04 - The Blooding by James McGee

Author:James McGee [McGee, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

10

“Special couriers, you say?”

“Bearing dispatches for General Dearborn. Yes, sir.”

Hawkwood tipped the rest of the brandy into his coffee and gripped the mug tightly, grateful for the warmth spreading slowly through his palms and fingertips. He took a swig and wondered how long it would be before he stopped shivering and was able to feel his toes again. A while, probably, though he knew that the tremor in his hands and the throbbing in his head came not only from his submersion in the lake’s cold waters and the effects of the brandy but also from the engine vibrations pulsing through the deck beneath his feet, and the turning of the paddlewheels on the other side of the bulkheads.

They were seated in the steamboat’s stern cabin, dressed in borrowed jackets and trousers, courtesy of the crew’s slop chest. Their own clothes had been taken away to be dried off in the fire room, wherever and whatever the hell that was. The steamboat’s captain had assured them that they would be returned in a wearable condition probably within the hour or shortly thereafter, which seemed to Hawkwood to be more than a tad optimistic.

The captain’s name was Winans. Smartly dressed in a dark blue pea-coat, he was a sturdily built man with close-cropped grey hair, matching beard, a solemn expression and the practice of clasping his hands behind his back as if he was striding across the quarterdeck of a frigate rather than the aft compartment of a smoke-belching paddle boat.

His brisk, economic manner suggested he was not a man who suffered fools gladly. Indeed, this trait had betrayed itself soon after he’d provided his uninvited passengers with their dry wardrobe, at which point he’d demanded to know who they were and what the devil did they think they were doing sailing a vessel without lights?

Hawkwood’s response did not seem to mollify him in the least, for he continued glowering at them, leaning across his chart table in an adversarial pose.

“And you were aboard the sloop, why?” he demanded.

To buy himself time, Hawkwood raised the mug to his lips and took another slow drink, exaggerating the shakiness in his grip.

“There’s not a lot to tell, sir. Captain Douglas and I were on our way from Albany. We heard the Caldwell road was flooded and decided it would be best if we continued the rest of the way by boat. We got as far as Whitehall but found we’d missed the schooner. Unfortunately, we ran into a little trouble with our choice of an alternative vessel.”

Captain Winans’ chin lifted. “Go on.”

“Damned crew turned out to be Federalist sympathizers, didn’t they?”

“On a contraband run,” Lawrence cut in. “Bound for St Johns. They thought they could make a bit extra by handing us over to the British.”

“Smugglers?”

“That’d be one word for them,” Lawrence grated. “Traitorous scum, more like.”

Hawkwood smiled ruefully. “We weren’t in uniform. I imagine someone spotted the regimental branding on our mounts and took a guess that we might not be what we seemed.

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