Читать книгу The Blooding - James McGee - Страница 10

Tewanias led the way, with the Rangers and the boy following in single file behind. The dog kept pace, sometimes running on ahead, at other times darting off to the side of the trail, nose to the ground as it investigated interesting new smells, but always returning to the line, tongue lolling happily and tail held high as if the journey were some kind of game.

They walked the horses, letting the beasts set their own pace. Save for the occasional bird call, the woods were dark and silent around them. Talk was kept to a minimum. The only other sounds that marked their progress were the rhythmic plod of hooves on the forest floor and the soft clinking of a metal harness.

Every so often, a rustle in the undergrowth would indicate where a startled animal had broken from cover. At each disturbance the Indian and the Rangers and the boy would rein in their horses and listen intently but thus far there had been no indication that they were being followed.

As they rode, Wyatt thought back to the events that had taken place at the cabin, only too aware of how fortunate they’d all been to have emerged from the fight without suffering so much as a scratch, though it had been clear that the Committee members, having been taken completely by surprise, had possessed neither the discipline nor the instinct to have affected an adequate defence, let alone a counter-attack. Save, that is, for the one who’d somehow come back to life and shot Will Archer. Despite Wyatt’s attempts to erase it, the nagging thought persisted:

If we’d checked the bodies, Archer would be alive. Maybe.

It was small comfort knowing that by opening fire on the Citizens’ Committee, the farmer had been the one who set in motion the gun battle that had left eight people dead in almost as many minutes, having acted intuitively and in self-defence.

Wyatt’s mind kept returning to the expression on the boy’s face when Ephraim Smede had fallen to the ground, the hatchet embedded in his back. There had been no fear, no contrition or revulsion; no regret at having killed a man. Neither had there been satisfaction or triumph at having exacted restitution for the deaths of his aunt and uncle. Instead, there had been a calm, almost solemn acceptance of the deed, as if the dispatching of another human being had been a task that had to be done.

Only when he’d seen his uncle lying mortally wounded in Wyatt’s arms had the boy’s expression changed, first to tearful concern, followed swiftly by pain and ending in a deep, infinite sadness when he’d looked towards Beth Archer’s body. Even at that tender age he seemed to understand that the balance of his life had, from that moment, been altered beyond all understanding.

Wyatt had accompanied the boy to Beth Archer’s corpse. He’d watched as the child had knelt by her side, taking the woman’s hand in his own, holding it against his cheek. For a moment Wyatt had stood in silence, waiting for the tears to start again, but that hadn’t happened. When he’d laid his hand on the boy’s shoulders telling him that they had to leave and that there were graves to be dug, there had been a brief pause followed by a mute nod of understanding. Then the boy had risen to his feet, jaw set, leaving the Rangers to prepare the burials, while he’d returned to the cabin to gather his few belongings and retrieve the dog.

It wasn’t the first time Wyatt had seen such stoicism. He had fought alongside men who, having survived the bloodiest of battles, had displayed no emotion either during the fight or in the immediate aftermath, only to be gripped by the most violent of seizures several hours or even days afterwards. Wyatt wondered if the same thing was going to happen to the boy. He would have to watch for the signs and deal with the situation, if or when it happened.

The Rangers, partly out of unease at not knowing what to say but mostly because they were all too preoccupied with their own thoughts, had maintained a disciplined silence in the boy’s presence. Wyatt wasn’t sure if that was the best thing to do in the circumstances, but as he had no idea what to say either, he had followed suit and kept his own counsel. Without making it obvious what he was doing, he kept a watchful eye on their young charge. Not that the boy seemed to notice; he was too intent on watching Tewanias. Whether it was curiosity or apprehension at the Mohawk’s striking appearance, Wyatt couldn’t tell. Occasionally, Tewanias would turn in his saddle, and every time he did so the boy would avert his gaze as if he’d suddenly spotted something of profound interest in the scenery they were passing. It might have been amusing under different circumstances, but smiles, on this occasion, were in short supply.

They’d been travelling for an hour before the boy became aware of Wyatt’s eyes upon him. He reddened under the Ranger’s amused gaze. Tewanias was some thirty yards ahead, concentrating on the trail and when the boy had recovered his composure he nodded towards the warrior, frowned and enquired hesitantly: “Your Indian, which tribe does he belong to?”

Wyatt followed the boy’s eyes. “He’s Mohawk. And he’s not my Indian.”

The boy flushed, chastened by the emphasis Wyatt had placed on the word “my”. “Uncle Will said that the Mohawk were a great tribe.”

“The Mohawk are a great tribe.”

The boy pondered Wyatt’s reply for several seconds, wondering how to phrase his next question without incurring another correction.

“Is he a chief?”

“Yes.” Wyatt did not elaborate.

The boy glanced up the trail. “Why does he keep staring at me?”

“Same reason you keep staring at him,” Wyatt said evenly.

The boy’s head turned.

“He finds you interesting,” Wyatt said and smiled.

“Why?”

“Why do you find him interesting?” Wyatt countered.

The boy thought about his reply. “I’ve never been this close to an Indian before.”

“Well, then,” Wyatt said. “There you are. He’s never been this close to anyone like you before.”

“Me?”

“A white boy,” Wyatt said. Thinking, but not voicing out loud: who killed a man with an axe.

The boy fell silent. After several seconds had passed he said, “Why does he paint his face black?”

“To frighten his enemies.”

The boy frowned. He stared hard at the Ranger.

“I don’t need paint,” Wyatt said, “if that’s what you were thinking. I’m frightening enough as it is.”

A small smile played on the boy’s lips.

It was a start, Wyatt thought.

