Falcon 1 - The Lure of the Falcon

by The Lure of the Falcon (v1. 0) (lit)

  He looked at her now with surprise and curiosity. Standing there in the yellow light of the lantern, her serious small face framed in the whiteness of her goffered cap from which a few strands of pale silky hair escaped, she was the very picture of freshness and tranquillity. Her skin had lost the tanned roughness brought about by toil and slavery and was now smooth and fair, and the eyes beneath the heavy fringe of her lashes were bluer than ever.

  Gilles caught himself thinking that she had grown very pretty. She was looking at him, yet there was a kind of timidity, almost an apprehensiveness in the way she met his gaze. He dug one finger into the jam and licked it like a schoolboy, grinning at her.

  'It's a long time since I tasted anything so good,' he exclaimed. 'Thank you, Gunilla!'

  'It is not me you should thank, but Mrs Gibson.'

  'Come, come! You'll not persuade me that good lady has suddenly taken it into her head to worry about me. If I were General Washington, perhaps! No, I think the idea came from you – and very charming it was, too.'

  He set down the jampot and moved closer to her, looking down on her from his greater height. She watched him but did not move. Her eyes were very wide and stared back into his like those of a mesmerized bird. He smiled into the limpid gaze.

  'As charming as yourself, Gunilla. How could I have been such a fool as not to notice that before?'

  He reproached himself sincerely, although he could not have said what drove him to pay court to the child. Perhaps it was the sense of cleanliness and purity which emanated from her, in spite of all she must have been through at the hands of the Senecas. She could not be a virgin, since no slave who wished to live would dare oppose the wishes of her masters, and the poor girl must have been forced to endure the warrior who had captured her many times over. But once restored to the life she had been bred to, she had resumed her old personality again and it still fitted her like a glove. It was as though she had resumed her virginity at the same time.

  Gilles bent his head a little lower and his lips touched hers. They were cool and smelled of apples. For an instant, he felt them come alive, yielding responsively to his kiss. But when he tried to fold his arms round the slight figure, it was all at once like trying to embrace a thorn bush. Gunilla struggled like a wildcat, tore herself out of his grasp and delivered a stinging blow to his face.

  'How dare you!' she cried. 'What do you take me for? I am not your Indian woman! No, nor second best, either!'

  She had struck him with all her strength. One hand to his burning cheek, Gilles put the other out to her but she was already out of the tent and running like a hunted rabbit through the snow. Gilles gave a shrug.

  'A pity,' he murmured, with a fair assumption of carelessness. In fact, he was furious and, to get over it, went to spend the remainder of the night with his red-haired Juno who exerted herself to her utmost to please a lover she had never known to be so exacting.

  Hating to admit defeat, Gilles tried to see Gunilla again but without success. Whenever he chanced to catch sight of her about the village, she fled out of reach, nor was there any repetition of the pot of jam.

  However he soon had other things to think about. January was a terrible month. There was unrest among the troops in Pennsylvania. Groups of the ill-clad, ill-fed and unpaid men mutinied. Then Washington struck back. Dreadful punishments were meted out to the mutineers, and men were flogged until their backs were raw. Day by day, the General's brow grew darker.

  Yet there was one item of good news. Sagoyewatha had taken the warpath against his former ally, Cornplanter. The clans were at one another's throats over a woman and the blood reddening the snow to the south of Lake Ontario and in the Mohawk valley came not only from slaughtered game or wolves. Washington and those few Indian tribes who had not sided with the English, such as the Cakawangas, were able to breathe again. The nations of the Iroquois had other things on their mind. Which did not prevent Gilles, still thirsting to dip his sword in the blood of the man Sitapanoki had preferred to himself, from badgering his superiors to let him put on snowshoes like Tim's and go with him to 'observe' the Indian's war. But permission was always refused.

  'You are here to serve the United States,' Colonel Hamilton told him, 'and not your own inclinations.'

