by James McGee
“God damned misfire!” the shooter protested.
“Move aside, then! Let the dog see the rabbit!”
Then Quade heard the corporal say in a puzzled tone, “Damn! I do believe that’s a white man …”
Quade stared off to where the corporal was squinting down the barrel of his gun. In a slight dip in the terrain he saw several figures running in a crouch across a clearing, their zig-zagging forms dark against the snow. The significance of the corporal’s words was immediately apparent, for one of the trailing figures was dressed in what appeared to be an army greatcoat. Taller than his native companions, even from a distance, there was something uncannily familiar about the figure’s bearing.
No! Quade thought. Not possible!
He pivoted, thrusting the pistol back in his belt. Caught by surprise, the corporal could only gape as the major ripped the musket from his hands and swung it to his shoulder.
And fired.
17
Hawkwood did not look around, for the shot had sounded no different to any of the others that had bracketed them as they ran, but when he heard the muffled exclamation, he turned quickly.
“I am hit, Mat-huwa,” Cageaga gasped. He sounded vaguely surprised as he tipped forward into Hawkwood’s arms.
Hawkwood felt liquid warmth against his right palm. He lifted it from Cageaga’s back and found the blood. “It’s only a scratch.”
Cageaga groaned and gave a twisted smile. “You are a poor liar, little brother. You always were.”
“And you talk too much, old man. Save your breath.”
A shout went up behind them. Hawkwood looked towards the source in time to see a dark-clad figure, long gun in hand.
Quade.
And then the smoke closed around the bastard and he was gone. But there would be others in attendance. Awkwardly, Hawkwood looped his own gun over his back and, taking Cageaga’s carbine, he placed an arm around the wounded man’s shoulder. “On your feet.”
Cageaga groaned and then coughed. Pain contorted his features. A line of pink froth oozed from between his lips and trickled down the corner of his mouth.
“Get up!” Hawkwood said sharply.
Cageaga grimaced and then spat. “I can taste blood. I think my insides are bleeding.”
“Hold on to me,” Hawkwood said. “We can make it together.”
“To where, little brother?”
Hawkwood’s stomach contracted. It had been a simple question, yet Cageaga was right. The blood he was coughing up indicated that the ball could well have penetrated a lung, in which case the wound was fatal.
In the Peninsula, there had been times when Hawkwood had left injured men behind, knowing they’d have a better chance of survival if they were taken prisoner and cared for by French surgeons the same way that, by unwritten agreement, French wounded were treated by British field surgeons. In the current theatre, however, no such etiquette would apply. A rabid dog stood a better chance of survival than a captured Mohawk, especially one who’d led a scalping party against American troops. Confirmation of that had been the isolated, single musket shots that had sounded behind them. They meant Quade’s men had found wounded warriors and were administering their own version of the last rites.
He looked for the other Mohawk but they were no longer in view. Only the tracks of their moccasins were visible. A ball thudded into an adjacent stump. Another quick glance over his shoulder revealed a glimpse of a blue uniform jinking through a break in the trees, then another, and another, accompanied by a flash of scarlet collar.
Quade?
When he’d glanced back the first time, the major’s stance had made it safe to assume that he, Hawkwood, had been in Quade’s sights when he’d pulled the trigger and not Cageaga. Which begged the question: how long had he known that Hawkwood was alive and a participant in – if not the instigator of – the ambush at the bridge?
It would explain his relentless pursuit. Any other officer, having seen the enemy routed, would have pressed on with the prime objective, which was not to hunt down ambushers but to capture a blockhouse. But Quade, still smarting from their previous encounters, would know that if the sound of gunfire had carried as far as the British outpost there was a high probability his mission had been severely compromised. Now that he knew Hawkwood was the disruptor of his plan, he’d want to settle the score personally.
Well, the bastard would just have to wait his turn, along with every other mother’s son.
“Up, damn it!” Hawkwood urged as he took Cageaga’s weight.
