Caution flickered in the sergeants eyes. Yes, sir. Turning to his desk and the ledger that lay open upon it, he rotated the book so that Hawkwood could view the cramped script. Names entered as soon as they arrived, Captain. Eleven, all told; one officer; ten other ranks.
Very good.
Hawkwood ran his eyes down the list. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the name he was looking for. Keeping his expression neutral, he scanned past the name to the prisoners rank and regiment and place of capture: major, 40th Regiment, Oswegatchie.
Is there a problem, sir? The sergeant frowned.
Hawkwood recognized the defensive note in Dunbars query. Like guardhouses, duty sergeants were the same the world over: convinced that nothing ran smoothly without their say so and that even the smallest hint of criticism was a direct insult to their rank and responsibility. The other truth about sergeants was that every single one of them worth his salt had the knack of injecting precisely the right amount of scepticism into his voice to imply that any officer unwise enough to suggest there might be the cause for concern was talking out of his arse.
Not at all, Sergeant. Everythings as Id expected. Nice to see someones keeping a tight rein on things around here.
Hawkwood allowed the sergeant a moment to preen, then assumed a pensive look. He let his attention drift towards the two privates.
The sergeant waited expectantly.
Hawkwood returned his gaze to the ledger and pursed his lips. Weve received intelligence suggesting there may be an attempt to free the prisoners.
The sergeants eyebrows took instant flight. From what quarter, sir?
Hawkwood didnt look up but continued to stare ruminatively at the ledger while running his finger along the list of names.
Thats the problem: were not sure. My guess is its some damned Federalist faction thats refused to lie down. Or the Vermonters. This close to the border, its certain theyve been keeping their eyes open and passing on information to their friends in Quebec.
Hawkwood was relying on information hed siphoned from Major Quade; support for the war was far from universal among those who depended for their livelihood on maritime trade and cross-border commerce with the Canadian provinces.
The sergeant stared at Hawkwood, not quite aghast at the thought but close to it. You think therell be an attack on the camp, sir?
Dunbar had not spoken loudly. Nevertheless the disbelief in his voice must have carried for Hawkwood sensed the two sentries pricking up their ears.
Not if I can help it, Sergeant. Frankly, I doubt the bastards could raise enough of a mob for that to happen. No, if there is to be an attempt, they will employ subterfuge thats what we must guard against.
Subterfuge, sir?
Deception, Sergeant Dunbar. Deception.
Well, theyll have to be damned quick, sir. Were only holding them for one night. Theyre off to Pittsfield in the morning.
True, Sergeant, but that doesnt mean we shouldnt be vigilant. Thats the thing about deception: you never know where and when its going to be used. Thats why Im here.
The sergeants eye moved towards the heavy wooden door at the back of the room. Then he turned to Hawkwood and frowned. Sir?
That way to the cells, then, Hawkwood thought.
Im to inspect the facilities, to reassure the colonel that weve done everything possible. No criticism implied, Sergeant, but you know how it is: the colonel climbs on my back and I climb on yours. Its the army way.
Hawkwood had no idea who the colonel-in-charge was, but there was bound to be one somewhere and Sergeant Dunbar, he hoped, would come to his own conclusion on which one it might be.
The sergeant gave Hawkwood a look which spoke volumes. Indeed, sir.
Lets get it over with then, shall we? Might as well start with the officer. Lead the way.
Sir.
The sergeant reached for a set of keys hanging from a hook on the wall behind him, then turned to the two privates. All right, McLeary, make yourself useful. Fall in with the Captain and me while we check the prisoner. Jennings, you stay here and try to look alert. This way, sir.
Sergeant Dunbar had no sooner stepped forward to lead Hawkwood across the room when a distant bell began to clang.
The sergeant paused in mid stride. His head came up. He looked at Hawkwood. Thats an alarm, sir.
Hawkwood turned. Youre right. Find out whats happening, Jennings.
Sir?
At the double, man!
The private broke into a run. Hawkwood turned back. Its probably nothing. Carry on.
The sergeant hesitated, then thought better of questioning an officer and unlocked the door.
There werent as many cells as Hawkwood had been expecting. Just six of them, arranged along a stone-walled corridor lit by a solitary lantern.
Dunbar lifted the lantern off its hook. Hes in the one at the end. Got the place to himself at the moment, as you can see.
