IX.
Solomon's story continues in chapters 9 through 12 of With Sacred Honor. These chapters -- along with chapters 1 through 8 -- are also available for download to Amazon's Kindle. In the coming weeks, look for additional chapters on this site and on Amazon. In early 2011 we expect to publish a print edition of the entire book. Thanks for reading! Please send any feedback to jbsolomoneditions@yahoo.com.
We continued through the forest for a fortnight. We slept when we felt a certain amount of safety and moved with the confidence of a pack of wolves. I felt that our presence projected before us and the mere scent of us would drive away any would-be assailants (Though by now I know all too well that this confidence is misleading and can make a man to fall away from his duty of vigilance.). One trail led to the next, and a week after leaving Pittsfield I came across a path that seemed too new to be safe. Our company gathered around Captain Hobbs as I reported my findings to him. He gave us orders to be doubly watchful.
We came upon an old camp a few ridges later. The occupants had built a fire; evidently, they had felt safe. Sergeant Timms and I cautiously entered the campsite while the others flanked out and scouted the edges of the camp to try to determine the identity of those who had stayed there. I found the embers in the pit still warm. Sergeant Timms and I were squatted over the hearth with our firelocks resting across our legs. I looked up to see the others skirting the edges and occasionally bending to pick up something of interest. My eyes swept over them, and as I turned my head a metallic glint caught my gaze. I swiveled my head back in time to see the muzzle of a gun peek out from beside a monstrous oak. I shouted a warning – but not in time. The first shot hit Isaac in the chest; the heavy lead ball caught him mid-stride, dropping him at the base of a tree. Pieces of bone and intestine covered the trunk, and most of his blood seemed to be instantly on the ground all around him.
“Wake up the dead, boys!” Captain Hobbs shouted as he dropped to a knee and returned fire.
I stood momentarily, slack-jawed at what had happened. But Sergeant Timms, always cool, drew me behind a felled log in time to avoid two balls that screamed in, snapping twigs and branches around us. There was movement all about, and I was incapable of finding a target. The fleeting, painted bodies of warriors would appear for only a moment, and then disappear again behind some cover. Isaac was still lying against the tree. He was mumbling something about water, and we watched as Wendell came running toward him, sweeping him up in one arm without breaking stride. The enemy was everywhere – surrounding us, among us. I would see the flash of a warrior covered in red and black, so close that I could smell the bear-grease paint slathered on his body, and then he was gone again. They seemed to be Abenaki, as they wore French waistcoats and conspicuous French crosses around their necks. They also shouted a constant mixture of Abenaki and French words to one another. Captain Hobbs, meanwhile, was shouting orders for us to give Wendell cover. We let fly our shots and then set immediately to reloading, each man firing while his neighbor loaded. With this technique we managed to keep the savages at bay while Wendell slumped himself and his bloody load on the safe side of a large rock. I could see Captain Hobbs leaning over Isaac, cutting away his blood-soaked hunting shirt. A warrior appeared from his cover and ran toward the three, brandishing a wooden war club. Sergeant Timms stood slightly and rolled back on his heels as he took careful aim and slew the painted devil. Isaac, too, was dead. No one saw him take his final breath; most likely he had died shortly after he hit the ground. Captain Hobbs now bent over Isaac’s wide-eyed corpse, muttering a quick prayer.
“Heavenly Father, we commit him to your house. Amen,” went Hobbs’ brief eulogy for Isaac.
Then Hobbs looked our way; his countenance seemed to proclaim that nothing else was to be done. My eyes continued to dart in every direction as shots rang out and balls cracked in close to our few men. Wendell pulled Isaac’s horn and pouch from the broken body and slung Isaac’s firelock over his shoulder.
“Your Lordship, we best be moving lest we be completely buggered,” Timms stated convincingly.
Captain Hobbs nodded, and we commenced to make a hasty retreat. One man would rise, fire, and then run to the rear of our column as the others, with loaded muskets, would hold off any pursuers. In this way, we kept at bay the disorganized savages, who fought independently instead of in unison. This was effective in preventing any further casualties; we kept up our tactical retreat until evening fell and we could no longer be easily tracked. We spent the night pushing hard east and dared not slacken our run for fear of being overwhelmed in the night.
By early light, we came among the first few cabins that marked the outskirts of Boston. One generous fellow gave us quarters and we each contemplated our near demise. Captain Hobbs expressed his outrage at these intruders and their bawdy attempts to attack the English so close to Boston. After resting a bit, Hobbs took account of our remaining numbers, finding Malachi had disappeared in the meanwhile. Before he slipped away he had told Wendell that he was going to avenge the death of his brother and, likely as not, we would see him again. And so we original four set out to enter Boston to replace the pair that we had lost, and hopefully gather more to round out our ranks.
X.
Boston was a sight to behold. I had been there before as a child, but then it had only been for a short time and I had been shielded from the greater part of the town by my grandmother. On that first visit we had to disguise ourselves, as there was a standing law prohibiting Indians from entering the city. In fact, this law still stood when I returned with Hobbs’ Company. This time I was to experience all the darkness of the most raucous parts of Boston.
Our task was to find men, and there was no better place to do so than the docks. The townsfolk eyed us suspiciously as we walked down the cobblestone streets. Our time in the woods had given us rough and filthy appearances. Before we had set out from the cabin where we had spent the night, Captain Hobbs had produced a small black hat from his pack and instructed me to wear it to cover my plucked scalp. He also warned me to keep my shirt sleeves rolled down to cover my tattooing and to remove the silver ornamentations that hung from my nose and ears. Hobbs explained that, besides being illegal, Indians were not much liked here and that downplaying my appearance would be to the benefit of my continued existence.
The salty air struck my nose before we crested the last small hill leading to the waterfront. The smell brought back memories of my youth. It had only been a few years, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. I now bore little resemblance to that small boy who had clung to the petticoats of my grandmother.
