Solomon's story continues in chapters 5 through 8 of With Sacred Honor. These chapters -- along with chapters 1 through 4 -- 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.
V.
When I had reloaded, Abigail grabbed my hand, and I turned to look at her horrified countenance. I told her we must go, so we took one last look at our cabin – flames and inky smoke licking and rolling through the broken windows – then followed our protector into the woods.
We moved swiftly all night, stopping only twice to refresh ourselves at the streams we crossed. At one of these stops my friend introduced himself.
“I am Sergeant Timms of Hobbs’ Rangers. I was en route to find more men to serve my king when I came upon these bloody savages attacking your village. I am going to Fort William Henry to report what has happened here. You may follow and decide what you will do from there.”
I thanked him, and then we continued on until the sun began to rise. Sergeant Timms was concerned that we might still be pursued, so he found a good place for us to bed down and instructed us to sleep. He said that he would keep watch. I told him that I thought I should help him. But, the moment I sat upon the soft green moss, my eyelids became heavy and I did not wake until the sun was setting in the west. Timms was shaking us lightly and telling us it was time to go. He gave us a bit of food from his haversack and we washed it down with water from his canteen. As I tipped back his canteen and tasted the water laced with rum, I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw the sergeant staring at my right hand, still clutching the old trade gun. The twilight of reds and oranges colored his stone face and his blue eyes once again pierced mine.
“Alright, laddo. Alright,” he murmured in a quiet, low voice.
I questioned him as to his meaning, but his look told me there was nothing else to say. Leading us, he turned and began walking north.
We continued on this way for many days. Each early evening we would rise; I would shake the sleep from my head and help Abigail along. Our pace was fast until we neared the fort. Sergeant Timms explained this was the most dangerous part of returning to a fort because there were always men lurking at the edges, watching and waiting for an opportunity to take some unsuspecting life. He said that he had seen not a few men killed within sight of forts’ gates. For the last mile to the fort we skulked from tree to tree, stopping frequently to look and listen for anything that might indicate some enemy’s presence. We came to the last few trees before the great clearing that surrounded the fort. Here we stopped and listened very closely. I saw Abigail looking about as intently as Sergeant Timms and I, albeit with a more distant and wider stare. She seemed to try to “feel” for anyone around and then looked to me, giving a skeptical nod; she was unsure. Sergeant Timms caught this look as well and seemed to understand. He told us to wait where we were and then broke cover to run to the gates.
Standing guard were two grenadiers. One stood at attention while the other fed a pine knot into a brazier to give some light, but not so much that it impeded their vision. As the sergeant approached, the grenadiers aimed their muskets and shouted a challenge at him. He responded and then they told him to approach slowly, they not removing their aim from him. When they saw that it was indeed him and that he was alone, they allowed him to pass through the man-door in the gate.
Time passed uneasily as we waited for him to return to the door. We waited and kept up our vigil, fearing any moment some savage would come and knock us on our head. When Sergeant Timms reappeared in the doorway, he had with him a man who seemed a full two feet taller than him. The man looked in our direction to where Timms was pointing. The sergeant then waved at us to come in. I sent Abigail first and tensed, waiting for any movement that was not hers. When I saw her safely duck through the door, I broke my cover and made my way across the clearing. Just as I came from my hiding place I saw another figure appear from farther down the wood-line. It seemed that he had an advantaged angle on me, and I knew that he would get to me before I reached the gates. I ran harder and looked forward to see both the grenadiers level their muskets and take a shot at him. But both missed their target; he was growing larger with every moment. I looked again to see the man with Sergeant Timms drop the pipe from his lips and reach inside the man-door, producing his own musket. My attacker was now only a few yards away. Seeing his spiked tomahawk raised high for a strike, I slid to the ground. I heard musket fire and saw the French man’s arm, the one that held the tomahawk, tear from his body in a bloody mess of bone and muscle. He fell to the ground and I pressed the barrel of my trade gun to his head and silenced his screaming. The grenadiers pushed me aside, and I heard a thick Scottish accent exclaim, “Now why did ya’ go and do that? We was gonna have a bit of fun wit’ ’im.”
They dragged his body back to the fort, and I followed them. When I arrived at the sergeant’s side he attempted to introduce me to my most recent redeemer.
“This is Solomon,” he indicated. “Solomon, Captain Humphrey Hobbs.”