Though conscious of Private McLeary hovering at his shoulder, Hawkwood betrayed no concern. Has he given you any trouble?
The sergeant shook his head. Been as good as gold. Cant tell you about the rest. Youll have to check with the provost. Adding as an afterthought: sir.
It was cold in the corridor, with no stove provided for the prisoners comfort. As the three men made their way past the empty cells their footsteps echoed off the walls. Halting beside the last door, Dunbar held up the lantern. Here we are.
Hawkwood peered through the bars. The cells stark, almost bare interior, just discernible in the gloom, made the main guardroom look positively opulent. A pallet bed and a slop bucket were the only furnishings. An empty set of shackles hung from one wall.
As you can see, sir, all secure. Only a foold try to break in. Plus theyd have me to deal with, the sergeant added darkly.
Good God, keep the damned noise down, cant you? Its been a bugger of a day and a fellow needs his sleep!
The request came out of the dark recesses of the cell. Hawkwood could just make out an indistinct shape stretched out upon the bed. As he watched, the shape stirred and materialized into the figure of a man who, after casting aside the single blanket, sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
My apologies, Major, Hawkwood said drily. Didnt mean to disturb you.
A bit late for that. The damage is done. Is this a social visit, by the way? If so, its a damned strange hour to come calling.
The figure stood and approached the bars. As he did so, his features became visible.
The face wasnt as florid as Hawkwood remembered, though that could have been due to the candlelight. Hed lost some weight, too; a change that hadnt been immediately apparent during the few seconds that their eyes had locked at the ferry terminus. The red hair was now toned down by a sprinkling of grey; the subtle changes, lending him a more distinguished and grittier cast than there had been before. But while circumstance could alter an individuals looks there was no doubt in Hawkwoods mind as to the identity of the man that stood before him.
Major Douglas Lawrence, 1st Battalion of His Majestys 40th Regiment of Foot. The same officer who, on a misty morning in Hyde Park, close to the Serpentine, had stood by Hawkwoods side and acted as his second in a duel against an arrogant son of the nobility, one John Rutherford Esquire.
Major Douglas Lawrence, 1st Battalion of His Majestys 40th Regiment of Foot. The same officer who, on a misty morning in Hyde Park, close to the Serpentine, had stood by Hawkwoods side and acted as his second in a duel against an arrogant son of the nobility, one John Rutherford Esquire.
My apologies again, Major, Hawkwood said. I dare say the accommodation isnt up to the standard youre used to, either. Im afraid Greenbush cant compete with Knightsbridge.
Which was close to where the pair of them had last parted company. Hawkwood prayed that neither Sergeant Dunbar nor Private McLeary would attach any significance to the exchange and that the prisoner would.
It was time to find out. Stepping forward, he removed his hat, allowing his face to catch the light.
Shock showed instantly in the prisoners eyes but only for a second. It was enough. Hawkwood flicked a glance towards McLeary and the musket he was holding.
He was to wonder later if it was the light of recognition that had shown so briefly on Lawrences face that caused Sergeant Dunbars sixth sense to suddenly snap to attention.
Seen enough, Cap was as far as the sergeant got before the words died in his throat and he took a quick step backwards, realizing, that the deception referred to by this anonymous officer was no longer a possibility but a terrible reality.
As yet another alarm began to clang; this time a lot louder and much closer to home than the first.
Hawkwood identified the sound immediately. Someone was running the metal striker around the inside of the alarm triangle hanging from the underside of the guardhouse porch.
Spinning his hat towards the sergeants face, Hawkwood went for the man with the gun first, sweeping the musket barrel aside before driving the heel of his other hand up under the base of the sentrys nose. This time, there was no attempt to pull the punch and he felt the cartilage rupture.
As the trooper went down Hawkwood pulled the musket free, pivoting quickly as the lantern dropped to the floor with a clatter, followed by a muffled grunt.
The sound was all Sergeant Dunbar could manage, given that Lawrences arm was wrapped tightly around the sergeants throat. Having dropped the lantern, the sergeant was trying to break free. His feet were scrabbling for purchase as he clawed at the arm, but without success. Ignoring the beseeching look on the mans face, Hawkwood reversed the musket and drove the butt hard into the sergeants belly.
As the sergeant collapsed to the floor, Hawkwood reached for his key ring.
He was stooping over the prone body when Private Jennings ran in from the guardroom.
