A Flight of Arrows (26 page)

They'd paused on their way out of Schenectady to inform another midwife of their departure so the women presently under their care wouldn't find themselves untended. Riding double, uncomfortably close in the heat, they reached the farm as the sun was beginning its westward dip.

“Dare we go to the house, see whether Clear Day is there?” Lydia voiced the question as they approached the lane to the farm. Anna, holding to her waist, freed a hand to shield her eyes against the sun's glare, strong even with the shielding brim of her straw hat.

“What if the Doyles take against our plan?” She'd worried over that likelihood for the past mile. Obviously so had Lydia; Anna felt a shudder pass through her trim frame and realized it was rueful laughter.

“You needn't twist my arm. I haven't the courage to face Maura, let alone Rowan, given what we mean to do.”

“Let's go straight to the clearing.” Anna pointed farther down the
track. “Beyond the fields, that clump of trees where the land starts to rise. Make for that.”

Though more farms had sprung up in the vicinity over the years, great patches of forest still spread between, heavy and green now with summer's fullness. No one met them before Lydia guided the mare into the enclosing shade, picking a way forward until they encountered the creek that bounded Papa's farm, winding down through impenetrable thickets from the spring.

Clear Day hadn't come alone, Papa had said. Someone would be waiting for him. Two Hawks? Papa thought not, yet it could be. If he hadn't found William, he mightn't want to see Papa and so have stayed behind, waiting in the place they'd so often met.

The horse's hooves splashed across the creek at the first point the brushy bank allowed. They jolted up the steep bank opposite, Anna clinging to Lydia, and rode along the creek until the foliage along its course thinned again at the beginning of the beech grove. Before they passed into the beeches, Anna looked back, past the wood's edge, gaze flinging across rows of corn standing hot and listless to the farmhouse and cottage tucked close by, both looking small and remote.

A figure was crossing the yard. Maura Doyle, going about her endless chores. Somewhere there was Rowan Doyle too, probably down at the barn. What did they think of Daniel Clear Day's visit? And Papa bound away upriver, headed into danger?

Godspeed
, she thought.
To us all
.

It wasn't one Indian they found at the base of the hill where the creek tumbled down from its rock-bound spring, but two. And two horses. One was William's mare. Daniel Clear Day knelt near it, sorting through supplies on the ground—sacks, canvas-wrapped parcels, rolled blankets. The other horse was strange to Anna. So was the slender Indian boy straddling it in leggings and long linen shirt, sleeves rolled high off skinny arms. His hair wasn't shaved but fell long—nearly to his waist. Not Two Hawks.

The boy saw them first. His posture stiffened, causing the horse he sat to snort.

“Clear Day!” In her relief, Anna didn't spare another thought for the boy until they drew to a halt and she realized Clear Day's companion wasn't a boy but a girl, near her own age. A very pretty girl with the proud stare and supple grace of a warrior.

Clear Day stood as Anna dismounted, dragging her petticoat across the awkward burden of their supplies, tied on the horse's rump. Lydia slid down after her. Clear Day stared at the horse's burden, then looked from Lydia to Anna, his gaze questioning. Not disapproving. Not yet. Unless he hid it well.
Please
, Anna thought but left it to Lydia to explain their purpose and their request.

While Lydia did so, Anna glanced at the girl on the horse and found her staring back, looking down her small nose, her face a mask of stillness. Anna offered a smile, but the girl's features remained immobile. Unnervingly so.

At a clearing of throat, Anna dragged her gaze away.

“That one is called Strikes-The-Water,” the old man said, pointing with his chin at the girl. “She is of the Tuscarora people, Deer Clan. She is a girl who hunts.”

“Ah,” said Lydia, as if uncertain what else to say, but turned to address the girl. “I'm Lydia van Bergen and this,” she added, placing a hand on Anna's taller shoulder, “is Anna Doyle.”

The girl looked at Clear Day, a pinch between her slender brows, and uttered a string of indecipherable words in a tone that might have indicated resentment or only boredom.

Clear Day said, “She knows who you are. She speaks English not well,” he added, with a small frown at Strikes-The-Water.

“I see.” Lydia seemed momentarily disconcerted but, to Anna's relief, undeterred. “Will the pair of you allow us to accompany you back to Kanowalohale?”

Clear Day stood in silence with a hand to his chin, as though sorting his thoughts as he'd done the supplies from the farm. It seemed an eternity before the old man sighed. “It is a long way. You have food?”

