike knew, therefore, that if their troops could secure the river and bring up reinforcements at speed, they could isolate the garrison – including the Marine – by cutting off the isle’s main supply routes. The British commander would have little choice but to capitulate, as Hull had done in Detroit.
The one fly in the ointment had been the escape of the two British spies. The fact that the Oneida had yet to return bearing their scalps was not necessarily an indication that their quarry had evaded capture. But despite his faith in Amos Walker’s irregulars, Colonel Pearce was not prepared to stake everything on their success. To guard against the eventuality that Hawkwood and Lawrence had managed to deliver word of the invasion, he had decided to bring forward the attack so that, even if forewarned, the British would not have time to mount a viable defence.
That was the plan. And Major Harlan Quade was determined to see it through, even though his thoughts were for the most part engaged elsewhere, wondering how it must feel to be a fugitive, knowing there was an Oneida hunting party on your tail. It was enough to give a person sleepless nights. A picture formed in his mind: two corpses, lying stripped and mutilated in the snow.
Warmed by the image, he smiled broadly.
Cageaga and Tewanias set the pace. Hawkwood, Lawrence and the nine chosen warriors followed in single file behind.
Thirteen was a pitifully small number when ranged against upwards of four hundred, as Lawrence had pointed out, adding, “Let’s hope it ain’t a portent.”
The village was too small to provide more, Hawkwood had told him. And Tewanias had to leave men behind to protect the families. “Besides,” he’d added, “we don’t need that many. We only need enough.”
“To do what?” Lawrence had asked.
“Scare the bastards shitless.”
For reasons he couldn’t quite understand, that statement had sent of a shiver of apprehension down Lawrence’s spine. The feeling was not dispelled when he’d seen the warriors who would be accompanying them.
Dressed for winter in buckskin coats, leggings and calf-length moccasins, with long guns strung across their backs, they might have passed for a hunting party about to set off after game had it not been for the accoutrements and additional weaponry they were carrying: swords, war clubs, knives and tomahawks. At Hawkwood’s request, a couple of the men also carried bows. Not all wore scalp locks. A few of the younger-looking ones had full heads of tied-back hair. Even with their features unpainted they looked fit and formidable.
Tewanias introduced them by name and clan affiliation, each man responding with a saturnine nod. Hawkwood heard the names Effa, Opio, Alak and Deskaheh and hoped he’d remember the others when the time came.
As they’d made their way from longhouse to palisade, the women and children and the men who were staying to guard the village gathered to watch them depart.
Whereas new recruits setting out from an English hamlet might be expected to march off to the sound of fife and drum, the departure from Gaanundata was accompanied by a subdued, almost mystical, silence. No one waved. No one called a farewell. Taking the path to war was not a joyous occasion but one which demanded great solemnity, born of the understanding that some of those who were leaving might not return. As they headed for the woods, Lawrence took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder. No one had remained at the entrance to see them leave. The villagers had already returned to their fires.
For the first mile, the path led downhill. Descending the slope, Hawkwood looked back. It was not difficult to see how Gaanundata had got its name, nor why it had remained hidden. Protected on three sides by densely wooded, near-vertical slopes and on the other by a deep river gulley, access to the site was via a narrow deer track that snaked its way up through the forest from the gulley floor. Had they been seeking the place on their own, it was doubtful they’d have found it, even with directions. Not until the top of the bluff was reached, where the trees thinned out, did the palisade come into view. In the light of day, a person could easily pass within one hundred paces of the wall and not know it was there. In a gathering gloom, with snow falling thickly, it would have been next to invisible.
Walking in line, the ground crunching crisply beneath his feet and with musket to hand, it occurred to Hawkwood that it had been a good few years since his last forced march, leading a band of guerrilleros in pursuit of a French reconnaissance patrol. It had been a hard slog, alternating between trotting and walking, over difficult terrain, some of it mountainous, most of it forested. Not that much different to the country they were traversing now, except here there was snow instead of scree.
The snow shoes made the going easier, though there was definitely a knack to wearing them. Only the toe end of the foot was attached to the shoe. The trick, as Hawkwood remembered and as Lawrence soon learnt, was to keep the heel elevated and the feet well-spaced and not to lift the foot too high off the ground. In order to don the shoes, they had dispensed with their boots, which would have placed strain on the rawhide webbing. Instead, both were wearing knee-length moccasins.
