by James McGee
JAMES McGEE
The Blooding
Dedication
This one is for my cousin, Mark.
Flying free …
O:nen Ontiaten:ro
MOHAWK NAMES
The Mohawk at the time the novel is set had no written language. Iroquois vocabulary was originally transcribed by Jesuit missionaries and therefore, even today, there are discrepancies in the origins, spelling and meaning of certain words. I’m indebted to Thomas Deer of the Kanien’kehá:ka Onkwawén:na Raotitióhkwa Language & Cultural Center in Kahnawá:ke, Montreal, for his guidance.
Rotinonshón:ni: “People of the Longhouse” – the Six Nations – Iroquois Confederacy
Kanien’kehá:ka: “People of the Place of the Flint” – the Mohawk
Kaion’kehá:ka: “People of the Marsh” – the Cayuga
Oneniote’á:ka: “People of the Standing Stone” – the Oneida
Ononta’kehá:ka: “People of the Hills” – the Onondaga
Shotinontowane’á:ka: “People of the Great Mountain” – the Seneca
Tehatiskaró:ros: “People of the Shirt” – the Tuscarora
Kaianere’kó:wa: “The Great Law of Peace” – the Constitution of the Six Nations
Oyata’ge’ronóñ: “People of the Cave Country” – the Cherokee
Wendat: “People of the Island” – the Huron
Ahkwesáhsne: “Where the partridge drums” – Mohawk village near St Regis
Kahnawá:ke: “On the rapids” – Mohawk village near Montreal
Kanièn:keh: “Land of the Flint” – Traditional homeland of the Mohawk
Kenhtè:ke: “Place of the Bay” – Mohawk village on the Bay of Quinte, Canada
Anówarakowa Kawennote: “Great Turtle Island” – North America
Atirú:taks: Adirondacks
Kaniatarowanénhne: “Big Waterway” – the St Lawrence River
Ne-ah-ga: Niagara
Oiqué: Hudson River
Senhahlone: Plattsburg
Tanasi: Tennessee
If they are to fight, they are too few;
If they are to be killed, they are too many.
Theyanoguin
Wolf Clan, Kanien’kehá:ka
Warrior, sachem, diplomat, orator
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Mohawk Names
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Historical Note
About the Author
Also by James McGee
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Mohawk Valley, New York State, May 1780
Reaching the edge of the forest, Lieutenant Gil Wyatt halted and dropped to one knee. Cradling his rifle, he gazed down at the scene spread below him, his expression calm and watchful.
From his elevated position the ground sloped away gently, gradually widening out into a swathe of rich green meadow-grass speckled with blue violets, through which ran a shallow stream bordered by stands of scarlet oak and white willow. Tree stumps dotted the incline, evidence of the labour that had gone into converting the land and raising the single-storey, timber-built cabin that nestled in the centre of the clearing.
A small cornfield and a well-stocked vegetable patch occupied one side of the dwelling. On the other, there was a paddock containing two horses and beyond that a fenced-in pasture where three dun-coloured milk cows grazed placidly, tails swishing to deter the summer flies. Half a dozen chickens competed for scratchings in the shade of the cabin’s slanted porch.
A barn and a hen house made up the rest of the homestead, along with a clapboard privy and a lean-to that had been affixed to the cabin wall as a storage shelter for winter fuel. A pile of untrimmed branches lay nearby, next to a large oak stump. Driven into the stump were a hatchet and a long-handled woodman’s axe.
There was no sign of the farm’s occupants.
Looks quiet enough, Wyatt thought as he admired the stillness of the setting. Dawn had broken more than an hour earlier but across the surface of the meadow, dew drops shone like diamonds in the soft morning haze.
It was as the lieutenant’s gaze shifted to the plume of woodsmoke rising in a lazy spiral above the cabin’s shingle roof that a shadow moved within the trees on the far side of the clearing. Wyatt tensed and then watched as a young female white-tail stepped out from behind a clump of silver birch.
Releasing his breath, Wyatt remained still. His sun-weathered face, forage cap, moss-green tunic, buckskin leggings and tan moccasin boots blended perfectly with the surrounding foliage. The direction of the smoke had already told him he was downwind so he knew the doe had not picked up his scent. If she had she would have stayed hidden and Wyatt and the four men with him would have been oblivious to her passing; with the possible exception of the individual on Wyatt’s right flank.
Unlike the Rangers, he wore neither shirt nor jacket nor any vestige of a uniform, though his appearance would have left even a casual observer with little doubt as to his calling.
His red-brown torso was bare save for two hempen straps that criss-crossed his chest, from which were slung a powder horn and a buckskin ammunition pouch. A quilled knife sheath hung on a leather cord around his neck. His lower half was clad in a blue trade-cloth breechclout and thigh-length leggings. Leg ties beneath each knee held the legging in place. Like the others, he wore deer hide moccasins.
