The Blooding. James McGee

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      A look of pain crossed the colonel’s face. His eyes clouded. “Tell me,” he said.

      The two officers listened in silence as Wyatt recounted the events of the morning.

      “Bastards!” McDonell spat as Wyatt concluded his description of the skirmish. “God damned bloody bastards!”

      The colonel looked towards the boy.

      “He’s Archer’s nephew,” Wyatt said.

      Sir John said nothing for several seconds and then turned back. He shook his head wearily and sighed. “No, actually, he isn’t.”

      “He referred to Archer as his uncle,” Wyatt said, confused.

      The colonel’s expression softened. “For the sake of convenience, I dare say. Though, I’ve no doubt that’s how he came to look upon them.”

      Wyatt looked to McDonell for illumination, but none was forthcoming.

      Removing his wig, Sir John ran a calloused hand across his cropped hair. Though not yet forty, flecks of grey were beginning to show through the darker follicles. “The boy and the Archers were not related. They were his guardians. The boy’s father entrusted him to them.”

      “You knew them, sir?” McDonell said, unnecessarily, he realized, as soon as the words were out.

      “The father. He was a good man. His name was Hooper. Ellis Hooper.”

      McDonell frowned. “I know that name.” He stared at the colonel, as if seeking confirmation.

      “We were comrades in the French and Indian War. He was with me at Lake George and at Niagara when we fought alongside the Iroquois auxiliaries under my father’s command, though we were barely old enough to heft a musket.”

      A rueful smile touched the colonel’s face before he added, “Ellis Hooper was a Loyalist through and through. Because of his allegiance to me, the Continentals put a price on his head. He was with me when I made my run in ’76 and he was one of my first recruits when Governor Carleton granted me permission to form the Royal Greens.”

      Wyatt knew the story. There wasn’t a man serving under Sir John’s command who didn’t. It was the stuff of legend, of tales told to raw recruits as they sat huddled around the camp fires at night.

      Sir John’s father, William, had built the estate. Arriving in the valley in the late 1730s, he’d made his fortune trading furs with the voyageurs and the Six Nations, the Iroquois tribes who’d held dominion over the vast region of forests, lakes and mountains that lay between the Hudson River and the great waters of Ontario and Erie. It had been William who’d supervised the construction of the Hall and founded the settlement that was to bear the name of his eldest son: Johnstown.

      Such had been his skill in diplomacy and his standing among the Six Nations that Sir William had persuaded the Iroquois to side with King George against the armies of the French. For his services, the Crown had awarded him a baronetcy and appointed him Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the entire Northern states.

      Sir John had inherited the lands and title upon his father’s death. He’d also inherited his father’s loyalty to the King, to the dismay of the leaders of the burgeoning republic who’d tried to persuade the son to swear allegiance to the new Congress. When persuasion failed, a less subtle approach had been attempted.

      The level of intimidation had been so aggressive that in the interest of self-preservation, Sir John had gathered about him a company of Loyalist supporters and Indian allies to act as a protective shield and to defend the interests of the King. Fearing the formation of a private army, the local Committee of Safety, with the Tryon County Militia at its back, had immediately ordered all Loyalists in the county to relinquish their weapons. It had then placed their leader on parole under the order that he would not take up arms against the new government.

      Unbowed, Sir John, while agreeing to the demand, had continued to show dissent. An arrest warrant had been issued. Forewarned, Sir John, along with more than one hundred and fifty followers and helped by a trio of Iroquois guides, had evaded capture by fleeing north through the mountains to gain safety across the Canadian border.

      It had taken them nearly three weeks, during which time their provisions ran out and they were forced to forage for roots and leaves before they’d eventually stumbled, half starving, into an Iroquois village on the St Lawrence River.

      As soon as he reached the safety of Canada, Sir John had petitioned the Governor for permission to raise a force capable of taking the war back to the enemy. With authority granted, the King’s Royal Regiment of New York, under their new colonel, had begun recruiting. The first to sign up had been the men who’d accompanied him into exile.

      “He was with us at Stanwix,” McDonell said, looking contrite.

      “He was.” The colonel’s voice dropped. “He fell at Oriskany.”

      “Oh, dear God, yes,” McDonell said, looking even more crestfallen. “Why did I not remember?”

      The operation had formed part of an invasion plan devised by British generals to gain control of the Hudson River Valley and cut off New England from the rest of the American colonies, thus creating a vantage point between the Hudson and Lake Ontario from where Crown forces could direct operations against the Continental army.

      The strategy had involved a two-pronged attack, launched from Montreal. The main force, led by General John Burgoyne, had marched south towards Albany by way of Lake Champlain, while a diversionary force under the command of General Barry St Leger, with Sir John Johnson as his second-in-command, had driven through the Mohawk Valley, intending to approach Albany from the west. It had been the Royal Yorkers’ first major campaign and it was to have been the opportunity for Sir John to exact revenge on those who’d forced him into exile the year before.

      St Leger’s force had made it as far as Fort Stanwix, a Patriot outpost controlling a six-mile portage between the Mohawk River and Wood Creek known as the Oneida Carry, where they’d encamped and laid siege to the American garrison. The plan had been to capture the fort and secure Burgoyne’s eastern flank.

      News of St Leger’s advance had spread, however, and a relief column of New York Militia under the command of Major General Nicholas Herkimer was sent to assist the beleaguered garrison. On hearing the column was on its way, St Leger dispatched a force of Royal Yorkers, Jaeger riflemen and native auxiliaries under the command of Sir John Johnson to intercept. The ambush had taken place some six miles from the fort, at the bottom of a narrow ravine through which ran a shallow three-foot-wide dribble of water called the Oriskany Creek.

      Even three years after the event no one knew for certain how many men had perished. Some reports said the Patriots lost 450 dead, the British 200, and because of that it had been deemed a British victory. Native losses had been put around 100, but the numbers were speculative. What was not in dispute was the degree of butchery that had been perpetrated in a fight that had lasted more than six hours. When the ammunition ran out, men – both white and Indian – had fought hand to hand with knife and tomahawk. It was said that the rock-strewn waters of the Oriskany had flowed red with the blood of the slain for weeks afterwards, while the stench of the rotting corpses had carried for miles on the warm summer winds. It was also rumoured, though never confirmed, that some prisoners, captured by Indians, had been taken from the field and eaten in ritual sacrifice.

      “He was one СКАЧАТЬ