The Blooding. James McGee

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