The Blooding

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.

3

December 1812

It was just after eight o’clock in the evening when Captain Maynard Curtiss of the 11th Regiment of Infantry emerged on to a darkened Church Street. As the door to the club closed softly behind him, he buttoned up his greatcoat, adjusted his hat and awarded himself a wide grin of satisfaction. He had just spent the last hour with a very attractive and, it had to be said, rather energetic young lady by the name of Jessica, and he was feeling not only replete but somewhat over-awed by the dexterity of his own performance.

Admittedly, Jessie was a whore and thus her enthusiasm and the praise she’d lavished upon him for the pleasure he’d provided during their riotous coupling might have had more to do with the fact that she was being paid for her time rather than it being a true reflection of her client’s expertise between the sheets. But that knowledge in no way detracted from the captain’s sense of well-being as he made his way down the quiet moonlit street.

To counteract the cold breeze that was coming in off the river, he turned up his coat collar. Increasing his stride, he headed for the alleyway and the shortcut between Church Street and Court Street that would lead him to his eventual destination, the South Ferry terminal. There was a hint of rain in the air and he had no desire to be caught out in the wet.

The alley was empty and the tread of the captain’s footsteps seemed to echo in the darkness. A few people had been out on the main streets, wrapped up against the cold as they’d hurried off to hearth and home. In this less salubrious part of the town, the citizens most liable to be abroad were either drinkers or parlour-house punters like the captain. Given the distinct nip in the air, even these hardy souls preferred to remain indoors, in the warmth, indulging in their chosen pastime. The only others willing to brave the cold were the prospective passengers heading for the last ferry to Greenbush before the service shut down for the night.

Curtiss had travelled not more than fifty paces when he realized that he might have company. It wasn’t any particular sound that had alerted him to the possibility. More a feeling in his bones, a sense that someone was watching.

He paused and stole a quick glance over his shoulder. A stooped figure, clearly the worse for wear, a knapsack across its back, was weaving unsteadily down the alleyway towards him, left hand outstretched, using the wall as guidance. There was a brief silvery glint as a beam of moonlight glanced off an object held in the figure’s right hand. Curtiss felt a flash of fear until he saw that the reflection had come not from a blade but from a glass bottle. As he watched, the figure lifted the bottle to its lips and took a hefty swig from the contents, almost overbalancing in the process, despite the fact that one hand was still braced against the brickwork.

Grimacing with distaste at such a pathetic display of drunkenness, the captain turned and continued on his way, keen to return to the comfort of his billet, there to enjoy one last tot of whiskey and to bask in the warm memory of his recent exertions before he finally retired for the night.

Another thirty paces and it occurred to Curtiss that, whoever the drunk was, his footsteps were inaudible. This struck Curtiss as unusual, given the noise his own boots were making as they scuffed their way through the dirt and the occasional puddle. Not unduly concerned, more curious than suspicious, he turned again, half-expecting to see a comatose form sprawled face down in the dirt several yards behind him.

It wasn’t the sight of the figure looming two feet away from him that caused the captain to take a quick step back so much as the knowledge that the man had managed to cover the distance between them not only in a matter of seconds but in total silence as well.

There were no street lamps in the alleyway. That convenience had yet to penetrate Albany’s narrow dockside lanes. What illumination there was came from the candlelight that spilled weakly from gaps in a few badly fitting shutters and the pale moon that hung, suspended like a pearl, high above the surrounding chimney pots.

As he stared at the shadowy form before him, Curtiss had a fleeting impression of a dark-haired individual as tall as himself. The captain’s startled gaze flickered across what he could see of the man’s features, to the dark eyes set in a hard face and the two ragged scars that ran in parallel furrows across the upper curve of the man’s left cheekbone.

Curtiss never saw the blow that struck him and thus had no chance of defending himself. One second he was standing in the alley, the next he was coming to his senses, face down in the dirt, feeling as if he’d just been run over by a coach and four – several times.

He raised his head cautiously, and then wished he hadn’t as a sharp bolt of pain lanced through his jaw and speared its way into the backs of his eyeballs. Letting out a groan, he winced and sank down again. Confused by his situation, he lay still for several seconds until the nausea had subsided and then tried again. This time, he made it as far as his knees. He reached up and felt along the side of his head. His hand came away damp and sticky and he stared blankly at the stain on the tips of his fingers. He realized, with some apprehension, that he was staring at his own blood, as black as pitch in the moonlight.

The nausea overtook him again and he reached out with the same hand, pressing the now-bloodied palm against the wall to keep himself upright. As he did so, he had a sudden vision of a dark-clad figure performing a similar manoeuvre not so long ago. He closed his eyes as a fresh bout of dizziness arrived and then, as the moment passed and his mind began to clear, his memory reasserted itself.

There had been a man, he remembered; a stranger, who, using the shadows of the night and the captain’s own footfalls to mask his presence, had followed him into the alleyway; a tall man who had first appeared drunk and whom he had then turned to confront.

After which …

Fuzzy as to the exact sequence of events, Curtiss hauled himself up until he had gained his feet, then slumped back against the wall. No sooner had he done so than he let out a gasp as his spine made contact with the cold hard surface of the bricks. It was then he realized that his memory wasn’t the only thing he was lacking.

His overcoat and uniform tunic were gone, too; which would explain why he was suddenly so damned cold.

Curtiss looked around fearfully. He was in a narrow passageway leading off the alleyway he’d been walking down. There were no candle-lit windows in the passage, only a couple of murky doorways. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he thought back to the last thing he remembered and tried to bring the face of the man who’d robbed him to mind.

