The Rangers sat in the dark with the wind ruffling the surface of the lake and little wavelets breaking silver on the shore.
“They could be anywhere out there,” Parnell said. “The wilderness extends forever. Nobody has reached its limit; nobody knows where it ends.”
“It goes on to the end of the world,” MacRae said. “Forest and lakes until you reach the edge of nothing.”
MacKim pulled on his pipe, contemplating the vastness of this continent. “A man could lose himself out here, and nobody would find him. De Langdon and the renegade know what they’re doing.”
Kennedy nodded, staring into the fire. “You told me that de Langdon is a Meti, a half-Indian, who’ll want the company of his own kind. He won’t wander through the forest for long, not with the cold weather coming. As soon as he finds a snug village, he’ll settle for the winter.”
“One-eye told us there are about twenty men in the Canadian’s party,” MacKim said. “They’ll need a decent-sized village to feed that number.”
“They’ll also leave a trail that a smaller number would not,” Kennedy pointed out. He stirred the fire with a stick, sending a column of sparks into the air. “One day, MacKim, when we’re in Covent Garden, we’ll look back at these days, laugh, and wonder how we ever lived in the wilderness.”
“Aye,” MacKim said. “Maybe we will.” He could not see an end. When he lifted his eyes from the fire, the smoke assumed the form of Tayanita. She stood at the periphery of his vision, waiting in the shadow of the trees, frowning.
I won’t let you down, he promised. I’ll get revenge on Lucas de Langdon and the renegade.
The Rangers started well before dawn, paddling slowly the length of the lake, investigating every creek and inlet, asking the occasional fisherman and finding nothing. MacKim’s hopes faded by the hour, although he retained his fierce determination to seek out de Langdon. The Rangers hunted white-tailed deer and caught fish to supplement their food, and once a party of Ottowas greeted them with suspicious waves. Kennedy questioned the Ottowas from a distance, but they had not seen the Canadian.
“They said they heard of a band of Frenchmen who had run from Montreal,” Kennedy reported, “and they thought we were French.”
“They don’t know where de Langdon is, then,” MacKim said.
“They don’t know,” Kenny agreed.
On the third day from the Abenaki village, the Rangers reached the head of the lake. Leaving the canoes in the care of the others, MacKim and Kennedy scouted ahead, pushing up a small ridge where insects pestered them, and birds shrieked from the trees.
“Sir,” MacKim said. “Over here.”
Something had flattened the grass in a wide, irregular space, and the remains of a fire stood within a circle of soot-blackened stones.
“Somebody was here recently.” Kennedy knelt to examine the fire. “Cold,” he said, “more than two days old.”
“Over here, sir,” MacKim pointed to a cleared patch of ground. “Footprints, sir. Boots and moccasins.”
“That’s our men, then,” Kennedy said. “The trail is the same age as the fire; two days. They’re not gaining distance on us.”
“Nor us on them,” MacKim said. “But now we know we’re on the right track, we can move faster.”
The trail led over a steep portage to another lake that stretched in an irregular body of grey-blue water into the hazy distance. Kennedy crouched below the skyline, produced his telescope and studied the shore of the lake.
“I’m looking for smoke,” he said, “or any other trace of human occupation. Something that might attract de Langdon.”
“Can you see anything?”
“I think I see a haze.” Kennedy passed over the telescope. “Over on the western shore.”
MacKim focussed. “I see it, drifting over the trees. It might be smoke, and it might be mist.”
“It could be either,” Kennedy agreed. “We’ll approach cautiously, whatever it is. Six men can’t defeat twenty in an open battle, not even Rangers.”
Returning to their camp, Kennedy and MacKim urged the men onwards. Carrying the canoes, they struggled over the portage, slipped over the ridge with their heads down in case the fugitives were watching and eased down the other side.
“Thank God these canoes are light,” Parnell said.
Dickert smiled. “I’d hate to carry a whaleboat through this forest.”
“I wonder if we’re the first British to come here?” MacRae said.
Kennedy smiled. “Maybe we are,” he said and shoved the canoe into the lake.
