There was a chance that someone who didn’t know about either opening could stumble into this cave, but it was a small one. Quent had no choice but to take it. “Nicole, listen to me. I have to go, but you must stay. You’ll be safe here.”
She made no sign that she’d heard, and he put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Nicole! This time you have to do what I say. Your life depends on it. Promise you’ll stay here.”
“I promise.”
Her whisper was so quiet he read her lips more than heard her voice. And she was still staring beyond him, into terrors he could only imagine. “I love you,” he said. “I brought you to the clearing to tell you that. I have to leave now, but I will come back for you. Do you understand me, Nicole? You will be safe here and I will come back for you. I swear it.”
She put up a hand and touched his cheek. “Be careful. Do not—”
He clasped her small hand in his. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I will return, Nicole. I will always return for you. If you know nothing else, know that. Wait for me.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently. Then he was gone.
There was no point in heading back to the big road. The shortcut that had brought Sampson to the clearing would get them to the sawmill faster.
Quent ran along the track trying to unravel the puzzle. There hadn’t been an Indian attack on Shadowbrook in half a century at least, perhaps more. A scalp lock in these parts likely meant Iroquois, and around here that meant Mohawk, Kahniankehaka. But they had been English allies for years. All the same, Sampson was adamant. He kept insisting, “I seen ’em, Master Quent. I seen them savages. They was—”
“Stop your wailing, Sampson. I believe you. Save your breath for running. We’ll be at the sawmill soon.”
Quent smelled the blaze before he saw it. There was no wind and the smoke from the burning buildings rose straight up into the sky. He saw Matilda Davidson’s body first, an arrow in her chest and her ten-day-old child still in her arms. They’d both been scalped. Sampson reached for the infant. It uttered a single cry and died. Quent took the tiny corpse away from the boy and lay it back on its mother’s breast. “There’s no time now. This way.” He’d spotted Hank’s body as well. Matilda’s husband had been brought down a short distance farther on. There was no sign of Ely. And no way Quent and Sampson could put out the flames that were devouring the mill.
A nearby maple was the tallest of the trees beyond the screen of smoke. Quent scaled it quickly. The heat from the flames of the burning sawmill was stronger the higher he climbed. Sparks flew with sudden bursts of vigor as they consumed the moist, fresh lumber waiting to be dressed.
Quent shaded his eyes, blinking them clear of the soot flying everywhere, and peered across the horizon. Dark as the afternoon had become, the smoke made a darker smudge in the sky revealing the destruction. It was a thought-out burning, Quent thought; the wheat fields are the target. All the same, the woods will go as well if a wind comes … Thank Christ for the day’s stillness. Feels almost unnatural, but I’ll take the devil if he’s the only ally available.
“Master Quent! Look here, Master Quent!”
Sampson had found Ely Davidson. The boy was propping the old man up with an arm around his waist. Stil, the sawyer was alive and standing on his own two legs, and his scalp was intact.
Quent came down the tree faster than he’d gone up. Ely looked dazed but unharmed, except for an ugly gash on his forehead. A long gun was slung over his shoulder. The barrel was clean and the ramming rod in place. It did not appear to have been fired. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m not exactly sure.” Ely’s voice shook. He was staring at the bodies of his son and his daughter-in-law and his tiny grandson. “I’d gone up to the ’race to check the dams. I heard a commotion down here, started back, and—”
“What kind of commotion?”
“Couldn’t tell at first Then I saw smoke and figured it meant fire. Panicked me, I guess. Didn’t look where I was goin’. Damned stupid after all these years. Ran so damned fast a branch caught me in the head and knocked me out. By the time I got here they was leaving. And”—he gestured to the three corpses—“it was too late to do any good. Never got off a shot.”
“Just as well. You’d be dead too if you had.” Quent put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “They’re burning the wheat fields. Did the ones you saw have horses?”
Ely shook his head. There was another shower of sparks and the flames roared. “Didn’t see no horses.”
