A Ripple In Time [A Historical Novel of Survival]

by Zugg, Victor

  “We all step out at the same time?” Manny asked.

  “Just the men,” Mason said. “With the bows.” He glanced at the numerous people spread out in the brush behind him, including Lisa, Angie, and Dorothy. Each held a spear. “That should be plenty.”

  Mason figured the two men who were not rowing in one boat and the one in the other were the captain and mates. The best dressed among them was likely the captain. The man sat relaxed in the rear of the nearest boat and had one foot up on the gunwale. He wore white breeches, a white vest, a blue long coat, white neck scarf, and black shoes with silver buckles. His light brown hair was pulled together in the back and mostly covered with a three-point hat with gold trim. Mason estimated he was in his forties but it was hard to tell.

  Mason watched as one of the oarsmen in the first boat secured his oar and leaped into the shallow water.

  He pulled at the boat and planted the front in the sand. The rest of the men piled out followed closely by the men from the second boat.

  Mason leaned his head closer to Manny. “Change of plans,” he whispered. “Stay here. Back me up if needed.”

  Before Manny could protest, Mason rose to his feet and stepped from the tree line in full view of the men on the beach.

  In unison, the schooner’s crew all stopped what they were doing and turned to face Mason. Their captain stepped to the front.

  “Please excuse the invasion,” the captain said. “We seem to find ourselves in a bit of trouble.”

  All of his men focused on Mason.

  “The name is William Darby, captain of the merchant ship Samuel.” He glanced back at the ocean. “Formerly the captain of the merchant ship Samuel.”

  Mason nodded. The captain’s accent was surprisingly less British, as in BBC British, than Mason expected. It actually sounded closer to an American accent. “I saw. I suppose you’re lucky to be alive.”

  Captain Darby examined Mason head to toe and cocked his head. “Your English is of an accent I can’t quite place.”

  Mason thought of his home and early childhood in Provo, Utah. It wouldn’t be explored for another hundred years. “I was raised in the far east,” Mason said.

  Captain Darby pursed his lips, probably considering the veracity of what Mason had just said.

  Mason could only imagine what Captain Darby would think if he saw what the rest of the survivors were wearing. “May I ask your intentions?”

  Captain Darby glanced at his men, all still staring at Mason. “We need to make our way back to Charles Town as soon as possible. We just need to get our bearings and maybe top off on water.” The captain glanced at the two small wooden barrels in each boat.

  Mason knew of only two sources of fresh water in the area, the small stream feeding the pond where Lisa and Angie fished, and the small stream that ran behind the camp. Mason pointed to the north. “There’s a fresh water stream about a mile to the north. It runs into a pond with a small inlet.” Mason wasn’t sure his references were even used in the time of Captain Darby. Did a mile mean a mile as Mason knew it? Did the English refer to a small body of water as a pond? Mason didn’t known but apparently Captain Darby understood based on the nod of his chin.

  One of the captain’s men, probably a mate since he wasn’t one of the rowers, spit on the sand. “You live around here or just passing through?”

  “Passing through,” Mason said. Mason saw the captain scan the tree line behind him probably wondering if Mason had friends.

  “Right,” the captain finally said after a long pause, “the chaps and I will be off to find that water.” Without weapons the captain obviously didn’t want to take a chance on pressing Mason further. He nodded at Mason, motioned to his men, and stepped back in the boat.

  His men pushed the boats back out, manned the oars, and began rowing straight out over the breaking surf. Once past the surf they turned north and paralleled the beach headed toward the inlet.

  Mason watched until the two boats were well under way and had traveled a hundred yards before he stepped back into the trees.

  Manny stood up next to him. “Think they’ll be back?”

  Mason searched the trees until he locked eyes on Dorothy. He motioned Dorothy forward. “Will they be back?”

  “They’re headed for Charles Town,” she said. “If they decide to walk instead of row, they’ll be walking right through the camp.”