The captain did not acknowledge my presence; he seemed more intent upon finding his pipe. He did so and took a pull to find it still lit. The captain then ushered his sergeant through the gates and I came along after. Inside the fort the grenadiers were ransacking the dead man’s clothes, cutting away his shirt and looking for something.
“When yer done with him I want what is left of the scalp,” the captain shouted. “That’s fifteen pounds I’m not bound to part with.”
The sergeant tried to introduce me again but the captain did not turn his gaze from the dead man.
“Sergeant, I heard you the first time,” Captain Hobbs said. “You know I haven’t much time for savages. Probably not’ve wasted the lead had I known.”
The captain, sergeant, and I continued to watch the grenadiers work over the body. They seemed unmoved by the sight but I shuddered at the thought of what fate might have dealt me.
When the grenadiers finally found a small piece of parchment tucked in the man’s sash they handed it to a third grenadier who ran it off to some place in the dark recesses of the fort. The other two returned to their post, and the captain went to the body to begin his grisly work. Just like the sergeant had done in Stockbridge, Hobbs knelt over the body, placing his knee on the head to hold it still. He then swept his blade across the scalp a few time to remove a bit of hair and head. The grisly sound of flesh being separated from bone added to the flurry of pangs that had, in succession, attacked my stomach. When the captain finished he stood and grinned a diabolical smile, the pipe still clenched between his broken teeth.
“Tonight we drink rum, Sergeant Timms,” he pronounced.
I felt that I had seen quite enough for one night and turned to the sergeant to ask if I could rest. He led me to the barracks where twenty-five men were in the midst of preparing for sleep, cleaning guns, and smoking pipes. When we walked through the door they all stopped their tasks and stared at me. Some of them grumbled about “dirty Indian” and “putting the savage out with the rest of the dogs,” but Sergeant Timms warned them that if any bothered my sister or me that he would deal with him personally. He then barked at them to be “as they were.” Later I would discover that most regular soldiers held no respect for rangers and the like, but all knew of Sergeant Timms and, if only out of fear, listened well when he spoke.
I asked where Abigail was and Timms told me that some of the women had taken her off to get cleaned up. No sooner had I asked than she returned in fresh clothing. I ushered her near the fire so that she could warm herself. The sergeant returned with some blankets. As Abigail spread them on the floor near the fire she asked me what the shooting was that she had heard. I knew that she had been through enough, so I told her that it was some men checking their firelocks. She and I wrapped ourselves in the blankets and quietly prayed together, thankful that we had survived our ordeal. We then quickly fell off to sleep.
VI.
That night I dreamt of wolves beckoning me to join them. I was frightened and comforted in the same moment. I crouched in a small stand of saplings, hoping they would not see me. But one came to me and sniffed me warily. Then I fell in step with them; we disappeared into the fog that surrounded us. As I departed I looked back a final time and saw Abigail in the embrace of a beautiful woman – an angel, possibly – with hair the color of blackest night. They were both weeping, but I knew I had to follow, maybe even to lead.
In the morning I woke with a start. Fife and drum announced the new day had come. All around me men were pulling on scarlet regimental coats and grabbing their firelocks from wooden racks on the walls. They filed out the door into the parade grounds. Abigail was still asleep, so I slipped from the blankets and covered her with my half of the bedding. I still clutched the firelock in my hand; through the night I had not removed my recently acquired pouch and horn. I walked from the barracks into the parade grounds; the autumn air did the rest of waking me. I looked down at my clothes; I could see the blood caked on them and feel still more lingering on the back of my neck. All of this certainly lent me a somewhat hideous appearance.
My moccasins, which had dried by the fire, were instantly soaked again as I walked through the dew-drenched lawn down to the end of the barracks to behold the lines of troops. I stood at the edge of the barracks and put the butt of my musket on the ground, leaning the barrel against my shoulder so that I could rub the chill from my hands. The fifes and drums started playing again and I, not knowing what to do, half-hid myself behind the edge of the building. When morning colors and ceremony had been finished and orders were given, I saw Captain Hobbs walking with the fort’s headman, Colonel Montgomery, and giving him some report. I looked down the lines of soldiers and saw Sergeant Timms with another man similarly dressed. It was apparent from their soaked moccasins, leggings, and shirttails that they had already been out scouting this morning. I walked from my cover and Sergeant Timms saw me right away. He motioned to Captain Hobbs, who shook his head vigorously. The sergeant spoke more desperately to him, and finally the captain threw up his hands.
“Alright, we shall see,” he said.
