A Flight of Arrows

by Lori Benton

  The Indians were back to sniping and making sport of it. They lay wager on every shot—particularly that of the warrior, Ki, who positioned himself in a tree to pick his targets on the ramparts.

  William had moved his kit to the Royal Yorker’s camp, positioned between Brant’s Indian camp at the Lower Landing and St. Leger’s to the east. Some of the Yorkers were still to the west, laboring to clear the water passage. Sergeant Campbell was, regrettably, not one of them. Detailed under Campbell to a nearby hay field, gathering bedding for the camp, he was bringing in his third load when he heard of St. Leger’s intention to send an offer of surrender to the fort commander.

  William had seen that flag hoisted over the ramparts. Heard the defiant boom of artillery. Surrender was unlikely. But if he could gain permission to accompany St. Leger’s envoy, maybe he could find Reginald Aubrey and…what? Bring him back a prisoner to Sir John? Better a prisoner than dead.

  He dumped the hay at the edge of camp and slipped off through the trees, headed for the army’s main encampment, regretting he was out of proper uniform—they’d stripped to shirt-sleeves for the fatigue. Sweat-soaked, covered in bits of hay, he addressed the dubious sentry outside St. Leger’s tent.

  “Private William Aubrey of Johnson’s Greens. I must speak to Captain Watts, if he’s within. A matter of urgency.” To himself alone, but the sentry needn’t know that.

  The guard was a private of St. Leger’s 34th. Typical of army regulars, he peered down his nose at William’s grubby disarray. “You’ve some intelligence to impart that could affect an offer of surrender?”

  “What I’ve to say isn’t for your ears. Permit me to—”

  The tent flap moved aside. Captain Watts himself peered out, frowning as he took in William. “What is it, Aubrey?”

  “A request, sir. I—”

  Watts put a hand to his arm, glanced back into the tent, and said with thinly veiled irritation, “Come within—quietly.”

  Startled to have gained entry, however begrudging, William stepped inside the tent’s interior, heart thudding as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Assembled round a camp table were those of St. Leger’s officers not back with the baggage at Wood Creek: the general himself, fleshy jowled and looking older than his forty years; Joseph Brant; Colonel John Butler, who led the rangers, and his son, Walter; Lieutenant Bird; others who turned at William’s entry.

  St. Leger, in the midst of speaking, paid the stir at the tent’s entrance no mind. “…lack of ordinance confines our options at present, but we have nevertheless accomplished what ordinance alone could not. We have shown these rebels our resolve. And, gentlemen,” the general added with a nod at Brant, “we have shown them our Indians. Captain Tice will proceed under flag of truce with my missive to Gansevoort, detailing terms. We’ll have secured their surrender by nightfall.”

  The captain thus mentioned, Gilbert Tice, stepped forward to receive the letter still spread on the table, freshly inked, as yet unsealed.

  “What was the urgency, Private?” Watts asked under his breath while the general instructed Tice. “Has it some bearing on these proceedings?”

  “It does, sir. I request permission to accompany Captain Tice into the fort.”

  Watts’s dark brows lowered. “To what purpose?”

  William opened his mouth, seeking some excuse of substance to put behind the appeal—nearly all of Johnson’s regiment had someone inside that fort they could lay claim to as kin or friend—when a familiar growl arose outside the tent: “Aye, he’s in there, as he’s no call to be.” Campbell’s pugnacious face poked through the tent flap. His searching gaze fastened upon William. “A word outside if ye please, Private.”

  Heads turned among the officers. The general paused, glancing up. Taking William by the arm, Captain Watts pushed him out of the tent into the bright heat of a sun now in the west. Campbell grasped William’s other arm and started to speak, but the captain sent him a quelling look, whereupon they both released their hold. Watts addressed William. “Why should you wish to accompany Tice into the fort?”

  “That’s what he’s about, is it?” Campbell interjected. “He wants inside the fort? Dinna let him, Captain.”

  Watts frowned in annoyance. “It shan’t be my decision, but why should you object, Sergeant?”

