by Lori Benton
Watts glanced toward the wounded, his gaze fastening on Singleton. A group of green-coated Yorkers came into the clearing, bringing in more injured. “Unconfirmed, sir. I expect they will be heavy. What I can confirm is that another bayonet charge will be an exercise in futility while the rebels are entrenched on that height. Futility and wasted lives,” he added, sharing a look with Cornplanter.
“So, then, what I have to hand is a parcel of rangers, a battered company of infantry, and several hundred Indians no more easily corralled than wildcats.” Frustration rose off Johnson like heat waves. He huffed a breath and jerked his head in a nod. “Very well. I shall report to St. Leger that the column is halted and dispatch reinforcements back to finish what we’ve begun. Then St. Leger can sweep down the valley as he wills.”
Johnson parceled out further orders to Butler and the Senecas, undoubtedly instructing them to keep the rebels pinned, batter them, wear down their resistance. William didn’t hear the particulars. His mind had stalled. “Sweep down the valley as he wills.”
A band of Mississaugas came out of the wood, loaded with plunder from the wagons in the eastern ravine. They untied one of the prisoners and hauled the dazed man away, following Sir John toward the fort. William watched as if through dusty glass.
Captain Watts stood before him, frowning. His commanding officer asked a question. William shook his head. He couldn’t hear. The ringing…
Watts said something more, then left him. William barely noticed. His whole being was focused on one hope, one prayer—Let General Herkimer not falter now but hold that height as a castle impregnable.
That such a thing might well cost the lives of his regiment, and his own, spent like water dashed on stone, seemed for the moment inconsequential.
Ordered to help with the wounded, he moved in a daze, wondering vaguely why Watts left him behind when the captain rounded up what remained of the company and returned to the fight.
He was holding the hand of a dead man when he realized the day had darkened. Surely not toward evening. No more than a couple of hours could have passed since the battle began. He looked up.
Above the clearing, clouds hung low and black. Thunder rumbled, ominous, deep. He heard the pop of firearms. Smelled the smoke of battle, and blood. And a heavier, more elemental smell.
He let go the dead man’s hand and pushed to his feet through the stultifying heat. The Senecas were gone. So were Butler and his rangers. There were fewer prisoners tied to the tree. The surgeon was busy with the wounded who had any hope of surviving, while the rest lay dead or bleeding out onto the ground.
Something like an electrical current shot through his veins, rousing him fully. He could do it. Now. No one would know. He could follow Sam’s lead and slip away…
Thunder cracked, deafening as cannon fire. A raindrop struck his cheek, fat and cold. Another hit his shoulder. More battered leaf and earth around him. That was all the warning before the heavens tore wide and a deluge came down.
35
Fort Stanwix
Miles to the east, the Tryon militia had engaged the bulk of St. Leger’s Indians. Perhaps some of Johnson’s Greens. From the ramparts they’d heard the muffled noise of it, seen smoke and dust rising in the distance, before General Herkimer’s messengers made it through British lines into the fort. Gansevoort had blasted the cannon thrice as requested, though Reginald doubted whether the general or his brigade heard the sound above the battle’s din. Under glowering skies, Lieutenant Colonel Willett had mustered a sortie to march through the gate—two hundred fifty volunteers from the New York and Massachusetts troops—when a violent rain broke over their heads and they were dispersed to gloomy barracks to wait it out. Wait. While men were dying in the wood to the east. While William might be dying.
Too tense to remain within, Reginald filled the doorway, containing his frantic impatience as the rain pounded the parade ground to a bog. The temperature had fallen with the rain. Given the stupefying heat of the past days, it ought to have brought relief. Reginald felt none.
What the warrior seated on a bench against the outer log wall was feeling, Reginald could only guess. Blue shirt pulled taut across broad shoulders, Stone Thrower bent over his knees, hands clasped, gazing at the wall of falling rain, lips moving in silent prayer. It was almost a jarring thought to realize he could do the same. Ought to be doing the same. God in heaven…please.