No matter, the war party wouldn’t be on foot for long. There was a paddock between the sawmill and the sugarhouse. Sweet Jesus, at least a dozen animals were there for the taking. Quent turned to go. “We can head them off if we take the path around Big Two.” The sawyer didn’t move. “Ely,” Quent’s voice softened. “I need you.” The old man continued to stare at the corpses of his family. “There’s no time to bury them now, Ely.” Once they had horses, the braves could get from the sugarhouse to the big house in under half an hour.
Davidson hesitated half a moment more, then took his gun from his shoulder and began ramming powder into the barrel. “Sampson, you come with us!” he called.
“I be coming, Master Ely. Just getting me something to bring along.” Sampson had spotted Hank Davidson’s musket, just a corner of the stock showing beneath the dead man’s shoulder. The boy dragged the musket free and ran into the woods after the two men.
Quent turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “The ones you saw, Ely, were they Kahniankehaka? Mohawk?”
“No. Wrong war paint. Not blue. Red and black”
It sounded like Huron. Quent felt a chi;l start in his belly. “Red and black? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The path of the shortcut that skirted Big Two bent in opposite directions a ways farther on. Quent had to decide. If the attack was purposeful, as it appeared to be, the war party had knowledge of the Patent. If someone has told them to fire the wheat fields and sent them here on foot, that someone will also have told them where to find horses so they can finish the job. Where should we turn? To the sugarhouse—if the Frankels and the others are still alive, two more guns might keep them that way—or the paddock?
“Moses and Tim Frankel’s bound to have figured out what’s going on.” Ely was past the age when running was easy, but his voice didn’t waiver. Determination supplied his breath. “Thing is, they’ve only got muskets up at the sugarhouse. They’ll be right glad of—”
“This way,” Quent said, veering to his left.
“But the sugarhouse is—”
“This way. The braves will head for the paddock first. They need horses and they’ll know where to find them.” Christ help them all if he was wrong.
“Savages don’t need horses to get scalps. We need to—”
“Stop talking, Ely. Save your strength for shooting.” He could feel the older man’s disapproval boring into his back. And young Sampson’s terror.
John spotted the gray smudge on the horizon when it was nearing two o’clock, a good hour before dinner. He had intended to ride out and check on the progress of the haying after his meal. Instead he forgot his empty belly and rushed toward the stables shouting for a horse. “There’s a fire. Hurry up with that saddle, damn you, or I’ll have you flayed alive!”
Little George gave the straps a final tug even as John mounted. “Get a wagon,” John told him. “Load it up with buckets. Find Jeremiah and Six-Finger Sam and come after me.” There were dug wells all over the Patent. The only prayer for fighting a fire was if one of them, or better yet a brook or a stream, turned out to be near enough to the flames to do some good. If that were the case, they’d need every available hand to form a bucket chain. “Bring Runsabout, as well. And Corn Broom Hannah.” Kitchen Hannah was too old to be of any use.
“John! John! Did you see?” Lorene raced out of the house, holding up her skirts. “It looks like fire!”
“I know.” John’s hors
e sensed his urgency and pawed the earth. “I’ve told the others to come by wagon.’
“I’ll come too. I can—”
“No, you stay here. I’m taking everyone but Kitchen Hannah. Father shouldn’t be alone.”
She protested, but with only half a heart For once John was right. Lorene watched him ride out, then supervised the readying of the wagon that went after him. When it left, she stood in the stable yard, hands hanging by her side clenched into fists. She was alone with Ephraim and Kitchen Hannah, helpless to do anything useful, and the smudge of smoke on the horizon grew bigger and blacker by the moment. Dear God. Dear God. A crack of heat lightening thundered overhead. Dear God, let it rain. Don’t let it be just a dry storm.
“Lorene!”
She looked up. Ephraim was at his window gesturing toward the horizon. “Fire, Lorene!”
“I know. John’s gone and taken the slaves with him. They’ll see to it, Ephraim. I’m coming up. Don’t fret yourself.”
