by Lori Benton
“There will be another time,” Ahnyero said to Two Hawks. “For now, return to Gansevoort with the words this man has told us. It is more than the other runners knew, and you are the last until we come.”
Two Hawks fought down the impulse to argue. While he struggled, Reagan said, “I’ll stay—for now. And I’ll persuade William to go with me when the time comes. It’ll be soon.”
Two Hawks’s disappointment was like the sky full of ravens crashing down to bury him. If only he could have looked upon his brother’s face, even a glance…
No sooner had he wished it than a crowd of warriors and rangers at the gate parted, leaving clear an aisle like a gauntlet. Down its center strode one tall figure in green. Two Hawks had seen his own face in a mirror often enough to know the cast of his features. And he’d seen that portrait. It was William.
He thought his brother saw him too. William’s head lifted. His stride lengthened. His mouth opened.
“Reagan!” Sound of his brother’s voice froze Two Hawks. Then the crowd shifted. Bodies came between them. “Sam!”
Either his brother hadn’t seen him, or he hadn’t known who it was he looked upon. He’d spotted his friend and was coming for him, pushing through those now blocking his path.
Ahnyero turned to him, urgent, and said, “Go. Quickly.”
Two Hawks turned and walked on unfeeling feet into the dark where the fires of a thousand warriors burned, no more than orange smudges in his blurring vision.
Kanowalohale
Still catching his breath after running the last miles from Fort Stanwix, where he’d made his report to Colonel Gansevoort, Two Hawks sat on the edge of his sleeping bench in his mother’s lodge and told his other news—that which he’d been thrumming with since he slipped back through the grim-faced warriors on the field at Oswego, beneath the ravens’ ominous shadow.
“I have seen my brother. With my own eyes—I have seen him!”
Clear Day sat by the fire, pipe suspended halfway to his lips, but his parents had risen upon his arrival. They stood near enough to each other that when his mother reached out blindly with a hand, she found his father’s reaching for hers.
“Tell us of it,” his father said, as his mother’s free hand came up to cup her rounding belly.
Two Hawks had known for over a moon about his mother’s pregnancy. At nearly twenty summers, he felt toward this child to come more like an uncle than a brother, but he was happy for it. Happy his parents were in a good place, following the path of Creator and Savior Jesus. But now his mother’s eyes were all for him. She was likely thinking not of the coming child but of long ago when she carried him and his brother together beneath her heart.
“I saw him,” he said again. “In his green coat, coming toward me through the gate at Oswego.”
“You went into the fort?” This from his father, the words gruff with surprise. “That is not a thing Ahnyero meant for you to do, I think.”
“Ahnyero stopped me at the gate. But I saw William in the crowd. I heard his voice calling. I thought…” Two Hawks felt a thickness in his throat every time he recalled the sound of his twin’s voice. “I thought at first it was to me he called, but it was to that one called Reagan, who stood with us.” Before his father could ask, he said, “I have not told you all there is to know about that one.”
Good Voice, her face golden from days in the cornfield, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Did he see you? Did your brother know you? Did you speak with him?”
“I did not. Ahnyero thought it unwise to reveal myself. He needed me to carry news of St. Leger to Gansevoort. So that is what I did. I turned and walked away before William could come near.”
He’d tried to speak without emotion but heard the edge in his voice.
So did his father. “It is good you did as Ahnyero said, but it must have been hard to do. I would have found it so.”
His father was looking at him as a man looks at another he respects. Two Hawks sat up straight on the bench. He would put aside disappointment and behave himself as a man. Creator, who saw everything, made everything, would also make a way for them to find William again. If He willed it.
Good Voice sat beside him and encircled him with her arm. “I am happy, my son, that you have seen your brother at last.”
Even as she spoke, his father was pulling out that tiny portrait of William from the pouch he carried against his heart.
“May I see it?” he asked his father. Stone Thrower gazed at it a moment, then handed it over. Two Hawks had looked upon it only twice but saw now that the likeness was true.