It was close to noon when the woods began to thin out, allowing glimpses of a wide landscape through gaps in the trees ahead. Wyatt trotted his horse forward to join Tewanias at the front of the line.

“Stand! Who goes there?”

The riders halted. Two men stepped into view from behind the last clump of undergrowth before the trees gave way to open ground. Wyatt surveyed the red jackets, muddy white breeches, tricorn hats with their black cockades and muskets held at the ready. The uniforms identified the men as Royal Yorkers; the colonel’s regiment. Wyatt knew that Tewanias would have detected the duo from a long way back. Indeed, he’d have done so even if the men had been dressed in leaf coats and matching hoods, but there had been no need to give a warning. The Mohawk had known that the soldiers posed no threat.

Good to know the piquets are doing their job, Wyatt thought. Though what the troopers would have done if the returning patrol had turned out to be of Continental origin was unclear. Fired warning shots and beaten a hasty retreat, presumably, or stayed hidden until they’d passed and then sounded the alert.

He addressed the soldier who’d given the order. “Lieutenant Wyatt and party, returning from a reconnaissance. Reporting to Captain McDonell.”

The corporal ran his eye around the group, noting the hard expressions on the unshaven faces. His gaze did not falter when it passed over Tewanias, but flickered as it took in the boy, who looked decidedly out of place among his fellow riders.

“That your hound, Lieutenant?” The corporal jerked his chin towards the dog, which was sniffing energetically at his companion’s gaiters.

“Best tracker in the state,” Wyatt said.

“That so?” The corporal regarded the dog with renewed interest. “What’s his name?”

“Sergeant Tam.”

The corporal gave Wyatt a look. “Well, when the sergeant’s stopped sniffing Private Hilton’s crotch, sir, you’ll find the officers down by the main house.”

Wyatt hid a smile at the trooper’s temerity. “I’m obliged to you. Carry on, gentlemen.”

Raising knuckles to their hats, the two piquets watched as the men and the boy rode on.

Private Hilton hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, spat into the bushes and cocked an eyebrow at his companion’s boldness in the face of a senior rank. “Sergeant Tam?”

The corporal shrugged. “Wouldn’t bloody surprise me. You know what Rangers are like.”

Private Hilton sniffed lugubriously. “Scruffy beggars, that’s what. If they’ve given the dog stripes, wonder what rank they’ve given the Indian?”

The corporal, whose name was Lovell, pursed his lips. “I heard tell some of ’em have been made captains, but if you want to ask him, be my guest.”

Private Hilton offered no reply but scratched his thigh absently, his nose wrinkling in disgust as his hand came away damp. Wiping dog slobber from his fingers on to his uniform jacket, he shook his head.

“Bleedin’ officers,” he muttered.

Quietly.

Emerging from the treeline, Wyatt reined in his horse and stared out at a rolling countryside punctuated with stands of oak, pine and hemlock. The estate was spread across the bottom of the slope. It covered a substantial area, comprising barns, storehouses, workshops, grist and saw mills, a smithy and several cottages, and could easily have been mistaken for a small, peaceful village had it not been for the tents and uniformed troops gathered at its heart.

One building, set apart from the others by virtue of its size and architecture, caught the eye. Sheathed in white clapboard, and with leaf-green shutters, the mansion, which was built on a slight rise, was protected at the front by a circle of yellow locust trees and at the rear by two enormous stone blockhouses.

As they approached the camp perimeter, Wyatt’s attention was drawn towards several dark smudges moving slowly across the south-eastern horizon. The plumes of smoke were too black and too dense to be rising from cooking fires. Somewhere, off beyond the pinewoods, buildings were ablaze. As he watched, more drifts began to appear, like lateen sails opening to the wind. The fires were spreading. For a second he thought he could smell the burning but then, when his nose picked out the scent of coffee, he knew the aromas were emanating from the field kitchen that had been set up in the lee of one of the blockhouses.

In the camp itself, all appeared calm. There were no raised voices; no officers yelling orders, putting the men through their drills. There was, however, no hiding the purposeful way the soldiers were going about their business or the sense of readiness that hung in the air. There were no musket or rifle stands. Every man carried his weapon to hand in case of attack. Wyatt glanced towards the boy who, to judge from the way his eyes were darting about, was overawed by the appearance of so many troops.

A peal of girlish laughter came suddenly from Wyatt’s right. He turned to where half a dozen children were engaged in a game of chase on the lawn beneath the trees. A knot of adults, all dressed in civilian clothes, was keeping a close watch on the high spirits; families who’d made their own way or who’d been delivered to the Hall by the other patrols. Wyatt wondered if their numbers had swelled much since he’d left.

Standing off to one side was a group of two dozen Negroes, of both sexes, some with children in hand. Servants and farm workers, either collected from the surrounding districts or who’d arrived at the Hall of their own volition in the hope of joining the exodus.

Halting by the first blockhouse, Wyatt and the others dismounted and secured their mounts to the tether line.

“Wait here,” Wyatt told the boy. “Keep your eye on the horses and make sure Tam stays close. Don’t let him run off, else he’ll end up in one of their stews.” He jerked a thumb at a dozen Indian warriors who were gathered around a circular fire pit above which a metal pot was suspended from a tripod of wooden stakes.

The boy’s eyes widened.

“It was a jest, lad,” Wyatt said quickly, smiling.

Behind him, he thought he heard Tewanias mutter beneath his breath.

“Best keep him near, anyway,” Wyatt advised, indicating the dog. “We won’t be long.”

To Donaldson, Wyatt said quietly, “Look after them. I’m off to report to the captain.” He turned away, paused and turned back. “See if one of you can rustle up some victuals. And some coffee. Strong coffee.”