The three men walked down toward me; each had a look of absolute resolution on his face. The looks took me aback. I shuffled my feet, and when I could no longer bare their gazes I dropped my eyes to look at the ground. The captain walked past me, giving the impression that I was no greater than any other blade of grass upon which he tread. But the sergeant came to me.
“Good day, Solomon,” he said. “This is Private Wendell, and together we are Hobbs’ Company. Not much of a company, I know, I know, but many of our men were lost to the pox, bloody flux, and a recent ambush. I’m afraid this is all that is left. And that, my friend, is why I have come to speak to you … We have been given orders to go to Boston to seek out new recruits. We need a man who can navigate us to that place.”
The captain turned about suddenly and glared back.
“Sergeant Timms, get to it,” he barked. “We haven’t the day to spend at this task.”
“Yes, your Lordship,” Timms replied humbly. “Solomon, we need a man to get us to Pittsfield. Do you know that place and how to get there?”
I knew Pittsfield well. I had been there many times; it was the town just north of Stockbridge, where the men from my village went when they were brought into the British Army. There they procured powder, firelocks, pipes, and other provisions. I told Sergeant Timms this and he asked again if I would lead them there. I asked who would watch over Abigail, and they assured me that she would be well taken care of by Private Wendell’s wife.
I knew that I already owed a great debt to Sergeant Timms and the captain, so I agreed. When the captain heard this he wheeled about and came back to me.
“Understand this: you and your sister are now under the care of the British Army. Being under that care you must, in some way, benefit it. There are two ways that a savage can benefit the army. One is to serve your king in the army, and the other is to have your scalp sold.”
The second prospect did not sound very pleasant to me, so I agreed to lead these men wherever they needed to go.
The first order of business to prepare me to go with these men was to do away with the old trade musket that I had obtained in Stockbridge. The sergeant took the trade gun and turned it in to the armorer. He then drew for me a new British musket they called the King’s Arm. He returned and gave it to me along with some powder, balls, and a haversack full of food provisions. Captain Hobbs explained that all of these things were my responsibility, and if he found that I had lost or misused them he would see to it that I would come to know “the cat.” Following my briefing, he had me swear allegiance to the King and gave me a shilling as a token of my sworn duty. Sergeant Timms took the scalp from the man he had slain in my defense and bought a silver ring from the fort sutler. He slipped the ring, which bore a design of two clasped hands, onto the first finger of my right hand – my trigger finger. He said this was the true sign of our new agreement; I thought this fitting, as that finger would best demonstrate my loyalty to the crown.
Captain Hobbs disappeared with the bounty of scalps that had been collected in the few weeks that they had been at Fort William Henry and purchased some other sundries for our journey. These were dealt out so that all shared the load. I eyed my new musket with its shiny barrel and clean brown sling. The wood had a dark, unblemished finish. I then looked at the other men’s muskets and decided that there was some resemblance, but it was clear their weapons had not known youth in many years. Captain Hobbs’ musket was the same length as mine and was the newest looking of the three rangers’. Private Wendell’s musket was also of the same length but looked a great deal more battered. Sergeant Timms’ musket was a full six inches shorter. I questioned him about this, but he just grinned and said that it let him get that much the closer to his enemy. I noticed, from looking around, that these men were outfitted much differently from other soldiers. While the regulars wore shoes, three-cornered hats, and bright red coats, the rangers were dressed for the woods. There was little uniform about their clothing. It seemed each man was outfitted as he had seen best for the conditions. Each ranger wore a gray hunting shirt that hung down past his knees; that was the extent of their similarity. I would later hear some talk about uniform, regimental green coats being issued for them – but that was a distant possibility at best, the men assured me.
Captain Hobbs wore a brass gorget, which he complained sounded like a cow bell and swore that he would soon be rid of it. He was the only one fortunate enough to afford shoes. He had a large black cartridge-box slung over his shoulder; it hung down to his hip, beside a huge hunting knife with a deer-antler handle that was tucked in his leather belt. Private Wendell wore moccasins, leather leggings, and a dark blue waistcoat over his hunting shirt. Sergeant Timms also wore moccasins and leather leggings, but of all he seemed the most suited for the woods. He carried a hunting pouch and horn, items not seen among regular soldiers but common to hunters. He had discarded the blue bonnet for a short-brimmed black hat, from which his long blond hair was drawn back into a neat queue tied with a black ribbon. Over his hunting shirt he wore a green waistcoat; this appeared the least aged of his attire.
