War Path (27 page)

“When you can understand them for yourself, then you will be ready to lead the People of the White Pine.” Atoan turned his back on the cliff and started toward the path. He froze for a second as his blood ran cold; felt a shiver along his spine, as if a ghost had suddenly reached through his chest to clutch at his heart. For a fleeting instant he thought the voices whispered a warning. He looked over his shoulder at his son. “Did you send lookouts to the hills to warn us if necessary?”

“I did as you told me. Our men stand guard on the far hill where they might watch the approach to the Gathering Place. They will signal if there is trouble.”

Atoan nodded. “Good. I hope they remain on their guard.”

“Lobal is with them,” Kasak confidently replied. “He has the eyes of a hawk.”

Lobal gasped as a forearm encircled his throat and dragged him back among the pines. He dropped his rifle, clawed at the air, realized he should have fired a warning shot, clawed at the arm, tried to twist free. Fear added strength to his efforts, frantic, like a fox in a trap, struggling to live, wanting to see another dawn. Then he spied, a glimmer of cold steel seconds before the knife was plunged into his side. His body violently arched. Pain blinded him as well-honed steel pierced his vitals once, twice, a third time. Lobal shuddered and went slack.

Stark lowered the man to the ground and dragged him into the underbrush. He wiped the blade on the dead man's chest. He looked up at the stars, and wondered where a man's soul might take root. This was grisly work and he took no joy in it. He might have even felt remorse, until he noticed the scalp locks dangling from the dead man's hunting shirt. Some of them might have come from Fort William Henry. Then his eyes hardened.

“How does it feel, you son of a bitch?” he whispered into the man's face, frozen in death's grimace. The branches overhead stirred with the breeze and clattered against one another like dried bones.

Elsewhere along the ridge, the Abenaki sentries suffered a similar fate. The Rangers in their dark green buckskins materialized out of the night shadows to fell the warriors guarding the entrance to the valley. The Abenaki had not expected anyone to approach from over the ridge, not at night and soundlessly; their focus had been on the eastern trail. When the last of the sentries had been dispatched, the Rangers filtered through the trees and reunited along a ragged line in the forest, well back from the collection of bark-covered wigwams and campfires that illuminated the valley floor.

Choosing a granite shelf for their vantage point, John Stark and Robert Rogers used their spyglasses to study the collection of warriors and marines assembled in the center of the camp. The gathering was ringed by several ceremonial fires which helped immensely. Stark made a quiet approximation of the force arrayed against them. It appeared the Rangers were outnumbered two to one. But they had surprise on their side. And Stark figured they would whittle down the odds within the first few minutes. If not … he did not want to consider the consequences.

Atoan's features suddenly filled the spyglass. He seemed to be staring straight at Stark who lowered the spyglass and gasped, then realized it had to have been an illusion. The Grand Sachem could not possibly have seen him in the night-shrouded forest. But he had a palpable connection to the war chief. The man had warned about the next time the two met. Stark slowly exhaled and resumed his scrutiny. He recognized the Seneca presence and mentioned it to Rogers who nodded in agreement.

“Looks like the Huron have come to hear what Atoan has to say. That is the Grand Sachem, in the cap and yellow blanket?”

“Yes.” Stark nodded.

“He doesn't look like all that much,” Rogers scoffed.

“He is,” Stark said. He turned and motioned for Benoit Turcotte to scramble over to the outcropping. Stark passed him the spyglass. “Do you see Lucien Barbarat?”

“Non,”
the
voyageur
said, adjusting the eyepiece. “Wait. Yes, now I see him. The man in the plumed hat. That is Colonel Lucien Barbarat.”

Stark took the glass from the Frenchman and studied the scene below, taking time to memorize the face of the Butcher of Fort William Henry. He lowered the glass then with Rogers, made his way back to where the Rangers waited. The unearthly keening that emanated from the earth made for an uneasy wait. The Englishman, Strode, seemed especially unnerved. Sweat beaded his leathery features, glistened along his hairline and in his bushy sideburns.

“You wishing you stayed with the Regiment, Tom?”

“I won't deny it,” said the sergeant. He wasn't alone though. All of the raiders looked anxious to depart this valley as soon as possible. “These are cursed hills.”