Leaving the others, Wyatt and Tewanias, long guns draped across their arms, made their way to the group of officers gathered around a table strewn with papers that had been set up on the grass close to the mansion’s rear entrance.

As Wyatt and Tewanias approached, a green-coated officer glanced up and frowned.

“Lieutenant?”

“Captain.” Wyatt tipped his cap.

As the officer straightened, Tewanias moved to one side, grounded his musket and rested his linked hands on the upturned muzzle. He looked completely at ease and unimpressed by the ranks that were on display.

Captain John McDonell glanced over Wyatt’s shoulder towards the tether line. He was a tall man; gangly and narrow-shouldered with a thin face and a long nose to match. A native of Inverness, with pale features and soft Scottish lilt, McDonell always reminded Wyatt of a schoolmaster. The captain’s bookish appearance, however, was deceptive. Prior to his transfer to the Rangers he’d seen service with the 84th Regiment of Foot and had survived a number of hard-fought engagements, including St Leger’s expedition against Fort Stanwix. He’d also helped defend British maritime provinces from Colonial attacks by sea and on one memorable occasion had led a boarding party on board an American privateer off Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, capturing the ship and crew and delivering them into Halifax in chains.

“Who’ve you got there?” McDonell asked.

“Name’s Matthew,” Wyatt said.

The captain nodded as if the information was only of passing interest and then he frowned. Something in the equation was missing, he realized. He turned his attention back to the Ranger. “Where’s his family?”

Wyatt’s expression told its own story.

McDonell sighed. “All right, let’s hear it.”

“We ran into some opposition,” Wyatt said.

Behind McDonell, the officers gathered around the table paused in their discussion.

Instantly alert, McDonell’s chin lifted. “Regulars or militia?”

Wyatt shook his head. “Neither. Citizens’ Committee.”

McDonell’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I’d not have taken them for a credible threat.”

“They weren’t,” Wyatt said.

Pondering the significance of Wyatt’s terse reply, the captain waited expectantly.

“Turns out they were on an incursion of their own. We interrupted them.”

“Go on.”

“We were at the Archer farm,” Wyatt said. “We—”

“Did you say Archer?”

The interjection came from behind McDonell’s left shoulder. A bewigged, aristocratic-looking officer dressed in a faded scarlet tunic stepped forward.

Wyatt turned, remembering to salute. “Yes, Sir John. William Archer. We were tasked to bring him to the Hall. His homestead is … was … on the other side of the Caroga.”

Colonel Sir John Johnson matched McDonell for height but where the captain was thin the colonel was well set, with a harder, fuller face. His most prominent features were his dark blue eyes and his beaked nose, which gave him the appearance of a very attentive bird of prey.

“My apologies, Colonel,” McDonell said quickly. “Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Wyatt; 4th Ranger Company.”

“Lieutenant.” The colonel’s gaze flickered sideways towards Tewanias before refocusing on the Ranger.

“Colonel,” Wyatt said.

“You said you were at what was the Archer homestead.”

“I regret that both William Archer and his wife were killed in the exchange, Colonel.”

A look of pain crossed the colonel’s face. His eyes clouded. “Tell me,” he said.

The two officers listened in silence as Wyatt recounted the events of the morning.

“Bastards!” McDonell spat as Wyatt concluded his description of the skirmish. “God damned bloody bastards!”

The colonel looked towards the boy.

“He’s Archer’s nephew,” Wyatt said.

Sir John said nothing for several seconds and then turned back. He shook his head wearily and sighed. “No, actually, he isn’t.”

“He referred to Archer as his uncle,” Wyatt said, confused.

The colonel’s expression softened. “For the sake of convenience, I dare say. Though, I’ve no doubt that’s how he came to look upon them.”

Wyatt looked to McDonell for illumination, but none was forthcoming.

Removing his wig, Sir John ran a calloused hand across his cropped hair. Though not yet forty, flecks of grey were beginning to show through the darker follicles. “The boy and the Archers were not related. They were his guardians. The boy’s father entrusted him to them.”

“You knew them, sir?” McDonell said, unnecessarily, he realized, as soon as the words were out.

“The father. He was a good man. His name was Hooper. Ellis Hooper.”

McDonell frowned. “I know that name.” He stared at the colonel, as if seeking confirmation.

“We were comrades in the French and Indian War. He was with me at Lake George and at Niagara when we fought alongside the Iroquois auxiliaries under my father’s command, though we were barely old enough to heft a musket.”

A rueful smile touched the colonel’s face before he added, “Ellis Hooper was a Loyalist through and through. Because of his allegiance to me, the Continentals put a price on his head. He was with me when I made my run in ’76 and he was one of my first recruits when Governor Carleton granted me permission to form the Royal Greens.”

Wyatt knew the story. There wasn’t a man serving under Sir John’s command who didn’t. It was the stuff of legend, of tales told to raw recruits as they sat huddled around the camp fires at night.

Sir John’s father, William, had built the estate. Arriving in the valley in the late 1730s, he’d made his fortune trading furs with the voyageurs and the Six Nations, the Iroquois tribes who’d held dominion over the vast region of forests, lakes and mountains that lay between the Hudson River and the great waters of Ontario and Erie. It had been William who’d supervised the construction of the Hall and founded the settlement that was to bear the name of his eldest son: Johnstown.

Such had been his skill in diplomacy and his standing among the Six Nations that Sir William had persuaded the Iroquois to side with King George against the armies of the French. For his services, the Crown had awarded him a baronetcy and appointed him Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the entire Northern states.

