by James McGee
Donaldson and Jem Beddowes were already on their feet and making their way down the path, rifles cradled. Wyatt and Drew met them where the bodies lay in crumpled abandon.
“Bastards,” Donaldson swore. His face and hair were beaded with water droplets. Nudging the nearest corpse with the toe of his moccasin, his expression grew even harder. “Ah, sweet Jesus,” he murmured.
Wyatt looked down. Attached to the strap of the dead warrior’s ammunition pouch was a ragged segment of bloodstained flesh and matted black hair.
Beddowes reached for the knife at his waist.
“Don’t do it, Jem,” Billy Drew said warningly, taking his companion’s arm.
The flesh around Beddowes’ jaw tightened. His face a mask, he slid the knife back into its sheath.
Wyatt let go a sigh.
“What?” Donaldson turned.
“We’re missing one,” Wyatt said.
The others looked at him.
“Tewanias said there were four.”
“Could have got it wrong,” Billy Drew said.
Donaldson shook his head. “If Tewanias says there’s four, that’s how many there are.” He looked at Wyatt. “You think he passed us?”
“Not since we got here, and their point man wouldn’t be that far in front. He must have left a ways back, while we were skirting round them.”
“Didn’t see any sign that he’d crossed our path,” Beddowes said.
“That’s because we weren’t looking.” Wyatt frowned, then swore under his breath as the realization hit him.
“Lieutenant?” Donaldson said.
“They sent another runner.”
There was a moment’s pause. “They wouldn’t send two back the same way,” Donaldson said warily. “So which way’d he go?”
Wyatt’s head lifted. “Ticonderoga’d be my guess. New Hampshire Militia’s mustered close by. That’s, what, ten miles east of here? From there, Bulwagga’d be less than a morning’s march.”
“Damn it!” Beddowes’ shoulders slumped.
“Colonel needs to know,” Wyatt said.
Billy Drew sighed and slung his rifle over his shoulders. “Bloody hell. More runnin’.”
Wyatt indicated the two dead Oneida on the trail. “Throw them over; weapons, too. We’ve enough to carry. Take their ammunition, though. We can always use that.”
The Rangers heaved the bodies into the river, not bothering to watch as the current dragged them under. They would undoubtedly bob to the surface and beach either on the rocks below or somewhere further downstream. Concealing evidence of their presence was no longer a priority for Wyatt and his men. If a second Oneida scout had indeed been dispatched to report on the column’s progress and destination, the most pressing matter was to make it to the embarkation point and the boats of the Provincial Marine before the enemy got there.
Or, as Billy Drew put it as they set off:
Runnin’ like buggery.
Flattened grass and drag marks showed where the Oneida brave’s body had been pulled through the underbrush to the spot where it now lay, sprawled on its back and partially concealed beneath a clump of copperleaf, twenty metres from the edge of the stream.
The area around the base of the shrub was crawling with flies and in the middle of the swarm that buzzed around the body the curve of a rib could clearly be seen protruding from the corpse’s chest cavity and the torn remnants of a blood-soaked shirt. As the sickly smell drifted towards him, the boy wrinkled his nose and turned his head away, tightening his hold on Jonah’s halter.
“No, Tam!” he said sharply as the dog started forward to investigate, snout twitching.
The dog turned and looked up at him, puzzlement on its face.
“Heel!” the boy commanded, patting his thigh.
Reluctantly, the dog returned to the boy’s side, head hung low.
The boy’s thoughts strayed to the sounds he thought he had heard the night before as he’d drifted off to sleep. At the time, he hadn’t been sure if the noises were real or a figment of some descending dream. Now he knew why they had reminded him of the noises Tam made when he was chewing on a bone. Something had been drawn to the riverbank by the stench of death. Something with the strength to move the body to a place where it could feast without being disturbed. From what he’d seen before he’d averted his eyes, there looked to be a substantial amount of flesh still available. No doubt the scavenger would return to finish its meal. The boy scanned the edge of the woodland nervously. He was very glad that Tewanias was with him.
