One was roaring. The Scots Captain was leaning on a smaller comrade, still clutching at the jacket that Jack had shredded with his sabre. As warriors ran to spit at him, to curse, he spat and cursed back. He was a few men away from the run to death.
Jack did not hesitate. Their earlier duel bound the Scot to him, somehow. ‘Mine!’ he yelled. Plunging straight in, he grabbed the huge man’s jacket, began to pull him from the crowd. The man he’d leaned on clung to him, two others saw the gap and followed in the wake.
Two furious warriors leaped before them. ‘Ours! Ours!’ they screamed, ripping Jack’s guiding hand away, trying to shove the men back. More warriors started to push nearer, anxious not to be deprived of their prey. The four white men were bunched into a group, Native hands grabbing, jerking.
Jack stepped away to give himself room. Then he drew his sabre, waved it above their heads if not straight at them.
‘See where my sword has cut him.’ He gestured to the slash still oozing in the huge man’s jacket. ‘I marked him for death. Only I can claim him.’ Reaching down, he stuck his fingers into the Scotsman’s wound.
The man groaned, cried out, ‘Gan awa, ya loon.’
He tried to swing at Jack but the blow was weak and Jack ducked it. Swiftly, he used the blood to mark the faces of the four men.
‘Mine. They bear my mark. I will take them and only I will kill them or make them slaves. I am Daganoweda of the Mohawk and it is my right.’
With that, he raised his sword again, let all see it, then rested it on his shoulder. With his other hand he grabbed the Militia Captain, then elbowed the biggest, most argumentative warrior out of his way. Screams from behind drew the attention of the others. Turning, they saw that there were still plenty of white men to kill, revenge easier to take. With a final glare and a spit, they let Jack and Até pass.
They did not turn back, did not stop until they were in the shelter of the woods. There the prisoners fell, three of them sobbing, to the forest floor. The trees were a screen to the sights only, some trick of sound making it seem as if they were still in the very midst of the shrieks of agony, the death wails, the cries of cruel triumph. In one of the lower reaches of hell.
Jack looked down at the Militiamen, two little more than boys, weeping for their mothers, the third older, near tooth- less, hands clasped before him in prayer. The fourth, the Scotsman whose life he’d tried to take and now had saved, because of some strange sense of honour, was clutching at his side, fresh blood once more running down to join a huge stain on his breeches. Despite his size and obvious strength, he looked as if he was about to faint.
‘Come on,’ said Jack, raising his voice above the din. ‘There’s something useful the King’s army can do. At least they can stitch a prisoner’s wounds.’
He bent, put his arms under the big man’s, helped him to rise. The effort made him suddenly realize how tired he was, how his back, forgotten this while, ached where he’d been struck.
The Scotsman leaned on Jack. He truly was enormous, and bulky with it, his hair as red as his blood, his eyes loch blue.
‘MacTavish,’ he bowed. ‘Ye are a buckie, ken.’
‘Friend,’ said Jack, ‘I haven’t understood a single bloody word you’ve said.’
Até was, none too gently, kicking the prone men to their feet. Brant had disappeared. Knowing his Christian principles, Jack felt he would be trying to do what Jack had just done, save a few lives. But Jack knew he’d just been very lucky with these four and only just in time; for the sounds gradually fading behind them had changed. Before, there’d been distinct voices raised in individual cries of horror, of fury. Now the voices had merged into one, and a single note alone could be heard – the dull and ugly chant for vengeance, exacted as cruelly as possible. As Jack limped away, he knew that note would echo loud through the weeks ahead.
– NINE –
The Idiot
‘Three weeks,’ Jack cursed under his breath, as he helplessly watched the antics before him. ‘Three damn, bloody weeks – and this could destroy that work in a moment.’
In those three weeks since the battle at Oriskany, he, Brant, and Até had, by ceaseless argument, bribery and prayer, just kept the tribes together. Despite their hatred of the static warfare of the increasingly ineffectual siege, despite their terrible losses in battle that almost forced them to return to their villages to condole with relations, despite the rations getting shorter and the rum running low, somehow the Natives had been persuaded to remain true to the British cause.
