A Flight of Arrows (40 page)

August 8, 1777

B
y sunset of the second day pursuing the Senecas, William had stumbled often enough to prove he wasn't as recovered as he'd pretended. They were still a day's travel from the village where Stone Thrower thought the Senecas were taking their prisoner. Leaving Two Hawks to mind William, he'd gone ahead, hoping to overtake the Senecas and locate their camp.

William caught the flash of impatience on Two Hawks's face as Stone Thrower loped off through the trees, leaving them at a stream coursing through a wooded draw. Now his brother crouched at the stream, filling a canteen. Perched halfway up the draw where a lip of stone made a shelf, William watched him, still finding it unnerving that this lean, brown-skinned figure clad in moccasins and breechclout shared his blood.

Two Hawks ascended the slope and handed William the dripping canteen. He drank while his brother rummaged in a quilled bag, coming up with a pouch containing the parched corn he and their father seemed able to subsist upon. He offered it to William, who took a handful, chewed, then grabbed the canteen and drank again, feeling his belly churn and a cold sweat bead his brow.

“You are white as rendered lard, Brother. Let me look at that gash before the light is gone.” Too slow to fend off the fingers parting his sweaty hair, William winced at the probing of the tender area. “It is nearly in the place of my scar,” his brother observed. “Did you somehow know I had it and wanted us to match?”

Leaning away, he caught Two Hawks's half-amused gaze. Since leaving Fort Stanwix, William
had
tried to match his twin's woodland skills, all the while denying to himself that he cared how he fared in comparison. They weren't sure yet what to make of him, these warriors—no more than he them—but he wanted to move past this awkwardness of knowing them as close in blood as men could be yet still strangers. Move past it to what, exactly, he wasn't ready to decide.

“I ask you to forgive me.”

To William's mind there was nothing to forgive. Not against Stone Thrower, who'd plainly stated his doubt over whether William was keen on being his son.

That wasn't true. Or he didn't think it was. He was more than a little in awe of the man. He respected him for his bravery, his dedication, and couldn't help but admire his astonishing selflessness toward Aubrey, who'd robbed him of so much. His son.

I am his son
. It was a notion as slippery as eels, impossible to grasp and think on with his head throbbing, his gut churning. Not with the clarity it needed. And deserved.

“In this I'd have been content to let you best me.”

He'd spoken wryly to his brother, acknowledging the rivalry, but Two Hawks didn't smile. They'd been stealing looks at each other for two days, measuring, curious, half-wary. Now that dark, steady gaze proved discomfiting.

“What?” William studied his twin in return, picking out subtle differences in their features beyond the shade of their skin. Did his own lips curve upward at the corners so? Not quite so much perhaps. Those prominent cheekbones were every bit his own, but did his eyes have that same slight tilt?

“I was thinking of a dream I had,” his brother said. “Before the siege, while I was scouting. In this dream I sat on a slope like this, though the wood was not thick. You were beside me. Your painted face spoke to me.”

“What? Was I got up in war paint like a…?”
Like a savage
, he'd almost said.

Two Hawks's eyes flared. “I meant the little face our father carries. You left it behind. Aubrey gave it to our parents. Our father keeps it with him always.”

“We do what I could not do for you the day you were taken.”
Stone Thrower's words, spoken in darkness, had never been far from William's mind. Like flint and steel they careened inside his injured head, sparking questions about them, his mother, their people. And Anna, their bridge.

“I don't know how long it's been since you've seen her—Anna.” William hesitated. “She is well?”

The forest sounds were those of night now, with the stream gurgling below. Shadows were thickening, still he caught Two Hawks's sharpened look.

“Anna Catherine was well when last I saw her.”

He'd spoken guardedly, though William couldn't fathom why. Anna had given the impression she and this brother of his were friends. “She never mentioned you all these years. Not once in all her letters to me. Did you ask her not to?”

“It was her choice first to say nothing of me in her words to you. My choice later.” Before William could choose from among the questions
that
triggered, Two Hawks added, “Anna Catherine read your letters to me, until I learned to read them for myself.”

“You read my letters?” A spurt of indignation rose, burning as bile.

