James McGee - The Blooding

The third option was looking more inviting by the minute. But then it always had. Quade’s disclosures had merely confirmed what Hawkwood had already decided. If he was to have any chance of reaching safety, he should discount the western paths and take the shortest of the three routes: north, up through New York State. If he made for the closest point on the Canadian border, his journey would still involve the negotiation of a river but, unlike the Niagara and St Lawrence, the Hudson, because of its course, had the potential to be an ally rather than an enemy. Winter was approaching fast, however. If he was going to start his run, he’d need to do it quickly.

Though it wasn’t as if he’d be heading into unknown territory.

The flames in the hearth danced as a new batch of customers entered the tavern, bringing with them a heavy draught of cold air from the street outside. Hawkwood looked towards the door. The new arrivals were in uniform; grey jackets, as opposed to the tan of Quade’s tunic. As they took a table in the corner of the taproom, Quade eyed them balefully over the rim of his now-empty glass.

“Pikemen,” he murmured scornfully. “God save us. It’ll be battleaxes next.”

Hawkwood knew his puzzlement must have shown, for Quade said, “My apologies; a weak jest. They’re Zebulon Pike’s boys. Fifteenth Infantry. He’s had them in training across the river.”

“Across the river” meant the town of Greenbush. Hawkwood had been surprised and not a little thankful to discover that Albany wasn’t awash with military personnel. It had turned out that General Dearborn had set up his headquarters not in the town but in a new, specially constructed compound on the opposite side of the Hudson. This was much to the relief of the locals, who, while mindful of the economic advantages of having an army camped on their doorstep, didn’t want the inconvenience of several thousand troops living in their midst. It was a compromise that suited all parties.

“Battleaxes?” Hawkwood said, confused.

“Pike has this notion to equip his men with pole-arms. He’s introduced a new set of drills: a three-rank formation. First two ranks armed with muskets, the third with pike staffs. He reckons it’ll enable a battalion to deploy more men in a bayonet charge.”

“It does sound medieval,” Hawkwood agreed warily.

Quade grunted. “That was my thinking, though there could be some sense in it, I suppose. Most third ranks are next to useless when it comes to attacking in line. Even with bayonets fixed, their muskets are too short to be effective. A line of twelve-foot pikes would certainly do the trick. Would you face a line of men armed with twelve-foot pikes?”

“Only if I had fifteen-foot pikes,” Hawkwood said. “Or lots of guns.”

“So, maybe I stand corrected,” Quade said. “I’m sure they’ll give a good account of themselves when it’s required.” He eyed the recent arrivals. “They’ll be enjoying their last drink before heading north to join the rest.”

“The rest?” Hawkwood said.

There was a pause.

“They did tell you that Dearborn’s in Plattsburg,” Quade said. “Didn’t they?”

Hawkwood raised his glass and took a swallow to give himself time to think and plan his response.

“I only landed in Boston a few days ago. No one’s told me a damned thing.”

Quade shook his head and made the sort of face that indicated he despaired of all senior staff.

“Typical. Just as well we met then, though you’d have found out eventually. He’s been there since the middle of last month. Winter quarters. Pike’s up there with him. I’ve no doubt my orders will be to join them, which is why I’m in no hurry to return to the bosom. I’ve a day or two of freedom left and I intend to make the most of them.”

He sighed, stared into his glass and then, clearly making a decision, stood it on the table between them.

“Another?” Hawkwood asked.

To Hawkwood’s relief, the major shook his head. “Thank you, that’s most generous, but on this occasion I’ll decline. I’ve a prior appointment and, no disrespect, Captain, but she’s a damned sight prettier than you are!” Quade grinned as he reached for his coat and cane. “A tad more expensive, but definitely prettier.”

“In that case, Major,” Hawkwood said, “don’t let me detain you.” He waited until Quade had gained his feet and then accompanied the major as he tapped his way towards the door.

On the street, the major paused while buttoning his coat. “If you’re free, why don’t you join me?”

“Another time, perhaps,” Hawkwood said.

Quade, not in the least put out, smiled amiably. “As you wish. If you should change your mind, you’ll find us on Church Street – the house with the weathercock on the roof. The door’s at the side. There’s a small brass plate to the right of it: Hoare’s Gaming Club. It—”

Seeing the expression on Hawkwood’s face, the major chuckled and spelt out the name. “Yes, I know, but what would you have it say – the Albany Emporium? Anyway, as I was saying, it caters for the more – how shall I put it? – discerning gentleman, so you’d be in excellent company. A lot of the senior officers from Greenbush take their pleasure there.”

Another reason for giving the place a wide berth , Hawkwood thought. “Well, I’ll certainly bear that in mind, Major, if I find myself at a loose end.”

“Ha! That’s the spirit! All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, eh? Besides, we’re at war. Who’s to say we shouldn’t enjoy what could be our last day on earth before we head to the front?”

“I thought everyone was going to be snowed in for winter,” Hawkwood said. “There won’t be a front until March.”

“Ah, but the ladies don’t know that, do they?”

God save us , Hawkwood thought.

As an ear-splitting shriek shattered the surrounding calm.

Hawkwood pivoted. Heart in mouth, he paused as a broad grin of delight opened up across the major’s face.

“Ha!” Quade exclaimed gleefully. “Had the same effect on me, the first time I heard it. Thought it was the cry of the banshee come to carry me off! They do say it’s caused seizures in at least half a dozen of the city’s older female folk. Not seen her before? Quite a sight, ain’t she?”

The major pointed with his cane.

As his pulse slowed to its normal rate, Hawkwood, embarrassingly aware that other passers-by had not reacted as he had, looked off to where Quade was indicating. They had come to a halt adjacent to the river. Only the width of the street and a patch of open ground separated them from the quayside and the vessels moored alongside it.

The Hudson was Albany’s umbilical. It was from the busy wharves and slipways crowding the mile-long shoreline that goods from the city’s granaries, breweries and timber yards were transported downriver to the markets of New York, one hundred and fifty miles to the south.

Scores of cargo sloops and passenger schooners competed for mooring space with smaller barges and hoys. It could have been a scene lifted from the Thames or the Seine, had it not been for the tree-clad hillsides rising from the water on the opposite shore and the extraordinary-looking vessel that was churning into view beyond the intermediary forest of masts and rigging. The throbbing sounds that enveloped the craft as it manoeuvred towards the jetty were as curious as its appearance and like nothing Hawkwood had heard before.

There was no grace in either its movement or its contours. Compared to the other craft on the river, it occurred to Hawkwood that the clanking behemoth, with its wedged bow and wall-sided hull had all the elegance of an elongated canal boat, while the thin, black, smoke-belching stove-pipe poking up from the boat’s mid-section wouldn’t have looked out of place on the roof of a Cheapside tenement.