Another shout came from behind them. Risking a look over his shoulder, Hawkwood saw a shako-capped form, musket raised.
Oh, Christ, he thought.
And then there was a crack and the soldier fell.
Hawkwood turned to see two figures running forward through a curl of smoke. One was Tewanias, the other was Kodjeote.
“You were told to stay close to your brother!” Cageaga gasped.
“Then you would be dead,” Tewanias said, as Kodjeote looped his discharged carbine over his back and hooked an arm under Cageaga’s other shoulder. With Tewanias protecting their backs, Hawkwood and the young Mohawk half-carried, half-dragged the wounded warrior into the trees.
Quade, his mind reeling, his shoulder buffeted by the musket’s recoil, swore savagely as the four figures disappeared from view.
Hooper? How in the name of Christ …?
Spinning, he tossed the musket back to its owner, who was staring down at his dead comrade in shock and disbelief. The ball had entered the trooper’s right eye before he’d got a chance to fire, leaving a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull and scattering brain matter in a wide arc. A stained and battered shako lay in the snow several feet away.
Hooper! Quade thought again as he took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the trooper’s blood from his cheek. Bloody Hooper! Even with what had looked like streaks of dirt across his face, Quade had recognized him. What the hell did it take to kill the bastard?
Though it probably explained Walker’s death, he reasoned. It had to have been Hooper who’d killed the scout. Had it been one of Hooper’s companions, Walker’s scalp would have been taken.
“Well, I have him cornered now, by God!” muttered Quade, mentally consulting the map. If his recollection was accurate, the road wasn’t that far. The creek couldn’t be much more than half a mile back and they were moving in the right direction, so the road had to be just to the left of them. And the enemy’s tracks were leading the way.
“Move!” Quade barked. “With me!”
Scooping up the dead trooper’s primed musket and with his troops at his shoulder, he set off in energetic pursuit.
Stealth was no longer a factor, for either the hunters or the hunted. While Quade’s men might not have been banging drums or blowing horns, their intention was clearly to flush their prey, like boar from a thicket, towards the road and into the path of the advancing column.
A sucking sound came from the back of Cageaga’s throat. “If you carry me, you cannot outrun them. You will all die or you will be captured. To become a prisoner of the Yan-kees would be worse than death.” Cageaga’s fingers found Hawkwood’s wrist. “I will be dead before they take me. Your war is yet to be fought. Go now!”
“No,” Hawkwood said again.
About to respond, Cageaga coughed. Another droplet of blood broke from between his pressed lips.
Kodjeote and Tewanias looked at Hawkwood in mute appeal. While foliage could provide temporary concealment, it was no protection against musket fire. They had to move, before the jaws of Quade’s trap closed upon them.
Or, failing that, find somewhere to make a stand.
But to make a stand, you needed something solid at your back and Hawkwood couldn’t see a damned thing that came close to fitting that category.
Except …
He stared. There was something there, through the trees. What it was, he couldn’t make out exactly, but it had caught his
eye in the same way the chimney of the ruin where he and Lawrence had warmed themselves had trapped his attention: by not quite fitting in with its surroundings.
And then an image arose of another time and another place – a small hilltop village in Portugal called Vimeiro and the defences placed across the narrow roads leading to it – and he realized what he might be looking at. Quickly he drew Tewanias’s attention. The war captain frowned and then saw what Hawkwood was alluding to. His chin lifted. “Ea!”
In the next instant Tewanias was calling his remaining warriors to him and they were half-running, half-stumbling – not away from the edge of the wood, but towards it.
They were one hundred paces ahead of the column’s front markers when they broke from the trees.
Close to, the abattis looked less like a defensive wall and more like a stockade that had collapsed under the weight of snow piled upon it. But right then, Hawkwood would have settled for an upturned rum cask if it helped provide cover.
