Hes gone? Drew asked.
Aye.
Son? Drew indicated the boy.
Nephew, Wyatt said heavily. Far as I can tell.
Poor wee devil, Drew said. Then he caught sight of the axe. Jesus, he muttered softly.
Whatll we do with them? Donaldson enquired, indicating Deacon and the other dead Committee members.
Not a damned thing, Wyatt snapped. They can lay there and rot as far as Im concerned.
Seems fair. Donaldson agreed, before adding quietly, And the other two?
Them we do take care of. They deserve a decent burial, if nothing else. See if you can find a shovel. Its a farm. Therell be one around somewhere.
And then? Beddowes said.
And then we report back.
The boy?
He comes with us, Wyatt said. We might as well take advantage of the horses, too. He turned. Can you ride, lad?
The boy looked up. Yes, sir. That ones mine. Hes called Jonah. He indicated the horse that Billy Drew had left in the paddock. It was the smaller one of the two.
There was tack in the barn, Beddowes offered.
Wyatt turned. Very well, saddle him up and take this one back. Make sure hes got plenty of feed and water. Well see to the rest. Wyatt addressed the boy. You go with Jem; show him where you keep Jonahs blanket and bridle.
Hesitantly, the boy rose to his feet. Wyatt waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to the others.
All right, wed best get it over with.
They buried Archer and his wife in the shade of a tall oak tree that grew behind the cabin, marking the graves with a pair of wooden crosses made from pieces of discarded fence post. Neither one bore an inscription. There wasnt time, Wyatt told them.
Donaldson, whose father had been a minister, was familiar with the scriptures and carried a small bible in his shoulder pouch. He chose the twenty-third psalm, reading it aloud as his fellow Rangers bowed their heads, caps in hand, while the Indian held the horses and looked on stoically.
The scalp had disappeared from the Mohawks breechclout. When hed spotted it, Wyatt had reminded Tewanias of the colonels orders: no enemy corpses were to be mutilated. It was with some reluctance that Tewanias returned to the river and laid the scalp across the body of its original owner.
Let it act as a warning to those who would think to pursue us, Wyatt told him. Knowing we are joined with our Mohawk brothers will make our enemies fearful. They will hide in their homes and lock their doors and tremble in the darkness.
Wyatt wasnt sure that Tewanias was entirely convinced by that argument, but the Mohawk nodded sagely as if he agreed with the words. In any case, both of them knew there were likely to be other battles and therefore other scalps for the taking, so, for the time being at least, honour was satisfied.
The boy stood gazing down at the graves with Wyatts hand resting on his shoulder. The dog, Tam, lay at his side, having been released from the cabin when, under Wyatts direction, the boy had returned to the house to gather up his possessions for the journey.
Donaldson ended the reading and closed the bible. The Rangers raised their heads and put on their caps.
Time to go, Wyatt said. Saddle up. He addressed the boy. You have everything? You wont be coming back. The words carried a hard finality.
Tear tracks showing on his cheeks, the boy pointed at the canvas bag slung over his saddle.
Wyatt surveyed the yard littered with the bodies of Deacon and his men and the blood-drenched soil now carpeted with bloated flies. It was a world away from the serene, sun-dappled vision that had greeted the Rangers arrival earlier that morning.
He glanced towards the three cows in the paddock and the chickens pecking around the henhouse; the livestock would have to fend for themselves. There was enough food and water to sustain them until someone came to see why Archer and his wife hadnt been to town for a while. There would be others along, too, wondering why the members of the Citizens Committee hadnt returned to the fold.
Let them come, Wyatt thought. Let them see.
The Mohawk warrior handed the boy the reins of his horse and watched critically as he climbed up. Satisfied that the boy knew what he was doing, he wheeled his mount and took up position at the head of the line. With Tewanias riding point, the five men and the boy rode into the stream, towards the track leading into the forest. The dog padded silently behind them.
Halfway across the creek, the Indian turned to the boy and spoke. Naho:ten iesa:iats?
The boy looked to Wyatt for guidance.
He asked you your name, Wyatt said.