Half the day had passed, and long afternoon shadows dappled the water, mingled with the reflections of the trees, so MacKim fancied he was paddling through the forest. He had developed a rhythm now, kneeling in the canoe, paddling left then right with a mechanical stroke that pushed the vessel into the clear water. At times, he felt as if he had paddled since time began. Life was nothing except movement in this exquisite landscape, watching for signs of life, careful of an ambush as the Rangers remained close to the shore, ready to land or flee. At all times, they searched for signs of their quarry, moving slowly while Kennedy scanned the shore with his telescope.
“We’re getting close to the smoke now, lads,” Kennedy warned, adjusting his telescope. “It may be our quarry or only an Indian village.”
“Sir!” Parnell hissed the warning. “Look behind us!”
There were six canoes in the flotilla, brightly coloured vessels with four warriors in each.
“Run,” Kennedy said, after a single glance. “I don’t know who they are, but they don’t look friendly.”
The Rangers powered on, increasing their speed as they dipped and thrust with their paddles, so the cool water bubbled behind them. MacKim looked over his shoulder to see the pursuing canoes spread out across the lake.
“They are Ottowas,” Kennedy peered through his telescope. “This is Abenaki territory; what the devil are they doing here?”
“Chasing us!” MacKim replied.
“Dickert,” Kennedy shouted. “Is your rifle loaded?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickert said.
“Then take a shot to ward them off. We know you’re the best shot in Canada.”
Dickert threw MacRae a look of triumph as he took his rifle, checked the priming was dry and aimed it towards the canoes.
“Are you going to let him off with that, MacRae?” MacKim asked. “Show the lieutenant who’s the better marksman.”
Shooting at speeding canoes on a choppy lake would test any rifleman’s skill, but MacKim was happy to set MacRae against Dickert. After a few moments, Dickert fired, with MacRae a few seconds later, both canoes jerking with the rifle’s recoil. The double report rang across the lake, and MacKim strained to see the result.
He did not mark the fall of either shot.
“Short,” MacRae said. “Well short, I think.”
“You were short,” Dickert shouted. “My ball grazed the leading canoe!”
Both marksmen loaded and prepared to fire again as the pursuing canoes came perceptibly closer. MacKim fancied he could hear the laboured grunts of the paddlers as they strained to close the distance.
The fleet of canoes had not faltered. If anything, MacKim thought, they had increased their speed, possibly to come within musket range. He could make out the features of the paddlers in the leading vessel and saw the second man put his paddle aside and lift a musket.
“They’re well out of range,” MacRae commented, as other paddlers followed the example of their colleague and exchanged their paddles for muskets.
“The more that stop paddling, the better,” Kennedy said, as the pursuing canoes began to fall back.
A few seconds later, the warriors fired an irregular volley that kicked up small fountains of water a good hundred and fifty yards short of the Rangers’ canoes.
“The range is far too long,” Dickert said calmly. “They may as well throw stones. All they’re doing is slowing themselves down.”
MacKim agreed. “Get back to paddling, then, Dickert. If you think the enemy is within range, fire away.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Dickert laid his rifle down, covering the lock and muzzle with a piece of tarred cloth as protection against the water that lapped inboard. He lifted his paddle and dug in deeply, pushing the canoe at speed.
After five minutes of firing without a shot coming close, the pursuers gave up. The musketeers laid aside the muskets and grabbed paddles.
“Now they’ll get closer,” Kennedy shouted across from his canoe.
“We’ll fire if they get within a couple of hundred yards,” MacKim replied. He saw MacRae patting his rifle and nodded to Dickert. “MacRae thinks he’s a better shot than you.”
Dickert gave a little chuckle. “He’s not,” he said. “I’ve been firing rifles since before I could walk. I even make the damned things.”
With all their warriors paddling, the Indian canoes made faster progress, inching closer until MacKim nodded to Dickert, who lifted his rifle once more.
“Wait until you can’t miss,” MacKim said. “We’ve limited ammunition.”
The pursuing canoes altered their formation to an arrow shape, with the largest vessel in front.
“That must be a chief or a war captain,” MacKim said. “See if you can hit him.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Dickert leaned the barrel of his rifle on the side of the canoe. “I’ve never fired from a moving canoe before.”
“Look ahead!” Kennedy shouted, gesticulating in front.
A second flotilla of canoes had put out from the shore and approached from the front. A dozen strong, the new fleet extended across the Rangers’ path.
“We’re trapped, by God!” Parnell roared.