While the captain was away, the sergeant explained to me my duties as their pilot in the woods. I would move about twenty yards ahead of them and find the trail. I was to be ever watchful for anything that might indicate an enemy presence.
When the captain returned, he found me still looking at my new firelock.
“Don’t worry, lad,” he said as he slapped me on the back. “She’ll be seasoned soon enough.”
Of course, he spoke of me as much as he did of the musket. Walking the trail in front of these men would certainly not be the greatest manner in which to ensure a long life. I had heard enough stories to know the pilot’s was the most dangerous place to be, and I indicated as much to Sergeant Timms. He laughed.
“Boy, it would be a pity to spend a fistful of years in the woods and then get killed; better the first time yer out,” he said.
The men gained great mirth from this, but I found little humor in it and wondered what sort of men these were.
VII.
I spent my first night in the woods with Hobbs’ Company in careful reflection. I say “careful” not because I allowed myself to meticulously analyze my situation, but because I had to be careful not to allow my mind to wander as was its habit. Being the new man, I was given first watch. Captain Hobbs dared not risk the safety of his men on a lollard, so he gave me the watch with the least likelihood of falling asleep. But he still swore that if I so much as made a long blink he would see me lashed for endangering his men.
We slept that night on a small point that overlooked a place where three small ravines came together. At the tip of this point was a depression that the sergeant was satisfied would shield our movements. Behind us, the hill rose sharply, making a defined horizon that would give away the approach of anyone trying to sneak up on us. In front of our point and past the ravines was a large lake; it was moonlit, which would clearly show the approach from water and shoreline. I felt relatively safe here. But in time I would learn that this feeling of safety could be a man’s greatest enemy, allowing him to be lured from alertness. This night, however, all would remain quiet.
For my watch, I picked a large oak tree that I could lean against while looking over the men. The rangers pulled blankets from their assorted packs; they threw half of these upon the ground. And, after deciding there were no large sticks or rocks that would rub their shoulders or hips, they laid down in one large mass and pulled the rest of the blankets upon themselves.
It was time for me to take my post. Before I crept off, Captain Hobbs whispered yet another warning about the consequences of failure. Then he pulled a captured woolen French stocking cap down over his head.
Darkness fell, and with it the cold night sent its own frigid blanket upon us. I went to my tree and made certain that I could see all around without giving away my own location. I could see the ridge and the shoreline with little impediment, but looking over the edge of the point was impossible because of the slim beams of starlight that broke the canopy. No, this night my ears would have to be my sentries. I realized that a man’s eyes can only blindly venture into the darkness so far before they return again into his own mind. In there, I found myself trying to decide how it had come to be that a boy – who, just days before had been seeking game in the calm of the forest – had now become a man squatted behind a tree trying to guard against some awful, violent event. What do I know about all this? my internal workings asked. How can those men sleep? How can they trust a boy to watch over them?
In all my years of wondering about those men who go off to war, I had reasoned with myself that there was some initiation that transformed their minds, instantly, from unseasoned to iron-willed. I had only heard of how they had taken twenty scalps or outrun a hundred men or charged through a hail of lead. Not once did I suppose that they had ever huddled by a tree wondering if each breath would be their last.
These musings flashed periodically through my mind as it wandered; still I tried to avoid allowing them to wholly consume my thoughts. I knew that just a breath away lay three men that depended on me to call upon every bit of my ancestral ability to keep them alerted to anything of perilous concern.
The timepiece that Captain Hobbs had lent me for my watch caught a solitary moon beam as I shielded its face between my legs. At midnight my watch was finished. I scurried down the slope to rouse Private Wendell. He was startled by my nudge and pinned me soundlessly to the ground, his leathery fists clutched about my throat. But he remembered that I was with them and released his grip while whispering an apology into my ear. This man was a master of the silent. He hardly ever spoke, and he moved noiselessly everywhere he went. He took the small timepiece from me and continued to look over me with watchful glances to assure himself that he had not injured me. I took his place under the blankets at the captain’s side and peeked over the edge of the wooly covers to see Wendell stealthily picking his way up the hill to my old tree. My throat ached from his assault, but it reassured me of his strength and gave me that same unreliable sense of security that I would learn to avoid. This assurance, along with the oak-like heat that Captain Hobbs gave off, put me straight to sleep.
The moon was long before setting when the captain gave me a sharp kick to the ribs to wake me. He told us all to get ready to move. I rolled up and tied my blanket with the hemp tumpline and, after assuring myself that the load was riding well, tucked my tomahawk in my sash at my back. Captain Hobbs pointed for me to take the lead. I nodded my reply and made my way to the front of the small column.