His head, while shaven, was not unadorned, for at the back of his scalp was a ring of long black hair. Braided into the hair were three black-and-white eagle feathers. As if his hairstyle and dress were not striking enough, there was one more affectation that separated him from his companions. His face, from brow to chin, was concealed behind a rectangle of black paint. Not an inch of his natural colour was visible save for a crescent of white muscle set deep in the corner of each unblinking eye.
His right hand gripped a shortened musket. His left rested on the head of a tomahawk tucked into his waist sash. A maple-wood war club in the shape of a gunstock lay in a sling across his back.
The Indian, whose name was Tewanias, kept his gaze fixed on the doe. He did not flinch as a large yellow-jacket, lured by the smell of bear grease and paint, landed on the back of his left wrist, folded its wings and began to explore his exposed forearm.
The white-tail hovered nervously at the edge of the wood, clearly apprehensive at the thought of venturing into the open, though the fact that she was there at all indicated that she was probably a regular visitor to the clearing and therefore not averse to using the stream to satisfy her thirst, despite its proximity to human habitation.
For a moment it looked as though she might overcome her fear, but at a sudden stream of excited bird chatter erupting from within the forest, the doe froze. With a lightning-fast turn, one swift bound and a flash of pale rump she was gone, swallowed by the dense underbrush.
The Indian’s attention switched immediately towards a point on the opposite side of the stream. Wyatt followed his companion’s gaze to where a natural break in the trees and the beginning of a rough track could just be seen and watched as half a dozen riders cantered into view. They were in civilian dress and each of them carried a musket, resting either acro
ss his thigh or strapped across his back.
A sharp hiss came from the man on Wyatt’s left. “Militia!”
“God damn!” another nearby voice spat forcefully. Then, more speculatively, “You think they’re after us, Lieutenant?”
The words were dispensed in a distinctive Scottish brogue.
Without taking his eyes from the riders, Wyatt shook his head, frowned and said softly, “How would they know?”
“Some of their scouts will have got through. They’ll have reported in,” the second speaker, whose name was Donaldson, responded, murmuring, as though to himself, “They must have gotten wind of us by now. They’d have to be blind, otherwise … or bluidy deaf.”
Wyatt pursed his lips. “They’d be coming from Albany in force if that was the case. Our own scouts would have warned us.”
It was a wonder, Wyatt reflected as he watched the horsemen draw closer to the stream, that the expedition had made it this far without being discovered. Though Colonel Johnson had been very careful in his preparations, periodically sending out skirmishers along Champlain’s wooded shoreline in order to fool enemy scouts into thinking the final incursion was merely one in a number of reconnaissance missions and therefore of no specific interest.
Only when the force had finally assembled at Lachine had war bands from the Lake of Two Mountains been dispatched to search for and capture rebel patrols to prevent them from spreading word of the impending raid, thus clearing the path for the main body of troops to come in behind them undetected.
And, incredibly, the plan had worked. More than five hundred men – over three hundred whites and nearly two hundred native allies – had successfully negotiated the landing at Crown Point and completed the nine-day march through enemy territory without a shot being fired.
This morning was the first time Wyatt and his group had sighted a rebel force – either regular or militia. If that’s what this lot were, Wyatt thought. Their dress and weaponry certainly suggested the latter, but then every man who lived in this part of the state, close to what could loosely be termed the frontier, had a gun, for protection as well as a means of providing food for the table. It was possible they were just a group of friends out for a morning’s hunt.
But Wyatt didn’t think so. There was something in the way the riders held themselves that smacked of grim authority. They looked like men with a purpose.
As he watched them walk their horses across the stream in single file, Wyatt began to experience an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.
When Tam started towards the door, ears pricked and grumbling at the back of his throat, Will Archer’s first thought was that it was more than likely a deer. The animals often came to drink at the creek, particularly at this hour, when the sun was just showing over the treetops and the farm was at its most peaceful.
He looked through the window but there was nothing to see, save for the view of the stream and the forest; the same view that greeted him every morning.
Behind him, the dog emitted another low, more menacing growl.
Not a deer then, Archer thought, alerted – though he wasn’t sure why – by the continuing gruffness in Tam’s voice. The hound was extremely good natured as a rule and signs of aggression were rare.
As the first of the riders came into sight Archer’s stomach knotted.
“Will? What is it?”
Archer turned to his wife, who was standing by the table in a flour-dusted linen apron. Her hands were bound in a damp cloth, holding a loaf she’d just removed from the oven. Turning the hot bread on to the board in front of her, she put down the cloth and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, leaving a fresh smudge of flour on her right cheek.
“Stay here,” Archer instructed.
She frowned, concerned by the warning note.
“We have visitors,” Archer said.
Curious as to whom they might be, his wife walked towards him, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked past his shoulder. By now, all six horsemen had forded the stream and were nearing the cabin. Her face went pale.
Archer reached for the loaded musket that was leaning against the wall by the door. Beth Archer laid a hand on his arm.