Two Hawks studied him, seemingly untroubled by guilt. “Nearly all, I think. Have you still the Welsh bow?”

Surprise at the question held him silent for a heartbeat. His indignation simmered down, and he found himself, oddly, the tiniest bit pleased that his brother knew such a thing about him, that he had a bow. Or once had. “I looked for it, back at Johnson's camp. It was grabbed during the sortie. I suppose some rebel in the fort has it now.”

Two Hawks's brows gathered in. “I would have liked to see that bow. It has much meaning for you.”

William shrugged, unsure whether that was true now. Or was his brother merely testing him in saying so?

He'd questions of his own more pressing. “How came you to be friends with Anna and no one knew until after I'd returned? How did you find us—or her?”

His brother raised a brow. “She did not tell you this?”

“No,” William said, irritated to be reminded again of his rash behavior the previous summer. “Not that I can remember.”

“Then I will tell you of it,” his brother said, sounding pleased to do so. “It was our father's uncle—him we left at Oriska—who found you.”

As night deepened and they waited for Stone Thrower's return, Two Hawks told the story of how Clear Day found himself in the apothecary shop that had belonged to Lydia's father and overheard Lydia and Rowan Doyle speaking of Reginald Aubrey, all those years ago.

“That name was all our mother knew of him who took you, except that he was a redcoat officer. Knowing this, Clear Day followed the Irishman to your farm and saw you there. After some time he told our mother this, but our father was not walking a good path then. They feared to tell him where you might be found lest he go there and make worse trouble getting you back. Not until Clear Day and our mother began to walk the Jesus path did they tell our father. Then we came and there was Anna Catherine. But we were too late for you.”

“I'd gone to Wales,” William said, understanding more than his brother had put into words. His Oneida parents had survived the disappointment of losing him a second time, waited nine more years for his return, and what had he done when he learned the truth? Cost them another year. At last he asked the question he'd longed to ask.

“Will you tell me of her? Our mother?”

The noise of the stream swelled in the dark; Two Hawks's voice was soft, forcing William to lean close to hear. “What do you wish to know?”

Everything
. Anything. He'd no idea where to start. Or…perhaps he did.

“Where did she come from? Was it anything like…with me? Was she stolen?”

“She was a captive once.” Again William settled in to listen to his brother tell a story, this time of a tiny white girl taken in a frontier raid nearly forty years ago, adopted into the Turtle Clan. “She is
Onyota'a:ka
now, our mother, with no memory of that other life, as you have no memory of her. But now our families will be united. Soon, Creator willing, I will be with Aubrey again, working at the boatyard as I did in—”

“You worked on the Binne Kill?” William interjected. “With him—Aubrey? What made you want to do that?”

“You may well ask your brother that question.” Stone Thrower stepped up onto the rock ledge, sending them both surging to their feet in startlement. They had neither of them heard his coming. “But there is no more time for stories this night.”

The moon was risen. Enough light filtered through the trees to show the relief in his brother's posture, the same that was coursing through William now.

Stone Thrower must have found the Senecas.

Something shifted for William in that moment as he and Two Hawks faced their father, who was breathing hard from running, the sound audible above the stream's chatter. He felt drawn to the man, in a way that went deeper than respect or admiration, but he knew not what to say or do with the feeling.

“May I see it?” he blurted. “The portrait of me. I've seen that you carry it.” It was too dark to tell whether the big warrior was surprised by the request as he fished inside the neck of his shirt and pulled out a corded
pouch. He untied it, removed the small oval. Feeling foolish now—it was also too dark to see the painting—William reached for it.

Their fingers brushed. Stone Thrower's convulsed over his, gripping for an instant.

“I do forgive you.” William had blurted again, as if his heart was bent on expressing what his mind had yet to untangle. “And I want to see my mother.”

“You will see her,” Stone Thrower said, with a fullness in his voice that fell upon William like an embrace. “Soon. And there will be much joy in your meeting. But we must also return Aubrey to those who wait for him.”

“You have found him?” Two Hawks asked. “He lives?”

“I have seen him in the Senecas' camp. Alive still. Before this night is through we must take him back, though how it will be accomplished I do not yet know. Be praying about it as we go. Are you rested, my son?”

