what he’d seen during his afternoon sortie, the buildings were in good condition. Quade had told him that work on the site had only commenced in March, with the last of the barracks erected in September. Hawkwood doubted the paintwork would look so pristine after the winter snows and the spring thaw had wreaked their havoc.
Courtesy of Major Quade, he also knew that the cantonment could accommodate four to five thousand troops, close to three-quarters of the total complement of the American regular army. As a divisional headquarters, it boasted impressive facilities: living quarters for soldiers and officers of field rank and below: stables; a smithy; a powder magazine, armoury and arsenal; a multitude of storage areas and essential workshops; a guardhouse; and a hospital. The dominant feature, however, was the parade ground. It straddled the centre of the camp and was bordered by soldiers’ barracks – four blocks on either side – and by officers’ quarters at either end. The accommodation wings had been easy to identify by the manner in which the soldiers entered and exited the buildings. Not that there appeared to be that many personnel about, which confirmed Quade’s account of General Dearborn having transferred the bulk of his command to Plattsburg. That might also explain why precautions appeared to be so lax.
As part of his reconnaissance, Hawkwood had scanned the approach roads for sentry posts, but like the perimeter safeguards they’d been conspicuous by their absence. Even now, there appeared to be no piquets on duty at the access points. Could the Americans really be that complacent? Were they so confident in their might and their independence that they assumed no one would dare breach their unguarded perimeter? Well, he was about to prove them wrong.
Opening his greatcoat buttons so as to reveal a glimpse of the tunic beneath, he drew himself up, adjusted his hat, and strode confidently into the lions’ den.
It had been a few years since Hawkwood had last set foot in an army compound, but even if he’d been delivered into the cantonment blindfolded and in pitch-dark, he would have found his bearings almost immediately. Military camps the world over had an odour and an atmosphere all of their own. And so it was with Greenbush.
Hawkwood’s objective was the cantonment’s southern corner. He’d already marked the site of the stables but they would have been easy to find by sense of smell alone. The combination of horse piss, shit, leather and straw was unmistakable. The three blocks of stalls formed a U-shape around a yard, with a farrier’s hut positioned in the centre. Illuminated by lanterns hanging alongside the stable doors, the place looked to be deserted. It couldn’t be that easy, surely?
It wasn’t.
Someone laughed, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the evening. Hawkwood paused, looking for the source, and saw a faint beam of light leaking from a door at the end of the left-hand stable block. As he moved towards it, his ears caught the low murmur of voices and another dry, throaty chuckle. The exchange was followed by a rattling sound, as though several small pebbles were being rolled around the inside of a hollow log.
He paused, aware there were two choices now open to him. The first was to continue by stealth alone in the hope that he could achieve his objective without being discovered, which was unrealistic. The second carried an equal amount of risk, but was more overt and would involve a lot more nerve. If he could pull it off, though, he’d undoubtedly save time.
He decided to go with the second option.
Placing his knapsack against the wall, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Three men, coarse-faced and lank-haired, dressed in unbuttoned tunics, were seated at a rough table surrounded by walls festooned with tack. A small pile of coins and a tin mug sat by each man’s elbow. In the centre of the table a half-empty bottle of rye whiskey stood next to a lantern and a wooden platter containing a hunk of bread, some sliced ham and a wedge of pale yellow cheese with a small knife stuck in the centre of it.
One of the men was holding a wooden cup. He gave it a shake as Hawkwood walked in; the resulting rattle was the sound that had been audible from the yard. Not pebbles in a log but wooden dice. The dice man’s hand stilled and three sets of eyes registered their shock and surprise. Clearly, evening inspection by a ranking officer was not a regular occurrence.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
Hawkwood fixed his attention on the man holding the dice. He waited two seconds, then demanded brusquely: “Your name – remind me.”
The dice man scrambled upright. “Corporal J-Jeffard, sir.” His gaze flickered nervously to the collar and top half of the tunic, made visible by Hawkwood’s unbuttoned greatcoat.
“Ah, yes,” Hawkwood said, injecting sufficient disdain into his voice to inform everyone in the room who was in charge. “Of course. Labouring hard, I see.”
The corporal reddened. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Hawkwood swung towards the other two, both of whom had also risen to their feet. One of them was trying to fasten his collar at the same time. Recognizing a losing battle, he gave up. Whereupon, reasoning that it might be better if he assumed at least some sort of military pose, he dropped his hands to his sides. His companion followed suit. The movement tipped his chair on to its back. All three men flinched at the clatter.
Hawkwood could smell the alcohol on their breath. “And you are …?” he enquired.
“Private Van Bosen, sir.”
“Private Rivers, Captain.”
Hawkwood viewed the bottle and the mugs. “Care to explain, Corporal?”
Jeffard flicked a nervous glance towards his companions.
“Don’t look at them!” Hawkwood snapped. “Look at me!”
The trooper swallowed and found his voice. “Taking a break between duties, Captain. We were about to return to our posts when you arrived.”
“Of course you were,” Hawkwood said witheringly. “Nice try. Shame you’ve been rumbled. If I were you, I’d practise those excuses. You can put down the dice; I’ve a job for you.”
He paused, watching as a chastened Jeffard did as he was told, allowing the silence to stretch to breaking point before adding, “I’m here because I have urgent dispatches for both General Dearborn and Colonel Pike. I need two good mounts, saddled, fully equipped and ready to depart in ten minutes. Manage it quicker than that and you can finish your game.” He turned to the others. “Anyone else on duty here, or is this it?”
A flustered nod from Van Bosen. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Just us, sir.”
Hawkwood vented a silent sigh of relief as he waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, well, whichever it is, I don’t care, frankly. Only, with the three of you, it won’t take long, will it? Ten minutes, gentlemen. I’ll expect those damned animals to be ready or I’ll want to know why. Don’t make me put the three of you on a charge. That happens and you’ll be shovelling shit till doomsday.”
Giving them no chance to respond, Hawkwood turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
As soon as he was outside and out of sight, he moved swiftly towards the shadows cast by the farrier’s hut. Tucking himself against the wall, he waited. A few seconds later, he watched as the three troopers left the tack room and hurried towards the adjacent stable block. The moment they disappeared inside, Hawkwood, his movement concealed by the intervening hut, crossed to the stable block on the opposite side of the yard. Grabbing a lantern from the wall, he hauled back the door. He was immediately assailed by the pungent aroma of hay, horse sweat and fresh droppings.
The stalls were set out along both sides of a central aisle. Beyond the reach of the lantern glow, dark forms stirred restlessly in the shadows. Straw rustled. A soft whickering sound eddied around the walls as the stable’s occupants caught his scent. He moved down the aisle, treading carefully. He had no desire to panic the animals. At least not yet.
As he looked for an empty stall, he prayed that Jeffard and his cronies were as inefficient as they had appeared to be. With luck, the brew they’d been drinking would slow them down long enough to allow