We walked along the wooden docks that lined the waterfront. A strong stench rising above the salt-sea met me before I saw its origin. Then it appeared: the bound corpse of a man, decaying inside an iron cage. It hung from a ship’s yardarm that was planted on the shore. Sergeant Timms explained to me that it was the body of a man who had been charged with piracy. His corpse was left to rot – and to warn all would-be pirates and thieves. Standing uncomfortably close to the thing was a mother who grasped the ear of her small son. She tersely wagged a finger at the boy, no doubt letting him know that the same fate lay in store for him if he did not change his sinful ways. As we continued to watch this scene, a seagull alighted on the cage’s iron frame and pecked at the rotting flesh. The sight made my skin crawl and my stomach heave. Finally my thoughts were averted as I heard Captain Hobbs loudly clear his throat. He had climbed atop some boxes stacked on the dock and was preparing to make a speech.
“Ye fine fellows, seamen, traders, and such, come near if you’re looking for work,” he bellowed. “Many of you have spent a long time at sea, and I offer you reprieve from your constant wandering of the oceans. My men and I seek a few hardy souls to join us in the fight for King and country against the papist bastards who threaten to come into your homes and lay to waste all that has been wrought by fine English hands. I am Captain Hobbs of His Majesty’s Army, seeking men of strength to go with me into the woods and destroy the devils where they sleep. So who here amongst you has the nerve to join up?”
His voice boomed up and down the shoreline, gathering a small contingent of all sorts of men. Some slunk off with no interest in such an awful prospect, while others simply staggered over in their drunken state to hear what was being said. One fellow pushed to the front. He grasped in his hand a pint of ale and eyed Captain Hobbs through squinted eyes.
“Ha! Who’s this fool who bellows at us like at so many powder monkeys?” the newcomer said to the captain, who still towered atop the crates. “I see an idiot in filthy clothes with nothing to offer but a death in the wilderness.”
The others laughed and jeered in affirmation. Sergeant Timms shoved men aside and neared the drunkard, hoping to hush him.
“That’ll do man,” ordered Hobbs. “Go away, then, if you want none of the King’s gold I offer.”
“Bugger off!” the drunkard hollered.
Captain Hobbs, now completely angered, began to move down from the boxes to handle this fool who was foiling his attempt to recruit. As Hobbs was watching his footing whilst coming down, the drunk reached down and drew his knife, an item always to be found at the waist of a seaman. Sergeant Timms saw this and acted swifter than could the imbibed man. In one swift motion, Timms drew back the cock of his pistol, leveled it at the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. Bone and brain sprayed from the man’s face as his body crumpled to the wooden dock. The knife clattererd harmlessly across the planks and into the water. Those who had remained to watch quickly dispersed, and we six were left alone: four from the woods and two dead men, one sprawled with smoke still rising from his head and another in a creaking iron cage. It all had happened so fast, but I had already become accustomed to the swift arrival of death. Sergeant Timms looked at the dead man at his feet, then over his shoulder at the rotting pirate, then back to Captain Hobbs.
“I suppose these won’t do. Won’t do at all. I wager they can’t handle a blade nor firelock the way they are now,” Timms said to detract from the hideousness of the moment.
“Yes, sergeant, and I’ll wager that these men’s fellows won’t be running to fill our ranks with our sort of welcoming,” Hobbs said, referring to the dispersed crowd.
We chuckled despite the state of affairs we were in.
“We would be most likely to find more help if we were to head away from the direction that mob went,” commented Wendell quietly. “There’s sure to be one amongst them that will seek revenge despite our legitimacy at killing this fool.”
We watched the small group of drunks move away to the north; we then turned and headed south. Shortly we came to the first tavern. It was an ill-constructed shack that appeared to be thrown up with a few scraps left over from an old ship. It was unmistakably built by men of the sea, with planks slapped together and tarred to keep out the weather. Above the door hung a carved sign with a whale being pursued by a small boat filled with men, harpoons at the ready. We were about to duck in when a voice hailed us from behind. The Sergeant swung around briskly, his pistol at the ready. Wendell lowered his musket from shoulder to hip. There stood a man with dark red hair dressed in clothing more suitable to ocean-faring than to land. His hair was twisted in a tight pigtail that draped over one shoulder and was tied at the end with a bit of string; the pigtail was smeared with tar. His shirt was off-white and stained with salt. It was tucked into the ash-colored slops that hung to below his knees. Around his waist was a green sash with a knife tucked into the front. The seaman had black stockings that stretched tight over his muscular sea-legs and ran down into his shoes. The stockings had patches and holes in such a great many places that it appeared little remained of the original cloth. He held his hands out to show that he was not armed, but also showed no sign of fear at looking down the barrels of guns.
“You lookin’ for men to join up?” he asked simply.
“What interest do you have in our trade?” shot back Captain Hobbs.
“I’ve little interest in returning to the sea; had quite enough, really,” answered the seaman truthfully.
“All right then, that’ll do,” stated Captain Hobbs.
As Captain Hobbs continued to interview this newest potential recruit to our ranks, he found out that this man, Whelan, had started out from Cape Cod as a whaler. But two weeks out, his ship had been captured by one of the pirate ships that plagued the coast and he was persuaded into aiding them until he was put ashore. Pirates do not desire to hold company with them that do not wish to be a part of their raids. Unfortunately, it had taken nearly a year for Whelan to be put ashore, during which time he was made to assist the carpenter of the ship as he did not wish to engage in thievery at sea. Ironically, after he had been put ashore, one of the victims of the pirate ship recognized him and Whelan was nearly hung for piracy himself. But a few others came to his aid and vouched for his character. Whelan was not as quiet as Wendell, but nearly so. To be sure, he was an able-bodied seaman but he had grown tired of life at sea and longed to be ashore, away from it all. Most of all, he feared the sea because he could not swim, and the long days and weeks of imagining falling overboard, he stated, had nearly driven him mad.
