The Blooding

by James McGee

  Both men paused.

  The colonel raised a hand. “Joyeux Noël!”

  And with that, he turned his back, re-entered the room and closed the door.

  Hawkwood and Lawrence looked at each other.

  “Well, it can’t be worse than my last one,” Hawkwood said.

  They made their way outside. The dispatch rider bound for Île aux Noix had already departed. The Montreal-bound courier was waiting with the horses.

  Turning up his collar and adjusting his borrowed cap, Lawrence mounted carefully. “If I fall off this time, at least I’ll have you to catch me.” He glanced around him. “I thought Tewanias might be here to say his farewell.”

  “We’ve already said our goodbyes,” Hawkwood said.

  Lawrence looked at him, unsure.

  Hawkwood did not reply. Lifting the reins, he caught the dispatch rider’s eye. “After you, Corporal.”

  With that they set off, walking their horses away from the post. It wasn’t until they were clear of the tents and beyond the perimeter that Hawkwood looked back over his shoulder. The place was waking up. Smoke rose from the blockhouse chimney and from the campfires; bodies were gathering around them in preparation for the queue to the cook tent. From one of the huts, a figure emerged, tall and dressed in a dark cloak. For a second it did not move, but then, slowly, a hand was raised.

  Hawkwood reined in and lifted his right hand in acknowledgement. He watched as the figure held the pose before it turned and disappeared. Steering his horse around, he found Lawrence had been watching him. Hands resting easily across his pommel, the major waited as Hawkwood drew level.

  No words were spoken as they kicked their horses into motion and followed the corporal down the snowy, forest track.

  EPILOGUE

  “Quite a sight, ain’t it?” Sir George Prevost spoke from behind Hawkwood’s right shoulder.

  It was hard to argue. Indeed, it would have taken an idiot or a blind man to disagree, for the view from the chateau’s window was more than “quite a sight”. It was spectacular.

  The chateau was the Chateau St Louis, the official residence of the Governor-in-Chief of the Canadas, probably the only title grand enough to match the building’s extraordinary location. Built on the rim of a terrifyingly high, near-vertical bluff, the chateau overlooked the confluence of the Charles and St Lawrence rivers. It was, Hawkwood thought as he stared out at the scene spread below him, like standing on the edge of the world.

  He wondered how far the view extended. Miles, probably. Tens of miles on a clear day. Today wasn’t that clear, though, for outside a light sleet was falling. Nothing, however, not the sleet nor the cold, pewter-coloured sky, could detract from the extraordinary aspect on the other side of the glass. His gaze moved out over the slanted rooftops of the lower town and the docks crouched at the foot of the bluff, across the mile-wide river, to a small sprinkling of lights on the eastern shore.

  Prevost followed his gaze. “Pointe Lévy; it’s where Wolfe pitched camp during the siege. Took him three months to take the city. The Heights are to the south of us. How he managed to get troops and cannon up those damned cliffs beats me. Hell of a thing,” Prevost murmured, as if he couldn’t quite believe the deed had been considered, never mind accomplished.

  Wolfe, Hawkwood knew, was General James Wolfe, who, a little over half a century before, after scaling the aforementioned cliffs, had defeated the French general, Montcalm, on the Plains of Abraham, the plateau that lay just outside the city’s walls. The battle had cost both generals their lives, but the Crown’s forces had prevailed and the victory had led, ultimately, to Britain gaining control of what had been, up until then, French Canada.

  He looked northwards, to the basin, a broad expanse of gun-metal grey water framed by bleak, snow-covered hills and dotted with the sails of vessels battling gamely through rising swells.

  “Your ship leaves on the morning tide,” Sir George said, reading Hawkwood’s mind. “She’s the frigate, Ariadne. She’s carrying dispatches for our masters in London. Fast, I’m told. You’ll be home within a month, all being well. I must say you’re dashed lucky you arrived here when you did. Another few days and there’s a good chance we’d have been iced in, leaving you stuck here until March.”

  The Governor put his head on one side and said speculatively, “Glad to be going home, I expect, after your adventures. How long will you have been away?”

