The Blooding. James McGee

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СКАЧАТЬ had no idea who the colonel-in-charge was, but there was bound to be one somewhere and Sergeant Dunbar, he hoped, would come to his own conclusion on which one it might be.

      The sergeant gave Hawkwood a look which spoke volumes. “Indeed, sir.”

      “Let’s get it over with then, shall we? Might as well start with the officer. Lead the way.”

      “Sir.”

      The sergeant reached for a set of keys hanging from a hook on the wall behind him, then turned to the two privates. “All right, McLeary, make yourself useful. Fall in with the Captain and me while we check the prisoner. Jennings, you stay here and try to look alert. This way, sir.”

      Sergeant Dunbar had no sooner stepped forward to lead Hawkwood across the room when a distant bell began to clang.

      The sergeant paused in mid stride. His head came up. He looked at Hawkwood. “That’s an alarm, sir.”

      Hawkwood turned. “You’re right. Find out what’s happening, Jennings.”

      “Sir?”

      “At the double, man!”

      The private broke into a run. Hawkwood turned back. “It’s probably nothing. Carry on.”

      The sergeant hesitated, then thought better of questioning an officer and unlocked the door.

      There weren’t as many cells as Hawkwood had been expecting. Just six of them, arranged along a stone-walled corridor lit by a solitary lantern.

      Dunbar lifted the lantern off its hook. “He’s in the one at the end. Got the place to himself at the moment, as you can see.”

      Though conscious of Private McLeary hovering at his shoulder, Hawkwood betrayed no concern. “Has he given you any trouble?”

      The sergeant shook his head. “Been as good as gold. Can’t tell you about the rest. You’ll have to check with the provost.” Adding as an afterthought: “… sir.”

      It was cold in the corridor, with no stove provided for the prisoner’s comfort. As the three men made their way past the empty cells their footsteps echoed off the walls. Halting beside the last door, Dunbar held up the lantern. “Here we are.”

      Hawkwood peered through the bars. The cell’s stark, almost bare interior, just discernible in the gloom, made the main guardroom look positively opulent. A pallet bed and a slop bucket were the only furnishings. An empty set of shackles hung from one wall.

      “As you can see, sir, all secure. Only a fool’d try to break in. Plus they’d have me to deal with,” the sergeant added darkly.

      “Good God, keep the damned noise down, can’t you? It’s been a bugger of a day and a fellow needs his sleep!”

      The request came out of the dark recesses of the cell. Hawkwood could just make out an indistinct shape stretched out upon the bed. As he watched, the shape stirred and materialized into the figure of a man who, after casting aside the single blanket, sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

      “My apologies, Major,” Hawkwood said drily. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

      “A bit late for that. The damage is done. Is this a social visit, by the way? If so, it’s a damned strange hour to come calling.”

      The figure stood and approached the bars. As he did so, his features became visible.

      The face wasn’t as florid as Hawkwood remembered, though that could have been due to the candlelight. He’d lost some weight, too; a change that hadn’t been immediately apparent during the few seconds that their eyes had locked at the ferry terminus. The red hair was now toned down by a sprinkling of grey; the subtle changes, lending him a more distinguished and grittier cast than there had been before. But while circumstance could alter an individual’s looks there was no doubt in Hawkwood’s mind as to the identity of the man that stood before him.

      Major Douglas Lawrence, 1st Battalion of His Majesty’s 40th Regiment of Foot. The same officer who, on a misty morning in Hyde Park, close to the Serpentine, had stood by Hawkwood’s side and acted as his second in a duel against an arrogant son of the nobility, one John Rutherford Esquire.

      “My apologies again, Major,” Hawkwood said. “I dare say the accommodation isn’t up to the standard you’re used to, either. I’m afraid Greenbush can’t compete with Knightsbridge.”

      Which was close to where the pair of them had last parted company. Hawkwood prayed that neither Sergeant Dunbar nor Private McLeary would attach any significance to the exchange – and that the prisoner would.

      It was time to find out. Stepping forward, he removed his hat, allowing his face to catch the light.

      Shock showed instantly in the prisoner’s eyes but only for a second. It was enough. Hawkwood flicked a glance towards McLeary and the musket he was holding.

      He was to wonder later if it was the light of recognition that had shown so briefly on Lawrence’s face that caused Sergeant Dunbar’s sixth sense to suddenly snap to attention.

      “Seen enough, Cap—” was as far as the sergeant got before the words died in his throat and he took a quick step backwards, realizing, that the deception referred to by this anonymous officer was no longer a possibility but a terrible reality.

      As yet another alarm began to clang; this time a lot louder and much closer to home than the first.

      Hawkwood identified the sound immediately. Someone was running the metal striker around the inside of the alarm triangle hanging from the underside of the guardhouse porch.

      Spinning his hat towards the sergeant’s face, Hawkwood went for the man with the gun first, sweeping the musket barrel aside before driving the heel of his other hand up under the base of the sentry’s nose. This time, there was no attempt to pull the punch and he felt the cartilage rupture.

      As the trooper went down Hawkwood pulled the musket free, pivoting quickly as the lantern dropped to the floor with a clatter, followed by a muffled grunt.

      The sound was all Sergeant Dunbar could manage, given that Lawrence’s arm was wrapped tightly around the sergeant’s throat. Having dropped the lantern, the sergeant was trying to break free. His feet were scrabbling for purchase as he clawed at the arm, but without success. Ignoring the beseeching look on the man’s face, Hawkwood reversed the musket and drove the butt hard into the sergeant’s belly.

      As the sergeant collapsed to the floor, Hawkwood reached for his key ring.

      He was stooping over the prone body when Private Jennings ran in from the guardroom.

      “Fire, Sergeant! The stables—”

      The sentry skidded to a halt. His jaw went slack as he took in the scene. Had his musket been slung over his shoulder and not held in the port arms position, Hawkwood might have given the man the benefit of the doubt, but there was no time. As Jennings brought his weapon up, Hawkwood reversed the musket he was holding and fired.

      The ball slammed into Jennings’ shoulder, punching him against the wall. As the musket fell from his grip, Hawkwood scooped up the СКАЧАТЬ