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  “Then we will have to offer him another enticement to make sure he returns to our camp. Choose two men to assist you. And take the scrawny jack ass with you. You can tell him we have horses here if he can assist us in serving his king.”

  Ж

  The three Hessian mercenaries found Grant napping against his dead horse’s neck, a fistful of her mane laid across his face to keep the sun out of his eyes.

  Or he appeared to be napping.

  “What took you so long?” he asked hoarsely, never sitting up nor removing the mare’s coarse black hairs.

  Hermann ignored the question. What difference did it make anyway? “We have an animal for you to ride back to our camp. Once there, you can have your choice of horses. That is, if you are willing to assist the colonel. Oh, and if I vouch for you, he will share his drink with you. He is very choosy about who he drinks with, so, if all goes well on the ride back…”

  “Hmph.” Grant’s mouth was so dry, it was hard to speak. He knew what the pretty blond soldier meant: don’t kill me or you won’t get any whisky. He reached up and pulled a clump of horsehair away from his eyes. Staring at him were two men: one old but sturdy-looking soldier; the other younger, in homespun pants and a jacket that surely belonged to someone much shorter. He was taller than the other two, but lanky and wearing an eye patch. Both looked meaner than the soldier who had discovered him earlier. He’d have to look out for them.

  “Ugh.” The puny donkey they had for him would probably support his weight, but definitely wasn’t worth stealing. Its legs were so short, he’d have to have a two-day head start to get away from this trio of mercenaries. Well, whatever drink they had back at camp had to be better than nothing. Or horse’s blood. And when he decided it was time to leave, there were at least three prime horses he could choose from. And maybe other goods, too.

  Ж

  No one greeted the four riders when they came into camp. That was per the colonel’s orders. “Pay no attention to them. Go about your business. If this man does have information we need, we don’t want him to think it has any value. Hermann and the others will bring him to me, without ceremony.”

  Sergeant Bressler passed by the front of the tent when he saw them approach and casually ruffled the door flap to let the colonel know they had returned. He then stood tall, arms crossed in front of his big belly. No one would see the commander unless he wanted to be seen.

  “Sergeant, I have a man here who may know the location of the Colonial militia’s headquarters. Would you see if Colonel Mannheim is still interested?” Hermann asked, suppressing a smirk. They didn’t have a clue to where the patriots were meeting. Any information would be very welcomed.

  The sergeant disappeared into the tent briefly, then came out and wordlessly motioned for Hermann and his informant to enter. He shut the tent flap securely after them and shuddered. He looked at the mountains. He didn’t know the weather patterns in this Carolina region, but it looked as if a storm was moving in. A bowl of hot stew, a loaf of bread, and a shared pint would take the chill off the winter wind, but all they had left were weevilly crumbs, moldy cheese, and creek water. And now another mouth to feed.

  Ж

  “This is Colonel Mannheim,” Hermann said, his hands behind his back lest the rogue decided he wanted the buttons on his cuffs.

  Grant ignored both him and the officer as his eyes roamed over the well-appointed tent, subconsciously sniffing the air for whisky. “You said there’d be drink,” he said, glaring at the young soldier.

  Hermann blushed in embarrassment, then decided that ignoring the man’s comment was better than responding to it. Let his uncle explain the ration situation. Or not. The older man knew what to say to whom, and when. His rank was not just because of his family’s name. He had earned many medals on his own merit. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Grant.” His mouth was too parched to say his full name—not that they needed to know it. He tried to snarl, but his upper lip was so dry, it split. Instead, he let out a guttural grunt and glared at the man in charge.

  “Mr. Grant, I apologize that I don’t have any strong drink to offer. I do have a small amount of tea. I could have the sergeant brew a pot of England’s finest for you, if you’d like.”

  Hermann was glad he was standing behind this Grant person. He couldn’t suppress his grin at the insult his uncle had just bestowed.