  Hawkwood thought back. “Three months.”

  It seemed longer.

  “Soldiers and sailors, eh? You’d think we’d be used to it by now.”

  Hawkwood felt like saying, But I’m not a bloody soldier; not any more. Even though he knew that wasn’t strictly true. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

  Sir George would know that better than anyone, having joined his father’s regiment, the 60th Foot, as a twelve-year-old ensign. Rising through the ranks, after service in the West Indies, he’d held the posts of lieutenant-governor of St Lucia and governor of Dominica before being appointed lieutenant-governor of Nova Scotia and, eventually, President of Lower Canada.

  A not-too-tall, not-too-stout man, with thick side-burns framing affable features, Prevost’s demeanour reminded Hawkwood more of a yeoman farmer than an army commander and senior diplomat, but his record spoke for itself.

  “It’ll be Christmas aboard, then,” Sir George followed on cheerfully. “Hard tack and holly. Extra rations of grog, though, eh?” He grinned.

  Christmas?

  Hawkwood kept forgetting. Not that it mattered. It was the thought of another bloody sea voyage that occupied his mind, rather than a round of festive sea shanties, if there were such things. He supposed he would find out soon enough. He groaned inwardly.

  “You said your goodbyes to Major Lawrence?” Sir George asked.

  “I did, sir, yes.”

  “And how was he?”

  “The surgeon said he should make a good recovery.”

  “Splendid! Though not the most tolerant of patients, I’m told.” There was humour in the statement.

  “No.” Hawkwood smiled at the recollection. Lawrence swearing fit to bust as Surgeon Brossard poured the whiskey.

  “Well, I’m glad he’s on the mend. We need men of his ilk.”

  Ilk? Hawkwood thought.

  The ride from Lacolle had taken the full day, with a change of horses at the halfway mark, a small, unobtrusive inn and livery stable sequestered by the army for just such a purpose. By the time they arrived at Longueil, the dark had fallen. A cold fog covered the St Lawrence but it hadn’t prevented them seeing the lights of the city twinkling on the far bank.

  The last ferry of the evening had departed so they’d found accommodation in an army guardhouse, a relic from the town fort, which had been deemed unsafe and torn down a couple of years earlier. The guardhouse’s state of repair had suggested its own demolition wouldn’t be long in following, but for the one night it had provided a warm, dry billet and that was all that was required.

  They’d caught the ferry the next morning and the dispatch rider had escorted them to military headquarters, where a clerk in the Adjutant General’s office had been sent to secure Hawkwood a berth on a Quebec-bound schooner leaving at midday. Lawrence had accompanied him to the quay.

  “Seems odd to be saying farewell,” Lawrence said, smiling. “Reminds me of London. We meet, we enjoy a brief period of excitement and then we say our goodbyes.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call what we’ve been through a ‘brief period of excitement’,” Hawkwood said. “But each to his own.”

  “Hah!” Lawrence let go a laugh. “Well, then, let’s say that time spent in your company is never dull.”

  “Dull would be nice,” Hawkwood said, “once in a while.”

  “Then here’s hoping for a very dull voyage home, my dear fellow.” Lawrence held out his hand. “O:nen ki’ wahi’, Captain.”

  Hawkwood smiled. “You, too, Major.”

  The two men had shaken han
ds at the foot of the schooner’s gangplank. Lawrence’s last words as Hawkwood turned to board were, “I know it’s against your better nature, but this time, Captain, do try and stay out of trouble.”

  Sir George turned away from the window. He looked pensive. “Y’know, I can’t decide if we were lucky or if the Americans were just incompetent.”

  Assuming from the lengthy pause that followed that he was expected to supply some pearl of wisdom on the subject, Hawkwood said cautiously, “They were so desperate for a win, I doubt they thought it through.”

  Well, Quade didn’t, at any rate.

  Sir George looked at him. “You make it sound like a game of cricket. Just as well we bowled the buggers out, eh? Explains why the Yankees never took it up!”

