A Flight of Arrows

by Lori Benton

  A certainty built upon lies, even then. Every time he so much as looked at Campbell with his blunt nose, near-lipless mouth, and loathing gaze, William had to shield himself against the memories that still shredded his soul.

  Casting about for an excuse not worn threadbare, William had covered for Sam’s truancy once again, absorbed another verbal lash, and vowed as he stalked the frozen streets of Lachine risking important bits of himself to frostbite that it was the absolute last time. Reagan was up to his neck in something. Perhaps he’d found himself a willing maid among some merchant’s staff and couldn’t keep from her. William only hoped it was such a piece of foolishness. Regardless, he meant to have the truth. He’d no more tolerance for deceit in those who made claim to him, be it blood or friendship.

  He spotted Sam on the wind-swept riverfront, down on the pebbled beach—knew him by the pale blond tail of his hair, for he’d already changed out of his regimentals. Johnson’s Greens they’d been dubbed on account of their coats. Buff-faced, blue-trimmed, with a buckle depicting the Royal Crown, they weren’t exactly objectionable, just not the scarlet coat William had envisioned donning after their grueling mountain crossing last summer. Despite appealing to General Burgoyne for the bounty other commanding officers received, Sir John had been told to foot the bill himself for his regiment’s raising. The King’s Royal Regiment of New York, regarded by army regulars as a motley provincial assemblage devoid of discipline, must take what they could get.

  Sam wasn’t alone. He stood in conversation with what looked to be…an Indian. The figure was wrapped in a wind-whipped trade blanket, quilled leggings and moccasins peeking out below. A small figure, slightly bent—to the freezing wind if not with age. Likely one of the Indians from across the St. Lawrence. A Mohawk from Caughnawaga, a mission village on the river’s southern shore. Longtime Catholic converts most of them, they often passed through Lachine, where the Crown’s Indian gifts were stored and river trade for the western lakes began. William avoided them. He hadn’t known Sam to have truck with them either. Until now. What business had he with this solitary Indian?

  One possibility occurred, nearly halting William in his tracks. The storehouses…the Indian goods…the truancies. Was Sam engaged in illicit trading with the Caughnawagas, and appropriating the King’s property for the purpose? Such temptation had overmastered more than one soldier in weeks past. Those caught could expect the cat-o’-nine-tails. William had no trouble imagining Campbell volunteering to administer the lash and gleefully dragging him into it as well. Guilt by association.

  William was too far removed to catch their conversation over the wind’s buffeting whine, but his shout carried well enough.

  “Reagan!”

  Sam jerked round to face him. So did the Indian. A woman, boney faced and wrinkled. The sight sent William’s mind spiraling back to last summer, to Anna’s voice pleading. “Then don’t stay for Papa. Stay for Good Voice, for Two Hawks…”

  “Shut up,” he muttered. “Just shut up.”

  As he neared the pair, he forced himself to meet the wary gaze of the woman. Whoever she was, she took the seconds before William crossed the final stretch of beach to scurry off along the frozen riverside, retreating past a cluster of fishing shacks abandoned for the winter.

  “William. Still loitering in this cold?” Sam’s mouth crooked, hazel eyes behind drifting breath bright with the half-sheepish look of a man caught out. “You were talking of cider last I saw you.”

  Though a few years older than William, Sam could still display the reckless mischief of youth. It had been appealing back when William’s most pressing concern had been convincing his father to let him return to his studies at Queens. “Figured you’d found yourself a sweetheart,” he snapped through numbed lips. “But is that one not a bit old for you?”

  Red-faced with cold, Sam smiled blandly as he took William’s arm in a mittened hand, steering him away from the river. “Far too old and a savage to boot. Let’s get indoors. This wind’s vicious.”

  A savage…

  “Her name is Good Voice,” Anna had told him, there in the barn as his world shattered to pieces.

  And he’d said, “What sort of name is that?”

  “Onyota’a:ka—Oneida,” she’d said, on her face such hope resting, while he’d felt the shock of it like a lance thrust through his vitals.

  “So that is what I am? An Indian. A half-breed.”

