by Pamela Clare
“Nicholas! For God’s sake, help us!”
Nicholas stepped back, tucked a finger beneath her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “I won’t let them take you, Bethie. I won’t let them take either of you.”
He would kill Bethie and Belle himself before he let that happen. The last bit of powder, his last bit of lead, he would save for them.
“And that is why I need to lead the men out to the garden today.”
“When are you goin’ out?”
“Now.”
* * *
Bethie was in the hospital changing the bandages on a soldier who’d accidentally shot himself in the foot when the alarm sounded.
Nicholas!
He’d left for the garden little more than an hour ago and had not yet returned.
Dr. Aimes took the bandages from her hands. “Thank you for your help, madam. You’d best be off to your quarters.”
Heart pounding, Bethie removed her apron, hurried outdoors.
What she heard turned her blood to ice—hundreds of voices raised in war cries.
The fort was under attack.
Gunfire from the ramparts. The blast of a cannon. The bitter tang of gunpowder.
She’d truly intended to fetch Belle from the trading post and return to her quarters, as she had promised Nicholas she would, but he was out there, fighting for his life. Her feet turned instead to the east, and she ran toward the east ravelin, where men were rushing through with sacks and baskets loaded with Indian corn and vegetables.
Private Fitchie ran after her. “The lieutenant will have my hide if you dinnae do as he says! You’re to go to your quarters!”
“I cannae, no’ so long as he’s out there!” She ran through the throng toward the drawbridge, searched through the crowd, praying to see his face.
She heard a soldier talking to the quartermaster.
“Are they all in?”
“All except Kenleigh and McKee.”
Barely able to breathe, she pushed through the throng, tried to get closer to the bridge.
And then she saw him. He strode over the drawbridge, his shirt torn and bloodied, a man draped over his shoulder. He did not see her, but shouted to one of the sergeants, lowering the man he carried carefully to the ground.
“He needs the surgeon. He took a ball to the knee.”
“Aye, sir!”
Then he turned to the quartermaster. “Is everyone in and accounted for?”
“Aye, Kenleigh, but that was damned close.”
“Too close.”
She knew the exact moment he saw her, knew he was beyond furious.
He closed the distance between them. “What are you doing out here! Get Belle, and get back to our quarters now!”
“But you were out there, and I—”
“This is the second time you’ve defied me, and I won’t tolerate it!”
Tears pricked her eyes. “You’re hurt! At least let me—”
“It’s nothing! This is war, Bethie. You’ll likely see far worse before it’s over. There are God knows how many warriors on the other side of these walls. Now go!” He turned to Private Fitchie. “You have my permission to drag her, carry her, do whatever you need to do to see that she is safely indoors. Get her out of here, and then report to your commanding officer.”
Private Fitchie nodded sharply. “Aye, sir!”
Bethie started to object, but Private Fitchie was already pulling her in one direction, and Nicholas had disappeared in another.
* * *
The attack lasted all day and into the night, showed no sign of letting up. Before the sun had set, Captain Écuyer had taken an arrow in the leg, and a corporal and one of the frontiersmen had been killed. The Delaware and Shawnee had taken cover wherever they could around the fort—in the shelter of the steep riverbanks, in the garden, in the burned-out ruins of Upper and Lower Town—and fired both arrows and lead balls on anything that moved.
Although Écuyer’s marksmen were highly trained, they could not bring down targets they could not see. And Nicholas, who had positioned himself on the Monongahela curtain directly above the officers’ barracks with a team of militia marksmen, quickly realized they had a problem.
“The fort is positioned so much nearer the Monongahela that they are able to fire arrows over the walls while using the riverbank for cover,” he told Écuyer. “Your marksmen cannot reach them. Cannon are of no use. They simply hide or shift from one position to another.”
The captain grimaced as the surgeon finished bandaging his leg. “What do you suggest, Kenleigh?”
“A direct assault on the riverbank from the cover of the west ravelin. A team of grenadiers could toss grenades directly into their stronghold, forcing them into the open.”
