The boy accepted the offering, turning it over in his hands, examining it closely. He turned to Wyatt. “How do I say—”

“Niá:wen,” Wyatt said. There was dried blood, he noticed, and what looked like a matted clump of hair and tissue adhering to the edge of the war club that was strapped across the Mohawk’s back; residue from the attack on the horseman at the Archers’ farm. He wondered if the pastor or his wife had noticed. Hopefully not; the club face wasn’t in their direct line of sight.

“Niá:wen, Tewanias,” the boy said, slipping the thong over his head and around his neck. He held the piece of bone in his hand and stared at it once more, slowly massaging its smooth surface with the ball of his thumb.

“Anowara.” It was the Indian who spoke.

“It means turtle,” Wyatt said. “Tewanias is a war chief of the Turtle clan. That’s his totem.”

“Well, bless my soul,” De Witt murmured softly as the Mohawk stepped back.

Amen to that, Reverend, Wyatt thought.

With Tewanias by his side, he looked about him. The preparations for departure were almost complete. Tents had been struck and fires doused. The stolen horses had been formed into a line and troops were checking their packs, settling into ranks, readying themselves for the march. Those Loyalists who’d chosen to remain behind were saying their final goodbyes, hugging and clasping the hands of those about to embark.

Had Wyatt not known differently, the scene might have suggested that some festivity had been taking place and that guests were preparing to wend their way home after a picnic or a barn-raising, instead of stealing away from a homeland that no longer saw them as legitimate citizens. Though, as he’d walked the grounds, he’d seen that there were many who were in tears at the thought of abandoning all that was familiar in exchange for an arduous journey towards an uncertain future.

A faint call sounded from up ahead. As the order was taken up by NCOs stationed down the line, a mood of anticipation ran through the column. The civilians began to gather themselves.

Wyatt held out his hand. “Take care, Matthew.”

Fingering the amulet, it took a second for the boy to respond, but when he did his grip was firm.

“We won’t be far,” Wyatt said. “Don’t forget that. You might not see us, but we’ll be there.”

“Stay safe, Lieutenant,” De Witt said.

“You, too, sir.” Wyatt shook the pastor’s hand, winked at the girl, who had re-emerged from hiding, and tipped his hat to Mrs De Witt. “Ma’am.”

De Witt took hold of his daughter’s waist, helped her feet find the shortened stirrups and, with his wife holding the bridle, lifted her gently on to the mare’s back.