The Blooding

by James McGee

  Lieutenant Dettweiler broke into his thoughts. “Your orders, Major?”

  Quade turned to the sergeant and passed him the musket. “Find a home for that and tell the skirmishers to prepare.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’re going to put the bastards out of their misery. It’s what you do with wounded animals. And when that’s done, we will resume our mission. We will march to Lacolle with all dispatch and take their Goddamned blockhouse before the morning is out.”

  The sergeant frowned but responded, “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

  Quade saw what looked suspiciously like an expression of doubt pass over the lieutenant’s face. As the sergeant moved out of earshot, he fixed Dettweiler with a cold eye. “Something on your mind, Lieutenant?”

  Dettweiler hesitated then drew himself up. “Permission to speak freely, Major?”

  Quade nodded curtly. “Out with it.”

  “It’s just that the sounds of our exchanges may have carried. It’s possible the British now know we’re coming.”

  “And …?” Quade stared at him for several seconds. “Are you implying we should turn back?”

  “Sir, I—” the lieutenant’s voice faltered.

  “Because that’s what it sounds like,” Quade said, knowing there was never going to come a time when he would admit he’d been having the same thought. Not now that he had Hooper in his sights.

  Dettweiler shifted uncomfortably. He knew there was no point in retracting the statement; he’d already committed himself. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said stiffly, “but I believe I would be remiss in my duty if I did not remind the major of the losses we’ve taken during this morning’s engagements – at least two dozen men killed or wounded.”

  Quade raised an eyebrow. “Remiss in your duty? Really? Well, perhaps, Lieutenant, it would be remiss of me not to issue you a reminder of the penalty for questioning the orders of a senior officer.”

  Dettweiler coloured. “Sir, you misunderstand. I’m not questioning your orders, I am merely—”

  “Drawing my attention to the casualty list? Yes, well, I thank you for your insight, Lieutenant. You may consider your duty done. And while I share your concern regarding our dead and wounded, you seem to have overlooked the fact that we are at war. And in war, losses are, sadly, inevitable. We will, therefore, proceed as ordered. We’ve been entrusted with this mission by Colonel Pike. I do not intend to disappoint him. Do you?”

  Dettweiler, stung by Quade’s accusation and with his resolve wavering, was given no time to reply.

  “I ask you this,” continued Quade, “do you suppose Captain van Roos and Captain Carradine would want us to turn back?”

  Quite possibly, Dettweiler thought. Instead he said carefully, “No, sir.”

  Quade jabbed a finger. “Indeed. We thrashed the Limeys once and, by God, we can do it again. Only this time, it’ll be permanent. This time, we’ll sweep them off the whole damned continent! You say there are, what, seven hostiles? Damn it, man, we’re sixty times their number! I doubt they’ve more than twenty rounds between them. It’ll be like an elephant stepping on an ant. Our armies have suffered enough embarrassment these past few months. It is my intention to redress the balance. You think we can’t defeat a handful of savages who blacken their faces and stick feathers in their hair?” Quade glowered at the lieutenant. “Well, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Damned right; ‘No, sir’! Then we are in agreement, are we not? This ends here and it ends now.”

  Conscious of Cageaga’s laboured breathing close to his ear, Hawkwood raised his head cautiously. After the initial ferment, the shooting had dwindled away and an expectant and uneasy hush had fallen over the road, as if every man – with the exception of Cageaga – was holding his breath.

  He thought about a stretch of barren foreshore and a barricade of uprooted, sun-bleached trees behind which a small band of loyal Rangers had fought to the bitter end. Lawrence had mentioned something about coming full circle in a conversation they’d had on the Snake. Maybe it happened to everyone, sooner or later.

  He thought, too, about the men around him.

  They should not be here. Their village needed them. They should be in their longhouses, gathered around the fires with their families. They should not be preparing to die.

  He turned to Tewanias. “Leave me your guns. Make your escape. There’s a time to stand and a time to retreat. This is not a good day to die, rake’niha; not for a king you will never meet, who lives across an ocean you will never see.”

