A Flight of Arrows

by Lori Benton

  “That name was all our mother knew of him who took you, except that he was a redcoat officer. Knowing this, Clear Day followed the Irishman to your farm and saw you there. After some time he told our mother this, but our father was not walking a good path then. They feared to tell him where you might be found lest he go there and make worse trouble getting you back. Not until Clear Day and our mother began to walk the Jesus path did they tell our father. Then we came and there was Anna Catherine. But we were too late for you.”

  “I’d gone to Wales,” William said, understanding more than his brother had put into words. His Oneida parents had survived the disappointment of losing him a second time, waited nine more years for his return, and what had he done when he learned the truth? Cost them another year. At last he asked the question he’d longed to ask.

  “Will you tell me of her? Our mother?”

  The noise of the stream swelled in the dark; Two Hawks’s voice was soft, forcing William to lean close to hear. “What do you wish to know?”

  Everything. Anything. He’d no idea where to start. Or…perhaps he did.

  “Where did she come from? Was it anything like…with me? Was she stolen?”

  “She was a captive once.” Again William settled in to listen to his brother tell a story, this time of a tiny white girl taken in a frontier raid nearly forty years ago, adopted into the Turtle Clan. “She is Onyota’a:ka now, our mother, with no memory of that other life, as you have no memory of her. But now our families will be united. Soon, Creator willing, I will be with Aubrey again, working at the boatyard as I did in—”

  “You worked on the Binne Kill?” William interjected. “With him—Aubrey? What made you want to do that?”

  “You may well ask your brother that question.” Stone Thrower stepped up onto the rock ledge, sending them both surging to their feet in startlement. They had neither of them heard his coming. “But there is no more time for stories this night.”

  The moon was risen. Enough light filtered through the trees to show the relief in his brother’s posture, the same that was coursing through William now.

  Stone Thrower must have found the Senecas.

  Something shifted for William in that moment as he and Two Hawks faced their father, who was breathing hard from running, the sound audible above the stream’s chatter. He felt drawn to the man, in a way that went deeper than respect or admiration, but he knew not what to say or do with the feeling.

  “May I see it?” he blurted. “The portrait of me. I’ve seen that you carry it.” It was too dark to tell whether the big warrior was surprised by the request as he fished inside the neck of his shirt and pulled out a corded pouch. He untied it, removed the small oval. Feeling foolish now—it was also too dark to see the painting—William reached for it.

  Their fingers brushed. Stone Thrower’s convulsed over his, gripping for an instant.

  “I do forgive you.” William had blurted again, as if his heart was bent on expressing what his mind had yet to untangle. “And I want to see my mother.”

  “You will see her,” Stone Thrower said, with a fullness in his voice that fell upon William like an embrace. “Soon. And there will be much joy in your meeting. But we must also return Aubrey to those who wait for him.”

  “You have found him?” Two Hawks asked. “He lives?”

  “I have seen him in the Senecas’ camp. Alive still. Before this night is through we must take him back, though how it will be accomplished I do not yet know. Be praying about it as we go. Are you rested, my son?”

  William realized the man was addressing him. “I am,” he said and wanted to say Father, but the word clotted in his throat. He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder.

  “Then take up your rifles, both of you, and follow me.”

  41

  August 8, after nightfall

  Seneca lands

  He couldn’t be certain—they spoke no English in his presence—but Reginald thought the Senecas were divided over what to do with him. So enraged had they been over their battle casualties and their possessions lost to Willett’s sortie that Reginald had expected to be tomahawked—or worse, tortured first—the first night they’d stopped their march westward. They’d given him water but no food. They’d taken his coat, along with the strings of wampum hidden in its inner pocket. His bloody scalp wound they’d ignored; he’d no idea of its severity save for the throbbing pain and dizziness it caused. His wrists were bound. He wasn’t certain why they hadn’t killed him.