I started a quick pace that into which the others fell behind me. My eyes sought out everything – looking, watching, inspecting, expecting. When I crested the hill, I looked back to see the giant moon lingering on the horizon; then I looked forward to see the first rays of the sun burning the dawn sky. I looked again at the moon and saw that it was beginning to be obscured by the storm clouds that I could sense advancing. When first I had risen from sleep I felt the storm coming and its presence reassured my instincts. The clouds made me think of columns of soldiers, and I wondered if the sight of them in the daytime would seem as ominous. Before stepping off again I checked my musket’s prime. A bit of evening dew had crept into the pan, so I primed it again.
We walked for an hour before the lofty regiments of clouds released their watery volley on us. No shelter was in sight, and it appeared that there would be none in the near or distant future. So we continued our pace, soaked but steadfast, the locks of our guns tucked neatly under our arms. Near evening we found shelter in the form of a small rock outcropping some ways up a little hill. The sandy floor and deep recess promised a decent night’s sleep. The storm had not let up, and it was sure to continue all night; it now added lightning and thunder to its showers. Captain Hobbs scanned the forest, and when he was content that no attack would come that night he gave permission for a small fire to dry our sodden things and warm our tired bones.
Straight away Sergeant Timms, Private Wendell, and I went to work looking for sticks in the cave. When we had produced a small pile, the sergeant drew from his pouch a small tin that contained flint, steel, and charred punky wood. He pinched a bit of this punk between his fingers and flint and struck his steel striker across the flint’s sharp edge. Sergeant Timms had mastered this art, and at the first strike the shower of sparks caught on the charred punk. The char glowed as bright as a candle in our shadowy shelter. He dropped the burning ember into a nest of hairy fibers that resembled a bird’s nest. Then, he blew steadily upon the hot center; his breath brought fiery life to the nest and it burst into flames. Timms carefully placed this flaming nest on the sandy floor, then he and I cautiously added small slivers of dry wood to fuel it. We continued in this way until the fire was large enough to burn finger-sized sticks, making the whole affair about the size of a good pumpkin. We would repeat this drill for many years to come; it became something of a shared ceremony for us.
The fire produced smoke, and the smoke began to accumulate. Sergeant Timms and I looked at each other and realized we had made a mistake. The heavy air from the rain did nothing to remove the smoke from inside the cave. The smoke began to choke us as we tried frantically to decide what to do. Our solution was to grab a few large logs; we shoved these under the flaming sticks, gathering them and moving the whole affair closer to cave’s mouth. The smoke had grown thick; it burned my eyes and lungs as we made our way to the edge of the cave. Most of the fire made it to the entrance, but there was a trail of burning sticks and embers that followed. These we swept toward the main body of the fire with our soaked moccasins. Captain Hobbs was not impressed by our mistake and let us know it with his baleful stare. The small fire gained new life after we had moved it, and soon we were able to strip a few items of clothing and dry them by the warm flames. Private Wendell had disappeared while we were giving the fire life but now returned. I saw one of his drenched arms reach up over the edge of the cave and pull himself into our rock shelter. Under his other arm he carried a bundle of wet sticks which he placed by the fire to dry. With this supply of wood we would have enough to last the night, he reassured.
I pulled my knees to my chest and warmed the bottoms of my feet by the fire. The others gathered around and we ate a bit of food from our haversacks. That night we took turns at watch; the only thing to be seen was the lightning tearing brief, ominous strips from the black nighttime sky.
VIII.
The rain continued, on and off, for days as we trudged toward Pittsfield. We arrived muddy, wet, and tired. The people of Pittsfield were stirred by the recent attacks made by the French and their Indian allies. Many men and women from my village were in Pittsfield. I met with several of my old friends and we questioned each other about the welfare of our respective families. All were happy to hear of Abigail’s and my escape. Some related stories of such grotesque savagery that I was made so much the more willing to fight. Most of the men were joining the militia and doing what they could to ensure the continued well-being of their families. Meanwhile, Sergeant Timms was seeking new recruits under the orders of Captain Hobbs. Most men were intent on defending their homes or what was left of them, but the sergeant found two brothers who were willing to enlist with our company. Malachi and Isaac were Pittsfield hunters who provided meat for the village and its small fort. They were unmarried and fine men of the woods. Captain Hobbs and Sergeant Timms were assured of their abilities by listening to tales told by the town’s people and were glad to have them join up.