We were now five and decided to enter the tavern nearby for some much-needed refreshment. We entered beneath the sign portraying the whalers. As we passed under it, Whelan rapped his knuckles against the sign and gave a low chuckle. I was in front of him as our horde entered the tavern, so I heard him say, as he tapped the sign, “None more for me.”
The tavern was dark as could be without being entirely shrouded in black. The setting sun sent a few small streaks of orange light through the planks where the tar had crumbled and fallen away. Two long, rough-hewn tables ran nearly the entire length of the single room. Candles crammed into the tops of old bottles spread little pools of light here and there. To one side, a half dozen men sat around a smaller table, listening to one who stood regaling them with his latest story of hunting the whale. The storyteller’s face was dimly lit by a couple of candles, nearly burned to nubs, crammed into a tin candle holder tacked to the wall. A sudden burst of laughter erupted from his crowd as he said something humorous; he punctuated his tale with a big wave of his arms that also had the effect of sloshing some of the ale in his cup over his hand and to the floor. This stopped his story for a moment as he, in drunken stupor, turned his bobbing head to look at the effect of the spillage. He made a slight frown and then, without further consideration, launched back into his epic. I was watching all this while Sergeant Timms and Captain Hobbs scanned the rest of the tavern’s inhabitants for signs of danger. Seeing no immediate threats, Captain Hobbs fished in his waistcoat for a coin, which he tossed to Sergeant Timms, and ordered up pints for our crew. Hobbs then marched to the corner of the tavern and took a seat at a small table where he could keep his back to the wall and thus have a commanding view of the establishment. Whelan, Wendell, and I joined him, pulling up assorted stools and chairs around the table. Sergeant Timms placed his order and then came to sit in a chair that Private Wendell had procured for him.
“Well, my boys, not a good start here in Boston, but we managed to fool one into coming with us,” said Captain Hobbs, “We’re in need of finding more, though, before we return to William Henry – or I’ll be flogged for dereliction.”
Soon, the tavern maid brought our ales to the table. They were contained in well-worn and dented pewter mugs. We relished the ale as we imbibed and soon were on our way to having heads loftily placed in the rafters. The night wore on as Captain Hobbs and Sergeant Timms discussed what our duties would be once we returned to the fort. Our involvement would include scouting for enemies and offering protection to any woodcutters that would bet set about their tasks.
Other patrons came and went through the night, but near the end of our sojourn one shifty soul arrived and pulled up, by himself, near a small table in a far corner. When I first saw him the skin on the back of my neck tingled and I watched as Sergeant Timms looked him over. The new man tugged at his tattered waistcoat and seemed to be attempting to secrete his worn shirt, which appeared to be stained darkly, beneath the outer garment. This man was small in height, but his wary eyes missed nothing that occurred in the tavern. Sergeant Timms spied that he was served some cheap, weak grog, and at that decided to approach the mystery figure. Whelan and Wendell were deeply engrossed in conversation, so it was just Captain Hobbs and I left to watch as Timms carefully approached the newcomer. When the sergeant was near, the man’s eyes were diverted away and did not see Timms as the sergeant lightly placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. The newcomer reacted immediately with a raised, clenched fist as he pulled his arm away from Timms. I could not hear, but saw as the sergeant mouthed the words, “Easy lad.”
The man relaxed a bit but kept his guard keen just the same. Sergeant Timms dragged a chair from a neighboring table and seated himself so that he could speak closely with the new man. The sergeant’s first act was to beckon the tavern maid, and he ordered the man a proper ale from the coins left over from the captain. I turned to see that this produced a small downturn in the mouth of Captain Hobbs. He quickly replaced it as he looked at me, took a gulp of ale, cocked an eyebrow, and shrugged his shoulders. Timms and the new man conversed for a while, and I nearly forgot about them as I, again with my drink, dissolved into thoughts of my own future. Secure in surroundings and company, my mind wandered to contemplations of where I would be a week from now, a month from now. The thoughts combined with the ale soon made my head heavy, and I was quickly left with the singular question of where I would sleep that night. I was near to resting my head on the table when the door burst open, releasing the bitter sea winds into the tavern and bending the winks of light upon each candle top. Framed in the doorway was an army officer holding a tall pike that he tilted forward to allow its passage through the door. In his other hand he clutched a brightly polished brass and glass lantern. The officer paused for a moment to allow his presence to be known to all that were present. He then strode through the doorway, followed by a dozen red-coated soldiers. He made his way to the end of the tavern and ascended an inclined place in the floor that was regularly reserved for musicians. Captain Hobbs leaned toward me and seethed through clenched teeth, “Major Todd.”
I took this to mean that he was a less than desirable fellow and rocked back in my chair to see what would take place. As the tavern began to silence for the major, Sergeant Timms moved to our table with his new acquaintance in tow.
“Gentlemen, your attention for a moment,” Todd began. “Tonight a man was killed near here, shot with his own pistol and robbed. I have been sent to capture the vile, scandalous creature that has committed this most wretched deed and demand of all who are here absolute cooperation.”
With that, his men began circulating among the men at the tavern, seeking to reveal some evidence of the crime. Major Todd kept his place and swept his gaze over the crowd, soon fixing his stare on Captain Hobbs. The major stepped down, his well-shined shoes clicking upon the wooden floor as he approached our place. Captain Hobbs was quick to his feet, and we responded in kind so that we were all standing when Major Todd arrived.
“Your lordship. A good evening to you, I trust?” Captain Hobbs greeted.
“Yes. Well, all but this matter with the killing and all. You wouldn’t happen to know anything of it, would you, Hobbs?” the major inquired.
