The Blooding

by James McGee

  Hawkwood did not respond.

  “You’re not going to intervene?”

  Hawkwood shook his head. “This is between them.”

  “Well, from the look on Tewanias’s face,” Lawrence murmured, “I’d say we’re about to get a decision.”

  They watched as Tewanias took Cageaga aside and placed a hand on his shoulder. The other warriors maintained their silence, their faces inscrutable in the fading light. The young warrior’s eyes remained fixed on a point between the two captains. When, after several minutes the men broke apart, his head lifted defiantly. Cageaga’s expression, Hawkwood saw, looked as if it was set in stone. It was Tewanias who delivered the verdict.

  “Tewanias has told him that he can come, but he is to obey orders without question and he is to stay close to his brother. They’ll deal with him when they return home.”

  “So it’s fourteen now,” Lawrence said, adding sotto voce. “Things are looking up.”

  As Kodjeote joined the others Hawkwood saw one of them reach out and tug the younger man’s hair. As Kodjeote turned, his tormentor favoured him with a grin and nudged him with an elbow. The brother, Hawkwood guessed. It was the warrior who’d been introduced to him as Deskaheh.

  “We’re wanted,” Lawrence said.

  Hawkwood followed his gaze to Tewanias, who was standing next to a glowering Cageaga and beckoning for them to approach. The two war captains led them through a thin stand of trees to where a river lay across their path.

  They had forded at least half a dozen water courses during their journey, all without mishap and with only one detour – around a small area of swampland three miles to the south. Thankfully, from what Hawkwood could see of it, this river didn’t appear to be much of an obstacle either. But it wasn’t the river that had drawn Tewanias’s attention.

  The Mohawk chieftain pointed across the water to the woods on the opposite shore.

  “Canada,” he said softly.

  In that instant the weariness slid from Hawkwood’s bones. He heard Lawrence gasp and felt a touch on his shoulder. He turned. Lawrence grinned and held out his hand.

  Hawkwood grasped it firmly.

  All we have to do now, Hawkwood thought, as they removed their snow shoes, is find the enemy.

  It was still dark when, ten minutes after the first soldier had been awakened by kicks to the soles of his boots, the last of the troops cast off their frost-stiffened blankets and emerged from their bivouacs. To everyone’s relief, no snow had fallen during the night. Instead, they found the countryside shrouded in fog.

  Wood was added to the campfire embers and as coffee pots were replenished and ablutions performed the officers looked to their horses while the troops, under the watchful eyes of the corporals and the sergeants, attended to their weapons.

  At the appointed hour, with the fog thickening, Quade gave the order to move out.

  “Maybe we were wrong,” Lawrence suggested.

  “Maybe,” Hawkwood said.

  Hawkwood surveyed the road, which wasn’t that impressive, considering it was supposed to be the main highway linking Quebec Province to the United States. No more than a track through a wood, it certainly didn’t match the Dover post road or the road he’d travelled on from Boston to Albany. But then, given the time of year, traffic was bound to be light; so light in fact, as to be non-existent, to judge by the lack of imprints. There were a few animal tracks, but no vehicle marks and certainly nothing to suggest that upwards of four hundred men had passed by recently.

  Hawkwood wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.

  After fording the river, he’d persuaded Tewanias and Cageaga to continue the trek eastwards. Travelling at night through a winter landscape, most of which was primeval forest, was not generally advisable, but while the moon was bright enough to see by, it had made sense to go as far as they were able. They’d managed another two miles before eventually calling a halt.

  Confident they were safe from human threat, they’d constructed lean-tos out of branches, with a snow wall in front to shield and reflect the heat from the fires. After setting watches, the night had passed without event. Breakfast had consisted of pemmican washed down with water from their canteens. Moving off before the sun rose, another hour’s hike had seen them to the road.

  “So?” Lawrence said. “Cut our losses, head for Lacolle?”

  Hawkwood was about to reply in the affirmative when an owl hooted in the woods to their right. No one moved. Poised at Hawkwood’s shoulder, Tewanias said softly, “Someone comes.”

