A Regimental Affair (50 page)

He felt the want of Serjeant Armstrong keenly, too. Armstrong, now also the father of a fine, healthy daughter, remained at Brownstown, from where the troop’s supplies, intelligence and orders came. Hervey would have trusted no other for the task, but
he was paying the price. At that witching hour of night, when the wolf called – menacing now, where first it had been novel and diverting – Armstrong would have been about the place, cursing, sparing no one, just waiting for a dragoon to complain of the cold or use it as an excuse for some dereliction. In the end it was so much easier to be afraid of Serjeant Armstrong than something altogether unknown.

The Winnebago scouts had soon repaid the investment in them. They had told General Power that the Shawanese would pass around the headwaters of the Maxanic, and then of the Raisin, when the full moon next shone. It was now the night before that moon, but the sky was overcast and the dark was like the first quarter’s. The thaw had begun a week before, making the crossings treacherous and narrowing the Shawanese’s options, but three days ago there had been a sudden relapse into deep winter, with heavy falls of snow and then a fall of the glass so great that the surface of the snow was now frozen as one continuous sheet. Horses were losing condition rapidly. Their heads were frostcovered, their breath freezing even as it left the nostrils. Fetlocks became chafed or clean cut with every step through the ice crust, and a red trail had often marked their progress of late.

Hervey forced himself from his bed to begin a tour of the sentries. It would test all his skill in hiding his own dejection in this God-forsaken wilderness.

At Brownstown, Henrietta slept little better. Not for want of warmth or security, but because she had hoped so very much to see her husband that day. The ferry and sleigh ride from Fort Malden that morning had been pleasant, a pleasure she was not expecting to have again for some weeks. But, on arriving at Fort Brownstown, she had encountered Lord Towcester, and his mood had been extraordinarily malevolent – the reason for which she could only guess. He had ordered her to return to York at once, and, she recorded in her journal, in terms that overstepped any mark of a gentleman. When she had made to protest, he had pointed out that she was in military quarters and would hear him in silence.

He had even disbarred to her the ferry to Fort Malden, since he required it for his own purposes, he said. ‘You must take a sleigh
to Detroit, madam,’ he had told her, ‘and wait on your husband in that place, or else cross there and wait at Malden. Either way, you shall not consume military supplies for another day more in this fort!’

Henrietta’s suspicions as to the cause of the earl’s ill humour, if correct, indicated that her initiative in writing to the Duke of Huntingdon had been speedier in its consequences than she had imagined. But she hadn’t the initiative here, and she knew she had little option but to submit to the lieutenant colonel’s will. She regretted its ill effects with Serjeant Armstrong, however. He had immediately declared that he would escort her himself to Detroit, but when Lord Towcester found out, it sent him into a rage. He accused Armstrong of failing to comprehend where his duty lay, and of loyalties inimical to the well-being of the regiment. Armstrong had argued, forcefully, that his captain had told him that the whole of Michigan south of Detroit was to be regarded as hostile until such time that they had apprehended or turned back the Shawanese.

‘Stuff and nonsense, Serjeant!’ Lord Towcester had roared. ‘I have myself just come from Detroit. Did I then pass through hostile country? Bah! It had all the appearance of Surrey!’

Serjeant Armstrong pressed his case. ‘Your lordship, they were my orders. And the intelligence is come from the highest level. The Americans have spies with the Indians. I don’t think—’

‘
Spies
, Serjeant? Renegade Indians who’d sell anything for the price of a tot! And “
orders
” you call them? From Americans? Tush, sir! One more word and I’ll have your stripes!’

At this, even the adjutant had looked uneasy. Armstrong had seen the futility of further argument, however, and had knuckled his forehead instead. And so all he had been able to do by way of seeing Henrietta decently back to Detroit was detail three troopers and Lance-Corporal Atyeo to escort the sleigh, and threaten them to secrecy and a start before first light so that Lord Towcester would not learn of it in time to countermand the instructions.

Henrietta stared into the darkness of her chamber, resigned to being sent away but wishing – praying – that her husband might somehow come to her before the day did.

