Still. He had fallen to his impatience before. This day, he would wait for the right moment.
The group came on, and Wolf Tongue could see them more clearly now. They were nearly close enough for a musket shot, though any fired at this distance was likely to hit the man two strides from the target. Wolf Tongue squinted to search the faces. He could not be certain, but he thought he saw Storm-of-Villages riding at the front of the troop. The man sat tall on his horse and was decked out in a mixture of white and Mohawk dress with long, black hair hanging across his shoulders. He did not recognize any of the others nearby.
Storm-of-Villages rode on, seemingly oblivious to the threat that lurked in the woods. Wolf Tongue again searched through the woods, expecting to see another group of men come rushing in on the Susquehannock. But he saw nothing.
A sudden pop made Wolf Tongue snap his head to the left. Somewhere north, a musket had been fired. A mile distant? Half a mile? He saw the nervous movements of a few of his warriors and the tension in Kicks-the-Oneida.
The older warrior looked over his shoulder. “Your scout found one of theirs.”
Wolf Tongue looked back to Storm-of-Villages. Their enemy had heard the shot as well and all looked back from the way they had come and up at the hill that lined the river. Wolf Tongue tensed his ears and strained to hear some reply of another shot or other indication of what had happened.
Instead, he only heard the rustling as Kicks-the-Oneida rose. “Now is the time, war chief. They are disoriented and surprised. Spring your trap.”
“No,” hissed Wolf Tongue. “Not yet. They’re still too far away.”
“Not for one of the Bear Clan.”
Wolf Tongue reached out as if he could stop the big man with one hand. Kicks-the-Oneida leapt ahead on long legs with his musket in hand. Two heartbeats later, he skidded to a stop behind a tree and the sharp crack of a muzzle blast filled the air.
“Take them now!” he cried as he leapt down the hillside. Scattered gunfire and war cries crackled from either side of where Wolf Tongue crouched. He stared, dumbstruck, as one-by-one, men filtered down toward the enemy, muskets belching smoke.
Panicked, he looked around to see that nearly half his warriors had followed Kicks-the-Oneida. Whether they followed him as their leader, or simply felt the dam of anxiety break did not matter.
What mattered was Wolf Tongue was not ready and he feared Storm-of-Villages would be.
***
One of the many wisdoms Pyke’s father had imparted on him before he’d taken his commission and left for the New World swirled up out of the depths of his mind:
In a military operation, nothing ever goes according to plan.
Pyke repeated the words to himself now to calm his nerves. They still had the greater, more cohesive force. That damned fool’s charge was only a temporary setback.
“In the British Army, that man would be flogged for insubordination and stripped of rank,” Pyke cursed. He watched as Kicks-the-Oneida led his premature charge down the hill, giving some of the enemy force time to prepare. On horseback in the middling distance, Azariah brandished his sword but from here and over the Indians’ clamor Pyke couldn’t hear the man’s orders.
Pyke surveyed the rest of the men and looked for Farkas and Artemis. If Azariah counted any of his men as sergeants, it would be those two.
But his force appeared to be a mass of confusion, operating under no unifying principle. His Indians whooped and hollered, war clubs and tomahawks and pistols at the ready, while his English formed firing lines that seemed flimsy and disoriented.
But where was the deceit?
Pyke shook the thought away. Even if there was one, they had no choice but to charge: Kicks-the-Oneida had committed to the battle, so Wolf Tongue could not hang back and allow his troop to be divided. As it stood now, the Susquehannock at the bottom of the hill were outnumbered without their brothers who were waiting for Wolf Tongue’s charge.
Wolf Tongue seemed not to have heard Pyke about Kicks-the-Oneida. He was already raised out of his crouch. The Susquehannock shouted another cry that soared into the heavens. His friend, Runs-in-Water, came to his full height beside him and did the same.
Pyke watched as the rest of their force came out of their hiding. Some of the troop were exhilarated, as if ready to quench a long, unheeded blood thirst; while some of the others looked tentative, their eyes shifting nervously about to the men around them for sympathy in their timidity.
