“I am. I said I don’t know how much farther. I didn’t say that I don’t know how to get there.”
Wolf Tongue nearly laughed at the wide eyes of his companion.
“Do not worry, Hugh Pyke. Perhaps tonight before the sunset, or perhaps tomorrow. But we will get there.”
The Englishman shook his head and whispered, “Deo volente.”
***
It was the following morning when the pair finally arrived at the village. Wolf Tongue had traded here a number of times before, but had never known it as Millers Town. It was a larger village than most in the area, though still smaller by far than Jenkins Town. Wolf Tongue had seen the squat houses and temporary wigwams that the English built, the large barns, graineries, and smithies of this village before, and they now seemed a tiny replica of the sprawling Jenkins Town.
The English had settled this village near the water and it had soon grown as more of their people arrived here. Also, the other, smaller settlements and lone farmers in the surrounding lands gathered here to make their trades. A cleared plot marked the boundaries that contained perhaps thirty houses, mostly planks of wood not yet grayed by the weather, plus a few hastily-built wigwams and outlying warehouses.
As they approached, they walked abreast with Pyke leading his horse by the reins. Even from this distance, Wolf Tongue could see people going about their day between the houses and buildings. A team of mules pulled a plow in a field to the east. A handful of women and children had congregated by the water’s edge with piles of clothes splayed out like empty bodies across the rocks.
Within fifty strides, before they were halfway from the cover of the forest to the nearest building, Wolf Tongue slowed. Armed men began to appear, alone, or in pairs. They all came trotting from different sections of the town, from their own homes, likely, and coalesced into a group of eight or nine muskets that came trotting down the road.
Wolf Tongue had traded with this village in the past and the people had been accepting enough of the Susquehannock, even if they were never warm or welcoming. This show of wariness reminded him of the stories he’d heard from his father and others in the tribe about earlier wars between the English and French. He kept his own musket in his left hand, dangling at his hip, though he loosened the tomahawk in his belt.
If Hugh Pyke felt the tension, he did not show it, but continued on his path toward the men.
“Hold, stranger!” called a man who stood at the head of the villagers. “We don’t like no cruisers here, so I hope you’re honest men.”
He wore a wide-brimmed hat over thin eyebrows. His face and neck were lean and his clothes, linen shirt, woolen breeches and heavy coat trimmed with beaver fur, seemed to have been sewn for a larger man. He planted his musket on the ground before him as he eyed them. Wolf Tongue counted seven others behind him.
Pyke drew himself up and nodded to the man. “We’re no beggars or thieves, sir. I am Lieutenant Hugh Pyke of His Majesty’s British Army and on an errand for Colonel Bennett and the Province.” He produced from his saddle bag an odd leather tube that he passed to the villager.
“Here are my orders from the Colonel, and proof of my authority and honesty, if you’re inclined to read it,” he passed the tube over and the villager opened a long sheet of paper. He moved his eyes to it for only a moment. Wolf Tongue furrowed his brow. How did this piece of paper prove anything?
Pyke continued. “I’m investigating rumors of hostilities in the frontier villages, and I hope you’ll give me your full cooperation.”
“The name’s Michael Fletcher,” said the man as he handed the paper and leather tube back. “You have the Colonel’s ear in Jenkins Town?”
Pyke nodded.
“Maybe you can get us a road here? Instead of these crooked, stony Indian trails?”
Pyke’s cheek twitched in more of a smile than Wolf Tongue had seen since he’d met the man. “Trust me, Mr. Fletcher. I wish as much as you do that there were good roads here.”
Fletcher’s eyes turned to Wolf Tongue, then. “And who’s this, Lieutenant?”
“I’m Wolf Tongue,” he said. “We’ve met before, Mr. Fletcher. You traded with my people, the Susquehannock of the South Village, with Red Hand, for the furs you’re wearing.”
Recognition dawned on Fletcher’s face, even as curiosity tightened his brows. “Yes, I remember.” Then, to Pyke, he said, “Follow me.”
