“Fort Peterson fell badly. The commander escaped on horseback with his wife. Only sixty Patriot militia made it out alive. The rest were tortured, slain and scalped. The countryside has been laid to waste, homes burned, settlers burned in their beds, children abducted. Now the War Chief Thayendanegea has congregated larger numbers of his Mohawks along the Susquehanna near Windsor to attack frontier settlements in retaliation to the Continental Army attacking and destroying Onaguaga and Tionnontigo.”
“What are their numbers?” Joshua asked.
“Like the leaves. There are nearly two hundred and fifty Tory Rangers, three hundred and fifty Hanau chasseurs.”
Joshua gazed off over the mountain. Hanau chasseurs were German light infantry troops trained for rapid maneuvering. “What else?”
“They have forty experienced artillerists equipped with a pair of six-pounder cannon, two three-pounders and four cohorns. With the thousand Indians assembled under the principled command of Thayendanegea of the Mohawks, Cornplanter, Onontio of the Onondagas and Gucinge of the Senecas, you have a combined force of approximately two thousand men under St. Leagear.
Joshua had met Brigadier General Robert St. Leagear in London, a King’s man, not an expert strategist nor a daring or imaginative commander, more a pompous ass. Yet he was probably smart enough to listen to Butler and his experiences battling in the wilderness.
A stripe of fear rattled up his spine. Fort Stephens was closest to the march and ill-prepared for the coming onslaught. What lay next in the path of the British legion was the vulnerable treasure trove of Blackberry Valley. How could he be in two places at once? If he ever needed Two Eagles by his side, it was now. But wishing wasn’t going to make it happen.
“Captain Milburn Snapes has brought troops from the north adding to the numbers. It will be a slaughter.”
Damn! Joshua had spent long hours trailing Snapes to discover the man was on his doorstep! Juliet was at risk. He raked his fingers through his hair. Every contingency unforeseen.
“I’m packing up my family and heading out,” said Jacob. “There’s an extra horse in the barn.”
Joshua rode through the woods, hightailing it down an old Indian trail, making it to Fort Stephens. Covered with mud and exhausted from his hard ride, he slid off his horse, and approached Colonel Elijah Cummings, taking stock of ammunition and rifle supplies.
Joshua saluted. “Bad news. You are about to have several British visitors and their companions camp on your doorstep.”
Cummings blew out his cheeks. “Thank you, Joshua. We have made fortifications in the past months expecting a visit of this nature and have received as of yesterday, a good supply of gunpowder by Colonel Mellen’s detachment, but our supply of lead remains low. We have fourteen pieces of artillery in the fort, although small and without the range or effectiveness of the artillery your intelligence indicates the enemy is bringing with them. Ours will not be able to reach them in their positions, but if the enemy tries to carry us by storm, they will receive great benefit of our cannon.”
“With numerous miles and hours before dawn, I must travel the distance to warn the people of Blackberry Valley.” Joshua cinched the saddle tighter on his stallion and mounted.
Colonel Cummings pivoted, his clear blue eyes, glacial now, focused on his men, and shouted out orders. “Man the parapets. Shoot only when a sure target is in sight. Nine shots per riflemen each day. Recover any enemy lead that is shot into this place and melt it down into new balls for us. By the grace of God, we are going to defend this place.”
“Colonel Cummings, if you can send any men to Blackberry Valley—”
The gates closed behind Joshua and a rousing cheer followed him down the road from men on the parapet. He spurred his horse, doubting that Cummings would have any men available to send to the valley. Two miles to the west, he jerked back on the reins. The horse reared, then settled on all fours. Joshua stood up on the stirrups, alerted to the spirited notes of bugles and fifes, and the stirring, cadenced rattling of marching drums, joined by the piercing squeal of bagpipes, and the unnerving cries of Indians. Joshua pushed his mount higher up the mountain, leaning low over the saddle to avoid tree limbs, finally breaking through thick undergrowth at the top.
Below St. Leagear’s army marched toward Fort Stephens in precise ranks and files, the regulars clad in scarlet, Johnson’s Royals in green and the Germans in blue, with the early sunlight glittering off the swords and blackened gun barrels, and all the while, moving from cover to cover on each flank were war-painted Indians with tomahawks, knives, war clubs and muskets. Like maggots in rotten meat, the countryside crawled with men. Hope was all he possessed—yet that was an act of desperate defiance against monstrous odds.
With probing gaze, Joshua swept a hand across his forehead to get rid of sweat and estimated the numbers. Only five hundred warriors, half as much from what the messenger had indicated. A stripe of fear ran up his back. Where were the rest? Damn! They had divided their offense.
Blackberry Valley.
His blood ran cold. He had to get to her.
He had promised to protect Juliet.
Waneek’s words haunted him.“What is duty compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms? Duty is what the Earth Mother Spirit has fashioned us for love. That is our greater glory.”
Joshua hoped he wasn’t too late.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Elias’ stirrings roused her to awareness. Juliet pushed beneath the covers, wallowing in the delicious disinclination to move out of a womblike comfort. Thomas touched her shoulder. He’d done the night watch.
Shots. A whole barrage of shots. She bolted from the bed. At the window, she stood paralyzed. Warriors charged from the marsh toward the Powers’ home their skins shining like flashing copper, their faces painted with grotesque streaks. Indians and red-coated British soldiers swarmed from every direction.
A half-dozen of colonial soldiers on the Powers’ porch fell at the first firing and the others ran around in chaos like ants kicked from an anthill. Colonel Ichabod Allerton, still in his slippers and shirtsleeves ran from the home, pistol in his hand, his tunic flapping and heading north toward the fort. Lieutenant Johnson followed.
Reigning tall in their midst stood Onontio. He pursued them across the field. A warrior threw a spear that penetrated the lieutenant’s back and he tumbled to the ground. Indians were upon him, knives plunged into his body and one held his scalp held high above his head.
Cannons fired from the fort but were useless. The embrasures Joshua had suggested weren’t made. Several yards from the fort, Allerton turned to fire a shot. His final act of stupidity. If he hadn’t broken stride he would have made it. Onontio threw his tomahawk. End over end it twirled and into the colonel’s forehead. Due to the unfinished parapets, soldiers in the fort were unable to fire their guns due to the risk of exposing themselves. Onontio ran up to Allerton, jerked the tomahawk out of the colonel’s head and scalped him. Onontio tracked back to the town.
