***
Captain Écuyer stood before his window in his spartan office, staring out over the fort. His hands were fisted tightly behind his back, his brown wig and rust-colored uniform clean and neat down to the square loops of his buttons. “It’s worse than you think. Gladwin is besieged by Pontiac and his Ottawa. Forts and outposts across the northwest are falling or have already fallen—Sandusky, St. Joseph, Presque Isle. Gladwin’s last dispatch said the Wyandot and Potawatomi had joined with Pontiac. Curse their barbaric race!”
Nicholas leaned against the closed door, crossed his arms, bit back his reply. He knew Indians weren’t the only ones capable of barbarity, but now was not the time to argue. “I assume Governor Amherst has reinforcements on the way.”
Écuyer gave a rather ungentlemanly snort, and in his frustration his slight French accent seeped through. Swiss by birth, he seemed to strive to be more English than Parliament. “Our esteemed commander believes we are exaggerating the strength of the enemy and giving up hard-fought ground too easily. He thinks the fighting is over and the war won. Still, Dalyell is on his way to Fort Detroit with Rogers’ Ranging Company, and Colonel Bouquet is supposedly marching toward us with his regiment of Scottish Highlanders—all told about eight hundred men.”
Against a few thousand Indians—Ottawas, Ojibwe, Wyandot, Potawatomi, Shawnee, Seneca, Chippewa, Sauk, Kikkapoo, and Miami—all fighting together to protect their homeland against invading whites. Rogers’ Rangers and Highland Scots were good, but they weren’t invincible.
“How many men do you have?”
Écuyer turned away from the window, faced Nicholas, his gaze traveling over Nicholas’s trail-worn clothing. “We’re built to hold one thousand, but I’ve got only three hundred, counting traders, farmers, and backwoodsmen—the riffraff of a colony spawned in hell. They bring women and children, useless people who consume our resources but cannot fight! In all, His Majesty is feeding nearly four hundred and twenty mouths each day. We’re desperately short of wood and flour. If we’re put to hard siege like Gladwin, we won’t last long.”
A colony spawned in hell. Écuyer’s loathing for those beneath his social station wasn’t unusual, but under these circumstances, Nicholas found it particularly distasteful. On the frontier, such biases were a luxury none of them could afford. Braddock’s arrogance and subsequent defeat ought to have been proof enough of that.
“What of artillery? I saw a few six-pounders on the walls.”
“We can mount as many as eighteen cannon, but I’ve half that—three six-pounders, twice as many three-pounders.”
Better than Nicholas had hoped, but not terribly useful in a siege. Shingiss could simply cordon off the fort, keep his warriors out of range, and wait until starvation forced Écuyer to surrender. Then it would be an outright slaughter.
“Perhaps it’s wise to begin rationing now.”
Écuyer turned away from the window, met his gaze. “Aye, a sensible plan. I’d like to send parties out to gather spelt and what food they can from the king’s garden. I’d appreciate it if you could oversee those operations, Nicholas. I’ve been told there’s no Englishman alive who is stealthier or knows the way of the heathen better than you.”
So this was why Écuyer had wanted to speak with him alone. The two of them had never really known each other, never been more than acquaintances. Nicholas had thought it odd to receive a summons to the commander’s office the moment he’d arrived. “We’ll see.”
Écuyer took a step toward him, betrayed his eagerness. “I’m ready to restore your rank as a first lieutenant and put all of our resources at your disposal.”
“I didn’t come here to join your regiment.”
Écuyer’s nostrils flared ever so slightly, and he spoke in clipped syllables. “Surely you intend to fight!”
“If Shingiss cannot be persuaded to leave in peace, there will be no choice for any of us but to fight.”
Écuyer seemed to relax at this. “Shingiss and Turtle’s Heart have no intention of leaving. They’ve been encamped for nearly two weeks. They accosted eleven traders at the mouth of Bear Creek two weeks ago, warned them to flee, then ambushed them when they sought safety. Damnable liars, all of them!”
ShingissandTurtle’s Heart. The situation was dire, indeed. Turtle’s Heart was a great orator, a leader who carried tremendous weight with his people. His presence beside his king meant the full might of the united Delaware nation was pitted against them.
As he’d feared, Nicholas had led Bethie from mortal peril into terrible danger.
The weariness of the past week seemed abruptly to catch up with him. “Is there aught else, Captain?”
“Not for now. You’ve had a long and tiring journey. It was damned heroic of you to lead those settlers to safety, I must say.”
“Heroism had nothing to do with it.” He hadn’t intended to rescue anyone.
Écuyer smiled indulgently. “I’ve set aside quarters for you and your... wife in the officers’ barracks. My men will see you get whatever you need.”
It was on the tip of Nicholas’s tongue to tell him that Bethie was not his wife in any sense of the word, but he stopped himself. If she weren’t housed with him, she’d find herself sleeping in barracks among ruthless backwoodsmen who hadn’t tupped a woman in years. And after the way he had kissed her in full view of the entire fort, he’d best claim her in some fashion or she would likely find herself the focus of lustful advances from men who thought she was an easy mark. There were, after all, at least three randy men for each woman within these walls. Without a man’s protection, she would be little more than fresh meat thrown to wolves.
“Thank you, Captain. Good day.” Nicholas opened the door to go.
“Should I send word of you to your father?”
Nicholas jerked his head around, met Écuyer’s gaze. “Don’t even think about it.”
***