Fletcher led them along the path into the town. Most of the men who’d accompanied him drifted away to whatever duties they still had that day, though Fletcher and two others stayed with them. One of the men introduced himself as Robert Carter. The other, a man with wispy, blond hair and pimples across his nose, introduced himself Jan Nederwue.
They stopped just outside a small wigwam built against a slope of a hill to the east. A stone face on three sides rose only high enough to admit the shorter English and French. The bark and thatching tied across the roof blended with the dried grass on the hill.
A woman with her hair pulled up beneath a white cap stood before a fire and a smoking pot. With one hand, she stirred something that gave off an acrid, biting smell, while the other was planted against her back to support a bulging, pregnant stomach. As he approached, Fletcher shooed a bunch of chickens that clucked and pecked around the outside of the home. They scattered away with indignant squawks.
“We could talk inside, but it’s warmer in the sun,” said Fletcher as they neared.
“I wouldn’t be more of an inconvenience than necessary. The out of doors is fine by me, Mr. Fletcher.”
Fletcher grunted and slipped through the low doorway into his house. Wolf Tongue turned to take in the odd village with its tiny houses. To the north stood a larger, plank building that cast a long shadow across the stripped land in the cold sunlight. This was where the English prayed to their god.
Fletcher returned with two platters and nodded toward the fire. “You can anchor here next to the fire,” he said as he set down the trays. “Mary, will you fetch us the cider?” The woman looked into the pot, then passed the wooden spoon to Fletcher. “Watch the lye don’t boil just yet.”
Fletcher had brought out bread and butter, cold bacon, a jar of pickled eggs, and a half dozen shriveled apples.
“I’m sorry we don’t have no more to offer, Lieutenant. This time of year, I’m afraid it’s Lenten fare.”
Pyke waved away their apologies. “Please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Fletcher. I’m sure this is much better than what I’m like to find on the trail in the coming days. Thank you.”
Mary returned with a pitcher and mugs and passed them out to all. Wolf Tongue took his and eyeballed Pyke. He’d traded with the English, but he’d never eaten with them or sat to talk for very long.
Pyke held his mug out while she filled it with a cloudy, golden liquid. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Wolf Tongue mimicked his gestures and held out his mug. Mary hesitated for a heartbeat where she flicked a glance to her husband, then finally filled his mug. Wolf Tongue smiled and said, “Very kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you.”
She smiled as she studied him, then said, “Well you’re no bashful Joseph, are you?”
Wolf Tongue did not have time to ask what she’d meant before Pyke interrupted his thoughts and spoke. “I’ve heard there have been attacks in the area.” He sliced a piece of bread from the loaf and smeared it with butter. One of the two men standing with them sliced himself a chunk of bacon while the other slurped at his mug.
Fletcher nodded as he passed the spoon back to his wife. “We haven’t seen it here, thank the Lord. But I’ve heard of it lately. You’ll understand why we’re not right friendly when strangers come walking in.”
“The French?” asked Pyke.
The blond man, Nederwue, spoke through a mouthful of egg. “They’re part of it. My cousin says the French are paying for scalps.” He swallowed and looked once at Fletcher, then at his other companion. “And not just Indians. They’re paying gold for Indian and British sc
alps. I’ve heard scalpers are all through the forest, waiting to make their coin.”
Fletcher frowned at the man. “I’ve heard that, too, but I don’t believe it. And British scalps? Why not Dutch like yours? How can they tell if they’re British or French?”
Pyke reached for the bacon with his knife in his hand and a grim smile. “Our scalps don’t reek like sour wine.”
The others chuckled for a moment. Wolf Tongue smiled and sipped his drink. Despite the slight cloudiness, it was thin and smooth, and surprisingly sweet.
“I don’t know if there are scalpers or not,” said Fletcher. “But there is that madman. I hear he’s behind some of the attacks up river from here. Small ones, farmsteads, raids. But I hear he’s building an army. Getting bolder.”
Pyke leaned back and bit off a chunk of meat. He stared at the fire as he chewed as if consciously taking his time to respond. Wolf Tongue noticed a slight tension in Pyke’s posture that he hid expertly behind a placid face.
