Читать книгу The Blooding - James McGee - Страница 8

Reaching the edge of the forest, Lieutenant Gil Wyatt halted and dropped to one knee. Cradling his rifle, he gazed down at the scene spread below him, his expression calm and watchful.

From his elevated position the ground sloped away gently, gradually widening out into a swathe of rich green meadow-grass speckled with blue violets, through which ran a shallow stream bordered by stands of scarlet oak and white willow. Tree stumps dotted the incline, evidence of the labour that had gone into converting the land and raising the single-storey, timber-built cabin that nestled in the centre of the clearing.

A small cornfield and a well-stocked vegetable patch occupied one side of the dwelling. On the other, there was a paddock containing two horses and beyond that a fenced-in pasture where three dun-coloured milk cows grazed placidly, tails swishing to deter the summer flies. Half a dozen chickens competed for scratchings in the shade of the cabin’s slanted porch.

A barn and a hen house made up the rest of the homestead, along with a clapboard privy and a lean-to that had been affixed to the cabin wall as a storage shelter for winter fuel. A pile of untrimmed branches lay nearby, next to a large oak stump. Driven into the stump were a hatchet and a long-handled woodman’s axe.

There was no sign of the farm’s occupants.

Looks quiet enough, Wyatt thought as he admired the stillness of the setting. Dawn had broken more than an hour earlier but across the surface of the meadow, dew drops shone like diamonds in the soft morning haze.

It was as the lieutenant’s gaze shifted to the plume of woodsmoke rising in a lazy spiral above the cabin’s shingle roof that a shadow moved within the trees on the far side of the clearing. Wyatt tensed and then watched as a young female white-tail stepped out from behind a clump of silver birch.

Releasing his breath, Wyatt remained still. His sun-weathered face, forage cap, moss-green tunic, buckskin leggings and tan moccasin boots blended perfectly with the surrounding foliage. The direction of the smoke had already told him he was downwind so he knew the doe had not picked up his scent. If she had she would have stayed hidden and Wyatt and the four men with him would have been oblivious to her passing; with the possible exception of the individual on Wyatt’s right flank.

Unlike the Rangers, he wore neither shirt nor jacket nor any vestige of a uniform, though his appearance would have left even a casual observer with little doubt as to his calling.

His red-brown torso was bare save for two hempen straps that criss-crossed his chest, from which were slung a powder horn and a buckskin ammunition pouch. A quilled knife sheath hung on a leather cord around his neck. His lower half was clad in a blue trade-cloth breechclout and thigh-length leggings. Leg ties beneath each knee held the legging in place. Like the others, he wore deer hide moccasins.

His head, while shaven, was not unadorned, for at the back of his scalp was a ring of long black hair. Braided into the hair were three black-and-white eagle feathers. As if his hairstyle and dress were not striking enough, there was one more affectation that separated him from his companions. His face, from brow to chin, was concealed behind a rectangle of black paint. Not an inch of his natural colour was visible save for a crescent of white muscle set deep in the corner of each unblinking eye.

His right hand gripped a shortened musket. His left rested on the head of a tomahawk tucked into his waist sash. A maple-wood war club in the shape of a gunstock lay in a sling across his back.

The Indian, whose name was Tewanias, kept his gaze fixed on the doe. He did not flinch as a large yellow-jacket, lured by the smell of bear grease and paint, landed on the back of his left wrist, folded its wings and began to explore his exposed forearm.

The white-tail hovered nervously at the edge of the wood, clearly apprehensive at the thought of venturing into the open, though the fact that she was there at all indicated that she was probably a regular visitor to the clearing and therefore not averse to using the stream to satisfy her thirst, despite its proximity to human habitation.

For a moment it looked as though she might overcome her fear, but at a sudden stream of excited bird chatter erupting from within the forest, the doe froze. With a lightning-fast turn, one swift bound and a flash of pale rump she was gone, swallowed by the dense underbrush.

The Indian’s attention switched immediately towards a point on the opposite side of the stream. Wyatt followed his companion’s gaze to where a natural break in the trees and the beginning of a rough track could just be seen and watched as half a dozen riders cantered into view. They were in civilian dress and each of them carried a musket, resting either across his thigh or strapped across his back.

A sharp hiss came from the man on Wyatt’s left. “Militia!”

“God damn!” another nearby voice spat forcefully. Then, more speculatively, “You think they’re after us, Lieutenant?”

The words were dispensed in a distinctive Scottish brogue.

Without taking his eyes from the riders, Wyatt shook his head, frowned and said softly, “How would they know?”

“Some of their scouts will have got through. They’ll have reported in,” the second speaker, whose name was Donaldson, responded, murmuring, as though to himself, “They must have gotten wind of us by now. They’d have to be blind, otherwise … or bluidy deaf.”

