The Blooding

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.