Crown of Serpents (2 page)

Historical Timeline

Betrayed by a Mason?

About the Author

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Although
Crown of Serpents
is a work of fiction based on pure speculative narrative, and all the present day characters are creations of my imagination, some of the historical figures in this book are real people. They existed and left records of themselves, some more abundant than others. I tried to be faithful to their actions and encounters as best I could determine from historical sources.

For anyone interested in the historical background of the story within the novel, a timeline of events is provided in the back of this book. As bonus material, I’ve also included
Betrayed By A Mason?
, a published article based on my research depicting the true historical account of Lieutenant Thomas Boyd’s tragic mission and the Masonic circumstances surrounding his death.

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KarpovageCreative.com
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— Michael Karpovage

For my sons Jake and Alex...

PROLOGUE

Monday, September 13, 1779. Seneca Nation territory between Genesee River and Conesus Lake.

L
IEUTENANT THOMAS BOYD wrenched his head back as a heavy wooden war hammer passed by his face. The momentum of the missed blow threw the attacking Iroquois Indian off balance and gave the young rebel officer the chance he needed to counterattack with his sword. With a horizontal slice, Boyd opened the Indian’s bare tattooed chest. The warrior screamed and looked down at the gaping red gash across his abdomen. He dropped to his knees and bent over on his hands. Boyd finished him off by plunging his sword deep between the Indian’s shoulder blades. The hard thrust slammed the warrior flat against the ground. With a boot on his victim’s back and a twist of his hand, Boyd extracted his blood-smeared sword and readied himself for the next onslaught.

Movement from behind a tree.

A lone British Ranger, his musket fitted with a dreaded bayonet, charged directly at Boyd. The Ranger made it to within seven feet when a rifle cracked to the officer’s right. The Ranger grunted, dropped his musket, and clutched at his face. He stumbled past Boyd and slumped to the ground — dead. Heavy gray smoke drifted over the British trooper, enveloping the officer’s next would-be killer.

Boyd, a veteran of the Continental Army under General Sullivan, glanced to his right to see which of his trusted scouts had made the shot. It was his Oneida Indian guide, Honyost Thaosagwat, a courageous fighter from the only breakaway Iroquois nation supporting the American rebellion. He received a wide-eyed nod from Boyd. Thaosagwat gave him a nervous smile in return and took cover behind a boulder to reload his weapon.

Through the wafting battlefield haze, not fifty paces away, a British officer barked the command to fire. Several shots of lead whistled by Boyd’s head as he sought cover behind a tree. The volley of enemy musket fire cut down what was left of his small scout detachment. Hugging the tree, he felt a searing sensation rip through his side as a musket ball penetrated his deerskin coat and impacted above his hip. Boyd grimaced and dropped to a knee. He grabbed at his waist, blood oozing between his fingers. Nausea and dizziness immediately swept over him.

“Lieutenant’s been hit!”

Boyd looked to the shout. One of his soldiers crouched toward him, scout rifle and powder horn in hand. It was Sergeant Michael Parker.

“We’ve got to get you out of here, sir.”

Through labored breathing, Boyd managed a response. “No, no, it went straight through. Stay in the fight. They’ll be coming again.”

Parker nodded, “I won’t leave your side Lieutenant.” He knelt and popped open his horn, poured black powder into his rifle’s barrel, reloaded another shot, and then rammed it all home with his rifle rod. His actions were swift and practiced. He then moved to a nearby tree and rested the rifle against the trunk to steady his aim.

Boyd squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his wound tighter, and willed himself to fight on. He looked beyond Parker, wondering how many of his men were still alive inside the grove of sapling trees where they had sought protection. The pressing attack by the British and their Indian allies had nearly decimated his detachment of twenty-nine scout riflemen. And it was completely his fault.

Guided by youthful cockiness and overconfidence, he pushed too far when he deliberately made contact with three Seneca Indians earlier in the day. Thinking he could take their scalps as trophies, Boyd ordered his marksman to open fire while the Indians ate over a campfire. His men killed two, but one had made his escape. Boyd ordered pursuit of the lone Indian against his Oneida guide’s recommendation. They pursued their prey through the woods and mistakenly ran into an ambuscade made up of the fiercest combination of wilderness fighters the rebellion had seen. He had led his troops directly into the jaws of four hundred British Rangers, Tories, and Iroquois warriors led by the notorious pair of Colonel John Butler and Mohawk Chief Joseph Brant.

Boyd could clearly hear the specific orders of his commander now ringing inside his throbbing head. The night before, General John Sullivan had ordered him not to make contact with the enemy. His was supposed to be a recon mission only.

The British and Indians had immediately surrounded his men and commenced the ambush. Boyd’s marksmen fought back with utmost precision, shooting behind good cover. They felled many but Butler and Brant’s sheer numbers ultimately proved too great. The slaughter took its toll after three heavy volleys from the British crack troops. Boyd knew he had no choice but to get his men out. After several unsuccessful organized attempts at breaking through the enemy lines, he had become separated and lost all means of control over his scouts. Each man was on his own.

