by James McGee
Lawrence, teeth gritted, clambered to his feet just in time.
The lead warrior had covered the ground incredibly fast, heels kicking up the snow. Hawkwood had a split-second’s glimpse of a red-and-black painted face and bared teeth above a faded grey shirt and buckskin leggings, then the hatchet blade was whipping towards him.
Sweeping the musket across his body, he felt the impact as the tomahawk’s shaft struck the gun barrel. Parrying the blade aside, he drove the musket butt into the warrior’s throat. There was a crunch as the cartilage gave way, then his attacker hit the snow. By this time Hawkwood had already dropped the gun, scooped up the tomahawk and turned to face the next threat.
Hunting in packs, predators cut out the weakest animal from the herd, run it to ground and then move in for the kill. The Oneida were applying the same tactic. Either they had detected from Lawrence’s spoor that he was injured or they’d been watching from the trees for some time, waiting until he showed signs of fading before launching their attack. Two of the remaining three Indians were running towards him. The third had Hawkwood in his sights.
The hatchet was a weapon for which he’d found little use in either his army days or in his career as a Runner. Some skills, however, were never forgotten. They simply remained dormant until called upon.
The first warrior was less than five strides from Lawrence when Hawkwood let fly. The Oneida crashed to the ground with the tomahawk blade embedded in the back of his skull.
Which left Hawkwood without a weapon, save for the stiletto in his boot. It wasn’t enough. He reached for it anyway.
The carbine’s report sounded incredibly loud. Hawkwood felt a sharp, searing blaze of pain across his forehead. As he went down, he caught a brief sight of Lawrence jabbing his musket at one of the remaining attackers, while at the edge of his vision he saw the fifth warrior – presumably the one who’d shot him – draw a knife from the beaded sash at his waist.
Hawkwood tried to rise. Through the blood that was seeping into his eyes he saw Lawrence stumble. As his adversary let out a triumphant bray and raised the war club above his head to deliver the coup de grâce, Hawkwood heard another, closer, crow of victory and looked up. The shooter stood above him.
With great deliberation the Oneida laid his gun to one side, drew his knife and placed a knee on Hawkwood’s chest. Taking hold of a clump of Hawkwood’s hair with his free hand, he pulled it tight. Pain shot through Hawkwood’s skull. Half-blinded, he pawed weakly for the top of his boot, knowing the stiletto was out of reach. The Oneida bent and pressed the point of his knife against Hawkwood’s scalp and grinned.
From behind them came a piercing scream, followed by a swift pattering sound.
Lawrence! Hawkwood thought despairingly.
And then the grinning face above him shuddered under the impact of a war club, crushing the side of the skull. So fast and so vicious was the strike that Hawkwood’s attacker made no sound. There was only a sickening crunch followed by a loose thump as his body sagged sideways on to the snow.
And then a deafening silence.
Hawkwood looked up, taking in the bloodied war club and the hand that held it. A dark form, dressed in a buckskin coat and broadcloth leggings floated into view. Behind it, other similarly clothed figures were moving among the bodies. Hawkwood recoiled as a hand reached towards him. A fresh bolt of pain ripped through his head as he tried again to reach his knife.
Then a voice spoke. It seemed to come from a long way off. “She:kon, Kahrhakon:ha. Skennenko:wa ken?”
Kahrhakon:ha.
A name from the past. Hawk.
Hawkwood blinked away blood and tried to focus. His skull felt as if it was on fire. A face materialized above him, unpainted. Strong, stern, almost haughty features, not young, set below a shaven scalp surmounted by a topknot decorated with two white feathers.
Weakly, Hawkwood looked to the side and saw that the Indian who’d been about to dash Lawrence’s brain to a pulp was sprawled on the ground, a dark stain spreading across the snow beneath him. Lawrence had collapsed against a boulder, musket in hand. He was staring at the body before him and at the three Indian warriors who were examining the scattered corpses. He turned towards Hawkwood, a look of total bafflement on his face.
Hawkwood squinted upwards. The figure hadn’t moved. As he made to wipe the blood from his eyes so he could see, the action sent another white-hot bolt of lightning through his skull and the figure began to dissolve. Then a hand took his.
