Rogers Rangers.#x1E - White devil: a true story of war, savagery, and vengeance in colonial America

THE VILLAGE LIES STILL. Beyond its boundaries lean figures lurk in the darkness, a bedraggled and motley company. Some are tribal warriors drawn from the native peoples of New England; their heads are shaven clean save for a tufted scalp-lock, their ears and noses sport ornaments of brass and silver. Greased and painted, they wear loose shirts and breechclouts that leave their haunches bare. But most of the raiders are white men, clad in moccasins, coarse cloth leggings and short jackets of rough wool the dark green of the rangers, the brick-red or brown of the British regulars and the midnight blue of the colonial provincial troops, all alike now tattered and filthy. Many wear Scots bonnets jammed down low on their brows; others sport leather or fur caps, or shapeless slouched hats cropped from once-elegant tricornes; here and there a bunch of leaves or a jaunty feather stand substitute for the smart cockade. Their faces are scored by scratches and swollen from the bites of insects. Beneath their beards and the layered dirt of the wilderness, all are gaunt with fatigue, hunger and fear.

For all their ragged appearance, these men are an lite fraternity. They have been carefully selected from amongst the fittest, keenest and wiliest fighters in the great British-American army that has slowly pushed back the frontiers of New France to the northern shores of Lake Champlain.

Their proud designation chosen men has been hard earned. During the past three weeks they have traversed some hundred and fifty miles of punishing country, much of it within the domain of a ruthless and skilful enemy. Gruelling terrain and an unrelenting pace have already made inroads upon manpower; dozens of their comrades have been sent back, disabled by accident, illness or sheer exhaustion. Others have simply disappeared amidst the trackless forests and swamps. Those that remain have slogged onwards in the dispiriting knowledge that the enemy is not only ahead, but also behind them. By now the hornets nest has been well and truly stirred: Canadas French and Indian defenders are closing in upon them as inexorably as the jaws of a vice.

Each of these men knows that the destruction of the Abenaki village across the clearing is just one of many hurdles to be surmounted before they regain the safety of friendly territory once more. Those who survive the coming assault face an onerous retreat through the desolate wilds; on that long march homewards they will have to reckon with more inveterate foes than the French regular soldiers, Canadian militia and vengeful Indian warriors who will surely be snapping at their heels. After weeks away from base they are starving, their rations finished days before. Yet the woods are strangely barren of bird, beast and berry. The forest has already assumed its flaming fall livery; theres a marrow-numbing chill in the autumn air. The most experienced woodsmen amongst them know there will be as much to fear from hunger and exposure as from hostile muskets and scalping knives.

But now such demoralising thoughts must be laid aside: the raiders are within striking distance of their prey: for the moment at least, they are the hunters.

Swiftly and silently the command ready themselves. Blankets, packs and canteens are slipped from shoulders and left where they fall amongst the bushes; cartridges are ripped open and powder, ball and buckshot tipped down the barrels of muskets and rammed well home; priming is checked and fresh flints are coaxed between the jaws of hammers; bayonets are unsheathed and locked into place, hatchets and knives loosened in their straps and tugged snugly to hand.

These preparations over, the raiders advance stealthily to the fringes of the clearing and array themselves in a loose cordon that girds the silent village on three sides. On the fourth side, the wide and dark waters of the St Francis River flow swiftly down towards their confluence with the mighty St Lawrence. The banks of the river are high and steep, broken only by a path descending to the landing place. Theres small prospect that the quarry can escape that way, but to be certain, a well-placed team of marksmen will ensure no one slips past.

Towards the right of the line theres a brief conference: a knot of officers and sergeants crane inwards, watching and listening intently as a tall, burly, blunt-featured man in his late twenties outlines the plan of attack one last time. This tough and confident young soldier is Robert Rogers. Through four years of bloody warfare his well-publicised exploits have made him a household name on both sides of the Atlantic. As a result of what is to happen on this October morning, and during the weeks that follow, his fame will reach its zenith; within the next six months, no corner of the English-speaking world will remain unfamiliar with the deeds of the brave Major Rogers. The Abenakis of St Francis will also have cause to remember Robert Rogers, but when they do so it will be by a name of their own: Wobomagonda White Devil.

The instructions that Major Rogers is now issuing to his men are simple and familiar; indeed, theyve been drummed home often enough during the long war against New France. But there is no margin for error; Rogers jabs his broad hands through the air in abbreviated gestures of emphasis. Trickling back to their designated posts, the squad leaders brief their men. The nights orders are clear and concise; every man knows exactly what is expected of him. And so they hunker down to await the signal.

First hints of dawn bloody the skies. It is time.

Rising now, the ragged figures lope forwards. The raiders close swiftly upon the silent village like a clenching fist.

VIOLENCE WAS THE MAINSPRING OF North Americas colonial frontier; of all the characters it propelled across that blood-streaked stage, few remain more enigmatic than Robert Rogers. At home in the wilderness, Rogers also wrote books that earned him the acclaim of Londons literary critics. A noted scourge of Indians, he nevertheless admired them and shared much of their world-view. According to the