  Tewanias looked back at him. “You think that is why we are here? If that was so, these men would have left the fight when the Yan-kees attacked us in the woods. We are Kanien’kehá:ka. We fight the Yan-kees because they and the Oneniote’á:ka are our enemy, and we stay because of the totem you wear beneath your shirt. It is the same totem handed to me by my father, who received it from his father before him. I have no son of my own. That is why I gave the totem to you. You are Kahrhakon:ha, adopted son of Tewanias, war captain of the Kanien’kehá:ka. We do not fight for the Great King beyond the Water, Mat-huwa. We fight for you.”

  Hawkwood stared at him, a lump forming in his throat.

  “Then can we fight them now,” Cageaga urged. “Otherwise, we will be here all day. I do not think I will last that long.”

  Hawkwood placed his hand lightly on Cageaga’s shoulder. “You forget – it is just a scratch.”

  Cageaga awarded them with a ferine smile.

  Hawkwood removed the tomahawk from his belt. “They’ll want to finish it quickly. There may only be time for one shot. Tell your men to pick their targets. Aim for the officers and the sergeants. Then be ready to fight.”

  “Ea,” Tewanias said, and relayed the order, sliding the war club from his shoulder. Around him, the remaining warriors began to shed themselves of their clubs and edged weapons, placing them within easy reach.

  Hawkwood saw Kodjeote exchange looks with his brother.

  Peering over the logs, Hawkwood searched for Quade but couldn’t see him. Then his attention was caught by a small knot of men standing off to the side, behind the skirmish line. As he watched, the knot broke apart and Quade was there, pistol in one hand, sword in the other.

  Hawkwood raised the musket, ignoring the pull on his wounded arm and sighted on Quade’s chest. It was a long shot, literally, but there might not be an opportunity to take another. Taking an even breath and holding it for a count of three, he squeezed the trigger.

  At the exact same instant as the road – and Quade with it – disappeared behind a cloud of smoke as the skirmishers opened fire.

  In that split second between his shot and the eruption of the smoke, Hawkwood thought he saw Quade stagger, but by then his view was obscured. He swore in frustration.

  Then out of the smoke, the bayonet men came running. Hawkwood knew there would be no time to reload; the troops in the forefront of the attack were too close. At least the narrow width of the road meant they were bunched together, so it would be a very poor marksman who wouldn’t find a target within the first volley.

  The Mohawks’ muskets crashed out around him, filling the air with flame and smoke and the stench of rotten eggs. Hawkwood saw a corporal jerk back as if on a string, his face a bloody mask, his scream louder than the sound of the guns. Next to him, a private staggered as a ball took him in the chest. Sinking to his knees, he fell face down, his hands curled around the musket which lay trapped beneath him. Two more troopers in the first rank tumbled like skittles, their blood misting the air.

  But as the Mohawk rose to shoot, they, too, became targets. Effa, already nursing the wound in his thigh, shrieked as his jaw was shot away. Chohajo, having loosed off his musket and knowing there was no time for a second shot, turned to his bow. He was able to loose two arrows before a musket ball shattered his left wrist. A second ball struck his left temple. And as he toppled backwards, the Mohawks’ guns fell silent.

  Cageaga snatched up h
is tomahawk. Through gritted teeth, he let out a growl. “I am Cageaga of the Kanien’kehá:ka. If I am to die today it will not be as an old man waiting for death. It will be as a warrior, with my blade buried in a Yan-kee heart!” He gripped Hawkwood’s arm. “I will wait for you in the sky world, little brother! I will save you a place by the fire.”

  And before anyone could stop him, he had stumbled from shelter, knife drawn and tomahawk raised, and launched his wounded body at the advancing troops.

  Hawkwood heard Tewanias yell, not in warning or out of fear but in anger and support. As the war chief followed Cageaga out from the sanctuary of the log wall, with Kodjeote and Deskaheh at his side, Hawkwood was only half a pace behind, knowing in his heart that they should have stayed put.

  But better to go down fighting than die like rats in a trap.

  Shouts of alarm rose as the troopers caught sight of the painted figures charging towards them through the smoke.

  Even though he was severely weakened, remarkably, Cageaga was able to parry the first bayonet thrust with ease, using the blade of his tomahawk. But as he slashed his knife, severing the trooper’s hamstring, a musket ball struck his left hip. A second took him in the shoulder and he fell back, surrounded by a ruck of blue and brown tunics. He was still fighting as the bayonets and musket butts drove him to the ground where, finally, beaten down, he sank beneath the soldiers’ boots and the snow around him turned dark with blood.