Feeling the strength in the grip, Hawkwood focused again and stared at the tall warrior and the war club he was holding, dripping with the Oneida’s blood. A knot formed in his throat. It couldn’t be, he thought. Tears pricked his eyes and then his vision blurred again.
In the same language as before, the voice commanded: “Lie still little brother.”
And darkness descended.
13
Crouched on Hawkwood’s chest and no more than a foot from his nose, the mouse stared back at him through bright, black eyes. As rodents went, this one wasn’t that big; five inches of sleek furry body, complemented at the sharp end by a large head and impressively pointed snout and at the blunt end by three inches of shortened tail. It looked more curious than alarmed, until Hawkwood raised his head, at which point, with a nervous twitch of its whiskers and a quick flick of its tail, it was gone.
Hawkwood closed his eyes and sank back down. It took a couple of seconds for the realization to sink in that, when he’d lifted his head, it hadn’t hurt; well, not much. Which made a change. He tried again. Willing himself to sit up, he got as far as resting his weight on his elbows – a small victory in itself and more than enough to be going on with.
No mouse this time. And no real pain either, not unless you counted the dull ache hovering at the back of his eyeballs as he waited for his vision to adjust to his surroundings. Even then, the darker recesses remained obscured by the smoke curling up from the cooking fires.
He touched a hand to his head and ran his fingers tentatively over what felt like some sort of sticky paste. The smell gave an indication of the ingredients: softened pine resin mixed with deer tallow and beeswax. The traditional remedy for cuts and wounds.
Above him he could see the slatted underside of a storage platform and the furs and blankets that lined the sleeping compartment’s walls. Protruding over the edge of the platform he could just make out the corner of a woven reed mat and the bottom curve of an iron cooking pot. Other objects were strung from the posts that supported the partitions at each end of the compartment and which, in turn, formed part of the longhouse’s timber frame: wood-splint baskets, an infant’s carry-cradle, mixed articles of clothing – including his coat – a pair of snow shoes, a carry pouch and assorted clubs, bows, knives and a quiver of arrows. Above the central aisle the joists were festooned with provisions: strips of dried meat competed for hanging space with smoked fish, corn husks, slices of dried pumpkin, herb garlands and several bleached animal skulls.
His ears picked out the low murmur of voices, but when he turned his head the only person he could see was a slight, round-shouldered, grey-haired figure kneeling with its back to him, tending the fire adjacent to his own sleeping ledge. He transferred his gaze to the opposite partition – a twin of the one in which he lay – and to the supine form half-hidden beneath a layer of beaver pelts. Relief rose within him when he saw the steady rise and fall of Lawrence’s chest beneath the coverings. Immediately, his mind flashed back to the fight with the Oneida and the aftermath. Then his head began to throb once more. Sensing the onset of confusion, he lowered himself down.
A hand on his shoulder returned him to the present. He started and found himself gazing up into the wrinkled features of an elderly, grey-haired woman who was holding a small wooden bowl towards him. The figure from the hearth; he assumed she’d been instructed to wait until he or Lawrence showed signs of life before administering her potions.
“Onighira,” she commanded, pressing the
steaming bowl gently to his lips. Her eyes, he saw, were grey and cloudy, the inevitable result of a life spent in smoke-filled interiors.
Hawkwood raised himself up and took a cautious sip. It was some sort of herbal brew. Beech-bark tea, most likely, and slightly bitter to the tongue. But there was comfort in the warmth as it coursed through his insides.
Three gulps later, the old woman withdrew the bowl and retired silently to the fire. Setting the vessel down, she padded off into another darkened area of the longhouse, her footsteps making no sound on the hard-packed earthen floor.
With the taste of the tea lingering spikily at the back of his throat, Hawkwood pushed the blankets and furs aside and swung his feet to the ground. He was relieved to discover that the earth did not rise up to meet him, though it did tilt slightly. Encouraged, he stood up. Only then did the world start to spin. He sat down quickly and waited, eyes closed once more, for the motion to stop.
