Cooke looked back at him.
Connor nodded.
Keeping low, Cooke crept from their hiding place, looked cautiously about. Connor followed, motioning for Sarah to stay behind him. When he was certain the way was clear, he reached for her. Both fear and resolve on her face, she took his hand, her fingers cold, and followed where he led, as quiet as a doe.
She was in shock. He was certain of it.
Death she had seen. Battle she had seen. But never had she seen death or violence on a scale such as this.
They’d run as fast as they could, Connor drawing Sarah after him, a volley of gunfire exploding behind them as Wentworth rallied his men. The distraction had been exactly what they’d needed. Cutting down any who barred their way and trusting Cooke to bring up the rear, Connor had led her by the surest path through the carnage, as Wyandot rushed toward Wentworth’s call to battle. Balls had buzzed through the air like angry bees, the ground soaked with blood, bodies lying like broken toy soldiers. And yet as terrifying as all of this must have been for Sarah, Connor knew what horrified her most was leaving her uncle behind.
Connor could not fathom what had taken place in Wentworth’s heart back there. Connor had been prepared to die, at peace with sacrificing his life to save Sarah’s, ready to consign his soul to God.
And then…
Perhaps Connor would never understand what had gone through Wentworth’s mind, but he thanked God for it just the same. With one selfless action, Wentworth had not only done his utmost to save Sarah’s life, but he’d also given her a choice in what course that life would take.
But there was no time to think about that now.
Ahead, Connor spied nine canoes drawn up on the sand. He motioned for Cooke to stop and crouched down, drawing Sarah close beside him.
One sentry seemed to be watching over the canoes. Tall, his face painted with vermilion, he was almost certainly Shawnee. The man turned toward them, giving them a glimpse of his face, and Connor felt Sarah stiffen and knew she’d recognized him, too.
Katakwa.
Connor knew why Katakwa was here and not in the thick of the battle. The proof hung at his side. His right hand was curled, made lame by Connor’s blade.
“Stay here. Dinnae make a sound.” Connor quietly slipped out of his tumpline pack and drew his claidheamh mòr.
Sarah’s grip on his arm stopped him. Eyes wide with fear, she shook her head and whispered, “No!”
He smiled, gave her hand a squeeze. “I willna be long.”
Circling away from the lake and deeper into the trees, he approached from the forest, concealing himself until he stood on a rocky embankment looking down on the Katakwa. “Once you were war chief. Now you watch over canoes like a boy while other men fight.”
Caught off his guard, Katakwa whirled about. “Mack-inn-on.”
Connor jumped down to the sand. “You have traveled far in search of her, but you will not find her.”
“I will find and kill her as British soldiers killed my wife.” Katakwa’s gaze shifted to Connor’s sword, and he drew his hunting knife, holding it in his left hand. “And I will kill you. You ruined my hand, shamed me in the eyes of my people.”
“I spared your life.”
“Draw your knife, and let us fight like men.” Katakwa gestured to the hunting knife sheathed at Connor’s hip, clearly eager for Connor to put away his sword.
But Connor did not plan on giving Katakwa a second chance.
The two began to circle each other.
Connor raised his blade, sand shifting beneath his moccasins as he moved. “I have already fought you man-to-man and won. I took pity upon you for the loss of your wife and let you return home to be a father to her children. But you care more for your pride than you care for your little ones. You have pursued me and my woman, bringing fear to her heart. And today you made war on the British, who had offered you friendship. Make peace with your gods, Katakwa, for now you die.”
He gave Katakwa a moment, but Katakwa wasted it, lunging for him.
Connor swung, cleaving him diagonally from shoulder to breastbone.
He stepped back, watched as the man whose grief and pride had brought death to so many fell, dying, to the sand. And as the life left Katakwa’s eyes, Connor couldn’t help but wonder. If Morgan hadn’t been found alive and Sarah hadn’t come into his world, would Connor have become as bitter and hate-filled as the man who lay at his feet?