And now all their success was being undone by one man, an idiot.
He swayed in the centre of the circle, his arms spread wide, lifting the tails of his long blue frock coat. From Jack’s angle, it looked as though a score of stars were shining from the heaven of the coat’s dark lining.
‘A whole regiment! Ke-poo! Ke-poo! Ke-whee! All takin’ aim at poor Hans-Yost Schuyler. But they missed me, every mother’s son! Wheesh! Wheesh! Wheesh!’
He dodged from side to side, his coat-tails flying up, then stopped to thrust fingers through the bullet holes. ‘Poor coat. Holey coat. Won’t be keepin’ me warm this winter. Be needin’ some straw to plug the gaps in this barn, ’fore then.’
He broke into a loud shriek of laughter and all the Indians joined in. Their eyes never left his strange personage – his corn-blond hair sprouting out in thick sheaves under a hat as holed as the jacket; his pock-marked face on which hair clung in unconvincing patches; his mouth, an overabundance of teeth crowding each other to the extent that one thrust through the upper gum. He dribbled constantly, a line of drool running down his chin on to his lapel.
As the laughter built, Jack looked around. On the far side of the circle was Samuel, the message-bearing Cayuga, whose wounds were now nearly healed. Jack crossed to crouch beside him.
‘Blessed by the Gods.’ Samuel was rocking with glee. ‘Brings news of Rebelmen who shoot him – and all miss. Look!’ He hooted, pointing at Hans-Yost, now jumping up and down on his hat.
Jack sighed. In England, if men behaved in this manner they would be locked away in Bedlam. His own father, Sir James Absolute, had discovered that. Among the Indian, however, such lunatics were honoured as sages of special vision. When he’d returned from a hunt and heard the rumour that a fool, newly arrived from Tryon County, was in the tribal camps, talking to groups of Natives about the war, he’d suspected something was amiss. When he’d first pushed his way through the circles of the idiot’s latest audience, he’d seen the danger immediately, had tried to grab Hans-Yost and drag him away. But three huge Senecas, their eyes glazed with a surfeit of rum, had pulled his hands off, thrown him back, pulled knives from their belts. With Até elsewhere, Jack had had no choice but to stand back and watch the performance.
The idiot had finally stopped his jumping. Now he was looking sadly down at his hat, a line of drool seeming to still connect it in some way to his head. ‘But they’re goin’ to get another chance at poor Hans-Yost.’ His tone was mournful. ‘Chasin’ him all this way. Comin’ fast too.’
The laughter ceased as if by signal. A Seneca sachem rose up, stepped forward. ‘How many of these come?’
Hans-Yost just kept staring down, mumbling to himself. The Sachem stepped closer, poked the man in the chest. He tottered backwards. ‘How many Rebelmen come?’
The idiot finally raised his pale blue eyes. They seemed to seek different points high above the Chief’s head. A hand rose up, wiping drool from the chin, transferring it to his jacket. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper that carried to the farthest reaches of the circles. It made Jack suddenly think of Drury Lane. ‘Cover the wheat fields like locusts, eating as they come.’
‘How long?’ When the Chief received no reply, he grabbed the tattered coat’s front. Hans-Yost sagged in his grasp. ‘How long till they come?’
This reply was muttered, only audible to the Chief. But he released the man as if he was tainted, letting him fall to the ground. He sat ther
e, legs splayed and immediately began to sing.
The Seneca looked around to the expectant faces. ‘Half a day. Maybe less.’ As murmuring broke out, he shouted above it. ‘I have had enough of this stupid fight. I go to my village now to mourn my dead.’
At that, he strode away, leaving mayhem behind him. Tribesmen ran back and forth, shouting, gesturing. Jack briefly glimpsed Brant clutching the buckskin shirt front of a huge Mohawk warrior. As he watched, the man swept Brant’s hand aside, spat, and marched away.
Everywhere, the Natives were running to their shelters, knocking them down, rolling up the birch-bark strips that served as wall and roof. Goods were pulled out, hide straps swiftly tied around them.