Sir John had inherited the lands and title upon his father’s death. He’d also inherited his father’s loyalty to the King, to the dismay of the leaders of the burgeoning republic who’d tried to persuade the son to swear allegiance to the new Congress. When persuasion failed, a less subtle approach had been attempted.

The level of intimidation had been so aggressive that in the interest of self-preservation, Sir John had gathered about him a company of Loyalist supporters and Indian allies to act as a protective shield and to defend the interests of the King. Fearing the formation of a private army, the local Committee of Safety, with the Tryon County Militia at its back, had immediately ordered all Loyalists in the county to relinquish their weapons. It had then placed their leader on parole under the order that he would not take up arms against the new government.

Unbowed, Sir John, while agreeing to the demand, had continued to show dissent. An arrest warrant had been issued. Forewarned, Sir John, along with more than one hundred and fifty followers and helped by a trio of Iroquois guides, had evaded capture by fleeing north through the mountains to gain safety across the Canadian border.

It had taken them nearly three weeks, during which time their provisions ran out and they were forced to forage for roots and leaves before they’d eventually stumbled, half starving, into an Iroquois village on the St Lawrence River.

As soon as he reached the safety of Canada, Sir John had petitioned the Governor for permission to raise a force capable of taking the war back to the enemy. With authority granted, the King’s Royal Regiment of New York, under their new colonel, had begun recruiting. The first to sign up had been the men who’d accompanied him into exile.

“He was with us at Stanwix,” McDonell said, looking contrite.

“He was.” The colonel’s voice dropped. “He fell at Oriskany.”

“Oh, dear God, yes,” McDonell said, looking even more crestfallen. “Why did I not remember?”

The operation had formed part of an invasion plan devised by British generals to gain control of the Hudson River Valley and cut off New England from the rest of the American colonies, thus creating a vantage point between the Hudson and Lake Ontario from where Crown forces could direct operations against the Continental army.

The strategy had involved a two-pronged attack, launched from Montreal. The main force, led by General John Burgoyne, had marched south towards Albany by way of Lake Champlain, while a diversionary force under the command of General Barry St Leger, with Sir John Johnson as his second-in-command, had driven through the Mohawk Valley, intending to approach Albany from the west. It had been the Royal Yorkers’ first major campaign and it was to have been the opportunity for Sir John to exact revenge on those who’d forced him into exile the year before.

St Leger’s force had made it as far as Fort Stanwix, a Patriot outpost controlling a six-mile portage between the Mohawk River and Wood Creek known as the Oneida Carry, where they’d encamped and laid siege to the American garrison. The plan had been to capture the fort and secure Burgoyne’s eastern flank.

News of St Leger’s advance had spread, however, and a relief column of New York Militia under the command of Major General Nicholas Herkimer was sent to assist the beleaguered garrison. On hearing the column was on its way, St Leger dispatched a force of Royal Yorkers, Jaeger riflemen and native auxiliaries under the command of Sir John Johnson to intercept. The ambush had taken place some six miles from the fort, at the bottom of a narrow ravine through which ran a shallow three-foot-wide dribble of water called the Oriskany Creek.

Even three years after the event no one knew for certain how many men had perished. Some reports said the Patriots lost 450 dead, the British 200, and because of that it had been deemed a British victory. Native losses had been put around 100, but the numbers were speculative. What was not in dispute was the degree of butchery that had been perpetrated in a fight that had lasted more than six hours. When the ammunition ran out, men – both white and Indian – had fought hand to hand with knife and tomahawk. It was said that the rock-strewn waters of the Oriskany had flowed red with the blood of the slain for weeks afterwards, while the stench of the rotting corpses had carried for miles on the warm summer winds. It was also rumoured, though never confirmed, that some prisoners, captured by Indians, had been taken from the field and eaten in ritual sacrifice.

“He was one of the turncoats,” McDonell said.

Catching Wyatt’s expression upon hearing the term, Johnson said softly, “It’s not what you think, Lieutenant.”

The colonel stared down at the wig he was holding. A small spiky leaf was trapped in the weave. He picked it out and flicked it away, watching it spiral to the ground. He looked up.

“We learned from rebel prisoners that Herkimer had dispatched messengers to the fort commander requesting that a sortie be sent to meet the relief column. We thought we could use the request to our advantage by passing off our own men as that relief party. The plan was to infiltrate them into the militia’s ranks and then, hopefully, create mayhem and in the confusion capture Herkimer’s senior officers.”

The colonel shook his head. “Regrettably, our ruse was discovered. Given the time we had, our only disguise was to turn our uniforms inside out. When one of the militia saw the green linings to our coats and recognized a former neighbour whom he knew to be a Loyalist, he raised the alarm. We lost more than thirty men in the first volley. Those that didn’t perish in the second fusillade were hacked to pieces, mostly by Oneida warriors fighting on the rebel side. Ellis Hooper was one of those slain. We found his body when the Americans withdrew from the field.”

The colonel placed the wig back on his head, straightening it with both hands. His face was set tight. “He was an exceptionally brave man.” Looking past Wyatt’s shoulder towards the tether line, he added softly, “Who never lived to see his son again.”

“The mother?” McDonell asked, though his tone suggested that he already knew the answer.

“Died in childbirth, alas, the year before Ellis Hooper and I made our escape to Canada. The boy would have had a sister, had mother and child lived.”

Wyatt knew it wasn’t his place to broach the subject of why Hooper had not remained in the valley with his son. Some might have accused him of abandonment, but many a good man had found himself facing the same dilemma and made the same choice as Hooper, Sir John Johnson among them.