Wolf Tongue sliced himself some bread and ate it plain. He’d had butter before, and its slick, fatty sweetness hadn’t impressed him. He watched silently now, hoping to learn more about what Pyke really sought.
“Madman?” asked the lieutenant.
“Mmn,” grunted Nederwue, who was now eating a second egg. “I don’t know his right name, but I’ve heard him called Storm-of-Villages. Stands on a mountaintop to get his visions from demons. He’s a half-breed, too. Some savage woman raped an Englishman for his seed, then she brought him up with a den of wolves so he’d be cunning and hungry for power.” He paused and glanced sideways at Wolf Tongue, then lowered his gaze. “They say he’s mad from the savage’s blood, but power-hungry and ready to fight the English to take away their land here.”
“She raped a man?” asked Carter. “How does that work?”
Wolf Tongue looked to Fletcher, who was also watching him with curious eyes. “If his mother’s anything like Susquehannock women, she knows how to make a man lift his musket.”
Carter stifled a chortle while the others turned away. Pyke frowned at him before turning back to Fletcher. Wolf Tongue bit off another chunk of bread.
“What else do you know about him?”
“Well he’s not God’s man, that much I know.” Fletcher adjusted in his seat and took another sip of his cider. “Some of the Prussians who’re settling up north and east of here come to trade. One told a tale of how this man, called himself Azariah, came calling with three other Indians, and some hulking beast with a shaved head. A Slav or some such thing.
“This Azariah seemed nice enough at first, he said, but, well, the Prussian didn’t speak English the best. From what I can tell, when he wouldn’t go along wherever Azariah wanted him to, he laid the leathers to him. Beat the poor farmer something good, from the looks of it. When he came to, most of his livestock was gone. Praise the Lord his wife and children were off visiting a neighbor.”
Carter shook his head. “Tales like that all over the place, Lieutenant. And we ain’t afraid of one man. But they say Storm-of-Villages is eerie. Like he can see a man’s soul and consorts with demons. It ain’t right. And like this Prussian fellow, we always hear he’s trying to get people to go with him. Like he’s putting together an army for something.”
“Do you gentlemen know where we might find him?” asked Pyke.
“He took up with the Delaware, last I heard,” said Fletcher.
Pyke slowly turned his gaze on Wolf Tongue. The Susquehannock pursed his lips and shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said, but as he noticed the four armed English men turn their heads at him, he decided not to elaborate.
Fletcher shook his head. “Believe what you want, but that’s what I hear. Them Delaware are holed up like they’re dying off, and maybe he’s building them a new army.”
Pyke again looked to Wolf Tongue, who frowned and offered a tiny shake of the head, though the look on the soldier’s face told him he didn’t believe him.
Pyke cleared his throat for another sip of cider. He turned a lazy gaze back on Fletcher. “And what of the French? Have you had any troubles with them?”
Wolf Tongue barely heard the rest of the conversation. He’d seen Pyke’s attempt to hide his interest as the men spoke of Storm-of-Villages. This was whom they sought, and by the stiffness in Pyke’s shoulders, they didn’t seek him to only show him that piece of paper that had so easily swayed Fletcher.
Wolf Tongue hadn’t heard him called that strange other name, but he knew of whom they spoke. The Susquehannock had seen him only once, months earlier. He’d come before the winter, alone and claiming his visions would lead the Susquehannock to renewed glory. Wolf Tongue hadn’t seen him himself, but he’d heard some of his friends speak of him. He was as tall as any of their tribe, but groomed and dressed like a quhanstrono, with a booming voice like a holy man telling the True Tales.
The Lenape said he could heal a wound in an hour just with his hands. That he talked to the ghost of Great Peacemaker who united the Oneida, Seneca, Mohawk, Cayuga, and Onondaga into the Iroquois Confederacy. But they also said Storm-of-Villages was gathering warriors, for what they did not know, and that he had a fierce temper that brought down lightning and fire on those who opposed him.
Wolf Tongue swallowed another sip of the sweet drink, and it suddenly tasted sourer than it had. Around him, the English still spoke, now of simpler things, of the weather, of Fletcher’s unborn child. Wolf Tongue heard little of it for the noise of his own thoughts.