Écuyer gaped at him. “You would send men outside the walls in the midst of battle?”
“It’s the only way we’re going to dislodge them from the riverbank.”
Écuyer shook his head. “That’s suicide! I won’t risk it.”
Nicholas left Écuyer’s quarters sure the captain was making a grave mistake.
* * *
Bethie heard the blast of another cannon being fired, wished for the thousandth time she knew what was happening. The battle had raged all night—artillery blasts, gunfire, drums, and shouting punctuated by silence. Somehow Isabelle had slept through it, unaware in her innocence that their lives were in danger. But Bethie had paced the room all night, praying that Nicholas would be safe, that no lives would be lost, that the Indians would give up and leave them in peace.
But it was well past noon, and judging from the gun and cannon fire, the fighting was growing fiercer. She’d opened the door twice, hoping to be able to see Nicholas on the ramparts, to know for certain he was unhurt, but the sight of spent arrows, their darts buried in the soil only footsteps away, had convinced her not to step outside. So she had stood in the open doorway, breathed air heavy with the smell of sulfur and smoke, watched British regulars hurrying across the parade ground on some unknown errand.
Her only word of the battle had come from Private Fitchie, who had come by once just before noon to check on her, his young face covered with sweat and lined with fatigue. “Sergeant Harmon got shot through the lungs, and one of the grenadiers was shot through the leg, but none of ours have been killed today, mistress. One of theirs got blown in two by a cannon ball.”
“Have you seen Nicholas?”
“Aye, mistress. He’s up there in the thick of it.” Private Fitchie had pointed over the rooftop to the ramparts directly behind her.
In the thick of it? Bethie hadn’t liked the sound of that at all. “How goes the battle?”
“The enemy are hidin’ along the riverbank, close enough to get their arrows over the wall. But Master Kenleigh and Paddy are flushin’ them out.”
“Paddy?”
“Aye, Paddy. He’s our man of straw. The soldiers pass him up and down the curtain wall, hold him up on a pole where the Indians can see him. When the Indians break cover to shoot at poor Paddy, Nicholas and the other marksmen pick them off. It’s my job to keep the men supplied with powder and balls.”
He’d looked so young in that moment, both afraid and proud. Bethie had leaned out of the doorway, given him a kiss on the cheek. “Be safe, Private Fitchie.”
He’d flushed scarlet, but she’d seen a smile on his face as he’d hurried away.
Afternoon stretched into evening, and still the fighting did not lessen. Bethie sang to Belle, paced the floor with her, played with her on the bed, and had just finished nursing her to sleep when she smelled it: smoke. At first, she’d thought it was just the scent of the battle carried on a breeze. But then it grew stronger. She was about to open the door to see what was burning, when the door flew open and Nicholas stepped inside.
His face was wet with sweat and streaked with the black of gunpowder. She could tell he hadn’t slept.
“Nicholas!” She ran to him, threw her arms around him.
; He kissed the top of her head, gave her a squeeze. “There isn’t time, Bethie. Be ready to flee the building.”
“Wh-what?”
Outside the door, several flaming arrows landed with a hiss and a thud in the dirt.
“They’re firing lit arrows over the wall, and both this barracks and the captain’s house have been hit several times. So far we’ve been able to douse the fires from the ramparts, but I want you to be ready to flee should the need arise. We’ve evacuated the upper floor, but I think you’re safer for the moment where you are.”
Outside the door, Bethie saw women hurrying to the wells with buckets. “I could help to carry water.”
Nicholas understood her need to help, used the best argument he had to dissuade her. “No, love. Isabelle needs you. What would happen to her if you were hurt or killed?”
What would happen to me?
He thought the words, but he didn’t say them.
“If I can help in no other way, then let me at least give you something to eat and drink.” She pulled away from him, hurried to the table, where she saw one of his leather pouches near the water bucket. Quickly she dipped his cup into the water and pulled a chunk of pemmican from the pouch. “Drink, and take this with you.”
