Hello everyone!
While preparing this new chapter, I realized I made a small mistake in the previous one.
They are not currently in Oneida territory but in Mohawk territory. The Mohawk River ran through the lands of both nations, but the boundary was much farther west.
I've corrected the text, though it doesn't change the story. My apologies!
Enjoy and my thanks to Shingle_Top, Daoist397717, Mium, Dekol347, Daoist0wZJRR, paffnytij, Ranger_Red, AlexZero12, Kieran_Lynch, George_Bush_2910, Galan_05, Black_Wolf_4935, First_Time_****, Porthos10for their support!
-----------------------------------------
The wind whipped François's face, lashing it like a thorny whip. Each breath burned in his lungs, making the run nearly unbearable.
But he didn't slow down. Not a single one of his men faltered.
They ran swiftly between the trees, their shoes striking the frozen snow in rhythm. Their steps had naturally synchronized without the need for a drum or any other instrument.
No one spoke. They were all too focused on the mission — and on controlling their breathing.
Thick white plumes escaped their clenched mouths with every exhale, like steam engines.
François had brought with him only a small number of soldiers — the fastest and most resilient. Barely half his company, not even twenty men.
The rest, under Captain Delmas's command, had been ordered to fall back to Fort Bourbon with the new French settlers and report everything that had happened to the colonel.
Bringing a larger force would have been pointless. Worse — it might have escalated tensions if they encountered the Iroquois on their land. The presence of too many French soldiers could easily be misinterpreted.
The last thing François wanted was to be seen as a threat.
Just a little more! Come on!
The trees flew past, but it didn't feel fast enough.
Even in the bitter cold, they were sweating profusely and felt as though they were suffocating inside their uniforms.
Light-footed, they followed the trail of the British settlers, who had rarely strayed far from the Mohawk River. The forest stretched endlessly, silent, as if nature itself were asleep.
Then came the shouts. Distant. Indistinct.
Too far off for a sentry to have spotted them.
François's stomach tightened.
Goddamn it!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Several sharp gunshots cracked through the air. The forest trembled. Small animals startled and scattered into the underbrush.
More cries followed, bouncing off the bare trees like ripples across a still lake after a stone is thrown in. More and more, until it was impossible to tell if the sounds were human or animal.
Shit!
"We pick up the pace! Move!" the officer barked without looking back.
He squinted ahead, trying to spot human shapes between the twisted trunks. But he saw nothing.
Still, the voices were getting closer.
A branch slashed his cheek, opening a thin cut, but he ignored it. Short of breath, throat dry, he ran on, drawn by the chaotic screams and the alarming gunfire.
And when they broke through a line of white pines and alders — like a wall surrounding a large clearing — his blood ran cold. He froze, tensing at the nightmare unfolding before him.
In the open space, where a few tents had been set up, a group of about ten settlers stood cornered, facing a larger force of Iroquois.
Half a dozen bodies lay sprawled in the frost-bleached grass.
The Iroquois had clearly taken casualties too.
The sharp stench of gunpowder — very familiar to François — hung in the air.
A tense standoff had taken hold after one of the settlers — a long-faced man in a brown coat — had grabbed one of the Iroquois and taken him hostage. William Travis, the very man Isaac Trenton had warned him about.
He was holding the man tightly by the neck, clearly ready to kill him with a knife longer than a man's hand if the others came any closer.
Out of the corner of his eye, the settler, features strained and eyes blazing with fury, spotted the French soldiers arriving. His expression turned uglier.
He knew they hadn't come to support him or his comrades. Travis felt even more threatened now.
Between the Iroquois and the French, they were ten against fifty.
"Stay back!" he screamed. "Or I'll slit his throat like a pig!"
The Iroquois had also noticed the French. Even though the Confederacy had drawn closer to them over the past decade, that didn't mean they were best friends.
The sight of this modest detachment didn't calm anyone.
Some warriors were already growling in anger.
Like certain clans, they still eyed the French with suspicion, wondering if they too would one day reveal the same contemptible intentions as the British — conquering their land and subjugating their people.
Both the British settlers and the Iroquois froze, eyes fixed on the new arrivals as they spread out into a single line. A heavy pressure settled over both sides.
However, the French did not take up firing positions.
"STOP!" François bellowed, in English.
His roar startled everyone. To the settlers, it was like the blast of a cannon. To the Iroquois, that sudden outburst sounded like the roar of a bear awakened in the dead of winter.
Everyone fell silent and froze in place.
François, for his part, felt his vocal cords twist and his throat dry out rapidly until it turned raw. It was as if he had swallowed sandpaper.
He wouldn't be able to shout again for a while.
Of course, he showed none of this. Instead, he adopted a stance that was both dignified and commanding, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
William Travis, panting heavily, didn't miss the gesture. He tightened his grip on his hostage and brought the blade dangerously close to the young Mohawk warrior's throat.
"I told you to stop!" François shouted again. "Nobody move!"
He took a few steps forward.