  “You are my son!” So said the man who’d committed the egregious act of his abduction and compounded it with a lifetime of lies. William’s lifetime.

  He’d swung onto his horse, unable to look Reginald Aubrey in the eye, emptiness raging where his heart had been. “I am not though, am I? You’ve said as much. Wales, Oxford, this place—my name. None of it is mine.”

  He yanked free of Sam’s grip. “Next time wait till after you’ve seen your duties through before you run off chasing skirts—buckskin or otherwise.”

  He strode ahead of Sam toward the house they’d quartered in since November. The crunch of boots on gravel trailed him.

  “William. What ails ye?” Keeping pace beside him, Sam shouldered past the few bundled figures braving the cold for the shops along Lachine’s streets.

  “Forget who the officer of the day is today?”

  “Ah…sorry. Campbell doesn’t like you overmuch, does he?”

  “The sentiment is mutual. But I’m done covering for you, see. Next time I’ll tell what you’ve been about, shall I?”

  Sam halted. A pace more and William pivoted to face him, blowing breath like a winded horse. “What do you mean to say of me?” Sam demanded, no longer grinning.

  “That depends. What business had you with that woman?”

  Sam blinked, then visibly relaxed. “The Indian? She was soliciting me for business, if you must know. Not that sort,” he added. “She wanted to tend our laundry. I told her we have that covered—and naught to pay her anyway.”

  William searched his friend’s face, but Sam’s features gave back nothing.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Fine. Whatever. I’m getting indoors.” He turned to go, but Sam grabbed his arm, detaining him before they turned a corner.

  “It won’t happen again.” William’s face was too frozen for expression, but there must have been a coldness in his eyes as well. Sam stepped back a pace. “You’re truly cross with me?”

  “Yes. No. I’m just…” Just so all-consuming angry. Still dislocated to the core of his being. He’d hoped to find his footing in the army, in his loyalty to the Crown, but even here he’d found scant common ground with the rank and file of Johnson’s regiment, largely composed of the transplanted Highlanders Sir John’s father, William Johnson, had settled on his landholdings north of the Mohawk River.

  Like them, William was a Tory, but he wasn’t hellbent on marching back into the valley he’d fled, wielding a fiery sword of vengeance against the rebel neighbors who’d driven him from his home. All he’d sought that summer night he galloped from Reginald Aubrey’s barn was escape. A place to hole up, lick his wounds, regain his equilibrium. He’d been a branch uprooted, caught in a rushing stream, hurtled along its flow. Rashly he’d reached for the first mooring to hand—Sam Reagan, set to flee to Quebec to join the British in Montreal.

  “Look,” Sam said now. “It would have been hell getting here without you and I’m grateful you came with me, but you’ve never said why you were so keen for it. Whatever it is, it’s been eating you inside out the winter long.” When William merely glared at him, tight lipped, Sam pressed, “It’s to do with your father, isn’t it? You haven’t so much as mentioned Reginald Aubrey since the night we left.”

  “That’s because he’s not my father!”

  William instantly wished the words unsaid. He’d rebuffed Sam’s attempts to uncover his reasons for journeying north until finally Sam had let the subject alone. They’d passed the weeks in Lachine working on local fortifications, doing rudimenta
ry drill training, patrolling the river with orders to “seize all Rascals who may attempt to steal in or out of the Province, spreading lies.” In other words, watching for rebel spies—the farthest thing from Sam’s mind at present, to judge by the utter astonishment fallen like a sheet across his wind-chapped face.

  “Aubrey isn’t your father? But you bear his name. Did he…what? Adopt you, as he did with Anna?”

  William ignored the question. “You want to know why I’m angry, do you?”

  “If you’re finally ready to tell me.” People were passing on the street. Sensing he’d no wish for an audience, Sam drew him closer to the stone wall of the corner building, another warehouse. “Come now. Getting it out will help.”