The colonel’s own wife had been pregnant with their third child when he’d received the warning that troops were on their way to transport him to New York. A pregnant woman would never have made the journey through the mountains, certainly not with two young children in tow, so he’d been forced to leave his family behind.

Ellis Hooper and the rest of Sir John’s men had prices on their heads; if they had stayed, they would have been subject to the same prospective fate as their colonel – and an imprisoned man could no more provide for his family than a dead one. But for a man who was alive and free there was always hope that his family would remain untouched by the authorities, which meant there was every possibility that they’d be able to affect their own escape in due course, as had been the case with Sir John’s wife, whose own subsequent flight to freedom with, by then, three children in hand, had been every bit as dramatic as her husband’s.

Sir John sighed. “Hooper and Archer were friends of long standing, as were their wives. It was natural Hooper would choose them to look after the boy. I recall him telling me that Elizabeth Archer had lost a child – a boy – and that she and her husband would look after his son as though he were their own. It was always his intention to return at a later date and take him back to Canada, which is even more heart-breaking when you consider the reason we’re here now.”

The colonel looked off towards where the children were playing and then he turned to Wyatt. “I’d deem it a personal favour, Lieutenant, if you’d make sure the boy is placed with someone suitable, a good family who’ll take him under their wing for the journey north.”

“I’ll see to it, Colonel.”

“Good man.” Sir John looked over Wyatt’s shoulder at Tewanias, who hadn’t moved a muscle during the entire exchange. “Skennenko:wa ken, Tewanias?”

The Mohawk straightened. “Skennenko:wa, Owassighsishon.”

Sir John smiled at McDonell’s bemused expression. “Don’t look so perplexed, Captain. Merely a greeting between old friends.”

“Owassighsishon?” McDonell said. “I’m not familiar—”

“It’s the name they have for me; it means He-who-made-the-house-to-tremble. Don’t ask me which house as I’ve no damned idea.”

McDonell was given no chance to respond for at that moment the colonel’s attention was diverted once more, this time by the approach of another lieutenant in the uniform of a Royal Yorker. After acknowledging Wyatt’s presence with a nod, he saluted briskly and announced, “We’ve retrieved the barrels, Colonel.”

A smile lit up the colonel’s face. “Have you? Splendid! Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be with you directly.” He turned to Wyatt. “You’ll see to the boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Wyatt said.

Barrels? he thought. Movement over by the doorway to the mansion made him turn and watch as four Royal Yorkers in dirt-stained uniforms and an equally dishevelled Negro civilian emerged from the house, carrying between them two large wooden casks.

Wine? Wyatt frowned. It seemed unlikely.

“Well done, William!” Sir John clapped the Negro on the back, sending puffs of dirt into the air.

Intrigued, Wyatt hovered as the barrels were deposited on the ground. A bayonet was produced and a lid was levered off. It looked at first glance as if the cask was full of old sacking.

Odd, Wyatt thought, until the top layer was removed.

Wyatt had never seen a pirate’s treasure trove unearthed but he suspected it probably wouldn’t look much different to the sight that met his eyes. The barrel was stuffed to the gunnels with what was clearly a fortune in silver plate. Salvers, decanters, tankards, punch bowls, coffee jugs, gravy boats, condiment shakers, even serving spoons; all individually wrapped. He stared as each object was divested of its Hessian cocoon and placed reverentially on the ground.

“Belongs to my family,” the colonel explained. He seemed unconcerned that Wyatt was loitering. “Bequeathed me by my father. We weren’t able to take it with us when we went north, so we concealed it beneath the floor in the cellar.” Sir John indicated the manservant, who was brushing himself down. “William here was the only person we entrusted with the hiding place. He’s kept it safe these past four years. Well, this time, it’s coming with me. I’ll not have those damned rebels lay their hands on it. I’ve seen too many friends who’ve had their inheritance usurped by those scoundrels.” He watched as the last piece of silverware was exposed before turning to the lieutenant. “There should be around forty pieces all told. Split the load. One item per man. Full inventory to be taken.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant turned and waved an arm towards a small detachment of troops waiting by the blockhouse. “Number Two Company, fall in! Quartermaster to me! Sharply now!”

The troops ran across to form a line and began to open their knapsacks. The Quartermaster produced his ledger and licked the point of his pencil. As the plate was distributed, a description of each item was written alongside the name of the soldier to whom it had been entrusted.

Wyatt couldn’t help but smile to himself. How, he wondered, would the army function without lists? It didn’t matter if they concerned cockades, cannons or the colonel’s heirlooms; lists were as integral to military life as marching and muskets.

Having satisfied himself that the inventory was being conducted to the required standard, the colonel turned to McDonell and the other officers who’d been with him around the table and who’d been observing the disinterment with considerable interest.

“Right, gentlemen – back to business. As I recall, we were conducting a situation report. Captain Anderson?”

A dark-haired, thin-faced officer dressed in the uniform of a Grenadier stepped forward.

“Colonel?”

“The patrols that were sent to retrieve our people should have returned by now. How many civilians have we collected?”

“By my count, one hundred and fifty-two, Colonel.”

The colonel looked towards Wyatt. “Better amend that, Captain. Make the total one hundred and fifty-three.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve also acquired thirty-two Negro servants.”

“Very good. Prisoners?”

Captain Anderson consulted his figures. “Twenty-seven in total, mostly civilians …”

There was a pause, then Anderson continued “… including Sammons and his brood.”

A nerve flickered along the colonel’s jawline. “Release those that are too young or infirm. We gain nothing by subjecting them to the rigours of the return march.”

“And Sammons?” Anderson enquired tentatively.

