The Blooding Read online

  From that first day when his father had left him in their care, the Archers had treated him as though he was their own kin and it had seemed perfectly natural for him to refer to them as Uncle Will and Aunt Beth. The moment he knew he was an orphan the affection he felt for them had taken on an even greater resonance. The couple had come to mean as much to him as if they’d been his own parents, and for their part Will and Beth Archer could not have loved him any more than if he’d been their own son.

  And now they had been taken from him, too, by evil men. He’d been made an orphan twice over.

  Blinking back the tears, he picked up the dead rabbit and put it in his saddle bag; as he did so his thoughts turned to the family into whose care he’d been placed. He knew he should have told the pastor and his wife where he was going, but had he done so they’d have forbidden it. No doubt the reverend would have said that Tam was a dog who could fend for himself. He’d have left regardless, but it would have caused bad feeling.

  In his search for Tam, he’d mislaid all sense of time. From the position of the sun, he reckoned it must be mid afternoon, so he’d been away for at least an hour, perhaps two. He wondered if anyone other than Libby realized that he was not with the column. If they stopped for a rest they’d notice; he usually joined them then. But they probably wouldn’t be too worried – unless he wasn’t back by the time it got dark.

  Calling Tam to him, he turned Jonah around and the trio set off along the deer trail at a brisk pace. They had not gone far when it began to dawn on him that they might be heading the wrong way. There had been a number of places where the trail had merged with other paths and as he looked about him, he realized that nothing seemed familiar.

  He stared up through the trees. The colonel was leading the column north; Will Archer had taught him that the way to find north was to position yourself so that the sun was behind your left shoulder. But when he found the sun, it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It was over his right shoulder.

  He did not panic. He suddenly remembered that he had another way of working out his bearings. Twisting in his saddle he reached for the bag he’d taken from the cabin and drew out a small tobacco tin. He gazed down at it, running his fingers across the pitted lid. How could he have forgotten it? The tin had belonged to Uncle Will.

  He opened it carefully. Resting inside were several objects: a spool of twine, two fish hooks, a stub of candle, a needle and thread and, wedged into a corner, a circular brass box. Closing the tin, he lifted up the box lid to reveal a two-inch diameter compass. He placed the compass in the palm of his hand, stared down at the dial and waited for the needle to settle; which it refused to do. It just kept moving back and forth, as though it couldn’t make up its mind where to stop.

  Frowning, he turned to his right, extended his arm and tried again, with the same result. He turned to his left. There was no change. The needle kept revolving.

  What’s happening? he wondered. Is it broken?

  Only then did he feel the first stirrings of apprehension. He tried to recall the last time the compass had been used. It had been when he’d gone hunting with Uncle Will. There had been nothing wrong with it then, he was sure of that. He looked about him. If the compass was damaged, how was he going to find his way? What would Uncle Will do if he was here?

  Will Archer had known how to navigate through the woods, using skills he’d acquired when he’d been in the army. He’d tried to pass on that knowledge. There were plants, the boy remembered, that grew on certain sides of trees. The habits of animals and birds were also useful. Spiders chose the south side to build their webs because it was the warmest, while woodpeckers dug their holes on the east side of the tree. The boy tried to recall these tips, but to his shame he was unable to. He looked at the dense forest around him, the fear growing inside him as he pictured himself frantically looking for woodpeckers and spiders as darkness fell, leaving him all alone out here with only Tam and Jonah for company.

  He tried the compass again. The needle continued to gyrate rapidly. It was no use. Trying to stay calm, he placed the instrument back in the tin and returned the tin to his bag. He looked for the sun again and steered Jonah on to what he hoped was the right heading. There was path of sorts, he saw, leading off in the direction he thought he should take, but was it the right one? Would it lead him to where he needed to go?

  He wondered if he should give Jonah his head, but there was no guarantee the horse would take him back to the column. Indeed, there was a strong possibility he’d head south, back to the farm, and that was the last place they should go. That was where the men had come out of the woods and killed Uncle Will and Aunt Beth.