Suddenly the hours of fighting began to tell. Nicholas stood beside the table, drank his fill, took several bites of pemmican, gave a groan of pleasure when Bethie touched a cold, wet cloth to his face and throat. “You know how to make a man feel almost grateful to have been in battle, Bethie, love.”
She smiled, a fragile smile that did not hide her worry. “If you can stay awhile, I have ways of makin’ you feel even more grateful.”
He could tell from the purple shadows beneath her eyes that she hadn’t slept well, if at all. He bent down, tilted her chin up toward him, kissed her. “I bet you do, and I can’t tell you how much I’d love to see what you have in mind. But I need to get back. I just came to warn you in case you need to flee. Be ready.”
In truth, anyone could have warned her of the fire danger. But he’d wanted to see her, needed to see her. Now that they’d had to put out fires on the rooftops several times, Écuyer understood the danger of allowing the Indians to remain in the cover of the Monongahela bank. At the captain’s request, a dozen militiamen had volunteered to make one quick grenade strike from the west ravelin. As soon as it was dark, Nicholas would lead them out.
“I’d best return to my post.” He kissed her nose, forced himself to let her go.
As he turned away, she called after him. “Nicholas, please be safe!”
Chapter 26
The plan was simple. Nicholas would lead the men out over the drawbridge to the west ravelin while the marksmen covered them from the ramparts and distracted the Indians with Paddy. Once in position, they would each throw a hand grenade along the riverbank, some to the north, some to the south, forcing the Indians to break cover so that marksmen, already prepared, could finish them off. Then Nicholas and his men would quickly make their way back through the ravelin to the drawbridge and into the fort.
Nicholas looked into each man’s eyes. “Tomahawks and knives only until we reach the sally port. And, boys, don’t light those fuses too early. I don’t want to bring anyone back in pieces.”
The men chuckled.
“Ready?”
A dozen heads nodded.
Nicholas signaled the sergeant on the ramparts, heard a volley of grenades land in the ditch just outside the walls, clearing away any Indians who might lie in ambush.
Slowly the heavy drawbridge began to lower.
Tomahawk in hand, grenades in a leather pouch on his shoulder, Nicholas waited.
War whoops. A volley of rifle fire from the walls.
Then the drawbridge was open.
On the other side stood the ravelin and, beyond that, the moonlit water of the Monongahela, gliding smooth and silent.
He led the men across, spied Indians hiding in the shelter of the ravelin, charged.
Surprised, and perhaps afraid the rest of the garrison was on its way out, most of the Indians fled out through the sally port and down to the river. Those who remained were quickly dispatched.
“Form two lines—one north, one south. Go!”
The men did as Nicholas ordered while he covered them, firing upon two Indians who’d recovered from their surprise and turned to fight.
“They know we’re here, boys. Let’s do what we came to do!”
Quickly the men in front of the two lines lit their fuses, stepped out of the sally port, threw their grenades, retreated.
Small explosions. Frightened shouts. Cries of pain. The whine of a passing arrow.
Almost immediately, gunfire from the ramparts increased as marksmen took down those who’d fled their cover. The plan was working.
By the time the sound of the first explosions had died, the next men in line had already lit their fuses and hurled their grenades. Frightened shouts turned to outright cries of retreat as the second, third, and fourth waves of grenades hit.
It seemed the mission would go off without a hitch, when one of the militiamen slipped and fell to the sandy riverbank. Three Indians, crouching at the river’s edge, saw the fallen man and made straight for him.
They were Wyandot.
And then Nicholas saw him.
Atsan.
Even through the darkness, the war chief’s gaze bored into Nicholas. The man who had ordered Eben and Josiah’s death. The man who had spared Nicholas’s life, embraced him as a son. The man whose daughter, grandchild, and son Nicholas had killed.
A wave of conflicting emotion slammed into Nicholas, hot and thick. Shock. Rage. Gnawing regret. But there was no time. He could not settle this here.
