For the first time since he had known him, MacKim saw Kennedy panic. The lieutenant looked around him wildly before pointing to his right. “Head for the shore!” he shouted, as the two Indian flotillas extended, blocking the Rangers from advancing or retreating.
“We can fight our way through!” MacKim roared.
“The shore!” Kennedy repeated, gesturing with his dripping paddle. “Head for the shore!”
As Kennedy’s canoe veered violently towards land, MacKim followed as the two Indian fleets merged with loud cries.
“They’re ignoring us!” Dickert replaced his rifle without firing a shot. “They’re fighting each other.”
Rather than combine to capture the Rangers, the two fleets were firing at one another. The crackle of musketry broke the peace of the lake, and warriors shouted hoarse challenges.
“Obomsawin told us there was trouble here,” MacKim said.
“Dear God in heaven,” Kennedy said. “Keep moving, Rangers, get on land!”
Steering away from a sizeable Indian village, the Rangers pushed the canoes onto a muddy shore.
“Carry the canoes!” MacKim ordered, leading by example. It was fortunate that birch bark canoes were light, for the men were shaken by the encounter. They pushed on, passed an area of neat fields and returned into the trees. The men stumbled over the uneven ground and glanced over their shoulders in case of pursuit.
“Don’t stop!” MacKim acted as rearguard, looking behind him and leaving the others to carry the canoes. “Keep moving.” He saw a woman and a group of small children watching, dismissed them as no threat and pushed on. The Rangers climbed a steep slope with a tumbling stream on their right and open woodland all around.
After an hour, with the Rangers panting for breath and the ground becoming more broken by the yard, Kennedy called a halt. The Rangers stopped at once, trying to recover shredded nerves and checking the woodland for pursuing warriors.
“Nobody is following us, sir,” MacKim reported.
The Rangers drew breath, checked their carbines with sweating hands and congratulated each other in escaping.
“They were never interested in us,” Dickert said. “The two villages must have some dispute, and we wandered in by accident.”
“Thank God for small mercies,” Kennedy said, breathing deeply. “We’ll have a rest here for an hour or so.” He forced a grin. “Grab some food, boys, and get your breath back; that was some climb.”
With his back to a tree and the sweat drying on him, MacKim looked over an ocean of treetops. “This is a beautiful country,” he said. “As MacRae already said, it’s a pity Man has to spoil it with warfare.”
Kennedy pushed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with shaking fingers. “Warfare seems endemic to human culture.” He waved the stem of his pipe towards the forest. “I’ve seen enough wilderness to last me forever. As soon as this war is over, I’m going to London.”
MacKim nodded. “You’ve said that before.”
“It’s what I dream of,” Kennedy said. “I want to get away from the wilderness for a while. I want to sleep safe in my bed in the most civilised city in the world.” He leaned back. “I want to see the palaces and the great streets, the parks and commons, the River Thames and the theatres.” He lit his pipe and drew smoke into his lungs. “Most of all, I want to go to the theatre in Covent Garden.”
MacKim smiled. “What’s so special about Covent Garden?”
“Charlotte always wanted to go there,” Kennedy said with a smile. “My wife. I promised her that I’d take her someday, always someday, next year, or the next, but that day never came.” His voice dipped, and MacKim knew he was close to breaking down.
“It’s a pilgrimage, then,” MacKim said. “A pilgrimage to the memory of Charlotte.”
“That’s right,” Kennedy agreed. “It’s a pilgrimage. Will you come with me?”
“I will,” MacKim said. “We’ll remember Charlotte together in Covent Garden.” He knew his words sealed not only the bargain but also their friendship.
“I can smell smoke,” MacRae said quietly.
“So can I,” Dickert agreed.
They were plodding on, carrying the canoes and stumbling on the rough ground.
“We’ll avoid it,” Kennedy decided, then quickly changed his mind. “No, no, I’m wrong. It might help us find de Langdon. I’ll investigate. MacKim, you take over here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kennedy returned within the hour, with his face set and shadows in his eyes. “They’ve been here,” he said. “And it’s a massacre.”
