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 whod come to accept their personal defeat. Two or three looked to be half asleep; either that or theyd 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 coats 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 Lees assassination plot, the mere turning of the prisoners head might not have amounted to anything.
Except
It took a second or two and even then Hawkwood didnt really believe it. But as he stared at the wagons occupants, the man in the greatcoat looked up. At first, there was no reaction; the soldiers gaze moved on. And then stopped. It was then that Hawkwood saw it; the slight moment of hesitation before the prisoners face turned back. In a movement that would have been imperceptible to those around him, Hawkwood saw the soldiers eyes fix on his and widen in mutual recognition.
And, immediately, Hawkwood knew that every move hed been planning had just been made redundant.
2
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 theyd 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 whod somehow come back to life and shot Will Archer. Despite Wyatts attempts to erase it, the nagging thought persisted:
If wed 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.
Wyatts mind kept returning to the expression on the boys 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 hed seen his uncle lying mortally wounded in Wyatts arms had the boys expression changed, first to tearful concern, followed swiftly by pain and ending in a deep, infinite sadness when hed looked towards Beth Archers 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 Archers corpse. Hed watched as the child had knelt by her side, taking the womans 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 hadnt happened. When hed laid his hand on the boys 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 hed returned to the cabin to gather his few belongings and retrieve the dog.
It wasnt 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 boys presence. Wyatt wasnt 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 Mohawks striking appearance, Wyatt couldnt tell. Occasionally, Tewanias would turn in his saddle, and every time he did so the boy would avert his gaze as if hed 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.
Theyd been travelling for an hour before the boy became aware of Wyatts eyes upon him. He reddened under the Rangers 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 boys eyes. Hes Mohawk. And hes 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 Wyatts reply for several seconds, wondering how to phrase his next question without incurring another correction.
Is he a chief?
Yes. Wyatt did not elaborate.
The boy glanced up the trail. Why does he keep staring at me?
Same reason you keep staring at him, Wyatt said evenly.
The boys head turned.
Same reason you keep staring at him, Wyatt said evenly.
The boys head turned.
He finds you interesting, Wyatt said and smiled.
Why?
Why do you find him interesting? Wyatt countered.
The boy thought about his reply. Ive never been this close to an Indian before.
Well, then, Wyatt said. There you are. Hes never been this close to anyone like you before.
Me?
A white boy, Wyatt said. Thinking, but not voicing out loud: who killed a man with an axe.
The boy fell silent. After several seconds had passed he said, Why does he paint his face black?
To frighten his enemies.
The boy frowned. He stared hard at the Ranger.
I dont need paint, Wyatt said, if thats what you were thinking. Im frightening enough as it is.
A small smile played on the boys lips.
It was a start, Wyatt thought.
It was close to noon when the woods began to thin out, allowing glimpses of a wide landscape through gaps in the trees ahead. Wyatt trotted his horse forward to join Tewanias at the front of the line.
Stand! Who goes there?
The riders halted. Two men stepped into view from behind the last clump of undergrowth before the trees gave way to open ground. Wyatt surveyed the red jackets, muddy white breeches, tricorn hats with their black cockades and muskets held at the ready. The uniforms identified the men as Royal Yorkers; the colonels regiment. Wyatt knew that Tewanias would have detected the duo from a long way back. Indeed, hed have done so even if the men had been dressed in leaf coats and matching hoods, but there had been no need to give a warning. The Mohawk had known that the soldiers posed no threat.
Good to know the piquets are doing their job, Wyatt thought. Though what the troopers would have done if the returning patrol had turned out to be of Continental origin was unclear. Fired warning shots and beaten a hasty retreat, presumably, or stayed hidden until theyd passed and then sounded the alert.
He addressed the soldier whod given the order. Lieutenant Wyatt and party, returning from a reconnaissance. Reporting to Captain McDonell.
The corporal ran his eye around the group, noting the hard expressions on the unshaven faces. His gaze did not falter when it passed over Tewanias, but flickered as it took in the boy, who looked decidedly out of place among his fellow riders.
That your hound, Lieutenant? The corporal jerked his chin towards the dog, which was sniffing energetically at his companions gaiters.