  “On account, sir, o’ what our lad here is. He’s Indian, a savage half-breed. Did ye no ken that?”

  William blazed with heat as Captain Watts and even the sentry stared as though he’d sprouted horns.

  “No’ just any sort o’ savage,” the only man not rendered speechless hurried to add. “Oneida. For all we ken he’s set to carry intelligence to his people in that fort. And ye ken, Captain, that’s likely what his bosom friend, Reagan, has done—gone a traitor to the rebels.”

  Wanting nothing so much as to plow his fist into that smug Scotch face, William contained his rage and waited for the captain to speak. Watts continued to stare, desire to disbelieve Campbell’s accusation clear in his gaze. “You’re a Welshman, Aubrey. Your voice betrays you every time you open your mouth. Not only Welsh, but Oxford educated—and you’ve blue eyes!”

  He’d have to tell the sorry tale. “I know, sir. You see—”

  The captain waved a hand, silencing him. “I’ve no time for it. And it makes no matter for I shall not pass along your request. Rejoin your detail.”

  Forbearing to protest, William bowed and turned on his heel and stalked away through St. Leger’s camp. By the time he reached the hay field, he could see in the distance the knot of riders advancing toward Stanwix’s main gates, white flag fluttering.

  Hours later, when word spread that Colonel Gansevoort had spurned St. Leger’s offer, William wondered if Reginald Aubrey, whose face bore mute evidence of the outcome of Fort William Henry’s surrender, had had anything do with it.

  29

  August 4, 1777

  Kanowalohale

  The rising sun had chased away night’s cool, but clad in a simple skirt and blouse gathered by a woven sash, Anna felt comfortable. Scandalously so. Lydia hadn’t protested her adoption of Oneida garb, though Anna had caught her casting side-eyes at her uncovered hair and her calves bared above quilled moccasins.

  Throughout the morning, Oneida women, with infants and children in tow, had stopped by Good Voice’s lodge to see the white visitors, but now Lydia, Anna, and Good Voice were alone beneath the arbor, sorting through their collective stock of medicines—except for Strikes-The-Water, who sat a ways off oiling a musket. The brooding Tuscarora girl had spent much of the past two days at Good Voice’s lodge, always with some task to busy her hands and command her attention. Always pretending she did not understand their talk, though Anna knew better now.

  “You’ve a good supply of sassafras,” Lydia remarked; Good Voice had unwrapped a bundle of the roots. “What of honey, for dressings?”

  “Much honey,” Good Voice said. “The bees your grandmothers brought across the water found us long ago and made homes in our trees too.”

  Talk of healing went on for a time before it returned, inevitably, to why they were taking stock of their collective pharmacopoeia. It was two days since the scouts brought news of Fort Stanwix’s investment. Runners had come and gone since with nothing significant to report. No battle. No surrender. Apparently the British were delayed in bringing all but a few mortars up to the fort by the forward thinking of Stanwix’s commander.

  Their talk turned to another oft-visited topic, Papa and his conversation with Clear Day, and its results. Since news of the siege first reached them, they had feared for Papa’s safety, having no way of knowing whether he’d reached Stanwix before the siege began and was now inside the fort, or if hearing of it he had turned back and was well out of harm’s way. Or had found Stone Thrower. Or had been captured by the British. Lydia, Anna, and Good Voice had gone to their knees together many times and were bearing the uncertainty, the wrenching ache of hope, leaning into one another, opening their hearts to
one another, deepening bonds they had begun a year ago to forge.

  At last they had moved beyond their fear for the lives of their men and could venture to speak about their souls.

  “With all my heart I pray that the need to find Stone Thrower was a step toward Reginald’s healing,” Lydia said. “It’s only that I’ve waited so long, you see, and now…”

  Lydia faltered, and Anna wondered if she feared she’d said too much. Anna darted a look at Good Voice, whose hands had stilled on the bundle of herbs she’d been retying.

  Good Voice met Lydia’s gaze, hers composed. “Now?”