William realized the man was addressing him. “I am,” he said and wanted to say
Father
, but the word clotted in his throat. He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder.

“Then take up your rifles, both of you, and follow me.”

August 8, after nightfall

Seneca lands

H
e couldn't be certain—they spoke no English in his presence—but Reginald thought the Senecas were divided over what to do with him. So enraged had they been over their battle casualties and their possessions lost to Willett's sortie that Reginald had expected to be tomahawked—or worse, tortured first—the first night they'd stopped their march westward. They'd given him water but no food. They'd taken his coat, along with the strings of wampum hidden in its inner pocket. His bloody scalp wound they'd ignored; he'd no idea of its severity save for the throbbing pain and dizziness it caused. His wrists were bound. He wasn't certain why they hadn't killed him.

Perhaps it had to do with one of their number—the oldest, by the gray of his scalp-lock and the creases beneath the red paint adorning his face—who'd taken an inexplicable interest in him, beyond a target upon which to vent frustration and contempt. He was the one now wearing Reginald's coat.

Lost in a focus of endurance, Reginald hadn't noticed the warrior watching him during the first march from the fort. On the second day, the gray-haired Indian had contrived to travel near him. More than once, when Reginald would have stumbled, the man shot a rope-veined hand out to steady him, grunting encouragement when he faltered. He'd thanked the man, knowing he couldn't maintain this brutal pace much longer. When he fell, they would club him where he lay. The thought
didn't unduly dismay him. He'd no wish to die—he'd left so much unfinished, unspoken; he yearned to see his Anna again. And Lydia; so much they might have shared, years and years at last entwined, heart and soul. But the most needful things were accomplished, and Reginald knew where he was bound beyond this life and in Whose presence he would stand redeemed. Because of that, death would be a celebration. A feast.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies
…

It was an amazement, the store of Scripture still residing in the recesses of his soul. He hadn't opened his Bible in years. Not since Heledd's leaving had he even tried to hear the voice of the Almighty in its pages, but there it was—grace unmerited, granted in his need as he followed the file of Indians on this trail that wound through wood and glade and gully, seemingly forever.

All the paths of the L
ORD
are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies
.

My foot standeth in an even place
.

William was with his father, his brother, perhaps by now his mother as well. Where he ought to have been left twenty years ago. Reginald felt an assurance deeper than knowledge, beyond the little his eyes had seen, that Stone Thrower had gotten his firstborn out of that ravine, away from the battle, to safety. He mightn't wish to remain with his kin, but that would be for William to decide. And the Almighty.

Keep him. Guard him. Grant them all wisdom and patience
…

Though hungry, bruised, and bleeding, nearly staggered with pain, with every breath left to him he meant to intercede for the souls once in his care. William. Two Hawks. His dear girl. Anna had his blessing to marry the man she loved, and for that he was thankful, but he might have done so much more—given her his name as well as his heart. Why hadn't he insisted upon it from the beginning? Might Heledd have softened in time had he stood stronger against her rejection?

There was no knowing. He confessed the failing to God and let it go,
marveling that atonement was made, that he need only accept it in gratitude, and rest. What freedom. What
joy
. It wasn't to be contained. And so he smiled into the hard, painted faces of his captors, especially the old one who showed him something more than loathing.

Not long before they'd halted that night, the man had made an attempt to communicate. Reginald discerned a word or two. Something about women…or was it mothers? Surely the man was too old to have a mother living. Maybe he'd meant
wife
. Did he fancy Reginald as a slave for his womenfolk?

At last the old warrior had given up the attempt and vanished into the wood with two others. The Senecas had been coming and going thus since leaving the siege camp—with their provisions carted off to the fort, they had no food for the journey home—hunting as they went. It made it difficult to know how many were in the party. At different times he'd counted eight, ten, twelve. There could be more.

Soon after the old man's departure, the warrior leading the party had signaled a stop. At a clearing's edge, Reginald had crashed to his knees, feeling himself sliding into blackness, knowing they might kill him before ever he woke again. Yet he had awakened—to the leaping of flames and the discord of strident voices. Someone thrust the rim of a cup against his teeth. He sat up and gulped the water before it choked him, his body greedy for it.