For nigh on an hour the rain had pounded down, diffusing the acrid smell of smoke that had hovered over the fort. Yesterday British artillery had managed to land a few mortars on the parade. The craters they’d left were turning to mud holes in the downpour. Reginald strained to hear anything beyond the incessant drumming and occasional roll of thunder moving off eastward. Images of blood-soaked earth, rain diluted, sought to capture his thoughts no matter how he beat them back. A shiver ran through him. He crossed his arms tighter, fending off the chill driving into his bones.
“They will have stopped for this.” Stone Thrower looked up, understanding in his eyes. “His brother is also in that fight. We will find them. I believe this.” Despite his words, his brow furrowed as he added, “Do you have them still?”
Knowing what was meant, Reginald put a hand into his coat and withdrew the three strings of wampum, white in the gloom under the barracks eaves. Stone Thrower’s mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Iyo.”
Reginald met the Indian’s gaze. “Did you wish them back?”
“Keep them. Let them speak to you of our covenant. One day, when you no longer need to be reminded, pass them on in the spirit in which they were given. You have Creator’s Spirit in you now to tell you what to do with them when the time comes.”
Taken aback, Reginald asked, “How can you know that?”
“You do not see the fire over your head.”
“Fire?” Reginald looked up and was greeted with a splash of rainwater from the eaves. He swiped it away. “What mean you?”
“The Spirit of Jesus came as fire when His people prayed and waited. Fire leaping over their heads. I do not see it with my eyes when I look at you now, but I see it.”
The man knew of Pentecost. Reginald returned the beads to his coat but couldn’t tear his gaze from William’s father, so fascinated was he by this man he’d spent half his life fearing.
“What our enemy means for evil, Creator uses for good,” Stone Thrower said. “That is a thing always to keep in mind.”
The words were still on his lips when the violence of the rain abated. Reginald could see across the parade now, make out the ramparts, the drooping makeshift flag left out in the soaking. Voices within the barracks ceased as men paused to listen.
Stone Thrower was already on his feet when a shout rose from a southern-facing rampart. They lurched into the still-falling rain. Reginald’s boot slid in pudding-thick mud and he nearly went down, but William’s father grabbed his arm, his grip steady. They crossed the parade toward the rampart in time to reach Willett coming out of the officers’ barracks.
“What see you?” Willett called to the sentry who’d shouted.
“Soldiers in green, sir, being recalled from the wood line!”
Reginald caught a breath. Perhaps all this while William had been in camp, not in the battle.
“They’re calling in reinforcements,” Willett said, interpreting the news with a lightening of countenance. “Which means Herkimer’s still in the fight—and St. Leger’s guard will be all the thinner on this ground.”
Beside Reginald, hair rain beaded, Stone Thrower was tense as a panther set to spring, ready as he to finally take action. If Willett would lead his sortie out on the heels of Johnson’s troops…
As if he’d read Reginald’s silent urging, Willett turned to one of his captains. “Order the men assembled.”
They’d marched in eerie silence down to the Upper Landing. Not a shot was fired from the trees. No Indians rushed them. They passed unopposed straight into Johnson’s camp, and what few guards were about fled in
to the trees or across a nearby creek. A few wounded were found in tents and taken prisoner. It was of little concern to Reginald, who’d left the fort without a by-your-leave from anyone, not intending to return.
Flankers and scouts reported no opposition. The Royal Yorkers seen leaving the siege line had gone to engage Herkimer’s forces, but when this should have been apparent to Willett, when he should have reformed the detachment now swarming over the camp, ransacking tents, looting the Yorkers’ belongings, no such orders came. Reginald couldn’t spot Willett, even to offer protest. After shouting the question to half a dozen Continentals, he was finally told Willett and some of the troops had moved on to the Six Nations camp to raid it as well.
“What are they doing? There’s no time for such as this.” He turned to Stone Thrower, who was watching what had begun as a sortie to relieve Herkimer devolve into a looting party. As the rain tapered off, from the east came the distant sputter of musket fire. Battle was rejoined.
“Leave them to this,” Stone Thrower said. “We are only two, you and I, but enough for what we mean to do.”