Wyatt pursed his lips. “They’d be coming from Albany in force if that was the case. Our own scouts would have warned us.”

It was a wonder, Wyatt reflected as he watched the horsemen draw closer to the stream, that the expedition had made it this far without being discovered. Though Colonel Johnson had been very careful in his preparations, periodically sending out skirmishers along Champlain’s wooded shoreline in order to fool enemy scouts into thinking the final incursion was merely one in a number of reconnaissance missions and therefore of no specific interest.

Only when the force had finally assembled at Lachine had war bands from the Lake of Two Mountains been dispatched to search for and capture rebel patrols to prevent them from spreading word of the impending raid, thus clearing the path for the main body of troops to come in behind them undetected.

And, incredibly, the plan had worked. More than five hundred men – over three hundred whites and nearly two hundred native allies – had successfully negotiated the landing at Crown Point and completed the nine-day march through enemy territory without a shot being fired.

This morning was the first time Wyatt and his group had sighted a rebel force – either regular or militia. If that’s what this lot were, Wyatt thought. Their dress and weaponry certainly suggested the latter, but then every man who lived in this part of the state, close to what could loosely be termed the frontier, had a gun, for protection as well as a means of providing food for the table. It was possible they were just a group of friends out for a morning’s hunt.

But Wyatt didn’t think so. There was something in the way the riders held themselves that smacked of grim authority. They looked like men with a purpose.

As he watched them walk their horses across the stream in single file, Wyatt began to experience an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

When Tam started towards the door, ears pricked and grumbling at the back of his throat, Will Archer’s first thought was that it was more than likely a deer. The animals often came to drink at the creek, particularly at this hour, when the sun was just showing over the treetops and the farm was at its most peaceful.

He looked through the window but there was nothing to see, save for the view of the stream and the forest; the same view that greeted him every morning.

Behind him, the dog emitted another low, more menacing growl.

Not a deer then, Archer thought, alerted – though he wasn’t sure why – by the continuing gruffness in Tam’s voice. The hound was extremely good natured as a rule and signs of aggression were rare.

As the first of the riders came into sight Archer’s stomach knotted.

“Will? What is it?”

Archer turned to his wife, who was standing by the table in a flour-dusted linen apron. Her hands were bound in a damp cloth, holding a loaf she’d just removed from the oven. Turning the hot bread on to the board in front of her, she put down the cloth and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, leaving a fresh smudge of flour on her right cheek.

“Stay here,” Archer instructed.

She frowned, concerned by the warning note.

“We have visitors,” Archer said.

Curious as to whom they might be, his wife walked towards him, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked past his shoulder. By now, all six horsemen had forded the stream and were nearing the cabin. Her face went pale.

Archer reached for the loaded musket that was leaning against the wall by the door. Beth Archer laid a hand on his arm.

“It’s all right,” Archer said. “I’ll deal with them.” Gently removing his wife’s hand, he nudged Tam away from the door with his knee. “Good lad, stay.”

Before his wife could offer a protest or the dog follow, Archer cocked the musket and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The hens clucked indignantly as they were forced to step out of his path.

Musket held loosely across his arms, he waited.

The riders slowed their mounts and fanned out, finally stopping in a rough line abreast in front of the cabin’s porch. One of them, a lean man in his forties with sallow features and the stain from an old powder burn on his right cheek, eased his horse forward. He was dressed in a long blue riding coat and a slouch hat. With his right hand resting on the musket laid across his saddle horn, he addressed the man on the ground.

“Morning, William! A fine day, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It was,” Archer said, without warmth.

The rider acknowledged the slight with a thin smile. He considered Archer for several long moments and then said, “You’ll know why we’re here.”

Archer met his gaze. “And you know my answer. You’ve had a wasted journey, Deacon. I’ve already told you; my loyalty’s to the King.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the rider said.

Archer’s eyes moved along the line of horsemen. They were dressed in a similar fashion to Deacon and all, save one, carried the same cold expression on his face. Archer was acquainted with each of them. Four were fellow homesteaders: Deacon, Isaac Meeker – the florid-faced man to Deacon’s right, who farmed land two valleys over – and the surly-looking pair on Deacon’s immediate left, Levi and Ephraim Smede.

The Smede brothers were seldom seen apart. Rumour had it that was the only way the pair could muster one functioning brain between them. When they weren’t helping their father on the family farm, they hired themselves out as labourers to anyone who wanted a wall built or a stream dammed – or someone intimidated.

Axel Shaw, the dour individual on Ephraim Smede’s left, was postmaster over at the settler village near Caughnawaga. Archer turned his attention to the rider at the other end of the line. Curly-haired, with angular features, he was the youngest of the group. Archer could see by the way his hands were fidgeting with his reins that he was more ill at ease than the others, as if he would rather have been someplace else.