“Not a thing, your lordship. In fact, we have been here the greater part of the night with nothing to warrant your ire,” Hobbs replied.
“You will pardon my inquiry, Captain Hobbs, but the rangers are known to run with not-so-desirable fellows,” Major Todd said vehemently. “I see that you have fooled a few into your silly business of woods walking.”
Throughout the evening, as the ale had taken over I had made the mistake of rolling up my sleeves, thus displaying the tattoos that adorned my forearms and presenting my identity as an Indian. One soldier stepped forward and grabbed my exposed arm and roughly drew me in near the light of the major’s lantern.
“How ’bout this fellow?” spouted the soldier. “A savage, I dare say!”
I was in the process of attempting to free my arm when I heard the distinct clatter of a wooden ramrod leaving a musket. The rammer flashed by my face and creased the neck of the soldier attempting to accost me. The other end of the ramrod was tightly clenched in the hand of Captain Hobbs. The soldier’s grip hastily released as he grasped at his afflicted throat. This soldier stumbled backwards and, despite the attempts of his fellow soldiers to catch him, went crashing down on a table. As he only caught the edge, the table gave, catapulting a few mugs and a clay pot across the floor of the tavern; the pots shattered to bits. While I was relieved to be released from the soldier’s clutches, I now worried as to what would be the consequence of my deliverance.
“Your lordship, you will kindly instruct your men to stay clear of mine,” the captain declared coolly but defiantly.
The insubordination was not lost on Major Todd, who pressed himself closely to the captain, locking eyes with him.
“Captain Hobbs, you will keep yourself in check. I could have you brought up on charges for this!” the major shouted.
Captain Hobbs never broke his stare and, for what seemed like an eternity, the two stood off and appeared to let pass between them knowledge of past deeds and acts.
“My apologies, sir. You will forgive me, but I have been enjoying the fine Boston ale and have given leave of my senses. It is not often that I, with my men, should enjoy the comforts of a town garrison; I was merely standing in defense of my man. I am accustomed to the law of the forest which, I dare say, is not a familiarity of yours,” Hobbs explained in a humorous tone. “You see, we do not allow such breaches in the protection of one another in that environment. It often is the difference between life and death.”
Surprisingly, Major Todd let the affront pass and ordered his men to stand down. A sigh passed his lips as he finished his orders. His aloof posture, an attempt to be dismissive, did not match the fear present in his eyes.
“Captain Hobbs, I trust that your stay here will be short and that we will have no further problems from you?” the major half questioned, half ordered.
“We will be gone in the morning; I fear we have gleaned every man hearty enough to take to the woods,” Hobbs assured Todd. “Yes, your lordship, we will be gone at first light,”
“Good, then. I dare say Boston could not take but a few more moments of the smell of rangers in these parts,” Major Todd insulted.
Captain Hobbs let it pass; any who knew the true character of men was aware of what had occurred. After one more sweeping gaze of our ranks, Major Todd ordered his men back into the night to search the next tavern. As he pushed through his men to their head he shot back a final decree.
“By morning, Hobbs,” Todd bellowed. “Don’t have me searching you out on the morrow.”
“Not to worry your lordship,” Captain Hobbs replied. “I think your men would have a time of it once we’ve reached the woods’ edge.”
Captain Hobbs made arrangements with the tavern-keep to allow us a room above the tavern for the night. In exchange, we would help him rid the tavern in an hour or so of all its occupants. While Hobbs was making his arrangements, I listened closely to the conversation of Sergeant Timms and his shadowy companion. Sergeant Timms questioned the man as to if he had anything to do with the murder. The man simply looked at the floor. Timms did not pursue any more information, save to find that his name was Crum. Patrick Crum. Besides the old linen shirt and black waistcoat, he was dressed in ragged breeches with dark green stockings that had seen far better days. When he turned slightly in his chair, I could indeed see a conspicuous dark, wet stain on the shirt. He saw me looking at the stain and I met his eyes – a chilling discovery. They were the most primal-looking devices that I had ever seen set in a man’s face. I had seen eyes like that in the face of only one other creature: a bear. I averted my stare and looked off, trying to seem interested in what the captain was to. But I was shaken by the look Crum had given me, and I wondered if he would turn out to be more maniac that asset. The captain wrapped up his affairs with the keep and returned to the table, explaining our accommodations and the conditions of them.
“Whelan, do you know where the naval armorer and sundries are in this port?” Hobbs questioned.
“Yes, your lordship. It is down near Red Shield …” Whelan began, being cut off by a wave of Hobbs’ hand.
“Fine, take Wendell and draw two muskets, powder, and shot. If he has any meat stores and bread stores, draw plenty of each. And a few blankets if he has them,” Hobbs ordered as he scribbled out the list on a sheet of paper that he had drawn from his waistcoat. “Come back and meet us at the boxes where you were recruited this afternoon.”
Whelan and Wendell drained their mugs and ran out the door to their task. The tavern maid set down another large pot of ale at our table. Those of us who remained sat and drank the well-earned beer. Captain Hobbs lit a pipe and for the first time, after a few draws, passed it to Sergeant Timms, who also smoked and passed it in like fashion until it was circling our group in concert with the smoke it produced overhead. This subtle act seemed to bind us in an unspoken covenant.
After a time, we met up with Whelan and Wendell at the boxes. All of us stared at the pile of provision set out. Crum snatched up a musket, snapped open the hammer, and drew back the cock with an expertise that belied his ragged state. Captain Hobbs eyed him suspiciously and asked if he had ever handled one of the King’s Arms before. Crum replied with a simple nod. Whelan held his musket and looked down the barrel with an amused look on his face.
“So it’s a bit like a small cannon, then, right?” Whelan mused.
