Defiant (46 page)

The captain nodded, his face now ashen. “Aye, my lord.”

Sarah stared at him through wide blue eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “But, Uncle, you cannot—”

“Farewell, Sarah. I…I have always cared deeply for you.” He leaned down, kissed her wet and salty cheek, his throat strangely tight. “Think well of me.”

When he met MacKinnon’s gaze, he saw understanding and…Was that a grudging respect? “We shall send whatever help we can. If you can hold out long enough—”

“Go. Now!”

Before I change my mind
.

The Highlander wasted not a moment, catching a tearful, pleading Sarah about her waist with one arm and disappearing around the side of the wagon. Cooke stopped once to look back, saluting before disappearing with them.

William raised his musket and, determined to create a grand distraction, called to his men. “We shall die here today, but we shall die as British soldiers! I for one should like to fight on my feet. Who is with me?”

There came a chorus of answering cries.

Humbled by their loyalty, he felt the sharp stab of regret. This was
his
fault. He’d let pride get the better of him and had ignored MacKinnon’s counsel. Now scores of Regulars who’d followed him lay dead or dying. If only he had deployed the Rangers as MacKinnon had suggested or had the Mahican at his side…

There was naught William could do now to atone but die with his men.

“Fix bayonets!” He stood, crouched low as he prepared to charge the enemy that hid in the forest. “For King and Country!”

But as he charged, William thought only of Sarah.

C
onnor drew Sarah into a deep split in a boulder and crouched down with her, a tomahawk in one hand, a pistol in the other. Sarah met his gaze, her cheeks stained with tears, a knife clutched in one bloodless hand.

He whispered to her, hoping to offer reassurance. “Easy, Sarah.”

Cooke squeezed in beside them and bent low, his musket at the ready.

The trunk of the tree that had split the rock sheltered them from view, heavy fronds from ferns covering their tracks.

And there they waited, but not for long.

More than a dozen warriors hurried along the lakeshore path, running south toward the battle, their tomahawks already bloodied. Connor knew from their beadwork and their hushed whispers that they were a mix of Wyandot—and Shawnee.

Had Sarah not been with him, he might have opened fire. He and Cooke could easily have ambushed them, using pistols and muskets and making use of the forest to slay most of them before they reached the battle and took British lives. But Connor would not risk it with Sarah present. Fighting would only attract more warriors, and if he and Cook were slain, there would be no hope for Sarah. Besides, it would take only one stray shot to kill her.

The warriors passed by, Connor listening as the sound of their breathing and the soft tread of their moccasins faded into silence. Birds sang in the trees, water lapping the sandy shore, and in the distance the sharp retort of musket fire.

Cooke looked back at him.

Connor nodded.

Keeping low, Cooke crept from their hiding place, looked cautiously about. Connor followed, motioning for Sarah to stay behind him. When he was certain the way was clear, he reached for her. Both fear and resolve on her face, she took his hand, her fingers cold, and followed where he led, as quiet as a doe.

She was in shock. He was certain of it.

Death she had seen. Battle she had seen. But never had she seen death or violence on a scale such as this.

They’d run as fast as they could, Connor drawing Sarah after him, a volley of gunfire exploding behind them as Wentworth rallied his men. The distraction had been exactly what they’d needed. Cutting down any who barred their way and trusting Cooke to bring up the rear, Connor had led her by the surest path through the carnage, as Wyandot rushed toward Wentworth’s call to battle. Balls had buzzed through the air like angry bees, the ground soaked with blood, bodies lying like broken toy soldiers. And yet as terrifying as all of this must have been for Sarah, Connor knew what horrified her most was leaving her uncle behind.

Connor could not fathom what had taken place in Wentworth’s heart back there. Connor had been prepared to die, at peace with sacrificing his life to save Sarah’s, ready to consign his soul to God.

And then…

Perhaps Connor would never understand what had gone through Wentworth’s mind, but he thanked God for it just the same. With one selfless action, Wentworth had not only done his utmost to save Sarah’s life, but he’d also given her a choice in what course that life would take.

But there was no time to think about that now.