“That you, Jeremiah?” Archer enquired pleasantly. “Haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been? How’s Maggie? Beth was hoping to call in on her the next time we picked up supplies at the store.”

The horseman shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed at being singled out. “She’s well, thank you.” Refusing to meet Archer’s eye, his gaze slid away.

“Enough,” the man called Deacon cut in. “We’re not here for a neighbourly chat. This is business.” He looked at Archer. “So, you won’t reconsider?”

“Not now,” Archer said; his tone emphatic. “Not ever.”

The horseman considered the reply then said, “Maybe you should have left with the others.”

Archer shook his head. “I’ve too much sweat and blood invested in this place to walk away.” He stared fixedly at the man on the horse. “Or see it purloined by the likes of you.”

The rider coloured. Recovering quickly, he assumed a look of mock hurt. “You wound me, William. What sort of man d’you take me for?”

“A goddamn traitor,” Archer said flatly.

The humour leached from Deacon’s face. “Not a traitor, Archer. A patriot. Like these men with me; men who’ve had their fill of paying unfair taxes to a country on the other side of the world and not having a thing to show for it.”

“A country you fought for, Seth,” Archer responded, “as I recall. You took the King’s shilling then. Was it so long ago, you’ve forgotten which side you were on?”

“I’ve not forgotten, but a little more remuneration wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

Archer’s eyebrows lifted. “What were you expecting? We defeated our enemies; the King’s enemies; and we lived through it. That should have been reward enough.”

“Not for me,” Deacon snapped. His grip on the musket tightened and then, as if having come to a decision, he intoned solemnly, “William Archer, by the authority vested in me by the Tryon County Committee, you are hereby called to attend the County Board in Albany. There to appear before the Commissioners for Detecting and Defeating Conspiracies, in order that you may swear an Oath of Allegiance to the State of New York and the Congress of the United States of America.”

“No.” Archer shook his head. “I’ve told you: my allegiance is to the Crown, not your damned Congress. Besides, I’ve better things to do than make a wasted journey all the way to Albany and back. I’ve a farm to run; stock to care for.”

Deacon looked out towards the pasture and sneered. “Three milk cows? Not what I’d call a herd.”

Archer stiffened. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Deacon’s head turned quickly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Archer stared coldly back at him. “Don’t play the innocent, Seth. I know damned well that losing my other two cows was your doing. Wouldn’t be surprised if you paid those two to do your dirty work, either.” Archer indicated the Smedes. “I hear breaking the legs of livestock is one of their specialities.”

Deacon’s eyes darkened. “You need to curb that tongue, my friend. That’s slander. Men have died for less.”

“You’d know about that, too, I expect. And pretty soon, Deacon, you’re going to realize I’m not your friend. So you’d best ride on. There’s naught for you here.”

Archer heard the cabin door open behind him.

Deacon rose in his saddle and tipped his hat. His expression lightened. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Morning to you, Mrs Archer.”

Beth Archer did not reply. She stood in the doorway, the checked cloth in her hands, staring at the line of riders. The flour smudge on her cheek had disappeared, Archer noticed.

Unfazed, Deacon lowered his rump and adjusted his grip on the musket. “Thing is, the Commissioners want reassurance that you’re not passing information to enemy forces.”

Archer sighed. “I’m a farmer. I don’t have any information to pass, not unless they’d like to know how many eggs my bantams have been laying.”

“Anyone refusing to swear allegiance to the Patriot government will be presumed guilty of endeavouring to subvert it.”

Archer’s eyebrows rose. “Commissioners tell you to say that, did they? Must be difficult trying to remember all those long words. Good thing you’re the spokesman and not either of those two.” Archer threw another look towards the brothers.

“There’s still time to recant,” Deacon said.

“Recant? Now you’re sounding like Pastor Slocum. Maybe his sermons are starting to have an effect after all. He’ll be pleased about that.”

“If you renounce Toryism you’ll be permitted to stay with no blemish attached to your character.”

“Well, that’s a comfort. And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll be subject to the full penalty of the law.”

“Which means what?”

“Anyone who refuses to take the oath will be removed.”

“Removed?” Archer felt the first stirrings of genuine concern. “To where?”

“A place where they’re no longer in a position to do damage. Either to another part of the state, or else to a place of confinement.”

“You mean prison.”

“If necessary. It’s my duty to inform you that unless you’re prepared to take the oath, this land becomes forfeit, as do all goods and chattels, which will be sold off for the benefit of the Continental Congress.”

“Sold?” Archer shot back. “The hell you say! Stolen, more like! And how do you propose to do that? You going to hitch it all to a wagon? Or roll everything up and deliver it to Albany in your saddle bags? That, I’d like to see.”