Best tracker in the state, Wyatt said.
That so? The corporal regarded the dog with renewed interest. Whats his name?
Sergeant Tam.
The corporal gave Wyatt a look. Well, when the sergeants stopped sniffing Private Hiltons crotch, sir, youll find the officers down by the main house.
Wyatt hid a smile at the troopers temerity. Im obliged to you. Carry on, gentlemen.
Raising knuckles to their hats, the two piquets watched as the men and the boy rode on.
Private Hilton hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, spat into the bushes and cocked an eyebrow at his companions boldness in the face of a senior rank. Sergeant Tam?
The corporal shrugged. Wouldnt bloody surprise me. You know what Rangers are like.
Private Hilton sniffed lugubriously. Scruffy beggars, thats what. If theyve given the dog stripes, wonder what rank theyve given the Indian?
The corporal, whose name was Lovell, pursed his lips. I heard tell some of em have been made captains, but if you want to ask him, be my guest.
Private Hilton offered no reply but scratched his thigh absently, his nose wrinkling in disgust as his hand came away damp. Wiping dog slobber from his fingers on to his uniform jacket, he shook his head.
Bleedin officers, he muttered.
Quietly.
Emerging from the treeline, Wyatt reined in his horse and stared out at a rolling countryside punctuated with stands of oak, pine and hemlock. The estate was spread across the bottom of the slope. It covered a substantial area, comprising barns, storehouses, workshops, grist and saw mills, a smithy and several cottages, and could easily have been mistaken for a small, peaceful village had it not been for the tents and uniformed troops gathered at its heart.
One building, set apart from the others by virtue of its size and architecture, caught the eye. Sheathed in white clapboard, and with leaf-green shutters, the mansion, which was built on a slight rise, was protected at the front by a circle of yellow locust trees and at the rear by two enormous stone blockhouses.
As they approached the camp perimeter, Wyatts attention was drawn towards several dark smudges moving slowly across the south-eastern horizon. The plumes of smoke were too black and too dense to be rising from cooking fires. Somewhere, off beyond the pinewoods, buildings were ablaze. As he watched, more drifts began to appear, like lateen sails opening to the wind. The fires were spreading. For a second he thought he could smell the burning but then, when his nose picked out the scent of coffee, he knew the aromas were emanating from the field kitchen that had been set up in the lee of one of the blockhouses.
In the camp itself, all appeared calm. There were no raised voices; no officers yelling orders, putting the men through their drills. There was, however, no hiding the purposeful way the soldiers were going about their business or the sense of readiness that hung in the air. There were no musket or rifle stands. Every man carried his weapon to hand in case of attack. Wyatt glanced towards the boy who, to judge from the way his eyes were darting about, was overawed by the appearance of so many troops.
A peal of girlish laughter came suddenly from Wyatts right. He turned to where half a dozen children were engaged in a game of chase on the lawn beneath the trees. A knot of adults, all dressed in civilian clothes, was keeping a close watch on the high spirits; families whod made their own way or whod been delivered to the Hall by the other patrols. Wyatt wondered if their numbers had swelled much since hed left.
Standing off to one side was a group of two dozen Negroes, of both sexes, some with children in hand. Servants and farm workers, either collected from the surrounding districts or whod arrived at the Hall of their own volition in the hope of joining the exodus.
Halting by the first blockhouse, Wyatt and the others dismounted and secured their mounts to the tether line.
Wait here, Wyatt told the boy. Keep your eye on the horses and make sure Tam stays close. Dont let him run off, else hell end up in one of their stews. He jerked a thumb at a dozen Indian warriors who were gathered around a circular fire pit above which a metal pot was suspended from a tripod of wooden stakes.
The boys eyes widened.
It was a jest, lad, Wyatt said quickly, smiling.
Behind him, he thought he heard Tewanias mutter beneath his breath.
Best keep him near, anyway, Wyatt advised, indicating the dog. We wont be long.
To Donaldson, Wyatt said quietly, Look after them. Im off to report to the captain. He turned away, paused and turned back. See if one of you can rustle up some victuals. And some coffee. Strong coffee.