by James McGee
He addressed the soldier who’d 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 companion’s gaiters.
“Best tracker in the state,” Wyatt said.
“That so?” The corporal regarded the dog with renewed interest. “What’s his name?”
“Sergeant Tam.”
The corporal gave Wyatt a look. “Well, when the sergeant’s stopped sniffing Private Hilton’s crotch, sir, you’ll find the officers down by the main house.”
Wyatt hid a smile at the trooper’s temerity. “I’m 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 companion’s boldness in the face of a senior rank. “Sergeant Tam?”
The corporal shrugged. “Wouldn’t bloody surprise me. You know what Rangers are like.”
Private Hilton sniffed lugubriously. “Scruffy beggars, that’s what. If they’ve given the dog stripes, wonder what rank they’ve 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, Wyatt’s 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 Wyatt’s 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 who’d made their own way or who’d been delivered to the Hall by the other patrols. Wyatt wondered if their numbers had swelled much since he’d 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 who’d 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. Don’t let him run off, else he’ll 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 boy’s 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 won’t be long.”
To Donaldson, Wyatt said quietly, “Look after them. I’m 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.”
Leaving the others, Wyatt and Tewanias, long guns draped across their arms, made their way to the group of officers gathered around a table strewn with papers that had been set up on the grass close to the mansion’s rear entrance.
As Wyatt and Tewanias approached, a green-coated officer glanced up and frowned.
“Lieutenant?”
“Captain.” Wyatt tipped his cap.
As the officer straightened, Tewanias moved to one side, grounded his musket and rested his linked hands on the upturned muzzle. He looked completely at ease and unimpressed by the ranks that were on display.
Captain John McDonell glanced over Wyatt’s shoulder towards the tether line. He was a tall man; gangly and narrow-shouldered with a thin face and a long nose to match. A native of Inverness, with pale features and soft Scottish lilt, McDonell always reminded Wyatt of a schoolmaster. The captain’s bookish appearance, however, was deceptive. Prior to his transfer to the Rangers he’d seen service with the 84th Regiment of Foot and had survived a number of hard-fought engagements, including St Leger’s expedition against Fort Stanwix. He’d also helped defend British maritime provinces from Colonial attacks by sea and on one memorable occasion had led a boarding party on board an American privateer off Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, capturing the ship and crew and delivering them into Halifax in chains.
“Who’ve you got there?” McDonell asked.
“Name’s Matthew,” Wyatt said.
The captain nodded as if the information was only of passing interest and then he frowned. Something in the equation was missing, he realized. He turned his attention back to the Ranger. “Where’s his family?”
Wyatt’s expression told its own story.
McDonell sighed. “All right, let’s hear it.”
“We ran into some opposition,” Wyatt said.
Behind McDonell, the officers gathered around the table paused in their discussion.
Instantly alert, McDonell’s chin lifted. “Regulars or militia?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Neither. Citizens’ Committee.”
McDonell’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I’d not have taken them for a credible threat.”
“They weren’t,” Wyatt said.
Pondering the significance of Wyatt’s terse reply, the captain waited expectantly.
“Turns out they were on an incursion of their own. We interrupted them.”
“Go on.”
“We were at the Archer farm,” Wyatt said. “We—”
“Did you say Archer?”
The interjection came from behind McDonell’s left shoulder. A bewigged, aristocratic-looking officer dressed in a faded scarlet tunic stepped forward.
Wyatt turned, remembering to salute. “Yes, Sir
John. William Archer. We were tasked to bring him to the Hall. His homestead is … was … on the other side of the Caroga.”
Colonel Sir John Johnson matched McDonell for height but where the captain was thin the colonel was well set, with a harder, fuller face. His most prominent features were his dark blue eyes and his beaked nose, which gave him the appearance of a very attentive bird of prey.
“My apologies, Colonel,” McDonell said quickly. “Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Wyatt; 4th Ranger Company.”
“Lieutenant.” The colonel’s gaze flickered sideways towards Tewanias before refocusing on the Ranger.
“Colonel,” Wyatt said.
“You said you were at what was the Archer homestead.”