“‘T’ain’t the farm that’ll be heading Albany way, Archer. It’ll be you. You and your family.”

It was Levi Smede who’d spoken. A thin smile played across his sharp-edged face.

Archer stared at him. His finger slid inside the musket’s trigger guard. “You’re threatening my family, now?”

Deacon threw the brother a sharp look before turning back. “I’ve orders to deliver you to the Board, under guard if necessary. It’s up to you.”

“Well, I suppose that answers that question,” Archer said.

“Question?” Deacon frowned.

“Why there’s six of you.”

He looked along the line. Deacon was riding point, but based on their reputations, the Smedes were undoubtedly the more significant threat, though Ephraim was the only one of the two holding a musket. Levi’s was still strapped across his shoulders. Of the other three, Shaw and Meeker, although they had their weapons to hand, would probably hesitate. Jeremiah Kidd, Archer sensed, would be too scared to do anything, even if he did manage to un-sling his musket in time.

Throughout the exchange, Archer had become increasingly and uncomfortably aware that Beth was standing behind him. He knew that it would be no use telling her to go inside. Her independent streak was part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. He was surprised it had taken her this long to come out to see what was happening.

“There’s just you and me,” Deacon said, his voice adopting a more conciliatory tone. “No reason why this can’t be settled amicably. All you’re required to do is ride with us to Johnstown and place your signature on the document. Small price to pay for all of this.”

His eyes shifted to the porch where Beth Archer was framed in the doorway. The inference was clear.

Archer stepped forward. “Go home, Deacon. You’re trespassing. This is my land. I fought for it once. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t do so again.”

Deacon turned his attention away from the house and stared down at him in silence, eyeing the musket. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, if that’s your decision; so be it. Ephraim, Levi …”

So much for “just you and me”, Archer thought.

“Will!” Beth cried, as Levi Smede grinned and drew a pistol from his belt.

Archer threw the musket to his shoulder.

“Inside, Beth!” he yelled, as Deacon brought his gun up.

Archer fired.

The ball struck Levi Smede in the chest, lifting him over the back of his saddle and down into the dust. The pistol flew from Smede’s hand.

Archer was already twisting away when Deacon’s musket went off, but he wasn’t quick enough. The ball punched into his side with the force of a mule kick. Pain exploded through him. Dropping his musket as he fell, he heard another sharp yet strangely distant report and saw Deacon’s head snap back, enveloped in a crimson mist of blood and brain matter. Hitting the ground, he saw Beth draw the pistol from beneath the checked cloth, aim and fire.

Axel Shaw shrieked and clamped a hand to his thigh. Dark blood sprayed across his horse’s flank.

Ephraim Smede, bellowing with rage at his brother’s plight, flinched as another shot rang out and stared aghast as Isaac Meeker’s mount crashed on to its side, legs kicking. Searching frantically for the source of the attack, his eyes were drawn to a puff of powder smoke dissipating in the space between the barn and the hen house.

“Bitch!” Spitting out the obscenity, Smede aimed his musket at Beth Archer. The gun belched flame. Without waiting to see if the ball had struck, he tossed the discharged weapon aside and clawed for his pistol.

Meeker, meanwhile, had managed to scramble clear of his horse. Retrieving his musket, he turned to see where the shot had come from, only to check as a ball took him in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top.

Archer, on the ground, venting blood and trying to make sense of what was happening, found Jeremiah Kidd staring at him in puzzlement and fear. And then Archer realized that Kidd wasn’t staring at him he was staring past him. Archer squirmed and looked over his shoulder. Through eyes blurring with tears he could see four men in uniform, hard-looking men, each carrying a long gun. Two of them were drawing pistols as they ran towards the house.

Another crack sounded. This time it was Kidd who yelped as a ball grazed his arm. Wheeling his horse about, he dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and galloped full pelt in the direction of the stream.

Only to haul back on the reins, the cry rising in his throat, as a vision from hell rose up to meet him.

Wyatt, discharged rifle in hand, stepped out from the side of the barn. He’d been surprised when Archer had shot Smede, assuming that Deacon would be the farmer’s first target. It had taken only a split second to alter his aim, but he’d not been quick enough to prevent Deacon’s retaliation. As a result, Archer was already on his back by the time Deacon met his emphatic demise, courtesy of Wyatt’s formidable, albeit belated, marksmanship.

It had been Jem Beddowes, Wyatt’s fellow Ranger, who’d shot Meeker’s horse from under him. Beddowes had been aiming at the rider, but the horse had shied at the last moment, startled by the volley of gunshots, and the ball had struck the animal instead, much to Beddowes’ annoyance. His companion, Donaldson, had compensated for the miss by shooting Meeker in the shoulder, which had left the fourth Ranger – Billy Drew – and Tewanias with loaded guns, along with two functioning rebels, the younger of whom, to judge by the way he was urging his horse towards the stream, was fully prepared to leave his companions to their respective fates.

