by Pete Clark
Midnight Riders
Pete Clark
Edited by: J. Ellington Ashton Press Staff
http://jellingtonashton.com/
Copyright.
Pete Clark
©2013, Pete Clark
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.
The characters, places, and events depicted are fictional and do not represent anyone living or dead. All characters depicted are over the age of 18. This is a work of fiction.
Find Pete Clark online at:
http://punchmyselfintheface.wordpress.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER ONE: | Enough with the Fucking Werewolves
CHAPTER TWO: | The Mad Scientist at Fort Duquesne
CHAPTER THREE: | The Tale of Samuel Prescott
CHAPTER FOUR: | The Lost Colony
CHAPTER FIVE: | Succubae and Tea Will Generally Ruin Your Weekend
CHAPTER SIX: | Happy Christmas! Now We’ll Destroy Your Economy
CHAPTER SEVEN: | The Midnight Ride
CHAPTER EIGHT: | Exposition and the Motherfucking Swamp Fox
CHAPTER NINE: | The Flowers of the Fallen
CHAPTER TEN: | O Bitter Victory
CHAPTER ELEVEN: | Gang Aft Agley
CHAPTER TWELVE: | Whispers of Vengeance and Freedom
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: | The Season of Death
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE:
Enough with the Fucking Werewolves
August, 1758. Several miles away from Fort Duquesne.
“Oh sparkling lights of luminescence. How thine glowing eyes doth dot the midnight landscape and smatter your dust upon the earth. The stars are a billion tiny time machines. Their light reaches us from thousands of miles off. Some of that light, the very starlight by which we ignite our pipes, could be hundreds of years old. Ye glittering time machines of the blackest ocean. Oh to be among the stars, to drink the swirling mists of the endless realms of space, to whisk beside you, oh stars, pathways to eternity. Sweet blinking whisper of time, ye which-”
A musket ball whipped by and nearly knocked his eye out of his skull.
“Get down, Revere.” Daniel Boone reached up and pulled him down into cover. What an ass, thought Boone. Who the hell stares out into the night sky in front of an enemy rifle battalion? And he doesn’t even have a pipe. Boone was not one for speeches and waxing poetic. And he sure as hell wasn’t into carrying all the water by himself, which is what was going to have to happen if this silly bastard got himself killed.
“Which way did it come from?” Revere had not bothered to lift his head and he was still face down in what Boone hoped was dirt, but was pretty sure had been donated by the local horses.
“From straight ahead. Right where you should have been looking.” Revere may have been a fine silversmith, but he was dumb as hell on a battlefield.
“Ah yes. But then how could one keep watch when the sky beckons? Oh silver twinkle -what magic I could work with your gleaming metal.” He rose once more to his feet; Boone pulled him back down again.
“Stay down. You cannot be this stupid. It isn’t possible.”
Oh, but it was. All too possible. But what Paul Revere seemed to lack in common sense, he made up for in genius. He was a master craftsman. Although just a young man, he was already a famed silversmith and proud volunteer in the British army, the most powerful army in the world. Revere was also a very talented weapons designer, although this was more of a secret talent. All these skills would do him no good, however, if he kept sticking his head up into the night sky and got his skull popped by musket fire. Well, at least Boone could grab his three-corner hat. Sure, his raccoon skin hat kept him warm, but it smelled like ass. I mean, it was made from dead raccoon; why the hell had he decided to make a hat out of it? Alas, that was a mystery for another time.
“Listen Paul, my boy,” Boone began. “We have to crawl across the gap on our stomachs and drag the canteens behind us. If we stand, we’re toast because of all that damn starlight you’re so fond of.”
“Right, crawl. But it’s muddy,” Revere whined.