Sergeant Timms shook his head, a slight smirk parting his lips. Captain Hobbs turned in disgust. There in the dark hours of night, Timms went through the drill of showing the new men the way to properly load and fire. Whelan listened intently while Crum looked at Timms in brief glances, distracted by other thoughts. When they had finished, Captain Hobbs returned us to the tavern and we scattered the few drunks left in the dankness. We went to our room and Hobbs mounted the single bed while the rest of us jumbled up on the floor, tightly packed in the small quarters.
We were out in front of the tavern before morning’s light. The chill of night was still thick in the air. The original four of us had our things slung over our backs. We checked and then rechecked our muskets for anything that would make them not fire properly. The pile of blankets that had been procured the night before lay in the center of our circle. Hobbs looked at them and said that Whelan and Crum would need to find some means to carry them. Whelan looked questioningly at Crum, who did not waste a moment. He disappeared, drawing his knife from his waist as he left our circle. Shortly, he returned with two lengths of rope that looked suspiciously like the mooring lines of a ship.
“Where did you come up with those?” asked Whelan. As the words slipped from his lips a small whale boat drifted by the docks, with frayed mooring lines dragging the water. Captain Hobbs looked at Crum with deep lines crossing his forehead.
“He owed me money,” Crum stated plainly.
“Let us get to it before we sound any more alarms,” instructed Timms.
“Indeed …” Hobbs muttered wearily, signaling for us all depart.
XI.
With loose orders from Captain Hobbs and Sergeant Timms, we left Boston, our heavy muskets secure in our cold hands and our new men with their provisions tightly bound over their shoulders with mooring line. The cobbled streets of Boston gave way to dirt roads leading into the hilly country. Soon we left the road and broke into a trail that cut through the forest. We stopped near noon at a small trading post. The trader spoke with Timms and Hobbs at length while the rest of us lounged under a tree eating a few pieces of meat piled on shreds of bread. As I chewed my meal I watched the trader’s son, who appeared to be near my age, as he split wood. I could see that he was not working at the same pace as when we had first arrived. He seemed to be leaning to hear the words of Hobbs, Timms, and his father. He slowed and then stopped, resting the ax tip in the splitting stump. He ran the sleeve of his stained shirt across his forehead and looked our way. He was tall but not overly muscular. He had the look of a boy who had lived on the edge of the wilderness his whole life. His long black hair was tied back in a tail with a small piece of leather. He left his work and went to stand behind his father to listen more intently. His father felt his presence and turned, pointing a finger for him to return to the wood pile. I could hear his father, in a thick German accent, telling the boy to get back to his work. The boy lowered his shoulders and began walking back to what appeared to be for him a hated duty.
“On your feet,” ordered Timms.
We stuffed the remainder of our bread and meat into our haversacks and I jogged to get up ahead and down the trail. As we were breaking into the woods, I glanced back and saw Crum pull a few apples from the trader’s orchard trees, looking around to make sure that Hobbs and Timms did not see his act. Whelan was beside him and began to open his mouth when Crum struck him with the butt of his musket in the small of Whelan’s back, effectively closing his mouth. Crum stuffed the apples in the top of his bound blankets and shoved one in Whelan’s bed roll to buy his silence. I turned my attention back to my duty and scanned the woods; nothing was there but birds flashing from tree to tree. We moved down the trail at steady pace and were glad to be at our task. The first hints of winter had put a smell in the air, and I knew that it would be a happy occasion to return to the fort and our families. We had continued through the woods about a half of a mile when we heard a horse riding up fast behind us. I looked back; Captain Hobbs ordered us to the cover of trees with a hand signal. We waited and soon saw the trader’s son appear on a horse. We broke our cover and circled around him.
“What is it, boy?” Captain Hobbs questioned.
“I want to go with you,” said the boy quietly – and a bit urgently.
“Does your father know that you have left him?” asked Timms.
“He doesn’t need me,” responded the boy. “I’ve no desire to be at that post forever.”
“Your father seemed to say that he needed your help when we were there,” offered Timms.
“I’ve had enough of it,” was all the boy could muster. It seemed there was something deeper to his statement which he was not revealing to us.
“I don’t think we should be depriving your father of the help that he needs. You’d best be back to him,” instructed Hobbs.
A look of humiliated anger crossed the boy’s face as Hobbs turned away, motioning us to continue on. I turned to face front, as did the rest of the company, and in the distance I could see a squirrel as it crossed a branch. From where I was standing it was but a speck as it crawled along. Suddenly, the sharp crack of a rifle echoed over us and I saw the squirrel fall. We all turned back to the boy, who was still sitting atop his horse, albeit now with a smoking rifle in his hand. We all turned our heads again, then, to judge the distance of the shot. It was very impressive. Hobbs and Timms consulted in private, and when finished they said that they agreed the boy and his rifle would be an advantage in our ranks. A smile parted the boy’s face, and he slung himself down from his horse. He quickly reloaded his short rifle and dragged an oil-cloth haversack down from his horse. With his meager possessions in hand, he gave the horse a light slap on the rump and set it running back toward his father’s post. He looked one last time toward his home, as many of us had done before him, and then turned expectantly towards Captain Hobbs.
“Up behind Solomon,” Hobbs said, pointing in my direction. He came up and shook my hand.
“Thomas Fehn,” he said. We looked down at our clasped hands and he caught sight of my tattoos. I looked back up at him, and he said plainly, “Never had any trouble with them Indians fighting for King George.”
I gave him a nod and then looked to Hobbs, who waved his hand down the path in an impatient way. I trotted off again with Fehn in tow and we soon were up ahead of the others.
That night we made camp on a steep slope. I saw Timms eye Crum and Whelan warily as they crunched their apples. It appeared that Timms might make some objection, but before he could speak, Crum thrust an apple into his hand, dissolving his lecture before it started. Fehn was off by himself, so I grabbed my haversack and joined him. Thomas was meticulously looking over the small German rifle. Between rubbing small amounts of grease into the metal of his lock and barrel, he would push a small wedge of cheese or meat from his haversack into his mouth. And so this is how the night found Hobbs’ Company as we made our evening preparations.
