Shadowbrook (30 page)

Quent ran along the track trying to unravel the puzzle. There hadn’t been an Indian attack on Shadowbrook in half a century at least, perhaps more. A scalp lock in these parts likely meant Iroquois, and around here that meant Mohawk, Kahniankehaka. But they had been English allies for years. All the same, Sampson was adamant. He kept insisting, “I seen ’em, Master Quent. I seen them savages. They was—”

“Stop your wailing, Sampson. I believe you. Save your breath for running. We’ll be at the sawmill soon.”

Quent smelled the blaze before he saw it. There was no wind and the smoke from the burning buildings rose straight up into the sky. He saw Matilda Davidson’s body first, an arrow in her chest and her ten-day-old child still in her arms. They’d both been scalped. Sampson reached for the infant. It uttered a single cry and died. Quent took the tiny corpse away from the boy and lay it back on its mother’s breast. “There’s no time now. This way.” He’d spotted Hank’s body as well. Matilda’s husband had been brought down a short distance farther on. There was no sign of Ely. And no way Quent and Sampson could put out the flames that were devouring the mill.

A nearby maple was the tallest of the trees beyond the screen of smoke. Quent scaled it quickly. The heat from the flames of the burning sawmill was stronger the higher he climbed. Sparks flew with sudden bursts of vigor as they consumed the moist, fresh lumber waiting to be dressed.

Quent shaded his eyes, blinking them clear of the soot flying everywhere, and peered across the horizon. Dark as the afternoon had become, the smoke made a darker smudge in the sky revealing the destruction. It was a thought-out burning, Quent thought; the wheat fields are the target. All the same, the woods will go as well if a wind comes … Thank Christ for the day’s stillness. Feels almost unnatural, but I’ll take the devil if he’s the only ally available.

“Master Quent! Look here, Master Quent!”

Sampson had found Ely Davidson. The boy was propping the old man up with an arm around his waist. Stil, the sawyer was alive and standing on his own two legs, and his scalp was intact.

Quent came down the tree faster than he’d gone up. Ely looked dazed but unharmed, except for an ugly gash on his forehead. A long gun was slung over his shoulder. The barrel was clean and the ramming rod in place. It did not appear to have been fired. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” Ely’s voice shook. He was staring at the bodies of his son and his daughter-in-law and his tiny grandson. “I’d gone up to the ’race to check the dams. I heard a commotion down here, started back, and—”

“What kind of commotion?”

“Couldn’t tell at first Then I saw smoke and figured it meant fire. Panicked me, I guess. Didn’t look where I was goin’. Damned stupid after all these years. Ran so damned fast a branch caught me in the head and knocked me out. By the time I got here they was leaving. And”—he gestured to the three corpses—“it was too late to do any good. Never got off a shot.”

“Just as well. You’d be dead too if you had.” Quent put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “They’re burning the wheat fields. Did the ones you saw have horses?”

Ely shook his head. There was another shower of sparks and the flames roared. “Didn’t see no horses.”

No matter, the war party wouldn’t be on foot for long. There was a paddock between the sawmill and the sugarhouse. Sweet Jesus, at least a dozen animals were there for the taking. Quent turned to go. “We can head them off if we take the path around Big Two.” The sawyer didn’t move. “Ely,” Quent’s voice softened. “I need you.” The old man continued to stare at the corpses of his family. “There’s no time to bury them now, Ely.” Once they had horses, the braves could get from the sugarhouse to the big house in under half an hour.

Davidson hesitated half a moment more, then took his gun from his shoulder and began ramming powder into the barrel. “Sampson, you come with us!” he called.

“I be coming, Master Ely. Just getting me something to bring along.” Sampson had spotted Hank Davidson’s musket, just a corner of the stock showing beneath the dead man’s shoulder. The boy dragged the musket free and ran into the woods after the two men.

Quent turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “The ones you saw, Ely, were they Kahniankehaka? Mohawk?”

“No. Wrong war paint. Not blue. Red and black”

It sounded like Huron. Quent felt a chi;l start in his belly. “Red and black? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The path of the shortcut that skirted Big Two bent in opposite directions a ways farther on. Quent had to decide. If the attack was purposeful, as it appeared to be, the war party had knowledge of the Patent. If someone has told them to fire the wheat fields and sent them here on foot, that someone will also have told them where to find horses so they can finish the job. Where should we turn? To the sugarhouse—if the Frankels and the others are still alive, two more guns might keep them that way—or the paddock?

“Moses and Tim Frankel’s bound to have figured out what’s going on.” Ely was past the age when running was easy, but his voice didn’t waiver. Determination supplied his breath. “Thing is, they’ve only got muskets up at the sugarhouse. They’ll be right glad of—”

“This way,” Quent said, veering to his left.

