For a moment Hawkwood thought he might have misheard.
Fulton? he repeated cautiously, trying to keep his tone even.
Robert Fulton, Quade said. He looked at Hawkwood askance. Good God, man, you must have heard of him! How long did you say youd been away?
Hawkwood said nothing. His mind was too busy spinning.
Fulton?
It had to be the same man. Robert Fulton, American designer of the submersible, Narwhale, in which Hawkwood had fought hand to hand with Fultons associate, William Lee, beneath the dark waters of the Thames, following Lees failed attack on the newly launched frigate, Thetis.
Hawkwood had killed Lee and left his body entombed at the bottom of the river, inside Narwhales shattered hull. It seemed like an age ago, yet memory of a discourse hed had with the Admiralty Board members and the scientist, Colonel William Congreve, prior to the discovery of Lees plan, slid into his mind. Hawkwood heard an echo of Congreves voice telling him that at the same time as Fulton had been petitioning the French government to support his advances in undersea warfare, hed also been experimenting with steam as a means of propulsion.
Hawkwood stared at the vessel, which was now side on to the quay, and watched as mooring lines were cast fore and aft. While Fultons dream of liberty of the seas and the establishment of free trade through the destruction of the worlds navies might lie in tatters at the bottom of the Thames, it appeared that his plans for steam navigation had achieved spectacular success.
Cant say the schooner skippers are best pleased, Quade said. Theyve lost a deal of passenger trade since the steamboats started running.
How many are there? Hawkwood asked.
I believe its five or six at the last count. I do know that two of them operate alternating schedules up and downriver. Others are used as ferries around New York harbour.
Ill be damned, Hawkwood said, nodding as if impressed. Yknow, the times gone so quickly Im blessed if I can remember when they did start.
Back in 07. Quade leaned on his stick and gazed admiringly at the boat as the gangplank was extended. If you recall, Clermont was the first. It made its maiden run that August.
The year after Fulton had left London to return home. The British government had thought that his departure meant they would hear no more of the American and his torpedoes until Lees appearance five years later.
Of course, Hawkwood said. How could I forget?
Not the most amenable fellow, Im told, Quade murmured. Arrogant, and not much liked, by all accounts, though you cant deny hes a clever son of a bitch. Thereve been rumours hes trying to design some kind of military version, but last I heard, hes not in the best of health, so I wouldnt know how thats proceeding.
With the steamship now berthed and its passengers disembarking, Hawkwood was able to take stock of her. She was, he guessed, about one hundred and fifty feet in length, with the top of the smoke-stack rising a good thirty feet above the deck. There were two masts: one set forward and equipped for a square sail, the other at the stern, supporting a fore and aft rig. The sails, Hawkwood presumed, were to provide her with additional impetus if her engine failed. The paddle wheels had to be at least fifteen feet in diameter. There was no bowsprit and no figurehead. Even to an untrained eye, with no attempt having been made to soften her lines, it was plain the vessel had been constructed entirely for purpose. As if to emphasize the steamboats stark functionality, the top of the cylindrical copper boiler, set into a rectangular well in the centre of the deck and from which the smoke-stack jutted, was fully exposed, not unlike the protruding intestines of a dissected corpse.
They say the machine that controls her wheels has the power of thirty horses, Quade offered admiringly. Ive no idea how they work that out. I can only assume they tied them to her bow and held a tug of war. Your guess is as good as mine. The major shook his head in wonder. Yknow, theres also a story that Fulton tried to interest Emperor Bonaparte in an undersea boat, and when that didnt work he changed his allegiance and approached the Limeys for funding. Sounds a bit far-fetched, if you ask me. Not sure I believe it, frankly.
It does sound unlikely, Hawkwood agreed.
Well, hes on our side now, and thats the main thing, Quade said. He reached into his coat and dug out a pocket watch. Flipping the catch, he consulted the dial and tutted. Damn, I should go wouldnt like young Lavinia to start without me. If they do insist on sending me up into the wilds, this could be our last ah consummation for a while. Snapping the watch shut, he looked at Hawkwood and cocked an eyebrow. Youre sure you wont ? He left the suggestion hanging open.