Strikes-The-Water spoke again. Anna had thought she'd learned enough Oneida over the years from Two Hawks to understand their speech but could make out nothing of the girl's words until she recognized Two Hawks's name.

Clear Day interrupted the speculation by saying sternly to the girl, in English, “Enough. They will come. We should take their burdens onto our horses because they ride together.”

The girl understood enough English to grasp his meaning. She swung lithely off the horse and, pointedly ignoring Anna, helped Clear Day distribute the extra burdens between their mounts. In the end, Lydia's horse bore nothing but the two of them and the saddle bags containing their food and personal items. They mounted up, watered the horses at the creek, then followed Clear Day into the forest westward.

It had fallen out with astonishing ease, as if the old warrior, once over his initial surprise, had deemed it perfectly natural they would show up asking to go along. Not so the girl who hunted, last in the procession. As the horses plodded along, picking their way through the wood, Anna felt the young woman's gaze burning a spot between her shoulders, where the sweat gathered and trickled down beneath her stays.

Strikes-The-Water wasn't pleased at all.

August 1–2, 1777

Oneida lands, western frontier

T
hey were six days out from Oswego and already one of their objectives had met with failure. After struggling through thicket, morass, and gullied wood, bug bitten and drenched in sweat or rain, then a night and day of rowing by water, William's advance patrol had reached the mouth of Wood Creek—to find that Stanwix's garrison had anticipated them. As though a regiment of beavers had been loosed upon its banks, the final fifteen-mile water passage to the fort was choked with fresh-hewn timber. Now the sun was setting, time was pressing, and Lieutenant Henry Bird, commanding the patrol, was fast losing his composure.

The Indians were balking again.

Two days into this trek, they'd been forced to halt and wait for a contingent of Senecas and Mohawks to join them. Shortly after had come another pause to await arrival of a larger party of Mississaugas. While their numbers when they materialized were heartening, they'd had in their possession two stolen army beeves—and had it in their minds to roast them on the spot. Failing to dissuade them, Lieutenant Bird had gathered up his green-coated troops and pushed on through the everlasting trees and oppressive heat. Nineteen miles later they'd feasted on stale bread and salted ration.

Over the long march, William had thought of Sam Reagan, wondering whether he'd made it alive to wherever he meant to go. Likely Fort Stanwix, with William's luck.

He'd thought of Anna. Feared for her. Longed to defend her from the very army he was helping lead her way.

He'd thought of his mother—with growing wonder to think he
had
a mother still. With each passing day, his desire to see her, to know her, seemed to grow. She was white, but in her heart he knew she was Oneida.
She must have blue eyes
…

He'd thought of his father. Fathers. What sort of man was the one whose blood he shared—the warrior? Would he ever know? He'd thought he'd known the other…

He'd thought of his brother. Longed to ask his twin a thousand questions. But longing was of no profit. His course was set, that of serving king and country. He did his best to ignore the voice within insisting that it wasn't
his
king,
his
country. Not anymore.

When the Indians failed to appear post-feasting, Lieutenant Bird had lost patience and set off without them. When finally they'd reached Wood Creek—in company with at least part of their Indian contingent—the warriors again found reason to delay the final push to the fort.

Along with most of the patrol, William sat on the ground several yards from the obstructed creek, knees bent, head cradled on folded arms, while Lieutenant Bird wrangled—it wasn't yet an argument—with a warrior called Captain John Hare, whom, in the absence of Joseph Brant, behind them with the main force, the Indians looked to as leader. The Senecas were concerned over pushing on en masse to the fort, across Oneida lands.

“Rest your men.” Captain John gestured at the sprawl of green-coats littering the piney clearing. “You have worn them out getting this far. Let warriors go ahead to the fort, see its strength and what we walk into.”

A reasonable plan, William thought it. He removed his hat and wiped his streaming brow with a grubby sleeve facing. He wanted out of the coat. Off with the pack. Water, most of all.

He reached for his canteen and found it empty.

Lieutenant Bird expostulated about the need to strike swiftly since their numbers were few. Too few, if they lost the cooperation of the warriors. Bird was at the Indians' mercy. Surely he saw that? He was young. Not much older than William, who'd be turning twenty in…eight days' time?

Perhaps he'd mark the day inside the walls of Fort Stanwix.

Blearily he gazed across the clearing at the Mississaugas standing aloof, awaiting the outcome of the debate. Bird was red faced and sweating: “I'll not be content unless you accompany me, but should you refuse, I shall take my patrol and proceed without you!”

