by James McGee
Beth Archer did not reply. She stood in the doorway, the checked cloth in her hands, staring at the line of riders. The flour smudge on her cheek had disappeared, Archer noticed.
Unfazed, Deacon lowered his rump and adjusted his grip on the musket. “Thing is, the Commissioners want reassurance that you’re not passing information to enemy forces.”
Archer sighed. “I’m a farmer. I don’t have any information to pass, not unless they’d like to know how many eggs my bantams have been laying.”
“Anyone refusing to swear allegiance to the Patriot government will be presumed guilty of endeavouring to subvert it.”
Archer’s eyebrows rose. “Commissioners tell you to say that, did they? Must be difficult trying to remember all those long words. Good thing you’re the spokesman and not either of those two.” Archer threw another look towards the brothers.
“There’s still time to recant,” Deacon said.
“Recant? Now you’re sounding like Pastor Slocum. Maybe his sermons are starting to have an effect after all. He’ll be pleased about that.”
“If you renounce Toryism you’ll be permitted to stay with no blemish attached to your character.”
“Well, that’s a comfort. And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll be subject to the full penalty of the law.”
“Which means what?”
“Anyone who refuses to take the oath will be removed.”
“Removed?” Archer felt the first stirrings of genuine concern. “To where?”
“A place where they’re no longer in a position to do damage. Either to another part of the state, or else to a place of confinement.”
“You mean prison.”
“If necessary. It’s my duty to inform you that unless you’re prepared to take the oath, this land becomes forfeit, as do all goods and chattels, which will be sold off for the benefit of the Continental Congress.”
“Sold?” Archer shot back. “The hell you say! Stolen, more like! And how do you propose to do that? You going to hitch it all to a wagon? Or roll everything up and deliver it to Albany in your saddle bags? That, I’d like to see.”
“‘T’ain’t the farm that’ll be heading Albany way, Archer. It’ll be you. You and your family.”
It was Levi Smede who’d spoken. A thin smile played across his sharp-edged face.
Archer stared at him. His finger slid inside the musket’s trigger guard. “You’re threatening my family, now?”
Deacon threw the brother a sharp look before turning back. “I’ve orders to deliver you to the Board, under guard if necessary. It’s up to you.”
“Well, I suppose that answers that question,” Archer said.
“Question?” Deacon frowned.
“Why there’s six of you.”
He looked along the line. Deacon was riding point, but based on their reputations, the Smedes were undoubtedly the more significant threat, though Ephraim was the only one of the two holding a musket. Levi’s was still strapped across his shoulders. Of the other three, Shaw and Meeker, although they had their weapons to hand, would probably hesitate. Jeremiah Kidd, Archer sensed, would be too scared to do anything, even if he did manage to un-sling his musket in time.
Throughout the exchange, Archer had become increasingly and uncomfortably aware that Beth was standing behind him. He knew that it would be no use telling her to go inside. Her independent streak was part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. He was surprised it had taken her this long to come out to see what was happening.
“There’s just you and me,” Deacon said, his voice adopting a more conciliatory tone. “No reason why this can’t be settled amicably. All you’re required to do is ride with us to Johnstown and place your signature on the document. Small price to pay for all of this.”
His eyes shifted to the porch where Beth Archer was framed in the doorway. The inference was clear.
Archer stepped forward. “Go home, Deacon. You’re trespassing. This is my land. I fought for it once. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t do so again.”
Deacon turned his attention away from the house and stared down at him in silence, eyeing the musket. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, if that’s your decision; so be it. Ephraim, Levi …”
So much for “just you and me”, Archer thought.
“Will!” Beth cried, as Levi Smede grinned and drew a pistol from his belt.
Archer threw the musket to his shoulder.
“Inside, Beth!” he yelled, as Deacon brought his gun up.
Archer fired.
The ball struck Levi Smede in the chest, lifting him over the back of his saddle and down into the dust. The pistol flew from Smede’s hand.
