The Blooding

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 (#ulink_a8ed01f0-af02-538c-a592-7425b35801f3)

December 1812

It was just after eight o’clock in the evening when Captain Maynard Curtiss of the 11th Regiment of Infantry emerged on to a darkened Church Street. As the door to the club closed softly behind him, he buttoned up his greatcoat, adjusted his hat and awarded himself a wide grin of satisfaction. He had just spent the last hour with a very attractive and, it had to be said, rather energetic young lady by the name of Jessica, and he was feeling not only replete but somewhat over-awed by the dexterity of his own performance.

Admittedly, Jessie was a whore and thus her enthusiasm and the praise she’d lavished upon him for the pleasure he’d provided during their riotous coupling might have had more to do with the fact that she was being paid for her time rather than it being a true reflection of her client’s expertise between the sheets. But that knowledge in no way detracted from the captain’s sense of well-being as he made his way down the quiet moonlit street.

To counteract the cold breeze that was coming in off the river, he turned up his coat collar. Increasing his stride, he headed for the alleyway and the shortcut between Church Street and Court Street that would lead him to his eventual destination, the South Ferry terminal. There was a hint of rain in the air and he had no desire to be caught out in the wet.

The alley was empty and the tread of the captain’s footsteps seemed to echo in the darkness. A few people had been out on the main streets, wrapped up against the cold as they’d hurried off to hearth and home. In this less salubrious part of the town, the citizens most liable to be abroad were either drinkers or parlour-house punters like the captain. Given the distinct nip in the air, even these hardy souls preferred to remain indoors, in the warmth, indulging in their chosen pastime. The only others willing to brave the cold were the prospective passengers heading for the last ferry to Greenbush before the service shut down for the night.

Curtiss had travelled not more than fifty paces when he realized that he might have company. It wasn’t any particular sound that had alerted him to the possibility. More a feeling in his bones, a sense that someone was watching.

He paused and stole a quick glance over his shoulder. A stooped figure, clearly the worse for wear, a knapsack across its back, was weaving unsteadily down the alleyway towards him, left hand outstretched, using the wall as guidance. There was a brief silvery glint as a beam of moonlight glanced off an object held in the figure’s right hand. Curtiss felt a flash of fear until he saw that the reflection had come not from a blade but from a glass bottle. As he watched, the figure lifted the bottle to its lips and took a hefty swig from the contents, almost overbalancing in the process, despite the fact that one hand was still braced against the brickwork.

Grimacing with distaste at such a pathetic display of drunkenness, the captain turned and continued on his way, keen to return to the comfort of his billet, there to enjoy one last tot of whiskey and to bask in the warm memory of his recent exertions before he finally retired for the night.

Another thirty paces and it occurred to Curtiss that, whoever the drunk was, his footsteps were inaudible. This struck Curtiss as unusual, given the noise his own boots were making as they scuffed their way through the dirt and the occasional puddle. Not unduly concerned, more curious than suspicious, he turned again, half-expecting to see a comatose form sprawled face down in the dirt several yards behind him.

It wasn’t the sight of the figure looming two feet away from him that caused the captain to take a quick step back so much as the knowledge that the man had managed to cover the distance between them not only in a matter of seconds but in total silence as well.

There were no street lamps in the alleyway. That convenience had yet to penetrate Albany’s narrow dockside lanes. What illumination there was came from the candlelight that spilled weakly from gaps in a few badly fitting shutters and the pale moon that hung, suspended like a pearl, high above the surrounding chimney pots.

As he stared at the shadowy form before him, Curtiss had a fleeting impression of a dark-haired individual as tall as himself. The captain’s startled gaze flickered across what he could see of the man’s features, to the dark eyes set in a hard face and the two ragged scars that ran in parallel furrows across the upper curve of the man’s left cheekbone.

Curtiss never saw the blow that struck him and thus had no chance of defending himself. One second he was standing in the alley, the next he was coming to his senses, face down in the dirt, feeling as if he’d just been run over by a coach and four – several times.

He raised his head cautiously, and then wished he hadn’t as a sharp bolt of pain lanced through his jaw and speared its way into the backs of his eyeballs. Letting out a groan, he winced and sank down again. Confused by his situation, he lay still for several seconds until the nausea had subsided and then tried again. This time, he made it as far as his knees. He reached up and felt along the side of his head. His hand came away damp and sticky and he stared blankly at the stain on the tips of his fingers. He realized, with some apprehension, that he was staring at his own blood, as black as pitch in the moonlight.

The nausea overtook him again and he reached out with the same hand, pressing the now-bloodied palm against the wall to keep himself upright. As he did so, he had a sudden vision of a dark-clad figure performing a similar manoeuvre not so long ago. He closed his eyes as a fresh bout of dizziness arrived and then, as the moment passed and his mind began to clear, his memory reasserted itself.

There had been a man, he remembered; a stranger, who, using the shadows of the night and the captain’s own footfalls to mask his presence, had followed him into the alleyway; a tall man who had first appeared drunk and whom he had then turned to confront.

After which …

Fuzzy as to the exact sequence of events, Curtiss hauled himself up until he had gained his feet, then slumped back against the wall. No sooner had he done so than he let out a gasp as his spine made contact with the cold hard surface of the bricks. It was then he realized that his memory wasn’t the only thing he was lacking.

His overcoat and uniform tunic were gone, too; which would explain why he was suddenly so damned cold.

Curtiss looked around fearfully. He was in a narrow passageway leading off the alleyway he’d been walking down. There were no candle-lit windows in the passage, only a couple of murky doorways. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he thought back to the last thing he remembered and tried to bring the face of the man who’d robbed him to mind.

Though he’d employed considerable stealth to conceal his approach, the stranger hadn’t looked like a footpad. Which was not to say there was anything benign about his attacker; those saturnine features – not to mention the scars – had marked him out as the last person you’d want following you into a dark alleyway. And yet Curtiss had allowed him to do precisely that. He should have been more observant from the start. Probably would have been, had his mind not been filled with the memory of his recent entanglement with the nubile Jessica. If only he’d avoided the shortcut and taken a more public route home.

And what kind of footpad was it that stripped a man of his coat and tunic instead of just rifling through his pockets and making off before he regained consciousness? It wasn’t as if the man didn’t have a greatcoat of his own. Curtiss couldn’t recall what his assailant had been wearing under it. That much was a blur.