Several officers exchanged glances. After the colonel’s escape and following his wife’s departure from the valley the mansion and grounds had been seized by the Tryon County Commissioners, who’d appointed local Patriots to act as caretakers until the property could be sold. The Sammons clan, former neighbours of the colonel, had been selected for the task. The patriarch, Sampson Sammons, along with his three sons, had been among the first prisoners captured by the raiding party upon its arrival at the Hall, where the colonel, in a deliberate display of bravado, had set up his temporary headquarters.

“You can let the old man go; Thomas, too. Jacob and Frederick aren’t going anywhere save to Canada with us.” The colonel smiled. “The walk will do them good.”

The comment drew satisfied grins all round. Jacob Sammons was the Commissioners’ chief overseer at the Hall. His face, when he’d realized who’d come to interrupt his slumbers in the dead of night, had been a picture to behold.

For the family’s part in the occupation of the estate, the father would remain free to reflect on his impudence on the understanding that two of his sons were to be marched as prisoners to a Canadian stockade by the very man whose property they had usurped.

Justice had been served.

“Yes, sir …” The captain paused once more. “And the militia captain, Veeder?”

“Release him, too. He’s given me his word that, if we let him go now, he’ll look upon it as the first half of an exchange. He’s promised me the Americans will reciprocate and free one of our own: Lieutenant Singleton. You may recall he was wounded and taken prisoner during the Stanwix engagement.”

Anderson frowned. “You trust Captain Veeder’s word, sir?”

“He gave it as an officer, and I knew the family in happier times so I see no reason to doubt him. He comes from good stock. His brother’s a lieutenant colonel in the county militia. I think it’s a risk worth taking if we can get Singleton back. Three years’ incarceration is enough for any man.”

Still looking sceptical, Anderson managed to force a nod. “Very good, sir.”

Sir John turned. “It would appear, gentlemen, that in the light of what we’ve accomplished, our enterprise has been rather successful, though a number of Captain McDonell’s raiding parties have yet to report back – correct?”

“Yes, sir,” McDonell said.

The colonel looked up to where the smoke clouds were staining the eastern sky. “The evidence would indicate that they’ve been performing their duties admirably. In which case it’s time we started to organize our withdrawal. I’d hate to think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

The officers smiled dutifully.

The colonel picked up his hat from the table and brushed it down. “Prepare to dismantle the camp. Also, the civilians need to be advised of their responsibilities. It took us nine days to get here from Champlain. We’ll need to step up the pace if we’re to get back to the rendezvous point without mishap. Our enemies may have slept through our arrival, but they know we’re here now and will, I suspect, be most anxious to make our acquaintance. Captain Duncan, how many fresh horses have we acquired?”

“Sixty-seven, Colonel.”

“Very good. We can put them to use as baggage animals and as mounts for the elderly and the youngest children. The ablest of the ladies and the older children will have to walk with the men. You’d better tell them they should wear suitable attire. They’ve been told to travel light, I take it? See to it they adhere to that. Anything they can’t carry gets left behind. No exceptions.”

He turned to a stocky officer with salt-and-pepper hair. “As to the troops: Captain Scott, your regulars are to act as escort. Captain Leake’s Independents and the other irregulars are to deploy as individual commanders see fit. The same goes for your riflemen, Captain Friedrich, if you’d be so kind. We will have use of them, should a delaying tactic be required.”

A slim, officious-looking officer, with hair so blond it was almost white, dressed in the uniform of a Hessian Jaeger, inclined his head. “At your command, Colonel.”

“Good. Well, unless there’s anything else …? No? Excellent. In that case, let’s get to it. Dismissed.” Sir John turned abruptly. “That includes you, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Wyatt said quickly, though there had been drollness in the colonel’s tone rather than rebuke. “Leaving now.”

He paused, struck by the expression on the colonel’s face. Sir John continued to hold the Ranger’s gaze before giving a small, almost imperceptible nod. Acknowledging the unspoken message, Wyatt summoned Tewanias to him. With the Mohawk at his shoulder, he headed back to the tether line.

“Why can’t I stay with you?”

The boy was mounted on his horse. The dog lay stretched out on the grass alongside.

The question took the Ranger by surprise, as did the look of apprehension in the blue-grey eyes. It was the first time the boy had shown anything approaching trepidation or doubt.

“Colonel’s orders. He wants all civilians to travel together.”

A frown creased the boy’s face. “Why?”

“He wants to keep you safe.”

“Can’t you do that?”

Too many damned questions, Wyatt thought, for a twelve-year-old. Though he wasn’t sure if that was, in fact, the boy’s age. As with the name, he hadn’t bothered to enquire. It hadn’t seemed relevant. It still didn’t, not really, because there had been little doubt the boy was older than his years would suggest. But then, Wyatt thought, taking a man’s life could add years to a person; it didn’t matter if they were twelve, twenty-five or seventy. He remembered how he’d felt, the first time.

Wyatt shook his head. “My men and I have to scout the trails. We might run into trouble. It’s all right, though. You’ll be safe with Reverend De Witt.” Wyatt turned. “Isn’t that so, Reverend?”

The question was greeted with matching smiles from a burly, ruddy-complexioned man in a wide-brimmed black preacher’s hat, black breeches and waistcoat, and a sturdy yet homely woman in a navy-blue dress and bonnet. The reverend’s hand rested paternally upon the shoulder of a small, auburn-haired girl of around nine years old. A grey mare stood saddled and ready behind them.

The woman laid a proprietorial hand on the pastor’s arm before he could respond to Wyatt’s question. “The young man will be as safe as houses, Lieutenant. Don’t you fret.”

The pastor nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, Mother! The more the merrier! That’s what I always say!”