Archer was already twisting away when Deacon’s musket went off, but he wasn’t quick enough. The ball punched into his side with the force of a mule kick. Pain exploded through him. Dropping his musket as he fell, he heard another sharp yet strangely distant report and saw Deacon’s head snap back, enveloped in a crimson mist of blood and brain matter. Hitting the ground, he saw Beth draw the pistol from beneath the checked cloth, aim and fire.
Axel Shaw shrieked and clamped a hand to his thigh. Dark blood sprayed across his horse’s flank.
Ephraim Smede, bellowing with rage at his brother’s plight, flinched as another shot rang out and stared aghast as Isaac Meeker’s mount crashed on to its side, legs kicking. Searching frantically for the source of the attack, his eyes were drawn to a puff of powder smoke dissipating in the space between the barn and the hen house.
“Bitch!” Spitting out the obscenity, Smede aimed his musket at Beth Archer. The gun belched flame. Without waiting to see if the ball had struck, he tossed the discharged weapon aside and clawed for his pistol.
Meeker, meanwhile, had managed to scramble clear of his horse. Retrieving his musket, he turned to see where the shot had come from, only to check as a ball took him in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top.
Archer, on the ground, venting blood and trying to make sense of what was happening, found Jeremiah Kidd staring at him in puzzlement and fear. And then Archer realized that Kidd wasn’t staring at him he was staring past him. Archer squirmed and looked over his shoulder. Through eyes blurring with tears he could see four men in uniform, hard-looking men, each carrying a long gun. Two of them were drawing pistols as they ran towards the house.
Another crack sounded. This time it was Kidd who yelped as a ball grazed his arm. Wheeling his horse about, he dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and galloped full pelt in the direction of the stream.
Only to haul back on the reins, the cry rising in his throat, as a vision from hell rose up to meet him.
Wyatt, discharged rifle in hand, stepped out from the side of the barn. He’d been surprised when Archer had shot Smede, assuming that Deacon would be the farmer’s first target. It had taken only a split second to alter his aim, but he’d not been quick enough to prevent Deacon’s retaliation. As a result, Archer was already on his back by the time Deacon met his emphatic demise, courtesy of Wyatt’s formidable, albeit belated, marksmanship.
It had been Jem Beddowes, Wyatt’s fellow Ranger, who’d shot Meeker’s horse from under him. Beddowes had been aiming at the rider, but the horse had shied at the last moment, startled by the volley of gunshots, and the ball had struck the animal instead, much to Beddowes’ annoyance. His companion, Donaldson, had compensated for the miss by shooting Meeker in the shoulder, which had left the fourth Ranger – Billy Drew – and Tewanias with loaded guns, along with two functioning rebels, the younger of whom, to judge by the way he was urging his horse towards the stream, was fully prepared to leave his companions to their respective fates.
Isaac Meeker, meanwhile, having lost his musket for the second time, pushed himself to his knees. Wounded and disoriented, he stared around him. His horse had ceased its death throes and lay a few feet away, its belly stained with blood from the deep wound in its side. Deacon and Levi Smede were sprawled
like empty sacks in the dirt, their mounts having bolted. Half of Deacon’s face was missing.
He looked for Shaw and saw that the postmaster had fallen from his horse and was on the ground, trying to crawl away from the carnage. The musket looped across Shaw’s back was dragging in the dirt and acting like a sea anchor, hampering his progress. He was whimpering in agony. An uneven trail of blood followed behind him.
A fresh shot sounded from close by. Not a long gun this time, but a pistol. Meeker ducked and then saw it was Ephraim Smede, still in the saddle, who had fired at their attackers. Meeker looked around desperately for a means by which to defend himself and discovered his musket lying less than a yard away. Reaching for it, he managed to haul back on the hammer and looked for someone to shoot. He wasn’t given the chance. Ranger Donaldson fired his pistol on the run. The ball struck the distracted Meeker between the eyes, killing him instantly.
Ephraim Smede felt his horse shudder. He’d been about to make his own run for the stream when Billy Drew, having finally decided which of the two surviving riders was the most dangerous, took his shot.
