“I told you what I’d do, Artemis,” Pyke said, giving himself a moment to catch his breath.
“How are you going to shoot my kneecaps off with only a dagger in your hands?” Artemis laughed, but it was a weak laugh. Pyke smiled at Artemis’s panic. “And how are you going to cut me down with your sword while I’m holding it?”
So Artemis had remembered his mad words shouted before Wolf Tongue’s ambush. No doubt the imagined threat had plagued Artemis over the last two days. Pyke smiled at the thought of it.
Pyke stepped forward, thinking Artemis would be intimidated, but instead of backing away Artemis swiped wildly with the blade. The man had learned to shoot but not to fight.
Artemis swiped again, and Pyke dodged the sword’s arc. He sprang forward and brought the knife up, ready to kill Artemis with one slice of the throat, but the man reacted quickly and grabbed his wrist. They tangled, and Artemis tried to bring the sword around, but Pyke had already predicted the move. He whirled out of the way, the blade missed him, and Artemis, expecting a hit, lost his equilibrium.
Pyke rounded and kicked Artemis in the back. The man fell forward, barely breaking the fall onto his stomach, and Pyke leapt onto his back. He drove his knees into Artemis’s shoulder blades and grabbed a handful of the man’s hair.
Artemis writhed underneath him, but he was a small man with no real strength. Pyke almost pitied him.
Almost.
The salt of his sweat set the rope burns along the skin of his neck on fire again, reminding Pyke of Artemis’s torments. Roughly, he yanked the man’s head up and put the knife to his exposed throat.
Instead of trying to tear the knife away with his hands, Artemis went limp and pleaded for mercy. “You have bested me. I am your prisoner.”
“I thought you were a free man, Artemis?”
The man squirmed under his hold.
“Goodbye, dog.”
Artemis struggled in one last pathetic attempt to swing the sword over his head and behind his back, but Pyke slit his throat, feeling the spray of warm blood on his hand. The man’s strength fled his body quickly, and he died in a gurgle of blood.
Pyke tore his sword out of the man’s death grip and closed his eyes. He stayed like that, kneeling over Artemis, for a moment to catch his breath.
But when he opened them, he saw a ghost.
The man he’d shot with his pistol moments ago was standing before him with musket raised. A circle of blood soaked through his shirt at the stomach. He would probably be dead in minutes, but right now, Pyke was in the man’s sights. At this range, the man, though injured and not himself, would certainly not miss.
There was no time to react. He was dead.
Then a blast from below sounded, and the man was knocked sideways. He landed on the grass, his gun pointing harmlessly skyward, not moving. Pyke let out a deep breath and thanked God. He made sure the man was dead, then checked over his shoulder at the loader, who was stumbling back through the tree line clutching at the side of his neck. Satisfied there were no more threats in the immediate vicinity, Pyke trudged back to the slope of the hill and saw Runs-in-Water three-quarters of the way up, struggling to climb on his one good leg.
Pyke nodded his thanks at the man, who waved a tired arm.
Pyke then looked back at the battle. From this distance, it was hard to tell but it appeared the Susquehannock below were winning. Azariah’s force had been pushed back and somewhat into the water farther upriver.
Wolf Tongue had overcome Kicks-the-Oneida’s foolishness and reversed the tide of the battle! The victory would prove a great honor for him. Pyke smiled for his friend and readied to bound back down the hill to rejoin the main action. He’d gotten his well-deserved revenge on Artemis, and now a feeling of irrational invincibility flooded him.
The Susquehannock would claim victory, and soon Azariah would fall under his sword. He would return to Jenkins Town a hero, his mission completed! Though it would be a bittersweet victory without Damaris waiting for him at the end of the journey, it would be a victory nonetheless. His father would be proud.
Pyke was about to take his first lunging downhill step when he heard a new roar from across the river. He stayed where he was and looked over.
Atop the other hill, another swarm of men appeared. Pyke strained his eyes to see who they were. This new force screamed and ululated. Pyke couldn’t make out faces from where he was, but could tell it was a mixed troop of whites and Indians.
“Dear God.”
He bounded down the hill at full tilt. Runs-in-Water struggled to his feet and offered Pyke his musket as Pyke zipped by. Pyke was halfway when the new force surged down the opposing hill to join the battle.