“Anna Catherine,” his mother said as her arm slipped from his shoulders. “And Aubrey. Should we take word to them?” She looked first at Two Hawks, as if thinking he might already plan to go to them, but he knew all she would read on his face was indecision.
“They must be told,” Stone Thrower said.
“I wish to be the one to tell them,” Two Hawks hurried to say. There was nothing he wanted more than to stand before Anna Catherine and tell her he had seen William. “But how can I leave when this army is coming into our lands? How can I go running to Anna Catherine and not stand between her and what is coming? Would I not also be abandoning my brother, who comes with this army?”
He shook his head, torn in two directions even after days of thinking it through, praying for his path to be clear.
“That is also my heart,” Stone Thrower said, sitting heavily beside Good Voice. “I wish to go to Aubrey but feel I must stay.”
Clear Day, who had been silent so long at the fire that Two Hawks had almost forgotten he was listening, made a rumble of throat clearing and stood. “Aubrey and his daughter need to know of this news, to know we have not forgotten the words spoken between us. You made a promise to that man, to help him find your son.”
Stone Thrower looked grave and a little chagrined as he confessed, “It was not a promise made without some guile. I did not wish for Aubrey to go off alone, against the will of Creator.”
“That is also in my heart,” Clear Day said. “So I will go to him with this news while you young men, you warriors, stay and guard the People.”
The silence that dropped into his mother’s lodge was so complete, Two Hawks heard nothing but the crackle of the fire that had burned in the background of all their days.
“Uncle,” Good Voice said, “that is a long journey to make, and you have traveled far already these moons past.”
Though she did not say he was an old, tired man who should stay awhile by his fire, the creases of Clear Day’s face deepened with amusement. “It is true I have journeyed far and seen much, but I have yet the strength for this.”
“But there was no army coming down upon us when you made those journeys,” Stone Thrower pointed out. “Who can say what a man might meet on those paths now. More likely an enemy than a friend, and you would be alone.”
“He will not be alone,” said a high, bright voice. The door of the lodge pushed open, and in came Strikes-The-Water, unashamed to let them see she’d been skulking outside, listening to their talk. “I will go with you, Grandfather. I can use a bow—or a rifle if one was given to me. I am not afraid of meeting an enemy on the path.”
Good Voice rose off the bench, crossed to the girl, and, to Two Hawks’s surprise, welcomed her with an embrace, approving her offer. It wasn’t gratitude stirring in Two Hawks’s chest but annoyance. Even a tinge of jealousy. He started to object to this girl’s interference in matters that were none of her business—a habit she couldn’t seem to break—but shut his mouth when his father stood also and approached the girl. His parents’ relief was palpable. Clear Day put his wrinkled hand to Strikes-The-Water’s arm, speaking words of thanks. Sitting to the side, looking on at the group standing close at the fire, Two Hawks saw the Tuscarora girl with new eyes. Yes, this was a good thing she was doing, not beyond her ability. She would be almost as good as a warrior going with their uncle. And they couldn’t spare a warrior
.
Contrition filled Two Hawks’s heart. The girl was trying to help. Trying to be good to people who’d been good to her. He had no right to resent that.
While his father was saying, “You must travel fast, there and back. I will find someone to lend a horse to carry you,” and making for the doorway, Two Hawks stood. He thanked his uncle for being willing to take word to Aubrey and Anna Catherine. Then he turned for the door to follow Stone Thrower—and caught the gaze of Strikes-The-Water as she flicked up guarded eyes. He paused before her, putting a hand to her shoulder.
“Thank you, Sister, for what you are doing. You are brave and good to do it.”
Sister. It was all of his heart he had to give to her, but he gave it now without reservation and saw by the sad acceptance in her lovely eyes that at last she understood what it was she had from him, and what she never would.
22
July 25, 1777
Fort Oswego
An assembly was called for the evening, at which General St. Leger would address his gathered forces. Just now, however, Private William Aubrey was behind his tent puking up his guts.