It occurred to Wyatt that in the time theyd spent in the boys company, neither he nor any of his men had bothered to ask that question. Theyd simply addressed him as lad or son or, in Donaldsons case, young un. Though they all knew the name of the damned dog.
The boy stared at Tewanias and then at each of the Rangers in turn. It was then that Wyatt saw the true colour appear in the boys eyes. Blue-grey, the shade of rain clouds after a storm.
The boy drew himself up.
My name is Matthew, he said.
1
Albany, New York State, December 1812
BEWARE FOREIGN SPIES & AGITATORS!
The words were printed across the top of the poster, the warning writ large for all to see.
Hawkwood ran his eye down the rest of the deposition. Not much had been left to the imagination. The nation was at war, the country was under threat and the people were urged to remain vigilant at all times.
He glanced over his shoulder. There were no crowds brandishing pitchforks or torches so he assumed he was safe for the time being. He recalled there had been similar pamphlets on display around the quayside in Boston, presumably the preferred port of entry for an enemy bent on subverting the republic. He wondered how many people read the bills and took note of their content; probably not as many as the government wished.
Fortunately for him.
The bill was stuck on the inside of a hatters shop window. Under pretence of casting an eye over the merchandise on display, he studied his reflection in the glass, wondering what a subversive might look like and if he fitted the bill. From what hed seen of the country and its citizens so far, he thought it unlikely that hed be stopped and asked for his papers, though in the event he was, the problem would not have been insurmountable.
He was about to walk on when movement in the window caught his attention: another reflection, this time of the scene behind him. A man, dressed in an army greatcoat similar to his own was making his way along the opposite side of the street. He was walking with a cane and Hawkwood could see that he was favouring his right leg.
There had been a rainstorm during the night, which had transformed Albanys thoroughfares into something of a quagmire. The fact that the capital was built on an incline didnt help matters and even though the rain had stopped, trying to negotiate the sloping streets on foot was, in some areas, as precarious as wading through a Connemara bog. Quite a few folk were having difficulty maintaining their balance. Though not the two characters walking on firmer feet some fifteen paces or so behind the man with the cane.
Over the years, his duties as a Bow Street officer had brought Hawkwood into contact with criminals of every persuasion and his ability to spot miscreants had been honed to a fine edge. From the way the two men were concentrating on the figure in front, Hawkwood was left in no doubt they were intent on mischief.
A small voice inside his head began to whisper.
Not here, not now. Let them go. Its not your city. Its not your problem.
Hawkwood looked around him. There was plenty of traffic about, both vehicular and pedestrian and the street was far from deserted, but everyone else was too intent upon their own business to have noticed anything amiss, including the man in the greatcoat who appeared oblivious to the pair on his tail, despite two sets of eyes burning into his back.
Hawkwood watched as the mens target turned into a narrow side lane. Immediately, the pair quickened their pace. As they disappeared into the lane after him, Hawkwood sighed.
Damn it, he thought, as he crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being run down by an oncoming carriage. Why me?
Twenty paces into the alley, the man in the greatcoat was down on one knee, with his back to the wall. The cane was in his right hand and he was trying to rise while wielding the stick like a sword to ward off his attackers.
It was a pound to a penny the mans disability was the reason hed been singled out. A cripple would be considered easy pickings for a couple of rogues. Hawkwood could see that one of the attackers held a knife, while his companion was brandishing a short cudgel.
There wasnt as much mud here as there had been on the street so the traction was better and Hawkwoods boots gave him the grip he needed. He felt disinclined to give the pair fair warning.
Only when they saw their victims eyes flicker to one side did they turn. Their eyes were still widening as Hawkwood slammed the heel of his right boot against the cudgel mans left knee cap. The man yelped and went down, the cudgel slipping from his grasp as he clutched his injured limb. His companion immediately dropped into a crouch, the knife held in front of him. He scythed the blade towards Hawkwoods throat.
Throwing up his right hand, Hawkwood caught the knife mans wrist and twisted it to lock the arm before slamming the heel of his left hand against the braced elbow. The man yelled as the bone broke and the knife joined the cudgel on the ground. Hawkwood released the arm and stepped back.