“We’ve seen massacres before.” MacKim checked his flint and stood up. “Come on, Rangers.”
The small village was a charred ruin, with bodies lying in the grotesque attitudes of death. Some of the corpses belonged to old men, although most were women and children. The majority of the women were spread-eagled on the ground as if they had been violated.
“It might not have been de Langdon’s party,” Parnell said.
“Count the heads,” Kennedy snarled.
There were none. The attackers had decapitated every corpse.
MacKim sighed. “At least we know we’re on the right track.”
“It’s reassuring,” Parnell said calmly. “If de Langdon knew that Kennedy’s Rangers were hunting him, he’d be more careful.”
Kennedy nodded. “His carelessness will cost him his life. Keep going,” he ordered, yet although he sounded as determined as ever, some of the spring had gone from his step. He looked like an old man.
MacKim put a hand on Kennedy’s shoulder. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Bitter memories,” Kennedy said.
“Charlotte?”
“Charlotte.”
They moved on, following the trail through open woodland, always wary of an ambush.
“Leave the canoes,” Kennedy ordered. “We’re getting close.”
MacRae nodded. “I can smell death,” he said.
The Rangers upended the canoes and slid them beneath the trees, placing a pile of branches on top as camouflage.
“I hope we can find them on our return,” Ramsay said.
“See these trees?” MacKim indicated an unusual trio of twisted trees ten yards to the left. “That’s our marker.”
“Do you get the nightmares?” Kennedy asked, as they toiled up another steep slope. “The nightmares?” MacKim repeated the phrase, to allow him a few moments to think. He did not like to reveal his weaknesses and counted the nightmares in that category.
“I do,” Kennedy said. “I dream most nights. I see Charlotte as she died and hear the children screaming for my help, yet I can do nothing but watch.” He paused. “It was like that last village.”
MacKim was silent for a long time before he replied. “That must be terrible,” he said. “How do you cope?”
“I hope every night that there will be no more bad dreams,” Kennedy said. “And every morning, I hope that was the last one.”
MacKim nodded and touched Kennedy’s arm. “They will end when we avenge their deaths," he said.
I hope.
MacKim walked on, stopping at the crest of a ridge to view the landscape, a never-ending vista of forest and lakes beneath a sky of low grey clouds.
“Yes,” he said at last, dragging the words from a reluctant conscience. “Yes, I get the nightmares.”
“What are yours?”
Again, MacKim was quiet as he pondered his answer, and again he told the truth. “I have three,” he said. “One is of my brother as the redcoats burned him alive on Culloden Moor. The second is when de Langdon or the renegade murdered Tayanita.”
They walked on, ducking under low branches and leaping across a fast-flowing stream.
“You said you had three,” Kennedy prompted.
“Three?”
“Three nightmares,” Kennedy reminded.
“Yes. The third is of every man I have killed. I see their faces and their accusing eyes as they point their fingers at me.”
Kennedy nodded. “Ah,” he said. “That one.” He stopped and held a hand in the air. “I heard something there.”
“It was musketry, sir,” Ramsay said. “I heard it as well.”
“More murders,” Kennedy said. “Come on, boys.” He led them at a smart trot, each man covering his immediate colleague and watching the surroundings.
“It’s stopped,” Parnell said. “I can’t hear anything.”
MacKim agreed. The silence was as significant as the gunfire had been. The Rangers waited for a minute, then five, looking around, aware of the dangers that silence might signify. MacKim felt palpable relief when the bird-song began again.
“That’s better,” Kennedy said. “Move on, lads, but slowly.”
The buzzing of a myriad flies alerted them to the body. It lay under a rough screen of branches with one arm outstretched and a bullet wound in its chest.
“Is that another victim?”
MacKim knelt to investigate. “It’s an Indian,” he said. “A warrior.”
“An Abenaki, and he’s been shot,” Kennedy said. “I wonder what happened here.”