“Cover me!” Nicholas leapt down, reached for the fallen militiaman, jerked him to his feet. “Time to get out of here! Go!”
As Nicholas turned to follow the militiaman, he heard the end-over-end rush of a tomahawk hurtling through the air and Atsan’s shout of warning. He had just enough time to push the militiaman through the sally port when something exploded against the back of his skull, sent him plummeting into darkness.
* * *
Bethie lay in the big, empty bed, fully clothed, listening. The shooting seemed to have died down. Awhile ago it had grown so fierce she was afraid the walls were about to be breached. But now the fort was almost quiet. Perhaps that meant Nicholas would be returning soon.
Maybe it would be over by morning, and maybe . . .
She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until a knock on the door woke her. She hurried from bed to answer it, expected someone to tell her the building was on fire. Instead she found several battle-weary men bearing Nicholas between them.
Her heart stopped. “Oh my God! Nicholas!”
He hung limply between them, his eyes closed. But he was breathing. He was alive.
“Lay him on the bed.” She stepped aside to let them enter, hurried around to the other side of the bed. “What happened?”
“He took a tomahawk to the back of the head,” said one of the men as they laid him back on the mattress. “It was the handle that got him, no’ the blade. If it had been the blade, his brains would be—”
“Hold your whist, Bill! This is his lady here!”
Filled with dread, Bethie leaned over him, touched her hand to his cheek. “Nicholas, can you hear me? Nicholas?”
He didn’t move, didn’t answer, lay still as death against the pillow. But he wasn’t feverish, and his breathing was deep and even.
“The surgeon says all we can do is wait and see if he wakes up.”
Bethie nodded, fought back her tears. “Thank you, gentlemen, for bringin’ him home. Can one of you fetch water for me—and bandages? I want to clean the wound on his arm.”
“Aye, ma’am. I’ll see to it.” The one who’d first spoken picked up the water bucket from the table, started out the door, turned back. “If it makes you feel any better, he saved a good man’s lif
e out there. If it hadn’t been for him, I dinnae know how many of us would have made it back inside the walls alive.”
“H-he went outside the walls?”
“Aye. He led us out to the west ravelin so we could fight back those Indians who were shootin’ fire over the walls. Nicholas Kenleigh is a man among men, the bravest of the lot. We’re all prayin’ for him tonight.”
As the men shut the door behind them, Bethie didn’t know which emotion burned hottest inside her—fear or fury.
* * *
Bethie kept vigil at Nicholas’s side all night and through the next day. She removed his sweat-stained clothes, bathed his body with cool cloths. She cleaned the wound on his arm, where it seemed a ball had grazed him. She trickled water into his throat, urged him to drink. She spoke to him, and she prayed.
Dr. Aimes came to check on him around noon, told Bethie there was nothing to be done. “I’ve seen men wake after being unconscious for weeks and be in complete command of their faculties, but I’ve also seen men drift away and die or wake to be helpless as newborn babies. Keep talking to him.”
And so she did. She spoke to him of her childhood before her father’s death. She told him how hard her life had been before he’d arrived on her doorstep. She told him she loved him, could not imagine a single sunrise without him. But if he heard, he showed no sign of it.
Annie brought her meals and fresh water, shared with her news of the battle. “Some of the fight has left them. They’re gatherin’ under the bank again, but no’ so close this time. Yer man put a lick of fear in them, he did. No one has been killed or injured all day, thank heavens! But look at you, lamb! Ye’ve no’ slept a wink! Let old Annie take the little one, and you get some rest.”
Beyond exhaustion, Bethie nursed Belle, kissed her, handed her over to her auntie Annie, then lay down beside Nicholas, her head on his shoulder, and slept. When she awoke, she found him still unconscious, but his arm was wrapped around her, holding her close.
* * *
Nicholas heard the blast of a cannon, was certain it had been fired inside his skull.
“Open your eyes, love. Please open your eyes!” It was Bethie. She sounded upset.