Quent and Ely and Sampson came out of the woods onto a piece of upland in a natural clearing. The paddock was within view.
Quent pointed to a large oak with a trunk substantially wider than the sawyer. “Ely, you stay here. Keep your eyes open. Don’t fire until after I do. Sampson, follow me.”
He led the boy some twenty strides farther on, then gestured to the musket. “You know how to fire that thing?”
Sampson grinned. “I surely do, Master Quent.”
It was against the law of New York Province to give a slave a weapon. They pretty much made their own laws on the Patent, but John would have flogged the hide off Sampson if he’d caught him with a musket. “You got any shot? Any powder?” The boy held up the ammunition he’d taken from Hank Davidson’s body. “Fine. You stay here, behind this tree. After you hear two shots, mine and Master Ely’s, you fire your musket, then reload as fast as you can. Soon as you’ve done that, fire again.’
“I can climb up the tree, Master Quent. That way I—”
“No. Do exactly what I say. You got that?”
“I gots it”
He needed all the shots to come from ground level; it was the only way they’d create the impression of a surrounding force. Quent shaded his eyes and looked down the main path leading to the paddock. It was empty. He knelt and put his ear to the ground. Nothing. If he’d guessed wrong, the braves would already be at the sugarhouse and the burning and killing would be under way. Too late for second thoughts. He was committed.
Quent made his way to a stand of elms halfway across the clearing from the paddock, on the opposite side to the tree hiding Ely. The sky was darker than ever and there was still no wind, but the smell of smoke drifted toward them, carried on the high currents of air that sometimes moved the clouds when not a leaf stirred on earth. The horses smelled it, too. They were beginning to paw the earth and make soft whinnying sounds of distress. There was another sound, barely audible, but growing louder by the moment, moccasins pounding swiftly on the earth. Quent raised the gun to his shoulder and fixed his sights on the place where the main path ended and the clearing began.
The brown robe had drawn on the ground with a stick, showing Lantak the things he needed to know. So far everything had been exactly as the priest said. Lantak heard the sounds of horses and grunted softly with satisfaction. He held up his hand to signal those behind him to pause, then signaled to the men behind him. Three braves broke off and made their way through the trees to Lantak’s right. Three more went to the left. Lantak waited. Until now there had been no organized resistance, but a wise war sachem never assumed that his enemy was stupid. And surprise was a weapon that could be used only once.
The silence told Quent the braves were dividing. If there were enough of them to fully encircle the clearing they’d come on Sampson and Ely and the game was over, he was betting there were not. Indians fought with stealth, in small raiding parties. Besides, a group of Huron large enough to deploy all the way around the paddock would have been bound to attract attention before they got there. There were probably fewer than a dozen, and some would enter the clearing from the main path. At the spot he had firmly fixed in his sights.
A few leaves moved.
Sweet holy Jesus. Huron war paint all right, and a scalp lock exactly as Sampson had described. But this brave wore buckskins. Not many Huron wore … Holy Christ. He squinted into the unnatural dark of the afternoon, forced to accept that he was looking at Lantak, the most feared renegade in all of New France. A man so crazed with hate that his own longhouse wanted no part of him. If he found Nicole … Quent’s heart thudded in his chest, probably loud enough for the murdering bloody bastards to hear. Except that the horses were making enough noise to give him cover. They had picked up the scent of the Indians and were truly agitated now, stomping and snorting.
Lantak and the two braves with him headed for the paddock. Quent’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he didn’t shoot. He knew there were others and he wanted them in the open when the fight began, not hiding in the woods.
The braves had to cross six fathoms of open field to reach the horses. Quent kept Lantak in his sights, while he registered the silent arrival of six more Huron. He waited for the space of another few heartbeats. No more Indians appeared. There were nine in all; Lantak and two others had long guns, the rest muskets. If the man across from him were Cormac rather than old Ely Davidson, he’d figure they could take the lot in a couple of minutes.