  Perhaps it had to do with one of their number—the oldest, by the gray of his scalp-lock and the creases beneath the red paint adorning his face—who’d taken an inexplicable interest in him, beyond a target upon which to vent frustration and contempt. He was the one now wearing Reginald’s coat.

  Lost in a focus of endurance, Reginald hadn’t noticed the warrior watching him during the first march from the fort. On the second day, the gray-haired Indian had contrived to travel near him. More than once, when Reginald would have stumbled, the man shot a rope-veined hand out to steady him, grunting encouragement when he faltered. He’d thanked the man, knowing he couldn’t maintain this brutal pace much longer. When he fell, they would club him where he lay. The thought didn’t unduly dismay him. He’d no wish to die—he’d left so much unfinished, unspoken; he yearned to see his Anna again. And Lydia; so much they might have shared, years and years at last entwined, heart and soul. But the most needful things were accomplished, and Reginald knew where he was bound beyond this life and in Whose presence he would stand redeemed. Because of that, death would be a celebration. A feast.

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…

  It was an amazement, the store of Scripture still residing in the recesses of his soul. He hadn’t opened his Bible in years. Not since Heledd’s leaving had he even tried to hear the voice of the Almighty in its pages, but there it was—grace unmerited, granted in his need as he followed the file of Indians on this trail that wound through wood and glade and gully, seemingly forever.

  All the paths of the LORD are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies.

  My foot standeth in an even place.

  William was with his father, his brother, perhaps by now his mother as well. Where he ought to have been left twenty years ago. Reginald felt an assurance deeper than knowledge, beyond the little his eyes had seen, that Stone Thrower had gotten his firstborn out of that ravine, away from the battle, to safety. He mightn’t wish to remain with his kin, but that would be for William to decide. And the Almighty.

  Keep him. Guard him. Grant them all wisdom and patience…

  Though hungry, bruised, and bleeding, nearly staggered with pain, with every breath left to him he meant to intercede for the souls once in his care. William. Two Hawks. His dear girl. Anna had his blessing to marry the man she loved, and for that he was thankful, but he might have done so much more—given her his name as well as his heart. Why hadn’t he insisted upon it from the beginning? Might Heledd have softened in time had he stood stronger against her rejection?

  There was no knowing. He confessed the failing to God and let it go, marveling that atonement was made, that he need only accept it in gratitude, and rest. What freedom. What joy. It wasn’t to be contained. And so he smiled into the hard, painted faces of his captors, especially the old one who showed him something more than loathing.

  Not long before they’d halted that night, the man had made an attempt to communicate. Reginald discerned a word or two. Something about women…or was it mothers? Surely the man was too old to have a mother living. Maybe he’d meant wife. Did he fancy Reginald as a slave for his womenfolk?

  At last the old warrior had given up the attempt and vanished into the wood with two others. The Senecas had been coming and going thus since leaving the siege camp—with their provisions carted off to the fort, they had no food for the journey home—hunting as they went. It made it difficult to know how many were in the p
arty. At different times he’d counted eight, ten, twelve. There could be more.

  Soon after the old man’s departure, the warrior leading the party had signaled a stop. At a clearing’s edge, Reginald had crashed to his knees, feeling himself sliding into blackness, knowing they might kill him before ever he woke again. Yet he had awakened—to the leaping of flames and the discord of strident voices. Someone thrust the rim of a cup against his teeth. He sat up and gulped the water before it choked him, his body greedy for it.

  The warrior set the cup on the ground beside Reginald and returned to his fellows, lingering near enough to keep an eye on him. Reginald reached for the cup with bound hands but succeeded only in tipping it. They still hadn’t fed him. He felt his strength ebbing, soaking into the ground like the water, and didn’t know come morning whether he could rise again, much less walk.

  How far had they to go?

  He dozed sitting up, to be startled awake by a stream of words hot as molten metal. The leader of the party, a tall, deep-chested warrior, bronzed flesh gleaming and feathers bristling in his scalp-lock, was pacing before the fire and addressing the others—nine at present—throwing an occasional nod in Reginald’s direction.