  Hawkwood did not query the warning. He trusted Tewanias’s instincts implicitly, knowing the owl call had been voiced by one of the Mohawks who, with others, had been deployed to watch the road, both north and south of their position.

  As he shifted his grip on his musket, a stocky, buckskin-coated warrior, war bow in hand – Hawkwood remembered his name as Chohajo – materialized at Tewanias’s side and spoke rapidly into the Mohawk chief’s ear. Tewanias nodded, then informed Hawkwood: “Two riders.”

  “How far?”

  “Close.”

  “Friend or foe?” Lawrence murmured.

  “Let’s find out,” Hawkwood said. Turning, he issued swift instructions to Tewanias. “And await my signal, rake’niha. There must be no noise.”

  Hawkwood saw Cageaga’s mouth split into a vulpine smile.

  “With me, Douglas,” Hawkwood said.

  They stepped out on to the road.

  It was a short while before the riders came into view for they were not travelling fast but at walking pace, employing caution. With the snow muffling the sound of their horses’ hooves and the fog distorting their shapes, they looked more like ghostly apparitions than flesh-and-blood mortals and it took another second or two before Hawkwood was able to pick out details.

  Both riders were wrapped against the cold in long coats, scarves and caps. The peaked, drum-shaped headgear left little doubt that the riders were military. The way they were advancing made Hawkwood suspect that in the semi-darkness and the fog, his and Lawrence’s presence had yet to register.

  Slipping the musket strap on to his left shoulder Hawkwood dropped his right hand down by his side so that it was concealed by his coat. Lawrence held his gun cradled across his chest.

  The riders advanced another few yards before it dawned on them that they did not have the road to themselves. They pulled up quickly.

  “Gentlemen.” Lawrence stepped out and smiled up at their startled expressions. “You’ll oblige me by dismounting.”

  Hawkwood watched the indecision creep over their faces. It took a moment for the lead rider to find his voice.

  “By whose authority?”

  “That would be mine,” Lawrence said. “On account of I’m the one with the gun.”

  Neither horseman responded. After exchanging glances with his companion, the lead rider dropped his right hand down by his side.

  Damn it! Hawkwood thought, half a second before the rider drew the pistol from his saddle holster.

  Lawrence brought his musket up.

  “No!” Hawkwood said sharply.

  The tomahawk that Hawkwood had been holding concealed behind his coat flew from his hand in a blur. As the rider fell back with the blade buried in his right shoulder, Hawkwood lunged towards the horse’s halter, grabbing it as the second rider, stunned by the attack, hauled on his reins and wheeled his horse about, Lawrence snapped his musket to his shoulder once more.

  “No, Douglas!” Hawkwood warned again, as horse and rider careered off in the direction from which they’d come.

  “Shit!” Lawrence cursed. He threw Hawkwood a look of exasperation.

  “Wait,” Hawkwood said.

  Lawrence turned just in time to see several shadows detach themselves from the forest and converge upon the fleeing horse and rider. It was the fact that they did so in utter silence that made Lawrence’s pulse skip a beat.

  The horseman’s indecision was his downfall. Ala
rmed by this fresh threat, he tried to pull his horse around. This time, the snow got the better of him. As if sensing panic from the man on its back, the horse shied and then reared, throwing its rider to the ground. Relieved of the weight, hooves scrabbling, the animal managed to regain its balance but, instead of bolting, it remained rooted to the spot, haunches quivering. Within seconds, one of the warriors had taken hold of its halter, while his companions moved swiftly toward the horseman who lay sprawled, face down, in the snow.

  “Sorry, Douglas,” Hawkwood said. “I didn’t want the sound of the shot carrying.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “No apology necessary.”

  Hawkwood handed Lawrence the reins of the horse he was holding and moved to its rider, who’d landed face up. His eyes were open but from their glassy stare it was clear he was dead. His head, Hawkwood saw, as he tugged the hatchet free, lay at an unnatural angle, indicating he’d died from a broken neck and not the wound to the shoulder. Death had come quickly so there was little blood. The rider’s shako lay a few feet away. There were no insignia on his coat, but a red collar and blue uniform jacket showed beneath it.