Ahead, Connor spied nine canoes drawn up on the sand. He motioned for Cooke to stop and crouched down, drawing Sarah close beside him.

One sentry seemed to be watching over the canoes. Tall, his face painted with vermilion, he was almost certainly Shawnee.
The man turned toward them, giving them a glimpse of his face, and Connor felt Sarah stiffen and knew she’d recognized him, too.

Katakwa.

Connor knew why Katakwa was here and not in the thick of the battle. The proof hung at his side. His right hand was curled, made lame by Connor’s blade.

“Stay here. Dinnae make a sound.” Connor quietly slipped out of his tumpline pack and drew his
claidheamh mòr.

Sarah’s grip on his arm stopped him. Eyes wide with fear, she shook her head and whispered, “No!”

He smiled, gave her hand a squeeze. “I willna be long.”

Circling away from the lake and deeper into the trees, he approached from the forest, concealing himself until he stood on a rocky embankment looking down on the Katakwa. “Once you were war chief. Now you watch over canoes like a boy while other men fight.”

Caught off his guard, Katakwa whirled about. “Mack-inn-on.”

Connor jumped down to the sand. “You have traveled far in search of her, but you will not find her.”

“I will find and kill her as British soldiers killed my wife.” Katakwa’s gaze shifted to Connor’s sword, and he drew his hunting knife, holding it in his left hand. “And I will kill you. You ruined my hand, shamed me in the eyes of my people.”

“I spared your life.”

“Draw your knife, and let us fight like men.” Katakwa gestured to the hunting knife sheathed at Connor’s hip, clearly eager for Connor to put away his sword.

But Connor did not plan on giving Katakwa a second chance.

The two began to circle each other.

Connor raised his blade, sand shifting beneath his moccasins as he moved. “I have already fought you man-to-man and won. I took pity upon you for the loss of your wife and let you return home to be a father to her children. But you care more for your pride than you care for your little ones. You have pursued me and my woman, bringing fear to her heart. And today you made war on the British, who had offered you friendship. Make peace with your gods, Katakwa, for now you die.”

He gave Katakwa a moment, but Katakwa wasted it, lunging for him.

Connor swung, cleaving him diagonally from shoulder to breastbone.

He stepped back, watched as the man whose grief and pride had brought death to so many fell, dying, to the sand. And as the life left Katakwa’s eyes, Connor couldn’t help but wonder. If Morgan hadn’t been found alive and Sarah hadn’t come into his world, would Connor have become as bitter and hate-filled as the man who lay at his feet?

S
arah sat between Connor and Captain Cooke as they glided southward over the water in a stolen canoe. Connor had destroyed the others, slashing their hulls with his sword, in an effort to prevent the Shawnee from following them. But out here, on the open expanse of Lake Champlain, anyone might see them. For that reason, Connor kept the canoe far from shore, beyond the range of muskets.

Although she could not hear the battle now, musket fire and the screams of frightened, dying men far behind them, the scent of gunpowder clung to her skin, her hair, her gown. Her throat was parched from the taste of it—and the coppery tang of blood.

Uncle William!

Was he still fighting? Was he hurt, suffering, in pain? Had he been slain?

Farewell, Sarah. I have always cared deeply for you. Think well of me.

Fresh tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away. She would not diminish his sacrifice by acting in ways that might hinder their escape. If she began to weep, she would distract Connor, and so much depended upon him.

There would be time for grief later.

She forced her sadness away, trying to hide it even from herself, but Uncle William’s words continued to echo through her mind.

Farewell, Sarah. I have always cared deeply for you. Think well of me.

She’d told Uncle William that she would give anything to live her life simply as Sarah, and he had taken her at her word, freeing her from the fate her parents had chosen for her and giving her to the man he knew she loved. He’d wanted to save
her life, certainly, but more than that, he’d wanted her to be happy.

All the anger she’d felt toward him these past weeks now turned to regret, guilt a weight in her stomach. Uncle William had done well by her, showing her more compassion than her own parents, and she had repaid his care, however misguided at times, with sharp words that now came back to cut her.