  Dear God, Hawkwood thought. Shoot me now.

  The Governor’s face turned serious. “If they had achieved their objective, it would’ve been a close-run thing. We’re spread too thin. I have less than six thousand regular troops at my disposal – and that’s for the whole country. London can’t spare us reinforcements. Europe takes precedent.”

  “What about the militia?”

  “On paper, around seventy thousand in Lower Canada. That might sound more than sufficient, but the Yankees have a hundred thousand – and more waiting in the wings. In truth, I doubt either side has any idea how many will rally to the flag.”

  “So you need all the help you can get?”

  “Indeed we do. I am exceeding grateful that, in this particular case, we had the help of your Mohawk friends – and I have affirmed that gratitude in my dispatches to Lord Bathurst.”

  Hawkwood wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say thank you, Lord Bathurst being the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies and therefore a figure of some importance. But he was still a bloody politician and Hawkwood, as a rule, despised politicians – present company currently excepted. So, instead, he said, “Thank God for de Salaberry, too. If it hadn’t been for his arrival …”

  “Indeed,” said Sir George. “Good thing I listened to him. It was at his insistence that I agreed to set up the Voltigeurs. They’ve certainly proved their worth. A hard taskmaster, I’m told, but needs must when the devil drives, eh?”

  “Frankly, sir, he could have turned up wearing a cap and bells and I wouldn’t have minded. He was there when he was needed. That’s what counted.”

  Sir George laughed. “Cap and bells! Now, there’s a sight I’d pay to see! Y’know, he fought a duel once. Cut his rival in half, it’s said.”

  Hawkwood wasn’t sure how to respond to that, either, though he recalled there had been a slight but interesting indentation on de Salaberry’s forehead which could well have been an old scar from a sabre slash.

  “How are your wounds, by the way?” Sir George enquired.

  “Mending, sir; thank you.”

  Fortunately, the bayonet graze had been just that; inconvenient but not life-threatening. The wound in his upper arm had needed more attention, a process that had involved several sutures along with the liberal use of Surgeon Brossard’s rapidly depleting stock of alcohol and another herb poultice, courtesy of the Kahnawákeró:non medicine man.

  Currently, his entire arm and shoulder ached like the devil – the cold didn’t help – but Hawkwood knew the Governor was only being polite when he’d asked after his health. It was what politicians and commanding officers did by way of conversation when they couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Capital! And your … ah, other companion, Chief … Tewanias?” Sir George frowned. “Declined the services of de Salaberry’s surgeon, I understand; preferred to be treated by his own people. Is that right?”

  Not exactly, Hawkwood thought, but it would have been splitting hairs to contradict.

  “Can’t say as I blame him; some of the army butchers I’ve come across over the years,” Sir George added good-naturedly, moving to the fire and turning his rear to the flames. He fixed Hawkwood with a keen stare. “Will he fight for us?”

  “Sir?”

  “Chief Tewanias. Will he fight for us?”

  Hawkwood considered his reply. “The Lacolle engagement cost him some of his best warriors. His village is not large. It can’t afford to lose that many men. He’d prefer it if he didn’t have to fight at all.”

  “I fear that die was cast the moment he agreed to side with you and Major Lawrence,” Sir George said grimly.

  “He’s aware of that,” Hawkwood said, more curtly than he had intended.

  Sir George appeared not to notice. “He knows there is land for them here in Canada?”

  “He does.”

  Sir George, Hawkwood had discovered, wore three hats. As well as being Governor-General and Commander of the British Forces, he was also Superintendent of Indian Affairs and therefore responsible for overseeing the relations between the British government and the First Nations.

  “The Americans are unlikely to accept his village’s neutrality now that blood’s been spilt,” Sir George said, lifting his coat-tails to be closer to the fire’s warmth.

  “He knows that, too, sir.”

  “He fought for us before, didn’t he?”

  Hawkwood knew the information would have been in de Salaberry’s dispatch. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Then let us hope old loyalties die hard,” Sir George murmured. “History will remind him that the Americans cannot be trusted. They’ll never let him rest. Not now.”