He had no sense of time, so it could have been either seconds or several minutes later when he sensed that someone else had arrived and was watching over him. Presumably the old woman, discovering that one of her patients was awake, had gone to report the fact.
“Mat-huwa, skennenko:wa ken?”
He knew then that it wasn’t a dream.
Shadows, cast by the firelight, played across the cloaked warrior’s face, accentuating the patrician features and the deeper lines that had been added since Hawkwood had last gazed upon it. The dark eyes, however, were as keen as he remembered.
“You look well, rake’niha,” Hawkwood said, his throat constricting. “The years have been kind.” He rose to his feet. This time, the world stayed where it was.
“Your words flatter me, Mat-huwa,” Tewanias said as he clasped Hawkwood’s hands in his own. “But my heart is glad to see you.”
There was more grey in the hair than Hawkwood remembered, but as they embraced he detected a firmness in the Mohawk chief’s frame that would have been envied by men half his age. Remarkable for someone who’d survived more than sixty winters.
They separated in silence, but did not release their hold, each gripping each other’s forearms as if reluctant to break the spell. Before either of them could speak, a second cloaked figure appeared at Tewanias’s right shoulder: the warrior whose timely intervention had saved Hawkwood and Lawrence’s scalps.
“Cageaga,” Hawkwood said.
The tall warrior gazed back at him, his face angled laconically. “So, you do remember.”
Without warning, and before Hawkwood could react, the Mohawk tapped a finger against the side of Hawkwood’s head. Pain flared momentarily.
“It’s good to know you still have the skull of an elk, little brother. I am also pleased to see that you have not forgotten everything you were taught.”
He presumed Cageaga was referring to his throwing skills. Back-handed compliments had always been the taciturn warrior’s preferred form of encouragement.
“I had a very good teacher,” Hawkwood said.
It occurred to Hawkwood that he was conversing in a tongue he’d not used for more than half his lifetime. And yet, retrieved from the same store of memory that by some miracle had granted him the skill to launch the tomahawk with such devastating force and accuracy, it seemed to come as naturally as breathing.
The Mohawk warrior considered the response, before nodding thoughtfully. “Ea, that is true.”
With Tewanias and Cageaga at his shoulder, Hawkwood crossed the aisle to Lawrence’s side. The major’s coat had also been removed. His complexion had regained some of its colour. His breathing was strong and even. Gently, Hawkwood lifted away the covers and raised Lawrence’s shirt. Had they been in a British Army medical tent, a regimental surgeon might well have recoiled at the sight of the poultices affixed to Lawrence’s skin. Composed from what appeared to be mashed vegetable root, moss and frog spit, they looked to be the last thing anyone would choose to draw infection from a gunshot wound. In the absence of a sawbones, however, they were the best treatment Lawrence was going to get and Hawkwood was prepared to place his trust in them. He replaced the covers and turned away. “He’s a brave man.”
“He will be cared for,” Tewanias said. “Do not worry.” He took Hawkwood’s arm. “Let us sit.”
They retired to the fireside. Seated on a mat, Hawkwood drew his legs up beneath him and held his hands out to the flames. His mind was in a whirl. When he looked up he found Tewanias was regarding him gravely.
“I did not think our paths would cross again, Mat-huwa.”
“Nor I,” Hawkwood said. “And yet you show no surprise. Why is that?”
Tewanias’s gaze dropped. He stared silently into the fire for several seconds before answering: “Your return was foretold.”
Despite the fire’s warmth, Hawkwood felt a chill run across his back and shoulders. “By whom?”
“One who is no longer with us.”
Hawkwood waited.
“Ayonhwathah,” Tewanias said.
Hawkwood searched his memory. A grainy image began to form. “I remember. He told us stories around the fires at night. I called him Tota.”
Grandfather.
Tewanias’s face softened. “As did we all.”
“My heart is made heavy by his passing. When did this occur?”
“It has been four days since his spirit crossed over to the sky world,” Tewanias said solemnly.
The day we left Whitehall, Hawkwood calculated.
He thought about the wake that would have been held for the old man and the rites that would have followed, the days during which the mourners would have lain face-down upon their sleeping mats, enveloped in their robes, without fires to warm them, eating their food cold and leaving the longhouse only at night and as secretly as possible.
