I heard they were taken near Ogdensburg. We’ve only been with ’em since Deerfield. We’d’ve had to march the bastards if the lieutenant hadn’t commandeered the wheels.”
“Don’t look much, do they?” someone muttered in an aside.
You wouldn’t either, Hawkwood thought, if you’d had to march most of the way from Ogdensburg and then been shackled to the back of a bloody prison cart.
Hawkwood had no idea which British regiments were serving on the American continent and he wasn’t close enough to the wagon to get a good view of the insignia, though the green facings on a couple of the tunics suggested their wearers might have been from the 49th, the Hertfordshires, while the red facings could have represented the 41st Regiment of Foot.
The lieutenant returned. “All right, Corporal! Move them down to the landing. You can board the ferry when ready.”
As the driver released the brake and flicked the reins to nudge the horses forward, the escort shouldered their muskets.
“Here we go,” the talkative one murmured.
The novelty over, the spectators began to drift away and Hawkwood looked towards the men on the wagon. Pittsfield was, presumably, the nearest prison of any note where captured enemy were being held.
His eyes roamed over the tired faces, seeing in them the worn expressions of men who’d come to accept their personal defeat. Two or three looked to be half asleep; either that or they’d chosen to feign exhaustion as a means of avoiding the stares of onlookers and of exhibiting fear in the face of their captors.
The wagon jerked into motion. As it did so, one of the greatcoat-clad soldiers shifted position. Until then, his features had been concealed by the coat’s upturned collar. As he turned, his face came more into view.
Had Major Quade not mentioned Fulton by name, causing Hawkwood to revive memories of Narwhale and the events surrounding William Lee’s assassination plot, the mere turning of the prisoner’s head might not have amounted to anything.
Except …
It took a second or two and even then Hawkwood didn’t really believe it. But as he stared at the wagon’s occupants, the man in the greatcoat looked up. At first, there was no reaction; the soldier’s gaze moved on. And then stopped. It was then that Hawkwood saw it; the slight moment of hesitation before the prisoner’s face turned back. In a movement that would have been imperceptible to those around him, Hawkwood saw the soldier’s eyes fix on his and widen in mutual recognition.
And, immediately, Hawkwood knew that every move he’d been planning had just been made redundant.
May 1780
Tewanias led the way, with the Rangers and the boy following in single file behind. The dog kept pace, sometimes running on ahead, at other times darting off to the side of the trail, nose to the ground as it investigated interesting new smells, but always returning to the line, tongue lolling happily and tail held high as if the journey were some kind of game.
They walked the horses, letting the beasts set their own pace. Save for the occasional bird call, the woods were dark and silent around them. Talk was kept to a minimum. The only other sounds that marked their progress were the rhythmic plod of hooves on the forest floor and the soft clinking of a metal harness.
Every so often, a rustle in the undergrowth would indicate where a startled animal had broken from cover. At each disturbance the Indian and the Rangers and the boy would rein in their horses and listen intently but thus far there had been no indication that they were being followed.
As they rode, Wyatt thought back to the events that had taken place at the cabin, only too aware of how fortunate they’d all been to have emerged from the fight without suffering so much as a scratch, though it had been clear that the Committee members, having been taken completely by surprise, had possessed neither the discipline nor the instinct to have affected an adequate defence, let alone a counter-attack. Save, that is, for the one who’d somehow come back to life and shot Will Archer. Despite Wyatt’s attempts to erase it, the nagging thought persisted:
If we’d checked the bodies, Archer would be alive. Maybe.
It was small comfort knowing that by opening fire on the Citizens’ Committee, the farmer had been the one who set in motion the gun battle that had left eight people dead in almost as many minutes, having acted intuitively and in self-defence.
Wyatt’s mind kept returning to the expression on the boy’s face when Ephraim Smede had fallen to the ground, the hatchet embedded in his back. There had been no fear, no contrition or revulsion; no regret at having killed a man. Neither had there been satisfaction or triumph at having exacted restitution for the deaths of his aunt and uncle. Instead, there had been a calm, almost solemn acceptance of the deed, as if the dispatching of another human being had been a task that had to be done.
Only when he’d seen his uncle lying mortally wounded in Wyatt’s arms had the boy’s expression changed, first to tearful concern, followed swiftly by pain and ending in a deep, infinite sadness when he’d looked towards Beth Archer’s body. Even at that tender age he seemed to understand that the balance of his life had, from that moment, been altered beyond all understanding.
Wyatt had accompanied the boy to Beth Archer’s corpse. He’d watched as the child had knelt by her side, taking the woman’s hand in his own, holding it against his cheek. For a moment Wyatt had stood in silence, waiting for the tears to start again, but that hadn’t happened. When he’d laid his hand on the boy’s shoulders telling him that they had to leave and that there were graves to be dug, there had been a brief pause followed by a mute nod of understanding. Then the boy had risen to his feet, jaw set, leaving the Rangers to prepare the burials, while he’d returned to the cabin to gather his few belongings and retrieve the dog.
It wasn’t the first time Wyatt had seen such stoicism. He had fought alongside men who, having survived the bloodiest of battles, had displayed no emotion either during the fight or in the immediate aftermath, only to be gripped by the most violent of seizures several hours or even days afterwards. Wyatt wondered if the same thing was going to happen to the boy. He would have to watch for the signs and deal with the situation, if or when it happened.
The Rangers, partly out of unease at not knowing what to say but mostly because they were all too preoccupied with their own thoughts, had maintained a disciplined silence in the boy’s presence. Wyatt wasn’t sure if that was the best thing to do in the circumstances, but as he had no idea what to say either, he had followed suit and kept his own counsel. Without making it obvious what he was doing, he kept a watchful eye on their young charge. Not that the boy seemed to notice; he was too intent on watching Tewanias. Whether it was curiosity or apprehension at the Mohawk’s striking appearance, Wyatt couldn’t tell. Occasionally, Tewanias would turn in his saddle, and every time he did so the boy would avert his gaze as if he’d suddenly spotted something of profound interest in the scenery they were passing. It might have been amusing under different circumstances, but smiles, on this occasion, were in short supply.
They’d been travelling for an hour before the boy became aware of Wyatt’s eyes upon him. He reddened under the Ranger’s amused gaze. Tewanias was some thirty yards ahead, concentrating on the trail and when the boy had recovered his composure he nodded towards the warrior, frowned and enquired hesitantly: “Your Indian, which tribe does he belong to?”
Wyatt followed the boy’s eyes. “He’s Mohawk. And he’s not my Indian.”
The boy flushed, chastened by the emphasis Wyatt had placed on the word “my”. “Uncle Will said that the Mohawk were a great tribe.”
“The Mohawk are a great tribe.”
The boy pondered Wyatt’s reply for several seconds, wondering how to phrase his next question without