“How's it look below, Johnny?” asked Moses Shoemaker, he had to clear his throat to speak. The old long hunter brushed back his shoulder-length silver hair and re-positioned his Scottish bonnet to hold it in place.

“Abenaki, Huron, the Seneca have come for a parley, and Colonel Barbarat and his marines … it looks just like we expected.”

“I warrant your topknot will look just fine dangling from some red devil's belt,” Locksley Barlow chuckled.

Moses glared at his youthful tormenter. “I'd have sliced you for cheese long ago, but you're such a
pretty
lad.” The men within earshot began to snicker. Their repartee served to ease the tension. Stark grinned. This bunch was a salty lot. He could think of no better men to lead into battle. He glanced over at Sam Oday. The scarred man crouched in the shadows, cradling his blunderbuss, tight-lipped, but in control now. Amazingly, the eerie voice of the wind streaming through hidden cracks in the earth left him unfazed. The smoke from enemy fires drifting up the slope and the sounds from the enemy camp, the occasional drumming and chanting, all seemed to steady his nerves.

“How do you want to play this, Johnny?” Rogers said. The smaller man, though tentatively in command, had his own idea.

“We need to be close enough to make the first volley count.”

“Right,” said Rogers. “But we'll need a diversion, something to focus that crowd while we move in.”

“A diversion?” Stark agreed. “I can handle that.”

“Son,” said Moses. “I don't like the sound of that. Molly said if I let anything happen to you I'll answer to her.”

“She said it to all of us, one time or another,” Rogers added with a smile.

“Just bring the men down. And on my signal, let 'em have it,” said Stark. He waved to the men, and crouching low, trotted off through the trees. Barlow started forward as if to follow the big man. Moses caught him by the arm.

“But …”

“There'll be plenty of time to die. Don't hurry it.”

“But Major Rogers, what's the signal?” the question floated from the column.

Robert Rogers checked his rifle, motioned for the men to do the same. “Knowing John Stark, I have a feeling it will be impossible to miss.”

35

L
ucien Barbarat didn't like this at all. First there was the night itself and these hills, one moment wailing, then silent, then, murmuring, or sobbing. And if his surroundings weren't enough to cause him consternation, he had Atoan to deal with. And the Seneca and Huron.

The officer studied the firelit features of his allies: Lost Arrow of the Seneca, cautious and revealing little of his thoughts, or Claws In The Water, the ferocious-looking Huron war chief whose eyes glittered with a feral light whenever Barbarat caught him staring at the Frenchman. What was afoot here? Atoan was up to something. But what?

The four men held council with one another in the center of the camp, surrounded by the contingent of Abenaki, Seneca, Huron, and marines. The Frenchmen looked especially uncomfortable and kept their muskets close at hand, twenty-four veterans drawing some comfort from each other and mistrustful of these mercurial-natured savages.

Atoan had welcomed them all. And after they had passed the pipe of peace, the Grand Sachem spoke. “My heart is glad to see that my French brother has come to smoke the pipe with us, to hold council here in the place of our ancestors.”

“It is a good thing,” Barbarat replied, his voice steady. He was determined to refrain from showing any sign of weakness. If the Grand Sachem thought to intimidate him, the officer was not about to let him succeed. “The great chief Montcalm will be happy to know that his children, the Seneca and the Huron have come to council with us.”

“They have come on my word,” Atoan said.

“The Grand Sachem will speak for us,” Lost Arrow said. His features were not painted. Like his counterpart among the Huron, Claws In The Water, the Seneca wore a trade shirt and buckskin leggings, he had placed his weapons of war, tomahawk, war club, and knife, upon a striped woolen blanket folded on the ground at his feet.

Barbarat nodded. He glanced aside at Kasak who sat just behind his father and was watching the proceedings with nervous excitement. “I have come to listen to the words of my friend, the Grand Sachem of The People of the White Pine.”

And after Atoan had his say, the French officer resolved to lure Kasak off by himself. The Grand Sachem might be a cunning fox, but his son was another matter. Hand him another trinket like the French dirk he so proudly carried and the young brave would open up like a piece of ripe fruit.

It was another gauntlet. Another encampment, a man alone, outnumbered, soon surrounded and all he had to do was stay alive. John Stark took the measure of his enemies, saw the hopelessness of the situation he was about to enter and said, “On my oath, there shall be a reckoning here or Molly Stark will sleep this night a widow.”