"You, the English — lower your weapons. Now! And let that man go!"
Travis, his face flushed a purplish red, shot the French officer a venomous glare.
"So these savages can butcher us?! You must be dreaming!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Travis saw a Mohawk warrior — armed with a tomahawk adorned with colorful feathers — trying to circle around him like a wolf stalking its prey from behind.
"Back off! All of you, back the hell off! You think I'm bluffing?! You think I won't do it?!"
François tensed, clenching his teeth.
"That's enough! What do you think you're doing?! You're in Iroquois territory! Their territory! You've no business being here! And you thought the best thing to do was to take one of them hostage?!"
"These savages attacked us! We're only defending ourselves — so tell them to back off!"
Travis spat on the ground.
"And we're not on their land! This is mine! All of you — you're on my goddamn land!"
Suddenly, one of the Iroquois let out a cry, his hoarse voice piercing the tense silence like an arrow. His words came fast and harsh — unintelligible to both the settlers and the French soldiers.
But François understood.
"Please," he replied in Iroquois, speaking humbly and making calming gestures, "lower your weapons. I understand your anger, but everyone needs to calm down."
Despite the words' seeming wisdom, they weren't well received. One of the warriors, his stern face marked by tribal tattoos, replied in the same tongue — low and sharp as a hatchet.
As expected, he asserted firmly that they were in the right and would punish the intruders as they deserved.
François's chest tightened.
He turned toward the settler, Travis.
"Sir," François continued in English, trying to keep a calm and diplomatic tone, "I spoke with your companion, Isaac Trenton. He showed me your papers, and I can assure you they aren't valid. If they were, they'd bear the king's signature. You are indeed on Iroquois territory. Now… release this man."
William Travis exploded.
"Bullshit!" he roared, eyes blazing. "I won't let you take what's rightfully mine! Not you, and not these goddamn savages!"
The young Mohawk warrior, held tightly by Travis's surprisingly strong arm, was gasping. His face grew darker with strain.
Despite all his efforts, he couldn't free himself from the grip that was choking him.
The knife in Travis's hand trembled slightly against his throat. The blade nicked his skin, and a few scarlet drops began to trickle down its broad, dark surface.
And yet, even in the face of terror, the young man remained composed. He didn't cry. He didn't beg. He was a proud Mohawk warrior.
His honor would not allow him to show anything but dignity, even under the threat of a blade. Before him stood his friends, his comrades, his family, his clan.
He looked them straight in the eye.
If he was going to die, he wanted to die a brave.
A cold shiver crawled up François's spine like the tip of a rapier. His heart pounded furiously against his ribs, like a war drum.
He could read William Travis's emotions — the man was like a trapped animal, cornered with no escape. And that made him all the more dangerous.
Beside him, other settlers were aiming their weapons at the Iroquois. And behind them, the non-combatants were trembling with fear and despair.
A woman was kneeling in the grass, holding an injured man against her. He had been shot in the chest — possibly her husband or her brother — and he was barely breathing.
The bloodstain on his shirt was slowly spreading.
Holding his left hand tightly, she whispered to him, trying to keep him conscious. Perhaps she was giving him reasons to live, recalling old memories, or downplaying the severity of the wound.
François saw the settlers stiffen as the Iroquois slowly advanced, clearly trying to surround them. Their movements grew more abrupt.
They're panicking! This isn't good! If it keeps going like this…
François clenched his jaw tighter and tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword.
Then his eyes met those of the young Mohawk. In them, he saw both distress and unshakable resolve.
This can't end like this!
"What is it you want?" François called out, his voice firm.
William Travis blinked, not immediately understanding the question. Then, he saw François take a step toward him.
"What do I want?! Isn't it obvious?! I want you all to leave! All of you!"
"And then?"
"What do you mean, and then? That's it! I just want my property to be respected!"
François showed no emotion.
"And then?" he repeated, in the same even tone.
William Travis scowled, uncertain whether he was being mocked — or if this Frenchman was simply a fool. But François didn't give him time to answer.
"What do you think will happen next?" the major asked calmly. "You're on their land. And you've taken one of their warriors hostage."
"I-I'll defend my land!"
"How many of them do you think you can kill? From what I see, you're barely a handful. Let's say we retreat today, as you want. Do you really think they'll forget? That they'll let you steal from them?"
"These are my lands, by the blood of Christ! How many times do I have to—"
"No one gives a damn what you think or about your damn claims!" François suddenly roared, cutting him off. "What matters is what is — not what suits you or what you wish were true! And here's the reality: you're a handful of men, standing in Iroquois territory, protected by the Proclamation of 1762, signed by your king and ours! Not only do you have no right to settle here, but they have every right to intervene and punish you!"
William Travis's face twitched violently with fury. He growled like an enraged beast. He had never been this angry in his life.
If he hadn't just discharged his musket, he would've shot that miserable Frenchman without hesitation. He didn't just want to kill him — he wanted to destroy him, smash him, tear him apart, rip out his tongue, cook it in front of him, and force it down his throat.