Though the shoes were not built for speed, once they’d grown used to the odd, sliding gait that was required they were able to maintain a decent stride. The moccasins helped, for they provided both comfort and suppleness; especially useful when wading a stream or river, for their
flexibility offered a much better grip than boots would have done.
Mindful of Tewanias’s fears that Oneida scouting parties were increasing their range, there was little talking. It was as if each man was held in thrall by the stillness surrounding them; stillness that only ever seemed to occur in thick, winter-bound forests. Occasionally, a bird would sing out or a tree branch would snap under the weight of snow. When that happened, they would halt and stand in silence for a minute or so before moving on, but there was never a sight or a sound to suggest the enemy was close.
At one point, Lawrence broke the spell.
“Y’know this could be a wild-goose chase. Just because a column’s on the march don’t mean it has Lacolle in its sights. We’re going to look like damned fools if all they do is stay this side of the border or turn left at Chazy.”
Hawkwood spoke over his shoulder. “I’d rather look a fool for crying wolf than not cry at all and discover we were right in our suspicions. At least this way we can make our own reconnoitre. In any case, our troops have to be warned about the bigger invasion threat.”
“Think we can beat the buggers to the mark?”
“Hard to say. They’ve had a head start, but if we keep to the pace, we may have a chance. That many on the move, they’ll have to call a rest at some point, which might work in our favour. If they’re riding, the officers’ horses’ll need watering. The troops too.”
“To keep ’em regular, you mean?” Lawrence grinned.
It was an old joke. People tended not to drink enough water in cold weather, a failing which often led to constipation – a curse of winter campaigning. It made Hawkwood wonder about the state of the troops at the river encampment. Though from the smell that had hit them on the approach, constipation would seem to have been the least of the camp’s problems.
“The Iroquois might be able to run thirty miles and fight a battle at the end of it,” Hawkwood added, “but I can’t see a Yankee column doing that. They’ll want to pitch camp and gather themselves before the assault, if there’s to be one, which will give us more time to catch up.”
“I’m wondering what in God’s name possessed ’em to march in December in the first place,” Lawrence muttered. “I said before; this is no time to launch an offensive.”
“That’s probably the reason,” Hawkwood said. “They know our troops won’t be expecting an attack. Plus they’ll be wondering about you and me and how close we are to the lines and whether we’ve managed to pass a warning. They’ll want to strike before reinforcements can be called up.”
Lawrence shook his head. “If it was your decision, would you attack now?”
“You’re asking me? I’m the one who’s considering going up against four hundred troopers with a handful of Indians and two white men trying to walk in snow shoes. What the hell do I know? Some would call us mad.”
“Fair point,” Lawrence conceded. “Still …”
“If I was to wager on why the Yankees are marching, I’d put my money on dented pride.”
Lawrence blinked. “Come again?”
“They’ve had a bad start to the war. Mackinac, Detroit, Queenston – all defeats. The buggers are smarting. They need a win, something to stir the blood and raise the spirits.”
“And for that they’re going to attack a blockhouse?”
“Which guards an important river. Giant oaks from little acorns, remember? They’re looking beyond Lacolle. They’ve Quebec in their sights. Seizing control of the Richelieu would be a nice way to see in the new year. There’s many who’d see it as an early Christmas present.”
“I’d rather have a cask of Madeira,” Lawrence quipped.
Hawkwood didn’t respond. He looked up. A gap had appeared unexpectedly in the clouds, revealing a widening patch of pale blue. It was the first clear sky they’d seen in days.
The sun shines on the righteous, Hawkwood thought.
Or it was supposed to.
Arriving at Chazy, the column halted. Quade gave the men permission to smoke and brew coffee. Those wishing to attend to more basic needs headed into the surrounding forest. An hour later, bellies replenished, bladders emptied and bowels voided, coffee dregs were poured on to the fires and the column moved off.
It was early evening when the woods finally gave way before them and the lights of Champlain village twinkled into view. A collective sigh of relief ran through the ranks.
Being close to the border, the village’s inhabitants had become used to the comings and goings of the military, but the place was small and they were not disposed to giving the troops free run. Quade took the column across the river and on to a site a mile to the north-east to set up camp. In the absence of tents, spruce branches were cut to make temporary bivouacs beneath the trees. Fires were lit.
Quade met with his officers.
“Less than two miles to the province, gentlemen. We’ve made excellent time.”
He looked around the semicircle of uniforms: a captain and two lieutenants from each company.