Isaac Meeker, meanwhile, having lost his musket for the second time, pushed himself to his knees. Wounded and disoriented, he stared around him. His horse had ceased its death throes and lay a few feet away, its belly stained with blood from the deep wound in its side. Deacon and Levi Smede were sprawled like empty sacks in the dirt, their mounts having bolted. Half of Deacon’s face was missing.

He looked for Shaw and saw that the postmaster had fallen from his horse and was on the ground, trying to crawl away from the carnage. The musket looped across Shaw’s back was dragging in the dirt and acting like a sea anchor, hampering his progress. He was whimpering in agony. An uneven trail of blood followed behind him.

A fresh shot sounded from close by. Not a long gun this time, but a pistol. Meeker ducked and then saw it was Ephraim Smede, still in the saddle, who had fired at their attackers. Meeker looked around desperately for a means by which to defend himself and discovered his musket lying less than a yard away. Reaching for it, he managed to haul back on the hammer and looked for someone to shoot. He wasn’t given the chance. Ranger Donaldson fired his pistol on the run. The ball struck the distracted Meeker between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Ephraim Smede felt his horse shudder. He’d been about to make his own run for the stream when Billy Drew, having finally decided which of the two surviving riders was the most dangerous, took his shot.

The impact was so sudden it seemed to Smede as if his horse had run into an invisible wall. One second he was hunkered low in the saddle, leaning across his mount’s neck, the next the beast had pitched forward and Smede found himself catapulted over its head like a rock from a trebuchet. He smashed to the ground, missing Shaw’s prostrate body by inches. Winded and shaken, he clambered to his knees.

He was too engrossed in steadying himself to see Ranger Beddowes take aim with his pistol. Nor did he hear the crack nor see the spurt of muzzle flame, but he felt the heat of the ball as it struck his right temple. Ephraim Smede’s final vision before he fell was of his brother’s lifeless eyes staring skywards and the dark stain that covered Levi’s chest. Stretching out his fingers, he only had time to touch his brother’s grubby coat sleeve before the blackness swooped down to claim him.

Determining the rebels’ likely escape route had not been difficult and Wyatt, in anticipation, had dispatched Tewanias to cover the stream’s crossing place.

It was the Mohawk warrior’s sudden appearance, springing from the ground almost beneath his horse’s feet, that had forced the cry of terror from Jeremiah Kidd’s throat. The mare, unnerved as much by her rider’s reaction as by the obstacle in her path, reared in fright. Poor horsemanship and gravity did the rest.

The earth rose so quickly to meet him, there was not enough time to take evasive action. Putting out an arm to break his fall didn’t help. The snap of breaking bone as Kidd’s wrist took the full weight of his body was almost as audible as the gunshots that had accompanied his dash for freedom.

As he watched his horse gallop away, Kidd became aware of a lithe shape running in. He turned. His eyes widened in shock, the pain in his wrist forgotten as the war club scythed towards his head.

The world went dark, rendering the second blow a mere formality, which, while brutal in its execution, at least saved Kidd the agony of hearing Tewanias howl with triumph as he dug his knife into flesh and ripped the scalp from his victim’s fractured skull. Brandishing his prize, the Mohawk returned the blade to its sheath and looked for his next trophy.

Archer knew from his years of soldiering and by the way the blood was seeping between his fingers that his condition was critical. He looked towards the porch, where a still form lay crumpled by the cabin door. A cold fist gripped his heart and began to squeeze.

Beth.

Hand clasped against his side, Archer dragged himself towards his wife’s body. He tried to call out to her but the effort of drawing air into his lungs proved too much; all he could manage was a rasping croak.

Why hadn’t she done as she was told? he thought bleakly. Why hadn’t she stayed inside? His slow crawl through the dirt came to a halt as a shadow fell across him.

“Don’t move,” a voice said gently.

He looked up and found himself face to face with one of the uniformed rifle bearers.

A firm hand touched his shoulder. “Lieutenant Gil Wyatt, Ranger Company.”

“Rangers?” Archer blinked in confusion and then, as the significance of the word hit him, he made a desperate grab for Wyatt’s arm. “My wife; she’s hurt!”

“My men will see to her,” Wyatt said. He flicked a glance at Donaldson, who crossed swiftly to the cabin. “Let me take a look at your wound.”

“No!” Archer thrust away Wyatt’s hand. “She needs me!”

He tried to push himself off the ground, but the effort proved too much and he sank down. “Help her,” he urged. “Please.”