  Wishing it could, William bit the words through cracked lips. “Very little of what you know of me is true, Sam. I was born the day Fort William Henry surrendered, but not to the Aubreys. Not to my…” He swallowed past the painful knowledge that the woman who’d raised him, loved him—to her own distraction—had born no relation to him whatsoever. Heledd Aubrey had been deceived as well. “Another woman in the fort birthed me. When Reginald Aubrey’s son died, he stole me from my mother’s side. There were two of us. Twins. I suppose I looked white enough to pass for his son. He took me and left his dead babe in my place. I never knew any of it until the night I said I’d cross the mountains with you.”

  For the first time in William’s recollection he’d rendered Sam Reagan speechless. He stared, eyes roving William’s face, feature by feature, before finally he said, “You looked white enough? What does that mean?”

  “Apparently I’m savage born. Indian.”

  Sam shook his head. “Not full blood. Your eyes.”

  “My mother was born white but raised Oneida. So I’m told.”

  His initial surprise spent, Sam was taking the news in customary stride. “I expect there’s more to tell. In fact I’m sure of it, but save the details. Let’s get inside.”

  “Agreed,” said William, all but certain now his toes would never thaw again.

  They turned the corner of the storehouse and stopped short to keep from running into the squat, burly form of Sergeant Campbell, who, judging by the look of satisfaction spreading across his blunt face, had overheard every word of William’s confession.

  7

  Midwinter Moon

  Fort Stanwix

  Two Hawks had barely outraced the coming storm. As he entered the fort at the Carrying Place, the snowfall that had pelted him since afternoon thickened to an angry blow, curtaining the log barracks and obscuring the blue-coated figures hurrying to put a door between themselves and the biting cold.

  Two Hawks sheltered the horse he led—his brother’s mare—catching glimpses through snow of the outer defenses, under repair by the new garrison from Connecticut, commanded by a colonel called Elmore. When he ducked into the trading post, hauling the bundled furs the horse had carried, warmth met him. And the stink of unwashed bodies. As his eyes adjusted to firelight, he picked out the owners of voices raised in conversation, more voices than the scant supplies stacked around the post could account for.

  It had been General Schuyler’s notion, this post for Oneidas to trade their winter furs for clothing and food. Hunger stalked the People. Warriors were often too busy spying on the British or watching their borders for those intent on mischief to hunt meat. Even when they had furs and skins to trade, the war in the east had disrupted the supply of goods. Two Hawks’s mother wanted wool to make warm shirts and leggings. Little such met his gaze as he lowered his burden to the floor.

  Around a brick hearth, men stood talking and warming themselves. Soldiers, scouts, Oneidas come for trade or news. Several broke away and headed for a cider barrel, revealing Ahnyero standing among the talkers, his hand around a cup. He flashed Two Hawks a look, nodding him over.

  Two Hawks’s spirits rose. Since his return from chasing the Cherry Valley spies, he’d seen the blacksmith-turned-scout only in passing, with no chance for the talk he wanted to have with the man.

  Ahnyero made room for him in the fire’s warmth. Two Hawks gave ear to the conversation while he began to thaw. Some of the talk was good—General Washington’s victories at places called Trenton and Princeton. Some was not so good. Joseph Brant—Thayendanegea of the Mohawks, brother of Sir William Johnson’s widow—had returned from a voyage to England where it was said he’d met the king.

  “Brant’s running hither and yon, boasting of being bosom friends with King Geordie,” a Connecticut soldier complained. “Promising the Indians presents our side ain’t able to spare—winning them over to the Crown. Can’t one of you lot, some high-up chief, rein that stallion in?”

  This was directed to the Oneidas present. Two Hawks knew his were not the only teeth it set on edge.

  “The English king sent Brant to sway the People to his cause,” Ahnyero told the soldier. “But when he came to Ganaghsaraga, he was scolded by the sachems who refused to side with the king.” Ganaghsaraga was a village on the edge of Oneida land. Many living there were Tuscaroras. “The sachems told Brant they were standing apart and letting the whites fight their own battle. This is so. We only protect our lands from war parties crossing, as is right to do in any case.”

  Though standing apart was said when Oneidas were asked, the pressure to choose a side in the white man’s war was partly what troubled those gathered in that fort.