To try to stop it would be like shouting into the wind. So he went to the centre of what had been the circle, where Hans-Yost sang softly to himself.
Jerking the idiot to his feet, Jack said, ‘You are coming with me.’
If he expected that the man’s supposed news would get a different reception from the commander of His Majesty’s forces he was mistaken. Idiots and drunks, it seemed, had a special bond.
‘Merciful God! How many? How far?’ The Colonel had learned that from the middle of the day he should not attempt to stand. But he clutched the arms of his chair, his neck tendons bulging as he stretched towards Hans-Yost, his face a dangerous slough of colours.
The slurred question had been rhetorical. All had heard: three thousand men, most of them Regulars, Washington’s ‘Continentals’, under the command of that firebrand, Benedict Arnold. Less than half a day’s march away.
‘Outnumbered, begod! Three to one!’ St Leger slumped back.
‘That is if we believe him, sir.’ Jack stepped forward, tried to draw his superior’s wandering gaze.
The eyes focused. ‘Absolute. Always questioning, what? Why shouldn’t we believe him?’
‘Because the fellow’s patently an idiot!’ Jack was trying to rein in the frustration in his voice, failing. ‘And his last name is Schuyler.’
‘Schuyler? Schuyler? What signifies Schuyler?’
‘Philip Schuyler is one of the enemy’s foremost generals. He commands the army opposed to General Burgoyne. This man is his cousin.’
‘We all have cousins on the other side, Captain.’ It was the Loyalist Major, Watts, who spoke. Since his precipitous retreat at Oriskany, he had lost his sloth, become increasingly skittish.
‘Aye, sir.’ Jack replied. ‘I just feel that his word should not be taken as Holy Writ.’
‘You blaspheme, Absolute!’ St Leger, whose love of the bottle constantly warred with his love of the Bible, was leaning forward at a dangerous angle. Another moment and he’d be off the chair, joining Hans-Yost in the mud before his tent.
He was spared the ignominy by the arrival of Captain Ancrum. ‘The savages, sir. The savages! They desert, every heathen dog of them!’
Jack closed his eyes. His plan had been to calm St Leger and dispatch scouts to verify Hans-Yost’s story, before this tale reached the Colonel. There was no hope of that now – especially as the report was swiftly reinforced by the evidence of sight. From the slight rise of the Commander’s pavilion, all turned to see columns of Indians heading back in the direction of Lake Ontario.
‘Then may I suggest, Colonel, that the time has come for us to raise the siege?’ The voice was, as ever, equally soft and commanding.
Jack opened his eyes to look at Von Schlaben. The man’s Jaeger uniform was as immaculate as ever, unlike the somewhat ragged British around him. He could rival Burgoyne in his tailoring. Also, Jack was displeased to note, the discolouration from the punch had entirely faded.
Should have hit him harder, Jack thought. The legacy of that blow still puzzled him – for it had obviously not been reported to St Leger. It would have been if the Count saw any advantage in the revelation. Von Schlaben must have a reason for his silence – which worried Jack a little.
Still, now was not the time for that concern. ‘And may I suggest, Colonel, that to retreat now, on the word of an idiot and the advice of,’ he just couldn’t help himself, ‘a German, would be both premature and dishonourable.’
‘No, sir! You would have me stand and fight, pinned between Arnold and the Fort!’ St Leger was upright now, with the aid of Ancrum’s arm.
‘I would have you stand until we know that Arnold is coming for sure. Until Até and myself have scouted and reported back.’ As St Leger stared stupidly at him, Jack felt his anger, the curse of his Cornish childhood, surge. ‘General Burgoyne expects you to fulfil your mission, Colonel. To do your duty.’
It was too much. Even Até sighed. But St Leger roared.
‘My duty? You dare … dare …’ He swayed against his adjutant. ‘I will listen no more to your insolence and rudeness to our gallant ally,’ he nodded towards Von Schlaben, ‘whose advice is always of the highest order. My duty is to preserve my command. My duty is to survive to fight another day.’ He shook Ancrum off, staggered a little, then stood straight-ish. ‘Give all orders necessary for a calm withdrawal. We will march back to Lake Ontario and sail for Montreal.’