Sarah sat between Connor and Captain Cooke as they glided southward over the water in a stolen canoe. Connor had destroyed the others, slashing their hulls with his sword, in an effort to prevent the Shawnee from following them. But out here, on the open expanse of Lake Champlain, anyone might see them. For that reason, Connor kept the canoe far from shore, beyond the range of muskets.
Although she could not hear the battle now, musket fire and the screams of frightened, dying men far behind them, the scent of gunpowder clung to her skin, her hair, her gown. Her throat was parched from the taste of it—and the coppery tang of blood.
Uncle William!
Was he still fighting? Was he hurt, suffering, in pain? Had he been slain?
Farewell, Sarah. I have always cared deeply for you. Think well of me.
Fresh tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away. She would not diminish his sacrifice by acting in ways that might hinder their escape. If she began to weep, she would distract Connor, and so much depended upon him.
There would be time for grief later.
She forced her sadness away, trying to hide it even from herself, but Uncle William’s words continued to echo through her mind.
Farewell, Sarah. I have always cared deeply for you. Think well of me.
She’d told Uncle William that she would give anything to live her life simply as Sarah, and he had taken her at her word, freeing her from the fate her parents had chosen for her and giving her to the man he knew she loved. He’d wanted to save her life, certainly, but more than that, he’d wanted her to be happy.
All the anger she’d felt toward him these past weeks now turned to regret, guilt a weight in her stomach. Uncle William had done well by her, showing her more compassion than her own parents, and she had repaid his care, however misguided at times, with sharp words that now came back to cut her.
I thought there were two men in this world with whom I could share my heart. You have shown me there is only one.
But Uncle William had seen what was in her heart. In the end, he’d understood.
Forgive me, Uncle!
A distant whistle interrupted her thoughts. “Joseph?”
Oars came out of the water, as Connor and the captain searched the shoreline.
“I didna hear it, lass. Are you certain?”
The call came again, Joseph stepping out of the cover the trees. He did not wave, but stood there, waiting for them.
Connor muttered under his breath. “Where the devil has he been?”
The men turned the canoe toward the shore, where Joseph met them, wading into the water to help drag the canoe onto the sand. He reached for Sarah, who gathered her skirts and took his hand—and gasped at the sight of him. “Joseph?”
There was a dark bruise on his forehead and healing cuts on his chest and belly.
“You’ve been wounded. What happened? Where have you been?”
He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “It is good to see you, little sister.”
They moved into the cover of the trees, Connor and Joseph speaking hurriedly in Mahican while a few dozen of Joseph’s warriors kept watch. Whatever Joseph was saying seemed to upset Connor, anger warring with anguish on his face.
Captain Cooke leaned down, speaking softly. “Something is wrong.”
Sarah’s pulse quickened.
Connor rested a hand on Joseph’s shoulder in a gesture of support, his gaze shifting to Joseph’s men as he spoke to them. It was then Sarah saw that some of them had been wounded, too, eyes blackened, bodies bruised
.
And for a moment, there was silence.
Connor broke the silence, speaking quickly, gesturing with his hands, seeming to describe the valley where they’d been attacked and the movements both of British troops and of the war party. Somewhere amidst the words she didn’t understand was one she did: Wentworth. Joseph’s gaze shot to hers, shock on his face. But Connor went on, saying something about Katakwa. Joseph frowned, nodded.
And then the men were on their feet again.
Joseph walked over to her and slid a big hand gently through her hair, ducking down to press his forehead gently against hers. “I am sorry, Sarah.”
He didn’t need to explain why he was sorry.
His sympathy cracked through the wall she’d tried to build around her grief. Tears blurred her vision. “Th-thank you.”
He kissed her cheek, stepped back, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “Be strong, little sister. All shall be well.”
He turned, said something to his men, and with a glance back they broke into a run, hurrying northward.
“Wh-why is he leaving?” She had no idea what had just happened.
Captain Cooke met her gaze, and she saw that he, too, was confused.