Hawkwood shook his head. Enjoy yourself, Major.
Quade tucked the watch away and grinned. Oh, I intend to, dont you worry. He extended his hand. My thanks for your intervention, Captain. It was good to meet you. Well likely run into each other again, I expect, after weve taken up our duties; either here or at Greenbush. Theyre small towns, when alls said and done. Thats if they dont send us to Plattsburg, of course. Or if youd like to meet for a libation before then, youll likely find me at the Eagle or Berments. Ive taken a room there.
Thats most kind, Major. Thank you.
Excellent, then Ill bid you good day.
And with a final wave of goodbye, Major Quade limped off to his assignation.
Hawkwood watched him go and wondered idly if the majors leg would hold out during his impending exertions.
Coat collar turned up, he gazed out over the water. The sky was the colour of tempered steel. Colder weather was undoubtedly on the way, bringing snow, and it was more than likely the river would eventually freeze over. Could steamboats navigate through ice? Hawkwood wondered. Perhaps, if it wasnt too thick. But, presumably, if the weather really did close in, even theyd be forced to stop running.
Hopefully, hed be long gone by that time.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the page hed torn from The War in the Exchanges reading room. It wasnt the most comprehensive map, and it was probably safe to assume that the hand-drawn features had been copied from a much more detailed engraving, so the scale was undoubtedly out of proportion as well, yet all the relevant information appeared to be in place.
Most of New York State was outlined, from Vermont in the east across to the St Lawrence River and the Niagara Frontier in the west. Major towns were marked, as were the main rivers and the largest lakes. The front lines were represented by cannons and flags. Small crenellated squares and anchors showed forts and naval bases. Crudely drawn arrows indicated advances and retreats. The symbols were at their most prolific around the western borderlands, confirming what Major Quade had told him.
Albany, rather than Greenbush, was shown due to its significance as the state capital. It was surmounted by a drawing of a fort topped by the stars and stripes. The next nearest American military presence deserving of capital letters and distinguishable by another tiny fort, was Plattsburg, where Dearborn had set up his winter camp.
Hawkwood shifted his gaze north, at the river and the landscape that lay beyond. Hed been fresh from a return visit to the State Street coach office and mulling over the choices that had been presented to him by the ticket clerk when hed encountered the major. Now that Quade had confirmed his suspicions over which was the most advantageous route to Canada, there was still the mode of transport to consider. Hawkwood had no intention of walking all the way to the border.
Albany had received its capital status due to it having become the centre of commerce for the north-eastern states. Post roads ran through the city like spokes on a wheel. The most important one referred to by the clerk as the Mohawk Turnpike which led directly eastwards through Schenectady to Utica and on to Sackets Harbor, Hawkwood had already dismissed. It was only when the clerk had listed the intermediate halts along the route, that a cold hand had clamped itself around his heart at the mention of one particular name.
Johnstown.
It was a name from a life time ago and one hed not thought of for many years. Knowing that his reaction must have shown and aware that the clerk was giving him an odd look, Hawkwood had forced his mind to return to the present.
There was an alternative route, the clerk told him. The northern turnpike, which formed part of the New York to Montreal post road. Though, unfortunately, it was also prone to flooding after heavy rain. In fact, the clerk had warned, stretches of it between Albany and Saratoga had already become impassable due to the recent torrents.
What about the river? Hawkwood had enquired, his mind half occupied with trying to shut out the echo from his past.
The clerk had shaken his head. The Hudson was only navigable as far as Troy, six miles upstream. There might be batteaux travelling further north, but Hawkwood would have to investigate that possibility himself by talking to one of the local boat captains.
Hawkwood had been on the point of turning away when the clerk said, Might I suggest the ferry to Troy, sir? You could pick up the eastern post road there. It runs all the way to Kingsbury and from there along the old wagon road to Fort George, where it links on to the turnpike you would have taken. See here
The clerk had referred Hawkwood to the wall behind his counter, upon which was suspended, to use the clerks own description, this most excellent map by Mr Samuel Lewis of Philadelphia. Following the clerks finger, Hawkwood had seen that both roads were clearly defined.