He held his hands out to the flames, grateful for their warmth. Had they arrived prior to Ayonhwathah’s crossing, he knew the longhouse’s interior would have been as dark as night and as cold as the snow-bound woods that surrounded it.
It was on the tip of his tongue to enquire how the old man had known of his imminent return, but he knew there would be no rational answer. In matters of prophecy, one did not question the how or the wherefore, any more than one queried the existence of Ha-Wen-Neyu, the Creator of all things, when the evidence was everywhere around you. One had only to gaze upon a snow-capped mountain or a crystal-clear lake or watch an eagle soar to know the works and wisdom of the Great Spirit, whose voice could be heard in the wind and whose breath gave life to all the world.
Hawkwood posed the next question carefully. “Did Ayonhwathah give purpose to my being here?”
Tewanias shook his head. “He did not. He spoke only of when, not why.”
“When?” Hawkwood said.
“Ea, he said that on the seventh day, following the birth of djutu’weha’ – the moon of great cold – Kahrhakon:ha would return, to warm himself at the fires of the Kanien’kehá:ka.”
Hawkwood digested that. “How did you know where I – we – would be?”
“We did not know.”
“But you were looking for me?”
“We were searching, but not for you alone.”
“I do not understand. Then how did you find us?”
The two warriors exchanged looks. It was Tewanias who answered.
“We know soldiers of the Yan-kees have been gathering at Senhahlone – what the whites call Platts-burg – and that they have been joined by our enemy, the Oneniote’á:ka. Their runners have been seen to the north and east. They have been drawing ever closer. Fearing attack, we sent scouts into the forest to watch the trails and to give warning. When Cageaga found the Oneniote’á:ka’s spoor, he thought they were searching for us, not you.
“We knew no matter what path you were on, it would bring you here. We did not think it would happen the way it did, that our enemy would bring you to us. Cageaga tells me you fought well.”
“I am flattered by Cageaga’s words. All Kanien’
kehá:ka know him to be a great warrior.”
“The scars on your face tell me there have been other battles,” Tewanias observed softly.
Too many, Hawkwood thought, but he smiled and said, “A few.”
Tewanias gazed at him perceptively. “You have the look of a soldier, Mat-huwa. One who serves in the army of the Great King, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Hawkwood looked towards the sleeping Lawrence. “We both do.”
It was easier to reply in the affirmative rather than to try to describe his true profession, which would have no useful meaning to either of the men seated opposite him. In any case, his past life seemed to have developed the alarming knack of intruding upon his current vocation, so his answer wasn’t that far from the truth.
“You are here to make war on the Yan-kees?” Cageaga enquired.
“That was not my intention.”
Cageaga frowned. “I do not understand.”
Hawkwood thought for a few moments and then said, “I was sent by King George’s war chief to the land of les français to spy upon the enemy of the Great King. I was discovered and forced to flee. I hoped to find a ship to carry me back to England, but I was delivered here, to America – Anówarakowa Kawennote – instead. Now I am trying to get to Canada. From there I will find a ship to carry me back across the great water.”
“And your friend?” Tewanias asked. “He was sent to make war on les français too?”
“No. He was sent to America to make war against the Yankees. We were both captured and held prisoner in Senhahlone. We escaped and Yankee soldiers were killed. Now they hunt us. There is a price on our heads.”
“That is why the Stone People wanted your scalps?” Cageaga asked. “To sell to the Yan-kees for bounty?”
“Yes.”
It was safe to assume the Oneida had indeed been in the service of the Americans. Hawkwood recalled his visit to Colonel Pike’s hut, and the civilian who’d been lurking in the background with his Oneida companion. Their presence and the subsequent attack confirmed Lawrence’s testimony that the Americans employed native irregulars to carry out special tasks, including, it appeared, the chasing down of fugitives. Given the skills required to pick up a trail and follow it across inhospitable ground and through even more inhospitable weather, it made sense. Hawkwood thought of the signs he and Lawrence had left behind; not so obvious to white men, but as good as a map to the Oneida.