Connor took her by the arm, led her back toward the lake. “Stockbridge, Joseph’s village, was attacked a few days afore we set out from Fort Edward. He was wounded. Several of his men were slain.”
“How terrible!” Sarah wished she had known. She might have offered Joseph some words of comfort.
Captain Cooke reached the canoe first and held it steady. “The Stockbridge have always been faithful allies. We must inform Haviland.”
“Joseph feared the same war party would ambush us and had come to warn us. I told him the worst had already happened.” Connor helped Sarah into the canoe, pushed it into the water, and climbed in beside her. “He and his men are on their way to search the battle site for survivors and then track the Wyandot to free captives and claim blood vengeance.”
Sarah felt a twinge of hope. “Is there a chance they’ll find Uncle William alive?”
Connor’s brow furrowed, and he reached to cup her cheek with one hand. “Aye, but dinnae allow yourself false hope, Sarah. There is every bit as much a chance that they will find only his body.”
They reached Fort Ticonderoga just after midday. The fort was strangely quiet. No wounded had yet arrived in need of the surgeon’s skill, and only a few companies of soldiers remained within its walls. While Cooke went to make his report to Haviland, Connor led Sarah around the fort to the lower stockade, where the camp followers and laundresses—sometimes one and the same—had their small cabins. It was the only place where women, apart from officers’ wives, were permitted to be—and one of the few places where the sight of a man and woman together would not draw attention.
As he and Sarah approached, a woman he recognized stood, pointing toward him. “There ’e is, Connor MacKinnon, the one what told us to run! If not for ’im, we’d be dead—or worse! There’s no one looks out for us laundresses, but ’e did.”
“’Tis glad I am to see you safe and alive, mistresses. My wife is wi’ child and needs a safe place to rest while I visit the sutler.” It satisfied him deeply to claim Sarah thus. “Can she bide a wee here wi’ you?”
Connor needed to wash the dried blood off his body, then he needed to buy supplies for the journey home, but he did not want to risk bringing Sarah inside the fort, where there was too great a chance Haviland or one of the other officers might see her and recognize her.
“After what you done for us today, we’ll gladly ’elp your missus.”
He left Sarah in the hands of the women, who fretted and fussed over her, and found a secluded spot on the banks of the La Chute, where he bathed, treated the graze on his shoulder, and changed clothes. Clean again, he walked through the fort’s gate to the sutler’s. It felt strange to be safe behind high walls when a battle was being fought elsewhere. He was accustomed to being in the heart of the fray, not awaiting news of it from others. For so long his duty had been to his brothers, to his men. But now he had a wife to protect.
’Twas a sudden turn of events, but a welcome one.
Nothing was more important to him than Sarah’s happiness and safety.
He entered the dim sutler’s shop, the air inside heavy with the scents of salted meat, rum, and leather. He bought the tent, food and supplies for the return journey to Fort Edward, as well as other necessaries. A cotton gown to replace the stained and torn silk one Sarah wore. A linen bonnet to conceal her hair. Moccasins for her feet. A soft woolen shawl to keep her warm and hide her face if the need arose. Rose-scented soap, a brush and comb, a washcloth, a bone-handled toothbrush, tooth powder. Maple sugar candy to sweeten her journey.
As he paid for these things, their quality no doubt far beneath that to which she was accustomed, he found himself wondering whether she understood how much her life had just changed. Would she, a lass raised with every luxury, be happy here as the wife of a mere soldier?
He went to the kitchens, coaxed a bowl of stew out of the cook, and returned to find Sarah listening while the laundresses offered their advice on childbirth.
“They say puttin’ a knife under the bed cuts the pain in ’alf, but if that’s true…”
The women fell silent when they saw him, which pleased him greatly. Sarah did not need another worry on her mind. Nor did he.
He led Sarah to quiet spot beneath a stand of trees, gave her the stew and a spoon from his pack. “Eat, lass.”