“I regret that both William Archer and his wife were killed in the exchange, Colonel.”
A look of pain crossed the colonel’s face. His eyes clouded. “Tell me,” he said.
The two officers listened in silence as Wyatt recounted the events of the morning.
“Bastards!” McDonell spat as Wyatt concluded his description of the skirmish. “God damned bloody bastards!”
The colonel looked towards the boy.
“He’s Archer’s nephew,” Wyatt said.
Sir John said nothing for several seconds and then turned back. He shook his head wearily and sighed. “No, actually, he isn’t.”
“He referred to Archer as his uncle,” Wyatt said, confused.
The colonel’s expression softened. “For the sake of convenience, I dare say. Though, I’ve no doubt that’s how he came to look upon them.”
Wyatt looked to McDonell for illumination, but none was forthcoming.
Removing his wig, Sir John ran a calloused hand across his cropped hair. Though not yet forty, flecks of grey were beginning to show through the darker follicles. “The boy and the Archers were not related. They were his guardians. The boy’s father entrusted him to them.”
“You knew them, sir?” McDonell said, unnecessarily, he realized, as soon as the words were out.
“The father. He was a good man. His name was Hooper. Ellis Hooper.”
McDonell frowned. “I know that name.” He stared at the colonel, as if seeking confirmation.
“We were comrades in the French and Indian War. He was with me at Lake George and at Niagara when we fought alongside the Iroquois auxiliaries under my father’s command, though we were barely old enough to heft a musket.”
A rueful smile touched the colonel’s face before he added, “Ellis Hooper was a Loyalist through and through. Because of his allegiance to me, the Continentals put a price on his head. He was with me when I made my run in ’76 and he was one of my first recruits when Governor Carleton granted me permission to form the Royal Greens.”
Wyatt knew the story. There wasn’t a man serving under Sir John’s command who didn’t. It was the stuff of legend, of tales told to raw recruits as they sat huddled around the camp fires at night.
Sir John’s father, William, had built the estate. Arriving in the valley in the late 1730s, he’d made his fortune trading furs with the voyageurs and the Six Nations, the Iroquois tribes who’d held dominion over the vast region of forests, lakes and mountains that lay between the Hudson River and the great waters of Ontario and Erie. It had been William who’d supervised the construction of the Hall and founded the settlement that was to bear the name of his eldest son: Johnstown.
Such had been his skill in diplomacy and his standing among the Six Nations that Sir William had persuaded the Iroquois to side with King George against the armies of the French. For his services, the Crown had awarded him a baronetcy and appointed him Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the entire Northern states.
Sir John had inherited the lands and title upon his father’s death. He’d also inherited his father’s loyalty to the King, to the dismay of the leaders of the burgeoning republic who’d tried to persuade the son to swear allegiance to the new Congress. When persuasion failed, a less subtle approach had been attempted.
The level of intimidation had been so aggressive that in the interest of self-preservation, Sir John had gathered about him a company of Loyalist supporters and Indian allies to act as a protective shield and to defend the interests of the King. Fearing the formation of a private army, the local Committee of Safety, with the Tryon County Militia at its back, had immediately ordered all Loyalists in the county to relinquish their weapons. It had then placed their leader on parole under the order that he would not take up arms against the new government.
Unbowed, Sir John, while agreeing to the demand, had continued to show dissent. An arrest warrant had been issued. Forewarned, Sir John, along with more than one hundred and fifty followers and helped by a trio of Iroquois guides, had evaded capture by fleeing north through the mountains to gain safety across the Canadian border.
It had taken them nearly three weeks, during which time their provisions ran out and they were forced to forage for roots and leaves before they’d eventually stumbled, half starving, into an Iroquois village on the St Lawrence River.
As soon as he reached the safety of Canada, Sir John had petitioned the Governor for permission to raise a force capable of taking the war back to the enemy. With authority granted, the King’s Royal Regiment of New York, under their new colonel, had begun recruiting. The first to sign up had been the men who’d accompanied him into exile.
“He was with us at Stanwix,” McDonell said, looking contrite.