  Once a warrior, Hawkwood thought, always a warrior.

  “And we would be negligent if we did not try to take advantage of that fact,” Sir George said, throwing Hawkwood a meaningful look.

  Anger flared briefly in Hawkwood’s chest but then subsided as it occurred to him that he was hardly in a position to pass judgement. Sir George’s statement and the argument that Lawrence and he had put to the council when they’d asked Tewanias for help were not that far removed from one another.

  “Tewanias is his own man, Sir George. It’s true he’s unlikely to favour the American cause. He’ll either fight for the King or he’ll not fight at all. But his village has taken a mauling in lives lost. He may well choose the non-combatant option. In any case, the final decision will not be his to make. That will be up to the tribal council.”

  “Then let us hope the council comes to the right decision.”

  For them or you? Hawkwood wondered.

  Sir George looked thoughtful. “A future task for our Major Lawrence, perhaps? I’ll have words with Colonel Pearson. He could dispatch the major to make a fresh overture on our behalf.”

  Hawkwood said nothing, thinking: That’s what got us into this bloody mess in the first place.

  Something must have shown on his face, for Sir George, perhaps in the realization that he’d been discussing military strategy with a man who was no longer a serving officer, then fell silent. Colonel de Salaberry, after two evenings of convivial discussion back at Lacolle, had been made privy to Hawkwood’s status and his reason for being in America. It was inconceivable that he would not have revealed something of Hawkwood’s background in his report. Not in great detail, perhaps, but he was sure to have informed his superior of Hawkwood’s former army service, with the emphasis on the word “former”. All this was conjecture, Hawkwood knew, but had he been in St George’s boots, he would have exercised a degree of caution, too.

  “Anyway, it’s something to consider,” Sir George said, lowering his coat-tails. “For I suspect we’ve seen the last of the fighting this year, which’ll give the Yankees time to lick their wounds and reflect on their catalogue of defeats. With luck, they’ll sue for peace. It would be nice to look forward to spring, knowing we won’t have to watch our backs.”

  Sir George looked towards the window. “I doubt we can say the same for Europe, though, eh? Can’t see Bonaparte capitulating any time soon – Frog bastard!” Turning, he smiled. “Forgive me. It’s this damned weather; makes a fellow prone to dyspepsia. Now, is there anything you require? You’
ve managed to secure accommodation for this evening, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In an inn close to the waterfront; the bill settled by army scrip, courtesy of the Adjutant General’s office.

  “Very good. Then I won’t keep you. I suggest you treat yourself to a decent supper as well. It’ll give you something to remember when you’re tapping the weevils out of your biscuits!” Sir George extended his hand.

  “Nothing wrong with weevils, sir,” Hawkwood said as they shook. “They help take your mind off the cheese.”

  Sir George was left chuckling as Hawkwood closed the door behind him.

  Passing quickly through the anteroom, he headed for the door. He had to step aside to make way for the entry of another visitor, a tall, elderly man, slightly stooped with a ruddy-complexioned face topped with a thatch of thinning, silvery-white hair.

  By the time Prevost’s secretary had risen to greet the newcomer, Hawkwood had left the room, unaware of the look he’d attracted as the white-haired man paused and gazed after him, forehead creasing.

  In answer to the knock, Sir George rose from his desk. The door opened and the secretary showed his visitor in.

  Sir George greeted the white-haired man warmly. “Delighted to see you, my dear fellow! Please, do take a seat. May I offer you a brandy?”

  There was the merest pause, as though his visitor’s mind had been preoccupied, but then his invitation was accepted with a nod. “Thank you. Most kind.”

  Sir George moved to the decanter, poured out two measures and returned to the fire. “There we are. To what shall we drink? Confusion to the enemy?”

  His visitor smiled. “Why not? That’s usually been my preference.”

  The two men drank. The white-haired man lowered his glass. “So, how may I be of service?”

  Sir George waited until his visitor had settled into his seat. “I’m in need of your counsel.”

  “As a friend or in a professional capacity?”