  As Cageaga disappeared from view, Hawkwood scythed his tomahawk blade towards an exposed throat and felt the blade bite. Tugging it free, he saw Tewanias curve his war club against a musket stock. On the other side, Deskaheh and Kodjeote had also hurled themselves into the fray. War clubs rose and swept down. A man shrieked and a musket spat and Kodjeote was flung backwards. Deskaheh screamed with anger as he saw his younger brother shot down.

  Sensing a presence behind him, Hawkwood ducked and was halfway through the turn when he felt a stunning blow against his right shoulder. He staggered and saw Deskaheh look towards him and shout something unintelligible. A scream came from nearby, but whether it had been uttered in pain or rage, he couldn’t tell. A pistol cracked.

  He looked for Tewanias and saw him hammer his war club against a trooper’s jaw. Then another blow landed across his back and he felt a sharp burn as a bayonet scored his thigh. He tried again to turn but, weakened, slipped on the trampled snow. He heard his name called and saw it was Tewanias battling towards him, and then he saw a trooper drive a musket butt between the Mohawk chieftain’s shoulder blades. As Tewanias fell, the trooper reversed the musket and drove his bayonet into Tewanias’s lower back. Hawkwood’s cry of despair was cut short as something hit him at the base of his skull and the next thing he knew he was falling.

  Still conscious when he hit the ground, his shoulder protested as a gun butt thumped into his side. Through half-closed eyes, he saw a figure pushing through the mêlée, sword in hand.

  Quade’s face was stained with blood and dirt. There was a rent in his coat and a darkening patch showed where Hawkwood’s musket ball had scored across the top of his left arm. The hem of his coat was damp with mud and melted snow. Beneath the blood and the dirt, his expression was venomous. Hawkwood braced himself for the final thrust. Instead, as the sounds of fighting ceased, he heard Quade snarl angrily, “Get him up!”

  They hauled him to his knees. A pistol muzzle was placed against the back of his skull. Focusing through a wash of pain, he looked around at the carnage and the gorge rose into his throat. Beyond where Tewanias had fallen, Cageaga’s corpse would not have been recognizable had it not been for the broken feathers and the beading on his buckskin coat. The back of his skull and his shoulders were thick with blood and one leg was twisted beneath him. His tomahawk lay within inches of his outstretched hand.

  Like rag dolls tossed aside in a fit of childish rage, the bodies of Deskaheh and Kodjeote lay intertwined, beaten and bloody. Around them, a dozen uniformed corpses bore witness to their defiance. Most had been felled by gunshots, but the rest displayed the wounds of close-quarter battle. As he watched, a trooper placed his musket against Deskaheh’s skull and pulled the trigger.

  “Spare me your revulsion,” Quade said, observing Hawkwood’s expression, as the echo of the shot died away. “Given what your savages did to their comrades, it’s no more than they deserve. At least we’re putting them out of their misery. Better a ball to the back of the head than a lingering death.”

  Hawkwood fought back rage and stayed silent, knowing any response would have been inadequate. There were no sympathizers here. While some of the troopers were sifting among the bodies of their comrades, looking for signs of life, others loitered, fascinated by the white man with the painted face. The hostility in the air could have been cut by a knife.

  Quade stared down at him. “Proved quite the savage yourself, haven’t you, Hooper? Even got that damned muck on your face. You think that makes you one of them now?” he added sneeringly.

  Hawkwood looked back at him. “I was always one of them, Quade.”

  The sneer was replaced by a frown.

  Hawkwood’s head had at last begun to clear. “I assume a tribunal is out of the question?”

  The frown slid away, to be replaced by a thin smile, devoid of humour. “We’ve been through that, remember? Though, even if that hadn’t been the case, you wouldn’t qualify.” The corner of Quade’s mouth lifted. “Ah, but then you won’t be familiar with General Hull’s proclamation that no white man found fighting on the side of an Indian is to be taken prisoner?”