  “Let’s hope they decide to row,” Manny said.

  Mason started toward the camp, but stopped in front of Nathan. “Still think we’re in our own time period?”

  Nathan didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, Mason, Manny, and Dorothy stood at the tree line and gazed at an empty ocean.

  “Think they’re still at the fishing pond?” Manny asked.

  “I think we should find out,” Mason replied, as he stepped in the open and started up the beach.

  Manny and Dorothy followed.

  “They would have taken their boats through the inlet and into the pond,” Dorothy said. “We won’t be able to see anything until we’re on them.”

  Mason acknowledged her statement with a slight nod but kept his focus on the beach ahead.

  Rather than walk the beach all the way to the inlet, Mason cut into the brush about two hundred yards short and led the way through the sparse foliage. He slowed and went to a crouch when he began to see a clearing ahead.

  The three of them finally stepped out onto the narrow, sandy shore of the pond. There was no sign of the schooner crew or their boats.

  Mason knelt beside two marks in the sand, left by the keels of the two boats. “They were here,” he said, as he stood up and gazed in all directions.

  Manny waded to the middle of the fish trap and stopped. “Nothing bigger than a couple of inches in here.”

  “Either there was nothing bigger to begin with, or they took what was there,” Mason said. “I vote for the latter.” He turned to Dorothy. “What do you think?”

  “I think they topped off their water, took the fish, and began rowing south just after dark. We wouldn’t have seen them.”

  “Is it possible to row against the Gulf Stream?” Manny asked.

  “As long as they stayed within a mile or two of the coast they’d be fine,” Mason said.

  “Without weapons they didn’t want to chance it,” Dorothy said. “They were as leery of us, or the potential of us, as we were of them.”

  As soon as they were back in camp, two hunting parties went out. Mason and Jeremy went northeast; Bobby and Nathan went northwest. All were armed with a bow and arrows. Manny remained in camp with the fifth bow to assemble the smoking racks.

  This time Mason decided to sit and wait rather than stalk. He and Jeremy made their way as silently as possible to the edge of a bog thick with palmettos. The two of them separated and took their positions within eyesight of each other.

  Mason loaded an arrow onto the bow and took a seat on a downed tree trunk surrounded by a few bushes. The spot provided good cover but also gave him a view of the bog. Sitting there, waiting, gave him time to think.

  Even though the survivors had established a pretty good routine and were not starving, Mason was fully aware they could not remain in this camp forever. For one thing, winter was coming and none of them were equipped for the cold, even for South Carolina. For another, yellow fever would return at some point, or malaria, or dysentery, or infection. Even a simple tick could cause havoc. And for another, the food would run out. Mato and his tribe had been very generous, but Mason couldn’t continue to impose. Charles Town seemed like the only option. But the brief run-in with Captain Darby reinforced in his mind how much he and the others would stand out. They were foreigners in their own land.

  The sound of rustling behind him, away from the bog, brought him out of his reverie. He quietly slid off the log and pivoted at the same time to a kneeling position. He saw only bushes, so he rose until he was standing at his full height. He peered thro
ugh the limbs and leaves in search of the noise. A low-hanging limb full of leaves moved. He saw a patch of brown. A deer. He or she was standing only thirty yards away.

  Mason ducked his head trying to get a better view through the brush until he was finally able to see the two single spikes.

  He glanced in Jeremy’s direction but couldn’t get eyes on him. So he turned his attention back to the deer. It took a few seconds of searching to reacquire the animal, still nibbling on the leaves.

  Mason decided to move to his right for a better shot. It would be easier to keep the bow and arrow trained on the patch of brown while he stepped. He explored the layer of leaves with the toe of his boot and worked it to the soil below before placing any weight. Then another step.

  With the next step his head lined up with an opening through the brush. It was tight, but doable. There was no way he could keep moving. Either the deer would hear or smell him, or the deer would lose interest in those particular leaves and move on. The small tunnel through the brush would be his only chance.