  Lawrence looked down at the corpse. “Well, they’re Yankees all right. Outriders for the column?”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  Spying the dead man’s pistol, Hawkwood picked it up, brushed off the snow and handed it to Lawrence, who checked the powder before sliding it into its holster.

  “Question is, how far out in front are they?” Lawrence muttered.

  “Don’t know.” Hawkwood peered along the road. At that distance the fog was too thick to penetrate. “But I know a man who does.”

  They made their way to where the second rider had been hauled to his feet. He, too, had lost his cap. His hair was wet and dishevelled. He looked, Hawkwood thought, both dazed and terrified by the sight of the bloodstained tomahawk.

  “Name and rank?” Hawkwood snapped.

  “H-Henry Nevens, Lieutenant.” Adding quickly, “Sixth Regiment of Infantry.”

  “You’re scouts for the column, yes?”

  The lieutenant’s gaze remained fixed on the hatchet.

  “Didn’t catch that,” Hawkwood said, inclining his head as though deaf.

  The lieutenant swallowed. “Y-yes.”

  “How far behind is it?”

  Hope flared in the man’s eyes at the thought of his compatriots appearing out of the mist to save him, but it was a vision dashed as Hawkwood laid the flat of the tomahawk blade against the lieutenant’s pale cheek. “Don’t lie. I’ll know if you lie and I’ll let my friends ask the questions. You understand me?”

  A sound, halfway between a gasp and a croak, emerged from the lieutenant’s throat. “Not far … a mile … I’m not sure.”

  “How many men?”

  “Four companies.”

  “Who leads them?”

  “The lieutenant blinked. It was not a question he’d expected. “Major Quade.”

  “Well, well,” Lawrence murmured.

  “Their objective is Lacolle, correct?” Hawkwood said.

  The lieutenant hesitated then nodded.

  “Is the main army still at Plattsburg?”

  The lieutenant hesitated again.

  “Come on, lad,” Lawrence said. “You done well so far. Don’t ruin it.”

  “C – Colonel Pearce leads them to Champlain.”

  “To await news of victory before advancing at the double, no doubt,” Lawrence said. He looked at Hawkwood. “Well?”

  Hawkwood led Lawrence to one side. “Take the horse, Douglas. Ride to Lacolle. Warn them.”

  Lawrence frowned. “There are two horses.”

  Hawkwood turned. “Rake’niha, I need a man to guide Major Lawrence the rest of the way.”

  Tewanias called to the warrior who was holding Lieutenant Nevens’ horse.

  “I take it this means you’re going to try and keep the buggers occupied?” Lawrence said.

  “If we can. With luck, it’ll give you time to alert Lacolle so they can send for help.”

  Lawrence bit his lip.

  Hawkwood smiled. “It has to be you, Douglas. You’re the better rider.”

  Lawrence looked towards Tewanias and his warriors. “And you’re the one who speaks the lingo.”

  Tewanias approached. At his side, Lawrence’s appointed guide.

  “Oneas ronwa:iats,” Tewanias said to Lawrence before correcting himself with a smile. “His name is Oneas. He has some English.”

  As his name was spoken, the Mohawk swung himself effortlessly into the saddle.

  “Always useful,” Lawrence said. He looked across to where the lieutenant was being held and his face froze.

  “You should leave now, Douglas,” Hawkwood said.

  Lawrence hesitated, made as if to speak, and fell silent. Then he tucked in his scarf and mounted the horse.

  Tewanias raised his hand and spoke in English. “Goodbye, Roren. We will meet again.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Lawrence said. “It’s been an honour.” He turned back to Hawkwood. His mouth was set grim.

  “O:nen ki’ wahi’, Major.” Hawkwood held out his hand. “Safe journey.”

  Lawrence paused, then grasping the hand, he said, “You, too, Captain. I’ll see you in Lacolle, God willing.” Releasing his grip, and as if discomforted by the prospect of parting, he turned his horse and rode to where his guide was waiting.

  God, Hawkwood mused as he watched them disappear into the darkness, would have little to do with it. The devil, on the other hand …

  He looked for Tewanias.

  “We should hurry. The Americans must not know we’ve been here. Take the body into the woods. Cover all traces of blood.”

  “It will be done. And the one who lives?”

