by Pete Clark
Boone enjoyed walking through the quiet streets of Boston at night. In the more suspect areas, he found that few people were about and this newfound silence out of the forest appealed to him. Tonight, as he made his way down an empty road, he saw a shady looking guy coming the other way. The other man had his head down, but Boone could tell he was watching him. He was maybe half Boone’s age. Boone could also tell that, beneath his misshapen coat, this guy had a small arsenal. He opted to avoid eye contact, stay alert, and keep on his way.
His breathing quickened as he came within arm’s length of the stranger; he wondered for a second if this guy was just going to stab him for no apparent reason. Maybe, he thought madly, it’s Fraser. As he was thinking this, the man passed silently by with no incident. However, Boone was too stupid just to let it go at that. He decided to follow the man. Heck, maybe he could get into a cool fistfight on a quiet street. That would be new.
****
Prescott could tell that the jackass in the stinky hat was following him. He just didn’t know why. It had to be too dark for anyone to recognize him. Didn’t it? Prescott hadn’t heard back from Gill yet. In fact, he hadn’t heard much from anyone the last couple of weeks. It seemed everyone had their heads down. They were working on something; he just didn’t know what. Prescott was not a man of patience. He wanted to find out where this de Lavoir guy was, blow him up or cut his head off or whatever it was going to take, and move onto the next one. Tensions were growing and Prescott could feel deep in the cockles of his heart that the rippers were coming. He had not been a hunter when the rippers were in their prime during the French and Indian War, but he heard enough stories to know what a shit show it had been. Nobody wanted that. It didn’t seem to matter though; there were too many rumors. And that damn English warship, the Gaspee, was just sitting out in the harbor, screwing with people’s livelihood, yet it was all alone. An easy target. Prescott couldn’t believe it had lasted this long.
That fur-skulled ass hat was still following him. The guy did move awfully quiet. In fact, he made no noise at all. Impressive. But for all his silence, he was basically just walking 20 yards or so behind Prescott. Why was he being so quiet if he didn’t care about being seen? Prescott turned slightly to get a better look at the guy; that was when he was knocked to the ground.
Stupid, he thought, as he quickly rolled out of stabbing range and drew his sword. A trap; I walked right into an obvious trap. Just like Major Grant had tried at Duquesne. A decoy so obvious that it worked. Well, it didn’t work for Grant, because he couldn’t count, but it worked today.
Prescott spun on his attacker to discover that Fur Head had simply stopped a fair distance away, confused. The guy who ran into him was an Indian. Reasonably old and not carrying a weapon. He simply held out a scrap of paper toward Prescott. Finally, he thought. Here is my tip from Gill. This spy shit was weird. Couldn’t he have just mailed it to him?
“Thanks,” said Prescott, as he took the paper. This seemed to confuse the Indian somewhat. As if he didn’t anticipate a response. Once he released the paper, he took off in the direction of Fur Head.
They paused and stared at each other.
“Guyasuta?” Fur Head said. The Indian seemed stunned once more before he sprinted off into the night.
Prescott got to his feet, keeping an eye on Fur Head. He looked down at the paper. It had only one word on it. “Croatoan.”
Again with the single word, thought Prescott. Why couldn’t I just get an address or something? Frustrated, he said aloud, “What the hell does this mean?”
Fur Head had been looking over his shoulder. “I know exactly what he means,” he said.
“What,” said Prescott angrily.
“Have you ever heard of werowances?”
“You mean werewolves?”
“No. Worse.”
****
Revere was not much for boats. But he figured he could handle a rowboat on the bay anyway. The recent atrocity committed by the Gaspee had forced the Sons of Liberty’s hand. Or rather given them a glorious cause. It all depended on how you looked at it. The ship was visible in the moonlight and Revere glanced around as the other small boats approached their unaware target.
What little moonlight there was cast a warbling path of shimmering light. Ah, how Revere loved a well-lit evening - or a dark one as this as well. It struck the poet in him. He had dreams. Sure, we all do. He was a craftsman, but he wanted to be an artist. To blend poetry with silver smithing; to create something that would make people think; to be able to replicate his emotions now on this dark water as a cooling breeze rippled his jacket; to be able to have others who weren’t here somehow feel as he did. The man next to him vomited over the edge of the boat. He would leave that part out of the poem, he decided. Ah, Rhode Island in the summer, Revere continued in his mind.
The half dozen rowboats bumped quietly up against the side of the Gaspee. The ship was silent and unmoving. Most of the men were likely either asleep or off board. One man from each boat tossed up a grappling hook. The attack was well organized. Three boats to a side, six to a boat. More than enough to take care of the crew. Before they could board, however, there were the sounds of men assembling on the deck. A British officer ran from hook to hook, dislodging them with his sword. “Hold your advance,” he called. “This is an act of war. Turn back now before we are forced to fire upon you.”
“Why don’t they try and sail off?” Someone asked. “They’ve gone too shallow; they’ve mostly run aground,” called another.