“Stop right there, you thieving savages!” Big Jacob burst out of the woods and his voice rang out in the clearing. “You ain’t having these horses. These be—”
Quent fired at the same instant that Lantak spun to his left and loosed his tomahawk The head of the brave who had been behind the leader exploded in a shower of blood and bone. Ely Davidson took down another of the Indians. A third brave took Sampson’s musket ball in the shoulder and staggered before falling to his knees. By the time Quent reloaded and was ready to fire again, he couldn’t find a target. The raiders had all dropped to the ground and were rolling toward the woods.
Big Jacob lay on the ground, Lantak’s tomahawk buried in his forehead. The stink of gunfire hung in the unmoving air along with the musk of men. The only sound was the frightened whinnying of the horses. A long gun erupted. Quent figured it for Ely’s, but the shot, connected with nothing. Quent saw the brave closest to the paddock begin crawling toward the gate. If he loosed the horses, every Indian except maybe the one who was wounded would be astride in a heartbeat. Quent as well. But not likely Sampson or Ely. It would be just him chasing half a dozen murdering Huron. He tried to fix the crawling Indian in his sights.
A musket shot rang out, Sampson’s probably. Quent heard the ball crash in the woods. There was no answering fire. The Indians were battle shrewd, unlikely to waste ammunition on targets they couldn’t see. The brave trying to reach the paddock was almost there. He rose up slightly and stretched his arm toward the gate. It was enough. Quent’s shot took off the top of his head. A roan smelled the blood and screamed in terror.
A crack of lightning ripped across the blackened sky and the paddock was bathed in a strange blue light. The neighing and whinnying grew deafening. An Indian rose to his knees and another streak of light cut through the heavy air. This one was a flaming arrow that landed in the center of the paddock. One horse bellowed in agony. The others hurled themselves against the paddock fence and it gave beneath their combined weight. The horses were loose.
Quent threw himself forward and grabbed the mane of the first horse he could touch, a gray mare. She tried to shake free of him but he hauled himself up on her back, then swung his body to the side so her flanks gave him protection. No way he could load and sight. The only weapon of any use was his dirk. And once he threw it, it was gone.
As he’d expected, every Huron still alive had managed to grab and mount a horse. There were six of them pounding across the clearing toward the main path. Lantak turned and his knife cut through the air, aimed straight
for the forehead of Quent’s mare. Quent crouched, knowing his size made a target of him even so, and yanked the horse’s head down. The knife sailed over both of them.
He saw Lantak sprawl low over his horse, becoming almost one with the animal, and he knew the Huron’s knees were pressing into the animal’s sides, because he saw it leap forward. Behind them the paddock was starting to burn in earnest, the fire first creeping across the short, well-grazed grass, then fueling itself on the split logs of the fence and racing onward. Another flash of lightning split the sky. Quent saw Sampson start toward him across the clearing. “Head for the big house!” he shouted. “Tell Master John!”
Those few moments gave the Indians the advantage. They were well ahead of him now, thundering along the path. Quent rode after them. The rearmost brave had turned himself around, riding sightless, trusting the horse to follow the others. He fixed an arrow in his bow and let it fly. Quent rolled to the side. Two more arrows came in swift succession. Quent dodged them both. Before the brave could loose another, a low-hanging branch connected with his head and shoulders and knocked him off his horse. The horse reared up, startled by the sudden loss of the weight on its back. The brave rolled to avoid being trampled, and rose to his knees. Quent’s dirk caught him in the throat and he shuddered, then fell. Quent slung himself off the side of the mare, hanging on by the grip of his knees and one hand tangled in the horse’s mane. He drew level with the dead brave and retrieved his dirk, then righted himself and rode on.
The riderless horse was the roan gelding. Now it was between him and Lantak and his braves, all of them still well ahead. Five God-rotting murdering bastards too many. God curse them all to hell. Quent dug his heels into the mare’s sides, slapping her flanks with the palm of one hand. “C’mon, you she-witch! Run, damn you! Run!”
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