Wyatt wondered if, despite the attempt at humour, the preacher wasn’t trying a little too hard to exude a confidence he might not be feeling, in order to reassure his wife and young daughter and perhaps himself that they were about to embark on nothing more arduous than an afternoon stroll through the countryside.

Though, maybe, Wyatt thought, noting again the solid, square shoulders and the brawny muscles along the pastor’s upper arms, De Witt wasn’t quite the humble shepherd he made himself out to be. In fact, having already elicited details from some of the pastor’s fellow travellers, Wyatt knew he couldn’t have been.

Wyatt had learned that De Witt was pastor to a small community on the eastern side of the Dadenoscara Creek, who’d come to the attention of the Commissioners for, supposedly, inciting disaffection against the State of New York from his Sunday pulpit. As a consequence, the pastor had been served with an order to appear at the Albany County Sessions to answer charges of sedition. Having seen what had befallen former neighbours and fellow Tories who’d faced the same accusation, and knowing that his calling offered no protection against a charge of treason, the pastor had accepted Sir John’s alternative summons to join with other Loyalist families in their flight to the Canadian border.

It had been the sight of the pistol butt protruding from one of the mare’s saddle bags as well as De Witt’s more obvious credentials that had prompted the Ranger to take the preacher aside and enquire quietly if he and his wife might be willing to look after a couple of strays in the person of a twelve-year-old orphan boy and a racoon hound of a more indeterminate pedigree.

When the pastor had asked after the boy’s parents, Wyatt had seen no reason to hold back. Neither, after revealing what he knew of the boy’s background, had he spared details in describing how Will and Beth Archer had died. What he had not disclosed was how the boy had dispatched one of his guardians’ attackers with a hatchet. The last thing he’d wanted was for either De Witt or his wife to think that they would be taking some delinquent ne’er-do-well under their wing.

The reverend, who’d known of the Archers through mutual acquaintances within the Loyalist community, had turned pale at the telling. When he’d summoned his wife to apprise her of the situation, the anguish in her face had mirrored that of her husband.

“Oh, my dear Lord – the poor wee boy!” she’d gasped, lifting a hand to her throat in horror.

“Can’t argue with that, ma’am, but probably best not to make a fuss over him,” Wyatt had advised. “From my dealings with the lad, I’d say he’s got true grit and then some. My sense is he’s strong enough not to need any reminders. He just needs to sit for a spell. It’ll hit him hard eventually and when that happens—”

“You can rest easy on that score, Lieutenant,” the pastor had reassured Wyatt firmly. “Esther and I’ll not crowd him. War makes orphans of us all in one way or another, and Mrs De Witt and I have seen more than our share of pain in that regard. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in ministering to those who’ve suffered a loss, it’s that people vent their sorrow in all sorts of ways. With some, it leaks out a few droplets at a time, while others keep the grief bottled up so tight it’s like watching water rising behind a dam, so that when the hurt becomes too much to bear—” The pastor clenched a fist against his chest. “Well, I don’t have to tell you. All we can do is offer comfort if and when that happens and place our trust in the Lord.”

Not being a particularly religious man, Wyatt wasn’t sure if the pastor had been expecting him to say ‘Amen’ at that point, but he’d made do with a solemn nod, which had evidently sufficed.

“What’s his name?”

For a moment, Wyatt thought the girl had directed her question at him, but when he turned he saw that it was the boy who was being addressed. There was an awkward silence.

“His name’s Tam,” Wyatt said, thinking: He can kill a man with an axe, but he’s lost his tongue to a preacher’s daughter?

At the mention of his name the dog pricked up his ears.

“And that’s Matthew,” Wyatt added.

“Does he bite?” the girl asked nervously.

“No,” Wyatt said. “Leastways, Tam doesn’t. Can’t say as I can speak for his master.”

Wyatt’s reply drew a bark of laughter from De Witt.

The girl giggled as she held her hand out to the dog. To her delight, Tam rose to his feet and licked at her outstretched fingers. With his interrogator distracted, the boy caught Wyatt’s eye. For the second time he looked awkward and unsure. Shifting in his saddle, he stared off over Wyatt’s right shoulder, to where Tewanias was standing.

The war paint was gone. While the effect was not as fearsome, there was no disguising the Mohawk chief’s striking features, his calm repose and the strength of his gaze.

Curious as to the boy’s obsession with the stern-faced warrior, Wyatt said, “If you want to say ‘goodbye’, it’s O:nen ki’ wahi’.”

“Interesting-looking fellow,” De Witt mused, breaking into Wyatt’s thoughts. “He’s Mohawk, yes?”

Wyatt hid his surprise. Most civilians took one look at an Indian and thought heathen savage. For a preacher to show such equanimity, no matter how enlightened, was unusual.

“Yes,” Wyatt said.

“O:nen ki’ wahi’, Tewanias,” the boy called softly.

There was no response. It was as though the Indian had not heard or had chosen not to acknowledge the words. Several seconds went by. Wyatt saw the expectancy on the boy’s face give way to confusion and then to disappointment. The slim shoulders drooped. It was at that point that the warrior’s expression changed. It was, Wyatt thought, like watching someone awaken from a trance.

When the Mohawk raised his head the pastor’s daughter was first to react, letting out a sharp gasp and shrinking back against her mother’s skirts, her play with the dog forgotten. Moving with cat-like grace, Tewanias lifted his musket and strode directly towards her.

The pastor tensed.

“No,” Wyatt said quickly. “It’ll be all right.”

Paying no heed to the reaction he’d provoked, Tewanias halted beside the boy’s horse. Wordlessly, he reached up with his free hand and removed from around his neck a rawhide thong from which was suspended a small piece of carved yellow bone. He held it out. Finally, he spoke.