“There was a fight.” Parnell indicated powder burns on two adjacent trees and torn cartridges on the grass. “Two groups fired at each other.” He pointed to bloodstains on the ground and a scar across the bark of a third tree. “I think a knife or a bayonet make this mark.”
Kennedy nodded. “There are more cartridge papers here,” he lifted one, “French, not British. That would be the firing we heard yesterday.”
“There was one company, and they argued and split.” Parnell interpreted the signs.
Kennedy scanned the ground. “You’re correct, Parnell. One party, the larger, moved that way, northward, and the other, much smaller, headed west.” He looked up, met MacKim’s eyes for a moment and looked away. “They must have disagreed about something, perhaps even the direction of travel.”
“Which trail do we follow?” MacKim asked.
“The larger,” Kennedy said at once. “I’d guess that one or two of the Abenaki decided to return to their homes, and de Langdon objected. He wanted to keep his little army together.”
“Here’s another body.” Parnell uncovered the corpse of a French regular, curled into a foetal ball beside a tree. “And I think another three wounded, judging by the blood. These men had quite a disagreement.”
“All the better,” MacKim said. “The more they kill each other, the fewer to oppose us.”
“Take the van, Parnell,” Kennedy ordered, “and we’ll follow the larger group.”
They moved on until night found them at a patch of swampy ground at the foot of a gentle slope.
“I’ve lost the trail,” Parnell reported, swatting at the flying insects that clouded around his head.
“Yes,” Kennedy said. “We won’t stay here. Move higher up the slope, away from the flies and the marsh. I like to see my surroundings. We’ll cast around for the trail in the morning.”
“Have we lost them, sir?” Ramsay asked.
“Only temporarily,” Kennedy assured him. “We’ve not travelled all this way to give up at a Canadian swamp.”
The flies followed them for a hundred yards, but a slight breeze protected the Rangers as they camped in the more open woodland.
“No fire tonight,” Kennedy ordered. “I don’t think de Langdon is far away.”
MacRae lifted his head. “They’re close, sir. I can smell the evil.”
MacKim nodded; he could sense them as well, somewhere close in the night. He looked around for Tayanita, but she seemed to have deserted him.
“Have you left me, Tayanita?” he whispered into the dark. “I am getting used to your presence.”
“Who are you talking to, Sergeant?” Dickert asked.
“He’s praying, Dicky; leave him alone!” Ramsay said.
MacRae put a hand on the nearest tree. “No,” he said, so softly that only his immediate neighbours could hear. “The sergeant was talking to the dead.”
“MacKim, you’re on watch,” Kennedy said. “The rest of you get some sleep. I fear tomorrow might be a bloody day.”
MacKim nodded; he knew he would not sleep that night. The wind in the trees sounded like the moans of the dead, and Tayanita was out there, somewhere, watching him.
The noises wakened the Rangers shortly after midnight. It was a cacophony of screams and yells, with bursts of deep laughter and the occasional crack of a firearm.
“It’s been building for a while,” MacKim said.
“Gather round,” Kennedy ordered, and the Rangers came closer. “I’ll wager that’s our men attacking some Indian village.”
MacKim touched the lock of his musket. “Are we going to stop them, sir?”
Kennedy did not answer directly. “Head for the noise,” he said. “By the volume, the enemy will be too preoccupied to hear us.” His teeth gleamed white as he grinned. “At least we won’t have to scout for their tracks.”
The noises came from the Rangers’ left, on the fringes of the marshland, and effectively masked the Rangers’ approach. They moved at some speed, occasionally stumbling over the rough ground, cursing as they struggled to overcome their weariness. A sudden flare made them all stop and crouch until Kennedy waved them on.
“That’s a fire,” Kennedy said. “The enemy has lit a fire to guide us.”
“That’s kind of them,” MacKim said.
The noise increased as the Rangers closed, with individual voices rising high. One woman screamed, again and again, the sound painful to MacKim’s ears.