Just after six there came a knock. Henrietta had woken a few minutes before. Indeed, she had slept only very fitfully. She rose,
put on her cloak (for the fire’s embers were giving off little heat now), turned up the oil lamp and opened the door. A dragoon stood with a tray covered by a white cloth.

‘The serjeant said to bring you this, ma’am,’ he whispered.

Henrietta’s spirits could hardly have been lower, but she smiled at him warmly, for she could see his unease. ‘Serjeant Armstrong is very good.’ She opened the door wide to allow the dragoon to pass.

He put the tray on the table and removed the cloth. Steam rose from the spout of a coffee pot. ‘The serjeant said to tell you, ma’am, that it’s chocolate not coffee.’

Henrietta smiled again; Armstrong must have been very resourceful to find her favourite, here. ‘What is your name?’ she asked the dragoon.

‘Stancliff, ma’am.’

‘Well thank you, Private Stancliff, and please convey my thanks to Serjeant Armstrong, too. Do you think I might have a little hot water later?’

‘Yes, ma’am, of course, ma’am. And the serjeant says to tell you we’ll be leaving at seven, ma’am, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Yes, that will do very well for me. You are coming too?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Corporal Atyeo’s in charge, and there’ll be Painter and Morris as well.’

Henrietta did not know them, but they sounded true enough men.

When Private Stancliff had gone, Henrietta sipped the chocolate and held aside the curtains to look out into the yard below. She hoped still to see her husband – just long enough for them to bid each other farewell, even – but there was no sign of him yet. It was dark, and all she could make out by the flickering torches was her sleigh, the small but sturdy long-coated horse standing patiently between the shafts, its breath white in the cold air. She shivered, a little afraid now.

At seven, with half an hour still to go before first light, Serjeant Armstrong saw off the sleigh and its escort. ‘Take this with you, ma’am,’ he said, giving Henrietta her husband’s repeating carbine. ‘If so much as a footpad comes anywhere near you, Atyeo and his men’ll see to them, don’t you worry. But . . .’

‘Yes, I know, Serjeant Armstrong.’ Henrietta squeezed his hand
and smiled at him. ‘Much better to have something of one’s own in case they don’t notice.’

‘Ay, ma’am. Something like that! Just point it in the air and keep pulling the trigger. It’d frighten a lion!’

‘I’m sure it would,’ she said, finding herself trying to reassure
him
. ‘My husband has shown me it. And again, thank you so very much for what you tried to . . . for arranging this. And many,
many
congratulations on the birth of your
beautiful
daughter. You will be enchanted when you see her.’

Armstrong turned very red. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I never thought I’d long to see anyone so much as I do that lass and her bairn!’

She leaned across and kissed his forehead. ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered. ‘I hope to see you again very soon.’

An hour later, unable to bear it any longer, Serjeant Armstrong took his horse and galloped after the sleigh.

At ten o’clock, two hours after first light, Hervey received word from his easternmost vidette that a party of at least twenty Shawanese had crossed the headwaters of the Raisin and were making for the lakeside road.

‘But that makes no sense at all,’ said Seton Canning. ‘Why expose themselves at the part most likely to be patrolled?’

Hervey cursed to himself. ‘Because it
isn’t
the most likely to be patrolled. And they know it! Who’d patrol the last road the Indians would dare use?’

‘Do you think they’re trying to draw us away from here, so that the slower ones can pass through?’

‘Possibly. But a party of Shawanese braves on the Detroit road makes us look damned stupid to say the least. They killed one of the trappers who saw them. They’ll make mischief, right enough.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘No one will be using the Detroit road: that much we know. The general said they would close it as soon as there was word that the Shawanese were on the move. So the best we can do is send a division direct to Detroit across country and expect to intercept the party as they strike north-west before the town. Not even Shawanese possessed would ride straight for the fort!’

‘Do you want me to take the division?’

‘If you please. And you’d better send someone to inform
Brownstown, and detach a man to Detroit when you get within safe distance. Good luck, Harry!’

