James, now
two-and-a-half, searched the immediate area for more treasure. A pebble
came to hand, and he brought it to Joseph. “Papa, look.”
Joseph took the smooth rock and placed it near the roughhewn cross bearing Fannie’s name. “Should we leave it here for Mama?”
Little James, named for his grandfather, nodded. “Want Mama.”
“You and me both.” Joseph filled his lungs. The air was laden with the
scent of moisture and earth. Spring. The season had done little to dull
the loneliness winter had festered within him. He was busy with
planting, but that also meant he had less time with his children.
“Joseph!”
He sighed. Rachel had probably forgotten something for the children.
His sister worried too much. Did she not trust him to manage his own
young’uns for a couple of hours? That was all he’d asked for this
Sabbath day.
His name echoed closer now.
Joseph stood
and plucked Martha and her twig from the ground. He didn’t need Rachel
to find him here. Again. Judging from her frantic tone, he’d best hurry.
A child in each arm, Joseph breached the edge of the grove to see
Rachel rushing across the freshly turned earth of the garden, skirt
pulled almost to her knees.
“The raiders. They’re back.”
Joseph faltered. “What? Where?”
Rachel pushed strands of blonde away from the perspiration moist on her
face. “Down river, maybe ten miles. A boy came riding. They need help.”
“The Frankfort area? Where’s Andrew?”
She motioned
behind to where her husband stepped from the small barn—hardly more than
a shed—their own little girl in his arms. “You’ll meet the others at
the old fort.” Rachel reached for the baby and James. “I’ll stay here
with the children.”
Thoughts taking flight with his pulse, Joseph
managed a nod before sprinting past her and shoving into the cabin. He
grabbed the musket from over the door, and then snatched up his pistol
and powder horn. His hunting knife he slid into his boot. Would there
ever be an end to this fighting−this war? Joseph’s stomach already
turned. Hadn’t there been enough bloodshed? Years ago he’d learned to
despise this waste of life−even before a British officer became his
closest friend…and family.
Andrew Wyndham met him outside with
the horses. “Otetiani’s raiders by the sounds of it.” The rich tones of
England still rolled from Andrew’s tongue despite his four years’
residence in the Mohawk valley. He handed Joseph the reins to Hunter,
and then swung aboard the younger horse. “They rode from the lakes and
have been killing and burning their route southward.”
Joseph mounted and clenched the reins.
The locals had come to call the Mohawk chief Bloody Bear for the death
his warriors brought to the valley. The thought of the raiders coming
anywhere near his home and family wrung a cold sweat from the back of
Joseph’s neck. Last summer had become so dangerous, they’d set up
makeshift shelters in Old Fort Schuyler, only venturing out during the
day to work and harvest the land.
Winter’s reprieve was at an end.
With Joseph’s baby daughter in one arm and little James holding his
younger cousin’s hand, Rachel shooed the children into the cabin, before
she glanced back. Her free hand rose, but didn’t quite manage a wave.
Rachel’s brown eyes mirrored Joseph’s fear…and his weakness, exposing
him.
He spurred Hunter toward the road.
“Please be careful. Come back to me. Both of you.”
“We shall,” Andrew said, and then clicked his tongue.
Joseph beat him to the road, having saved himself from answering. He
would not make promises that couldn’t be kept, and he’d learned all too
well the extent of control he held over death.
The ex-British
captain brought the sorrel gelding alongside Joseph’s stallion and kept
pace with the dust-churning gallop. He looked at Joseph with a gaze far
too searching.
Joseph ignored him and encouraged Hunter’s gait.
Lives and farms were at stake−no time to wonder what went through the
other man’s head.
Minutes later the trail broke past the thick
spring foliage and the log walls of the old fort, a remnant of the
French and Indian War, rose from the grassy meadow. The rush of the
nearby river did nothing to drown out the raised voices of the seven men
gathered near the gate.
“What’s going on?” Joseph reined Hunter into the center of the foray.
“The raid is all the way down near Frankfort,” Cyrus Acker grumbled.
His grown son was also present, but, as always, remained in his father’s
shadow. “By the time we ride that far, Bloody Bear and his renegades
will likely be gone. Meanwhile, we leave our families unprotected and
our fields unplanted. How do we know he’s not riding under Brant again?”
Even Brant’s name was enough to chill Joseph’s blood. No other Iroquois
leader had caused so much devastation in the area, often commanding
many of the other chiefs, and their warriors, against the Patriots who
remained in the valley.
A couple of the men mumbled their agreement with Acker. Others made known their opposition.
Benjamin Reid, Joseph’s father-in-law, shook a finger at them. “And
what of those families down river? Do we simply ignore them until the
raiders reach our own settlement?” His hand rested on his cane which
hung alongside his musket.
Voices again rose, and Joseph jerked Hunter’s head, spinning him away.
“Where are you going, Garnet?”
“To fight some Iroquois.” He kicked the animal to a run. He’d fight
whoever came against this valley until there was no one left to fight.
Talk wouldn’t save lives. Whoever felt the same way would follow or…he’d
worry about that later.
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