In the split second before Wolf Tongue’s charge, a niggling thought bothered Pyke. There had seemed to be a chain of command in Azariah’s camp while Pyke had been captured. Why would it be any different on the battlefield?
Pyke’s eyes scanned the thunderous melee below. Kicks-the-Oneida’s and Azariah’s forces now clashed hand-to-hand. All appeared to be as expected, but something was bothering him. Azariah wasn’t a fool—he had to know he’d need lieutenants to wage any battle.
“Wait.” Pyke shot up and grabbed Wolf Tongue’s shoulder. The Susquehannock shot him a fierce look—he’d been about to charge and obviously didn’t want to be stopped now.
“What is it?”
“I don’t see the giant, Farkas, or the shooter, Artemis.”
Wolf Tongue frowned and scanned the thick herd of men trying to kill each other, while Azariah remained mounted on the far side of the melee.
“I don’t either.” Wolf Tongue grimaced. “But we have no choice. We’re committed.”
Pyke swallowed down a dry throat. Wolf Tongue was right. They had to go now.
Wolf Tongue let out another scream to signal the charge, and his men responded. Pyke felt the blood rush of battle now. The sensation was new to him: in their minor skirmishes along this journey, he hadn’t had time to consider or to think or to ponder. In those quick moments, he’d been forced to simply react. But here, the full immensity of their situation was like a weight he’d carried all day. The Susquehannock had committed all their able-bodied men to fighting. If they were defeated, the remainder of the tribe would be captured or slaughtered.
The insanity of battle coursed through his veins, and he realized he was screaming as well, as if he had fought alongside these men his entire life.
“NOW!” Wolf Tongue shouted.
They raced down the hill, dashing toward the battle. At the bottom of the slope, the Susquehannock next to him suddenly fell.
The line kept running as Pyke tried to find the shooter. “Where did that bloody shot come from?” Pyke snapped.
Ahead, the battle raged in close quarters. It was unlikely it had come from down there.
“The other hill!” Runs-in-Water yelled. “I see the smoke of a musket!”
Another Susquehannock was hit in the shoulder and buckled under the shot. They continued their mad dash toward the battle.
Wolf Tongue said, “It must be Artemis!”
“You stay with your men! I will see to Artemis!” Pyke gulped a big breath of air. They were now part of the main action. “How deep is the river here?”
“To the knee.”
Their momentum carried them forward at a reckless pace. Ahead, war clubs cracked against muskets, tomahawks scraped tomahawks, and men grunted and cursed and yelled. The air filled with the metallic smell of spilled blood, and before he could think about anything else, they had joined the rear of the battle.
All was disarray. Azariah’s hastily formed line had disintegrated, all muskets having discharged their first and possibly final shot. Indians mixed with Indians, and Pyke was now very glad the Susquehannock had painted their faces before war. Without the markings, he might not have been able to tell friend from foe.
Another report sounded from the hill. Despite their proximity to Azariah’s force, the shooter was still picking off the Susquehannock. Pyke had to act now.
“I need two men,” Pyke said. “Good shooters.”
Wolf Tongue shoved Runs-in-Water toward him and signaled for another man to join. “Send that bastard up ther
e to your hell!” Then Wolf Tongue, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, whirled to dodge an axe from behind and hacked with his tomahawk, cutting his attacker down.
“With me!” Pyke shouted, not giving the men time to think about taking orders from a British officer.
The battle raged. Thankfully, with the Susquehannock force fully joined, their line was longer than the enemy’s and stretched practically to the river. Pyke sprinted, his two men in tow, the length of the line. As they skirted the edge of the battle, the enemy saw them and tried to get at them, but the Susquehannock line held firm.
Pyke crouched to present less of a target while he formed a hasty plan in his mind, and his two men followed his lead. He eyed the hill and saw the hazy smoke folding into the clear blue sky. The hill was bare of trees, except for at the very top, being more just a grassy slope. He estimated it would take a hundred running paces to climb.