Now shot through the side and panic-stricken, he looked around as the end closed near. Smoke shifted and he watched brutal hand-to-hand combat rage on his right flank. The famous Virginian marksman Timothy Murphy, the best shot in his detachment, had just beaten down an Indian. Boyd’s close friend and Brother in the Freemasons, Sergeant Sean McTavish, waved Murphy over as he and several others made one more desperate attempt to break the enemy lines for escape. The battlefield haze shifted across Boyd’s vision again and the rest of his scouts vanished.

Parker fired his rifle bringing Boyd back to his immediate surroundings. Parker then moved up, disappearing into his gunpowder-filled cloud. Boyd’s vision blurred, his eyes burning in the smoke.

The violence of the battle suddenly subsided.

Two British Rangers emerged from the thick haze to Boyd’s front, their bayoneted muskets at the hip. Boyd heard more movement behind him. Turning, he observed a half dozen shirtless, sweat and blood stained Iroquois warriors jump from tree to tree. Donning distinctive war paint, feather headdresses, and decorative jewelry, they clutched war hammers, tomahawks, and hot muskets. Using his sword as a crutch, Boyd staggered to his feet to face their final assault. He knew he was a dead man either way, whether it was the two Rangers at his back or the Iroquois pack of wolves to his front. He could only hope the end would come swiftly.

Instead, time stood still.

The battlefield grew strangely quiet.

Boyd blinked through watery eyes.

A war whoop shattered the silence as a young Seneca Indian made a dash straight for Boyd. But another Indian cut the youngster off. Clad in a fine red cape over a ruffled white blouse with a silver gorget about his neck, there stood their leader. His arm was stretched straight out, blocking the scalp-hungry young warrior from gaining his trophy.

Boyd recognized this man from when he first laid eyes on him at the Battle of Newtown last month — the feared Mohawk chief, Joseph Brant. A captain with the British Army responsible for several massacres against the colonists, Brant was the great persuader who had convinced the other Iroquois nations to ally with the British instead of staying neutral.

Brant strode to within several feet of Boyd, a blood-smeared tomahawk in one hand, a pistol in the other. His plumed headdress swayed atop his closely shaven, battle-tattooed head. His warriors shouted encouragement in anticipation of the kill.

Fear gripped Thomas Boyd’s entire body, intensifying all of his senses. He could feel the warmth of his own life-blood spreading across his wound. He became dizzy again. His hands shook. His knees trembled. With a pounding heart ready to burst from his chest, he suddenly remembered Brant’s stature as the very first from the Iroquois Confederacy to become an English Freemason. He remembered that Brant had helped two other rebel soldiers escape death back in 1776 at the Battle of Cedars. He knew now there was but one slim chance for survival. Since he and Brant belonged to the same secret fraternity, he could only hope his so-called Brother would honor the ancient obligation of a Mason in distress — and spare his life.

He must make the sign.

With the tip of his officer’s sword planted in the ground, Boyd let go of the hilt and watched it swing away to drop at Brant’s feet. Surrender. Boyd then raised both arms, made the secret magical gestures only a fellow Freemason would interpret, and lowered his arms back down to his side. He finished by whispering a single word to Brant. The communication was delivered.

A confused murmur rippled through the group of Indians. The two British Rangers looked at one another then over to Brant. Brant narrowed his eyes and hesitated. He inspected Boyd from head to bloody boot then calmly scanned the battlefield around him. Boyd followed his gaze.

Off to one side, Boyd noticed his battered Sergeant Parker resting on his knees, head silently bowed as the two British Rangers stood over their prisoner with muskets ready to fire. Brant then looked in the opposite direction and became transfixed on several Iroquois warriors just beyond some rocks. Boyd too looked that way.

His Oneida guide Thaosagwat was being held by two other Indians as a third spat in his face. A fourth Indian then snuck up from behind Thaosagwat and buried a tomahawk in the back of his skull. The crunch was crisp. Thaosagwat’s legs buckled and he collapsed face first to the ground. His scalp was immediately and thoroughly sliced and peeled back from his head. It was held high in victory.

War whoops echoed through the woods.

Brant turned back and locked eyes with Boyd. They held each other’s gaze for several seconds. Boyd never flinched, even as the blood drained from his body.

“Brother, your life is under my protection,” Brant finally declared in perfect English. “Should you survive your wound, I’ll transport you to Montreal for a prisoner exchange.”

With relief, Boyd promptly passed out.

Brant directed his war chiefs to take both Boyd and the other surviving rebel soldier into custody. He then turned and ran off into the thick woods, a group of his warriors at his heels. A Ranger grabbed Boyd’s sword before the Indians could get to it, but once they pounced on the unconscious prisoner, the savages stripped him of all clothing and possessions, like vultures on a fresh carcass.