It was the waiting getting to him, he’d told himself. Two days of utter boredom had followed two heart-pounding hours when they’d looked to be marching straight into battle. Refusing to believe the captured rebels’ report, trusting rather to his earlier intelligence about Stanwix’s garrison, St. Leger had paused with the bulk of his army at the mouth of Little Salmon River, intending to send an advance force ahead to invest the fort. But as Colonel Butler and Sir John began to comply with the absent St. Leger’s order, the war chief, Brant, objected to the plan. Given the Indians’ disgruntlement over the supply debacle, he’d insisted St. Leger bring his main force to Oswego. Impress the warriors with their numbers, placate them with the promised gifts—or risk them decamping for home.
It didn’t need Brant to elucidate how disillusioned the warriors were over conditions at Oswego. The ravens, and the ominous sign so many had taken them to be, had made a bad situation worse, leaving behind an army nearly as dispirited as its native allies. St. Leger, who’d arrived at last that morning—fuming over the ruination of his plan of attack—had his work cut out for him if he meant to rekindle a fighting spirit in his brigade.
Joseph Tames-His-Horse was still among their ranks. More than once William had seen that lofty head moving through the gathering in time to avoid the man. The one person he wished to find was proving as elusive as he’d been at Lachine. The evening of their arrival—as the ravens first darkened the sky—William was certain he’d seen Sam Reagan talking with a group of Indians outside the gate. By the time he’d cut his way through the press of men gawking skyward at the avian spectacle, Sam had vanished. So had the Indians.
William wiped his mouth on a grimy shirt-sleeve, wincing at the continued cramping of his midsection. A muttered curse on the other side of the canvas came as welcome distraction. He ducked inside and found a messmate therein, tugging off a shirt. No mistaking that scarred back.
“Sam, I’ve been looking for you.”
Sam freed himself of the garment. “Will you look at this?” He held up the shirt, spattered in bird excrement, then tossed it aside with a grimace and unearthed a fresh garment. “Leastwise the ravens are finally flocking off to bedevil someone else now. Damage done though. Indians are calling it a bad omen.”
“Been taking survey of our allies about it, have you?”
“No need. That lot’s all but hit the trail for home. Maybe they’ve the right idea.”
Sam’s look as he spoke that last was direct and humorless. William came deeper into the tent, letting the flap fall closed.
“Heathen superstition getting under your skin?”
Sam settled his shirt into place and reached for his stock, which had escaped the ravens’ attentions. “Tell me you aren’t having second thoughts.”
“You turned your coat.”
“Look you, Sam,” William said, silencing the mental echo. “Stanwix isn’t heavily manned. It’ll surrender with little fight. That is what you said, isn’t it?”
Though he didn’t flinch at William’s words or his doubting tone, Sam’s fingers stilled on his stock. “It is. But, William, I lied.”
Outside the tent, a company of soldiers had passed as Sam spoke, regaling one another, half-drunk out of boredom. “You what?”
“You heard me. I said I—”
“Lied? About Fort Stanwix?”
“Aye.”
“Why would you? Unless you were…”
“A spy?” Sam’s mouth drew up crooked. “Got it at last, have you?”
William attempted a laugh, though his heart was pounding as if already it knew where this conversation was going. “I know you’re a spy. A poor one. Got yourself captured, remember?”
“Of course I remember, and that’s not what I meant.” Taking a step nearer, Sam lowered his voice. “I’m a spy for General Schuyler. And Gansevoort at Stanwix. The Americans,” he added when William merely stared. “And it wasn’t Oneidas who did this to me.” He yanked up his shirt front, baring his scars. “It was Oneidas saved me, helped me back to Lachine. Your brother among them. I should tell you too that I’m fixing to go to them. This time I’ll not be back.”