The warrior set the cup on the ground beside Reginald and returned to his fellows, lingering near enough to keep an eye on him. Reginald reached for the cup with bound hands but succeeded only in tipping it. They still hadn't fed him. He felt his strength ebbing, soaking into the ground like the water, and didn't know come morning whether he could rise again, much less walk.

How far had they to go?

He dozed sitting up, to be startled awake by a stream of words hot as molten metal. The leader of the party, a tall, deep-chested warrior, bronzed
flesh gleaming and feathers bristling in his scalp-lock, was pacing before the fire and addressing the others—nine at present—throwing an occasional nod in Reginald's direction.

That one wanted to kill him. He'd started the process back at the siege camp. Along with other prisoners, Reginald had been made to run a gauntlet, though by the time his turn came, the twin lines of Indians waiting to thrash him with sticks and clubs had begun to dissolve in shouted dispute. Only a few had actually struck him, driving him to his knees but inflicting no serious injury. They'd fallen on someone else though, beyond Reginald's sight. Judging by the man's screams, what they'd done was appalling. That was when he'd been hauled up off the ground again and taken away into the night, as some of the Senecas abandoned their leaders and the disastrous campaign, and the march westward began.

Another warrior stood now and spoke. Among his words Reginald caught a name he recognized.
Niagara
. Did this one propose selling him to the British to be ransomed or traded back to the Continentals? If so, the suggestion was met without enthusiasm. These Senecas were returning home with less than they'd come with, in goods and men. There was nothing to satisfy them but a few scalps. And Reginald, his life, his blood.

He searched the clearing for the old warrior who wore his coat but didn't see him. What help would he have been in any case? Reginald only surmised the man had taken an interest in him—beyond what his death or suffering might serve. That mightn't be the case.

Out of the blue a thought struck him—that if he lived to see another sunrise, it would mark twenty years to the day since he walked out of Fort William Henry with a child he'd no right to claim, leaving his own dead son behind.
Twenty years You gave me to confess the truth, to make it right with You—and allow You to bring healing to those I wounded. I regret it took so very long. I regret
…

Lydia
. Her smile that was light to him, her blue eyes imploring him. Her steadfast heart loving him, waiting for him. Believing the best. Hoping
always for good things.
Grant her peace and wholeness after I am gone. Grant her life, and love, and, yes, children
.

They wouldn't be his children. It was a grief almost too great to bear, the only comfort that he needn't bear it much longer.

Over at the fire, the Senecas were shrieking in response to something one of their number had proclaimed. Another barked an order to the warrior who'd given him water. The young man approached him again.

“The L
ORD
is my strength and my shield,” Reginald said as hard fingers closed round his arm, dragging him to his feet. Pain seared the length of his lame leg, and in spite of his effort not to, he cried aloud, then through gritted teeth got out, “My heart trusted in him, and I am helped—”

A cuff across his mouth silenced him, bringing the taste of blood. He was thrust toward the fire at the clearing's edge. Did they mean to burn him?

Gunfire cracked in his ears, so close as to be deafening.

He didn't feel the shot.

“They're killing him!” William hissed through his teeth, though had he shouted the words, he'd not have been heard above the clamor the warriors were making across the clearing. They'd overtaken the Senecas but moments ago, drawn the last half mile at a run by the rising tide of angry voices. Now he'd lost sight of the man they'd come to rescue, obscured by drifting powder smoke and the bodies swarming round him. He started forward, ready to break from cover.

Hands clamped down on him, one to either shoulder, as a second musket barked.

“They shoot into the air,” Stone Thrower said on his left.

On his right Two Hawks urged, “Brother—look!”

The warriors parted, revealing Reginald Aubrey on his knees in the firelight, wrists bound, half his face dark with dried blood. But alive. William got possession of himself, sensing through the hands gripping him the same need thrumming through his father and brother to rush into the clearing.

“They are not killing him,” Stone Thrower said. “Not yet.”

William strained in the dark to read the face of the warrior beside him. “You understand their words?”

“Yes. I lived among these warriors for a time. Some will know me.”

Two Hawks shouldered between them, releasing William. “You are going among them?”

Stone Thrower drew himself erect. “I am. And I go alone.”