It took a second for the troops in the column to react, possibly because some in the first rank had thought they might be Quade’s men and so had not opened fire immediately. This gave Hawkwood and the Mohawk the few extra yards they needed. It also gave Effa – the decoy – the opportunity he had been waiting for to rejoin his fellow warriors. Bursting from the trees on the other side of the road, he sprinted towards them, carbine in hand.
And as the cry from the soldiers went up, the shooting began.
Effa staggered but recovered and continued, blood running from the wound in his leg, stippling the snow behind him. Hawkwood and Kodjeote, their arms still linked around Cageaga’s shoulders were bunched together and so presented the most tempting target. They were ten paces from safety when Hawkwood felt the strike high up on his left arm, propelling him forward so that he almost fell into Cageaga’s path. For a moment, Kodjeote had the weight of two wounded men hanging from him, but then as Hawkwood regained his balance, Tewanias grabbed his collar and with musket rounds striking the ground about them, they threw themselves down behind the log pile.
Breathing hard, Hawkwood picked himself up and peered over the top of the nearest trunk. The shooters had paused to reload while the soldiers behind them were moving up quickly to fill the gaps in the line, though none seemed prepared to engage in a full-frontal assault, which gave the Mohawk valuable seconds in which to reload as well.
Pain bloomed through Hawkwood’s left bicep and shoulder and he sensed the blood seeping down the inside of his sleeve. When he tried forming a fist, it felt as though someone had just stuck a red-hot poker through his flesh. He examined his coat and saw the blood-soaked gash in the material, indicating the ball had scored rather than penetrated his flesh. There was nothing he could do in the meantime, though, except grit his teeth and bear it; after all, it wasn’t as if a field surgeon was going to put in an appearance. Awkwardly, he fumbled in his pouch for a fresh cartridge.
Lawrence should have made it to the British lines by now. But would there be time to marshal a defence? Though it seemed aeons, the initial ambush back at the bridge had been only an hour ago. And since then, what had they achieved? The invading force remained intent on capturing its objective, whereas Hawkwood’s war band had lost half its number. Tucking in his neck as musket balls struck the trunks and cut through the air around them, he wondered whether they’d succeeded in putting so much as a dent in the Americans’ plan. Had the entire errand been nothing more than a waste of good men?
Their aim had been to distract Quade from his course by nipping at the column’s flanks for as long as possible. They had achieved only a modicum of success. Quade had lost officers and NCOs, but the ensuing disruption to the chain of command had not been enough to stem the assault.
Which left Hawkwood one of seven men – three of whom were nursing wounds – attempting to hold the line against four hundred.
But as redoubts went, this was better than some he’d had to defend. With the swamp only a short throw to their left, the abattis had been well sited. Assuming there was marshland on the opposite side of the road too, they were unlikely to be outflanked. An attack would have to come from the front.
“You are wounded, Mat-huwa!” Tewanias said, alarmed.
“It’s only a scratch,” Hawkwood heard a voice beside him say. He saw Cageaga smile weakly.
Hawkwood shook powder into his musket’s pan. He had four cartridges left. Tewanias and the others were no doubt equally low on ammunition.
So we’d better make what we have count.
Though, he knew, even as he made the promise, that the chances of keeping up a sustained rate of fire were non-existent. There would be an opportunity for perhaps one re-load before they were over run because by then their muskets would probably have become fouled with use anyway.
A hand touched his arm. He looked to his side and was astonished to see Cageaga hauling himself up.
“My gun, little brother. I may not be able to run, but I am not yet dead.”
Wordlessly, knowing better than to argue, Hawkwood passed him the carbine.
“Good.” Cageaga checked the load. Satisfied, he raised the gun – wincing as he did so – on to the top of a log and sighted along the barrel. Accentuated by the black paint, his eyes glittered like coals.
“Now,” he murmured, bloody spittle landing across his chin, “let them come.”
This time when he heard the reports, Quade knew it had to be the column. Powder bursts, like exploding puffballs, were visible through the trees. Gripping the musket, he plunged towards them.