Soon a small fire was lit and we gathered closely around it to prevent its light from straying beyond our ranks. I looked closely at the faces of each man as he sat in silent contemplation. The older men – Timms, Hobbs, and Wendell – stared intently into the flames, while the newer men seemed to search the shadows for an unseen enemy. Crum, while being new to our ranks, did as the older men were inclined to do, staring at a single log as it intermittently caught fire and then winked out. The older men did not bother to look beyond our flames, because they knew what lay beyond. The smoke gathered in my eyes and I closed them to avoid the irritation, but then found myself in a state of prayer. I thanked the Lord for safe passage, knowing that it would be His will as to when, where, and how He would see fit for me to depart this world. After a short time, our fire was extinguished and we were set to either build our beds or prepare for watch. Fehn was given first watch, and instead of simply finding a place to picket himself to the ground, he chose to climb a giant maple at the height of the hill overlooking our camp. He went nearly twenty feet up the trunk and then, finding a sufficient branch, planted his back against the trunk and began his slow scan of the surrounding area. At third watch I was rousted from sleep and given the Captain’s timepiece by Crum. When he first nudged me I must have given out a bit of a cry, for I was greeted with his leathery palm clasped over my mouth.
“Be quiet, damn you,” seethed Crum in a nearly inaudible voice.
I slowly walked up the hill and stood at the base of the tree that Fehn had mounted earlier. I decided to stay to the ground. Several hours later I watched the first rays of dawn burn over the edges of the sky. The colors resembled those of the few remaining leaves that clung to the trees around me. I was awed at God’s splendor and gave quick thanks for making it through another evening. I remembered a prayer that one of the old men in Stockbridge used to give at daybreak: Today I will live well.
I slowly turned my head around to check, again, for any sign of enemies, but there was nothing. I first roused Captain Hobbs, who rubbed his hand over his face and looked at me with a glassy-eyed gaze that bespoke of a deep sleep. He turned his head and then lightly elbowed Sergeant Timms, who snorted and then slowly pressed himself up from his blankets. Soon, everyone was up and once again looking over their bedrolls, readjusting breeches, and situating their hats upon their heads. Finally, we all checked our firelocks and in no time we were once again at the task of pushing toward Fort William Henry.
Along the way we passed through several settlements. Most of the inhabitants were eager to find out any news that might be had. They were appalled by the stories of raids and attacks that had taken place against English settlements, and some could easily relate, as they had been the victims of attacks themselves. None of these small communities could bear to part with any of their men, as these were needed to fill the ranks of their own militias that were forming to deal with the French and Indian threat. At one small village the men were drilling on the commons. Their leader was showing them the finer points of standing in columns and firing in volleys. I caught the sergeant’s gaze as we watched. Timms shook his head, muttering about how they would be disappointed when they met the Indians in the woods.
The rolling hills gave way to large mountains as we closed the distance to the fort. Gathering at the base of many of these mountains were small ponds that we stayed well clear of, as water sources seemed to draw the enemy’s eye and attention. We gathered our water at any small streams that we came across and made it a point to not linger at their banks. Early winter winds continued to cut through the forest, tearing leaves from branches and scattering them in all directions. The pine trees were beginning to stand out starkly against the burnt oranges and fiery reds of the maple trees’ canopies. Getting closer to the fort, the landscape became familiar, which caused us to become anxious to return to our garrison – but also alerted our attention to be wary of enemies lingering nearby. We became aware of more frequent, well-worn trails. I searched each one to try to find signs of recent footprints, but it appeared that most were several days old. Near nightfall of our last day on the trail we began to see newer tracks and our senses were heightened by these findings. The sun had just dipped below the horizon when I saw the first movements of men. I stopped our company, and we laid ourselves tightly to the ground. Sergeant Timms and I crawled to the top of a hill to look down upon those who had gained my attention.
Below us, twenty Huron huddled in a small circle, intent to some kind of council. We watched as they seemed to formulate a plan and then, without notice, broke their circle and began to climb the hill toward where our company was gathered. I looked at the sergeant, who had turned his head and was motioning for the rest of our men to pull up beside us. To me, their footsteps sounded like a thousand deer coming through the leaves despite Hobbs’ Company’s attempt at a silent skulk. When all the men had made it to the top of the hill and were beside Sergeant Timms and me, Hobbs passed the order, by whisper, for each man to pick his target carefully. The Huron were quickly nearing our place of hiding, and I tried to slow my breathing. When they had come to within ten yards of where we were assembled, Hobbs fired the first shot. It slammed into the closest warrior, who crumbled and began rolling down the hill. The signal given, each man placed a well-aimed shot into a Huron pushing up the hill. Not knowing our numbers or definite location, the remaining warriors began to try to turn from us. The warrior who directed the others’ movements, a tall man painted entirely black but for a few small red dots across his face, began yelling at his fellows and urging them toward us. As one they turned, and it was apparent that soon we would be overrun by superior numbers. Now several of us were in different stages of loading and firing: some kneeling, others still pressed closer to the ground. Captain Hobbs, though, was standing and trying to fire carefully while urging us on.
“Put lead in their bellies, men!” Captain Hobbs shouted.