Pyke pointed at the man whose name he didn’t know. “You come with me.” Then at Runs-in-Water. “You take a position on this side of the river behind those trees. You will lay down suppressing fire with your musket to allow me and him to get across.”
Both men followed his gestures and nodded as if in understanding.
Pyke continued, having to shout over the din of war raging near them. He looked back at the first man. “Once we’re across, you set up at the bottom of the hill and lay down suppressing fire for me. I will take that hill.” Pyke looked again at Runs-in-Water. “While he is firing, you cross the river and join us.”
Pyke and his man waited for Runs-in-Water to establish his position. Runs-in-Water raced to the river line and slid between two trees so he was out of sight from the hill looming above and also from the battle raging next to them. He brandished his musket to signal he was ready.
Pyke looked to the other man. “Let’s move.”
They broke away from the main action, exposing themselves to the shooter. The Indian was quick, getting ahead of Pyke almost immediately. They splashed into the water. Pyke prayed Wolf Tongue had been accurate and that the water was no deeper than their knees here. If it was, crossing it would take too much time and the Indian’s musket would get wet and be rendered useless.
It would take him twenty to thirty seconds to zigzag his way up the hill. An eternity of open ground to cover against a good marksman. And when he got to the top, he would be close to winded. But there was no other way. And besides, it was probably only Artemis and a man not fit for combat loading and reloading for Artemis. He had one shot with his pistol, and then he would hack the remaining man down with his sword. Artemis could shoot, but Azariah had tucked him away on this hill for a reason. Pyke gritted his teeth in determination, imagining the man falling to his sword, sinful though he knew the bloodlust was.
With high knees, he sloshed through the river. His companion was almost across, while Pyke still had a little bit to go. He could not hear Runs-in-Water shooting over the noise of the battle. But, behind, he heard the thunk of something splashing into the water.
The shooter had narrowly missed him. He offered his thanks to God as he raced forward.
Pyke sloshed out of the river with heavy legs. Already, his man was setting up a firing position on one knee, pointing his musket practically skyward to sight the top of the hill. Pyke flopped to the ground and hugged the earth to give his man time to reload, and to give himself time to breathe. He craned his neck and looked up. Another cloud of smoke appeared, followed by a report. The shot thudded into the dirt beside him.
Pyke’s man gave him the signal. Pyke looked back to the crest of the hill and his eye caught another swirl of smoke, but this one came from a different position than the last.
Either Artemis was on the move, or …
His companion suddenly fell to the ground and writhed in agony. He’d been shot in the gut.
Pyke saw another blast of smoke, and he rolled along the hill to his left. The bullet thwacked into the ground close to where he’d been lying.
And now he was sure what was happening above.
Pyke realized Runs-in-Water was splashing through the river, despite the fact that he had no cover now. He must have started before the other Indian had been shot and was now exposed. Pyke lunged for the dying man’s musket, seized it, took careless aim, and fired. He didn’t expect to hit anything. He just needed to give Runs-in-Water some cover.
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the Indian coming through the water, almost at the shore. A burst of red shot out of his thigh, and he staggered onto the bank, the report sounding and mixing with his cry of pain.
Pyke fumbled to reload and fired another sightless shot up the hill. They were in a severely disadvantaged position, and now Runs-in-Water was wounded.
The man stumbled over, panting and clutching at his leg, and flopped to the ground with his musket in hand.
“Two shooters,” Runs-in-Water gasped.
“I know.” Pyke reloaded his musket and set it on the ground next to Runs-in-Water. The plan had been workable with one shooter, but with two? He recalled his father’s words again about no military operation ever going according to plan. “This musket’s primed for you. I’ll go when you’re ready.”
“With two of them and a loader, you have no chance.”
“I may have no chance but we also have no choice,” Pyke said. “We can’t rejoin the battle. They’ll pick us off with our backs turned in the river. And even if they don’t, they’re still killing our men. These two can shoot.” Another shot scattered earth and grass up near Pyke’s head. He flinched and rolled away. “Stay on the move.”
Runs-in-Water finished readying his musket and gave Pyke a nod.