Not wishing to run into crossfire, Quade emerged on to the road some yards behind the forward skirmish line. He looked for Captain van Roos, the officer he’d left in charge of the column, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither were any enemy bodies, Quade noted, with a growing sense of misgiving. He’d hoped for at least one or two. Hooper’s among them, preferably, but any of his Indian friends would have sufficed.
He saw van Roos’ lieutenant hurrying towards him, a sergeant at his shoulder. The lieutenant’s name was Dettweiler. It was evident he was relieved to see Quade, but it was just as apparent that he was the conveyor of bad news. He straightened and touched the peak of his shako in hasty salute, while eyeing the musket in Quade’s hand.
“Well?” Quade’s eyes went unerringly to the bloodstains down the front of the lieutenant’s jacket.
It was as he’d expected. Upon re-crossing the bridge and engaging with the enemy, the column had taken additional losses. Captain van Roos had been among those killed in the first exchange. The dead also included a sergeant and five troopers. Three men, including Lieutenant Smalley from the 6th Regiment, had received wounds. It was the captain’s blood on the front of Dettweiler’s tunic. The lieutenant had held the captain as he’d died.
“Tell me you at least got some of the bastards,” Quade snapped.
A nerve twitched along the lieutenant’s jaw. An observant man might have interpreted the reflex not as a measure of worry but as the manifestation of contempt towards a senior officer who was prepared to show more interest in the fate of the ambush party than the welfare of his own soldiers. Quade appeared not to notice.
“I regret they struck the road ahead of us, Major. But we do have them pinned down.”
Christ Jesus! Quade thought. Must I do everything myself?
“Where?”
Staring through the smoke to where the lieutenant was pointing, he saw the abattis for what it was and subdued the impulse to scream out loud. There’d been no mention of that in the report on the British defences, which could only mean it had been erected in the last few days by the Crown forces as they’d retreated from the frontline into their winter burrows. Why the hell hadn’t Walker and his scouts or the outriders brought word about the wretched thing? Unless Walker had been on his way to report when he’d been killed. And, come to think of it, where were the outriders?
Quade swore beneath his breath. He resisted the urge to look at his w
atch, knowing they should have been entering Lacolle. By now the blockhouse would have been in sight and within his reach, if it hadn’t been for that Goddamned Hooper.
He wondered where Lawrence had got to. Had he missed him in the woods? Was he trapped behind the abattis with the others? Well, he could bloody die with them, in that case.
Quade stared again at the barrier. I can do this, he thought desperately. And if I can rid myself of Hooper at the same time, that’ll be two birds with one stone. Three, if you include his compatriot.
He turned to Dettweiler. “How many are there?”
The lieutenant looked beyond Quade’s shoulder. “Seven, sir, as far as we can judge. Six hostiles and a white man, though we had to look twice as the fellow appears to be wearing war paint. Sergeant Brody here believes the natives are Mohawk, by their markings. We think three of them may be wounded, including the white fellow.”
It’s not all bad news, then, Quade thought.
No mention of a second white man, though. He wondered if that meant the Oneida had caught Lawrence and killed him. One could but hope. But that led to a more pertinent question: how, in the name of Hades, did Hooper come to be travelling with a band of Mohawk? Yet another enigma to add to what was fast becoming a lengthy list.
“Only seven? Why haven’t you attacked?” Quade demanded, eyeing the troops, most of whom were being held in formation, save for the skirmishers who had found cover along the edge of the trees from where they could watch and await further orders and direct fire as necessary.
“We were awaiting your return, sir.”
To lead the charge, you mean, Quade thought. Against seven men?
He searched for signs of guile but Dettweiler’s face remained maddeningly neutral, as did the sergeant’s.
I do not have their respect, Quade realized; the revelation forming a hollow pit in his stomach. He turned towards the abattis. The shooting had died away. The enemy were not engaging either. Saving their shots, Quade deduced. Then another possibility struck him. Maybe they want to parley?