  Lydia blushed, recalling to Anna’s mind how Papa had kissed her on the quay. “He’s made no formal proposal, but I’ve reason to hope that, at last, Reginald and I might be wed once he returns. Once we both return.”

  Lydia closed her eyes briefly, and Anna knew she was praying again for Papa’s safety. Anna clasped her hand, adding the same petition for Two Hawks, and whispered her “Amen.”

  Good Voice was studying them when they both looked up, a small frown between her brows. “And if this happens as you hope, this marrying, you will become this one’s mother?” She bent her head toward Anna. “It is so among whites?”

  Lydia gave Anna’s hand a squeeze and with a blooming smile said, “In our case it certainly is.”

  Anna felt tears well at Lydia’s tender look. “You’ve always been a mother to me.”

  Good Voice’s frown smoothed away. Her features settled in decision. “Iyo. There is a thing I wish to do. A thing between mothers when the children have chosen.”

  With the aid of an arbor pole, Good Voice got to her feet, ungainly with her growing belly, and went into the lodge.

  Anna’s gaze flicked to Strikes-The-Water in time to see a quicksilver chase of thoughts cross her usually guarded face—startlement, comprehension, distress, anger—before the girl caught Anna’s gaze, took up her gun, and stalked away around the lodge.

  “What on earth is going on?” Lydia asked, staring after the girl.

  Anna was as mystified.

  Soon Good Voice came out of the lodge, looked to where Strikes-The-Water had been sitting, but made no mention of the girl’s departure. Beneath the arbor she knelt in front of Lydia, placing between them a large basket woven of birch bark. She lifted the lid and began removing its contents.

  “My son Two Hawks, called Jonathan,” she said, her voice carrying a note of formality, “is not here to speak for himself, but it is the way of the People for mothers to speak first of these matters.”

  From the basket she withdrew a tunic of fine-woven calico scattered with tiny flowers, the hem and neckline worked in bands of ribbons. She laid the tunic to the side, then brought out a pair of leggings worked in a matching design and moccasins decorated in quills. Good Voice’s eyes shone with pride, and not just in her workmanship.

  “My son has not been called upon to fight, but he stands ready to do so and has proven himself a skilled hunter. Your daughter and her children will never go hungry or lack for protection as long as my son’s hands have strength.”

  Halfway through this speech, Anna’s breath had caught with comprehension. Good Voice was making a formal request to Lydia, as her mother, to accept Two Hawks as a husband for her.

  Lydia turned to look at her, understanding dawning in her gaze as well.

  There was more in the basket, gifts and tokens. One by one Good Voice placed them before Lydia. With each item she enumerated her son’s merits.

  A set of wooden spoons, carved and polished: “He has a good heart for those he calls his own and is even now doing his part to serve and protect them.”

  A china teapot with pink roses and gold edging, as lovely as one might find in the finest parlor in Schenectady: “He is a man of generous spirit. He will be such a man for whatever people he pledges his heart to.”

  A stunning belt made of blue and white beads: “He will be a good father to his children and will pass on to them much wisdom. He will tell them of Heavenly Father’s Son Jesus and the good path made for men to walk. He will see that his children walk that path and know Creator’s blessings.”

  Tears were coursing down Anna’s cheeks, her heart swelling with love for the man Good Voice praised. Not until Good Voice had emptied the basket did Anna dare look at Lydia again, praying she would see acceptance in her face, approval, despite this custom strange to them. But Good Voice wasn’t finished speaking.

  “When I began to make or trade for these things, looking to this day, I did not expect my son to choose a wife not Onyota’a:ka, but your daughter-to-be is a worthy woman of her people. She will make a good wife to my son and mother to their children, even without a clan.”

  She paused at that, hands spread over her unborn child, and Anna felt a rush of regret—and understanding. This was the source of that sorrow she’d sometimes seen when Good Voice looked at her and Two Hawks. Their children, perhaps the only grandchildren Good Voice would live long enough to know, would have no clan. Would not be of the People.

