The Blooding. James McGee

“Very well, saddle him up and take this one back. Make sure he’s got plenty of feed and water. We’ll see to the rest.” Wyatt addressed the boy. “You go with Jem; show him where you keep Jonah’s blanket and bridle.”

      Hesitantly, the boy rose to his feet. Wyatt waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to the others.

      “All right, we’d best get it over with.”

      They buried Archer and his wife in the shade of a tall oak tree that grew behind the cabin, marking the graves with a pair of wooden crosses made from pieces of discarded fence post. Neither one bore an inscription. There wasn’t time, Wyatt told them.

      Donaldson, whose father had been a minister, was familiar with the scriptures and carried a small bible in his shoulder pouch. He chose the twenty-third psalm, reading it aloud as his fellow Rangers bowed their heads, caps in hand, while the Indian held the horses and looked on stoically.

      The scalp had disappeared from the Mohawk’s breechclout. When he’d spotted it, Wyatt had reminded Tewanias of the colonel’s orders: no enemy corpses were to be mutilated. It was with some reluctance that Tewanias returned to the river and laid the scalp across the body of its original owner.

      “Let it act as a warning to those who would think to pursue us,” Wyatt told him. “Knowing we are joined with our Mohawk brothers will make our enemies fearful. They will hide in their homes and lock their doors and tremble in the darkness.”

      Wyatt wasn’t sure that Tewanias was entirely convinced by that argument, but the Mohawk nodded sagely as if he agreed with the words. In any case, both of them knew there were likely to be other battles and therefore other scalps for the taking, so, for the time being at least, honour was satisfied.

      The boy stood gazing down at the graves with Wyatt’s hand resting on his shoulder. The dog, Tam, lay at his side, having been released from the cabin when, under Wyatt’s direction, the boy had returned to the house to gather up his possessions for the journey.

      Donaldson ended the reading and closed the bible. The Rangers raised their heads and put on their caps.

      “Time to go,” Wyatt said. “Saddle up.” He addressed the boy. “You have everything? You won’t be coming back.” The words carried a hard finality.

      Tear tracks showing on his cheeks, the boy pointed at the canvas bag slung over his saddle.

      Wyatt surveyed the yard – littered with the bodies of Deacon and his men – and the blood-drenched soil now carpeted with bloated flies. It was a world away from the serene, sun-dappled vision that had greeted the Rangers’ arrival earlier that morning.

      He glanced towards the three cows in the paddock and the chickens pecking around the henhouse; the livestock would have to fend for themselves. There was enough food and water to sustain them until someone came to see why Archer and his wife hadn’t been to town for a while. There would be others along, too, wondering why the members of the Citizens’ Committee hadn’t returned to the fold.

      Let them come, Wyatt thought. Let them see.

      The Mohawk warrior handed the boy the reins of his horse and watched critically as he climbed up. Satisfied that the boy knew what he was doing, he wheeled his mount and took up position at the head of the line. With Tewanias riding point, the five men and the boy rode into the stream, towards the track leading into the forest. The dog padded silently behind them.

      Halfway across the creek, the Indian turned to the boy and spoke. “Naho:ten iesa:iats?”

      The boy looked to Wyatt for guidance.

      “He asked you your name,” Wyatt said.

      It occurred to Wyatt that in the time they’d spent in the boy’s company, neither he nor any of his men had bothered to ask that question. They’d simply addressed him as “lad” or “son” or, in Donaldson’s case, “young ’un”. Though they all knew the name of the damned dog.

      The boy stared at Tewanias and then at each of the Rangers in turn. It was then that Wyatt saw the true colour appear in the boy’s eyes. Blue-grey, the shade of rain clouds after a storm.

      The boy drew himself up.

      “My name is Matthew,” he said.

       1

       Albany, New York State, December 1812

       BEWARE FOREIGN SPIES & AGITATORS!

      The words were printed across the top of the poster, the warning writ large for all to see.

      Hawkwood ran his eye down the rest of the deposition. Not much had been left to the imagination. The nation was at war, the country was under threat and the people were urged to remain vigilant at all times.

      He glanced over his shoulder. There were no crowds brandishing pitchforks or torches so he assumed he was safe for the time being. He recalled there had been similar pamphlets on display around the quayside in Boston, presumably the preferred port of entry for an enemy bent on subverting the republic. He wondered how many people read the bills and took note of their content; probably not as many as the government wished.

      Fortunately for him.

      The bill was stuck on the inside of a hatter’s shop window. Under pretence of casting an eye over the merchandise on display, he studied his reflection in the glass, wondering what a subversive might look like and if he fitted the bill. From what he’d seen of the country and its citizens so far, he thought it unlikely that he’d be stopped and asked for his papers, though in the event he was, the problem would not have been insurmountable.

      He was about to walk on when movement in the window caught his attention: another reflection, this time of the scene behind him. A man, dressed in an army greatcoat similar to his own was making his way along the opposite side of the street. He was walking with a cane and Hawkwood could see that he was favouring his right leg.

      There had been a rainstorm during the night, which had transformed Albany’s thoroughfares into something of a quagmire. The fact that the capital was built on an incline didn’t help matters and even though the rain had stopped, trying to negotiate the sloping streets on foot was, in some areas, as precarious as wading through a Connemara bog. Quite a few folk were having difficulty maintaining their balance. Though not the two characters walking on firmer feet some fifteen paces or so behind the man with the cane.

      Over the years, his duties as a Bow Street officer had brought Hawkwood into contact with criminals of every persuasion and his ability to spot miscreants had been honed to a fine edge. From the way the two men were concentrating on the figure in front, Hawkwood was left in no doubt they were intent on mischief.

      A small voice inside his head began to whisper.

       Not here, not now. Let them go. It’s not your city. It’s not your problem.

      Hawkwood looked around him. There was plenty of traffic about, both vehicular and pedestrian and the street was far from deserted, but everyone else was too intent upon their own business to have noticed anything amiss, including the man in the greatcoat who appeared oblivious to the pair on his tail, despite two sets of eyes burning into his back.

      Hawkwood watched as the men’s target turned into a narrow side lane. Immediately, the pair quickened their pace. As they disappeared into the lane after him, Hawkwood sighed.

      Damn it, he thought, as he crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being run down by an oncoming carriage. Why me?

      Twenty paces into the alley, the man in the greatcoat was down on one knee, with his back to the wall. The cane was in his right hand and he was trying to rise while wielding the stick like a sword to ward off his attackers.

      It was a pound to a penny the man’s disability was the reason he’d been singled