I thought there were two men in this world with whom I could share my heart. You have shown me there is only one.

But Uncle William
had
seen what was in her heart. In the end, he’d understood.

Forgive me, Uncle!

A distant whistle interrupted her thoughts. “Joseph?”

Oars came out of the water, as Connor and the captain searched the shoreline.

“I didna hear it, lass. Are you certain?”

The call came again, Joseph stepping out of the cover the trees. He did not wave, but stood there, waiting for them.

Connor muttered under his breath. “Where the devil has he been?”

The men turned the canoe toward the shore, where Joseph met them, wading into the water to help drag the canoe onto the sand. He reached for Sarah, who gathered her skirts and took his hand—and gasped at the sight of him. “Joseph?”

There was a dark bruise on his forehead and healing cuts on his chest and belly.

“You’ve been wounded. What happened? Where have you been?”

He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “It is good to see you, little sister.”

They moved into the cover of the trees, Connor and Joseph speaking hurriedly in Mahican while a few dozen of Joseph’s warriors kept watch. Whatever Joseph was saying seemed to upset Connor, anger warring with anguish on his face.

Captain Cooke leaned down, speaking softly. “Something is wrong.”

Sarah’s pulse quickened.

Connor rested a hand on Joseph’s shoulder in a gesture of support, his gaze shifting to Joseph’s men as he spoke to them. It was then Sarah saw that some of them had been wounded, too, eyes blackened, bodies bruised.

And
for a moment, there was silence.

Connor broke the silence, speaking quickly, gesturing with his hands, seeming to describe the valley where they’d been attacked and the movements both of British troops and of the war party. Somewhere amidst the words she didn’t understand was one she did:
Wentworth
. Joseph’s gaze shot to hers, shock on his face. But Connor went on, saying something about Katakwa. Joseph frowned, nodded.

And then the men were on their feet again.

Joseph walked over to her and slid a big hand gently through her hair, ducking down to press his forehead gently against hers. “I am sorry, Sarah.”

He didn’t need to explain why he was sorry.

His sympathy cracked through the wall she’d tried to build around her grief. Tears blurred her vision. “Th-thank you.”

He kissed her cheek, stepped back, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “Be strong, little sister. All shall be well.”

He turned, said something to his men, and with a glance back they broke into a run, hurrying northward.

“Wh-why is he leaving?” She had no idea what had just happened.

Captain Cooke met her gaze, and she saw that he, too, was confused.

Connor took her by the arm, led her back toward the lake. “Stockbridge, Joseph’s village, was attacked a few days afore we set out from Fort Edward. He was wounded. Several of his men were slain.”

“How terrible!” Sarah wished she had known. She might have offered Joseph some words of comfort.

Captain Cooke reached the canoe first and held it steady. “The Stockbridge have always been faithful allies. We must inform Haviland.”

“Joseph feared the same war party would ambush us and had come to warn us. I told him the worst had already happened.” Connor helped Sarah into the canoe, pushed it into the water, and climbed in beside her. “He and his men are on their way to search the battle site for survivors and then track the Wyandot to free captives and claim blood vengeance.”

Sarah felt a twinge of hope. “Is there a chance they’ll find Uncle William alive?”

Connor’s brow furrowed, and he reached to cup her cheek
with one hand. “Aye, but dinnae allow yourself false hope, Sarah. There is every bit as much a chance that they will find only his body.”

T
hey reached Fort Ticonderoga just after midday. The fort was strangely quiet. No wounded had yet arrived in need of the surgeon’s skill, and only a few companies of soldiers remained within its walls. While Cooke went to make his report to Haviland, Connor led Sarah around the fort to the lower stockade, where the camp followers and laundresses—sometimes one and the same—had their small cabins. It was the only place where women, apart from officers’ wives, were permitted to be—and one of the few places where the sight of a man and woman together would not draw attention.

As he and Sarah approached, a woman he recognized stood, pointing toward him. “There ’e is, Connor MacKinnon, the one what told us to run! If not for ’im, we’d be dead—or worse! There’s no one looks out for us laundresses, but ’e did.”