William had had the sense to cover his firelock when the rain began, wrapping it in oiled canvas. The violence of the downpour had distracted him from the impulsive notion of desertion long enough for the regimental surgeon to notice him again and call him back into service. Since then he’d helped bring the wounded deeper under the trees, where shelters were erected. By the time they had everyone under them, William was soaked, but the rain’s chill did him the service of clearing his head. How close he’d come to doing exactly as Joseph Tames-His-Horse had dreamed…
The bark of musket fire down the ravine had ceased during the worst of the downpour but had resumed as the deluge lifted to a light patter. Not fool enough to go blundering alone back into combat, he’d settled under cover to await Watts’s return or Johnson’s reinforcements.
At last came the clank of arms, the tramp of booted feet. Watts arrived with several of the original company, moments before some seventy Yorkers from the camps emerged from the dripping trees, a captain called McDonell at their head. Of Johnson there was no sign. Watts spotted William and called him over, giving him hard scrutiny as he came.
The captain’s brow cleared. “Back with us then, Private?”
“Yes sir.” Shock…fatigue…whatever had dulled his senses, it had passed. He was ready now to—
Find your brother. Your father.
His mouth dried at the jarring thought. Thought? It had been a command. But what in heaven’s name was he meant to do? Go back to the fort for Reginald Aubrey? Search among the corpses in that hellish ravine for two Oneidas he’d never met? Return to the fight and hope he somehow recognized their faces at the end of his musket before he killed them?
“Good,” Watts was saying. “Fall in with McDonell’s men. Now,” the captain went on, addressing the officers present, “the challenge will be getting in close to the rebels again. They hold the high ground between the ravines. Herkimer’s corralled them into defensive circles, and not even the Indians are breaking through.”
William kept his face set, revealing nothing of his desperate hope. He wanted St. Leger’s forces halted, an outcome that still seemed a possibility until Colonel Butler came rushing in with a handful of his rangers, bloodied from battle, wet from the rain. Watts deferred to Butler as the highest ranking officer in Sir John’s absence. Taking in the presence of seventy Royal Yorkers fresh for the fight, Butler’s grim countenance lit with a wolfish grin. He turned to the nearest private of Watts’s command, which happened to be William, and barked, “Remove your coat, soldier!”
William gaped at the man. “Sir?”
Butler glared. “Take off…your…coat.”
“Aye sir.” Hastily, William removed his gear to comply, lowering musket, cartridge box, and the rest to the ground. The coat was still wet and clung. At last he wrenched his arms free of the sleeves, in the process reversing them. The lining of the green coat was white, soiled with grime and sweat. Unsure what to do, he stood there holding the garment, torso assaulted by the cooler air.
All to Butler’s apparent satisfaction. Turning to Watts and McDonell, he said, “We’ve interrogated the prisoners. Herkimer expects a sortie from the fort. I say let’s give it to him. Have your Yorkers reverse their regimentals so the white’s out-facing—they’ll appear hunting frocks from a distance. Rebels’ll think we’re come from Gansevoort to reinforce them.”
“Bayonets only,” Watts added, approving of the plan. “Until we’ve broken through.” He stared at Butler, then gave a decisive nod and raised his voice to carry: “Pass the word. Form up to advance—and every man reverse his regimentals!”
36
He’d turned his coat but hadn’t betrayed his oath. A chill gripped William as memory of Joseph Tames-His-Horse, face painted by firelight, swam through his vision. Was this what the Mohawk had seen in his dream?
Watts, McDonell, and Butler granted no time to ponder it as the Yorkers advanced through the western ravine, picking their way through the morning’s carnage. The creek ran red tinged, choked with bodies. Steam rose as they crossed the shallow water; the vapors, too, seemed tinged pink, as though the blood of the slain rose into the air, a crying unto heaven.
Find your brother. Your father.
William’s heart galloped, bruising to his chest. He could sense the fear coming off the men to either side of him as, formed up in a triple column, they marched toward the rebels dug in on the wooded slopes ahead. The leaden sky was lightening by degrees, but the air remained thickly damp and clinging. The reversed coat and the shirt beneath chafed with abominable discomfort.
