The Blooding

Not a deer then, Archer thought, alerted – though he wasn’t sure why – by the continuing gruffness in Tam’s voice. The hound was extremely good natured as a rule and signs of aggression were rare.

As the first of the riders came into sight Archer’s stomach knotted.

“Will? What is it?”

Archer turned to his wife, who was standing by the table in a flour-dusted linen apron. Her hands were bound in a damp cloth, holding a loaf she’d just removed from the oven. Turning the hot bread on to the board in front of her, she put down the cloth and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, leaving a fresh smudge of flour on her right cheek.

“Stay here,” Archer instructed.

She frowned, concerned by the warning note.

“We have visitors,” Archer said.

Curious as to whom they might be, his wife walked towards him, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked past his shoulder. By now, all six horsemen had forded the stream and were nearing the cabin. Her face went pale.

Archer reached for the loaded musket that was leaning against the wall by the door. Beth Archer laid a hand on his arm.

“It’s all right,” Archer said. “I’ll deal with them.” Gently removing his wife’s hand, he nudged Tam away from the door with his knee. “Good lad, stay.”

Before his wife could offer a protest or the dog follow, Archer cocked the musket and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The hens clucked indignantly as they were forced to step out of his path.

Musket held loosely across his arms, he waited.

The riders slowed their mounts and fanned out, finally stopping in a rough line abreast in front of the cabin’s porch. One of them, a lean man in his forties with sallow features and the stain from an old powder burn on his right cheek, eased his horse forward. He was dressed in a long blue riding coat and a slouch hat. With his right hand resting on the musket laid across his saddle horn, he addressed the man on the ground.

“Morning, William! A fine day, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It was,” Archer said, without warmth.

The rider acknowledged the slight with a thin smile. He considered Archer for several long moments and then said, “You’ll know why we’re here.”

Archer met his gaze. “And you know my answer. You’ve had a wasted journey, Deacon. I’ve already told you; my loyalty’s to the King.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the rider said.

Archer’s eyes moved along the line of horsemen. They were dressed in a similar fashion to Deacon and all, save one, carried the same cold expression on his face. Archer was acquainted with each of them. Four were fellow homesteaders: Deacon, Isaac Meeker – the florid-faced man to Deacon’s right, who farmed land two valleys over – and the surly-looking pair on Deacon’s immediate left, Levi and Ephraim Smede.

The Smede brothers were seldom seen apart. Rumour had it that was the only way the pair could muster one functioning brain between them. When they weren’t helping their father on the family farm, they hired themselves out as labourers to anyone who wanted a wall built or a stream dammed – or someone intimidated.

Axel Shaw, the dour individual on Ephraim Smede’s left, was postmaster over at the settler village near Caughnawaga. Archer turned his attention to the rider at the other end of the line. Curly-haired, with angular features, he was the youngest of the group. Archer could see by the way his hands were fidgeting with his reins that he was more ill at ease than the others, as if he would rather have been someplace else.

“That you, Jeremiah?” Archer enquired pleasantly. “Haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been? How’s Maggie? Beth was hoping to call in on her the next time we picked up supplies at the store.”

The horseman shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed at being singled out. “She’s well, thank you.” Refusing to meet Archer’s eye, his gaze slid away.

“Enough,” the man called Deacon cut in. “We’re not here for a neighbourly chat. This is business.” He looked at Archer. “So, you won’t reconsider?”

“Not now,” Archer said; his tone emphatic. “Not ever.”

The horseman considered the reply then said, “Maybe you should have left with the others.”

Archer shook his head. “I’ve too much sweat and blood invested in this place to walk away.” He stared fixedly at the man on the horse. “Or see it purloined by the likes of you.”

The rider coloured. Recovering quickly, he assumed a look of mock hurt. “You wound me, William. What sort of man d’you take me for?”

“A goddamn traitor,” Archer said flatly.

The humour leached from Deacon’s face. “Not a traitor, Archer. A patriot. Like these men with me; men who’ve had their fill of paying unfair taxes to a country on the other side of the world and not having a thing to show for it.”

“A country you fought for, Seth,” Archer responded, “as I recall. You took the King’s shilling then. Was it so long ago, you’ve forgotten which side you were on?”

“I’ve not forgotten, but a little more remuneration wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

Archer’s eyebrows lifted. “What were you expecting? We defeated our enemies; the King’s enemies; and we lived through it. That should have been reward enough.”

“Not for me,” Deacon snapped. His grip on the musket tightened and then, as if having come to a decision, he intoned solemnly, “William Archer, by the authority vested in me by the Tryon County Committee, you are hereby called to attend the County Board in Albany. There to appear before the Commissioners for Detecting and Defeating Conspiracies, in order that you may swear an Oath of Allegiance to the State of New York and the Congress of the United States of America.”

“No.” Archer shook his head. “I’ve told you: my allegiance is to the Crown, not your damned Congress. Besides, I’ve better things to do than make a wasted journey all the way to Albany and back. I’ve a farm to run; stock to care for.”

Deacon looked out towards the pasture and sneered. “Three milk cows? Not what I’d call a herd.”

Archer stiffened. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Deacon’s head turned quickly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Archer stared coldly back at him. “Don’t play the innocent, Seth. I know damned well that losing my other two cows was your doing. Wouldn’t be surprised if you paid those two to do your dirty work, either.” Archer indicated the Smedes. “I hear breaking the legs of livestock is one of their specialities.”

Deacon’s eyes darkened. “You need to curb that tongue, my friend. That’s slander. Men have died for less.”

“You’d know about that, too, I expect. And pretty soon, Deacon, you’re going to realize I’m not your friend. So you’d best ride on. There’s naught for you here.”

Archer heard the cabin door open behind him.

Deacon rose in his saddle and tipped his hat. His expression lightened. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Morning to you, Mrs Archer.”

Beth Archer did not reply. She stood in the doorway, the checked cloth in her hands, staring at the line of riders. The flour smudge on her cheek had disappeared, Archer noticed.

Unfazed, Deacon lowered his rump and adjusted his grip on the musket. “Thing is, the Commissioners want reassurance that you’re not passing information to enemy forces.”

Archer sighed. “I’m a farmer. I don’t have any information to pass, not unless they’d like to know how many eggs my bantams have been laying.”

“Anyone refusing to swear allegiance to the Patriot government will be presumed guilty of endeavouring to subvert it.”

Archer’s eyebrows rose. “Commissioners tell you to say that, did they? Must be difficult trying to remember all those long words. Good thing you’re the spokesman and not either of those two.” Archer threw another look towards the brothers.

“There’s still time to recant,” Deacon said.

“Recant? Now you’re sounding like Pastor Slocum. Maybe his sermons are starting to have an effect after all. He’ll be pleased about that.”