  There was a coppery taste at the back of Hawkwood’s tongue. At some time he must have bitten through it; probably when he’d been struck on the head. He spat out blood. “Last I heard, General Hull was being held in Quebec. I’m not sure his proclamations carry much weight any more.”

  Quade shook his head. “Ah, but they do, believe me. Not that it matters, anyway. We’ve already established you’re a spy and … well, you know the punishment for that.”

  “Best get on with it, then,” said Hawkwood wearily. “There’s a blockhouse awaiting your attention. I assume that’s still your objective?”

  “Nothing to stop us now,” Quade said.

  Hawkwood looked up at the sky. “You’ll have to move quickly. I’d say there’s more snow on the way.”

  Quade peered heavenward.

  “Been a hell of a morning, Major,” Hawkwood said.

  Dropping his gaze, Quade stared at him for perhaps two or three seconds. “And the last one you’ll ever see.”

  Hawkwood dropped his hands to his knees. “Maybe, maybe not; the day’s not over.”

  Before Quade could respond, an officer appeared at his shoulder. “All the hostiles are accounted for, Major.” He stared down at Hawkwood as if mesmerized.

  “Very good,” said Quade. “See to the wounded. Get the men back in line. Prepare to move out. We’ve wasted enough time.”

  The officer hesitated and then responded curtly, “Yes, sir.” With a lingering look towards Hawkwood, he moved away and began issuing orders.

  Quade was silent until the officer was out of earshot. Then he said, “Y’know what pleases me the most? Knowing my face will be the last one you’ll ever see. It’s why I told my men not to kill you.”

  Hawkwood let his hand drift to the top of his right moccasin. He could taste blood in his mouth. “I’m flattered.”

  “Ah, yes,” Quade said sarcastically. “And there it is – the attempt at levity. Your friend Lawrence fancied himself as a wit, too, as I recall. I don’t see him, by the way. Where is he?”

  “Damned if I know. We got separated.”

  Quade shrugged. “Pity. It would have been nice to have had you both together. No matter, we’ll just have to make do. All right, Corporal – when you’re ready.”

  Hawkwood felt the pistol muzzle lift away from his scalp. “No blindfold then?”

  This time there was no smile. “I told you; I wanted you to see my
face.”

  “My apologies,” Hawkwood said. “I forgot.” Glancing to one side, he saw a trooper lean over Tewanias’s body and aim his musket downwards. His breath locked as his fingers reached the hilt of the knife in his boot.

  “God’s sake, Corporal,” Quade snapped. “Just do it.”

  The sound of the shot was louder than expected and Quade’s eyes widened in shock.

  As the corporal’s skull blew apart.

  Hawkwood threw himself down as musket rounds tore into Quade’s men. The trooper who’d been about to shoot Tewanias in the head was now face down, his brains dribbling into the snow. Hawkwood looked back towards the abattis, to where soldiers in light grey uniforms and black bearskin caps were appearing through the smoke. Muskets boomed again. Pandemonium ensued. More troopers went tumbling.

  Hearing a scream of rage, Hawkwood turned in time to see Quade’s sword slashing down towards him. He hurled himself to one side. The stiletto was in his hand, but he needed a more substantial weapon. He had no idea where his own tomahawk had fallen, but Cageaga’s was there in full view. Transferring the knife to his left hand, he scrambled towards it, his wounded shoulder screaming in protest.

  He was halfway to his feet when Quade came in again, blade held high, to deliver a vicious downward stroke that would have cleaved bone had it connected, but by then Hawkwood had the tomahawk in his right hand and was able to parry the strike away. As he rolled, the heavy blade sheared past his injured arm, missing it by a hair’s breadth.

  Using the tomahawk as a brace, Hawkwood pushed himself up. His head was swimming and the world, which seemed to be enveloped in nothing but smoke and noise, tilted alarmingly.

  There was a fresh cut on Quade’s scalp, probably a graze from a musket ball, and blood now covered most of his face. He was breathing hard. With a manic cry, he attacked again: a reverse cut to Hawkwood’s right side. Hawkwood, managing to recover his balance, sucked in his stomach and slammed the tomahawk against the descending edge. Shock ran through his arm as steel met with steel. Sparks skittered along the colliding blades. From all sides there came shouts and crackles of musketry.