“O:nen ki’ wahi’, Mat-huwa.”

“Take it,” Wyatt instructed. He realized he’d been holding his breath, though he wasn’t sure why.

The boy accepted the offering, turning it over in his hands, examining it closely. He turned to Wyatt. “How do I say—”

“Niá:wen,” Wyatt said. There was dried blood, he noticed, and what looked like a matted clump of hair and tissue adhering to the edge of the war club that was strapped across the Mohawk’s back; residue from the attack on the horseman at the Archers’ farm. He wondered if the pastor or his wife had noticed. Hopefully not; the club face wasn’t in their direct line of sight.

“Niá:wen, Tewanias,” the boy said, slipping the thong over his head and around his neck. He held the piece of bone in his hand and stared at it once more, slowly massaging its smooth surface with the ball of his thumb.

“Anowara.” It was the Indian who spoke.

“It means turtle,” Wyatt said. “Tewanias is a war chief of the Turtle clan. That’s his totem.”

“Well, bless my soul,” De Witt murmured softly as the Mohawk stepped back.

Amen to that, Reverend, Wyatt thought.

With Tewanias by his side, he looked about him. The preparations for departure were almost complete. Tents had been struck and fires doused. The stolen horses had been formed into a line and troops were checking their packs, settling into ranks, readying themselves for the march. Those Loyalists who’d chosen to remain behind were saying their final goodbyes, hugging and clasping the hands of those about to embark.

Had Wyatt not known differently, the scene might have suggested that some festivity had been taking place and that guests were preparing to wend their way home after a picnic or a barn-raising, instead of stealing away from a homeland that no longer saw them as legitimate citizens. Though, as he’d walked the grounds, he’d seen that there were many who were in tears at the thought of abandoning all that was familiar in exchange for an arduous journey towards an uncertain future.

A faint call sounded from up ahead. As the order was taken up by NCOs stationed down the line, a mood of anticipation ran through the column. The civilians began to gather themselves.

Wyatt held out his hand. “Take care, Matthew.”

Fingering the amulet, it took a second for the boy to respond, but when he did his grip was firm.

“We won’t be far,” Wyatt said. “Don’t forget that. You might not see us, but we’ll be there.”

“Stay safe, Lieutenant,” De Witt said.

“You, too, sir.” Wyatt shook the pastor’s hand, winked at the girl, who had re-emerged from hiding, and tipped his hat to Mrs De Witt. “Ma’am.”

De Witt took hold of his daughter’s waist, helped her feet find the shortened stirrups and, with his wife holding the bridle, lifted her gently on to the mare’s back.

He addressed Wyatt over his shoulder. “How’s your knowledge of the scriptures, Lieutenant? Exodus, Chapter 12, Verse 51: ‘And it came to pass the selfsame day that the Lord did bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt by their armies.”

Wyatt shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, Reverend. I’m afraid my knowledge of the good book isn’t that good. Though from what I do recall, when the Israelites took their leave they were heading for Canaan not Canada, and it took them forty years. If that’s the colonel’s plan, we’re going to need a few more supplies.”

De Witt grinned. “I’m not sure how Colonel Johnson would take to being compared to Moses!”

“Well, if Canada does turn out to be the Promised Land, Reverend, you make sure you put some of that milk and honey aside for Tewanias and me.”

“I surely will, Lieutenant. It’ll be my pleasure.”

A fresh call came from up ahead. De Witt checked his daughter was secure, took hold of the bridle from his wife, adjusted the knapsack that rested across his shoulders and, with a final nod to the Ranger, coaxed the horse into motion.

“Walk on, Nell,” he said.

Wyatt presumed the reverend was talking to the mare. He had a feeling the pastor’s daughter was called Libby.

As the preacher and his family merged with the rest of the column, the boy summoned his dog and, holding the reins in his right hand and clutching the amulet in his left, he nudged his horse forward to join them. He made no attempt to look back.

“The boy shows courage,” Tewanias murmured softly as he stared after the preacher and his party.

“He does that,” Wyatt said.

The Mohawk had spoken in English. Wyatt had long become immune to his friend’s arbitrary use of language. As well as English, Tewanias was competent in French and the various Iroquois dialects. There never seemed to be a logical reason why he chose to converse in any one of them in particular and Wyatt had come to suspect that Tewanias switched back and forth for no better reason than he enjoyed being contrary.

The two men waited until the remainder of the column was on the move, then made their way to where the rest of the patrol was waiting.

Wyatt immediately registered the grim expression on Donaldson’s face.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Scouts have reported back. Seems the local militia’s woken up. The call’s gone out: all members are to collect their weapons and assemble at Johnstown.”

Wyatt shook his head dismissively. “They won’t risk attacking us – we outnumber them two to one.”

“They’ve sent messengers to Albany,” Donaldson said.

Reinforcements, Wyatt thought. He swore softly and looked off to where the last of the column was disappearing into the trees. It was almost ninety miles to Champlain, where the vessels of the Provincial Marine were waiting. Ninety miles of near-virgin forest through which the only means of passage was a labyrinth of old military roads cut during the French-Indian wars, and ancient Iroquois trails, none of which had been adequately mapped.

The colonel had led civilians to safety through a wilderness once before, but that last occasion had involved less than two hundred souls, all of them men, most of whom had been used to living off the land. This current exodus included women and children. Adding their number to the invasion force meant there would be almost seven hundred bodies on the move; the majority of them on foot. Wyatt thought about the pastor and his implicit faith in God and of the forces that would be arrayed against them.

Better start praying now, Reverend. We’re going to need all the help we can get.