He sat for a long time, his breath gritty in his throat.
Then, as his knees began to ache, slowly, Wolf Tongue rose. He looted the corpses for what he could use. When he took the sword from the man, he inspected it for a moment, and looked back up the trail the way Pyke had gone and wondered if this had been his weapon.
Without another look at the dead, he shuffled south into the woods, back toward the Susquehannock village.
Eighteen – Azariah Bennett
Artemis cut the rope that had bound him to the horse, and Pyke, unprepared, toppled to the ground in a heap.
A chorus of hearty laughter erupted. Then rough hands seized him, bringing him to his feet.
Even though he knew it was no use, Pyke shoved and fought against the men. He was surrounded by five, maybe six, and they all mocked his attempts to get free. Every time he turned, another would punch or kick or shove him from behind. He lashed out and managed to trip one. The others laughed at their fallen comrade but continued jostling him.
Four Indian women joined the men surrounding him. They did not touch him, but they ululated and raised their whooping voices in a mocking crescendo. Over the din, the traitor Blackstone voiced his protests but his attackers were too many and too frenzied for one man.
They continued to shove and trip him, prohibiting him from keeping his feet. But he would not be cowed. Stubbornly, he kept climbing to his feet despite their torments. The entire time, Artemis watched him with a malevolent smile.
Two Indian warriors, their faces painted, approached and shoved their way through the melee. They began their own alien chanting, ripped off his stolen cloak, and then tore through his shirt. With a dull knife, the first cut through his dressing to expose the needling wound. The second prodded the wound with his tomahawk, and new pain startled Pyke. But he stayed on his feet, not wanting to fall again. Anger bubbling up inside him, he surprised the savage with a fierce shove. The Indian stumbled backward into the mud and earned the scornful laughter of his comrades.
The wound screamed at him, but Pyke ignored it because the others were falling upon him again. None of the blows raining down on him were hard, they were meant to aggravate only, but they battered and bruised him nonetheless.
Pyke wondered if this was how he would meet his end. Azariah’s men would kill him through protracted torture and exhaustion. He shuddered at the thought, and just when he started to fear it was true, the rope burning his neck snapped, and he was pulled forward.
Artemis nudged his horse, and they were off again, amidst the catcalls of those who’d accosted him moments before. He scrambled to keep his footing, while Blackstone shouted an order for Artemis to slow. Pyke was surprised that Artemis heeded the surgeon’s words.
They trotted to a halt before a great fire, and he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The judgmental eyes of Azariah’s band were glued on him. In his exhausted confusion, he tried to count how many men he saw, but he was still dizzy from being dragged and he had no clear mind. Then more hands grabbed him and propped him up.
He was relieved the physical torment was over.
But things were only getting worse.
Beyond the great fire, a corpse hanged from a massive tree, the lifeless body swaying from the momentum still carried by the long-taut rope. In the distance, the sun touched the trees on the horizon, setting the sky on fire. It was an eerily beautiful sight.
Then the drumming began.
Indians formed two lines, one male and one female, and darted around the fire. The white men clapped in time to the beating of the drum. To his right, a man was being dragged out of a tent. He struggled and yelled, but over the noise of the strange ceremony, Pyke couldn’t hear him. The man was taken by a group of whites and made to kneel before the fire. He continued to raise his protests, but they fell on deaf ears. He turned his pathetic eyes to Pyke and with a look begged for help.
There was nothing Pyke could do.
Another drummer joined in, and someone played a colonial tune on a weak tin whistle. Pyke searched the camp. For Azariah. For Damaris. For any sign of someone that could help him.
The man who’d been brought out pleaded his case to anyone within earshot, but no one listened. One Indian, as he ran by, kicked the man in the shoulder and kept going. The man slumped to the ground, tears streaming from his eyes.
Pyke’s parched throat had somehow gone drier.
The strange, primitive music of the camp grew softer, and the dancing Indians slowed their frenetic pace. Pyke watched as all eyes moved in one direction.
Azariah appeared. Trailing a step behind was the giant, Farkas, and a small retinue of men.
Azariah raised his arms for silence, and it was given immediately. The dancers stopped in their tracks.
A wicked smile carved itself onto Azariah’s face. “Friends! We have faced the cruelest of adversities!”
There was a murmur of excited agreement and applause. The man who’d been dragged to the fire was openly wailing now, protesting his innocence.
“It is one thing to be hunted by one of the Crown’s dogs!” Azariah pointed to Pyke, and the whole crowd faced him. His guard spit at him from behind. Artemis yanked on the rope cruelly, sending him backward into the dirt.
Azariah continued. “It is another thing to face treachery from one’s own!”
The crowd booed, and it reminded Pyke of the atmosphere before a hanging. He’d seen one in London once—a gruesome spectacle that brought out the worst in the already unruly crowd.
“I had no choice!” the man yelled. “The militia were—”
“The soldiers were nothing! The Crown has sent soldiers after me—” He pointed again at Pyke. “—and they can do nothing. Nothing!”
“Please! I have a family!” The man was crying like a baby now. Though Pyke thought he should have comported himself better, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“We were your family!” Azariah’s voice boomed. He turned to the crowd. “Have I fed you?”