  Grant didn’t correct the name—that would have taken too much spit—but grasped the small crystal glass from the small table next to the colonel’s cot. He sniffed it. “Some of this will do,” he said, then tried to lick the inside of the glass. That didn’t work, and now he was having a hard time getting his dry tongue back in his mouth.

  “Here, allow me. Maybe there is still some flavor left in the vessel,” the colonel said, and poured in a splash of water from his canteen.

  Grant swished it around, then drank the slightly flavored creek water. It was enough to bring his voice back, but not what he wanted. “I was told you had drink and would share…”

  Hermann rolled his eyes, but the colonel wasn’t looking at him. Mannheim could tell that Grant didn’t care about the difference between truth and lies. Whichever got him what he wanted was the one he’d use.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Grant, but my keg of drink came loose en route and fell from the supply wagon. Broken. I only had my personal flask and now it is depleted. The chill of the weather, you see.” The colonel offered his lame excuse for the shortage, then started fishing for information.

  “It appears the locals are the only ones with fine whisky available. So, if you can lead us to where the militia have their meetings, I’m sure they provide drink to those in attendance…”

  Grant clenched his jaws. It was either that or throw a punch. He might be able to land a good one on the overly-confident officer, but that satisfaction would be short-lived. He wouldn’t be able to escape with four horses in tow, or even get out of this heavily-manned camp on foot. It was time for him to think, not fight.

  The colonel waited patiently for several long moments before commenting again. “If you cannot help us, we can offer you a hot meal and a spot to bed down for the night. Then, we will let you be on your way. I’m sorry, but we cannot give you a horse just because you need one. If that were the case…”

  Grant stared into the empty glass, ignoring the officer’s blathering. He reminded him of that chatterbox, Marty. Suddenly, he remembered his other dilemma: how to get back to the Indians’ village to retrieve his nephew. His eyes sparkled as he realized he could take care of all his problems with one well-constructed lie.

  “There’s a small tribe of Injuns not too far from here…” he began, pausing to fabricate a story that would surely hook the soldiers into doing his dirty work for him.

  “We have no problem with the natives here. We leave them alone, and they don’t intrude on our efforts. What we are looking for are rebellious Colonials. Militia. Men with armament: rifles, muskets, and cannons. Leaders who incite the locals to fight against King George and his soldiers.”

  “Rifles?” Grant asked, his voice still gruff, but smile radiant.

  “Yes. Do you know where there are rifles? We want to make sure the rebels don’t get them.”

  Grant moved closer to the colonel and began speaking softly, seductively. “Those Injuns you seem to think are so innocent are hiding a man who buys muskets and rifles. I don’t doubt he has a stash of stolen cannons, too. Taken right from underneath the noses of British soldiers who were busy tending to the sick and wounded from that last battle… Can’t recall the name of it, but there was lots of blood and confusion… Anyway, this Marty fellow—he’s gray-haired, tall, and wears one of them loincloths—he’s the spy who talked the Injuns into hiding all those weapons at their little village.”

  Grant sniffed the air around him, then looked at the tent flap. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find them. They’re nearby. I could smell them on my way in. Maybe one of your
scouts could look for their sign. You know, the stink and the marks of their unshod ponies.”

  The colonel sucked in his lower lip and bit it. He’d bet his last peppermint candy that this Grant fellow was lying, but he didn’t have any other leads. And his men needed a mission to take their minds off of their austere circumstances.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Grant, I’m willing to bet that if this Marty and his fellow patriot spies stole guns and cannons from the British, they also stole their drink. If you help our scouts find their site, I’ll give you half the whisky we find. Which horse you get and any other goods you receive will have to be negotiated.”

  “What’s knee goat sheet eight tit?” Grant asked, eyes squinted.

  “That’s just means that we’ll have to speak about it when the time comes,” the colonel said, trying not to roll his eyes back into his head. His command of the English language was limited to what he had learned in school and in his brief encounters with the locals in the last year, but he still spoke it better than this backwoods bandit. Yes, his nephew, Hermann, had made the right decision to lead Grant here. He probably would have killed him just for his boots and his horse if he had not fled in such a hurry. He’d have to distract him.