Two choices, then, Hawkwood thought as he folded his own map away. Remain in Albany until the northern post road was passable, which could turn out to be a very long wait; or try the ferry route. If he chose the latter, at least hed be on the move and heading in the right direction.
Johnstown.
The name continued to hover at the corner of his mind, like an uninvited guest hidden behind a half-opened door. Hawkwood pushed the memories away, back into the shadows, forcing himself to concentrate on the more pressing task in hand.
The jetty for the local ferries lay at the end of the steamboat quay. It struck Hawkwood as he set off that the clerk had failed to mention the steamboat when giving him his directions. Hawkwood assumed that was because Albany and not Troy was the vessels terminus. Either that or the clerk had a questionable sense of humour and had wanted Hawkwood to get the shock of this life if and when the damned thing turned up and he was in the vicinity.
In which case, the plot had worked.
It was a pity Nathaniel Jago wasnt here, Hawkwood reflected. His former sergeant and staunch ally, whod protected his back from Corunna to the slums of Londons Ratcliffe Highway, would certainly have had something to say on the matter, even if it was only to remark that they were both a bloody long way from home.
And even as that thought crossed his mind, there rose within him the reality that the statement would only have been half. For Hawkwood was probably closer to home now than he had been at any time in the last thirty years.
Johnstown.
The slow clip-clop of iron-shod hooves and the creak of an ungreased axle came from behind. Hawkwood stepped aside to allow the vehicle room.
It was as he glanced up that he became aware of the expressions on the faces of the people around him. Some appeared curious; others strangely subdued, while a few displayed a more unfathomable expression which could have been interpreted as sympathy. Intrigued, Hawkwood followed their gaze.
It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.
Of the dozen or so uniformed men seated or slumped in the back of the mud-splattered wagon, more than half wore their tunics in full view while the rest wore theirs beneath shabby greatcoats. All were bare-headed save for a couple sporting black shakos. The ones whose heads were not bowed gazed about listlessly, their pale, unshaven faces reflecting the resignation in their eyes.
It was not the sight of their drawn features that caused Hawkwoods throat to constrict, however. It was the colour of their jackets. Stained with dirt and sweat they may have been, but there was no hiding their scarlet hue.
The men in the wagon were British redcoats.
As if the uniforms werent sufficient evidence, the mounted officer and the six-man escort marching to the rear of the vehicle and the manacles the red-coated men were wearing left little doubt as to their identity and status.
As prisoners.
A voice called out from the onlookers.
Whove you got there, Lieutenant?
The mounted officer ignored the enquiry and kept his eyes rigidly to the front. The last man in the escort line was not so reticent.
You blind? he muttered sarcastically from the corner of his mouth. Who dyou think they are?
Emboldened, the questioner tried again. So, wherere you taking em then? Home for supper?
Someone laughed.
The wagon halted. The lieutenant rode his horse past the head of the vehicle. As he dismounted and entered the ferry office, the less reclusive trooper, cocky at having been nominated the fount of all knowledge, jerked a thumb at the landing stage. Ferrying em to Greenbush. Theyll be quartered in the guard house before we move em on to Pittsfield.
Whereve they come from? a man standing near to Hawkwood asked.
The soldier sniffed and shrugged. Dont rightly know. I heard they were taken near Ogdensburg. Weve only been with em since Deerfield. Wedve had to march the bastards if the lieutenant hadnt commandeered the wheels.
Dont look much, do they? someone muttered in an aside.
You wouldnt either, Hawkwood thought, if youd had to march most of the way from Ogdensburg and then been shackled to the back of a bloody prison cart.
Hawkwood had no idea which British regiments were serving on the American continent and he wasnt close enough to the wagon to get a good view of the insignia, though the green facings on a couple of the tunics suggested their wearers might have been from the 49th, the Hertfordshires, while the red facings could have represented the 41st Regiment of Foot.
The lieutenant returned. All right, Corporal! Move them down to the landing. You can board the ferry when ready.
As the driver released the brake and flicked the reins to nudge the horses forward, the escort shouldered their muskets.
Here we go, the talkative one murmured.