He’d sought glory and renown and had hoped for battle to prove his worth. But he hadn’t thought he’d be hunting Storm-of-Villages.
Four – The Lenape
Pyke knew he had been right to heed the Colonel’s words well and divulge as little as possible to the savage. The man’s tongue was sharp, so his name was fitting, but his tongue was also loose. Who knew what the Indian would have said to Fletcher and his men, had he known the true purpose of their mission? News of their orders would have spread like disease on a ship, and everyone in the Province would have been speaking of Pyke and his Indian.
Throughout his conversation with Fletcher, Pyke had kept one eye on the Indian because he knew the man had been cat-sleeping. His English was good, so he must have picked up on some things while he and Fletcher had gabbed. Pyke would have to be careful with this one.
They were barely outside of Miller’s Town’s limits when Wolf Tongue said, “So then, we hunt Storm-of-Villages?”
The man was always smiling, or grinning, or smirking. Irony and mockery always played under his words. Pyke had a mind to give him a basting like he would an insubordinate soldier.
“Hold your bloody tongue,” he said as calmly as possible. “Our mission must be kept confidential.”
“You English and your secrets.”
“That’ll be enough out of you.” Pyke rose into his saddle and looked down. “Now, let’s get to the Delaware as quickly as possible.”
“The Lenape.”
“What?” Pyke’s fist clenched in rage.
The insolent fellow gave him a devil-may-care smile and shrugged his massive shoulders. “For your own sake, do not call them the Delaware. That is not their name.”
“You know who I mean. Quickly now.”
The savage’s grin would not leave him. The man turned and pointed to the west. A wall of trees lined the edge of a distant hill. “The widest path is through there.”
Pyke groaned inwardly. These damned woods would be the death of him. He was quite certain that the Province could provide firewood for the entire British Empire for the next thousand years. “Never mind the widest path. My horse and I will be fine. Where is the quickest path?”
The Indian scanned the horizon. Eventually, his eyes returned to the same thicket he’d already marked. He pointed again. “The quickest path is also through there.”
Just the tease of a smirk played on the savage’s lips, and Pyke checked his anger. He prayed to God for patience yet again—he
had done so many times the last two days. It was unchristian to be in a rage all the time.
“Let’s go.”
***
They traveled for some time through the woods along what Wolf Tongue referred to as a trail. Pyke would not have been so generous, but nevertheless he pressed on. He went on foot, gently leading his horse by the reins. The balls of his feet and his heels grew raw, and he recalled the familiar pains of the march. After he had been given his commission, he had learned how to march, how to march men, and how to drill them, all under the tutelage of Sergeant Whitehead. That had been only three years ago, but it seemed an eternity now.
Wolf Tongue moved like a beast through the forest, carrying himself with the lightness of a child. The man seemed tireless. Pyke kept up with him, though. He had participated in the Army foot races before leaving England, and he had done well for himself.
In the late afternoon, they stopped in a clearing of clover-filled grass.
Wolf Tongue loosened his cloak and gave Pyke his back. Pyke didn’t understand what the savage was doing at first, till he heard the susurration of urine hitting the ground.
“Dear God, man, don’t you want some privacy?”
“You have never seen a cock before?” Wolf Tongue said over his shoulder.
“Of course I have, but I’ve no desire to watch you piss, you heathen.” Pyke wondered, not for the first time, whether Wolf Tongue was acting out in an attempt to goad him. He curbed himself, not rising to the bait.
Wolf Tongue plopped down on the ground beside him and pulled out some bread. “So, we are far enough away from prying ears to talk now?”
Pyke had filled his wooden canteen with Mary Fletcher’s cider and now sipped from it. It was as good a cider as he could have found in Philadelphia, not baptized too much, and he marveled at the frontiersmen’s savvy. Pyke enjoyed his bottle but never got boozey. A gentleman was supposed to hold his liquor.
“You must give me your word of honor that what’s said here stays between us.”
“Of course.”
Language of the Bear Page 6