The long hunter emerged from the shadows, crossed an open expanse and headed into the encampment. The wigwams to either side were dark and empty. Smoke drifted up from the campfires. Stark gripped his rifle in his left hand, balanced it in the crook of his left arm. His left hand held a brass powder flask with its measuring spout broken off, leaving an open hole in the top.

The three tribes and the French had congregated in the center of the camp. So far so good, he congratulated himself. He was still alive. Of course the test was still to come. He looked toward the hillside and tried to imagine the Rangers starting down the slope. The longer he distracted the host in the camp the closer in Rogers could bring the column.

Stark quickened his pace and entered the outer fringes of the firelight. Cradling his rifle, tall and broad, his allegiance clear to one and all by the green-dyed buckskins and Scottish bonnet he favored, Big John Stark ambled past the first cluster of braves with the assurance of one who belonged among them, despite his Ranger garb.

The young Abenaki guards had been trying to hear what was being said at the council. When they heard the man approach, the guards glanced over their shoulders, gave a start as they noticed the intruder for the first time. Jaws dropped open, the guards became like statues rooted in place as the towering individual sauntered past. No one quite knew what to make of this? Stark ignored them as if they didn't exist. He waited for an outcry from them and when it did not sound, he allowed himself a brief sigh of relief and continued.

The Abenaki behind him closed ranks, but they made no other move against him. His arrival shocked them into inaction. Ahead, other copper-skinned warriors turned, stared in mute amazement, uncertain of how to react, then parted to permit him to pass. The marines too, although several muskets were raised as if to block his passage, none stepped forward to block his passage. The Frenchmen muttered amongst themselves, uncertain of their orders and loathe to begin an action that might be misinterpreted by these savages.

Stark neither looked to right or left but kept his gaze locked on the inner circle, where the war chiefs held council, where the French officer, Lucien Barbarat sat, no doubt plotting other betrayals, other massacres. Seeing the colonel so close at hand steeled the Ranger's resolve. Nothing and no one was about to keep him from confronting the Butcher of Fort William Henry.

Perhaps it was the valley itself, hallowed ground, the great Gathering Place that stayed the hands of Atoan's people, or maybe it was the voices in the wind, or the deeprooted respect for a bold enemy that held the throng at bay. Was it the flickering flames that danced like death in his fierce eyes or his shifting shadow that seemed to prowl behind him, stalking, like some … beast?

Kiwaskwek!

Lucien Barbarat stood before the war chiefs. It was his turn to speak. But he waited, gathering his thoughts, knowing he must choose his words wisely. Atoan had just finished explaining to the officer why the Grand Sachem had invited Lost Arrow and Claws In The Water to this council. The Huron and Seneca had agreed, in principle, to join with the French and crush the
Anglais
at Fort Edward. But like the Abenaki, they demanded Barbarat supply them with muskets, rifles, powder, and shot. If this did not happen, Atoan explained, the Abenaki might rethink their own alliance with the French.

Such a veiled threat galled the officer. And it alerted his innate sense of caution. Insuring that his Abenaki allies had a limited supply of weapons was one thing. Arming the three major tribes of New France was another matter entirely. But if Atoan thought for a minute he could outfox Lucien Barbarat, the heathen was in for a surprise.

He decided to agree, to buy time and lead the assault with the same promise he had used a year ago at Fort William Henry. Barbarat foded his hands behind him and paced imperiously to and fro as he spoke.

“I welcome the Seneca and the Huron and shall call them brothers as I do the Abenaki. And I agree whole-heartedly that our new allies should receive all that you request.” Barbarat flashed a winning smile, his face beamed with honesty. “But it will take time to dispatch orders to Quebec and more time to gather the shipments of powder, shot, and rifles.” He drew his sword and drew an irregular square to represent Fort Edward alongside a wavy line for the Hudson River. Then he drew a couple of peaks for mountains and another rectangle. “We must march on Fort Edward before the moon is full,” he said indicating the first square. “If we wait much longer, the
Anglais
will be reinforced. General Amherst prepares an army to march across the mountains.” He drew a line of march in the dirt from the rectangle to Fort Edward.