  Colonel Mannheim made his way to the tent flap, sidling cautiously around his visitor. “Mr. Grant, I happen to have some ale set aside. Would you care for some before we sup?”

  “Now you’re talking.” Grant picked up the small crystal goblet from the table and twisted it back and forth between his grimy fingers. He almost tossed it through the tent opening, then remembered he still had to play nice. “I’ll need something much bigger than this to drink out of, though,” and set it on the table with exaggerated gentleness.

  “You see, those patriots,” he continued, spitting slightly as he forced out the word, “think they’re better than everyone else. My brother died trying to kill them off. He was a British officer, he was.” Grant puffed out his chest in mock pride.

  He knew Atholl was never really an officer—he had stolen the uniform from a laundress—but no matter how much the two of them had quarreled and Atholl had pummeled him, his brother had still been a fearless man. Grant felt a flush of real pride flow over him. He’d use these soldiers-for-hire to get Atholl’s son returned to him.

  No, he wasn’t Atholl’s son anymore, and he wasn’t his sister Rachel’s son either, even if she had been the one who bore him. The boy was his son now—his, because he was claiming him.

  Grant looked down at his loins and gave a short snort. He’d never be able to produce an heir after what Daddy had done to him. Regardless, after the mercenaries raided the Indian camp—looking for the spies and weapons that weren’t there—he could sneak in and take Atholl Junior away. He’d make sure he wasn’t raised soft, that he knew how to take what he needed from people without ‘feeling bad’ about it.

  He’d also make sure the boy memorized that fascinating legend he had made up, the legend that would ensure revenge on the Pomeroys and their kin, the MacKays, for generations into the future.

  It was a great story, even if he did say so himself. The fable about the buckets and buckets of gold and jewels the Pomeroys had that rightfully belonged to the MacLeod family was sure to interest the boy. Who could resist searching for that fortune? Everyone was greedy. Yes, he’d make sure the boy tracked down those rotten MacKays all the way to Garden Hall in Scotland and got revenge.

  Grant scratched his head, pinched off the tick that had lodged there, and flicked it away. Now he couldn’t remember if it was Garden Hall or Barden Hall. “Hell,” he mumbled, “Must be Garden Hall; never heard of a barden.”

  4 Ill Will

  They’d been searching for a day and a half, trying to find the almost-big-enough-to-be-called-a-tribe’s location. Grant wasn’t too worried for the first day. He had been given a decent horse to ride and had bribed the cook with promises. Now his canteen contained ale, not water. It wasn’t until the next afternoon, when the colonel called him aside, that he began to worry.

  “Mr. Grant, I’m beginning to believe you don’t know what you’re talking about. There are no signs of an encampment in this area. And I know about your bargain with Private Worchester. No more ale for you. At. All.”

  Grant gulped. The officer had seemed so mellow. Now that he had found out that he had been deceived twice, his eyes were positively scarlet. “Sir, I’ve been meaning to tell you, my first name is Grant. My family name is MacLeod. You know, like the MacLeods of…”

  “I don’t give a flying farthing about your name. Now, you told me you knew where the Indians held the rebels’ rifles. Has this all been just a ploy?”

  At that moment, the soldier referred to as One-Eyed Jack rode in at a gallop. “Sir, Sir…” he gasped, before pulling up to a complete and dusty stop. “I found them. They’re just over the rise. Injuns.”

  Colonel Mannheim shook his head briskly. “So. Just because you finally found some Indians doesn’t mean they’re the ones we’re looking for.”

  “But I’m sure they’re the ones, Colonel. Grant here was telling us last night about how they rounded up white women to use for… Well, he said they captured at least one white woman.” He sighed and looked the colonel in the eye. “Grant said they had his sister, sir.”

  “They do? I mean, they captured your sister and you didn’t bother to tell me? Sounds like another one of your silver-plated stories, Mr. MacLeod.”