  He thought about the lieutenant and his men and how they’d helped to bury the Archers beneath the tree in the meadow, and how they’d taken care of him during the ride to the big house, treating him not as a child but as an equal. He wondered if that was because he’d killed Ephraim Smede. Would they have respected him otherwise? He didn’t know the answer to that.

  He remembered the smell of the man he’d hit with the axe: a combination of soiled clothing, sweat, piss and tobacco.

  He thought then about Tewanias. He lifted a hand to his throat and the bone turtle that hung there on its leather cord. Lieutenant Wyatt had said it was a totem. The Mohawk chief had called it Anowara.

  The gift had been a token of respect. The boy understood that and liked the way it made him feel inside. As he rubbed the amulet between his finger and thumb he wished Tewanias was with him, to guide him through the woods.

  As he turned to check that Tam was keeping up, it occurred to him that maybe Tam could find Tewanias. What was it that Lieutenant Wyatt had said?

  You might not see us, but we’ll be there.

  Maybe they were here now, close by.

  He stared about him, at the trees and the late afternoon sunlight filtering down through the gaps in the branches and the shadows that lay beyond. If he shouted, would they hear him? No sooner had the thought suggested itself than he dismissed it; there was a danger that someone or something else might hear. That bear, for instance. Will Archer had told him about the dangerous animals that roamed the forests – as well as bears, there were panthers and wildcats and wolves. A pack of wolves had killed a dog on a neighbour’s farm and it had not been pretty. He didn’t want to run into any of those.

  And what about Indians? Archer had told him stories of the savages who’d lived in the valley before the arrival of the white men, before they had built the towns and the big Hall. They were tales told to disobedient children. Be good, or else the Indians will steal you away and turn you into slaves.

  Not all Indians, he thought.

  He stroked the amulet. Removing it from around his neck, he held it tightly in his hand and dismounted.

  “Here, Tam,” he called. “Come here, boy.”

  He waited as the hound trotted towards him. Squatting down, he held the totem to the dog’s nose.

  “Find, boy! Find Tewanias!”

  The dog looked at him and wagged his tail, sniffing at the object in his fingers.

  “Go seek!” he said. He cupped his hand, enclosing the amulet, pressing it to the dog’s cold muzzle. “Tewanias! Go find!”

  He took his hand away and waited.

  The dog gazed up at him expectantly.

  It’s not going to work, he thought bleakly. It’s up to me.

  And then, as he got to his feet, Tam let out a bark and bounded away, only to stop twenty yards further down the path. Looking back, he barked again.

  The boy’s pulse began to race. Quickly, he remounted Jonah.

  “Go, Tam!” he urged. “Go find!”

  Tam turned. Nose to the ground, tail held high, he set off once more. This time it was fifty yards before he looked back. This time he did not bark, but waited patiently until the boy caught up. Then he trotted ahead again.

  Hope flared in the boy when he saw that the sun was where it should be. Provided they stayed on this heading,
they would be moving in the right direction.

  Northwards.

  “This is it,” De Witt said, reining in the mare. “This is the place. There’s the tree and there’s the mark. You see?” He was unable to prevent the relief creeping into his voice.

  Corporal Stryker looked to where the pastor was indicating.

  Even with its lower branches lopped off, the oak was massive. It would have taken too much work to uproot it completely or reduce it to a stump, so judicious pruning had been the order of the day. Carved into the trunk at eye level were three gouges arranged to form the letter H. So even was the symmetry that Stryker suspected they were as much a symbol of the engineers’ respect for such a worthy and indomitable specimen as they were a recognition sign for those who followed in the footsteps of the men who’d made the road. He wondered why he hadn’t taken note of it the first time he’d marched past.

  The search party dismounted.

  Stryker tapped Fitch on the arm: “Jubal, you and Hector take the west side. Me and Dan’ll take the east.” Then he addressed De Witt: “You stay with the horses, Reverend. The rest of us’ll see if we can pick up the boy’s trail. Don’t you go wanderin’ off now, you hear?”