The British captain continued moving frantically among the deck shouting warnings. There was a sharp cracking noise and he went down. A smoking musket from one of the rowboats showed how he met his fate. Once the shot was fired, the few British soldiers stepped down and allowed themselves to be boarded.
It was Revere’s turn to climb. There was one other guy still in his boat, but he was to stay to keep the boat in place. Revere was to be last up his rope. He did not have the best arm strength. Luckily, it was a short climb and with a boost from his boat mate, he managed to get his hands on the edge of the boat and pull himself in. It seemed very dark on the deck. Revere could see men moving around. It looked like there were a few men being ushered around the deck. Probably whatever guards had been placed here.
Revere didn’t really like the idea of attacking these men in the night. But the Gaspee’s crew was not exactly innocent. They had been harassing people and enforcing unfair laws for months. Revere saw that the man who had been shot still lived. That was good; if no one was killed, the incident could be more symbolic than warlike. The colonists were ushering the crew off the boat. The plan was to take their weapons and supplies, but free them.
What was to be done with the boat was still under debate. It seemed obvious that burning was the choice. They could not leave it here as the crew would simply reoccupy it. They could not seize it as the British navy would respond most harshly in its efforts to track them down. And as they wanted to remain anonymous, hiding a good-sized ship seemed out of the question.
A man named Brown was orchestrating getting the crew and most of the invaders off the ship in preparation for burning it. Brown was about to light the boat when it was done for him. A fireball came sizzling out of the sky and exploded on the deck, causing the ship to start burning at a rapid rate. Revere looked up and saw a wyvern flying in closer toward the ship. It had been years since there was a wyvern sighting. A few men fired at the wyvern as they made their retreat. Revere, who had basically just got finished climbing up the rope, was now heading right back down it. The Gaspee was blazing and the rowboats were pulling away as quick as they could. Luckily, the wyvern seemed content with burning the Gaspee; perhaps it was a patriotic wyvern. It flew off into the dim sky and out of sight.
The Gaspee was gone, but there were no casualties. The prisoners were immediately released and the men involved in the Gaspee Affair remained anonymous. Still, Revere could not help but think that this small alterc
ation led to the return of a wyvern. What if the British did look at this as an act of war?
****
While a wyvern was setting fire to the Gaspee, Boone and Prescott were having a drink together at an alehouse that was supposed to be closed. The alehouse was known as the Frolicking Pussy Cat. It was only the two of them and a pale glow came from the barely lit fire. The broken window provided little guilt as they needed a quiet place to talk.
“All right,” said Prescott. “What do you know about this Croatoan business?”
“They’re an Indian tribe from the Virginia territory.”
“Native American tribe, you mean.”
“I swear we’re not doing that yet.”
“How do you know about them?” Prescott asked.
“I’m from Virginia. In fact, I’ve lived there most of my life and my very livelihood has come from learning the trails, people, and the wildlife of that territory.”
“Okay, so why would that guy give me the name of an Indian tribe on a piece of paper? Hey, that reminds me; you guys seemed to recognize each other. Where do you know him from?”
“Odd story. I fought a little during the French and Indian War. I was at the battle of Fort Duquesne and so was that guy. Guyasuta is his name.”
“So he’s Croatoan?”
“I don’t think so. He’s sort of a scientist, I guess.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I don’t think so. An acquaintance of mine, Francis Marion, filled me in on the story. He was captured and we were about to take the fort so the French, as usual, were in the process of retreating. However, they had a big research thing going on up there and Guyasuta was in charge. He said that apparently they had started to isolate how the creatures had come to show up in America. There were a lot of details, blah blah blah, something about how it started two hundred years ago and he was trying to work out where. I bet he figured it out.”
“That’s great, but what does it have to do with me?”
“Don’t know. But there is a good chance he traced the origins of the rippers to the Croatoan somehow. Why he felt like giving it to you, I can’t say. But maybe you should check it out.”
“Not possible,” Prescott answered coolly. “I’m already in the middle of something. I don’t have time to go to Virginia and talk to a bunch of Indians.”
“Native Americans.”
“Fuck yourself.”
“Good point. Hmmm,” Boone paused. “I wonder if Marion knows any more about this. He lives down in the Carolinas. There are still quite a few Croatoan in that area if I recall. I know the area really well and I don’t have shit to do up here. Maybe I can go and check it out.”
“Great, you do that. But I still don’t get why that guy would hand it to me. Maybe it has something to do with the other thing I’m working on.”
“What other thing are you working on?”
“I shouldn’t tell you, but it seems we are destined to be partners in this, so why not? I’ve lost all sense of secrecy at this point. There is some kind of new ripper around that seems to think like a human, but clearly isn’t human. I’m trying to track him down. I have some connected people looking into it, but I haven’t heard anything for a couple of weeks.”
“What do you have to go on?”
“All I have is a name. As usual.”
“What’s the name?”
“de Lavoir.”
“No,” said Boone. “That doesn’t ring any bells. Although there is a vague sense of familiarity about it.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Listen, I think I’m going to head down to the Carolina and Virginia territories. Maybe I can hook up with Marion and see what he knows and also poke around. Maybe find out about these Croatoan guys. If we can find a link to stopping the rippers, we have to try, right?”