  He might have gone, permission or no, but for La Fayette who, returning one night from Philadelphia where he was whiling away his enforced leisure, at Washington's request, by having his portrait painted by the artist Charles Peale, brought shocking news. The traitor Arnold had gone to join the fighting in Virginia. With the British forces, he was ravaging and burning everything that fell into his hands and General Greene, who had replaced General Gates in the south, and his much weakened army could do nothing to stop him, for he was turning against his former friends the very method of warfare which they had employed with such miraculous success in the past, a guerrilla war of ambuscades and surprise attacks. Greene was asking for help, the more so since he was obliged to push on down to Carolina to try and stop Cornwallis.

  This was La Fayette's opportunity and on February 20th he set out for Virginia with several thousand men, making for Hampton on the Chesapeake. The Chevalier Destouches was to meet him there with ships to take them across the huge estuary. Lieutenant Goëlo went with him, feeling happy for the first time in weeks. Failing Cornplanter, Arnold was just the quarry he felt like hunting.

  La Fayette, on his part, was only half satisfied. He was certainly glad to be going after Arnold but he was chiefly afraid that the great battle of the spring, which would undoubtedly be fought around New York, might take place without him. Washington had to promise to recall him in time before he would consent to go. But he was overjoyed when one of his greatest friends came from Newport to fight at his side. This was the Comte de Charlus, second in command of the Saintonge regiment, whose father, the Maréchal de Castries had, since October 13th, replaced the odious Monsieur de Sartines at the head of their navy, at the same time as the Comte de Ségur had taken over from the Prince de Montbarrey at the war ministry. The King had been doing some spring cleaning. Finally, Colonel Hamilton, tired of putting up with Washington's moods, had resigned from his post as aide-decamp and joined La Fayette's legion. He wanted space and a change of air. The expeditionary force was going to be an army to be reckoned with.

  The months that followed were, for Gilles, at once the happiest and most wretched of his whole life. They were short of practically everything: money, food, shirts, sometimes even shoes. Horses were a thing of the past and even cavalrymen like Gilles were obliged to go on foot. What was more, the snow had given way to floods. The swollen rivers made quagmires of the ground and feet had to be dragged squelching out of the mud at every step. Yet never was there a more united army than that motley assortment of French and Americans, many of them unable to communicate except by signs, but amongst whom all notions of class had been practically abolished.

  Partly to be with his friend and partly to please his beloved Martha who had favoured him with a pithy account of her feelings at the prospect of finding herself married to a mere woodsman, Tim Thocker had brought himself to enlist in one of the five companies from Connecticut which, with a number of others from New Hampshire, Rhode Island and New Jersey made up La Fayette's little army. His woodcraft and marksmanship made him more than welcome.

  While still on the march, they received a new addition to their force. They were looking for a way across the Delaware which the floods had swollen to twice its normal breadth, when Gilles heard pitiable cries coming from the water. He at once dived in and returned to the small hillock which was all that was visible of the bank dragging triumphantly with him an emaciated Indian trussed like a chicken who no sooner recovered from his fright than he fell down and embraced his knees, pouring out a flood of speech which soon had Tim grinning all over his face.

  'He says that you are the son of the Great Spirit, the brother of the thunderbird, his father, his mother, all his nearest relations and a host of other les
s important characters. He adds that from now on he is your slave, your dog, your left arm and your best friend – but you may as well throw him back in the water.'

  'Oh, yes?' Gilles said, busy pulling on his coat and boots which he had flung off hastily before entering the water. 'And why should I do that?'

  'Because he's an Onondaga, which is to say an Iroquois, and you swore weeks ago to exterminate the whole tribe. What is more, he is a medicine man in trouble, which means he is a bad medicine man.'

  The soldiers who had gathered round the three of them expressed vociferous approval of Tim's words, but Gilles was in no mood to be trifled with.