  De Witt nodded solemnly.

  Stryker turned to his men. “We’ll split up at fifty paces; one heads north, the other south. That way, if the lad did leave the road hereabouts, we’ve four chances of crossin’ his trail.”

  De Witt removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief as each pair of soldiers took their respective side of the road and stepped into the trees. As he watched them vanish, the pastor was struck by the scale of the task facing them. What if Libby had been wrong, he thought apprehensively, what if the boy hadn’t left the road here but somewhere else? How would they pick up his trail then?

  So his heart leapt when, after only a few minutes, he heard a whistle from within the forest over on the west side of the road. He barely had time to register the sound before he was rejoined by three of the four soldiers. Trooper Fitch, he saw, was not among them.

  “Looks like Jubal’s struck lucky,” Stryker announced confidently. “All right, let’s move.”

  Taking the reins of Fitch’s horse along with his own, Stryker led the way. De Witt walked behind him. The other two troopers brought up the rear. They found Fitch seated on the ground with his back resting against a silver birch. His musket lay across his knees. He stood as the others drew near.

  “What’ve you got, Jubal?” Stryker asked, his voice couched low.

  Fitch indicated a set of indentations on the forest floor. “Hoof prints.”

  “Recent?”

  Fitch pursed his lips. “Well, they ain’t that old. There’s been other critters through here; some of ’em came before, some of ’em after. But edges are sharp and there’s not many leaves in the tracks yet, so a couple of hours, maybe.”

  De Witt stared down at the ground. All he could see were patches of scuffed earth amid a carpet of forest litter. “It has to be him, hasn’t it?”

  Stryker looked at Fitch who gave a curt nod and said, “Whoever it was, his horse was shod. I’d say it’s a good chance.” Fitch lifted his chin to indicate a spot a little way off. “Found some paw prints, too.”

  “Hound?” Stryker said.

  “Aye. They ain’t in a straight line neither. I’d say he was chasing something, followin’ a scent most likely.”

  “Saw something in the bushes and left the trail to give chase,” Stryker said. “That fits with what we know. All right, we’ll stick with the hoof marks. They’re all yours, Jubal. I’ll hold your horse while you take point. Reverend, you’re behind me; no talkin’.”

  They set off on foot, Fitch walking ahead with his eyes fixed on the trail, cradling his musket. The others followed in single file, leading the horses.

  The men kept up a steady pace in pursuit of Fitch as he quartered the ground, sometimes indicating for the others to wait while he examined the path ahead, then calling them on.

  After forty minutes, Fitch, who was some fifteen paces in the lead, held up his hand. They stopped.

  “We’ve got bear scat,” Fitch said.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” De Witt said softly. He searched the trees anxiously.

  “Don’t worry, Reverend,” Fitch said. “It ain’t that fresh.”

  Fitch pointed towards the splintered stump at the side of the track. To the pastor, it looked as if someone had taken an axe or a hammer to it, for it had been split open to reveal the rotten wood within. “She stopped a while; broke the stump open to get at the innards.”

  “She?” De Witt said.

  “There’s cub prints over yonder. Cubs travel with the mother. Once Papa Bear plants his seed, he don’t give a shit. Leaves the sow to bring up the youngsters.” Fitch studied the disembowelled tree stump, sifting through the slivers of bark that lay alongside it. “Berries ain’t ripe enough to eat. She was after grubs.” The tracker’s expression hardened. “I got broken grass and paw prints over there an’ all.” Fitch indicated the ground. “Hoof marks, too.”

  De Witt sucked in his breath.

  “No signs of a set-to, though,” Fitch murmured. “The boy was damned lucky. Either she knew he was no threat to her cubs or else she wasn’t in a mood for a fight because of the dog. She headed off that way.” The tracker lifted his chin to indicate the direction.

  “And the hoof prints?” De Witt said.

  Fitch frowned. “They stopped. I’d say the horse caught her scent and decided he weren’t goin’ no further.”