“Maybe that’s why he gave the paper to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a ripper hunter.”
“You’re Prescott?”
“What the hell? How does everybody know who I am? What is the point of keeping a low profile if everyone knows you? I need a bigger hat.”
“I can get you one like mine.”
“No. Yours smells like shit.”
“That’s hurtful,” Boone paused, and sniffed. “But true.”
“I guess we should try to stay in some kind of contact. You take your trip, keeping your ears open for de Lavoir; I’ll keep looking around here and see if any more Croatoan stuff pops up.”
“Great. I’m Daniel Boone, by the way.”
“I don’t care.”
****
The Gaspee incident gained renown very quickly and it was not long afterward that England indeed considered it an act of war. The British began bringing in large numbers of warships and soldiers in an effort to demonstrate clearly to the Americans who was in charge.
The show of force was meant to quell thoughts of a rebellion. Instead, it seemed to hasten its coming.
CHAPTER FOUR:
The Lost Colony
April 1773. Boston
The tensions between the colonies and the British continued to rise as England passed the Tea Act. Being formerly British, the colonists were definitely not down with people screwing with their enjoyment of tea. As a result, a number of pro-war articles began to surface, which gave rise to a larger, more dedicated, and unified group of colonists. They began to feel more like one group trying to deal with England and less like thirteen separate groups trying to deal with England. Various leaders found it necessary to meet and try to figure out where the country stood. The other colonies saw Massachusetts as the powder keg and looked to it to decide how the future would proceed.
Gill, you remember him? He’s the bastard that never followed up on helping Prescott; that shit shouldn’t fly. Anyway, he was one of the men who were leading the charge for revolution. He had also killed three zombies today, which was becoming more and more the norm. As anger brewed between the colonists and the growing military force of the Brits, so grew the number of messed up creatures rampaging through the streets.
Boone had spent the last several months heading south; he had entered the Carolina territories. He was familiar with the area, which served him well when he had to escape from what he called “a shit ton of lizard men.” Undaunted, he joined up with his former soldier friend, Francis Marion. Marion was no easy man to find as he had taken to staying well off the map by moving primarily through swamps. Marion too knew there was a war coming and he had no desire to let the British get a read on where he might be.
“There are no Croatoan Indians,” said Marion.
“That’s funny, because I remember meeting many of them,” Boone countered.
“No, you didn’t. You met the Croatan Indians.”
“So Guyasuta spelled it wrong.”
“His name is Guyasuta; do you think he has a lot of trouble spelling Indian names?”
“What the hell is Croatoan then?”
“I know what it means.” This came from a man sitting by a nearby campfire. Marion and Boone were at a hunting camp outside of Virginia and there were many other small camps nearby. They hadn’t even noticed the man was listening.
“You shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations,” said Boone.
“If you don’t want anyone listening, then don’t talk so loud.” The man was about the same age as Boone, yet somehow seemed both like a crotchety, angry old man and a vicious, violent killer. He sprang to his feet to show that he was indeed prepared for anything.
“Fair enough,” said Marion. “I’m Francis Marion and this is Daniel Boone.”
“Morgan,” he said. “Daniel Morgan.” Daniel Morgan was a gritty, aggressive, and, some would say, angry man. He was a veteran of the French and Indian War and the argument could and would be made that he was the smartest military tactician of his generation. He had not yet had the opportunity to prove his military genius, but h
e had without question proven both his toughness and his contempt for stupidity. During the French and Indian War, after a dispute with his commanding officer, Morgan punched him. As was said, he had no patience for stupidity. His punishment was 499 lashes with a whip. That is correct: 499 lashes. Twenty was considered a significant punishment; 499 was considered an unofficial death sentence. Being the type of man he was, Morgan refused to die out of spite and, instead of rushing out and seeking revenge against the British war machine that punished him, he waited and let his hatred grow. He knew there would be an opportunity to pay back the British for what they had done and he was right.
“Nice to meet you,” said Boone. “What can you tell us about Croatoan?”
“The Croatan could help you with this as well, but it might take you a while to find one who knows. I’d say that even with what I know, you’re probably not going to be at the end of your journey.”
“I know quite a bit about the Croatoan Indians,” Boone said.
“Croatan,” corrected Marion.
“Right. The point is I know that their lands are throughout the Carolina and Virginia territories and that their leaders/medicine men were held in extremely high esteem and were famed for their abilities to tap into the supernatural. These leaders were called werowances.”
“Why didn’t you say this before,” Marion asked.
“I just got here.”
“Do you want to give us an Idiot’s Guide to History or do you want to hear what I know?” Morgan asked.
“We want to hear it.” Boone settled down by the fire. He stirred it with a nearby stick and sent a swirl of embers into the shallow night. He thought Revere would have liked this sort of thing.
“Stop staring at the fire and listen. I can tell you about the lost colony.”
“Ooh, creepy.”
“Shut up.”
****
“It was the early days of English settlements. Most of the attempts to create settlements in the New World had failed. Nearly two hundred years ago-”