“YES!”
“Raised money?”
“YES!”
“Given you the freedom you deserve?”
“YES!”
“Provided you with the protection the Crown hasn’t?”
“YES!”
The crowd bubbled over and started chanting their affirmations. Pyke again tried to estimate how many men were in the camp, but when he turned his head to look around, Artemis snapped the rope. By his quick estimate, he counted about thirty men, as well as a dozen or so women.
The accused continued to shout his protests, but no one was listening. Pyke’s stomach knotted: the man was done for.
Azariah called for quiet again, and the crowd complied. “I have given this man a fair trial. He is a traitor. He put all of us in jeopardy. And over what? All we ask is to be left alone, to be permitted to go about our business without bother. What good are the taxes we pay if the government refuses to defend us against the French or the tribes it itself has offended? While at the same time, they take from us our food and livelihood when they claim to need it?”
More chanting.
“Take this man away!” Azariah said.
“No! No! Please!”
Foolish though it was, Pyke struggled to get up and assist the man, but Artemis simply tugged on the rope and pulled him back down to his knees.
Three Indians dragged the sobbing man away, and a minute later, through the billowing flames and smoke of the fire, he saw the silhouette of the accused as he was hanged from the same tree limb as the other poor soul.
Artemis whispered in his ear. “You’re next, dog.”
Then the rope snapped, and he was dragged. But they didn’t take him toward the hanging tree. Next thing he knew, he was in Azariah’s tent with Artemis and two others he didn’t recognize.
Farkas threw open the tent’s flaps and stepped inside, filling the room with his physicality. “Where the fuck are the others?” he asked Artemis.
“The
Indian,” Artemis said. “You know, the one you let get away.”
Farkas grunted his disapproval but didn’t take it out on Artemis. Instead, he took one huge step forward and grabbed Pyke’s already rope-burned wrists. He tied Pyke to the main pole in the tent. The giant’s reeking breath blew in his face.
“My friend will come for you,” Pyke said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “He will kill you all.”
Farkas laughed. “I hope he does come. So I can gut him and roast his innards over the fire.”
They checked his bonds several times, and then the interior of the tent itself, probably to ensure no weapons had been left behind. Then, without another word, they left him.
He listened to the sounds of the camp. More of the strange music began, and there was laughter and shouting and general commotion. He didn’t know how long he was left alone. Fifteen minutes? An hour? He was weak from the journey and needed water, and his legs wobbled and quivered so he plopped down.
The side of his head ached more than anything from where Artemis had clubbed him to render him unconscious following Wolf Tongue’s attempted rescue. Pyke wondered if his friend was alive, and if so, what the man would do now. In his present situation, Pyke was unrescueable, so he hoped the Susquehannock had gone home to his tribe.
He resolved not to despair. Not ever. He would fight till the bitter end.
And then Azariah strode into the tent and shut the flaps behind him. They were alone.
***
The man was nearly as tall as Wolf Tongue and Farkas. His broad, sinewy shoulders seemed to stretch from one side of the tent to the other. He looked nothing like his great-uncle, the Colonel. He was a striking man. His skin had, for an Englishman, a dark complexion, suggesting a mixed bloodline.
Azariah’s probing, intelligent eyes bore into Pyke. The man had the presence of a politician and also bore the aristocratic manner of a gentleman from an old family.
Azariah took one long stride and towered over him. Pyke didn’t want to give the man any respect, but he also didn’t want Azariah to think him defeated and cowed, so Pyke grabbed the tent pole and pulled himself onto his aching feet. He met Azariah’s diminishing stare.
Azariah’s baritone echoed through the tent. Pyke wondered if the man had trained with an actor to obtain that rich, penetrating timbre.
Azariah’s first words were a surprise. “I do not need anything from you.”
Pyke was temporarily thrown by Azariah’s remark, but he quickly recovered himself. “Then you had better release me.”
Azariah smiled. “The reason I do not need anything from you is because I already know everything.”
Pyke was familiar with this simple ruse.
“Only God knows everything,” Pyke said.
“I know that my uncle sent you. I know that you traveled here with a man from the Susquehannock. I know that your orders are to kill me.”
Pyke made sure to hide his surprise at the fact that Azariah knew Wolf Tongue was of the Susquehannock. On the inside, he squirmed at the knowledge.
“I also know that your mission is a secret,” Azariah said, his smile slowly fading away.
“You are wrong. There are men everywhere looking for you.”
Azariah was unfazed by his backtalk. “Stop playing silly games with me. My uncle would want this mission kept confidential. I’m surprised he sent an Englishman at all.”
The man was clever. Every time he spoke, Pyke could tell he was laying verbal traps with each sentence. He kept his bone box shut.
Azariah folded his arms and brought his pointer finger to his lips, as if deep in thought. “I want to tell you a story about a boy.”
“I’ve no doubt heard it before,” Pyke said. “He was born, he suffered, he died.”
Azariah chuckled. “He has not died yet, and will not for a very long time. This boy was born of two worlds, his father an English gentleman, his mother a Mohawk. He was raised to be English, to walk in their world and live by their rules. And he was a good son. He studied and respected his father and obeyed the rules.