  Grant rubbed his grubby hand over his stubbly chin, trying to think of an excuse. He sighed deeply, then put on a mock frown of sorrow. “Oh, no, sir. It’s true. They took my sister about a year ago. It was against her will, too… But you know what they say. Once a woman has been with an Injun, she’s spoilt. She’s foul and dirty now. I don’t want no part of her. Well, not exactly. She had a baby boy before they took her.”

  Grant looked up to see if his story was having an effect on the irate officer. It was. He could see that look of vengeance—or revenge or whatever that word was—on the colonel’s face. He wanted to save that white woman.

  “Well,” Grant continued, “I don’t really care what happens to her now. She’s not the same little sister I used to have. But that baby boy is my kin. I want him. I want to raise him just like my daddy raised me. To be a proper man.”

  Grant stuck out his chest in pride, then faltered slightly. He wouldn’t raise him just like his daddy had, but would raise him to hate certain folks, and take what he could, when he could. The boy would soon have fast hands, and no one would suspect a child of theft. Yes, he would make good use of the lad until he was old enough to get to Garden or Barden or whatever-the-hell Hall it was.

  Colonel Mannheim turned his attention back to One-Eyed Jack. He scowled. He was pretty sure—no, he was certain—the patch had been over the scout’s other eye yesterday. “Tell me more about what you saw,” he said, ignoring the conundrum of the traveling eye patch.

  Jack sniffed and snorted, then swallowed rather than spit out the wad of mucus before speaking. “There was two white women there. They was dressed like squaws, but definitely white. And they had babes, both of them. Young ‘uns, still on the teat. They was Injun babes, that’s for sure. Lots of straight black hair stickin’ out of their animal hide wrappin’s.”

  “Did they look to be in distress?”

  “Huh?” Jack asked, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

  “The women. Did they look to be held as prisoners, were they wounded, or show any other signs of being abused?”

  The colonel was trying to be patient with the locally-hired scout, but the imbecile was trying his good humor. Jack was sharp in tracking, despite his perpetually dripping nose. His command of the English language, its nuances and colloquialisms, had been an interesting way to learn and understand ‘American.’ While storytelling around the evening dinner fires—a pleasant diversion for all—his soldiers also learned more about this raw, untamed land. Yes, he’d keep him on as head scout, regardless of h
is lack of personal hygiene and quirky wandering eye patch.

  One-Eyed Jack looked at Grant before answering. Grant nodded his head and glared. Keep with the plan!

  Jack returned his attention to the colonel, head canted to one side in confusion. “Um, distressed? Oh, yeah. They looked distressed. Even had a few beads sewn onto the bottom of ‘em. And they looked scared, too. Like they would be beat if they didn’t treat those Injun bucks just right…if you know what I mean.” Jack nodded again and gave a broad gapped-tooth grin. He was good at fixing up stories so people would listen to him. And maybe buy him a drink. But the colonel wouldn’t give him whisky. They were out and he knew it, even if it was supposed to be a secret.

  “How far away are they and how many braves?”

  “About half a day’s ride from here. And there was ten or twelve bucks that I could see,” Jack lied, “but there was probably more out and about, causing mayhem…”

  “Enough with your suppositions! Only ten or twelve men? How many others, besides the white women?”

  “Oh, maybe a couple dozen babes and young’uns. And a few old women. I’d say that if you took all your men and went in just after sun-up, before they got their brains workin’, we could wipe ‘em all out at once.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re on a mission to keep the Colonials from winning this confounded revolution. If these Indians are supplying, or hiding, guns and ammunition in order to strengthen the rebels’ cause, our job is to retrieve said goods. And if there are rebels on site, we’ll deal with them as traitors.”

  5 A Most unfortunate Massacre

  The morning started out like any other day.

  Sort of.

  Shooting Star had given up on sucking his thumb and was now at stage two of his hunger announcing ritual. His four fingers had now joined his thumb in his mouth, and he was gnawing fervently. Morning Star knew he would soon let everyone in the tribe know that Mama wasn’t seeing to his needs soon enough. He began with a low, almost whimpering wail, then progressed to a barking yelp.