  'When I save a man, I think I have the right to decide what shall be done with him,' he snapped. 'When I want your advice, I'll ask for it. As for this fellow—'

  He looked down at the man still kneeling before him and felt not the slightest wish to make him the victim of any unseasonable ideas of revenge. He was, in fact, a curious creature, having nothing in common with the gigantic Hiakin of evil memory. He had a broad chest supported on unusually short legs and very long arms which gave him something of the look of a chimpanzee. His little eyes, as round and bright as beads of jet, lit a face whose most remarkable features were a long nose, a notable absence of chin and two long white teeth, like piano keys, protruding below his upper lip and producing a startling resemblance to a rabbit.

  'Tell him he can go,' Gilles said. 'He is free. And now let us go and join the others and try and see if we can find that damned ferry!'

  But the Indian had no wish for liberty. Launching into an improbable gibberish with odd English words mixed up in it, he expressed his earnest desire to follow in his rescuer's footsteps and make himself his living shield in the combats which surely lay before so valiant a warrior. Then, drawing the knife that hung from his belt, he cut his arm and let a few drops of blood fall on the young man.

  'He says that his blood is yours,' Tim explained, 'and I'm beginning to think he means what he says. Will you have him as a servant? As far as he's concerned, I rather think you are something of a life raft.'

  While they searched for the ferryboat which had been carried away by the swollen river, the rescued Indian told them his story. He was the medicine man of a small tribe of Onondagas that dwelt in the neighbourhood and rejoiced in a completely unpronounceable name which meant 'The Beaver who found the magic eagle's feather' and, as Tim had said, he had not been altogether happy in the exercise of his calling. When, for example, the aged mother of his chief was suffering from a brain fever, he had been able to think of nothing better to do than to make a hole in the poor woman's head to let the bad spirits out, a treatment from which his patient had promptly died. Whereupon he had been blamed, not for causing the old woman's death, but for employing forbidden methods, since the Indians had no use for surgery. Then, when, immediately after the chief's mother's departure for the kingdom of the dead, the river had risen in spate, carrying away half their wigwams and all that they contained, the survivors had decided that their sorcerer was not worth having and simply cast him into the river, thus depriving him of the funeral ceremonies without which the soul of a dead warrior can never find rest. It was this latter circumstance in particular which had earned Gilles the man's desperate gratitude, for, like all good Indians, he was not particularly afraid of death.

  'Well,' Gilles decided, 'with the General's permission, I will keep him in my service, but only on condition that he never tries to cure me if I am hurt or wounded.'

  Since he found the ex-medicine man's name quite impossible to pronounce, he took a part of it and rechristened him Pongo, whereat the man appeared delighted. And Pongo at once began to prove himself astonishingly useful. He might not have been a very good medicine man but he was a matchless hunter and warrior. He knew how to make a host of things, from bark canoes to huts made of branches, and including making the greatest possible use of the game they killed and discovering edible roots. Moreover, in spite of his short legs, he was remarkably strong, very agile and extremely clever, so that whenever he failed to find what was needed, he could be relied upon to steal it without being suspected. Finally, he was a better tracker than the finest bloodhound.

  'Brother Fox and Pongo on the trail, Pongo win!' he would declare with his broad grin.

  Gradually, Gilles grew accustomed to the copper-coloured shadow which clung to him as closely as his own and almost as soundlessly. Pongo ate little, seemed permanently enchanted with his lot, spoke hardly at all (it was a good six months before Gilles managed to achieve any kind of conversation with him) and smiled a great deal, showing the huge front teeth which before long were almost as well known to the army as the plume in La Fayette's hat.

  They took so long to reach Virginia that it began to seem to them something like the promised land. At Elk Point they waited in vain for the Chevalier Destouches and his little fleet who had found their way blocked by the whole naval might of the English admiral Arbuthnot and had been obliged to turn back. From there they withdrew into Maryland, around Baltimore, where La Fayette again set all the ladies to work sewing, and skirting the immense shore of Chesapeake Bay, crossed the Potomac and came at last to Richmond which Arnold was busy burning.