Cooke found them just when Connor had finished putting up the tent. He spoke quietly, clearly not meaning for Sarah to hear. “The wounded are being taken to Crown Point. Haviland has assured me that I shall know immediately if the brigadier general is amongst them. He intends to depart on the morrow to take command of Crown Point and plans to leave Ticonderoga lightly garrisoned. He has ordered me to accompany him, but I insisted that I must carry out the brigadier general’s last orders. He was most vexed that I would not tell him what those orders are.”
“I just bet he was.”
Sarah could not endure waiting. The idleness was oppressive, each hour an eternity. She did what she could to occupy herself, even asking the laundresses to teach her their work. She would soon be doing laundry for a husband and a child and yet she knew nothing about it. But even the hard work of stirring clothes in a dolly tub of hot water and pounding stains with a beetle could not take her mind from her sorrows.
Midday became afternoon, and afternoon became evening.
She had just finished washing the tin plates and forks she and Connor had used for their evening meal when she saw Joseph walk through the stockade gates, his men behind him. Dread made it hard for her to breathe, the dishes forgotten as he drew near. She felt a hand rest against her back.
Connor kissed her hair. “Whatever the news, Sarah, you dinnae have to bear the weight of it alone. Remember that, aye?”
Joseph nodded in greeting, exhaustion lining his bruised face.
Connor threaded his fingers through Sarah’s, led her toward their tent, and drew her down to sit beside him on the grass, his reassuring presence the only thing holding her together. Almost too afraid to hear what Joseph had to say, she waited.
Joseph knelt down before them. “We found the battle site and the wagons, but there was no sign of him. We searched amongst the dead, turning the bodies over, but we did not find him. We pursued the Wyandot, but they split into two groups. We kept after the largest group, slew many, and freed eight captives, but he was not amongst them. Either we missed his body somewhere in the trees, or he is with the other party.”
Sarah had prepared herself to hear that Uncle William was dead. She had prepared herself to learn that he’d been taken captive. But she hadn’t prepared herself for the agony of not knowing what had befallen him. “Then…we still know nothing.”
“I am sorry, little sister, but few taken captive by the Wyandot survive.”
Connor and Joseph spoke with each other, but Sarah heard nothing of it, her thoughts on Uncle William. Either he lay dead somewhere, his body now carrion for the wild animals, or he was a captive as she had once been—and subject to a cruel and torturous death.
Hot tears stung her eyes, words spilling from her lips. “Th-this is my fault! They came for me! Now so many are dead. Your men, Joseph! The soldiers! And Uncle William is…” Would she ever know what had happened to him? “If I hadn’t caused a scandal, if only I’d stayed in New York, none of this—”
Connor pressed a finger to her lips to still her. “Dinnae you blame yourself for this. I willna hear it. None of this was your doin’. Your uncle made a warrior’s choice. He stayed behind because he kent I could get you out alive.”
Joseph took her hand and squeezed, sorrow in his eyes. “It is right and good to grieve those who are lost, but once we have grieved, our tears must dry. Your uncle gave his life to save yours. If you wish to honor him, then live each day of this new life you have been given knowing that it is a gift. Be filled with strength and joy.”
Sarah was touched by their words, some of her despair lifting. But sorrow still held her heart. “Thank you, Joseph, for searching for him. I am grateful that you are safely returned and that eight captives were freed.”
Pleading exhaustion, she rose, entered the tent, and lay down, tears running silently down her cheeks as she sent up prayer after prayer—for Uncle William, for poor Agnes, for Joseph’s men, for all the courageous soldiers, for young Thomas, and for dear Jane. She even said a prayer for Katakwa’s wife and children.
It wasn’t long before Connor was there beside her, a pail of hot water and a soft cloth in hand. Slowly, he undressed her, and with great gentleness he washed the reek of battle from her skin, his hand lingering on the hardening curve of her lower belly. Then he stretched out on the bearskin beside her, holding her close while she wept.
And in the darkness, he kissed her tears away.