Odd ends

by G Russell Peterman

Whiteout

  I

  Christmas Presents

  According to this morning's twenty-third cut on his twelfth calendar stick it is two days before Christmas 1750. Over his morning cup of sassafras root tea Erik crushed the last three oven-roasted coffee beans in preparation the coming holiday with a grin. Inside the Barton cabin in north central Ohio it appeared Christmas Day would be a happy one. Two dozen molasses cookies and five loaves of bread were baked for the holiday. Yesterday's deer, a young buck, hung from a high red oak limb. Winter supplies were collected: two bags of jerky, a bag of dried fish, a bag of dried berries, a half dozen squash, two boxes of apples, firewood all cut and split, and a winter supply of logs pulled up.

  A pleasant warm south wind and a bright clear sky made the clearing in front of their small south-facing log cabin warm enough to work outdoors around a burning brush pile. Their cabin sat on a spruce and oak hillside two hundred yard upslope from the Great Miami River.

  Both worked on gifts in the finishing stage. Skillfully using red, white, and blue beads Mariagrace's skilled fingers work openly on a new hunting jacket and two hunting bags. Likewise, Erik worked openly on down-sizing a rifle for someone special that he hated to leave only with a single shot pistol when he went hunting. In fact, two days ago Mariagrace, his wife that he called simply "Grace," helped him cast five dozen bullets for her own present, cut shot-patches, and filled her new powder horn.

  On their last ten mile trip down the Great Miami River to Pickawillany Erik had traded a tanned black bear skin for a broken stock rifle, powder horn, and full gourd of fine grain black powder. Jarven Amik, the trader, guaranteed the Londonary Brand powder to be 75% saltpeter, 15% charcoal, and 10% sulfur. Pickawillany, the western most British Ohio trading post, was a mile below the confluence of the Loramine and Great Miami Rivers. For an extra fine wolf hide Collin Gray, the post blacksmith, shortened the ramrod and barrel from fifty-three and a half inches down to forty-three inches.

  Yesterday, Erik cleaned the barrel rifling groves of powder residue with his saw-teach pulled by his hand-carved rifle guide, mixed a tiny amount of browning solution to blue the exposed end and generously rubbed it inside and out with bear grease. Today, Erick Barton began assembly. First, he collected his handmade hand-rubbed stock fitted to Grace's size, newly cleaned and blued barrel, and carefully laid out the twenty parts and screws needed. Next, the assembly started using his bow-drill.

  Christmas gift work did not slow even for a noon meal. They just grabbed a piece of jerky. Time was short. The pace was not interrupted except for Erik's trips to toss more brush and tree limbs on the fire. By late afternoon a new hunting jacket was admired as Erick tried on his future present. Grinning over her present Grace filled the charger scoop with the proper amount of powder from her new horn, poured it into the end of the shortened barrel, greased a patch from a covered-hole in the stock filled with bear grease, wrapped a ball in the greased patch, pressed it down into the barrel, rammed it down with the ramrod, returned the ramrod to its slot, secured the ramrod, primed the pan, and grinned as she put a lead ball in a spruce trunk across the clearing in a cloud of smoke. Smiling and nodding his approval Erik took off his present.

  "I'm going to get us some fish for supper." Erick said handing it to Grace. He pulled on his old hunting jacket, grabbed his spear, powder horn, hunting bag, and long rifle.

  "I'll sort through some beans and boil a pot full on these coals." A smiling Grace told him over her shoulder carrying inside an armload of finished presents including her new rifle.

  Eric drew his blade and headed for the tree to dig out and reclaim the lead shot before going fishing.

  II

  Kidnapped and Rescue

  Fishing was good from the gravel bar. More than a good half mile downstream in the gathering dusk three large mouth bass lay on the rocks waiting for the cut branch Erik was selecting. Suddenly, the noise of the forest ceased-a sign of danger. Fish and branch were forgotten. With watchful eyes Erik checked the powder charge in the pan, eased over into the trees, and trotted uphill darting from tree to tree toward his cabin. Ahead of him Mariagrace screamed, two shadows slipped through the trees, an arrow thumped into the maple beside him, and his eyes searched for the shooter. Locating none an angry Erik charged foolishly straight upslope toward his cabin, slowed near the clearing, nothing moved, a spilled pot full of beans near the brush pile coals with the pot carried off, his axe was gone, and cabin door open.