“It’s all right,” Archer said. “I’ll deal with them.” Gently removing his wife’s hand, he nudged Tam away from the door with his knee. “Good lad, stay.”
Before his wife could offer a protest or the dog follow, Archer cocked the musket and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The hens clucked indignantly as they were forced to step out of his path.
Musket held loosely across his arms, he waited.
The riders slowed their mounts and fanned out, finally stopping in a rough line abreast in front of the cabin’s porch. One of them, a lean man in his forties with sallow features and the stain from an old powder burn on his right cheek, eased his horse forward. He was dressed in a long blue riding coat and a slouch hat. With his right hand resting on the musket laid across his saddle horn, he addressed the man on the ground.
“Morning, William! A fine day, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It was,” Archer said, without warmth.
The rider acknowledged the slight with a thin smile. He considered Archer for several long moments and then said, “You’ll know why we’re here.”
Archer met his gaze. “And you know my answer. You’ve had a wasted journey, Deacon. I’ve already told you; my loyalty’s to the King.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the rider said.
Archer’s eyes moved along the line of horsemen. They were dressed in a similar fashion to Deacon and all, save one, carried the same cold expression on his face. Archer was acquainted with each of them. Four were fellow homesteaders: Deacon, Isaac Meeker – the florid-faced man to Deacon’s right, who farmed land two valleys over – and the surly-looking pair on Deacon’s immediate left, Levi and Ephraim Smede.
The Smede brothers were seldom seen apart. Rumour had it that was the only way the pair could muster one functioning brain between them. When they weren’t helping their father on the family farm, they hired themselves out as labourers to anyone who wanted a wall built or a stream dammed – or someone intimidated.
Axel Shaw, the dour individual on Ephraim Smede’s left, was postmaster over at the settler village near Caughnawaga. Archer turned his attention to the rider at the other end of the line. Curly-haired, with angular features, he was the youngest of the group. Archer could see by the way his hands were fidgeting with his reins that he was more ill at ease than the others, as if he would rather have been someplace else.
“That you, Jeremiah?” Archer enquired pleasantly. “Haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been? How’s Maggie? Beth was hoping to call in on her the next time we picked up supplies at the store.”
The horseman shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed at being singled out. “She’s well, thank you.” Refusing to meet Archer’s eye, his gaze slid away.
“Enough,” the man called Deacon cut in. “We’re not here for a neighbourly chat. This is business.” He looked at Archer. “So, you won’t reconsider?”
“Not now,” Archer said; his tone emphatic. “Not ever.”
The horseman considered the reply then said, “Maybe you should have left with the others.”
Archer shook his head. “I’ve too much sweat and blood invested in this place to walk away.” He stared fixedly at the man on the horse. “Or see it purloined by the likes of you.”
The rider coloured. Recovering quickly, he assumed a look of mock hurt. “You wound me, William. What sort of man d’you take me for?”
“A goddamn traitor,” Archer said flatly.
The humour leached from Deacon’s face. “Not a traitor, Archer. A patriot. Like these men with me; men who’ve had their fill of paying unfair taxes to a country on the other side of the world and not having a thing to show for it.”
“A country you fought for, Seth,” Archer responded, “as I recall. You took the King’s shilli
ng then. Was it so long ago, you’ve forgotten which side you were on?”
“I’ve not forgotten, but a little more remuneration wouldn’t have gone amiss.”
Archer’s eyebrows lifted. “What were you expecting? We defeated our enemies; the King’s enemies; and we lived through it. That should have been reward enough.”
“Not for me,” Deacon snapped. His grip on the musket tightened and then, as if having come to a decision, he intoned solemnly, “William Archer, by the authority vested in me by the Tryon County Committee, you are hereby called to attend the County Board in Albany. There to appear before the Commissioners for Detecting and Defeating Conspiracies, in order that you may swear an Oath of Allegiance to the State of New York and the Congress of the United States of America.”
“No.” Archer shook his head. “I’ve told you: my allegiance is to the Crown, not your damned Congress. Besides, I’ve better things to do than make a wasted journey all the way to Albany and back. I’ve a farm to run; stock to care for.”
Deacon looked out towards the pasture and sneered. “Three milk cows? Not what I’d call a herd.”
Archer stiffened. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
Deacon’s head turned quickly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Archer stared coldly back at him. “Don’t play the innocent, Seth. I know damned well that losing my other two cows was your doing. Wouldn’t be surprised if you paid those two to do your dirty work, either.” Archer indicated the Smedes. “I hear breaking the legs of livestock is one of their specialities.”
Deacon’s eyes darkened. “You need to curb that tongue, my friend. That’s slander. Men have died for less.”
“You’d know about that, too, I expect. And pretty soon, Deacon, you’re going to realize I’m not your friend. So you’d best ride on. There’s naught for you here.”
Archer heard the cabin door open behind him.
Deacon rose in his saddle and tipped his hat. His expression lightened. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Morning to you, Mrs Archer.”