  That one wanted to kill him. He’d started the process back at the siege camp. Along with other prisoners, Reginald had been made to run a gauntlet, though by the time his turn came, the twin lines of Indians waiting to thrash him with sticks and clubs had begun to dissolve in shouted dispute. Only a few had actually struck him, driving him to his knees but inflicting no serious injury. They’d fallen on someone else though, beyond Reginald’s sight. Judging by the man’s screams, what they’d done was appalling. That was when he’d been hauled up off the ground again and taken away into the night, as some of the Senecas abandoned their leaders and the disastrous campaign, and the march westward began.

  Another warrior stood now and spoke. Among his words Reginald caught a name he recognized. Niagara. Did this one propose selling him to the British to be ransomed or traded back to the Continentals? If so, the suggestion was met without enthusiasm. These Senecas were returning home with less than they’d come with, in goods and men. There was nothing to satisfy them but a few scalps. And Reginald, his life, his blood.

  He searched the clearing for the old warrior who wore his coat but didn’t see him. What help would he have been in any case? Reginald only surmised the man had taken an interest in him—beyond what his death or suffering might serve. That mightn’t be the case.

  Out of the blue a thought struck him—that if he lived to see another sunrise, it would mark twenty years to the day since he walked out of Fort William Henry with a child he’d no right to claim, leaving his own dead son behind. Twenty years You gave me to confess the truth, to make it right with You—and allow You to bring healing to those I wounded. I regret it took so very long. I regret…

  Lydia. Her smile that was light to him, her blue eyes imploring him. Her steadfast heart loving him, waiting for him. Believing the best. Hoping always for good things. Grant her peace and wholeness after I am gone. Grant her life, and love, and, yes, children.

  They wouldn’t be his children. It was a grief almost too great to bear, the only comfort that he needn’t bear it much longer.

  Over at the fire, the Senecas were shrieking in response to something one of their number had proclaimed. Another barked an order to the warrior who’d given him water. The young man approached him again.

  “The LORD is my strength and my shield,” Reginald said as hard fingers closed round his arm, dragging him to his feet. Pain seared the length of his lame leg, and in spite of his effort not to, he cried aloud, then through gritted teeth got out, “My heart trusted in him, and I am helped—”

  A cuff across his mouth silenced him, bringing the taste of blood. He was thrust toward the fire at the clearing’s edge. Did they mean to burn him?

  Gunfire cracked in his ears, so close as to be deafening.

  He didn’t feel the shot.

  “They’re killing him!” William hissed through his teeth, though had he shouted the words, he’d not have been heard above the clamor the warriors were making across the clearing. They’d overtaken the Senecas but moments ago, drawn the last half mile at a run by the rising tide of angry voices. Now he’d lost sight of the man they’d come to rescue, obscured by drifting powder smoke and the bodies swarming round him. He started forward, ready to break from cover.

  Hands clamped down on him, one to either shoulder, as a second musket barked.

  “They shoot into the air,” Stone Thrower said on his left.

  On his right Two Hawks urged, “Brother—look!”

  The warriors parted, revealing Reginald Aubrey on his knees in the firelight, wrists bound, half his face dark with dried blood. But alive. William got possession of himself, sensing through the hands gripping him the same need thrumming through his father and brother to rush into the clearing.

  “They are not killing him,” Stone Thrower said. “Not yet.”

  William strained in the dark to read the face of the warrior beside him. “You understand their words?”

  “Yes. I lived among these warriors for a time. Some will know me.”

  Two Hawks shouldered between them, releasing William. “You are going among them?”

  Stone Thrower drew himself erect. “I am. And I go alone.”

  “Thayendanegea has sent the bloody hatchet!”

  Alarm was in his brother’s voice. William could all but smell it on the damp night air as their father said, “These warriors left the camp before that thing was done, but whether they know of it is no matter. This is a thing I must do. Creator is with me and will see it through as He wills it.”