  Mason slowly raised the bow to eye level, drew the string the full length of the arrow, took a second to aim, and let loose.

  ◆◆◆

  As Mason chewed on a piece of the roasted venison, he gazed at the three tripod racks Manny had constructed. Each was centered over a low fire. Smoke enveloped the thin cuts of meat. He turned his attention to Manny sitting nearby. “Shouldn’t the smoking racks be enclosed?”

  Manny swallowed the piece of meat he had been chewing. “The process would go faster, but this will work.”

  Mason turned his head to Dorothy. “I was wondering about Captain Darby’s accent. It didn’t sound all that British.”

  “Of course we don’t have any recordings from the eighteenth century, but there is written evidence to suggest that Americans didn’t lose their British accent. It was the other way around.”

  Mason cocked his head.

  Dorothy continued. “What we recognize today as a British accent, like we hear on BBC, was developed at the time of the industrial revolution in England. Prior to that, English speakers everywhere pronounced the ‘r’ in words, like hard. The Brits evolved the accent and began pronouncing words with a silent ‘r’ like hahd. Americans didn’t get the memo.”

  “Why the industrial revolution?” Manny asked.

  “Commoners in England began earning more money, but they still spoke in a commoner’s tongue. Those with money tried to differentiate themselves with their accent. It caught on.”

  “Interesting,” Mason said. “So we may not stick out as much as I thought when we enter Charles Town. At least based on our accents.”

  Dorothy smiled. “We’ll stick out. Our accent is different enough, but our word usage is the biggest thing. It has changed considerably since the early seventeen hundreds.

  “So we’ll still be from the far east,” Manny said.

  Dorothy nodded.

  Mason was about to comment when a blur followed by a thunk caused him to flinch. He whipped his head around and saw a vibrating arrow stuck in a tree trunk. The arrow had missed his head by an inch. He turned his head back to the forest side of the camp as he rolled to the ground behind the log he had been sitting on. “Everyone get down,” he yelled. More arrows followed. Some found their target in those who were slow to react.

  Mason pulled his pistol and scanned the foliage with the decreasing light of dusk. He saw flashes of red and then a clear view of a loin cloth clad native with the upper half of his head painted red. The Lenape.

  Mason saw Manny dive for his bow and arrows leaning against one of the huts. Jeremy did the same. People were moving, finding cover, as arrows continued. Mason caught sight of a middle aged woman still sitting in the open apparently frozen by the sudden mayhem. Mason was on his way to his feet when he saw the woman keel over with an arrow protruding from her chest. At the sound of a loud boom Mason dropped back down behind the log.

  Eight Lenape stepped into the open from the thick trees and brush on the back side of the camp. All eight were together in one area apparently having approached the camp from the northeast. Six of the natives held a bow; two held a flintlock. A large puff of smoke was dissipating from one of the weapons. Mason heard a second loud boom and saw a large cloud of smoke from the other weapon. Both natives began the process of reloading their rifles. Mason took that opportunity to move.

  He jumped to his feet and began running to his right, lateral to the group of Indians. He didn’t want to give them a stable target by running directly at them. Additionally, he wanted to pull their attack away from the other survivors. The plan worked. Two arrows came within inches, but both landed harmlessly in the sand behind him.

  As both a delta force operative and an air marshal, marksmanship was a top priority. His ability to hit a target both stationary and in a tactical environment had been evaluated quarterly for years. He thus had considerable confidence when it came to firing a pistol.

  Before the two Indians with flintlocks had finished reloading, Mason turned and began running directly at the group of Indians. The sudden maneuver had the desired effect. All the Indians paused in apparent disbelief that any single person would be making a direct assault.