“Your face is covered in horseshit and you’re worried about mud. Listen, we crawl and we live. We stand and we die. So I say it’s time to get a-crawling.” Boone did not wait for a response; he simply tied half of the canteen cords around his leg and started to crawl. They were a good 400 yards from the western lines where the water was needed and probably at least a mile from the creek. They couldn’t stay here so they had no choice but to try and reach the western blockade. If they were caught out at sunrise, they would be screwed. Maybe they would get lucky and it would be the French. The French often took prisoners. But if the war party was primarily Indians, their chances of keeping their skulls well coated in flesh would be pretty low.
“Come on Revere, speed it up.”
Paul Revere preferred horseback riding to horseshit crawling but Boone had a good point. They had to get moving. The army needed water and they needed not to be shot. So it seemed all the logic pointed to crawling. Still, what a shame to waste such a beautiful night without at least writing a song. He started to whistle.
That was when twenty to thirty lead balls embedded themselves in the men’s immediate area.
“You whistled?”
“Uh,” Revere responded. “What do we do? Can we call a time out?”
Boone was already cutting the canteens from his leg as another volley of musket fire sizzled over their heads. “Run, you songwriting jackass!” Boone was up and sprinting. He was a young man in his prime, used to living in the woods and hunting for survival. He was fast and the musketeers, whomever they were, were terrible shots. Against all odds, he managed to run about fifty yards and dive down a slight incline that took him out of the line of fire. He again began to crawl, this time much faster, toward the aforementioned western lines.
Revere, meanwhile, simply stood up. It was when he went to run that he realized he still had the canteens tied to his legs. In less than half a step, he lost his balance, hopped briefly, and fell sliding into the mud. More horribly inaccurate gunfire flew in his general direction. The sliding motion dragged the canteens past his body and, due to the excess of mud or horse manure, they picked up speed in the direction of Boone, pulling Revere’s prone and flailing body behind them. As he hit the incline, he realized that it was cool the way stars looked as he glanced quickly at them while moving. More like streaks of lighting than individual dots. He also realized that this incline was a hell of a lot steeper than he thought and he was starting to slide at an astonishingly rapid rate. He passed a large lump that he realized was Boone. “Hi,” Revere said as he went tearing past him.
“You jammy bastard!”
Somehow, Revere kept accelerating right toward their desired location. “Man, this guy has got some kind of lucky horseshoe jammed up his ass,” Boone whispered poetically. He increased his crawl speed and started to wonder if the guards on the line would think Revere was some kind of new secret weapon and shoot the hell out of him. Nah, I never get that kind of luck, thought the future frontiersman.
****
Across the field, about five minutes earlier, stood part of the 45th French riflemen. They were a marksmen unit specially trained to be experts at accurate musket fire. But, as they were French, their mil
itary skills were, at best, dog shit. They knew there was a British barricade and camp somewhere nearby and they had been dispatched to quietly identify its location and return. Why, you may ask, was an entire division of some 50 men sent on a mission for six? Well, it may have been because they thought a skirmish may occur, given their ignorance of the enemy’s proximity. But more likely it was because the French know that they are French, and six Frenchmen would probably just stand around and smoke and, if the opportunity presented itself, they would either retreat or surrender as quickly as the rules of combat would allow. This improperly named group of marksmen was led by a young Frenchman by the name of Francois Marchand. He was only 22 but he had shown great savvy throughout his brief military command, along with an unwavering desire to not run away. This led to his rapid ascension in the ranks.
Marchand peered out across the darkened field and noticed what appeared to be a lone man standing still and looking at the sky. He could not be more than eighty yards away. It occurred to Marchand that perhaps he should follow him, as he was likely returning to his camp. Sadly, Marchand did not have the chance.
A hot-blooded young French soldier, whose parents had dubbed him Laurent de Lavoir, was an interesting mixture of bloodlust and ignorance. He was one of the few soldiers in the 45 riflemen who actually seemed to enjoy combat. Upon seeing the man, de Lavoir immediately raised his weapon.