"Lies!" he spat. "I have land titles proving these lands are mine! No one else's! I won't let you steal from me — do you hear me?! I piss on your joint proclamation!"
Travis pressed his knife harder against the hostage's throat. The young Mohawk closed his eyes for a moment and let out a sort of hoarse, ragged breath.
Damn it! Why can't he understand he's the one in the wrong?! He's beyond reason — this lunatic is ready to die!
"Let him go — now!" François insisted, pushing his vocal cords to their limit.
His anxiety surged with each passing second.
"There's still time!"
"Time for what?!"
François didn't answer immediately. Then, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
"To return to Albany. You'll have to answer for this, but you may yet return to British territory."
The settler grimaced, then gave a bitter, broken laugh.
"Answer for this?! To whom?! These savages?! They're the ones who started it! I defended myself! And now I'm to be treated like the only one at fault?! A criminal?! What about my land, huh?!"
Christ! He only cares about his damn land! Doesn't he see he's going to die if this goes on?!
"You can file an official claim with the colonial authorities. You can appeal. But not here! And certainly not like this!"
"Appeal to them?!"
Travis stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
François felt it coming — a chill, a shiver in the air.
Maybe it was the man's posture, his look, or that icy tone in his voice.
It was as if François's body was screaming a warning.
Before he could act, Travis let out a deep, guttural roar.
"I CAME TO TAKE WHAT'S MINE — NOT TO BEG FOR IT!"
His arm rose, steel flashed.
With a sudden, brutal motion, he slashed the Iroquois warrior's throat.
SLASH!
A torrent of blood gushed out. The grass at his feet turned red.
"NO!"
The warrior's eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came — or if it did, it was lost in the wind and drowned in blood.
He staggered, then dropped to his knees as Travis finally released him. At that moment, several gunshots rang out. Arrows were loosed as well.
No longer shielded by his human barrier, William Travis took bullets and arrows to the chest. He stumbled back two steps, dropped his knife, and collapsed.
The chaos lasted only a few seconds.
Screams tore through the air amid the gunfire.
Tears fell through the smoke.
And silence returned.
When the smoke finally cleared, only five colonists remained alive.
François, short of breath, his sword still at his side, felt utterly drained.
In the end, he had failed.
His gaze swept over the corpses.
It had all been for nothing.
The Mohawks quickly surrounded and disarmed the survivors. They didn't resist.
The Mohawks' anger was immense, almost tangible—but it wasn't directed solely at the colonists.
It wasn't because they had failed to intercept the British before they entered their lands. From their perspective, that wasn't their role.
No, it was because the French had acted without waiting for the authorization of the Confederacy—or at least a clan.
They had decided to intervene here as if this were their own land.
To the Mohawks, it was as incomprehensible and insulting as if the Spanish army had taken it upon themselves to cross into French territory to carry out police duties.
François lowered his head.
He tried to explain—spoke of urgency, of danger, of the desire to prevent the worst.
But his words fell flat. Their expressions remained closed.
This was a matter of consequences, of respect, of balance and authority.
Even if they had warned a chief, that would not have been enough.
They even went so far as to compare the French to the English in their methods.
To avoid escalation—and also to show that the comparison was deeply unfair—the major agreed to all of the Iroquois' demands, even the most unreasonable.
François and his men were disarmed and escorted to a large village on the Mohawk River known as Canajoharie, or Kanatsiohareke.
-----------------------------------------
The march was long, silent, and heavy—but at least they were not bound like the surviving colonists, who were treated almost like cattle.
Their destination was not an ordinary village. It stretched for several kilometers along the river and played a major political role—not only for the Mohawks but for all the Haudenosaunee.
The British had nicknamed this place, heart of the Bear Clan, "Upper Castle."
They passed the remains of an old Mohawk village, Tarajorees, nearly abandoned since 1755 by the Turtle Clan after the Battle of Lake George.
Many of its few remaining inhabitants had joined Canajoharie.
During the war, when Fort Hunter was burned to the ground by Marshal de Richelieu, they were also joined by the Wolf Clan from the village of Icondéroga, which lay opposite the fort on the eastern bank of the Schoharie River.
Canajoharie was thus densely populated.
The arrival of the French did not go unnoticed.
The stares varied greatly. Most were filled with suspicion—but many still held hatred.
Centuries of conflict, the latest having ended only recently, were not forgotten after just a few years of trade.
François felt exposed. Judged.
Among the faces—unaware—he crossed eyes with one of William Johnson's wives: Molly Brant.She followed him with a cold, distant gaze.
Her brother, Joseph Brant, had been killed by François during the second battle of Fort Carillon at the end of 1761.
Fortunately for him, she did not know the man who had taken her brother's life was right before her.
To her, it was the loathsome French who had stolen her beloved brother—and she would never forget it.
Farther away, her mother, Margaret—also known as Owendah—was staring at him too, upright and silent, lips tightly pressed.
They were all led to a longhouse near the center of the village.