  Seeing no one in an uphill half-circling of the clearing but Erik discovered both hind quarters of his venison missing. That sent Erik charging down to his cabin. Inside their winter supply of jerky, dried fish and fruit, beans, molasses, flour, salt, and corn were gone. All knives, small two-pound sledge and three wedges, both hatchets, drawknife, both chisels, rasp, pots, pans, Christmas gifts, cookies, loaves of bread, sack of sassafras root, medical herbs, cloth, all five blankets, both of Mariagrace's patch quilts, three five-pound lead blocks, and small keg and two gourds of black powder were gone.

  In the few minutes it took him to run uphill to his cabin he had been cleaned out, Grace kidnapped, and Erik had only seen two shadows and one arrow. Outside his furry sent his running feet downhill after them following a trail of bent branches and spots of trampled grass. On the riverbank a mile upstream he found marks of eight canoes from upstream. To have room for loot Erick guessed at least sixteen or seventeen Miami braves had been in the attack, and he rushed downstream for his canoe, but it had a new hole in the bottom.

  With determination Erik started trotting upstream until darkness stopped him. Sitting near a clump of brush under overhanging branches and leaning against the trunk of a huge spruce to block the wind with chattering teeth he waits for moonlight. Erik knew they had not killed Grace because of his new hunting jacket. They would put her to work making more and he knew where they were taking Grace. For many years the Miami village sat on a finger of land sticking out into a lake. Frontiersmen called it "Indian Lake."

  A rising three-quarter moon found a stiff, shivering, cold, and miserable Erik walking upstream along the Great Miami River. When the river took its turn south for a later turn back north Erik headed straight across through the spruce forest at a trot and walk pace toward Indian Lake. Behind the last hill in a small hollow surrounded with tall spruce he made a small fire behind a dirt and root-ball of a blown over maple to survive the returning dark time.

  At dawn Erik eased carefully closer from tree to tree, a long look for any enemies before sliding to another place of concealment. From a high point he saw Indian Lake in the distance, studied the finger of land, and smoke from cooking fires curling through holes in eight large long-houses. He had been told that up to fifty Indians could live in a single long house and guessed the village at over 300.

  About midmorning in an increasingly cold northwest wind Erik made his way close to the lakeshore and found a hiding place inside a long dead huge split hollow elm. From this vantage point he watched the raiders return at midday with full arms. The group headed by a tall husky Miami warrior with a red painted face and a diagonal white line across led captive Mariagrace. Her hands were tied in front, a gag tied around her head, and a long leather strap looped around her neck. Every so often Red-face yanked it.

  Down through the long houses the group walked with smiling watchers shouting and raising their arms in approval. The group stopped at the next to last long-house. Red-face led Mariagrace in through the last south side opening. A few minutes later Red-face came out and walked to the last long house.

  All Erik could do was to wait for darkness. In the deepening cold fewer and fewer Miami wandered around outside, and Erick found that turning his back to the opening his hollow tree seemed warmer.

  In the middle of that long afternoon a few scattered flakes of snow drifted down. An hour before dark fall the snow increased to a full Christmas Eve snowstorm and the ground was white. Undercover of the snowstorm Erik slipped out of his concealment, in the last o
f the light cut a two inch thick hickory club five feet long, and began sneaking down to the finger of land the Miami village sat on.

  From underneath a spruce with boughs almost on the ground a hundred yards from the last long house Erik watched a blanket-wrapped warrior step out to the wood pile, gather an armload of wood and return. Erik eased down to another low-bough spruce ten feet from the wood pile path. Twenty minutes later during an increasing snowfall another warrior stepped out for more wood. As the brave passed, Erik slipped out soundlessly, and one swing of his hickory dropped the limp warrior into the snow. Quickly, Erick stabbed his captive, hid the corpse underneath a low hanging spruce, wrapped the dead warrior's blanket around his frame to look like a Miami, tied his hickory to his belt, and gathered up a small armload of wood in his left arm.