“I wager my morning rations that I can kill this idiot before any of you.” This was, of course, stated in French but translating is oh so troublesome. The musket fire began in earnest not a moment later.
The sky-staring idiot fell to the ground. Marchand did not believe he had been struck; rather, it appeared he had been dragged downward. Two men, thought Marchand. It had to be some kind of scouting party. He needed to find a way to convince those two they were safe enough to go back to camp. No one would be stupid enough to simply rush back and give away their position. The men had dropped out of sight; regardless, another round of fire came from his men. It began to dawn on Marchand just how terrible his so-called marksmen were. For a moment, the 45th could get no bearing on the targets. Then, over the stillness of the field, came a whistling noise. The whistling was soon drowned out by more shitty musketry. Once again, they lost track of the men.
“Let us pursue them and remove their innards and use them to decorate our bayonets,” said de Lavoir.
The unsanitary nature of this statement irritated Marchand. Still he replied, “Very well but move quietly; their camp is likely very close and we may do well not to expose ourselves.”
“Not expose ourselves?” de Lavoir asked. “But we are French; we love to expose ourselves.”
“I meant we don’t want to give our position away,” Marchand sighed. Damn puns.
The 45th slunk silently through the muddy field in the direction of where the two men seemed to be heading. Through the starlight, Marchand made out the shape of what seemed to be a manmade but well-constructed series of earthen barricades.
“Quiet. Everyone get down. I think we have found the British camp.”
Everything seemed as if it was going well. They had located the camp, the enemy did not know they were here, and nobody had run away. But of course, that was when the fucking werewolves showed up.
****
Behind the Western line, Simon Fraser of the British army could not believe how much noise was being made by both the small French squad, which he believed to be made up of about 50 men, and the two soldiers whom they had sent to gather water from the creek. They should have made camp closer to the creek like Fraser had suggested, but Washington just had to have the overhanging tree cover. What did he think was going to happen? Birds were going to attack? If anything, those damn Indians could climb through the trees and attack. Either way, Fraser supposed it was up to him to figure out a way to solve this problem. A few shots should be enough to make the French run away, and then he figured, they could get those two meatballs back on the right side of the wall. Fraser decided it was best to follow protocol and dispatched a nearby soldier, who could not have been much older than 16, to run and get Captain Washington from his tent. In a matter of moments, he arrived.
“What’s the situation, Fraser?” Washington asked.
Christ, thought Fraser. Why does this overly tall farmer have to be so formal about everything? If Fraser knew one thing about the military, he knew that ass kissing and being a stickler for protocol were not going to get you promoted. No sir; he wouldn’t be stuck at the front of some flanking column exposing himself to sniper fire when the next war came around. No sir; his tactical skills would be recognized. However, a promotion was unlikely if he continued to stare blankly at his commanding officer.
“There seems to be significant movement in the field, sir,” Fraser managed.
“Indeed.” Washington pulled out a spyglass. What good was that going to do him at night? Even with all the starlight. From this distance, Fraser could now clearly make out what was happening.
“Sir,” Fraser began. “Our water party of Boone and Revere are on their way back. They are about 150 yards due south of our position along the base of that ridge. Straight ahead, you can see a small French force I’d say of about 50 men. They appear to have spotted our men and are in a slow pursuit. I suggest we fire on the French as they have little cover and will probably retreat.”
“Why do you think they will retreat?”
“Well sir, they’re French.”
“Of course. But you are forgetting something, aren’t you Mr. Fraser?”
“If you are referring to giving away our position, sir, I believe that they have already spotted us. Also their main force is unlikely to be close judging by the size of this scouting party and we should be reinforced come morning; it is highly unlikely they will mount an attack before then.”
“Well said and thought out, Fraser. But you are still forgetting something.”
Irritated, Fraser asked, “What am I forgetting, sir?”
“Oh, just the half dozen werewolves about to jump all over the French.”
“Damn it.” Fraser lost his composure. “Always with the fucking werewolves.”