  With a two-handed grip, Mason began firing the Glock, moving from target to target in rapid succession. The first boom from the little gun muffled his hearing, and the following rounds just added to the lack of sensation. The projectiles found their mark, each one hitting center mass as he worked his way down the line of Indians. Several froze with their eyes locked on the small, oozing hole in their bare chest before they dropped to the ground. When Mason stopped firing, all eight of the braves were down. The one nearest Mason looked up from the blood on his chest with an expression of total confusion.

  Mason continued at full bore and took cover behind a large pine at the edge of the tree line. Keeping as much of his body behind the tree as possible, he extended the pistol toward the forest in search of any other targets. He saw nothing move and heard no sounds, mostly because he was still deaf in both ears.

  At the touch of a hand on his shoulder he whipped around ready to fire only to see Manny standing next to him. He saw Manny’s lips moving but heard only a dull, unintelligible mumbling at first. Slowly, as his ears cleared, he began to understand what Manny was saying.

  “ —them all.”

  “What?”

  “I think you got them all,” Manny said.

  Jeremy and Nathan began checking the bodies.

  Mason made another slow sweep of the forest as he backed toward the camp. He kept his pistol pointed toward the trees.

  He found Dorothy, Lisa, Karen, and Angie unscathed, but several people were on the ground. Some were bleeding; some weren’t moving.

  Mason holstered his pistol and knelt next to Gail who was bent over Bobby. An arrow protruded from his chest just below the rib cage, right where the liver would be. “How’s he doing?”

  Dorothy glanced at Mason without commenting.

  Lisa dropped to both knees next to Bobby. Her eyes pleaded with Gail. “Will he be okay?” A tear ran down her cheek.

  “I don’t think so,” Bobby said. “I can’t feel my legs.”

  Gail took Bobby’s hand and straddled his fingers around the arrow. She applied downward pressure with her own hand. “Apply that amount of pressure,” she said, and then stood up. Her eyes scanned the rest of the scene.

  There were ten other people sprawled about. Seven of them were not moving. The remaining three appeared to have non-life threatening wounds in the leg or arm. Each was being attended by one or more of the survivors. He followed Gail as she began walking to the next casualty.

  “That arrow pierced his liver and apparently damaged his spine,” Gail said. “He needs surgery in a trauma hospital.”

  “Is there anything you can do?” Mason asked.

  “I can’t even remove the arrow without causing more damage. I have no instruments, no sutures, and worst of all, no
antibiotics.” She stopped and turned to face Mason. Her eyes were moist. “All of these wounds will be infected soon and there’s nothing I can do.” She continued walking.

  Mason watched her kneel next to a woman whose right shoulder was a mass of blood, apparently shattered by one of the flintlock balls. The only thing she could do was apply a compress to stem the flow of blood. She moved to the next casualties.

  While she attended to a woman with an arrow protruding from her hip, Mason knelt next to an older man with white, receding hair, and a matching mustache and goatee. He had his hand over a bleeding wound on his thigh. A bloody tipped arrow was on the ground beside him. The arrow head was intact. Mason helped apply pressure.

  “Doesn’t look that bad,” Mason said. He tried to remember the man’s name. John Tifton. “You pulled the arrow out?”

  John nodded with his jaw clinched in pain.

  An Asian woman knelt next to him and ripped a strip of cloth from her blouse with trembling fingers.

  She, along with her daughter and her daughter’s young son, had all miraculously survived the plane crash and now an Indian attack. Asumi was her name. The daughter was Hana and her son was Koji. They had kept to themselves, and Mason hadn’t had a chance to get acquainted. He spotted Hana helping one of the other wounded. He saw Koji alone in the opening of one of the huts.

  Mason took the cloth from Asumi’s hand and wrapped it tightly around John’s wound. “I don’t think it hit an artery. The bleeding should stop soon.”

  “Thanks,” John said with his teeth clinched.

  Mason patted Asumi on the shoulder and stood up surveying the camp. He scanned the carnage, including the eight dead braves, and then closed his eyes as he tightened his lips.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mason opened his eyes at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He gazed at Mato standing next to him.

  “You kill Lenape?”