“He was.” The colonel’s voice dropped. “He fell at Oriskany.”
“Oh, dear God, yes,” McDonell said, looking even more crestfallen. “Why did I not remember?”
The operation had formed part of an invasion plan devised by British generals to gain control of the Hudson River Valley and cut off New England from the rest of the American colonies, thus creating a vantage point between the Hudson and Lake Ontario from where Crown forces could direct operations against the Continental army.
The strategy had involved a two-pronged attack, launched from Montreal. The main force, led by General John Burgoyne, had marched south towards Albany by way of Lake Champlain, while a diversionary force under the command of General Barry St Leger, with Sir John Johnson as his second-in-command, had driven through the Mohawk Valley, intending to approach Albany from the west. It had been the Royal Yorkers’ first major campaign and it was to have been the opportunity for Sir John to exact revenge on those who’d forced him into exile the year before.
St Leger’s force had made it as far as Fort Stanwix, a Patriot outpost controlling a six-mile portage between the Mohawk River and Wood Creek known as the Oneida Carry, where they’d encamped and laid siege to the American garrison. The plan had been to capture the fort and secure Burgoyne’s eastern flank.
News of St Leger’s advance had spread, however, and a relief column of New York Militia under the command of Major General Nicholas Herkimer was sent to assist the beleaguered garrison. On hearing the column was on its way, St Leger dispatched a force of Royal Yorkers, Jaeger riflemen and native auxiliaries under the command of Sir John Johnson to intercept. The ambush had taken place some six miles from the fort, at the bottom of a narrow ravine through which ran a shallow three-foot-wide dribble of water called the Oriskany Creek.
Even three years after the event no one knew for certain how many men had perished. Some reports said the Patriots lost 450 dead, the British 200, and because of that it had been deemed a British victory. Native losses had been put around 100, but the numbers were speculative. What was not in dispute was the degree of butchery that had been perpetrated in a fight that had lasted more than six hours. When the ammunition ran out, men – both white and Indian – had fought hand to hand with knife and tomahawk. It was said that the rock-strewn waters of the Oriskany had flowed red with the blood of the slain for weeks afterwards, while the stench of the rotting corpses had carried for miles on the warm summer winds. It was also rumoured, though never confirmed, that some prisoners, captured by In
dians, had been taken from the field and eaten in ritual sacrifice.
“He was one of the turncoats,” McDonell said.
Catching Wyatt’s expression upon hearing the term, Johnson said softly, “It’s not what you think, Lieutenant.”
The colonel stared down at the wig he was holding. A small spiky leaf was trapped in the weave. He picked it out and flicked it away, watching it spiral to the ground. He looked up.
“We learned from rebel prisoners that Herkimer had dispatched messengers to the fort commander requesting that a sortie be sent to meet the relief column. We thought we could use the request to our advantage by passing off our own men as that relief party. The plan was to infiltrate them into the militia’s ranks and then, hopefully, create mayhem and in the confusion capture Herkimer’s senior officers.”
The colonel shook his head. “Regrettably, our ruse was discovered. Given the time we had, our only disguise was to turn our uniforms inside out. When one of the militia saw the green linings to our coats and recognized a former neighbour whom he knew to be a Loyalist, he raised the alarm. We lost more than thirty men in the first volley. Those that didn’t perish in the second fusillade were hacked to pieces, mostly by Oneida warriors fighting on the rebel side. Ellis Hooper was one of those slain. We found his body when the Americans withdrew from the field.”
The colonel placed the wig back on his head, straightening it with both hands. His face was set tight. “He was an exceptionally brave man.” Looking past Wyatt’s shoulder towards the tether line, he added softly, “Who never lived to see his son again.”
“The mother?” McDonell asked, though his tone suggested that he already knew the answer.
“Died in childbirth, alas, the year before Ellis Hooper and I made our escape to Canada. The boy would have had a sister, had mother and child lived.”
Wyatt knew it wasn’t his place to broach the subject of why Hooper had not remained in the valley with his son. Some might have accused him of abandonment, but many a good man had found himself facing the same dilemma and made the same choice as Hooper, Sir John Johnson among them.