  Bereft of such faith, William asked, “What will you say to them?”

  “I will know that when I say it.” Stone Thrower took them each by a shoulder, grip and voice firm. “Listen, my sons. Stay in these woods and do not show yourselves—unless I call for you. Then come out together, straight to me, into the light.”

  William couldn’t speak. Neither, it seemed, could his brother.

  Stone Thrower’s fingers pressed hard. “Do my sons hear my words?”

  “I hear them,” Two Hawks said with evident reluctance.

  Satisfied, the big warrior turned the force of his attention on William, who knew he must say something. The words being shouted in that clearing were incomprehensible, but the roil of violent intent behind them needed no translation.

  “Had I the choice to make again,” he said in a rush, “I would stay. I would not go to Quebec.”

  A breath deepened Stone Thrower’s chest, then William found himself engulfed in his father’s embrace, the arms around him strong and sure, like the shielding of eagle’s wings.

  Stone Thrower uttered a word, muffled by the beating of William’s own heart. It sounded like iyo. Then he was gone, striding out into the clearing, into the light of the Senecas’ fire.

  42

  With every sinew strung taut, Two Hawks watched his father cross the clearing. The Senecas had yet to notice him, so focused were they on their prisoner. Beside him, William radiated a matching apprehension. “Will they kill him too, our father?”

  “He goes with a shield of faith and a strong heart.” Two Hawks’s voice, dry as wood dust, betrayed the fear that lurked behind those words, and so he added, “Be praying, Brother.”

  Praying for words to turn aside the warriors’ lust for vengeance and blood. Words like a dam skillfully laid across a raging stream. His father did not lack for courage, but the mood of these warriors was ugly. There was no telling which way their hearts would turn. Or their hands. Or what might be the word or deed to turn them.

  Two Hawks gripped his rifle, felt the weight of the bow across his shoulder. Should he ready the bow? With it he could shoot in silence from the trees without revealing their position at once. Many arrows in the time it took to reload a rifle. He set by the rifle, slipped the bow from its ca
se, strung it without taking his gaze from his father. Stone Thrower’s back was lance straight, his stride unhesitating. Two Hawks’s heart swelled with love and pride, pressing up into his throat. He remembered what his brother had said, his father’s joy in hearing it. Let it not be the last words they exchange.

  Stone Thrower was nearly among the Senecas before a warrior gave a shout of warning, alerting the rest. They swung to face him, seeming many in the firelight. Were others out ranging the wood? Two Hawks glanced into the tangled dark, then whipped his head around to scan the fire-lit clearing as sharp words of surprise fell away to silence. The Senecas had formed a wall, obstructing Two Hawks’s view of Aubrey, on the ground behind them. A tall, powerful warrior strode out from their ranks and halted in Stone Thrower’s path.

  “Who are you, come thus among us? Do you follow from Thayendanegea’s camp with news?”

  The tension of the warriors eased slightly at this. They had been looking beyond Stone Thrower to the clearing’s edge, some with muskets raised, but here was only one man, unafraid in his approach as a friend would be. No threat against their numbers whatever his intentions.

  Stone Thrower had wiped the war paint from his face, but thus far it didn’t appear any of these Senecas recognized him. Where was the one he claimed to know?

  Halted before the chief warrior, Stone Thrower spoke in the tongue of the Senecas. “I have come from that camp, though not with news to share.” It was wisely spoken, Two Hawks thought, for his father did have news. Grim news for the Oneidas. Not news he meant to reveal if he could help it. “I come to speak on a matter of my own concern.”

  The words rang out with confidence but were met with silence, in which William hissed in urgent whisper, “What are they saying? Do you understand?”

  Two Hawks didn’t speak the Senecas’ tongue as fluently as did his father, but he knew enough to follow what was said. “I will tell you what they say, only keep your voice down…and your rifle ready.”