by James McGee
Snake was not the only vessel plying the lake’s white-tipped waters. There were several sails in view; some near, some mere dots in the distance so that it was impossible to judge the size of the craft they were affixed to. There were no large spreads of canvas to suggest any were naval vessels, however, which made Hawkwood wonder what sort of ships might be employed to patrol against smugglers or to stymie encroachments by British ships tempted to raid across the border from Canada. Though it was doubtful the Americans had anything larger than a schooner, even a schooner could carry up to a dozen guns.
He looked to the shore, formed on both sides by small wooded coves and stony beaches. Signs of settlement were few and far between, though occasionally a log-built farmhouse would come into view with a thin wisp of smoke spiralling above its shingle roof. Whenever that occurred, Hawkwood, waylaid by memories, found it almost impossible not to turn away.
There were abandoned homesteads as well, many destroyed by fire; the charred beams and broken walls sad memorials to those who’d tried to eke a living out of what could be a harsh and unforgiving land. Sometimes there would be an overgrown plot of ground close by in which rough wooden crosses jutted from tangles of briar and weed.
Snake sailed on.
It was some three hours later when they came to a place where the opposite shores appeared to be converging. On the Vermont side of the channel Hawkwood could make out the remains of a settlement. A handful of buildings still stood, including a mill and what might have been a tavern, but all that was left of the rest were a few blackened chimneys.
It was the same on the New York side, where clusters of fire-ravaged houses were set back from the shore. Hawkwood looked beyond them, up to where the remnants of another huge abandoned military installation occupied the crown of yet another barren hilltop.
His eye moved on, to a line of hills strung out behind the tops of the ruined blockhouses. A shiver ran down his back. As the Snake nudged her way through the narrows, Hawkwood kept his eyes to port, knowing what he was about to see – and recognize.
What had appeared to be a fortified headland was in fact the tip of a peninsula. As Snake emerged into the section of the lake that lay beyond it, the bay that had been hidden on the other side of the headland gradually came into view.
“Matthew?” Lawrence said.
He sensed Lawrence was studying him with an expression of bemusement etched with concern; the same look that had been there on the Fort Ann road. Even so, Hawkwood did not answer. He was too busy remembering.
A stretch of driftwood-covered beach, the bark of guns, the roar of a cannon, the screams of men as they fell and died.
And a place called Bulwagga.
8
May 1780
Tewanias made no sound as the needle pierced his skin nor did he flinch as the thread was pulled through behind it. His brow furrowed slightly only when the two sides of the wound came together.
His fingertips reddened and slippery with blood, the boy paused, adjusting his grip on the needle.
“Why do you stop?” Tewanias asked brusquely. He had posed the question in English.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the boy said.
The Indian looked puzzled by the statement. “I am already hurt. Continue.”
The boy hesitated. He was trying hard to stop his hands from shaking. With the arrival of dusk, the light had deteriorated considerably. Determined not to let his patient see how nervous he was, he drew in a deep breath and pushed the needle into the swollen flesh. After the initial press of resistance he felt the skin give way and, encouraged by that minor success, he completed the second suture, not daring to look up until he had finished his surgery. It took three more stitches to seal the sword gash in the Mohawk’s upper arm. The result was far from neat but other than a line of tiny red bubbles beading along the length of the cut there was no noticeable seepage of blood. Inspecting the work, Tewanias traced the edges of the wound with his fingers before handing the boy his knife to cut the surplus thread. When that had been done he took the knife back. “Good. Thank you, Mat-huwa. You did well.”
The Mohawk held the boy’s gaze for several seconds before turning his attention to the wound in his side. An earlier examination had told him that it could have been a great deal worse. The ball from the Oneida’s carbine had entered his flesh between his pelvis and his lower ribcage, performing an almost straight trajectory before exiting just above his hip. A couple of inches either side and the ball would have struck bone. It was fortunate that he had not been wearing a shirt, otherwise cloth would have been forced into the wound, increasing the risk of infection.