Fire, Sergeant! The stables
The sentry skidded to a halt. His jaw went slack as he took in the scene. Had his musket been slung over his shoulder and not held in the port arms position, Hawkwood might have given the man the benefit of the doubt, but there was no time. As Jennings brought his weapon up, Hawkwood reversed the musket he was holding and fired.
The ball slammed into Jennings shoulder, punching him against the wall. As the musket fell from his grip, Hawkwood scooped up the keys, threw the discharged musket aside and sprang to the cell door.
There was a sudden silence from outside. The sentry who had been sounding the alarm was no doubt on his way to investigate the sound of the shot.
It took two attempts to find the right key before the bars swung open.
Quick march, Major! Hawkwood urged.
Lawrence needed no further encouragement. The two men sprinted for the door, reaching the guardroom at the same time as the incoming sentry. Astonishment flooded the troopers face as it had his colleagues. Recovering more swiftly than his fellow troopers, however, he swung his musket round.
Far too soon.
There was a sharp crack and a flash as Lawrence swept up and fired Trooper Jennings still primed weapon. The sentry screamed as his jaw blew apart and he went down. With the wounded mans shrieks rising in volume, Hawkwood led the way outside.
The cantonment was now wide awake. Hawkwood looked past the row of soldiers barracks towards the southern perimeter. Beyond the trees, flames from the burning stables were now licking into the night sky. Men were rushing towards the blaze, many in a state of semi-undress, too distracted to have heard the shots from inside the guardhouse. Hawkwood thought he could hear the sound of hooves over the increasing shouts of panic.
I take it thats your doing? Lawrence said, in awe.
What were you expecting? A guard of honour? Hawkwood headed towards the trees. This way, Ive horses waiting.
Lawrence grabbed his arm. What about the others?
Hawkwood knew Lawrence was referring to the captured redcoats. Sorry, Major. I cant help them. Not this time.
Not ever, he thought.
Indecision showed on Lawrences face. He stared about him wildly as if some clue to their whereabouts might manifest itself.
I dont know where theyre being held, Hawkwood said. Its a big camp, the alarms sounded and we dont have time to search the place. Im sorry.
Lawrence looked him in the eye, then nodded. Youre right. Forgive me.
Up there! Come on! Hawkwood, pointed towards the pine trees.
As the guardhouse alarm started up again, followed by a ferocious yell:
Prisoners escaping! STOP THEM!
Sergeant Dunbar doubled over and apparently still suffering the effects of the blow to his stomach had made it out on to the porch and was running the striker around the inside of the metal triangle. Pointing and gesticulating frantically, he yelled again. STOP THOSE MEN!
Hawkwood glanced to one side and saw that the sergeant was gesturing in his direction. Two men had responded to his call for help; one of them carrying a pistol, the other carrying what looked like
Hawkwood stared.
A pike?
Shouldve locked the bugger in the cells! Lawrence swore. Where are those damned horses? No wait, I see them!
Stop them, God damn it! Sergeant Dunbar had abandoned the alarm and was stumbling after them.
Hes a game sod, though, Lawrence muttered. Ill give him that!
You men! Halt! The order came from the pikeman who, along with his companion, was running hard now.
The man with the pistol paused and took aim. A crack sounded, accompanied by a bright powder flash. Hawkwood ducked and felt the wind from the ball as it tugged at his collar. There were only the two pursuers, as far as he could see. Three, including the sergeant. Everyone else was mesmerized by the fire.
Lawrence had reached the horses. Untying them, he hooked the musket strap over his shoulder, grabbed the reins of the nearest one and vaulted into the saddle. Hurry! he called.
The pikeman had made up ground and drawn ahead of the second trooper. As his attacker ran in, it struck Hawkwood that the pike looked ridiculously long and unwieldy and not the ideal weapon to grab in the heat of the moment. Presumably this was one of Colonel Pikes men, and hed been trained to reach for his pike the same way a rifleman was drilled: when reveille or the alarm sounded, it wasnt your breeches or your boots or even your cock you reached for. It was your BLOODY RIFLE, you idle bugger!
That would certainly explain why this particular trooper had on his breeches and his boots and an under-vest, but no shirt or tunic. Not that his attire was of any interest to Hawkwood, who had his hands full trying to avoid being spitted like a hog on boar hunt.