He sprinted the rest of the way, nearly losing his footing and came to a crashing halt near the river because he’d just spotted the leader of this new force.
A giant, bald man riding on a massive horse.
Farkas.
By his estimate, Farkas’s force was at least forty strong. Possibly more. And now they swarmed the Susquehannock from behind.
Pyke splashed through the river, hurrying to catch up. He spotted Wolf Tongue through the melee rearranging his men so that both fronts could be engaged.
As Pyke leapt out of the other side of the river and drew his sword, the full weight of the terrible situation hit him.
Azariah had tricked them. His force was eighty strong. And now the Susquehannock were surrounded, the rearmost warriors spilling into the river where it was more difficult to maneuver.
***
Wolf Tongue whirled in a frenzy. The battle was nothing like the individual fights he’d seen. This was chaos. Bodies jostled and shoved. His eyes snapped maniacally as he tried to keep track of attacking enemies as well as his own men. He could see a wall of Susquehannock to either side as he pressed forward, forcing their enemy back toward the river. They still drove forward, tomahawks and war clubs cracking against wood and steel and bone.
Among the din of death screams and howls of fury, he heard somewhere the crack of muskets, though his eyes remained ahead. A thick-bodied ahonesee, black-skinned and likely an escaped slave, rushed at Wolf Tongue with a musket as a club. Wolf Tongue dodged a fierce swing and crashed against another of Storm-of-Villages’ men. Instinctively ducking, Wolf Tongue twisted away and gutted the man with the knife in his left hand.
Another rushed forward over the slumping black man, a tomahawk held high. This one wore the dress of an Iroquois, perhaps a Seneca, but Wolf Tongue had no time to think before he was again engaged.
Wolf Tongue’s world became one of survival and rage. His sight blurred so that he no longer focused, but simply moved. Swing. Duck. Block. Strike, stab. Slice. The scene around him turned to a flash of movement, a red wave of steel and pain and screams. He moved to block another stab at his face and stumbled as Copperhead, bleeding, fell against his thigh. Wolf Tongue saw him slice into his enemy’s groin with a tomahawk before another attack forced him back on the defensive.
Despite the frantic fighting, Wolf Tongue was vaguely aware that they were pushing forward. Storm-of-Villages was falling to the crush of Susquehannock, and they were being driven either to the mud, or back toward the river.
With an animal scream, he surged forward. He battered his enemy’s defenses away and thrust his knife full into the man’s throat. He yanked his blade free and drove the man to the ground with his tomahawk.
He let another war whoop fly from his lips as he raised his tomahawk into the air. His eyes searched the battle. The Susquehannock were still strong, still fought as one. And while some had fallen, many more of the enemy lay bleeding. In that momentary lull where none attacked him, Wolf Tongue searched the faces with a sudden lust. A burning desire welled up in him. He knew what he needed to do, and a singular purpose seared itself into his mind.
Storm-of-Villages.
He tried to see past the roiling arms and heads, though he could not find his quarry. He spun at a sudden attack, furious
at the interruption, though before he could respond, Bone Snake was on the man, tangled arm-in-arm with his knife flashing.
Wolf Tongue again turned, searching. He stopped at what he saw.
On the western slope, not far from where he’d hidden moments earlier, came a rush of men. Perhaps another thirty or forty men came crashing down the hill. Mostly iomwhen, Oneida it seemed, cried their war cries. At their head leading the charge was the huge white man with a shaved head riding a horse.
In a burst, Wolf Tongue recognized his peril. Storm-of-Villages had sent his shooters to the far side to pin down any attackers, or else to force him to engage to take cover among the enemy. Meanwhile, a second group swirled out to the west as a protective force. Storm-of-Villages knew the Susquehannock would only have no more than fifty men, and recruiting the Oneida would have been an easy way to bolster his numbers.
“The west!” he screamed. “Watch the hill!”
And then they were joined. A fresh swell of screams and cries rose as Farkas’s men slammed down against the Susquehannock. Storm-of-Villages’ forces howled with triumph as they fought ahead with renewed vigor. A few more cracks of muskets sounded off to Wolf Tongue’s left and he knew his people were at the wrong end of the guns.