The Mohawk paid no heed to the remains, other than giving them a cursory glance as he led the way past. The Oneida warrior had chosen his path and had paid dearly for it, as decreed by the laws of war. By now, Wyatt and his fellow Rangers would surely have caught up with and passed sentence on the rest of the scouting party, dispatching them into Ha-ne-go-ate-geh, the land of eternal darkness, where they would rejoin their companion and, together, reflect upon the wickedness of their deeds. It was not Tewanias’s task to dwell on the destiny of others. He had but one duty now and that was to escort the boy to a place of safety. It was a duty he would carry out even if his own life became forfeit in the process.
“Awaiting your orders, sir.”
Colonel Johnson, who had been studying his watch, returned the instrument to his pocket. “No word from Stryker, I take it?” he asked his second-in-command pensively.
“No, sir.”
Johnson gnawed the inside of his cheek and then sighed. “Damn it. Very well. You may recall the piquets.”
Scott touched his cap, turned away, hesitated and then turned back. “I’m sorry, sir.”
The words were of small comfort. Johnson acknowledged them with a resigned nod. “What of other scouts – are they all returned safely?”
“All save Lieutenant Wyatt and his Rangers.”
“Wyatt?” Johnson said, more sharply than he had intended.
“Yes, sir.”
God damn, Johnson thought. He closed his eyes, counted to three, opened them and then nodded again. “Thank you, Thomas. You may carry on.”
He watched the captain walk away. In truth, not counting Stryker and his men, the fact that only one scouting party had failed to report back was more than he could have dared hope for. Hearing that it was Wyatt who was still out there, however, did detract from what might have been a greater sense of relief.
Increasing the pace of the march had posed no problem for the troops. It had been done gradually, without histrionics. The civilians, unaware of the order and the reasons behind it, had had no option but to keep up. Thanks to the full moon, the column had been able to remain on the road long after sunset, and an earlier than usual breaking of camp that morning had shortened the travel time to the lake by a significant margin. As a result, the travellers had arrived at the rendezvous just as the early morning mist was rising off the waters of Bulwagga Bay, six hours earlier than had been foreseen.
With embarkation having to be brought forward there was an unavoidable risk of scouts failing to rejoin the column in time and being left behind. At least word of the militia’s advance had filtered through to the outriders on the column’s flanks; over the course of the evening they had made their way to the rendezvous point, there to await the column’s dawn arrival.
But of Stryker’s party and the boy there had been no word.
And time had now run out.
The Provincial Marine vessels – the eighteen-gun sloop, Inflexible; an armed schooner, the Maria; and a flotilla of gunboats and batteaux – and the force of Royal Yorkers and Indians who’d been assigned to secure the site, had been ready and waiting. Under the watchful supervision of the Royal Navy boat crews, the boarding of passengers – military and civilian – had been conducted efficiently and without mishap.
The Maria, with its full complement of civilians safely on-board, had already set sail. Running before a brisk south-easterly, she had rounded Orchard Point, the northern tip of the peninsula, and was
now making firm headway towards Champlain’s deeper waters. In convoy behind her, trailing like ducklings, were the batteaux – troop carriers – flanked by their escort of gunboats.
Inflexible, deployed to protect the final stages of the evacuation, remained at anchor, pending Johnson and Scott’s transfer, along with the last of the lookouts, while a single shallow-draught gunboat kept station closer to the shore. Despite the serenity of the scene, Johnson knew both crews would be growing restless.
With his back to the water, his shoulders warmed by the sun, he ran his eyes along the shoreline as it extended from the southern end of the bay, where the various sections of the column had been ferried out to the Marine vessels, to the wilder, northern promontories. Several of the more exposed stretches of foreshore were littered with driftwood; entire trees, uprooted and stranded by a succession of winter storms and spring floods, lay in disarray across the sand, some singly, some stacked like lengths of cordage, their bleached trunks as smooth as bone in the morning light.
Movement to the north caught his eye and hope soared momentarily, only to plummet when he saw it was an osprey perched atop a dead stump, flexing its wings in preparation for the morning’s fishing expedition.