  When others took up the talk, Ahnyero leaned close to Two Hawks and said, “I still feel the cold coming off you, Brother,” and led him to the cider barrel.

  Two Hawks filled a cup. They returned to the hearth, squatting where a poker rested, its tip in the glowing embers. Ahnyero drew it forth and dipped it into Two Hawks’s cider. The liquid steamed, its spicy fragrance clouding warm and pleasant between them. Ahnyero waited for Two Hawks to warm his hands around the cup, then his insides with a swallow.

  “Your father…he will want to scout with us?”

  “He has grumbled about it all winter.” Two Hawks told how he and Stone Thrower had hunted together through the autumn. Though Two Hawks had left twice since to scout, his mother kept his father from following, doubting his leg was up to the challenge of trekking through heavy drifts. “My mother was right. The bone knit strong. He has no more limp now.”

  “Iyo.” Ahnyero dropped his voice though the others had gone on talking, some moving off to start a dice game. “Have you been east since the autumn?”

  Two Hawks shook his head. “I hoped for word of William to bring.” He fixed Ahnyero with a hopeful look. “Have you heard of Johnson’s regiment?”

  The Oneidas had cast a net of spies, strung out northward to the St. Lawrence River. Two Hawks was proud to be part of it but wished his part could be among those in Quebec gathering the war rumors from their spies among the British, that he might walk through some fort or encampment, turn a corner, and come face to face with his face—or one very like it—in the uniform of a Tory soldier. And he would say, “Brother, since the day you were taken, you have lived in the hearts of our mother and father, and in my heart. Come now and know us so that we will be in your heart as well.”

  Or he might say, “Come now, forgive the man you called Father. Do this for my sake, so he will learn to think well of me…”

  Ahnyero told him, “The Royal Yorkers are said to winter in Montreal. Perhaps your brother is there?”

  “It is what my brother told Anna Catherine he meant to do, join Johnson’s regiment. Saying and doing are not the same.” Speaking Anna Catherine’s name drove other thoughts from Two Hawks’s mind. He set the cider on the ashy hearth. “I have wanted to ask you a thing.”

  “Ask it then.”

  Two Hawks felt his face warm, not from the nearness of the fire. “How do you manage it, living among the whites and with the People, being at peace in both places?”

  Ahnyero studied him, in no great hurry to reply. Two Hawks wondered what he was seeing. A foolish boy who’d lost his heart
to an impossible love? Four moons had waned since he’d seen Anna Catherine. Two Hawks ached with missing her. Not that he’d thought time would change his heart. For better, for worse—words spoken when whites married, he’d learned. They warmed him, thinking of life with his Bear’s Heart beside him. And they frightened him, considering the cost. He would need to remake himself after a pattern he couldn’t clearly see. It ran before him like a deer through dappled thickets, giving only glimpses.

  “You mean to marry that white woman then.”

  Two Hawks had never told the man that he loved Anna Catherine. It must show on his face, written like words on a page. “If I can persuade her father.”

  “It seems wrong to me,” Ahnyero said.

  Two Hawks’s heart plummeted. “Wrong?”

  “That you should seek her father’s favor instead of the other way, after all that man has done. After all your parents have forgiven him. He is a difficult man, Aubrey?”

  Two Hawks grunted. Difficult was a good word for that one. He was very tempted to say so, but he did not; he had told Anna Catherine he would honor her father. That did not mean only to his face. Or hers.

  “I have tried to think how it would be,” he said, “how I would see myself, had I done a thing I knew to be shameful. What would it take to restore me? What ways do whites have for cleansing a bad heart? All I understand are our traditions, and the ways of Heavenly Father, which I am learning. This man seems to have nothing for the purpose.”

  Ahnyero’s brows lifted. “Nothing?”

  “He has drawn himself apart. He is…” Inspired by their surroundings, Two Hawks said, “Like a man shut up inside a fort. Shut up where none can get to him. I think he believes even Creator cannot reach him there, where he hides. My parents tried to open that fort with forgiveness. Maybe they did. Maybe it is standing wide now. But he hasn’t come out. I want this man to come out. I want him to be whole again. I want…”