The impact was so sudden it seemed to Smede as if his horse had run into an invisible wall. One second he was hunkered low in the saddle, leaning across his mount’s neck, the next the beast had pitched forward and Smede found himself catapulted over its head like a rock from a trebuchet. He smashed to the ground, missing Shaw’s prostrate body by inches. Winded and shaken, he clambered to his knees.
He was too engrossed in steadying himself to see Ranger Beddowes take aim with his pistol. Nor did he hear the crack nor see the spurt of muzzle flame, but he felt the heat of the ball as it struck his right temple. Ephraim Smede’s final vision before he fell was of his brother’s lifeless eyes staring skywards and the dark stain that covered Levi’s chest. Stretching out his fingers, he only had time to touch his brother’s grubby coat sleeve before the blackness swooped down to claim him.
Determining the rebels’ likely escape route had not been difficult and Wyatt, in anticipation, had dispatched Tewanias to cover the stream’s crossing place.
It was the Mohawk warrior’s sudden appearance, springing from the ground almost beneath his horse’s feet, that had forced the cry of terror from Jeremiah Kidd’s throat. The mare, unnerved as much by her rider’s reaction as by the obstacle in her path, reared in fright. Poor horsemanship and gravity did the rest.
The earth rose so quickly to meet him, there was not enough time to take evasive action. Putting out an arm to break his fall didn’t help. The snap of breaking bone as Kidd’s wrist took the full weight of his body was almost as audible as the gunshots that had accompanied his dash for freedom.
As he watched his horse gallop away, Kidd became aware of a lithe shape running in. He turned. His eyes widened in shock, the pain in his wrist forgotten as the war club scythed towards his head.
The world went dark, rendering the second blow a mere formality, which, while brutal in its execution, at least saved Kidd the agony of hearing Tewanias howl with triumph as he dug his knife into flesh and ripped the scalp from his victim’s fractured skull. Brandishing his prize, the Mohawk returned the blade to its sheath and looked for his next trophy.
Archer knew from his years of soldiering and by the way the blood was seeping between his fingers that his condition was critical. He looked towards the porch, where a still form lay crumpled by the cabin door. A cold fist gripped his heart and began to squeeze.
Beth.
Hand clasped against his side, Archer dragged himself towards his wife’s body. He tried to call out to her but the effort of drawing air into his lungs proved too much; all he could manage was a rasping croak.
Why hadn’t she done as she was told? he thought bleakly. Why hadn’t she stayed inside? His slow crawl through the dirt came to a halt as a shadow fell across him.
“Don’t move,” a voice said gently.
He looked up and found himself face to face with one of the uniformed rifle bearers.
A firm hand touched his shoulder. “Lieutenant Gil Wyatt, Ranger Company.”
“Rangers?” Archer blinked in confusion and then, as the significance of the word hit him, he made a desperate grab for Wyatt’s arm. “My wife; she’s hurt!”
“My men will see to her,” Wyatt said. He flicked a glance at Donaldson, who crossed swiftly to the cabin. “Let me take a look at your wound.”
“No!” Archer thrust away Wyatt’s hand. “She needs me!”
He tried to push himself off the ground, but the effort proved too much and he sank down. “Help her,” he urged. “Please.”
Wyatt looked off to where Donaldson was crouched over the fallen woman. A grim expression on his gaunt face, the Ranger shook his head. Laying his hand on Archer’s shoulder once more, Wyatt helped him sit up. “I’m so very sorry. I’m afraid we’re too late. She’s gone.”
The wounded man let out a cry of despair. Knowing that nothing he could say would help, Wyatt scanned the clearing. Twenty minutes ago, he had been up on the hill, admiring the tranquillity. Now the ground seemed to be strewn with bodies. As Donaldson covered the woman’s face with a cloth, Wyatt turned back to her husband.
Archer made no protest as Wyatt prised his hand from the wound, but he could not suppress a gasp of pain as the Ranger opened the bloodied shirt.
One glance told Wyatt all he needed to know. “We must get you to a surgeon.”
The nearest practitioner was in Johnstown, but to deliver the wounded man there would be asking for trouble. An army surgeon and a brace of medical assistants had accompanied the invasion force. They were the farmer’s best chance.