“His father was a soldier, who died in the service of the Crown just as this boy was becoming a man.” Pyke thought he heard a thickness in the man’s voice, surprised at the display of emotion.
But it dried up quickly. “The father’s estate had no proper heir. It could not pass to his mother, who was a savage, and it could not pass to the boy because he was a half-savage, born a bastard. Instead, it fell to the father’s uncle, who could do as he pleased without repercussion.
“The uncle sent the Mohawk woman away, accusing her of having bewitched his nephew. The boy, who’d just grown his first beard, was treated as a bastard child. His once bright future was snuffed out by the whims of a hateful man. He was permitted to remain in his great-uncle’s house, but he was also told he would never be a gentleman or accepted into their society. He would never own any property himself. He would never be permitted a voice in government. He would live at the fickle whim of a dangerous old man who didn’t much care for him.”
Azariah began pacing back and forth, caught up in his own story.
“Insult upon insult the boy bore in stoic but aggrieved silence, out of respectful loyalty to a man who had none for him. Robbed of his inheritance, deprived of any meaningful place in society, ignored by a king for whom his father had given his life, and mistreated by a man who should have showered him with affection, the boy struck out, determined to find his own place in this New World.”
Azariah stopped pacing and finally looked at Pyke again.
Pyke tightened his lips and betrayed no emotion. He’d been listening to Azariah’s pitiful little tale, but at the same time he’d been fixated on figuring a way out of this situation. So far, nothing had presented itself.
Then Azariah surprised him again. “I want you to know I forgive you.”
“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness and I don’t want it,” Pyke said. “I will go to my Maker with a clear conscience.”
Azariah all but ignored his comment. Instead, the man put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I forgive you because you knew not what you did, as the Lord said.”
Pyke wormed out of Azariah’s grasp. “Let’s be very clear. I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“You didn’t. You were told all manner of horrible lies about me, which you reasonably believed. You came to kill what you thought was an evil man. I cannot blame you for that.”
“I came to bring justice to a man who deserved it.”
“I admire your single-mindedness,” Azariah said, the compliment falling off his tongue sounding very sincere. “It is an admirable quality: to do what you say you are going to do, no matter the cost.”
“You are not fooling me. You are a murderous bastard.”
“That man I had hanged? He was a traitor. Because of him, my people have lost much of their food. Now I must figure out another way to feed them.”
His people? Pyke shook his head. “I wasn’t talking of the traitor, as you call him. I was talking about the poor soul who happened to disagree with you about something over a campfire earlier this week. You shot the man in cold blood over mere words.”
Azariah’s eyes narrowed. “So it was you on our trail, then?”
“So you do not deny the charge of murder, then?”
Azariah chuckled again, but it was a mirthless laugh. “Weren’t you the one who killed an innocent man sleeping in my bed?”
The man’s words stung. Pyke had killed the wrong man, who’d been half asleep at the time. That weighed heavily on his conscience and probably always would. But in this moment, Pyke didn’t want to give Azariah any satisfaction.
“I doubt the bastard was innocent.”
“And who are you to play God?” The tiniest sliver of a grin appeared on Azariah’s face, vanishing quickly.
The man spoke the truth, and Pyke was shocked to find that part of him agreed with Azariah.
He pushed the sentimental thoughts away
and hardened his stare. “I see through your talk and through this silly performance of yours, Azariah. You do not want to simply be left alone in the wilderness to lead a rag-tag band of thirty men. I can see you for who you are. You crave more than that. More power. More men at your disposal.”
Azariah gazed into his eyes for a thoughtful moment. Pyke felt their weight to the depths of his soul. He kept his face expressionless.
Then Azariah’s face softened. This time, Pyke was prepared for the unexpected comment. Azariah said, “You speak the truth. You are a good soldier and an intelligent man. And that is why I have not killed you. I have come to ask you to join me.”
Pyke broke into laughter. But Azariah didn’t crack a smile.
His absolute sincerity was unsettling. “You laugh, sir, but it’s the truth. I need someone to train and lead these men. I need a general.”
“You are pathetic,” Pyke said, still laughing. “And a damned bloody fool if you think I would follow you.”
“You would never fight an unjust war again with me,” Azariah said. “You would never suffer again, unless it were for some meaningful purpose. You would never lose another finger, unless the sacrifice were necessary.”
With a quick flick of the wrist, Azariah snatched Pyke’s glove from his left hand and grabbed the nub, the only thing left of his little finger.
How had he known about that?
“Think of all the men who have bled and died for the Crown needlessly. Think of all the wars fought over trivial slights between aristocrats. Why should we—you and I—suffer? Why for them?”
It was surprising how much truth the man spoke. Pyke had seen pointless suffering just in his short time in the Army and in the Province. He’d lost his finger on a bloody patrol that hadn’t been necessary in the first place.
But. He would not succumb to this man’s poisonous tongue. He reminded himself that Azariah might have believed in his own words, but really, they were spoken to advance his own cause. The man wanted to change the world—so long as he was the new king that lorded over it.
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