Wyatt looked off to where Donaldson was crouched over the fallen woman. A grim expression on his gaunt face, the Ranger shook his head. Laying his hand on Archer’s shoulder once more, Wyatt helped him sit up. “I’m so very sorry. I’m afraid we’re too late. She’s gone.”

The wounded man let out a cry of despair. Knowing that nothing he could say would help, Wyatt scanned the clearing. Twenty minutes ago, he had been up on the hill, admiring the tranquillity. Now the ground seemed to be strewn with bodies. As Donaldson covered the woman’s face with a cloth, Wyatt turned back to her husband.

Archer made no protest as Wyatt prised his hand from the wound, but he could not suppress a gasp of pain as the Ranger opened the bloodied shirt.

One glance told Wyatt all he needed to know. “We must get you to a surgeon.”

The nearest practitioner was in Johnstown, but to deliver the wounded man there would be asking for trouble. An army surgeon and a brace of medical assistants had accompanied the invasion force. They were the farmer’s best chance.

Although, given his current condition, Wyatt doubted whether the wounded man would survive the first eight yards, let alone the eight miles they’d need to traverse across what was, in effect, hostile country.

He looked off towards the paddock, where the horses were staring back at him, ears pricked. Wyatt could tell they were skittish, no doubt agitated by the recent skirmish, but it gave him an idea.

“Is there a cart or a wagon?” he asked.

“The barn,” Archer replied weakly. He tried to point but found he couldn’t lift his arm.

“Easy,” Wyatt said. Cupping the farmer’s shoulder, he called to his men. “Jem! Billy! There’s transport in the barn! Hitch up the horses! Smartly now!”

As he watched them go, he heard a murmur and realized the farmer was speaking to him. He lowered his head to catch the words.

“You’re Rangers?” Archer enquired hoarsely as his lips tried to form the question. “What are you doing here?”

“We came for you,” Wyatt said.

“Me?” Puzzlement clouded the farmer’s face.

“You and others like you. We’re here under the orders of Governor-General Haldimand. When he learned that Congress was threatening to intern all Loyalists, he directed Colonel Johnson to lead a force across the border to rescue as many families as he could and escort them back to British soil.”

Archer stared at him blankly. “Sir John’s returned?”

“Two nights ago. With five hundred fighting men, and a score to settle. Scouting units have been gathering up all those who wish to leave, from Tribe’s Hill to as far west as the Nose.”

“There’s not many of us left.” Archer spoke through gritted teeth. “Most have already sold up and gone north after having their barns burned down and their homes looted, or their cattle maimed or poisoned.” Sweat coating his forehead, he winced and pressed his hand to his side until the wave of pain subsided enough for him to continue. “All for refusing to serve in home defence units. This wasn’t the first visit I’d had but this time they were threatening to throw me in prison and take my farm.”

“Those men were militia?”

“Citizens’ Committee. They were under orders to take me to Johnstown to pledge allegiance to the flag. I told them to ride on.” The farmer bowed his head. “I should have gone with them.” He looked towards the cabin and his face crumpled.

“You weren’t to know it would end like this,” Wyatt said softly. “If I’d realized who they were, I’d have given the order to intercede sooner.”

His face pinched with pain and grief, Archer looked up. “How many have you gathered so far?”

“A hundred perhaps, including wives and children and some Negro slaves. They’re all at the Hall. It’s the rendezvous point.”

There was no response. Wyatt thought the farmer had passed out until he saw his eyelids flutter open, the eyes casting about in confusion before suddenly opening wide. As Wyatt followed his gaze in search of the cause, the breath caught like a hook in his throat.

Ephraim Smede came to with blood pooling along the rim of his right eye socket. He blinked and the world took on a pinkish sheen. He blinked again and his vision began to clear. He was aware that the gunfire had ceased but an inner voice, allied to the pain from the open gash across his forehead, told him it would be better to remain where he was so he lay unmoving, listening; alert to the sounds around him.

A few more seconds passed before he raised himself up. He did so slowly. His first view was of his brother’s corpse. Beyond Levi, he could see the bodies of their companions, along with the two dead horses. Pools of blood were soaking into the ground, darkening the soil. Flies were starting to swarm.

He could hear voices but they were low and indistinct. He couldn’t see who was speaking because the rump of Isaac Meeker’s dead nag blocked his line of sight.

It occurred to Smede that he was probably the only one of Deacon’s party left alive. From the looks of Axel Shaw, he must have bled to death. There was no sign of Kidd, but Smede doubted the youth would have survived the ambush – or stuck around if he had.

Which meant he was on his own, with a decision to make. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to his brother’s glassy stare and a fresh spark of anger flared within him.

As his gaze alighted on Levi’s pistol.

A low moan came from close by. Smede dropped down quickly. He held his breath, waiting until the sound trailed off before cautiously raising his head once. Will Archer was propped some twenty paces away. One of the green-clad men was with him; he shouted something and two of the attackers ran immediately towards the barn.