We began to spread out as we sought shelter behind tree and rock from the shots being fired at us. One warrior came fast toward Hobbs. Crum dropped his musket and pulled his tomahawk from his leather belt. He ran down to meet the coming foe and was quickly entangled with the enemy, rolling down and away from us. I did not have time to see where he and the warrior went, as I was intent on holding off the enemy as well as I could. The war captain of the Huron finally began yelling to those of his men that were still standing, and they began to make a hasty retreat as we continued to attempt to pick them off. And then, just as quickly as the skirmish began, the woods were silent again, though the shots of firelocks still rang in my ears. Crum was gone but the others were uninjured. We scanned the woods with our eyes, trying to see if the enemy was attempting to come around us. But it was soon apparent that they had fled. Hobbs gathered us near a tree. He ordered that none of us sleep and that each keep vigilant watch throughout the night. This order was not hard to adhere to, as each of us was certain that the Huron would return in the night with a thousand warriors to finish us. At daybreak, with no enemy around, we began to search for Crum. We found him near the base of the hill, where he had come to rest with the warrior that he had been engaged with. The warrior lay at his feet, his throat cut. Crum did not look much better. His shoulder was flayed open, and blood oozed from the gash. He appeared to be barely conscious as we came to him. Whelan and Wendell each grabbed him by a shoulder to lift him. Wendell, who had grabbed him near the wound, was greeted by a deep grunt and a hateful look from Crum.
“Can you walk?” Hobbs questioned.
“Yes, I’m fine,” was Crum’s unconvincing reply.
Crum was placed beside Whelan, who carried his firelock and helped him when he began to stumble. Each time that Whelan tried to lend assistance, though, Crum shook him off and mumbled a few salty curses.
As noon neared, we came within the area controlled by Fort William Henry. We crossed the open ground with little concern for the enemy, as there was a large force of regular troops out drilling near where we appeared from the forest. As we broke the tree line, Sergeant Timms shouted for some of the soldiers to come help our wounded man. Crum’s head shot up proudly and declared, “No, I’m damn near...”
Then Crum fell forward with no apparent attempt to catch himself. Several soldiers roughly gathered him up and rushed him into the fort. There he was brought into the small cabin that housed the fort’s surgeon-barber. Crum was laid out on a table and the surgeon pulled off Crum’s shirt, exposing the deep, meaty wound. Around the cut the skin had turned dark red and purple. The surgeon used damp cloths to wipe away the crusty blood and pus that gathered near the wound. Captain Hobbs, Sergeant Timms, and I stood nearby, waiting to hear what the surgeon would say about Crum’s injury.
“I suppose that I will need to cut the arm off so as to save him,” declared the surgeon.
“Damn,” was all the captain could say as he ushered Timms outside.
I stood over Crum, who had fallen unconscious, for a while and was soon met by Abigail, who came and hugged me and wept a few tears of joy at my safe return. She pushed me from her and held me at arm’s length to study my face. I felt like a son who had overstayed an evening excursion and was now coming home to receive my scolding. Abigail continued to hold my shoulders as she turned her face to look at the bloody mess that was Patrick.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“He’s one of the newest men to join up with our devilish rabble,” I said, not without a grin.
Abigail slowly turned her gaze on me again, and this time her brown eyes had gone hard with anger. She held me in this manner until I felt compelled to look away.
“Solomon, what has happened to you? Where is my sweet brother who left this place just a few short weeks ago?” she wailed. “I can see in your face that you have changed too much. What have they filled your head with? You are not considering staying in the company of these men, are you?...”
But her words were cut short by tears welling up again.
“Sister, you cannot possibly understand what I have undergone in these few days,” I said in a voice and manner common to a warrior. “They have seemed more like years than weeks, and I have found in these men the brothers I never had. It is certain that they would batter down the gates of Hell for me – and I for them.”
“You are a boy! You are my brother! I will not lose you over this meaningless squabble between the white men for land and gold,” Abigail shouted this decree as I continued to look away. “Your mind used to be filled with thoughts of prayer, the quiet of the woods, and a green-eyed girl. Now your thoughts are consumed by hate and war and killing. Be sure that you will not win this battle, even if you kill all of your enemy; I have seen it in many faces while you were gone. I have heard their talk and have seen their ways – making ready to fight and consuming the landscape and the trees and the animals as they prepare their killing campaign.
“Do you want to be this man, Solomon? Look! Look at what happens!” Abigail screamed as she pulled at the destroyed shoulder of Crum, producing a small grunt from his unconscious depths.
I could say nothing. I tried to embrace Abigail to let her know that all would be well, but she would not allow it. She buried her face in her hands as her body shook with tremors and sobs. I cleared my quickly choking throat but could think of no words that would bring her comfort. The surgeon returned with an evil-looking saw and an assortment of rusted knives. He began to set up for his grisly work. Abigail looked up from her hands with tears cutting through the small red painted circles that adorned her cheeks. She watched with wide-eyed horror as the surgeon began to set up for his cut, and then she pulled his arm away from Crum’s body.
“Stop. Stop this,” Abigail said in soft but assured voice. “I will fix it. I can take care of his arm.”
The surgeon looked at her with disbelief. He began to disregard her but she stopped him again. “Please, sir, I have seen such things and worse,” she stated. “I can make this heal.”
The surgeon looked at the wound and then leaned forward to smell it.
“It has not turned to festering yet and it is relatively free of maggots and corruption,” he said. “I will give you a day to see what you can do with your witchery, and then I must do what is ordered of me.”
Abigail looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and asked if I could go look for some of the plants that she and I had gathered on other such occasions – she ever-prepared to set aside her own state of affairs to provide comfort for another.
“Boneset, heal-ale, and some moss from the base of the pine trees, Solomon,” she instructed. “And get some willow to help with the pain.”
I went to gather these things. I knew well where to find them, as I had been taught so by my sister. My senses were still raw from the chastising I had received from her, and I spent the gathering-time plunged in a deep pit of contemplation. When I had brought in the items sought, Abigail went to work making a poultice that she knew to draw out the fire of the wound and make it heal.
Over the next few days she continued to ward away the surgeon as she dutifully repaired Crum’s injury, bringing him slowly back to wakefulness.
XII.