“De Langdon is having his fun.” Ramsay tried to sound callous.
“As long as he’s concentrating on the villagers, he won’t think of us,” Dickert said.
“Maybe.” Kennedy was more cautious. “Parnell, move ahead and check for sentinels. De Langdon has been clever so far; it would be unlike him to drop his guard.”
Parnell jogged ahead, weaving from side to side and moving from cover to cover.
“Spread out, boys,” Kennedy ordered, as they approached the fire. “We don’t want to give the enemy a good target.”
Parnell arrived ten minutes later. “No sentries, sir,” he said. “De Langdon’s men are having fun in the village.”
“I know exactly what sort of fun they are having,” Kennedy said softly.
When they stopped on the hillside, a hundred yards above the village, the scene was like something from MacKim’s perception of hell. The Indian village sat at the edge of another lake, with the marsh on one side and a cleared area of cultivated fields on the other. A single, simple palisade surrounded a dozen longhouses, two of which were burning. In the light of the flames, MacKim could see figures moving around.
“De Langdon has arrived,” Kennedy said. He swore softly as the woman screamed again, long and loud.
“Are we moving in, sir?” MacKim half-cocked his musket and checked the flint for the third time since they left their camp.
“Not yet,” Kennedy’s voice was strained. “Wait.”
MacKim felt the Rangers shift restlessly behind him. “People are suffering down there, sir.”
“Wait, Sergeant. That’s an order.”
MacKim swore under his breath as he saw a broad-chested Canadian chase a woman around the burning building. For a second, MacKim imagined Tayanita in the woman’s place. He began to rise, but Kennedy roughly pushed him back down.
“Not yet,” Kennedy snarled. He was shaking, and MacKim wondered what mental agony he was enduring, reliving the death of his family in similar circumstances.
“People are dying there.”
Kennedy flicked MacKim’s bonnet off his head. “People? How is your scalp, Sergeant?”
Madness. MacKim saw the madness in Kennedy’s eyes and realised that he was not alone in balancing on the edge of reason. Perhaps every soldier has to embrace insanity to survive the horror of war. Maybe Chisholm is wrong; war is not chess, but a much deeper, darker game the devil plays with men’s minds as well as their bodies.
MacKim pushed away the thoughts; he needed to reason if he was to live through these days. He needed to use all his faculties.
“I told you what the Indians and Canadians did to my family, MacKim.” Little specks of froth appeared at the corners of Kennedy’s mouth as he spoke. “Do you think I care what happens in this Indian village?”
MacKim shook his head. “No, sir.” He understood. He could see Tayanita standing in front of him, shaking her head.
What are you trying to tell me, Tayanita? What message are you sending me? Is that really you standing there, or is my mind creating you to guide me?
“Wait.” Kennedy repeated his earlier order.
The noise increased to a crescendo and then gradually decreased.
Kennedy hugged his musket closer to his body, caressing it like a woman. Only MacKim saw the bright sparkle of tears in the man’s eyes.
“Now,” Kennedy said softly. Standing up, he walked slowly forward, with the Rangers following.
“We’ll go straight through the gate,” Kennedy ordered. “And shoot any Canadian, French or Indian warrior you see, except de Langdon. Leave him to me.”
Or for me, MacKim said to himself. If I see that man first, I’ll finish him. His hands tightened their grip on his musket at the thought.
Working in pairs, the Rangers walked through the village, killing without mercy. Even after years on campaign, MacKim had never seen anything like the scenes in the village as the drunken, violent invaders ran riot. After only a couple of minutes, MacKim lost any sympathy for the men the Rangers shot like rats in the bottom of a barrel. Rape, pillage, casual brutality and murder seemed the order of the day, with the Rangers a cleansing agent.
The irregular crackle of musketry sounded through the screams and yells as Kennedy’s Rangers scoured the village.
“I’m looking for a tall Canadian with a tattooed face,” MacKim said in French to the terrified women, then he repeated the words in Abenaki. The women stared at him in incomprehension.
