The Blooding

A frown creased the boy’s face. “Why?”

“He wants to keep you safe.”

“Can’t you do that?”

Too many damned questions,Wyatt thought, for a twelve-year-old. Though he wasn’t sure if that was, in fact, the boy’s age. As with the name, he hadn’t bothered to enquire. It hadn’t seemed relevant. It still didn’t, not really, because there had been little doubt the boy was older than his years would suggest. But then, Wyatt thought, taking a man’s life could add years to a person; it didn’t matter if they were twelve, twenty-five or seventy. He remembered how he’d felt, the first time.

Wyatt shook his head. “My men and I have to scout the trails. We might run into trouble. It’s all right, though. You’ll be safe with Reverend De Witt.” Wyatt turned. “Isn’t that so, Reverend?”

The question was greeted with matching smiles from a burly, ruddy-complexioned man in a wide-brimmed black preacher’s hat, black breeches and waistcoat, and a sturdy yet homely woman in a navy-blue dress and bonnet. The reverend’s hand rested paternally upon the shoulder of a small, auburn-haired girl of around nine years old. A grey mare stood saddled and ready behind them.

The woman laid a proprietorial hand on the pastor’s arm before he could respond to Wyatt’s question. “The young man will be as safe as houses, Lieutenant. Don’t you fret.”

The pastor nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, Mother! The more the merrier! That’s what I always say!”

Wyatt wondered if, despite the attempt at humour, the preacher wasn’t trying a little too hard to exude a confidence he might not be feeling, in order to reassure his wife and young daughter and perhaps himself that they were about to embark on nothing more arduous than an afternoon stroll through the countryside.

Though, maybe, Wyatt thought, noting again the solid, square shoulders and the brawny muscles along the pastor’s upper arms, De Witt wasn’t quite the humble shepherd he made himself out to be. In fact, having already elicited details from some of the pastor’s fellow travellers, Wyatt knew he couldn’t have been.

Wyatt had learned that De Witt was pastor to a small community on the eastern side of the Dadenoscara Creek, who’d come to the attention of the Commissioners for, supposedly, inciting disaffection against the State of New York from his Sunday pulpit. As a consequence, the pastor had been served with an order to appear at the Albany County Sessions to answer charges of sedition. Having seen what had befallen former neighbours and fellow Tories who’d faced the same accusation, and knowing that his calling offered no protection against a charge of treason, the pastor had accepted Sir John’s alternative summons to join with other Loyalist families in their flight to the Canadian border.

It had been the sight of the pistol butt protruding from one of the mare’s saddle bags as well as De Witt’s more obvious credentials that had prompted the Ranger to take the preacher aside and enquire quietly if he and his wife might be willing to look after a couple of strays in the person of a twelve-year-old orphan boy and a racoon hound of a more indeterminate pedigree.

When the pastor had asked after the boy’s parents, Wyatt had seen no reason to hold back. Neither, after revealing what he knew of the boy’s background, had he spared details in describing how Will and Beth Archer had died. What he had not disclosed was how the boy had dispatched one of his guardians’ attackers with a hatchet. The last thing he’d wanted was for either De Witt or his wife to think that they would be taking some delinquent ne’er-do-well under their wing.

The reverend, who’d known of the Archers through mutual acquaintances within the Loyalist community, had turned pale at the telling. When he’d summoned his wife to apprise her of the situation, the anguish in her face had mirrored that of her husband.

“Oh, my dear Lord – the poor wee boy!” she’d gasped, lifting a hand to her throat in horror.

“Can’t argue with that, ma’am, but probably best not to make a fuss over him,” Wyatt had advised. “From my dealings with the lad, I’d say he’s got true grit and then some. My sense is he’s strong enough not to need any reminders. He just needs to sit for a spell. It’ll hit him hard eventually and when that happens—”

“You can rest easy on that score, Lieutenant,” the pastor had reassured Wyatt firmly. “Esther and I’ll not crowd him. War makes orphans of us all in one way or another, and Mrs De Witt and I have seen more than our share of pain in that regard. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in ministering to those who’ve suffered a loss, it’s that people vent their sorrow in all sorts of ways. With some, it leaks out a few droplets at a time, while others keep the grief bottled up so tight it’s like watching water rising behind a dam, so that when the hurt becomes too much to bear—” The pastor clenched a fist against his chest. “Well, I don’t have to tell you. All we can do is offer comfort if and when that happens and place our trust in the Lord.”

Not being a particularly religious man, Wyatt wasn’t sure if the pastor had been expecting him to say ‘Amen’ at that point, but he’d made do with a solemn nod, which had evidently sufficed.

“What’s his name?”

For a moment, Wyatt thought the girl had directed her question at him, but when he turned he saw that it was the boy who was being addressed. There was an awkward silence.

“His name’s Tam,” Wyatt said, thinking: He can kill a man with an axe, but he’s lost his tongue to a preacher’s daughter?

At the mention of his name the dog pricked up his ears.

“And that’s Matthew,” Wyatt added.

“Does he bite?” the girl asked nervously.

“No,” Wyatt said. “Leastways, Tam doesn’t. Can’t say as I can speak for his master.”

Wyatt’s reply drew a bark of laughter from De Witt.

The girl giggled as she held her hand out to the dog. To her delight, Tam rose to his feet and licked at her outstretched fingers. With his interrogator distracted, the boy caught Wyatt’s eye. For the second time he looked awkward and unsure. Shifting in his saddle, he stared off over Wyatt’s right shoulder, to where Tewanias was standing.

The war paint was gone. While the effect was not as fearsome, there was no disguising the Mohawk chief’s striking features, his calm repose and the strength of his gaze.

Curious as to the boy’s obsession with the stern-faced warrior, Wyatt said, “If you want to say ‘goodbye’, it’s O:nen ki’ wahi’.”

“Interesting-looking fellow,” De Witt mused, breaking into Wyatt’s thoughts. “He’s Mohawk, yes?”

Wyatt hid his surprise. Most civilians took one look at an Indian and thought heathen savage. For a preacher to show such equanimity, no matter how enlightened, was unusual.

“Yes,” Wyatt said.

“O:nen ki’ wahi’, Tewanias,” the boy called softly.

There was no response. It was as though the Indian had not heard or had chosen not to acknowledge the words. Several seconds went by. Wyatt saw the expectancy on the boy’s face give way to confusion and then to disappointment. The slim shoulders drooped. It was at that point that the warrior’s 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.