The season plunged on, and soon the nights could not be bared without a few blankets. I continued to assist the rest of Hobbs’ Company as they stood to their duties at Fort William Henry. Crum returned to our ranks in the span of a fortnight but was unable to go on a scout until a month and a half had passed. We spent several late fall weeks giving security to wood-cutters as they laid up enough logs for our winter’s stay. In that time we saw little sign of the enemy except for the occasional warrior, no doubt sent to spy on our fort. Our company, in addition to other rangers, was sent to scatter these men and to disrupt, as best we could, their activity.
One morning, while standing guard for the cutters, I smelled the first true gusts of winter. The scent clung to the inside of my nose; I can explain it only as the smell of cold. The final harvest was taking place, and it nearly felt like I was home again. My comfortable thoughts were usually stolen from me by the sight of soldiers drilling or other rangers standing near me; in such moments Abigail’s admonitions always returned to haunt me.
With the last of the crops brought in, a night was set aside to have a celebration. It is a night that still shines brightly in my memory. The fifers and drummers started the festivities with a roll and play. The hard-worked soldiers enjoyed this revelry with much delight. Some danced, their arms linked together in furious displays of footwork. Following the fifes and drums, the Highlanders put on their own show by playing their bagpipes, much to the dismay of Captain Hobbs, who detested pipes’ shrill wails. One Highlander threw upon the ground two swords arranged to form a cross. He danced in the spaces between the blades, and Sergeant Timms explained that this ancient dance was done by Highlanders before they go into battle. He said that they attempt to not touch the blades, as they take this as a sign of bad fortune in war. It was an excellent display and reminded me deeply of some of our old war dances. The Highlander held one hand on his hip and another high in air above him, and his kilt leapt with him on each jump. He managed to miss the large basket-hilted swords, and at the dance’s end was greeted by cheering and rough play from his fellow Scotsmen. All the while during the music and dance, we enjoyed pints of ale and a lovely concoction of cider and rum, warmed in a kettle by the fort brewer. Officers could be seen circulating among their like with bottles of French wine that had been captured during the summer raids. When the Highlanders had completed their show, the large gathering of the fort occupants broke apart into small groups that huddled around small fires near their respective camps.
Hobbs’ Company was no exception; in fact, we had the most bawdy and cheerful of camps. Private Crum returned to our fire, after being absent for some of the Highland display, with a fiddle that he had acquired. His return with the instrument brought raised eyebrows from Hobbs and Timms, but they did not inquire as to where he had attained such a rare thing or what he was to do with it. He tucked the small object to his hip and drew the bow over the strings, producing a small screeching that made the lot of us to cringe. He pulled the fiddle away and turned the small knobs on the neck this way and that until he was satisfied. The fiddle finally tuned, Crum struck into a furious melody that soon had many of us leaping about the fire and spinning those near us in a lovely splendor of dancing and laughing. Crum continued to play, and other rangers who did not have the privilege of such fine music began to gather near our fire, making our circle quite large indeed. Soon our camp came to include not only rangers, but regular troops and officers, as well. Patrick played songs that some men knew and sang along with. I had learned some of these songs, and soon Sergeant Timms and I had planted ourselves on a log across from one another and, while Crum rested, we traded song for song while others joined in the choruses. As the fire burned down, so, too, did the gaiety of our tunes. Crum sang an ancient tune that spoke of warriors gathering together in some secret place and rising in great fury against their enemy. It was all quite stirring.
And so his songs continued in this somber way. Old Irish war songs – and no finer to display them than Crum, who remained a great mystery to us. Some information was starting to be revealed, but still we knew little about him. It was speculated that possibly he had been a regular soldier in some little-known campaign. It was evident that he was very accomplished with a firelock; and now there was this revelation of fiddle-playing. He was obviously educated – even worldly in some aspects that befuddled officers that he came across. Still, Crum let on little about his past.
One aspect of him that he was having trouble concealing, though, was his interest in Abigail. They had come to be well acquainted while she administered to his wounds. As our songs began to slow in pace that night, I watched across the dim flames as he took her hand and drew her close to him to dance. To finish the night, I sang a final song that dealt with men forging into a dark early fog, hearing their enemies’ horses and experiencing the final moments before dashing into a certain death. These words were not lightly taken by my audience, men of war themselves. Each of us was set once again to remember our own station and our own path. I felt regretful at song’s end for killing the jovial mood, but I was assured it was a fine song that needed singing.
Strangely enough, it was Captain Hobbs who told me this as he placed a solemn hand on my shoulder. I did not expect words such as this from him, but rather from Sergeant Timms, as I had come to find him more aware of such sentiments. But Timms was not to be seen at song’s end. Whelan said that he had seen him walking away near the end of my singing, pint tucked in one hand and an unlit pipe in the other.
Our circle now broke apart. Many could be seen drawing themselves – and their silent contemplations – away from the flames. Patrick and Abigail drifted away. I saw, as they slipped from the last of the light, him tenderly wrapping an arm around her waist – the very arm that she had saved. I, too, was thinking of my own song as I pulled a small pipe from my pouch and pinched a bit of tobacco in its bowl. I led myself away to where several soldiers were standing guard, and watched them from the shadows. They saw me as well. These few knew of me and did not mind me, though I knew that many other soldiers would be uneasy at the thought of a “savage” overlooking their work. Of these others, I knew, not a few would jump at the opportunity to “mistake” me for an enemy warrior and dispatch me as such.
As the night deepened, I wandered the camps, skirting the outside perimeter of the fort where the various ranger companies were stationed. Some continued their festivities until the new day’s sun burned on the horizon. I continued to ambulate and imbibe many strong drinks throughout the night. Finally exhausted, I came upon a secluded place where I threw down my matchcoat to catch a brief moment of sleep before dawn’s light. As I drowned drowsily in the evening’s dying darkness, my mind swirled toward thoughts of home – and thoughts of her.
To be continued …
