The Blooding. James McGee

looked for a supply of dry straw. Bales of it were stacked in a storage area at the end of the aisle. Laying aside the lantern and working quickly, he broke open one of the bales, gathered the contents in his arms and piled the bulk of it loosely against the slatted walls of the empty stall, trailing the rest out into the aisle.

      Then he set it alight.

      He used the lantern. He’d been planning to use the stolen flint and steel to start the fire, but they weren’t needed. The accelerants had been provided for him. He watched anxiously as the first tentative flames scurried along the dry stalks. When he was confident the fire had taken hold, he tossed the lantern to one side and backed away, unlatching the doors to the stalls as he went. By the time he reached the main door, the first of the horses was already stamping the ground and snorting nervously.

      Exiting the stable, Hawkwood propped the outer door open as far as it would go and retraced his steps to the farrier’s hut. He made it to the tack room just as Corporal Jeffard led the first of the saddled horses into the yard.

      Hawkwood counted to five and strode arrogantly into view. His sudden appearance had the desired effect: the troopers started in surprise. The less time they had to think, the less likely they would be to question his orders or, more inconveniently, his identity. Hawkwood wanted them on tenterhooks as to what this supercilious bastard of an officer would do next. From their expressions, the ruse appeared to be working.

      “Well done, Corporal,” Hawkwood drawled. “There’s hope for you yet.”

      The corporal drew himself up. “They’re sound, Captain. They ain’t been out for a day or two, so they’ll be glad of the exercise.”

      Then they won’t be disappointed, Hawkwood thought, running a critical gaze over the animals. “All right, gentlemen. You’ve redeemed yourselves. You may return to your, ah … duties.”

      A grin of relief spread across the corporal’s face. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

      At that moment Private Van Bosen lifted his gaze to a point beyond Hawkwood’s shoulder and gasped hoarsely, “Oh, Christ!”

      The exclamation was accompanied by the unmistakable clatter of hooves coming from the other side of the farrier’s hut.

      Hawkwood, Corporal Jeffard and Private Rivers spun round in time to see a dark mass of stampeding horses careering noisily towards the open end of the stable yard and the darkness beyond.

      “Jesus!” Jeffard stared in horror and disbelief at the vanishing animals.

      Hawkwood frowned. “I smell smoke.”

      “Bloody stable’s on fire!” Rivers yelped as the realization hit him.

      Turning to Jeffard, who was holding the reins of the two saddled horses, Hawkwood barked, “Wait here! Don’t let them go! You two, with me! Move!”

      The blaze had spread quicker than he had anticipated. The interior of the stable looked to be well alight, though the fire had yet to reach the roof. From inside, the fizzle of burning straw and the splintering of timber could be plainly heard. It wouldn’t be long before flames were dancing around the open door. Smoke was starting to pour through the gaps in the shingles, further darkening the already overcast night sky.

      Hawkwood pushed Van Bosen towards the fire. “Don’t just stand there, man! Get buckets! We can save it! You, too, Rivers! I’ll go for help!”

      Leaving them, Hawkwood ran back to where Corporal Jeffard was struggling to hang on to the two mounts. Both were now straining at the reins, having picked up the smell of the fire, and the scent of fear from their fleeing stable mates.

      “Give them to me!” Hawkwood stuck out his hand. “Fetch water! I’ll alert the camp! If it spreads to the other blocks, we’re done for! Go!”

      Jeffard, mouth agape, passed the reins over.

      “Go!” Hawkwood urged. “Go!”

      Jeffard turned tail and ran. Pausing only to snatch up his knapsack, Hawkwood climbed on to the first horse. Coiling the reins of the second in his fist, he dug in his heels and spurred the frightened animals out of the yard. As he did so, he saw from the corner of his eye two figures running frantically with buckets towards the smouldering building.

      When he was clear, Hawkwood looked back. There were no flames to be seen as yet, but it could only be a matter of time before they became visible. It was doubtful the corporal and his friends would be able to cope on their own. Soon, they’d have to decide whether to carry on trying to save the stable block, or let it burn while they led the remaining horses to safety. From what Quade had told him about the chronic shortage of horseflesh available to the American army, they’d be anxious to preserve at all costs the few they did have.

      Either way, they had enough to keep them busy for the moment.

      Leaving the scene of impending chaos behind him, he urged the horses up the trail and into the trees. It was darker in among the pines and the last thing he wanted was for the animals to stumble, but he was committed now so he prayed that animals accustomed to carrying dispatches at the gallop would be agile enough not to lose their footing on the uneven slope.

      Keeping to the higher ground, he could just make out the rectangular shape of the soldiers’ barracks below him and the latrine blocks attached to each one. Lights showed dimly behind shuttered windows. From what he could see, most of the garrison was slumbering, oblivious to the drama unfolding at the other end of the camp.

      A break appeared in the path. Hawkwood paused and took his bearings before dismounting. The last of the barrack blocks was now in sight. At any moment Corporal Jeffard and the two privates would tire of wondering why no help had arrived and decide to sound the alarm for themselves. When that happened, all hell would surely break loose. Tethering the horses to a tree, he made his way down the slope using the woods as cover.

      The camp guardhouse lay at the north-eastern corner of the cantonment at the end of a short path linking it to the parade ground. Two-storeys high and built of brick and stone, its entrance was protected by a wooden porch.

      And an armed sentry.

      Hawkwood waited until the sentry’s back was turned before emerging from the trees at a leisurely pace. He was twenty yards away from the building when the challenge came.

      “Halt!” The sentry stepped forward, musket held defensively across his chest. “Who goes there?”

      Hawkwood kept walking. “Captain Hooper, with orders from the colonel. Stand down, Private. You’ve done your job.” Hawkwood hardened his gaze, letting it linger on the sentry’s face. “Who’s the duty sergeant?”

      Recognizing the uniform and disconcerted by the clipped authority in Hawkwood’s voice, the sentry hesitated then stood to attention. “That’ll be Sergeant Dunbar, sir.”

      “And is he awake?” Hawkwood forged a knowing smile to give the impression that he and Dunbar were old comrades.

      “Yes, sir.” The sentry relaxed, allowing himself a small curve of the lip.

      “Glad to hear it.” Hawkwood raised a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him. Carry on.”

      “Sir.” Flattered at having been invited to share a joke with an officer, the sentry shouldered arms and resumed his stance.

      Hawkwood let out his breath.

      Not far now.

      It didn’t matter which army you fought for, guardhouses were always cold, cheerless places, built for purpose and furnished with only the most basic of amenities. So Hawkwood knew what he was going to see even before he passed through the door. There’d be a duty desk, above which would be affixed a list of regulations and the orders of the day; an arms rack; a table and a couple of benches; probably a trestle bed or two; a stove and, maybe, if the occupants were sensible and self-sufficient enough, a simmering pot of over-brewed coffee and a supply of tin mugs.

      He wasn’t