Though he’d employed considerable stealth to conceal his approach, the stranger hadn’t looked like a footpad. Which was not to say there was anything benign about his attacker; those saturnine features – not to mention the scars – had marked him out as the last person you’d want following you into a dark alleyway. And yet Curtiss had allowed him to do precisely that. He should have been more observant from the start. Probably would have been, had his mind not been filled with the memory of his recent entanglement with the nubile Jessica. If only he’d avoided the shortcut and taken a more public route home.

And what kind of footpad was it that stripped a man of his coat and tunic instead of just rifling through his pockets and making off before he regained consciousness? It wasn’t as if the man didn’t have a greatcoat of his own. Curtiss couldn’t recall what his assailant had been wearing under it. That much was a blur.

Groggily Curtiss felt delicately for his head wound, probing the bump. What the devil had the man hit him with? The bottle? Perhaps the scoundrel had used a fist and he’d hit his head when he’d fallen to the ground. Using the wall for support, he began making his way cautiously towards the entrance to the passageway, but had proceeded only a couple of yards when his boot made contact with something lying on the ground. He flinched, the sudden movement sending another shock wave through his skull. Hesitantly, ignoring the pain, he forced himself to look down. In the spectral gloom, the bundle at his feet appeared to be a body. Summoning resolve, he peered closer.

To his immense relief, he saw that he had been mistaken. There was no body. What he was looking at was an empty coat – his own coat, he realized with a start – that had been folded and propped against the wall. His boot had snagged in the sleeve, causing the garment to fall open. Gingerly Curtiss crouched to pick the coat up; head swimming, he waited for the nausea to subside before shaking out the garment and put it on. He let go a thankful sigh as the cloth enveloped him: warm again. Well, almost.

Without thinking, he patted the pockets and frowned when he heard the clink of money. Further investigation revealed he was still in possession of his change. He withdrew the coins and stared down at them. Why would someone steal his jacket and yet leave his finances intact? Curtiss sucked in his cheeks. Not a good idea; the pain was a sharp reminder. Checking further, Curtiss discovered that his pocket watch was there, too. Apparently the only item that had been purloined, apart from his tunic, was a small tin containing some tapers and his flint and steel.

Curtiss, his mind awash with confusion, emerged hesitantly into the alleyway. There was no one around, no faces at any of the windows or doors that might have witnessed the assault. He considered his options. The obvious thing to do was to inform the constables that he’d been the victim of a robbery, but he could imagine the looks on their faces as he told them that the only items stolen were his army tunic and fire-making tools. What kind of thief would leave his coat folded on the ground with his money and watch still inside?

Thoughts of his watch had Curtiss reaching back into his pocket. He lifted the timepiece out, consulted the dial and groaned. He’d missed the damned ferry. There wasn’t another one scheduled until the morning. From past experience, Curtiss knew that it was well-nigh impossible to cadge a ride with anyone trustworthy after dark, so he was stuck. Marooned might have been a better description.

But at least he had money, and therefore the means to pay for a room. Things could have been a lot worse. He could have been lying in the dark with his throat slit from ear to ear. That thought sent another shard of pain scooting through the back of his skull.

Burrowing into his coat, Curtiss decided there was no alternative. Cutter’s Tavern was just around the corner, and the accommodation there was a sight more comfortable than his billet in the officers’ quarters. Galvanized by the thought of a dram and a seat by the tavern’s roaring fire, Captain Curtiss quickened his pace.

Maybe, after he’d warmed his insides, he could warm the rest of his person by retracing his steps to Hoare’s Gaming Club and revisiting the delectable Jessica. After all, there was nothing more likely to garner sympathy in a young lady’s bosom than a gentleman’s sorry tale of woe. Mrs Delridge, the club’s proprietress, might even be sufficiently touched by his plight to offer a discount.

Cheered by that prospect, Captain Curtiss took new bearings and headed for the first of his goals.

After all, it wasn’t as if a missing tunic was the end of the world. The quartermaster would undoubtedly moan about the difficulty of finding a replacement, but that was the way of quartermasters. The loss would be rectified and the militia would survive.

Like me, Curtiss reflected thankfully as he continued on his way.

Ten yards further on, though, it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing his hat.

The thieving bastard had stolen that, too.

Hawkwood cursed under his breath. The captain’s uniform chafed like the devil. It didn’t help that the tunic was tighter than he’d expected around the chest and underneath the arms, and that the sleeves were on the short side. The hat fitted well enough, though, for which Hawkwood was grateful. Since leaving the army he’d abandoned headwear, unless it was part of some disguise he’d had to adopt in the course of his duties as a peace officer. Thus even though the damned thing was relatively secure on its perch it still felt decidedly unnatural.

He had, however, drawn the line at purloining the captain’s breeches. He’d no intention of going back on the self-imposed rule that had stood him in good stead through the years: never wear another man’s trousers.

The tunic had been a different proposition. Hawkwood knew he needed it to give him authority. So while the thing might be bloody uncomfortable, it was ideal for his purposes. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to bear the discomfort for too long.

He’d been waiting in the shadows opposite the gaming club entrance for almost an hour when he spotted a suitable candidate: someone of his own height and build, in officer’s garb.

He hadn’t expected it to go so well. There had been a moment when his intended victim had turned round, but Hawkwood had planned for that eventuality by collecting an empty bottle from the window sill of a nearby tavern to use as a prop. Pretending to be tipsy had given him something to do with his hands, and as most law-abiding citizens were repelled by drunkards the ruse had proved a sound one. The final approach had been tricky, but matching his own footsteps with those of his target had enabled him to get up close. Before his victim had time to react, Hawkwood had launched a blow to the carotid that cut off the blood supply as effectively as a tourniquet.