Their progress forward stalled. The enemy stood stronger now, and while no Susquehannock would retreat, neither did they drive their enemy back as they had. Instead, Wolf Tongue found more and more of his kinsmen huddled near him in the fight as Storm-of-Villages’ forces closed around them.
Wolf Tongue stumbled and caught himself. He looked down and felt a cold spear of anger and grief slice through his belly at the sight of Copperhead’s gaping eyes and mouth, his corpse half-covered by that of his killer.
The Susquehannock would not retreat. His people never had. But neither did Wolf Tongue wish to see them all fall in death.
“Ahead!” he screamed. Beside him, Bone Snake was absorbed in yanking a pistol from a dying man. As he rose, Wolf Tongue called to him. As if coming from a great distance, Bone Snake turned to face him.
“Tell everyone! We move ahead. Like an arrow to the heart. Spear into them.”
Bone Snake nodded and screamed out to the Susquehannock to his right. Wolf Tongue cried out to the men within earshot, though he doubted many heard or comprehended as they fought hand-to-hand for their own lives.
Wolf Tongue again raised his tomahawk in the air, hoping his kinsmen would see and follow, with all his breath, he screamed, “The Wolf Clan!” He lunged forward with a war whoop and immediately clashed against another enemy. Over the clang of his tomahawk against the metal barrel of a musket, he heard Bone Snake fire his stolen pistol and cry out, “The Porcupine Clan!”
A crackling of Susquehannock war cries and calls to their ancestors began to grow, and Wolf Tongue clenched his teeth in a hopeful grimace as he pressed forward.
***
Pyke slopped through the river to rejoin the main action, feeling his shoulder wound open again. The dull ache turned into a piercing throb, but he had no time to bleed because the Susquehannock were being overwhelmed by Farkas and these other Indians, whoever in God’s name they were.
The Susquehannock line facing the new force was bending like a reed in the wind on the muddy riverbank, and Farkas must have realized it for he shuffled some men from the hill closer to the water line. Pyke screamed a warning, even though the Susquehannock line clearly knew what was going on. He bounded the last two steps out of the river, his feet thankful to find land, and he flung himself headlong into the Susquehannock line.
Into furious chaos.
The enemy Indians whooped and hollered, their war cries surging and deafening. Farkas, still mounted, steered his horse with his massive knees, keeping both his hands free. The giant urged the animal forward, and it must have been well-trained, for it followed his command into the fray, where a wild horse would have turned and bolted. With his tree-limb like arms, Farkas hefted an axe and a war club. The man had no technique but he didn’t need it: his brute strength combined with his elevated position were a deadly force united.
Pyke still had his own musket, but there was no time to reload it, so he used it as a club. An enemy Indian slashed at him twice, the first pass with a tomahawk and the next with an oddly shaped knife. In the melee, Pyke almost didn’t see the blades coming. He managed to avoid them both then jammed the muzzle forward, connecting with the Indian’s jaw. With the man dazed, a Susquehannock took advantage of the situation and hacked him with a tomahawk.
“Hold this line!” Pyke shouted, though he wasn’t sure if these men would even understand his English.
A war club swooshed through the air and cracked into his shoulder. The pain bowled him over. Falling out of his grip, the musket clattered harmlessly away in the tangle of feet. Before he got stomped, Pyke recovered and backed away in a crouch behind the Susquehannock. Deciding to use his new position to his advantage, he drew his sword, and threading it through his own line, sliced an enemy’s ankle. The Indian screamed and fell to the ground, where he was quickly. Pyke swiped through the forest of legs and cut into the shin of another enemy warrior, who also fell to the blade. Instinctively, the enemy line backed away, and the Susquehannock around him were primed to push forward, but he grabbed the man nearest him.
“NO! We can’t thin our lines! Stick together!”
The man seemed to understand, as did the others, and they held their position, even though Pyke knew his orders probably ran counter to how they traditionally fought. The enemy line staggered forward, surprised by the Susquehannock’s failure to engage.
Wolf Tongue was three strides away, his line facing the other direction. Pyke fought his way over.
“I’ll hold Farkas while you get Azariah!” Pyke yelled over the din.