Another movement drew Ephraim’s attention. A second pair was rounding up the horses. One of them, Ephraim saw to his consternation, was an Indian. His startled gaze took in the face paint and the weapons that the dark-skinned warrior carried about him. There was also what appeared to be a lock of hair hanging from his breechclout.

Bile rose into the back of Ephraim’s throat. Escape, he now realized, wasn’t only advisable; it was essential.

He watched through narrowed eyes, nerves taut, as the two Rangers pulled open the barn door and disappeared inside. Quickly, his gaze turned back to the pistol lying a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder.

Now, he thought.

Concealed by Meeker’s horse, Smede inched his way towards the unguarded firearm until he was able to close his fingers around the gun’s smooth walnut grip.

He took another deep breath, gathering himself, waiting until the Indian’s attention was averted. One chance at a clear shot; that’s all he would get.

And then he would run.

He knew the woods like the back of his hand; if he could just make it to the trees, the forest would hide him.

Maybe.

His main fear was the Mohawk, because the pistol, with its single load, was all he had. But his brother’s killer came first. An eye for an eye, so that Levi could go to the grave knowing that his brother had exacted revenge. So …

In one fluid motion, Smede snatched up the gun, rose to his feet, took aim, and fired.

As the blood-smeared figure tilted towards them, Wyatt, caught between supporting the wounded Archer and reaching for his weapon, let out a yell. Alerted by his cry, Tewanias and Donaldson both turned.

Too late.

The ball thudded into Archer’s chest and he collapsed back into Wyatt’s arms with a muffled grunt.

Whereupon Ephraim Smede, who was about to launch himself in the direction of the woods, paused, his features suddenly distorting in a combination of shock, pain and disbelief. Mouth open, he uttered no sound as his body arched and spasmed in mid-air.

As Wyatt and the others looked on in astonishment, Smede’s legs buckled and, one hand clutching the spent pistol, he pitched forward on to his face.

It wasn’t until the body struck the ground that Wyatt saw the stem of the hatchet that protruded from the base of Smede’s skull and the slim figure that, until then, had been blocked from view by Smede’s temporarily resurrected form.

“No!” Coming out of his trance, Wyatt threw out his arm.

Tewanias, whose finger was already tightening on the trigger, paused and then slowly lowered his musket. A frown of puzzlement flickered across the war-painted face.

Wyatt felt a tremor move through Archer’s body. It was obvious from the uneven rise and fall of the wounded man’s chest that death was imminent.

The eyes fluttered open one last time and focused on Smede’s killer with a look that might have been part relief and part wonderment. Then his expression broke and he grabbed Wyatt’s sleeve and pulled him close.

Wyatt had to bow his head to catch the words:

“Keep him safe.”

The farmer’s head fell against Wyatt’s arm. Wyatt felt for a pulse but there was none. He looked up.

The boy, though tall, couldn’t be much more than eleven or twelve years old. For all that, the expression on his face was one that Wyatt had seen mirrored by much older men when the battle was over and the scent of blood and death hung in the air.

A shock of dark hair flopped over the boy’s forehead as his eyes took in the scene of devastation, his jaw clenching when he saw the body on the porch. Running across the clearing to where Wyatt was crouched over the farmer’s body, he fell to his knees.

Close to, Wyatt could see tear tracks glistening amid the grime on the boy’s face. A trembling hand reached out and gently touched the dead man’s arm.

“Aunt Beth told me to hide in the cellar, but I came back up.” The boy looked to where Ephraim Smede’s corpse lay in the dirt. “I saw that man shoot her. Then he fell off his horse and I thought he was dead. But he was only pretending.”

The boy’s voice shook. “I wanted to warn you, but there was shooting out front, so I went round the back by the woodpile. I saw the man pick up the gun. I was too scared to call out in case he saw me. I picked up the axe thinking I might scare him. Only I was too late. He …” The boy paused. “He shot Uncle Will, so I hit him as hard as I could.”

The boy’s voice gave way. Fresh tears welled. Letting go of the farmer’s arm, he lifted a hand to wipe the wetness from his cheeks and looked over his shoulder, his jaw suddenly set firm. “He won’t hurt anyone again, will he?”

“No,” Wyatt said, staring at the axe handle. “No, lad, he won’t.”

An equine snort sounded from close by. Wyatt, glad of the distraction, saw it was Tewanias and Donaldson returning with the captured mounts. Behind them, Billy Drew, flanked by Jem Beddowes, was leading one of the two farm horses, harnessed to a low-slung, flat-bed cart.

As they caught his eye, Wyatt gently released the farmer’s body, stood up and shook his head. “Sorry, Billy. We won’t be needing it after all.”