****
Boone was able to catch up with Revere, who had slid to a stop at the base of the western barricade and was lying in a pile of filth. As was all too common of late, he leapt up and shouted.
“Don’t shoot me in the face!” His comment was directed at the British, but from across the field came the loud shouting reply, “Shoot them in the face.”
Boone whisper-shouted up at the barricade. “Tell General Forbes we’re back with half the water and there is a French skirmish unit to the direct east.”
“We know,” came the guard’s reply. “Fraser is already on it. He let Washington know; he’s on duty. Forbes is ill and in bed. Bouquet is in charge.”
“The Swiss guy?” Boone asked, bewildered.
“Yeah I guess. The Swiss guy.”
A Swiss guy in charge of an army. Was that even legal, Boone wondered as he dragged Revere and his canteens up to the barricade and started handing them to the officer on duty. The French were apparently not advancing and the British were not firing, so Boone could not figure out what kind of a damn battle this was supposed to be. Oh well, chalk it up to a battle between the French and the Swiss, I guess. Also that Fraser bastard was at it again. What a glory-stealing shit he was. What a minute; Forbes was sick?
“Forbes wasn’t bit by anything, was he?” Boone asked the guard.
“Bit? I don’t think so. He just got really sick all of a sudden.”
“He probably ate too much of the forsaken rations that we must subsist on. That is what took him ill,” Revere added.
Boone was not sure if Revere was making a joke, but he did know that Revere was a dumbass. “Seriously, we need to check him for bite marks. You can’t be too careful.”
“Okay, okay; I’ll let the doctor know.” The guard finished pulling over the water and then Revere a
nd Boone flopped over the barricade into relative safety. That was when Fraser and Washington approached.
“Glad to see you made it back, men.” Washington was a pretty charismatic guy; you had to give him that. He was also tall as hell, which irritated Boone, since he hated looking up at people. “How is it that the French found your position?”
Boone began. “Well sir, as we were crossing the field, Revere decided-”
“Hold on,” interrupted the demonic Fraser. “Only half of the canteens are here. This is not enough water.”
“Well, sir.” Go fuck yourself, thought Boone. “I had to cut mine loose in order to get out of the line of fire without getting ventilated.”
“Then why does Revere have his?” Fraser continued.
“After Revere gave away our-”
“Well done, Revere,” boomed Washington. “Such bravery in the face of danger. You knew that this water was important and you risked your life for it. Even under fire. You are to be commended. I will put in an official request for a medal and a commendation. Boone, what you did was understandable, but as a result we will likely have to move our attack on the fort ahead several days.”
Boone was deciding between arguing, kicking Revere, or just shooting Fraser. He finally decided that words were the better choice. Right as the zombie General Forbes came bursting out of his tent.
****
If there was one thing that Marchand hated, it was having his men eaten by werewolves. It was always so messy; even if they could recover the bodies they had no idea who was whom. Well, no time to worry about that now.
“Shoot them in the face,” yelled de Lavoir. In a moment of blind luck, de Lavoir’s bullet did, in fact, strike the closest werewolf square in the face. The werewolf simply squinted a bit, shook his head as though dazed, and continued to remove the spine of the soldier he was dissecting.
“Switch to the silver musket balls.” Marchand didn’t want to insult his soldiers’ intelligence by stating the obvious, but it was rather maddening when you practice and practice, drill and drill, but when the real moment comes, nobody remembers what to do. Honestly, he mused, how many days did we spend on werewolf combat? Switch to the silver musket balls, switch to silver, STS. They even came up with a damn mnemonic! A little song, in fact. “See a wolf, don’t despair, just switch to silver, and fill the air.” It had a nice tune. Catchy. The soldiers would whistle it from time to time. And yet here they all were - firing away with lead. At least the British were not shooting at them. There was no way they had not given away their position, what with all the gunfire, screams, and werewolves.