Taking pulped cat-tail root from his medicine bag and soaking it in water from the stream, Tewanias cleansed the area before pressing a moss poultice to both the entry and exit holes. Beneath the blood, the edges of the wounds appeared unsullied, but it paid to be sure. If any poisons were present the moss would draw them out and reduce the swelling.
The boy looked on in silence, the dog seated by his side. Watching the concentration on the Mohawk’s face, the boy’s mind went back to the moment he’d shot the Oneida runner. It was strange, he thought, that he’d been unable to stop his hand shaking as he sewed up the wound in the Mohawk’s arm, yet he’d acted without hesitation when it came to firing the pistol, or using the hatchet back at the farm. He wondered why that was. The only answer he could come up with was that the men he’d hurt had been bad men. One had been responsible for killing Will Archer, the other had been trying to kill his friend.
Friend? The word had come to him unbidden. Was Tewanias really his friend? In the time since their paths had first crossed, few words had been exchanged between them and yet, curious as it seemed, some sort of bond had been created. As he pondered why this should be, the boy’s hand moved unconsciously to the amulet around his throat.
When he’d heard the Oneida’s yell and followed the sound to where the two men were fighting in midstream, his hand had automatically reached for the pistol. It was the same one Beth Archer had used to shoot one of the horsemen. He’d retrieved it, unseen, along with Will Archer’s powder case and ammunition, when he’d collected his belongings from the cabin. Uncle Will had taught him how to shoot during their hunting trips, and how to load and maintain a firearm. Even so, he feared that if the pastor knew he had a weapon he would confiscate it, so the gun had remained hidden in the bag that he carried on him at all times. Thankfully, he’d taken the precaution of loading it after Tam’s encounter with the bear. When the moment came to use it, his grip had not faltered and his aim had been firm and steady.
Tam nuzzled his arm. Stretching out a hand, he ruffled the dog’s fur. It had been Tam’s nose that had led them to Tewanias. How, the boy had no idea. Despite Tam’s eagerness to latch on to a spoor, the likelihood of finding one man in this endless tract of forest had seemed an impossible task. And yet here they were. He wondered if it had been the smell of bear that had set Tam on the right trail. One of the first things he’d noticed about the Mohawk was his scent. Wyatt had explained.
“That’s the grease you can smell. Indians use a lot of it. Hell, they kill an animal, don’t matter if it’s a rabbit or a bear, there’s not one part of it they can’t find a use for. Fur keeps them warm; meat keeps them fed; grease keeps them slippery. Means an enemy can’t grab a hold.”
Wyatt had laughed at the boy’s expression. “Well, that’s not all they use it for. Bear fat’s good for cooking. It doesn’t turn rancid, so it keeps longer. They smear it on themselves for all sorts of reasons. Keeps mosquitoes away – vermin, too – if they’re sleeping outside. It protects their skin from the sun and keeps water out of their moccasins. They use it to mix their war paints and to keep their guns oiled. The women like it because it makes their hair shiny; the men, too. Tewanias might not have much hair, but what he has he looks after – which is more than can be said for most white men!” Wyatt had laughed as he’d said that.
The boy wondered where
Lieutenant Wyatt and the other Rangers were now. And who was the Indian he had shot? Tewanias had as yet offered no explanation and the boy had felt too intimidated to enquire.
Despite his wounds, Tewanias’s first action on seeing his enemy slain had been to drag the dead warrior out of the stream and place it on the bank. At first the boy had assumed this was a mark of respect, but then he recalled Will Archer doing something similar once, back at the farm. They had come across a dead buck sprawled in a creek, upstream from the cabin. The deer looked as if it had died of old age. Archer had taken hold of the antlers and pulled the carcass out of the water, telling the boy that if it were left in the water anyone taking a drink downriver might be poisoned.
“How do you know there aren’t more dead animals tainting the flow further up?” the boy had asked.
“I don’t,” Archer had replied. “But that doesn’t mean we should leave this one where it is.”