They were soon spotted, as they were meant to be. Shouts rose among the rebels in the high wood, faces visible here and there as necks craned. Cries of welcome issued forth. One man broke from cover and rushed down to the road with hand outstretched, shouting a name in recognition and relief. Another chased after the man, shouting, “Get back! It’s the enemy!”
Others emerged from hiding, certain the opposite was true.
“Capt’n—they’re friendlies!”
“It’s Gansevoort. He’s sent us reinforcements!”
“Fools—get back!” Ignoring his own command, the captain reached the man who’d rushed to greet a familiar face and yanked him backward, nearly off his feet. A scuffle commenced. Afraid the ruse would be prematurely exposed, McDonell hurried forward and attempted to slay the dubious officer but was himself felled in the clash after another of the rebels ran forward to his captain’s defense.
From the skirmish ahead a shout arose: “Fire! Fire!”
Some of the militia obeyed. Gunfire erupted. Smoke billowed. One man in the column fell. Watts gave the order; shouting as one, the Royal Yorkers charged forward into the trees and up into the enemy’s fire.
William’s legs screamed with the effort to propel him up the ridge for the second time that day. A blowdown loomed, trunks snarled like latticework. From a gap, a gun muzzle protruded, aimed at him. He hurled himself behind a yew tree before the ball whirred past and struck someone coming up the slope behind him. An Indian. Friend or foe William couldn’t tell as he whirled, gaze raking oiled features obscured by black paint and pain.
The Indian had taken the ball in the leg but wasn’t down. Oneida? Must be, coming at him like this. Searching the features—nostrils distended, lips snarled back, head plucked nearly bald—he waited almost too late to fire. The Indian was a step away, hatchet raised, when William’s shot took him through the chest and he fell, sprawled lifeless across the slope.
His brother? His father? He’d no idea. And no time to look more closely. Rain-soaked militiamen hurled themselves over fallen trees and rushed from cover to attack the Yorkers with knives, hatchets, rifle stocks, furious at the ruse. Indians were in the mix on both sides. Another warrior grappled William, knocking aside his musket. William clamped a hand to a corded forearm while he groped free his belt ax. The Indian butted
heads with him. William’s vision burst with bits of black and red. With a shout born of panic, he thrust the attacker away and swung his hatchet in a half-blind arc…at nothing.
He staggered, caught himself, shook his head clear. The Indian lay dead at his feet, shot through the head by Watts, already bounding away through smoke and writhing men. William hadn’t heard the shot above the escalating clamor.
He heard the scream behind him, its pitch higher than other voices in the heaving fight. He jerked around. Another Indian was coming at him. Like most, this one clutched a rifle and tomahawk. Unlike most, this one had a full head of hair, half-straggled from a braid, flowing out wild and waist length. A woman’s mane.
William stood transfixed as she rushed him, counting the crazed, pained beats of his heart. Her scream—and time—choked to a stop as their gazes locked, long enough for William to judge her young; beneath a layer of grime, her coppery skin stretched smooth over graceful bones. Her legs, bared as a warrior’s, were muscled but slender. The blade in her hand flashed, raised to fall upon his neck.
She screamed again, a different sound than before—he’d have called it triumph if she’d made of him the easy kill he should have been, standing there too paralyzed by the sight of her to defend himself. But at the last instant she wrenched aside and sprang away with a panther’s lithe grace, vanishing into a thicket, leaving him alive, if stunned.
Ahnyero was dead. Since the first guns’ firing, Two Hawks had feared it was so. Not once had he seen his friend or heard his voice, or during the rain lull found anyone who could say with confidence he’d seen Ahnyero in the fight. Now he knew beyond doubt the scout and spy, the half-white blacksmith called Thomas Spencer, was gone out of the world. Out of both worlds he’d straddled in life. He’d fallen across Ahnyero’s body, dragged off the road into the brush, shot through the neck with an arrow.