That evening we found a fine tavern with a generous keep. This man did not hold the same disgust for our kind as was common amongst other. Most believed that it was improper for men to go about the forest fighting like savages. Mr. Coffen, though, understood that our purpose was beyond aimless murder.
Captain Hobbs knew that it would be the last night for awhile that we would enjoy the comforts of an establishment, so he released us to enjoy ourselves. His relaxed state, combined with the keep’s generosity, made for the beginnings of a fine evening.
I had tried ale before, but tonight the men of Hobbs’ Company were adamant that I partake in rum. This strong drink weakened my mind and released my thoughts. The tavern was crowded with our small rabble, as well as about a dozen other men. A fiddler was playing, and his music, mixed with the rum, gave me the idea that it would be perfectly sensible to coax one of the tavern maids to dance a step or two. I had barely swung her about twice when I felt myself tumbling to the ground. My face hit hard against the earthen floor; I initially supposed that I had tripped in my drunken state. I began to push myself up when a man, straddling me and yelling something about “a dirty red nigger,” slammed his fist into my side. The rum had numbed my body, so his strike had little effect but to make me fully aware of what was occurring in that desperate moment.
I turned to face him. He spat in my face while drawing his fist back for another blow. I braced myself and forced my mind to clear. When he lunged, I kicked my leg out and sent him toppling to the floor. Immediately I pounced on him and rammed my knee into his face until I heard the distinct sound of his nose breaking. I stood to give him a few good kicks, but as soon as I was afoot I found myself being dragged back by my hair by another man. I reached for my knife at my waist and freed it while turning my own hair around this attacker’s hand. My blade bit deeply into his arm, which made him release his grip and give out a shrill scream. He ran from the tavern with his hand clutched to his wound. His exit alerted Sergeant Timms and Captain Hobbs, who were just outside smoking a pipe and waiting for Private Wendell to return from the privy. The other men in the tavern began to back me into a corner. I stood, my chest heaving ragged breaths, and waited for what might come. But Captain Hobbs entered and grabbed an oak stool from just inside the door. He hurled the stool with such force that it split when it came in contact with the back of the head of one of the men who was cornering me. The others spun around to see where the stool had come from and were met straight away by Sergeant Timms. The sergeant pressed his knife blade to one man’s throat and the barrel of his pistol to the forehead of another.
“Ye lads best be on yer way,” he warned in a low voice.
Mr. Coffen produced a large Scottish sword and bellowed for all the men to leave save Hobbs’ Company. As they scurried past the sergeant and captain, Hobbs put up both his hands and grinned, saying, “That’s all the fun you boys will be having with our savage tonight.”
When all the others had left, Captain Hobbs walked over to me and looked at the man doubled up on the floor, who was clutching his mangled face, and then at the stream of blood leading out the door. He shook his head and addressed the sergeant.
“A bloody mess, a bloody mess,” he said. “But it appears they do raise more than just girls in Stockbridge, Sergeant.”
We all laughed, and the laughter rekindled the pain in my side. Captain Hobbs jabbed at my ribs with his finger, saying that I would feel it even more in the morning. He ordered another round of rum. Wendell, Malachi, and Isaac returned, sorry that they had missed the excitement. They all raised their cups in honor of my fight. We threw back our rum; it burned hot all the way from my throat to my afflicted ribs. Finally we set off for much-needed sleep in the generous keep’s loft.
We woke early the next morning and made preparations to leave. We walked out of the tavern into the morning light. The light burned my eyes but cleared my head. In the streets were gathered men upset by the evening’s events who had come to seek retribution. They looked at our faces and saw that we had no concern for the petty tavern brawl, that we were instead looking for threats of true danger. They backed away and slunk into alleys and side streets as we walked toward the village limits.
At the edge of town, as the main roads dwindled I found a small trail that led in the easterly direction we desired. I looked back at the captain and he nodded his approval. I swept my eyes over the other men. Sergeant Timms was directly behind me, followed by Captain Hobbs. Isaac and Malachi flanked each side. Following behind was Private Wendell. Each man bore a look of absolute confidence and resolve. A small smile parted my lips, and I imagined that the Devil himself could not breach our lines.
I started down the trail, trotting quickly to get ahead of the rest of the men. With the exception of a few linger pangs in my side, I felt good – and ready to face whatever the day might hold.
To be continued …
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