  Carrying wood, a snow-covered blanket over his head almost hiding his face, unhurriedly Erik walked to the southern door without a challenge, stood his rifle by the south opening, and untied the opening. With his small load of wood Erik pulled his snow-covered blanket closer, entered, stood with his back to the room until his eyes adjusted, retied the opening, and laid his firewood on the closest fire.

  During his walk in the dim light his eyes spotted Mariagrace tied to a post in the east rear corner. The right rear corner held a stack of supplies with stuff from his place on top. Walking toward Grace he spotted her guard sitting with his back to him half asleep, head nodding and untied his club. Moving his hickory to his left hand he palmed his knife. The sleeping guard never knew Erik knelt beside him, clamped a brutal hand over his mouth, and drove a steel blade into his heart. Using his hickory to lean the dead guard against gave the appearance of sitting up sleeping, took the guard's blanket, and a nearly full bag of pemmican.

  Re-supplied Erik walked openly like he belonged there across to Mariagrace's post. A quick slash cut the line and Grace's eyes opened. His finger touched his lips, quieted Grace, pulled her up, draped the guard's blanket over her, and quietly led her out. Eyes that saw them, smiled thinking Red-face wanted the captive tonight for his blankets, and no one stopped him. Calmly he untied the opening.

  Outside to keep up appearances he retied it from outside. In the strengthen snowstorm his knife slashed her hands free. A smiling Grace pulled the blanket around her for warmth, accepted the bag of pemmican, as Erik picked up his rifle and pointed toward the lake. On shore he turned over a canoe, found a paddle, helped stiff Mariagrace into the front, handed her the bag and his rifle, and easily slid the canoe across the slick snow into the water. A jump kept his feet from getting wet and began quietly paddling. In a few minutes Erik turned and could not see the long houses or shore in the whiteness.

  Not a word was spoken on the snowy crossing toward an unseen shore, rammed hard into the snowy bank, and using his paddle as a pole Erik pushed far enough forward for Grace to step out without getting wet. Grace climbed out, took the bag and rifle he handed to her, and waited in the snow. With his finger touching his mouth for silence, she watched as he found a long branch for a pole, poked a hole in the canoe, and pushed it out into the water. Collecting his rifle Erik hugged Grace and she smiled, pulled the strap of the pemmican bag over his head, pressed a pemmican cake into her hand, lifted his rifle, took her hand, and started southeast with a whisper.

  "Eat. There's a cave found by a fellow named Zane years ago two miles east of Campbell Hill. It's the tallest hill around. They feed you?"

  "No," Grace whispered her mouth full of her first bite of food since leaving their clearing yesterday evening. Nodding her fingers took the second cake he offered.

  On and on through the night they walked into a snowstorm that changed into whiteout and finally as the snow eased it changed into a full blown blizzard. Roaring gusts of bitter northwest wind blew snow to mix with that still falling. Three pemmican cakes Grace nibbled down and both ate snow for water. The only good thing about the storm was they left no tracks, left no trail to be followed at first light, and the wind blew against their backs. Their only guide was Erik's hunter sense of direction for eyes were useless in the darkness and blinding snow.

  Sometime after midnight Grace had to rest and Erik found a bent down giant spruce with snow weighting down branches but dry pine needles underneath. For a half hour they rested on the frozen ground before cold forced them out again. With a branch Erik raked the pine needles to remove their signs and two cold miserable hours later they found another long hanging spruce to rest underneath. This time Grace tried to go to sleep but Erik rubbed her hands to keep her eyes open. Erik pulled her out into the snow, erased their signs, and tossed her over his shoulder. A half hour of carrying her winded him and he had to put her down.

  "Sleep here and die," Erik repeated sternly shaking her.