Instantly, with the enthusiasm of much-relieved men, officers scattered towards their companies, already standing-to in their encampments. Calmness was nowhere to be seen.
Jack followed St Leger into his tent. ‘Sir,’ he said, pressing on despite the hand flapped at him as if he were a black fly, ‘Montreal is four weeks away. And it would take another four at the least to reach General Burgoyne, who is moving south along the Hudson. It is the most indirect route. This campaign will have been decided by then.’
‘What would you have me do, Absolute?’ St Leger was drinking rum straight from the flask, as Ancrum scurried around, throwing papers randomly into a valise. ‘March through Arnold to join him?’
Somehow Jack kept his temper. ‘No, sir. But I, at least, would try to support my General.’
St Leger lowered the flask and fixed Jack with a liquid stare. ‘You have been under my command but never a part of it. You have been insubordinate, disloyal, and rude. You gall me, sirrah, and always have. I have never seen the point of you. So you may go, Captain, to your General or to the devil. I suspect it will be to the latter.’
Then, with a loud hiccough, St Leger lay down on his bed. Jack needed no second bidding. He finally had a command from the Colonel he was eager to obey.
Até awaited him outside the tent. ‘Do we leave with this rabble, Daganoweda?’
‘No, my friend. We’ll march to Burgoyne, even if this drunken sot will not.’
‘Good.’ Até smiled, a rare thing. ‘In three dawns, we shall come to Canajoharie. I heard that some of my family might still be there.’
‘Then let us go and greet them.’
Jack took a pace towards the Quartermaster’s tent but Até stopped him. ‘Brant sent word. He thinks some of the other Mohawks would do what we do. But he needs help to persuade those who waver. And to keep them on the path.’
Jack hesitated. He didn’t like to travel without Até. But Burgoyne would need every tomahawk he could get and Jack needed to prove the myth of the Rebel reinforcements immediately. Maybe there would yet be time to halt this withdrawal.
‘Then, if I do not return here in the next hours, let us rendezvous at Canajoharie. In three dawns, I will see you, and your schoolfellow Joseph, there.’
Até nodded, squeezed Jack’s shoulder, and was gone.
As Jack watched the retreating back, that voice he’d grown to loathe spoke from behind him. ‘Not joining us, Captain Absolute?’
Jack took his time in turning. Von Schlaben was standing with his back to the encampments where the results of his interference were manifest. Soldiers and Natives were running everywhere, dithering by tents they could not fold quickly enough, scattering them and many other goods upon the ground. The few Rebel prisoners were being herded, now this way, now that; Jack could just make out the recovered MacTavish roaring unintelligibly at all around him. Women left
camp fires burning, pots of stew still cooking, meat smoking on skewers, potatoes roasting in the ashes, all abandoned so they could join the masses assembling for the retreat towards Lake Ontario.
It was clear Von Schlaben had made the wise choice never to be alone with Jack again. Beside him, in the uniform of a sergeant of Jaegers, stood a huge-chested man with cropped black hair, who looked as if he needed to shave four times a day. Squatting near the Germans’ feet were three Native warriors, their hair not in a single scalp lock but falling in straight shanks from the crown, their heads bald from there forward and painted in orange down to their noses. All three stared at Jack, lips parted hungrily, as if he were prey.
Abenaki, thought Jack, and grasped the tomahawk at his waist in reflex. They were among the oldest of Iroquois enemies, feared and hated in equal measure. Von Schlaben had obviously learned the way of the land. He had acquired himself some Native allies.
‘You really shouldn’t listen at keyholes, Count.’ Jack took a step back to give himself throwing room. ‘People might mistake you for a spy.’
Von Schlaben smiled. ‘I am desolate that I will not have such … amusing company on the tedious voyage to Montreal.’
‘Oh, we’ll meet again, Von Schlaben. You may be sure of that.’
Jack began to walk backwards, away, his eyes on his enemy, his hand on his tomahawk. When he was far enough, he turned. Not far enough, though, to escape that soft, insinuating voice.
‘Oh, I am, Captain Absolute. Quite sure.’