The Blooding. James McGee

expression changed. It was, Wyatt thought, like watching someone awaken from a trance.

      When the Mohawk raised his head the pastor’s daughter was first to react, letting out a sharp gasp and shrinking back against her mother’s skirts, her play with the dog forgotten. Moving with cat-like grace, Tewanias lifted his musket and strode directly towards her.

      The pastor tensed.

      “No,” Wyatt said quickly. “It’ll be all right.”

      Paying no heed to the reaction he’d provoked, Tewanias halted beside the boy’s horse. Wordlessly, he reached up with his free hand and removed from around his neck a rawhide thong from which was suspended a small piece of carved yellow bone. He held it out. Finally, he spoke.

      “O:nen ki’ wahi’, Mat-huwa.”

      “Take it,” Wyatt instructed. He realized he’d been holding his breath, though he wasn’t sure why.

      The boy accepted the offering, turning it over in his hands, examining it closely. He turned to Wyatt. “How do I say—”

      “Niá:wen,” Wyatt said. There was dried blood, he noticed, and what looked like a matted clump of hair and tissue adhering to the edge of the war club that was strapped across the Mohawk’s back; residue from the attack on the horseman at the Archers’ farm. He wondered if the pastor or his wife had noticed. Hopefully not; the club face wasn’t in their direct line of sight.

      “Niá:wen, Tewanias,” the boy said, slipping the thong over his head and around his neck. He held the piece of bone in his hand and stared at it once more, slowly massaging its smooth surface with the ball of his thumb.

      “Anowara.” It was the Indian who spoke.

      “It means turtle,” Wyatt said. “Tewanias is a war chief of the Turtle clan. That’s his totem.”

      “Well, bless my soul,” De Witt murmured softly as the Mohawk stepped back.

      Amen to that, Reverend, Wyatt thought.

      With Tewanias by his side, he looked about him. The preparations for departure were almost complete. Tents had been struck and fires doused. The stolen horses had been formed into a line and troops were checking their packs, settling into ranks, readying themselves for the march. Those Loyalists who’d chosen to remain behind were saying their final goodbyes, hugging and clasping the hands of those about to embark.

      Had Wyatt not known differently, the scene might have suggested that some festivity had been taking place and that guests were preparing to wend their way home after a picnic or a barn-raising, instead of stealing away from a homeland that no longer saw them as legitimate citizens. Though, as he’d walked the grounds, he’d seen that there were many who were in tears at the thought of abandoning all that was familiar in exchange for an arduous journey towards an uncertain future.

      A faint call sounded from up ahead. As the order was taken up by NCOs stationed down the line, a mood of anticipation ran through the column. The civilians began to gather themselves.

      Wyatt held out his hand. “Take care, Matthew.”

      Fingering the amulet, it took a second for the boy to respond, but when he did his grip was firm.

      “We won’t be far,” Wyatt said. “Don’t forget that. You might not see us, but we’ll be there.”

      “Stay safe, Lieutenant,” De Witt said.

      “You, too, sir.” Wyatt shook the pastor’s hand, winked at the girl, who had re-emerged from hiding, and tipped his hat to Mrs De Witt. “Ma’am.”

      De Witt took hold of his daughter’s waist, helped her feet find the shortened stirrups and, with his wife holding the bridle, lifted her gently on to the mare’s back.

      He addressed Wyatt over his shoulder. “How’s your knowledge of the scriptures, Lieutenant? Exodus, Chapter 12, Verse 51: ‘And it came to pass the selfsame day that the Lord did bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt by their armies.”

      Wyatt shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, Reverend. I’m afraid my knowledge of the good book isn’t that good. Though from what I do recall, when the Israelites took their leave they were heading for Canaan not Canada, and it took them forty years. If that’s the colonel’s plan, we’re going to need a few more supplies.”

      De Witt grinned. “I’m not sure how Colonel Johnson would take to being compared to Moses!”

      “Well, if Canada does turn out to be the Promised Land, Reverend, you make sure you put some of that milk and honey aside for Tewanias and me.”

      “I surely will, Lieutenant. It’ll be my pleasure.”

      A fresh call came from up ahead. De Witt checked his daughter was secure, took hold of the bridle from his wife, adjusted the knapsack that rested across his shoulders and, with a final nod to the Ranger, coaxed the horse into motion.

      “Walk on, Nell,” he said.

      Wyatt presumed the reverend was talking to the mare. He had a feeling the pastor’s daughter was called Libby.

      As the preacher and his family merged with the rest of the column, the boy summoned his dog and, holding the reins in his right hand and clutching the amulet in his left, he nudged his horse forward to join them. He made no attempt to look back.

      “The boy shows courage,” Tewanias murmured softly as he stared after the preacher and his party.

      “He does that,” Wyatt said.

      The Mohawk had spoken in English. Wyatt had long become immune to his friend’s arbitrary use of language. As well as English, Tewanias was competent in French and the various Iroquois dialects. There never seemed to be a logical reason why he chose to converse in any one of them in particular and Wyatt had come to suspect that Tewanias switched back and forth for no better reason than he enjoyed being contrary.

      The two men waited until the remainder of the column was on the move, then made their way to where the rest of the patrol was waiting.

      Wyatt immediately registered the grim expression on Donaldson’s face.

      “What is it?” he asked.

      “Scouts have reported back. Seems the local militia’s woken up. The call’s gone out: all members are to collect their weapons and assemble at Johnstown.”

      Wyatt shook his head dismissively. “They won’t risk attacking us – we outnumber them two to one.”

      “They’ve sent messengers to Albany,” Donaldson said.

      Reinforcements, Wyatt thought. He swore softly and looked off to where the last of the column was disappearing into the trees. It was almost ninety miles to Champlain, where the vessels of the Provincial Marine were waiting. Ninety miles of near-virgin forest through which the only means of passage was a labyrinth of old military roads cut during the French-Indian wars, and ancient Iroquois trails, none of which had been adequately mapped.

      The colonel had led civilians to safety through a wilderness once before, but that last occasion had involved less than two hundred souls, all of them men, most of whom had been used to living off the land. This current exodus included women and children. Adding their number to the invasion force meant there would be almost seven hundred bodies on the move; the majority of them on foot. Wyatt thought about the pastor and his implicit faith in God and of the forces that would be arrayed against them.

      Better start praying now, Reverend. We’re going to need all the help we can get.

       3

       December 1812

      It was just after eight o’clock in the evening when Captain Maynard Curtiss of the 11th Regiment of Infantry