Wolf Tongue dodged a bayonet and thwacked it away with his tomahawk. “Can you hold them?” He bobbed his head at Farkas’s line.
“I’m a British officer!” Pyke roared, slashing with his sword at the enemy. He smiled amidst the bloodshed and violence and shouted, “That’s how all the dead Romans would have done it.”
Wolf Tongue’s familiar smile carved itself onto his face. He shouted his orders in his tongue, and the lines firmed up. Pyke saw Kicks-the-Oneida on the edge of the fray, shoulder-to-shoulder with his apple polishers. The man might cause trouble again, but there was little Pyke could do so he threw himself back into the line facing Farkas.
Azariah’s divided forces surged forward again, the Susquehannock line was knocked another step backward, and Pyke smashed into the ally behind him. Both men nearly lost their footing, but somehow they stayed upright. He could feel the Susquehannock warriors fighting beside him grow restless from holding their position. The enemy rushed forward to hack and backward to taunt.
In his best approximation of what Wolf Tongue had just shouted in his own language, Pyke reminded the men of the order to hold the line. He would never know if they understood him, but regardless they held firmly.
And the enemy was tiring. Farkas and his men had rushed in, expecting a quick victory, and had warred themselves out. The enemy Indians grew reluctant against the unbreaking line of Susquehannock. Pyke swatted a weakly swung tomahawk aside with his sword and the man became engaged with one of Wolf Tongue’s tribe. Pyke and eyed Farkas, still atop his horse.
Pyke drew his unloaded pistol. It wasn’t much against a war club or axe, but it was better than an empty hand. “I’ve already taken care of your man Artemis!”
Farkas cursed him and steered his horse toward Pyke, all but knocking his own men out of the way. With a brutal slash, Farkas swung the axe downward with all his might. Pyke got out of its way and slashed at Farkas’s knee with his sword. It was a weak slice, but a cut that found skin nonetheless. The giant growled in pain but regained his senses quickly, turning his horse so he could strike with his war club.
Screaming bloody murder, Farkas brought the club down wildly, letting his anger get the better of him.
Pyke deftly avoided the blow and cracked the pistol against Farkas’s other knee. The giant backed his horse away to avoid a tomahawk, giving Pyke a moment to breathe.
He flicked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Wolf Tongue’s tightly-knit line had advanced. Just beyond the enemy line, Azariah sat atop his own horse and wielded his sword with reckless abandon. The whites with him were not used to battle, and the Indians under his command seemed racked with indecision.
Azariah’s line was breaking, and he knew it. So did his men.
“Storm-of-Villages!” Wolf Tongue roared. He raised his tomahawk in a mocking salute.
Though he wanted to see Azariah’s response, Pyke tore his eyes from the scene to face Farkas’s line again. The enemy Indians were now hesitant. Uncertain how to attack that the initial push had ended in a draw. The tide was turning. And could be turned further, irrevocably, if he acted correctly. He looked to the men on his left and right and knew he had to unleash them, to allow them to fight the way they wanted. With one big push, they’d seize the day.
Pyke raised his sword and screamed, his orders unintelligible but somehow understood, and the Susquehannock line burst into a frenzy. They had fought smartly, conserving their energy, and the enemy was winded, defeat already in their posture and faces. As if on suddenly fresh legs, the Susquehannock stormed, pushing the enemy line back.
Farkas rode his horse back and forth and shouted indecisive orders. He had a helpless look on his face, as all around him his line buckled and his men fell to the Susquehannock. His panic gave way to anger, and he urged his horse forward once more. The animal broke through the man’s own line, nearly at a gallop when it was only a few feet from Pyke.
He dove out of the way. Wolf Tongue’s line, though its back had been to them, must have sensed Farkas’s mad charge. The Susquehannock dove out of the way, and Farkas’s animal barely avoided crashing into Bennett’s men. The beast swayed, whirled, and halted, all at the same time, and Farkas was unseated.
Now all was chaos. The lines were broken. Azariah’s mixed force was in a disarrayed shamble. Pyke saw a few of Azariah’s whites scurrying for the hills. Men hacked at each other in all directions, and Pyke saw Wolf Tongue break from his men.
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