After depositing the body on the bank, Tewanias had collected the Oneida’s weapons, including the carbine that had fallen in the stream and the tomahawk that had struck the tree. He’d also relieved the body of its ammunition pouch, which he had given to the boy.
Only after he’d gathered the weapons had Tewanias turned his attention to his wounds. It was as he was examining the gash in his shoulder that the boy, without thinking, had blurted, “I have a needle and thread.”
When the Mohawk had indicated for him to start sewing, the boy had experienced both alarm and disbelief. It wasn’t until he’d completed the last stitch that he wondered if it hadn’t been some sort of test. If the Mohawk’s expression on examining the results of his surgery was anything to go by, it was a test he had passed.
A feeling of relief had swept through him. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, it mattered a great deal what the unsmiling warrior chief thought of him.
“Now we rest,” Tewanias told him. “Tomorrow we find Wy-att.”
The boy immediately delved in his bag and produced his tinderbox, but Tewanias shook his head. Though he registered the boy’s puzzled expression, he offered no explanation. He did not want to alarm the boy by telling him that they dare not risk travelling in the dark or lighting a fire in case there were more Oneida scouting parties abroad. Tewanias did not want to run into them or alert them to his presence; not when he was wounded, and especially not with the boy in tow. Admittedly, the boy had more than proved his mettle, but there were some risks that were not worth running.
Tewanias reached for one of the small leather bags he carried at his waist, wincing slightly as he did so. Reaching inside, he drew out two strips of pemmican and offered one to the boy. The dog’s nose twitched at the scent of the dried venison and berries coated in fat. Gnawing off a piece, the boy passed it to Tam who wolfed it down. He remembered the rabbit he’d stowed in his saddlebag. He knew how to skin and cook game, but with no fire, he had no desire to eat the animal raw, though he suspected the Mohawk would not be so squeamish. He took another bite of the pemmican and tried to push the thought of a cooked supper to the back of his mind.
“We will stay here,” Tewanias repeated as the boy chewed. “Tomorrow, we will meet with Wy-att and Owassighsishon.”
The boy frowned. “Owass …?” He stumbled over the rest of the word.
“You call him Col-onel,” Tewanias said.
“Colonel Johnson?”
“John-son, yes.” The Mohawk nodded towards the blanket the boy had removed from the pony’s back. “Now you sleep. I will watch.”
“I can watch, too.”
Tewanias shook his head. He could see the weariness in the boy’s face. “No. Sleep.”
As the boy lay down and closed his eyes, Tewanias reached for the Oneida’s carbine. Taking the carbine’s ramrod and removing a rag and a small brush from his own ammunition pouch, he set about cleaning out the weapon’s barrel and lock mechanism. Every so often, he would pause to watch the gentle rise and fall of the boy’s chest as he slept. He had listened to the boy’s explanation as to why he was alone in the woods with puzzlement. He knew white men had a curious affinity with their animals, but to head into the forest in search of a missing dog seemed foolhardy in the extreme. His people kept dogs, but they came and went as they pleased. A dog was far better equipped to fend for itself in the wild than any human, especially a child. And dogs weren’t stupid; they would find their way back to their human companions sooner or later, drawn by the prospect of food and warmth.
Tewanias noted the hand curled around the turtle amulet. The boy was certainly an intriguing mix. While it was said that a man’s courage could be judged by the number of enemies he had dispatched, there were other criteria that were more important – chief among these being strength of character. How a man conducted himself in the face of danger was a far better measure of his resolve than the tattoos etched into his skin. Tewanias had learnt of the boy’s history from Wyatt. As he gazed upon the figure huddled against the dog’s flank, one thought occupied his mind.
This one carries the blood of a warrior.
An owl screeched but the boy did not awaken; neither did he stir at the rustling and the accompanying sequence of scuffling grunts that came from the direction of the river, which suggested that something was being dragged through the bushes. Tewanias paused in his task and listened. Gradually, the noises faded. When he looked up he saw that he was under observation. The dog was watching him, eyes bright in the moonlight, its ears pricked. For several seconds man and dog stared at each other, before Tam dropped his head on his paws. As the dog closed its eyes, Tewanias returned to cleaning the gun.