  “At least one of them showed good sense,” Stryker murmured.

  This drew an accusing look from De Witt.

  “If the boy had brains, he’d be with the column,” Stryker said.

  “He’s twelve,” De Witt said. “He was worried about his dog.”

  Stryker gave a shrug. “Dog would’ve found its way back eventually. Boy’s a fool. He should’ve known better.”

  “He got off his horse,” Fitch interjected, before De Witt could think of a reply. “Walked around a spell. Their tracks are mixed in, so I reckon the boy and the hound found each other.” Fitch dropped on to his haunches and laid his palm across a small area of flattened leaves. “Here’s where the dog lay down.”

  “So it was injured?” De Witt asked.

  Fitch shook his head. “Don’t reckon so. Like I said; tracks are too clean. No sign of slippin’ or slidin’, and there’s no damage round about. If’n there was a scrap here, the ground’d be all mussed up. Ain’t nothing like that. No blood trail, neither. I’d say the boy found his dog and took a rest. Stopped to get his bearings, maybe.”

  “Then which way’d they go?” Stryker asked.

  Fitch pursed his lips. “Back.”

  “Back?” De Witt echoed.

  “The boy got what he came for,” Stryker said. “He found his dog. Now he’s trying to find his way to the column.”

  The pastor frowned. “Wouldn’t we have come across them?”

  Stryker looked at Fitch.

  The private shrugged and spat into the dirt. “Easy enough to take the wrong path. Shouldn’t be too hard to track ’em, though.”

  “Sun’s goin’ down,” Stryker observed. “Be dusk in a couple hours, dark in three.”

  “Best get a move on then.”

  They set off once more, Fitch in the lead, following the new trail.

  De Witt wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking or how far they had come since discovering the bear tracks when Fitch, who’d been studying the forest floor, paused, straightened and held up a hand for them to halt.

  They were strung out in a line in a steep gulley, the walls of which were plaited with roots and boulders. Ferns grew thickly around them while the leafy canopy high above gave the illusion they’d entered some kind of vaulted nave. It reminded the pastor of his church back on the bank of the Dadenoscara, even more so when he realized how still the woods had become. Before, he’d been aware of bird call
s and the occasional clatter of wings, but when Fitch raised his hand it was as if the woods were obeying the order to be silent, too. Had a single leaf fallen, De Witt felt sure he would have heard it land.

  The pastor’s skin began to prickle. It was not a pleasurable sensation. He stole a glance over his shoulder. Private Hector Lyle, a lightly built man with pale blue eyes and a day’s growth of beard, was directly behind him. The fourth soldier, taller with darker features, whom Stryker had called Dan, and whose last name De Witt had learnt was York, was bringing up the rear. Both troopers were looking about them warily.

  “Is it the boy?” De Witt hissed. “Have we found them?”

  Stryker did not reply. His eyes were on the tracker.

  Wondering if Stryker had heard him, and made uneasy by the new-found alertness of the men on either side of him, the pastor was about to repeat the question when the stillness was broken by two loud clicks as Corporal Stryker and Privates Lyle and York cocked their muskets, and by the rusty-pump call of a blue jay which came suddenly from the woods to their right.

  Fitch spun towards the sound.

  With a whoop that turned De Witt’s blood cold, a sleek brown shape dropped from the trees in front of them. Fitch did not complete his turn. The warning died in his throat as the tomahawk blade sliced into his jugular. Blood jetted as the Indian tugged the weapon free. Stryker let go of the horses, brought his musket up and fired from the hip. The Indian fell back with a cry as another wild ululation erupted from the trees behind and a second dark-skinned figure burst into view.

  Dropping his reins, Trooper York pivoted towards his attacker. With astonishing speed the Indian hooked the musket barrel away with the head of his war club, ducked and sliced the knife he was carrying in his other hand across the trooper’s thigh, severing the artery. As York collapsed with a scream, the musket dropped from his grip and the club curved around again, shattering his skull.