A Flight of Arrows (35 page)

Fort Stanwix

M
iles to the east, the Tryon militia had engaged the bulk of St. Leger's Indians. Perhaps some of Johnson's Greens. From the ramparts they'd heard the muffled noise of it, seen smoke and dust rising in the distance, before General Herkimer's messengers made it through British lines into the fort. Gansevoort had blasted the cannon thrice as requested, though Reginald doubted whether the general or his brigade heard the sound above the battle's din. Under glowering skies, Lieutenant Colonel Willett had mustered a sortie to march through the gate—two hundred fifty volunteers from the New York and Massachusetts troops—when a violent rain broke over their heads and they were dispersed to gloomy barracks to wait it out.
Wait
. While men were dying in the wood to the east. While
William
might be dying.

Too tense to remain within, Reginald filled the doorway, containing his frantic impatience as the rain pounded the parade ground to a bog. The temperature had fallen with the rain. Given the stupefying heat of the past days, it ought to have brought relief. Reginald felt none.

What the warrior seated on a bench against the outer log wall was feeling, Reginald could only guess. Blue shirt pulled taut across broad shoulders, Stone Thrower bent over his knees, hands clasped, gazing at the wall of falling rain, lips moving in silent prayer. It was almost a jarring thought to realize he could do the same. Ought to be doing the same.
God in heaven…please
.

For nigh on an hour the rain had pounded down, diffusing the acrid
smell of smoke that had hovered over the fort. Yesterday British artillery had managed to land a few mortars on the parade. The craters they'd left were turning to mud holes in the downpour. Reginald strained to hear anything beyond the incessant drumming and occasional roll of thunder moving off eastward. Images of blood-soaked earth, rain diluted, sought to capture his thoughts no matter how he beat them back. A shiver ran through him. He crossed his arms tighter, fending off the chill driving into his bones.

“They will have stopped for this.” Stone Thrower looked up, understanding in his eyes. “His brother is also in that fight. We will find them. I believe this.” Despite his words, his brow furrowed as he added, “Do you have them still?”

Knowing what was meant, Reginald put a hand into his coat and withdrew the three strings of wampum, white in the gloom under the barracks eaves. Stone Thrower's mouth lifted in a faint smile.
“Iyo.”

Reginald met the Indian's gaze. “Did you wish them back?”

“Keep them. Let them speak to you of our covenant. One day, when you no longer need to be reminded, pass them on in the spirit in which they were given. You have Creator's Spirit in you now to tell you what to do with them when the time comes.”

Taken aback, Reginald asked, “How can you know that?”

“You do not see the fire over your head.”

“Fire?” Reginald looked up and was greeted with a splash of rainwater from the eaves. He swiped it away. “What mean you?”

“The Spirit of Jesus came as fire when His people prayed and waited. Fire leaping over their heads. I do not see it with my eyes when I look at you now, but I see it.”

The man knew of Pentecost. Reginald returned the beads to his coat but couldn't tear his gaze from William's father, so fascinated was he by this man he'd spent half his life fearing.

“What our enemy means for evil, Creator uses for good,” Stone Thrower said. “That is a thing always to keep in mind.”

The words were still on his lips when the violence of the rain abated. Reginald could see across the parade now, make out the ramparts, the drooping makeshift flag left out in the soaking. Voices within the barracks ceased as men paused to listen.

Stone Thrower was already on his feet when a shout rose from a southern-facing rampart. They lurched into the still-falling rain. Reginald's boot slid in pudding-thick mud and he nearly went down, but William's father grabbed his arm, his grip steady. They crossed the parade toward the rampart in time to reach Willett coming out of the officers' barracks.

“What see you?” Willett called to the sentry who'd shouted.

“Soldiers in green, sir, being recalled from the wood line!”

Reginald caught a breath. Perhaps all this while William had been in camp, not in the battle.

“They're calling in reinforcements,” Willett said, interpreting the news with a lightening of countenance. “Which means Herkimer's still in the fight—and St. Leger's guard will be all the thinner on this ground.”

Beside Reginald, hair rain beaded, Stone Thrower was tense as a panther set to spring, ready as he to finally take action. If Willett would lead his sortie out on the heels of Johnson's troops…

As if he'd read Reginald's silent urging, Willett turned to one of his captains. “Order the men assembled.”

They'd marched in eerie silence down to the Upper Landing. Not a shot was fired from the trees. No Indians rushed them. They passed unopposed straight into Johnson's camp, and what few guards were about fled into the
trees or across a nearby creek. A few wounded were found in tents and taken prisoner. It was of little concern to Reginald, who'd left the fort without a by-your-leave from anyone, not intending to return.

Flankers and scouts reported no opposition. The Royal Yorkers seen leaving the siege line had gone to engage Herkimer's forces, but when this should have been apparent to Willett, when he should have reformed the detachment now swarming over the camp, ransacking tents, looting the Yorkers' belongings, no such orders came. Reginald couldn't spot Willett, even to offer protest. After shouting the question to half a dozen Continentals, he was finally told Willett and some of the troops had moved on to the Six Nations camp to raid it as well.

“What are they doing? There's no time for such as this.” He turned to Stone Thrower, who was watching what had begun as a sortie to relieve Herkimer devolve into a looting party. As the rain tapered off, from the east came the distant sputter of musket fire. Battle was rejoined.

“Leave them to this,” Stone Thrower said. “We are only two, you and I, but enough for what we mean to do.”

William had had the sense to cover his firelock when the rain began, wrapping it in oiled canvas. The violence of the downpour had distracted him from the impulsive notion of desertion long enough for the regimental surgeon to notice him again and call him back into service. Since then he'd helped bring the wounded deeper under the trees, where shelters were erected. By the time they had everyone under them, William was soaked, but the rain's chill did him the service of clearing his head. How close he'd come to doing exactly as Joseph Tames-His-Horse had dreamed…

The bark of musket fire down the ravine had ceased during the worst of the downpour but had resumed as the deluge lifted to a light patter. Not
fool enough to go blundering alone back into combat, he'd settled under cover to await Watts's return or Johnson's reinforcements.

At last came the clank of arms, the tramp of booted feet. Watts arrived with several of the original company, moments before some seventy Yorkers from the camps emerged from the dripping trees, a captain called McDonell at their head. Of Johnson there was no sign. Watts spotted William and called him over, giving him hard scrutiny as he came.

The captain's brow cleared. “Back with us then, Private?”

“Yes sir.” Shock…fatigue…whatever had dulled his senses, it had passed. He was ready now to—

Find your brother. Your father
.

His mouth dried at the jarring thought. Thought? It had been a command. But what in heaven's name was he meant to do? Go back to the fort for Reginald Aubrey? Search among the corpses in that hellish ravine for two Oneidas he'd never met? Return to the fight and hope he somehow recognized their faces at the end of his musket
before
he killed them?