From the direction of the river there came the sounds of crunching bones and of an animal feeding.
“Cut’s fresh,” Jem Beddowes murmured softly, running his fingers across the edge of the coin-sized blaze. “It means we’re closing.”
“Eyes peeled, boys,” Wyatt whispered, knowing the instruction was unnecessary. The Rangers were versed in forest warfare. They knew what was expected of them and didn’t have to be reminded.
Not that tracking the Oneida scouting party had proved difficult. The enemy had left signs which, although subtle, had been easy to follow. They were intended to be. These signs would guide the main force that was coming up behind; a force which, Wyatt hoped, was now floundering because Tewanias had caught and killed the Oneida runner who had been sent to rendezvous with it.
The blazes were carved into the bark of trees, small so as to be unobtrusive, yet deep enough so that the trained eye would be drawn to the white wood that lay beneath the cut. The combinations of marks – circles and rectangles – indicated which direction to take.
“They’re moving north,” Donaldson grunted. “They’ll know the lake is the colonel’s quickest route home.”
Billy Drew peered into the forest and fingered the hammer of his rifle. “How far is Bulwagga?”
“Fifteen miles maybe,” Wyatt said. “Give or take.”
“If they stay on this trail, we’ve time to get ahead of them,” Donaldson mused, throwing Wyatt a speculative look. “We pick our spot, we can cut them out.”
“Payback for Stryker,” Jem Beddowes muttered.
Wyatt looked towards the sun, which had risen less than half an hour before. Fearful of losing the trail markers in the dark and secure in the knowledge that the men they were tracking would also have sought to rest, the Rangers had spent the night under a hastily built lean-to, without a fire and with each man taking a two-hour watch. They had resumed the chase at first light.
Despite Tewanias’s confidence, Wyatt wondered if the Mohawk had caught up with the runner. If he hadn’t, how close was the enemy? The Rangers had been defacing the markers as they’d come upon them, laying false blazes to obstruct pursuit, which was all well and good, but Wyatt knew that the best way of protecting the colonel’s retreat wasn’t for the tail of the enemy snake to be cut off, it was the head.
“What are you thinking?” Donaldson asked, cutting into Wyatt’s tho
ughts.
“I’m thinking that you’re right. We move fast, we can outflank the buggers.”
Billy Drew showed his teeth. It wasn’t so much a smile as a feral grin.
“What’s keeping us, Lieutenant?” he said.
Exultant at having visited the first blow upon their enemy, the Oneida scouts were moving fast. Travelling in single file and with each man taking it in turns to lead, they knew it could only be a matter of time before their quarry was sighted. They had tasted blood. They wanted more.
The roar could be heard long before the falls came into view. Situated in a wide cleft at the end of a wooded gorge and tumbling in a thundering cascade from a height of seventy feet, it dominated the scenery around it. The narrowing of the gorge forced the track to veer away from the valley floor and up on to the side of the slope where it rose in a steady incline before eventually disappearing from view over the cataract’s boulder-strewn rim. Vapour from the falls filled the air and it was not long before the Oneidas’ muscled bodies were damp and glistening with spray. As they climbed higher, the noise of the water grew in volume, muting all other sounds.
Including the first gunshot.
The lead warrior was flung backwards as the rifle ball took him in the throat before angling upwards into his brain. The second man was unaware of the strike until he saw the back of his companion’s skull blow apart, showering him in blood and bone. As the scout let go a warning yell, Jem Beddowes, concealed among the rocks at the top of the slope, took his shot and grunted in satisfaction as his target clutched at his chest and jerked aside, toppling over the edge of the path into the torrent raging below. The surviving Oneida turned to flee, eyes widening as Wyatt and Billy Drew stepped into view, cutting off their retreat. There was nowhere to run. Both Rangers fired as one. The dual reports were deadened by the deluge of water. The Oneida went down, limbs splayed. From first shot to last, the culling had taken less than five seconds.