Pyke readied himself. He felt the cold, soggy earth on his fingertips. Thirty seconds at most. That was all he needed to get up that hill. Instinctively, he checked to make sure he still had his pistol and sword. Their touch was reassuring.
Then he took three deep breaths and went.
He bounded up the hill in a jagged line, cutting hard to his left. Runs-in-Water waited a few seconds before firing his first shot. At the sound of it, Pyke sprinted straight on for a few strides, then quickly changed direction. He hoped to expose one of the shooters for Runs-in-Water to sight, but that was being extremely optimistic. The most he could hope for was that Runs-in-Water would harry them into fewer, and poorer, shots.
The rush of a shot whizzed by him, and Pyke cut a sharp line back to his right. He was already panting from the exertion. Another shot from below sounded. Runs-in-Water had wisely spaced his two pre-loaded shots out. Pyke prayed it would give him some time to climb the hill before he had to resort to a more haphazard course that would be all the more tiring.
Halfway up the hill, he spotted them. Two muskets tracking his movement, the shooters lying in the grass. Behind them, a sparse tree line where a loader was at work. Three fresh men to contend with. If he made it up the hill.
Both guns blasted, and Pyke dropped and somersaulted. He hadn’t tried any acrobatics since he was a young lad and feared he might break his neck attempting something so stupid, but he was out of options. He clambered to his feet and then cut back the other way, almost running sideways in order to give the men no target.
Another blast roared. He could smell the gunpowder and smoke belching from these muskets now. So far, he’d allowed his intellect to control him, but now, almost winded and with his energy failing, he let his rage take over.
“Artemis! I’m coming for you!”
He hoped his insane bellow would strike fear into the heart of his enemy and untrue the man’s uncanny aim. A moving target was hard to hit, but now he was so dangerously close to the shooters that his unpredictable pattern might not matter.
One more blast sounded from below, and now Pyke had no choice. He was ten strides away and Runs-in-Water wouldn’t have time to load and fire again. He was too close and there was no cover, so Pyke drew his pistol and charged.
Artemis, who’d already gotten to hi
s feet, immediately retreated toward the loader, screaming at the old, bearded man for a gun. The other shooter came at Pyke with a crooked, rusty bayonet.
Pyke took dead aim. He wasn’t shooting with Colonel Bennett’s barking iron this time, but still, he didn’t know the pistol. So he aimed for center mass and pulled the trigger.
The man fell, but Pyke didn’t wait to see if he was dead or merely wounded. There was no time. Pyke dropped the pistol and drew his sword and kept sprinting, his lungs burning hotter than the flames of Hell.
Ahead, the loader had finally gotten Artemis a primed musket, and the shooter was turning to fire at him, a wicked sneer on his face.
Pyke was too far away. Seven strides separated them, and Artemis was too good a shot.
Pyke needed to distract the man, so he flung his sword. The hurried throw twirled through the air. Almost before he released the blade, Pyke could tell it would miss its mark.
But Artemis panicked. He flung himself out of the way, but still squeezed the trigger, and the musket fired harmlessly into the air.
All Pyke had left was his short dagger. He drew it from his belt and went after the loader because he was closer. The man with the scraggly grey beard drew his own blade and swiped wildly, like a cutthroat on the road.
Pyke didn’t have time to waste, because Artemis would be upon him any moment, so he went directly at the loader, parrying his weak swings. The man’s eyes went wide as Pyke slashed through his poor defense, slicing the meat of his arm. The loader dropped his dirk and shot his hands out to guard. Pyke slashed and stepped inside the man’s reach and swiped the blade across the man’s neck.
The man stumbled to the ground. He wouldn’t be dead for another few moments, but he had no strength in him.
Pyke turned, feeling the thrill of vengeance now. There was no one between him and Artemis.
The shooter had recovered and was holding Pyke’s own sword. That gave Artemis the advantage of reach, but Pyke didn’t care. He was seeing red and all he could think about was the burning rope that Artemis had used to scorch his neck and humiliate him.
Artemis still wore that sneer, but his eyes were wide with panic and his steps were jittery.
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