Although, given his current condition, Wyatt doubted whether the wounded man would survive the first eight yards, let alone the eight miles they’d need to traverse across what was, in effect, hostile country.
He looked off towards the paddock, where the horses were staring back at him, ears pricked. Wyatt could tell they were skittish, no doubt agitated by the recent skirmish, but it gave him an idea.
“Is there a cart or a wagon?” he asked.
“The barn,” Archer replied weakly. He tried to point but found he couldn’t lift his arm.
“Easy,” Wyatt said. Cupping the farmer’s shoulder, he called to his men. “Jem! Billy! There’s transport in the barn! Hitch up the horses! Smartly now!”
As he watched them go, he heard a murmur and realized the farmer was speaking to him. He lowered his head to catch the words.
“You’re Rangers?” Archer enquired hoarsely as his lips tried to form the question. “What are you doing here?”
“We came for you,” Wyatt said.
“Me?” Puzzlement clouded the farmer’s face.
“You and others like you. We’re here under the orders of Governor-General Haldimand. When he learned that Congress was threatening to intern all Loyalists, he directed Colonel Johnson to lead a force across the border to rescue as many families as he could and escort them back to British soil.”
Archer stared at him blankly. “Sir John’s returned?”
“Two nights ago. With five hundred fighting men, and a score to settle. Scouting units have been gathering up all those who wish to leave, from Tribe’s Hill to as far west as the Nose.”
“There’s not many of us left.” Archer spoke through gritted teeth. “Most have already sold up and gone north after having their barns burned down and their homes looted, or their cattle maimed or poisoned.” Sweat coating his forehead, he winced and pressed his hand to his side until the wave of pain subsided enough for him to continue. “All for refusing to serve in home defence units. This wasn’t the first visit I’d had but this time they were threatening to throw me in prison and take my farm.”
“Those men were militia?”
“Citizens’ Committee. They were under orders to take me to Johnstown to pledge allegiance to the flag. I told them to ride on.” The farmer bowed his head. “I should have gone with them.” He looked towards the cabin
and his face crumpled.
“You weren’t to know it would end like this,” Wyatt said softly. “If I’d realized who they were, I’d have given the order to intercede sooner.”
His face pinched with pain and grief, Archer looked up. “How many have you gathered so far?”
“A hundred perhaps, including wives and children and some Negro slaves. They’re all at the Hall. It’s the rendezvous point.”
There was no response. Wyatt thought the farmer had passed out until he saw his eyelids flutter open, the eyes casting about in confusion before suddenly opening wide. As Wyatt followed his gaze in search of the cause, the breath caught like a hook in his throat.
Ephraim Smede came to with blood pooling along the rim of his right eye socket. He blinked and the world took on a pinkish sheen. He blinked again and his vision began to clear. He was aware that the gunfire had ceased but an inner voice, allied to the pain from the open gash across his forehead, told him it would be better to remain where he was so he lay unmoving, listening; alert to the sounds around him.
A few more seconds passed before he raised himself up. He did so slowly. His first view was of his brother’s corpse. Beyond Levi, he could see the bodies of their companions, along with the two dead horses. Pools of blood were soaking into the ground, darkening the soil. Flies were starting to swarm.
He could hear voices but they were low and indistinct. He couldn’t see who was speaking because the rump of Isaac Meeker’s dead nag blocked his line of sight.
It occurred to Smede that he was probably the only one of Deacon’s party left alive. From the looks of Axel Shaw, he must have bled to death. There was no sign of Kidd, but Smede doubted the youth would have survived the ambush – or stuck around if he had.
Which meant he was on his own, with a decision to make. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to his brother’s glassy stare and a fresh spark of anger flared within him.
As his gaze alighted on Levi’s pistol.
A low moan came from close by. Smede dropped down quickly. He held his breath, waiting until the sound trailed off before cautiously raising his head once. Will Archer was propped some twenty paces away. One of the green-clad men was with him; he shouted something and two of the attackers ran immediately towards the barn.