“You’re going to them?” William wagged his head, trying to sort through words that refused to line up straight and make any sort of sense. His brother had helped. And Sam was leaving. Leaving the regiment? Leaving him? Though his brain was balking, the flush of heat in his face and his racing heart belied denial. “You cannot mean to desert?”
“I do,” Sam stated, adding even more outrageously, “and I want you to come with me.”
William had no words. None fitting. He could only shake his head again.
Sam grasped his arm. “Do it, William. You belong on the other side of this fight more so than I. You’ve two families there, and I’ve naught but my convictions—I support the colonies’ break with the Crown.”
The words assaulted him, as others had a year past, kicking out the foundation of his world. His thoughts spun back over the months of shared billet, Sam’s absences, the thin excuses. Right under his nose, his one friend in the whole of that army—the world—had all the while had his heart pledged to the people they’d left behind. The people he had left behind.
Like a painted canvas dropped before him, he saw again Anna’s wounded gaze, Reginald Aubrey’s guilt-haunted eyes, felt the gutting truth take hold as they faced him in the barn. His father wasn’t his father; the name he’d worn wasn’t his to claim; the life he’d lived…a lie.
It didn’t feel like a lie now. He yanked free of Sam’s grip.
“How far back does this go? All those tavern brawls out of which I wrangled you—or helped you fight. That talk of politics in the streets of Schenectady. Was all of it a lie?”
“Most of it,” Sam admitted. “I’d already volunteered to follow Sir John to Quebec when we met. I was making myself a believable loyalist.”
“Then why bring me into it? Why, if you intended this?”
“William, our friendship was no sham.” Sam’s infuriating calm was but a twisting of the knife. “I didn’t want you haring off alone to who knew where, to do who knew what. But I had my mission before me. I’d hoped you’d come to your senses before all was said and done.”
William glared, seething at this fresh betrayal. “So now what? You’ll just go? Break your oath to the Crown?”
“My pledge is to the Continentals,” Sam said. “In my heart it was never broken, no matter what was signed. I think it’s so for you if you’re honest with yourself.”
“Oh, it’s honesty you want now, is it?” William’s head was throbbing, his belly threatening to purge itself again. “If our friendship was no sham, why didn’t you admit any of this sooner?”
A muscle in Sam’s jaw clenched. “Talk of honesty—for all love, William, it was months before you’d even tell me why you left home and abandone
d Anna.”
“Leave Anna out of it!” He stepped nearer Sam, surging with the need to do him violence.
Sam didn’t back down. “What do you think she’d have to say to you now, poised to come down upon her at the head of this army? To destroy all she knows and loves. She loved you—”
He’d no idea he truly meant to hit Sam until the pain exploded through his hand. Sam took the blow without striking back, as he’d done on the Binne Kill the day their friendship began.
Their supposed friendship.
William shook his smarting knuckles.
“You’d think you’d learn to pick a softer spot.” Rubbing his jaw, Sam took up his knapsack. “I thought by now you’d have seen reason, realized you never should have left. Obviously I was wrong.”
Sam wasn’t wearing his regimentals, only shirt-sleeves and breeches, both white. He’d stand out like snow in summer in the wood unless he covered himself with forest loam. William opened his mouth to say so, then clamped it shut, realizing the nature of the stray thought that had floated up through the shock of this defection: worry for a friend.
Blast it all. Sam wasn’t wrong about one thing. Neither of them belonged in that green coat. But the oath Sam so lightly sidestepped felt insurmountable to William. He’d signed it full willing, with no previous hold on his heart. None he’d been willing to acknowledge at the time.
Sam searched his face, hazel eyes wary. “What do you mean to do?”
“I cannot go with you.”
“Idiot,” Sam said, regret in his voice. “That’s plain enough. I meant about me. Will you turn me in or let me go?”
Eyes stinging with sweat and—but no, not tears—William stiffened his face and stepped aside, clearing the way to the tent flap.
Sam hesitated.
William stared forward. “Get out, Sam. Go. Before I change my mind.”