Scott returned, his features drawn with concern. “We can’t wait any longer, sir. We must leave now. Clinton’s arrival could be imminent.”
Johnson watched the piquets making their way to the boats. Bringing up the rear were the scouts, Boone and Cavett. They touched their caps in salute as they loped past.
“Sir,” Scott urged.
With a last despairing glance towards the trees, Johnson muttered, “Very well, Thomas. I hear you.”
He turned and was taken aback to find the scouts standing behind him.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Colonel,” Boone said, tugging at his beard with a forefinger and thumb that were speckled with powder burns.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Boone traded glances with his fellow scout then said, “We know about the missing boy, Colonel, and that you’re not going to wait on Corporal Stryker.”
Johnson frowned. “I’ve delayed our departure for as long as possible, Mr Boone.”
“Understood, Colonel. Only, Nate and me figured that, if you gave the word, we’d hang back and wait for them, maybe with that gunboat there.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the water. “Stryker’s a good man. We reckon he can’t be that far behind us.”
“Neither can the militia,” said Johnson. “You were the one who gave the warning that they were gaining on us. As I recall, you also informed us of their strength. Governor Clinton’s force is vastly superior to our own. With the exception of the Hooper boy, we got what we came for – and without a single man down, so far. A confrontation now would be entirely wasteful.”
“Wasn’t aiming for a confrontation, Colonel. We’d just like to give Stryker a chance.”
“Lieutenant Wyatt, too, if he and his men are close,” Cavett added. “We know they’re out there. And you said it yourself, Colonel: it’s a long walk home.”
“Indeed I did,” Johnson acknowledged, then shook his head. “But I regret, gentlemen, that I must decline your offer. Corporal Stryker and Lieutenant Wyatt are both men of initiative and excellent soldiers. They’re aware that they will have to make their own way home if they fail to make the rendezvous. I made sure every man was apprised of that before we left St Johns,” Johnson added, in a gentle rebuke.
Boone looked as if he was about to demur, but then, thinking better of it, he gave a subdued nod. “Yes, sir. Very good, Colonel. We didn’t want to go without askin’.”
“There is no harm in asking, Mr Boone. You have shown commendable spirit in doing so. It also says a great deal about your loyalty to your comrades, and I thank you for that.”
Boone touched his cap. “Colonel.” He turned to his companion. “Let’s go, Nate.”
There was neither disappointment nor resentment in either man’s expression, merely stoic acceptance of a decision made by a superior officer.
Johnson and Scott acknowledged the salute and watched as the two scouts waded out to the waiting gunboat. Then, with a final glance along the shore, the two officers set off for the jolly boat.
It was a short row out to the ship. As Inflexible’s crew sprang to their stations, Johnson commandeered a spyglass from the ship’s commander and led the way aft. Placing the instrument to his eye, he studied the shoreline once more.
“Any sign of them?” Scott asked after several long seconds had elapsed.
Collapsing the glass, Johnson sighed wearily. “No.”
“It doesn’t mean they haven’t found the boy,” Scott pointed out. “Or that they’ve run into trouble. Both Stryker and Wyatt think they have until midday to get here. We shouldn’t assume the worst because they haven’t made the boats. And as you reminded Boone and Cavett, they know to continue on foot. It’s a fair distance, but not that difficult a journey for men of their experience, especially at this time of year.”
Johnson’s gaze drifted towards the gunboat. It had yet to get underway.
Behind them the crew were scurrying about the deck as an officer yelled commands: “Top men aloft! Stand by all lines!”
Further south over the stern, Johnson could see the twin peaks of Bulwagga Mountain rising over the surrounding forest.
There was a clatter of blocks behind him as the ropes were hauled in tight. Canvas flapped loudly as the sails tumbled from the yards.
Steadying himself against the rail as the deck shifted, he turned back to his second-in-command as the Inflexible’s bow began to come round. As he did so, he caught sight of the gunboat and frowned. Her sail still hadn’t been raised.