“Has anybody seen a tattooed Canadian?” MacKim asked the same question.
Two of the invaders lurched from a house beside MacKim. He glanced over them. One wore the uniform of a French regular, now battered and stained, while the other was an Indian, although of what tribe, MacKim did not know.
“I’m looking for a Canadian with a tattooed face,” MacKim said. “I’m looking for Lucas de Langdon.”
As the regular immediately ran away, the Indian drew a knife and jumped at MacKim, who levelled his musket and shot him without compulsion. When the Indian staggered back, MacKim crashed the musket-butt onto the man’s face. He did not see what happened to the Frenchman but reloaded without haste. There was always plenty of time to kill.
Only when he reached the final house did MacKim find somebody that he recognised.
The renegade emerged from the door, squat, bare-chested and bald. Firelight reflected from the hatchet at his belt, while he held a bayonetted musket in his hands.
“Who the hell are you?” the renegade snarled in his flat English accent.
“Do you recognise me?” MacKim stopped in front of him, preventing any of the other Rangers from approaching. He eyed the row of scalps at the renegade’s belt.
“No.” The renegade held his bayonet, ready to thrust. “I don’t.”
“Maybe now?” MacKim removed his bonnet to reveal his scalped head.
“No.” The renegade gave a sour grin. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he looked a dangerous man. The brand on his chest, the letter D, told the world that he was a recaptured deserter, a man who had run from the army at least twice.
“You helped scalp me.” MacKim allowed the red rage to overcome him. “You were one of the men who murdered my woman.”
The renegade’s grin widened. “Plenty more women in the world,” he said. “You can have the two in here once I’m finished with them.”
The callousness of the renegade’s statement only heightened MacKim’s anger. He saw Tayanita standing in the doorway, frowning.
“I’m going to kill you,” MacKim said.
The renegade lunged without warning, nearly catching MacKim off guard. He parried in time, with the renegade’s bayonet clashing against the barrel of his musket.
“Sergeant!” MacKim heard Dickert’s voice from behind him and realised the Rangers had formed a circle around them, with a sprinkling of the village women also watching.
“Why?” MacKim asked, as he warily circled the renegade. “Why did you join the French? Does your oath of allegiance mean nothing to you?”
“My what?” The renegade spat on the ground. “That for king and country.”
“Deserting’s one thing, but joining the enemy’s another.” MacKim feinted to the man’s throat, withdrew and tried for his chest. The renegade parried both attempts.
“I was pressed into the army, Sawney,” the renegade said.
MacKim nodded. He knew of the system where the army could forcibly conscript any unemployed and notoriously idle character. The unwilling recruit would have to serve for five years or until the end of the war, whichever was the longer.
“You were not a volunteer then.” MacKim was less surprised that the renegade had joined the French. With neither patriotism nor pride in his regiment, the pressed men were usually bad characters and seldom made good soldiers. They were one reason the army needed such ferocious discipline.
As MacKim spoke, the renegade lunged forward, feinting left and thrusting for MacKim’s belly. MacKim doubled up as the blade ripped through his tunic, nicking the skin and drawing blood.
“Next time, Sawney,” the renegade said. He was fast and robust, with his eyes devoid of any emotion. At the periphery of his vision, MacKim saw MacRae level his rifle as if about to shoot the renegade.
“No!” MacKim said. He straightened up, feeling the blood seeping from the fresh wound in his stomach.
“Come on then, Sawney,” the renegade challenged and feinted again. This time, MacKim expected the move and subsequent lunge; he ignored the feint, parried the lunge, and thrust forward, low down. His bayonet caught the renegade in the groin, opening a deep wound from which dark blood flowed.
As the renegade winced, MacKim recovered his bayonet, stabbed the man in the hand to make him drop his musket, and delivered a killing blow to the throat. The renegade sunk to his knees, choking.
Tayanita was back, as solid as she had been in life, watching the renegade writhe on the ground.
“I didn’t even know his name,” MacKim said as the renegade died.