A fool you'd be to do it
, William thought. But Bird didn't know what William had done in letting Sam walk out of that tent with his knowledge of St. Leger's plan of attack, when any loyal soldier would have taken him into custody and marched him straight to Captain Watts. Would it make the slightest difference if he confessed to it now? St. Leger hadn't believed the captives the Mohawks brought him. Was the whole western prong of the campaign going to turn on his word?

Was
he a loyal soldier?

His attention returned to the warriors. They wore little in the heat: breechclouts, moccasins, leggings—some minus the latter. Their sleek bodies were painted for war, greased against biting insects. One, a lanky fellow William had heard called Ki, purportedly a crack shot with the rifle he carried, was casting impatient looks eastward as if he wished to be sighting down the gun's long barrel, picking sentries off the fort walls. Captain John was arguing, unconvinced by Lieutenant Bird, who by now ought to know the warriors would do as they pleased. Free to question their leaders, they felt no call to unswerving obedience—a mind-set William chose to emulate.

He bestirred himself off the ground. Still hung about with all his gear, knowing better than to shed it, he picked his way down through the pines to the creek. Canteen uncorked, he knelt and dipped it into the flow, looking around him at soaring trees, the raw stumps of those felled by the fort's garrison, the tangled underbrush that might hide a company of rebels.

While not thinking of his equally tangled familial situation, William's mind had hovered over memories, ones he kept returning to as they'd marched through that raw land, seeing another in his mind.

During the years he'd been tutored at Crickhowell, and between terms at Queens, he and the factor, Davies, had tramped the Breconshire hills, often coming across the remains of older times. Cairns—graves of heaped stone, their entrances gaping black. Or the grass-grown embankments of hill forts where the Celtic folk had lived. He'd poked about such places, finding bits of iron or potsherd, or stood taking in the view those ancient people had known. He'd wondered how many of his ancestors had tramped those places before him, gazed upon those vistas. The Aubreys had settled in Wales at a later time, but along the way since, older blood had married in. Bloodlines going back to those pre-Roman times…

Now he knew. Wales wasn't his homeland, though he spoke as one born to it. Still he missed those open hillsides, largely treeless though once—it was said—they'd been as thickly wooded as this land of the Oneidas. How many of his ancestors had roamed
these
woods, not blue-eyed Celts but dark-eyed Indians?

In the distance thunder rolled, bringing his head erect, still down on one knee in the mud of the bank. The light, which had slanted golden through the trees, vanished behind clouds piling up to block the setting sun.

He took a drink, corked the canteen, and was dipping his hands into the burbling flow to douse his heated face when he caught movement at vision's edge. He grabbed for his musket as his gaze darted across the creek, heart slamming in his chest.

Like a panther he was, so still in the thicket. A shadow against the fading light. Then he shifted—deliberately, of course—and William discerned his features. Paying no heed to the soldiers and warriors disputing in the clearing, the Indian stared at William.

Sweat sprang up on William's brow and trickled down, stinging his
eyes. He blinked them clear. When he looked again only a tiny glow—evening's first firefly—pulsed where Joseph Tames-His-Horse had stood.

Lieutenant Henry Bird, furious but resigned, told the warriors he was prepared to wait the night for them to send their scouts. He ordered camp pitched, guard mounted, and dashed off a message to St. Leger, dispatched by a runner, while a party of Senecas left to scout the fort.

Having one more night to spend before he could reasonably expect to engage in battle—or siege—William settled in the clearing and, a blanket covering all but his eyes, watched the stars between passing clouds that troubled the air with rumbling but offered no rain. No relief from heat.

Snatches of conversation reached him; Scots-burred declarations of bloody revenge, often directed toward specific persons. Indians came and went, moccasins thudding the pine duff. None was Joseph Tames-His-Horse. There had been farewell in that look leveled at him from across the creek. Joseph had made his decision about the campaign and wanted William to know it.

“You turned your coat inside out and went another way.”

Had he already done so? Had he, in letting Sam go free, played the traitor and sealed his own death? And that of these men around him? If so, perhaps he'd also made it safer for Anna, Lydia, all those standing helpless in the path of St. Leger's forces eager for revenge, scalps, and glory. He could live with that, he decided. If he lived beyond tomorrow.

William lay, sore in every muscle, needing sleep but unable to yield to it. He listened instead to a sudden breeze thresh the pines, pushing off the aggravating swarms of insects. And he watched hazy stars wheel overhead as the sky cleared, clouded, cleared again, dozing at last to the chirping, croaking night chorus of his native land.