“But the sugarhouse is—”

“This way. The braves will head for the paddock first. They need horses and they’ll know where to find them.” Christ help them all if he was wrong.

“Savages don’t need horses to get scalps. We need to—”

“Stop talking, Ely. Save your strength for shooting.” He could feel the older man’s disapproval boring into his back. And young Sampson’s terror.

John spotted the gray smudge on the horizon when it was nearing two o’clock, a good hour before dinner. He had intended to ride out and check on the progress of the haying after his meal. Instead he forgot his empty belly and rushed toward the stables shouting for a horse. “There’s a fire. Hurry up with that saddle, damn you, or I’ll have you flayed alive!”

Little George gave the straps a final tug even as John mounted. “Get a wagon,” John told him. “Load it up with buckets. Find Jeremiah and Six-Finger Sam and come after me.” There were dug wells all over the Patent. The only prayer for fighting a fire was if one of them, or better yet a brook or a stream, turned out to be near enough to the flames to do some good. If that were the case, they’d need every available hand to form a bucket chain. “Bring Runsabout, as well. And Corn Broom Hannah.” Kitchen Hannah was too old to be of any use.

“John! John! Did you see?” Lorene raced out of the house, holding up her skirts. “It looks like fire!”

“I know.” John’s horse sensed his urgency and pawed the earth. “I’ve told the others to come by wagon.’

“I’ll come too. I can—”

“No, you stay here. I’m taking everyone but Kitchen Hannah. Father shouldn’t be alone.”

She protested, but with only half a heart For once John was right. Lorene watched him ride out, then supervised the readying of the wagon that went after him. When it left, she stood in the stable yard, hands hanging by her side clenched into fists. She was alone with Ephraim and Kitchen Hannah, helpless to do anything useful, and the smudge of smoke on the horizon grew bigger and blacker by the moment. Dear God. Dear God. A crack of heat lightening thundered overhead. Dear God, let it rain. Don’t let it be just a dry storm.

“Lorene!”

She looked up. Ephraim was at his window gesturing toward the horizon. “Fire, Lorene!”

“I know. John’s gone and taken the slaves with him. They’ll see to it, Ephraim. I’m coming up. Don’t fret yourself.”

Quent and Ely and Sampson came out of the woods onto a piece of upland in a natural clearing. The paddock was within view.

Quent pointed to a large oak with a trunk substantially wider than the sawyer. “Ely, you stay here. Keep your eyes open. Don’t fire until after I do. Sampson, follow me.”

He led the boy some twenty strides farther on, then gestured to the musket. “You know how to fire that thing?”

Sampson grinned. “I surely do, Master Quent.”

It was against the law of New York Province to give a slave a weapon. They pretty much made their own laws on the Patent, but John would have flogged the hide off Sampson if he’d caught him with a musket. “You got any shot? Any powder?” The boy held up the ammunition he’d taken from Hank Davidson’s body. “Fine. You stay here, behind this tree. After you hear two shots, mine and Master Ely’s, you fire your musket, then reload as fast as you can. Soon as you’ve done that, fire again.’

“I can climb up the tree, Master Quent. That way I—”

“No. Do exactly what I say. You got that?”

“I gots it”

He needed all the shots to come from ground level; it was the only way they’d create the impression of a surrounding force. Quent shaded his eyes and looked down the main path leading to the paddock. It was empty. He knelt and put his
ear to the ground. Nothing. If he’d guessed wrong, the braves would already be at the sugarhouse and the burning and killing would be under way. Too late for second thoughts. He was committed.

Quent made his way to a stand of elms halfway across the clearing from the paddock, on the opposite side to the tree hiding Ely. The sky was darker than ever and there was still no wind, but the smell of smoke drifted toward them, carried on the high currents of air that sometimes moved the clouds when not a leaf stirred on earth. The horses smelled it, too. They were beginning to paw the earth and make soft whinnying sounds of distress. There was another sound, barely audible, but growing louder by the moment, moccasins pounding swiftly on the earth. Quent raised the gun to his shoulder and fixed his sights on the place where the main path ended and the clearing began.

The brown robe had drawn on the ground with a stick, showing Lantak the things he needed to know. So far everything had been exactly as the priest said. Lantak heard the sounds of horses and grunted softly with satisfaction. He held up his hand to signal those behind him to pause, then signaled to the men behind him. Three braves broke off and made their way through the trees to Lantak’s right. Three more went to the left. Lantak waited. Until now there had been no organized resistance, but a wise war sachem never assumed that his enemy was stupid. And surprise was a weapon that could be used only once.