Inflexible’s captain called out to his steersman. “Easy on the helm, Mr Swanson. A point to starboard, if you please!”
Scott followed Johnson’s gaze. “She in difficulties, do you think?”
Sluggishly, her sails filling, Inflexible began to gather momentum.
As Scott and Johnson looked on, a slim figure at the stern of the gunboat stood and raised his arm.
Johnson extended the spyglass and held it to his eye. “It’s Boone.”
“Why’s he holding his gun above his head?”
“He appears to be signalling.”
“Signalling?” Scott ducked as a yard let out an ominous groan above him.
“I’ll be damned,” Johnson muttered.
“What is it?” Scott asked. “Are they in trouble?”
“Only when I get them home. The damned fools.”
Scott frowned as Johnson passed him the glass. Fumbling the telescope to his eye, he focused it on the gunboat, the prow of which was still facing the shore. There didn’t appear to be a lot of movement from the men on board.
“I see Boone,” Scott said, “and his damned rifle. What’s that he’s doing with his other hand?”
“Talking.”
“Talking? To whom? I don’t understand.” Perplexed, Scott lowered the glass.
“That’s because you’ve never hunted with the Iroquois. Indian hunting parties travel through the forest in silence when they’re after game. They use signals to communicate – hand-talking, they call it. Our Mr Boone is using the sign language of the Mohawk hunters to send us – or rather me – a signal.”
Scott blinked, rammed the glass to his eye and watched as the scout continued to open and close his left hand in a sequence of curt gestures. “What’s he saying?”
“That we are not to wait. He will follow in due course.”
“He’ll what?” Shocked, Scott nearly dropped the glass.
“It would seem that Boone and Cavett have just added the unlawful seizure of one of His Majesty’s gunboats to their expanding list of misdemeanours.”
Dumbstruck, Scott stared at his colonel, wondering why he wasn’t seeing a more spectacular display of outrage. Then the penny dropped. “Bloody hell! The stupid, stupid buggers! Do you think they’re acti
ng alone, or are the boat crew in on this?”
Johnson smiled grimly. “Oh, I’d say most certainly that the crew are part of it. Seeing as Mr Boone’s gun doesn’t appear to be pointed at anyone.”
“Is he mad? Disobeying an officer’s a hanging offence.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Johnson. “Though, strictly speaking, I don’t recall giving either of them a direct order. I believe I merely declined their offer of assistance.”
Scott opened his mouth and then closed it again quickly. It was only after a further period of contemplative silence that he finally found his voice. He cleared his throat, leaned in and asked, “Should we alert the ship’s captain?”
“Oh, I rather think Lieutenant Schank has enough on his hands at the moment, don’t you? A vessel like this, his duties must be immeasurable. Not unlike mine,” Johnson added ruminatively, staring back at the gunboat as Inflexible pursued her steady course towards the open mouth of the bay. Banging a fist on the rail, he straightened. “By God, Thomas, they may be insubordinate devils, but you couldn’t wish for finer men, could you?”
Scott looked at him. “If you mean am I glad they’re on our side, then the answer’s yes.”
The gap between Inflexible and the gunboat continued to widen. When it was no longer possible to discern individual faces, Scott handed back the glass. “If Boone and his crew of miscreants do manage to extract Stryker and Wyatt’s men, will they be able to cope without Inflexible as their guardian?”
“I see no reason why not. It’s on the water that they’ll be at their safest. Those boats have a fair turn of speed when needed. The Yankees’ll never catch them. The buggers have damn all left that floats.”
Three months after the Americans declared independence, a British flotilla led by Inflexible had decimated the American fleet at Valcour Island. The British Navy in the guise of the Provincial Marine had ruled the waters of Champlain ever since. That superiority had granted the invasion force unrestricted access into enemy territory.
“So, what happens now?” Scott said.
Collecting himself, Johnson turned. “I suggest we make our way below and see if Lieutenant Schank’s cook can’t provide us with breakfast and a pot of his strongest coffee.”