Your choice, gentlemen, he said calmly, already knowing the answer. Whatll it be?
The two men turned tail. At least theyve one good arm and one good leg between them, Hawkwood thought as he watched them hobble away. He kicked the discarded weapons into the shadows and reached down to the kneeling man who stared back at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Gripping Hawkwoods hand and using his cane as support he rose to his feet and brushed himself down, allowing Hawkwood a glimpse of a uniform jacket beneath the coat.
Well I dont know who you are, friend, but Im damned glad you were in the neighbourhood. The names Quade. Major Harlan Quade, Thirteenth Regiment of Infantry.
The major held on to Hawkwoods hand.
Hooper, Hawkwood said. Captain Matthew Hooper.
Ill be damned. Well, in that case, Captain Hooper, I hope youll allow a major to buy a captain a drink.
Hawkwood ran a quick eye over what he could see of the majors tunic and smiled. Happy to accept, sir. Its the best offer Ive had all day.
Major Quade was currently on medical furlough from wounds sustained on the Niagara Frontier. Watching him stare into the depths of his whiskey glass, Hawkwood wondered if the majors invitation might not have been born out of a desire for companionship rather than as a gesture to thank him for coming to the mans rescue.
Not that it wasnt gratifying to be appreciated every now and again, but Hawkwood suspected it was the rye that was doing most of the talking and hed already asked himself: if the major had been in civilian dress and had he not identified himself as a ranking officer, would he still have accepted the offer of a drink?
Probably not, but the greatcoat and a glimpse of the uniform beneath it had made Hawkwoods decision for him. A military man would likely have information about the disposition of local troops, and given Hawkwoods current status as a foreign combatant on enemy soil it could prove useful to know which areas were best avoided.
They were seated at a table in the Eagle Tavern, less than a stones toss from the Hudson River. It was a comfortable enough establishment, with a generous selection of liquors, a moderately civil staff and, more importantly, a welcoming fire in the hearth.
The major had ordered whiskey and stuck to that throughout. Hawkwood had chosen brandy. The breeze that was coming off the water and eddying up the citys streets was a bracing reminder that it was already winter. A stack of blazing logs and a warming drink were as good a way as any of keeping the chill at bay.
The taproom was enveloped in warmth. With the combined smells of ale, tobacco and victuals and the subdued murmur of conversation permeating the tavern Hawkwood could easily have shut his eyes and imagined, if only for a few brief seconds, that he was back in London, enjoying a wet at the Blackbird Inn.
Only he wasnt. He was in Albany, New York, half a world away from Bow Street, trying to find some means of getting home.
Still, he thought, at least there was one advantage to being here.
He didnt have to speak French.
The voyage from Nantes to Boston had taken thirty-two days, one more than Larkspurs skipper, Jack Larsson, had forecast and thirty-two days too many, as far as Hawkwood was concerned.
Getting out of Paris in the wake of his last assignment had been achieved without too much difficulty but there had always been a weakness in the plans second stage, which had been reliant on Larkspur being intercepted and boarded by a British vessel on blockade duty, whereupon Hawkwood would have revealed his identity and secured safe passage back to England.
Regrettably, no one had allowed for the formidable seamanship of Larkspurs wily skipper. During the five years the blockade had been in place which required all neutral ships to submit to a cargo inspection at a British port or be seized as an enemy vessel Jack Larsson had accrued valuable experience in the art of outwitting the Royal Navys squadrons. Now that Britain was actually at war with America, he had become even more adept at avoiding detection.
Thus Larkspur had slipped past the British patrols with ease, presenting Hawkwood with the uncomfortable realization that he was America bound.
The one advantage of the month-long voyage was that it had given him time to gather as much information as he could on the fluctuating state of BritishAmerican hostilities.
In Paris, up-to-date intelligence had been impossible to glean. Even though European newspapers carried accounts of skirmishes between the two sides, by the time news from the other side of the Atlantic reached the French newspapers or English ones smuggled in from London, it had to be at least six weeks out of date, if not more; which had left Hawkwood with no option but to tap Captain Larsson and his crew without arousing their suspicions.