  Gently slapping her face opened Grace's eyes and with his arm around her they walked until the sky was lighter in the east. From top of the next hill they saw the shape of a tall hill before them in the blowing snow and Erik whispered.

  "Campbell Hill," Erik told her happily pointing his rifle left a little adding, "Zane's cave is close."

  "Leave me."

  "Two more miles and we light a warm fire in the cave."

  "A fire."

  "Yes ... a fire."

  With renewed hope Grace clung to his left arm and they struggled through the blowing snow almost straight east. An hour later true to his word Grace lay sleeping wrapped in both blankets while he collected wood for a fire from two fallen trees near the opening. A splash of powder on a little dried wood, a spark from a flint, and the wood blazed. Erik was glad that there had been a little dry wood inside the Zane cave and stood a few moments to enjoy the heat and light. After a while he starts dragging wood into the cave. When he added snowy wood it sizzles a little. After warming Eric went back out into the storm. Erik worked for nearly three hours carrying and dragging wood inside. Exhausted he crawled under their blankets with Grace, enjoyed her warmth, and his last thought before sleep was "make a track for a week and we're dead."

  III

  Escape and Surprise

  On the morning of the sixth day of living on starvation rations of one pemmican cake in the morning, another at night, and handfuls of snow, they had to move. Now, the bag held only seven more and the last of the wood was glowing coals.

  "South all morning and then southwest to Pickawillany, but we won't make it today."

  "Pickawillany sounds good, warm fire, full belly, and sleep in a warm feather tick."

  "Load up," Erik said lifting his rifle and tossing Grace the nearly empty bag, "and follow in my tracks. I break trail."

  Outside they struggle through snow drifts. Erik selected a wandering course through places that the wind had swept some of the snow away. After a mid-day rest break sitting on a downed fir tree trunk, Erik turned southwest. It was a long hard afternoon and an hour before dark Erik stopped. With his knife he cut spruce branches by the armload and Grace wove them through a hickory thicket clearing into a half circle five feet high with a southwest opening. With bark for a scoop she shoveled snow away while Erik made a fire in the center. The reflected heat from the walls warmed them, melted the snow, and they stripped dead trees nearby of bark to sleep on. After two hours they could wrap up in their blankets, ate a cake each, shared the last one, and slept. During the unusually brutally cold night Erik had to get up twice to feed the fire. The next day just after midday they stumbled into the Pickawillany trading post.

  "Where you folks been?"

  "Hiding ... we were cleaned out by the Miami."

  "A pot of Black Bear Stew on the fire," said Jarven Amik handing him two tin plates and wooden spoons.

  "Obliged," Erik smiled handing them to Grace. She swung the kettle out of the fire, dipped out two ladles of stew on his plate, and handed it to him. "Tasty," Erik told him after almost burning his tongue. For a time the room was quiet as both finished eating and took another scoopful. Finally, both were full, warm, and sleepy. Grace pushed the stew back over th
e fire after adding to the kettle a gourd dipper of water.

  Warm and sleepy, eyes heavy, and a full belly Erik asked, "Jarven, is this the second or third of January."

  "Where you folks been?"

  "Out in the woods, you know that. But, that doesn't tell me the day's number?"

  With a straight face Jarven answered, "The third day of March."

  "Quit foolin', Jarven."

  "Sorry, you folks out in the woods would not know. Those Gents that work for the King said the calendar was out of order. To fix it they just up and left out January and February this year. The calendar went straight from December 31st to March 1st."

  "What!" Erik barked in surprise thinking it was a not too funny a joke, looked at Jarven's face, saw he was serious, and added, "They didn't."

  "They did and next year, 1752, in September they plan to finish the job and leave out eleven full days. After that the calendar should be fixed ... they say."

  Nodding and frowning Grace drifted off in her chair. Erik leaned over on the table, let sleep overtake him, and closed his eyes thinking "Its March ... need to think about seeds for the garden."

  Nine

  Novella: In 1619 the first boat load of women arrived at Jamestown Colony to change Jamestown from a find treasure and get rich endeavor to one of families, land ownership, and money crops. "The Arrival" is a story about that time.