  “It is in my mind,” Good Voice said, again addressing Lydia, “that Creator is in this joining of our children. He is doing this for our healing. He is taking what our enemy meant for evil and bringing good from it. I do not think we will soon see the end of the good He plans to give us, if you will accept my son as husband for your daughter.”

  Lydia opened her mouth, then closed it. Was she overwhelmed? Thinking about Papa and what he might say of her stepping into this role he would surely see as his?

  Her speechlessness lasted only seconds before she took up the teapot and plunked it onto her lap. “I’m honored by your words, Good Voice, and I thank you for these beautiful gifts. I do accept Two Hawks as Anna’s husband—with all my heart. He’s an admirable young man, as I’ve come to know. Anna will be a good and faithful wife to him. And I promise to be their champion to Anna’s father.” Lydia leaned forward, earnest. “Not that I believe they’ll need one, only…I want you to know I support them and will continue to do so.”

  Lydia set the teapot carefully aside. She held out her hands to Good Voice, who clasped them across the marriage gifts.

  “I too support and…champion.” Good Voice smiled over the word. “It is sealed then. They will join as they wish.”

  Both women turned to Anna, who’d taken in every word and gesture with pounding heart. Rejoicing heart. “Thank you, both. Oh…thank you.”

  None of them had noticed Daniel Clear Day coming up the path to Good Voice’s lodge until his shadow fell over Lydia’s and Good Voice’s clasped hands. They broke apart, blinking up at him, jarred out of the profound sense of linkage the little ceremony had created.

  Clear Day stood in the sunlight, sweat running down his face. “That one called Herkimer is coming to the aid of Stanwix. He musters his farmer-soldiers at Fort Dayton. I go now to Oriska to see them pass, see if my nephew or your son is among them.”

  Anna was on her feet as if she’d springs beneath her. She looked down at Lydia, seated amid the marriage gifts. “Should we go with him?”

  “To Oriska?” Lydia got to her feet, then reached to give Good Voice a hand in rising. “They’re only passing through, the militia. Clear Day can bring our message to Two Hawks if he sees him. Would you?” she asked the old man. “Let Two Hawks know of Reginald’s change of heart and…” She waved a hand over the gifts laid out beneath the arbor.

  “It is settled,” Good Voice explained. “My son must do as Creator leads in this fight, but tell him that he will have the wife he desires.”

  “I will tell him,” Clear Day said. “If I see him.”

  Even Good Voice didn’t seem compelled to go to Oriska. Anna couldn’t bear it. “Lydia? What if Papa is with them?”

  Lydia held firm. “It seems we may be needed after all. But I’m not letting you nearer either of those armies with a battle imminent, Anna. Yes, I know Reginald may among them.” She paused, and even Anna could see how hard this was for her to
say. “But we cannot go running off into danger even for him, and he wouldn’t want us to. When the dust settles we’ll go to wherever they bring our wounded. For now…we’ll wait for further word.”

  Anna left the arbor, frustrated by fear and longing one moment, soaring with anticipation the next. She headed down through woods to the creek bottom, needing solitude to untangle her thoughts. Good Voice’s lodge stood on the edge of the village near the creek; she passed no others on her way, but the sense of being a stranger in a place of customs and speech not her own intensified. She’d tried to endure the discomfiture with the same equanimity Two Hawks had shown while living in Schenectady. As he would need to do for years to come…if he survived long enough for them to marry.

  He would survive. He must. And Papa…

  Birds were noisy in the trees. Then the creek’s rush swelled around her, chattering over stones at its edge. Sunlight reflected off the water, but in the west thunderclouds were building dark against the bleached linen sky. The riverine air smelled of sunbaked mud.

  They’d hurt Two Hawks in Schenectady. She didn’t want to think about that either, but she couldn’t make herself blind to all he was prepared to endure for her. To pretend it wasn’t so would be unworthy of him, of their love. With Lydia and Papa supporting them, in time it would be easier. But it would never be easy.

  Was there a way to live in both worlds? What would those worlds even look like on the other side of this war? Would one or the other have been obliterated?

  Let them all come through this alive. Then they would look ahead to what came next.

  Oh, but waiting, enduring, was hard.