  Hawkwood did not reply.

  “If we let him go, he will warn the Yan-kees,” Tewanias said.

  “I know.”

  Tewanias held his gaze.

  “I know,” Hawkwood said again.

  Tewanias turned and spoke to his men. Hawkwood looked towards the captured lieutenant and took a deep breath.

  Watching Hawkwood approach, Nevens straightened. From his expression it was not hard to read his mind. Seeing his companion cut down so brutally, not by an Indian but by a white man, had, no doubt, been as shocking as the deed itself. The threat to hand him to the Indians for questioning had probably awakened countless childhood memories and tales of blood-thirsty natives. The sight of Lawrence and Oneas departing had only added to his fear. It was obvious his mind was racing, trying to come up with a way to save himself.

  It was a futile exercise.

  Hawkwood was almost level with them when Cageaga stepped behind the lieutenant. In a move so fast that it had barely time to register in Hawkwood’s brain, he drove the head of his war club against the base of the lieutenant’s skull. Nevens collapsed without a sound.

  Squatting down next to the body, Cageaga drew his knife.

  “Yahtea!” Tewanias’s command cut through the air.

  Cageaga paused. He looked up, staring first at Hawkwood and then at a point over Hawkwood’s shoulder. Hawkwood turned. Tewanias did not speak either but remained where he was. His eyes were on Hawkwood. They moved to Cageaga. He shook his head. “Yahtea,” he said again.

  No.

  Showing no emotion, Cageaga returned the knife to its sheath and stood up. Tewanias looked back at Hawkwood, held his gaze for another second and then turned away.

  Hawkwood crossed to the body. He did not look for signs of life for he knew there would be none. The blow, delivered by an adept, had been meant to kill. He presumed Tewanias had sent Cageaga a signal while his back had been turned. It had been a deliberate act, designed to deny Hawkwood the task of having to carry out the sentence himself.

  At least, Hawkwood assumed that had been the reason; that Tewanias had directed Cageaga to deliver the blow because he’d thought Hawkwood might balk at killing a man in cold blood. Hawkwood w
ondered about that and then realized there might have been another reason. Tewanias hadn’t acted to spare Hawkwood from killing Nevens but to save him from having to make the decision whether to do so or not.

  They carried the bodies off the road and into the forest and concealed them beneath spruce branches and snow. The few drops of blood that had been spilled were easily dealt with.

  Tewanias then recalled the lookouts, who reported that the column was still nowhere in sight.

  Which gave them time, Hawkwood hoped, to look for a killing ground.

  Goddamned weather, Quade thought, though he knew, despite the damp and the poor visibility that the fog couldn’t have come at a more opportune time for it gave his attacking force a distinct advantage. In parts, it was almost impossible to see further than a hundred yards in any direction. If conditions persisted, they’d be on top of the British positions before the Limeys even knew they were there.

  By Quade’s estimation, they had crossed the border a little over a mile back, though the measurement was somewhat nebulous due to the fog and because every mile of forest looked like every other mile of forest. Moreover there had been no actual physical barrier to deter the column’s advance; indeed, had it not been for the crude marker half-buried at the side of the track, on the northern face of which was chipped a very rough letter Q and on the opposite the letters NY, it would have been hard to tell where one country ended and the other began.

  From the maps he’d studied, Quade knew there was a creek up ahead. Not that wide, he’d been advised, or deep, but the banks were steep enough to have required the construction of a simple log bridge to facilitate the movement of wheeled traffic.

  When the end of the bridge came into view, Quade found himself buoyed by an unexpected yet undeniable frisson of pleasure. The real border may already have been crossed, but there had been little sense of occasion. It was only now, as he approached the crude-cut, snow-covered timbers, that the true meaning of what he was about to achieve struck home. Caesar may have had the Rubicon and Washington the Delaware, but to Major Harlan Quade, the crossing of this narrow, insignificant creek felt just as symbolic.

  It also occurred to him, then, that he should have made his way to the front of the line to lead the troops over himself, but by the time the bridge appeared through the fog, the van was already halfway across. Annoyed with himself for having missed an opportunity, Quade had little option but to follow on behind.