“He’s gone?” Drew asked.

“Aye.”

“Son?” Drew indicated the boy.

“Nephew,” Wyatt said heavily. “Far as I can tell.”

“Poor wee devil,” Drew said. Then he caught sight of the axe. “Jesus,” he muttered softly.

“What’ll we do with them?” Donaldson enquired, indicating Deacon and the other dead Committee members.

“Not a damned thing,” Wyatt snapped. “They can lay there and rot as far as I’m concerned.”

“Seems fair.” Donaldson agreed, before adding quietly, “And the other two?”

“Them we do take care of. They deserve a decent burial, if nothing else. See if you can find a shovel. It’s a farm. There’ll be one around somewhere.”

“And then?” Beddowes said.

“And then we report back.”

“The boy?”

“He comes with us,” Wyatt said. “We might as well take advantage of the horses, too.” He turned. “Can you ride, lad?”

The boy looked up. “Yes, sir. That one’s mine. He’s called Jonah.” He indicated the horse that Billy Drew had left in the paddock. It was the smaller one of the two.

“There was tack in the barn,” Beddowes offered.

Wyatt turned. “Very well, saddle him up and take this one back. Make sure he’s got plenty of feed and water. We’ll see to the rest.” Wyatt addressed the boy. “You go with Jem; show him where you keep Jonah’s blanket and bridle.”

Hesitantly, the boy rose to his feet. Wyatt waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to the others.

“All right, we’d best get it over with.”

They buried Archer and his wife in the shade of a tall oak tree that grew behind the cabin, marking the graves with a pair of wooden crosses made from pieces of discarded fence post. Neither one bore an inscription. There wasn’t time, Wyatt told them.

Donaldson, whose father had been a minister, was familiar with the scriptures and carried a small bible in his shoulder pouch. He chose the twenty-third psalm, reading it aloud as his fellow Rangers bowed their heads, caps in hand, while the Indian held the horses and looked on stoically.

The scalp had disappeared from the Mohawk’s breechclout. When he’d spotted it, Wyatt had reminded Tewanias of the colonel’s orders: no enemy corpses were to be mutilated. It was with some reluctance that Tewanias returned to the river and laid the scalp across the body of its original owner.

“Let it act as a warning to those who would think to pursue us,” Wyatt told him. “Knowing we are joined with our Mohawk brothers will make our enemies fearful. They will hide in their homes and lock their doors and tremble in the darkness.”

Wyatt wasn’t sure that Tewanias was entirely convinced by that argument, but the Mohawk nodded sagely as if he agreed with the words. In any case, both of them knew there were likely to be other battles and therefore other scalps for the taking, so, for the time being at least, honour was satisfied.

The boy stood gazing down at the graves with Wyatt’s hand resting on his shoulder. The dog, Tam, lay at his side, having been released from the cabin when, under Wyatt’s direction, the boy had returned to the house to gather up his possessions for the journey.

Donaldson ended the reading and closed the bible. The Rangers raised their heads and put on their caps.

“Time to go,” Wyatt said. “Saddle up.” He addressed the boy. “You have everything? You won’t be coming back.” The words carried a hard finality.

Tear tracks showing on his cheeks, the boy pointed at the canvas bag slung over his saddle.

Wyatt surveyed the yard – littered with the bodies of Deacon and his men – and the blood-drenched soil now carpeted with bloated flies. It was a world away from the serene, sun-dappled vision that had greeted the Rangers’ arrival earlier that morning.

He glanced towards the three cows in the paddock and the chickens pecking around the henhouse; the livestock would have to fend for themselves. There was enough food and water to sustain them until someone came to see why Archer and his wife hadn’t been to town for a while. There would be others along, too, wondering why the members of the Citizens’ Committee hadn’t returned to the fold.

Let them come, Wyatt thought. Let them see.

The Mohawk warrior handed the boy the reins of his horse and watched critically as he climbed up. Satisfied that the boy knew what he was doing, he wheeled his mount and took up position at the head of the line. With Tewanias riding point, the five men and the boy rode into the stream, towards the track leading into the forest. The dog padded silently behind them.

Halfway across the creek, the Indian turned to the boy and spoke. “Naho:ten iesa:iats?”

The boy looked to Wyatt for guidance.

“He asked you your name,” Wyatt said.

It occurred to Wyatt that in the time they’d spent in the boy’s company, neither he nor any of his men had bothered to ask that question. They’d simply addressed him as “lad” or “son” or, in Donaldson’s case, “young ’un”. Though they all knew the name of the damned dog.

The boy stared at Tewanias and then at each of the Rangers in turn. It was then that Wyatt saw the true colour appear in the boy’s eyes. Blue-grey, the shade of rain clouds after a storm.

The boy drew himself up.

“My name is Matthew,” he said.