The sleigh horse stumbled and slid to a walk as they began to descend the slope to the stream crossing, a wooden bridge distinguishable only by the snow-covered rails, three feet high. Corporal Atyeo walked his horse across to prove it in the prescribed fashion, and then signalled his party on. As he lowered his hand an arrow struck him in the neck, and he fell like a sack from the saddle. At once the troopers reached for their carbines and closed on the sleigh, the driver already crouching low on the board. Two arrows struck Private Stancliff in the back, knocking every bit of wind from him. He fell without a sound. Morris and Painter were good shots and fair swordsmen, but could see no target for their marksmanship. Henrietta crouched in the well of the sleigh, gripping the carbine tight, numb with terror.

‘Let’s go!’ called Morris to the driver, now cowering between the traces. A flight of three arrows struck home, and Morris, the Norfolk farmer’s boy, fell crying.

Henrietta saw him fall. She crawled from the sleigh to his side and pulled him to her.

‘Oh miss, miss . . .’ he sobbed.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she shook with cold and fright.

Private Painter slid from the saddle to crouch by them, carbine at the aim. If he were frightened, he didn’t show it. ‘Crawl to the sledge, ma’am. We can fight ’em off from there. They won’t want to close with us.’

Henrietta did as she was told, for Morris was dead. Painter prised the carbine from his hand and took off his pouch belt, then crawled to Henrietta’s side. ‘Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve never missed so much as a hare.’

But Private Painter did not have a repeating carbine, and was able to fire only once in the sudden rush of Shawanese. He knelt to aim. One brave fell clutching his chest, but before the dragoon could so much as bite the top off the next cartridge, a Hudson’s Bay tomahawk split open his chest like a spatchcock. Henrietta fought hard not to faint.

The warriors, heads shaven but for a topknot, cheeks stippled red with warpaint, seized the troop horses. One brave pulled the
driver from under the traces, pushed him to his knees and hacked his head from his shoulders as if he were butchering a sheep. Another, taller than the rest, and wearing a gold nose-ring, took his scalping knife and knelt by Corporal Atyeo’s lifeless body. He grasped the long fair hair with his left hand – so special a prize. He cut the scalp with two deft slices – one with and one against the sun – then loosened the skin with the point of the knife, and pulled with his feet against Atyeo’s shoulders until the scalp came away with a sucking sound.

Henrietta had already hidden her eyes, but her sobs came all the more.

It was the sight of Atyeo’s scalp that raised Armstrong’s blood to the boil as he bore down the slope screaming murder at them. ‘Fight me! Fight me! You bloody bastards, you bloody heathen, coward bastards! Fight me, any one of you!’

The Shawanese were stunned.

Armstrong leaped from his mare still at full tilt. The point of his sabre went clean through Atyeo’s defiler. He stood and roared his challenge the more. ‘Fight
me
– any of you!’

One brave launched at him with a tomahawk, but Armstrong merely sidestepped and took off the man’s hand with a neat stroke. ‘That’s it! That’s it! Come on you savages – one by one. There’s a different cut for every bastard of you!’

But he didn’t see the warrior crouching behind. The tomahawk struck at that defiant head and stopped the tirade abruptly. Henrietta’s frantic sobbing sounded ever louder in the sudden silence.

A brave who wore two eagle feathers at his throat, and carried a rifle, walked towards the sleigh and pulled Henrietta from under it. She had the carbine in her hand still, though he made no attempt to take it. She pulled her arm free – he did not grip it hard. He took several steps back, as if to admire his prize. She levelled the carbine and squeezed the trigger. The recoil snapped her wrist like a twig, and the rifle flew from her hands. She screamed in pain, turned and ran back towards the bridge, sobbing wildly. A warrior trotted his pony to bar her way. She scrambled down the bank to cross below, but the ice broke as she took the first step. She plunged up to her shoulders, the shock silencing her. Still she fought. She seized at the reeds on the bank, and somehow
managed to drag herself out, watched silently the while by the Shawanese. Then the cold began to numb, where first it had bitten. What little strength was left was leaving her, and she knew it.