  They spent the whole of that spring in skirmishing and playing games of hide and seek, in which each side was alternately the hunter and the hunted, but still the traitor Arnold eluded them. He had replaced General Phillips, who had died suddenly, and was protected by a solid phalanx of troops. La Fayette's small force raced back and forth across Virginia which had otherwise been left virtually defenceless since General Greene had gone to the Carolinas to deal with Lord Cornwallis, one of the finest English generals.

  In May, they had disquieting news. Cornwallis had practically wiped out Greene and was moving up to join Arnold. He was making no secret of how he meant to deal with La Fayette's army.

  'I'll not let that boy get away from me,' was how he contemptuously expressed it.

  They waited uneasily. For all his unquenchable optimism, La Fayette had no illusions and on May 22nd he wrote to the French ambassador to Congress, La Luzerne:

  'We are still alive and the fell visitation has not yet fallen on our little force…'

  But he need not have worried. The approach of the most formidable of his enemies galvanized his men. The company which Lieutenant Goëlo commanded as acting captain was in high fettle. For it was being said that Cornwallis was only on his way north to strengthen New York, where Clinton could not do without him in the final battle.

  'He may say that the boy shall not escape him,' Gilles declared to his men, 'but all he means to do is to sweep us aside like chaff. So it is for us to bar the way and show him what we are made of. Without Cornwallis, Clinton will not be able to hold New York for long once the reinforcements which the King of France has promised have arrived. So at all costs we must prevent Cornwallis from reaching New York.'

  The reinforcements were in fact on their way. Under the urgings of de Castries, Vergennes and Louis XVI had finally made up their minds to commit a good half of France's considerable naval strength to aid the Rebels. Admiral de Barres de Saint-Laurent had reached Newfoundland with several ships and was at that moment cruising off Newport. Furthermore, at daybreak on March 22nd, the guns of Brest had fired a parting salute for the huge fleet under Admiral de Grasse which was sailing up the American coast from the West Indies. It could be bringing victory and an end to the war.

  'We must stand firm, stand firm at all costs,' Gilles cried, echoing La Fayette. 'We must hold out to the last man.'

  Theirs was no easy task. They numbered only fifteen hundred men and the small bodies of local troops in conjunction with whom they were operating were mainly irregulars, though their leaders bore names like Lee and Sumter. They had also absorbed Baron de Steuben's force. It came to at most fifteen hundred men all told, but deployed in such a way that the English, with a strength of something like ten thousand, should believe them much more numerous.


  Taught by Pongo, Gilles had become an adept in all the subtleties of Indian warfare. He was without equal in the art of worming his way up to an objective without giving away his presence and could then strike like lightning, quick and hard, and melt away again leaving men dead behind him who had never known what hit them. Dressed in deerskin garments manufactured by the Indian to replace the smart uniform, long since in rags, and which provided an infinitely better protection against mosquitoes, he had acquired a considerable reputation at his deadly game, as well as a fierce and formidable appearance which often made Tim look thoughtful.

  Tim said to him one day: 'Do you remember that bird you killed by the Susquehanna? The one that nearly cost us our scalps?'

  'The gyrfalcon? Of course I remember,' Gilles replied easily, though his heart missed a beat.

  'Well, I was thinking that you are like that. He dropped out of the sky, struck and was away again. You drop out of trees, but the end is the same.'

  'Don't take it too far. I don't carry my victims off and tear them with my beak.'

  He was laughing, but it pleased him all the same. Tim, in his friendship, had hit instinctively on the one comparison that could touch his frozen heart. It was as though the intangible links with his forebears had all at once taken form and substance. And since Tim did not keep his thought to himself and would describe the incident with the Senecas to back it up, the nickname soon began to stick. His men even held a weird ceremony in which they identified him with the totem in Indian fashion and in which Pongo reverted for once to his role of medicine man.

  'Did you know,' he asked, when the young man jibbed at taking part in a ritual that seemed to him vaguely absurd, 'that your own general himself received a name from my people? By them, La Fayette is called Kayewla, "wonderful horseman". You will be "the ruthless gyrfalcon that strikes in the mist".'