“We may be on our own ground but I do not want the men complacent. Set piquets. Two-hour watches. Make sure the fires stay lit. They will keep the cold at bay.”
Quade drew out a pocket watch and consulted the dial. “Silent réveillé at five-thirty. Inform your sergeants that I want all troops to check their weapons upon muster. Random inspections to be carried out. Anyone whose musket is not serviceable or who has damp powder is to be put on a charge. Punishment will be severe. Remind them they are regulars and not the Goddamned militia. Carry on.”
Watching the officers disperse, Quade helped himself to a mug of coffee. Adding some whiskey from a silver flask, he took a sip and rolled the drink around his tongue.
In the aftermath of the Greenbush incident, he was all too aware that the upcoming assault was likely to be his last chance to redeem himself. Both the Greenbush commandant and, latterly, Colonel Pearce had made it plain that the only reason Quade had retained his authority was because of the shortage of combat-experienced officers. One more wrong move and his name would be added to the list of officers who’d vanished into obscurity. Quade was determined that was never going to happen.
Lacolle would be his reprieve.
By Hawkwood’s reckoning, they’d been on the move for more than eight hours when, in the gathering dusk, Tewanias and Cageaga halted.
“We are being followed,” Cageaga said softly, speaking in Mohawk.
There was no alarm in his voice, which struck Hawkwood as odd.
“Oneida?” asked Lawrence, when the announcement was translated for his benefit. Looking anxiously through the trees, he slipped the musket off his shoulder. “You think they’ve found us?”
“I don’t think so,” said Hawkwood, frowning as he watched Tewanias. The war captain was staring back the way they had come with what appeared to be weary resignation.
“You might as well join us, boy,” Cageaga called softly. “I can smell you. You are also making more noise than a herd of elk.”
For a while there was no sound and nothing moved, and then there came the pad of footsteps across snow and a wiry figure detached itself from the shadows beneath the trees and came forward slowly. Several of the warriors grunted in surprise as the figure’s face caught the light.
Cageaga hissed through his teeth.
“Well, well,” Lawrence murmured. “And whom do we have here?”
The newcomer, Hawkwood saw, was younger than the rest of Tewanias’s men, probably by four or five years. His hair was long and black and thick and fell over the collar of his hide coat. A carbine, war club and a provisions pouch were slung over his shoulder. A knife hung from a sheath at his waist.
“Who is he? What are they saying?” Lawrence asked Hawkwood as Cageaga, his face taut with anger, began to berate the newcomer in a tone that would have done justice to the Inquisition.
“His name’s Kodjeote. He’s Cageaga’s nephew. He says he’s come to fight.”
“You mean we have another yo
ung buck out to prove himself. Seen a fair few of those in our time, haven’t we?”
“He’s reminding Cageaga that he’s eighteen and that Cageaga was younger than that when he got his first tattoo.”
“His first what?” Lawrence said, thinking he’d misheard.
“It’s how warriors keep a tally of the men they’ve killed. Cageaga’s are on his thigh.”
Lawrence’s gaze dropped to Cageaga’s buckskin leggings and then rose again as the young warrior began to remonstrate with his uncle.
“He’s saying if it wasn’t for him, they would never have known of Kahrhakon:ha’s return.”
“Kahrhak— That’s you,” Lawrence said, when he saw the boy’s eyes flicker towards Hawkwood.
“Kodjeote’s also telling them that he’s a man not a boy and that he’s one of the best hunters in his clan. He says now that he’s proved that, he deserves the right to prove himself a warrior.”
“Christ, lad,” Lawrence said softly. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“Cageaga’s pointing out that deer do not shoot back. Kodjeote’s saying his brother is here, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to come with us?”
“His brother?” Lawrence looked towards the other warriors, who were following the exchange with rapt attention. A couple of faces showed curiosity, others impatience, while one or two wore the expression older boys the world over assumed when a younger boy asked to join their game. Turning back to Hawkwood as the heated discussion continued, Lawrence hissed, “Now what?” as Tewanias stepped forward to stand at Cageaga’s shoulder.
Hawkwood listened. “Tewanias is telling Kodjeote that his task was to stay and help protect the village. By disobeying his elders, he’s placed the village at risk. Kodjeote says that if they send him back, he’ll follow us anyway.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll wager that’s not gone down well.”
Hawkwood saw Cageaga’s face darken again. “You might say that.”
“Gives us an extra man, though,” Lawrence offered quietly.
