Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 ..

by Taylor, Winchcombe

  "I'll have 'em back when they're recovered," Ram said, as they walked shoreward. "Hilary, it comes to me your seven years' sentence

  must be over, and your indentures too. When the campaign's done, I'll tear up your papers. Then you'll return to London, eh?" "London?" The cockney halted. "Wiv you, yer mean, sir?" "Or without."

  "But wot would I do there, sir, wivaht you? I'd git ter wenchin' againe. Fust fing, I'd be copped—an' then, Tyburn!" Hilary gulped. "Colonel—wot 'ave I done, ye want ter send me back?"

  "Fool!" Ram laughed. "You're the best servant I've ever had. I but thought now your time's up, you'd want to go home."

  Boarding the moored dinghy, he took the tiller and Hilary the oars. Not until the craft was out in the channel did the latter say hoarsely: " 'Ome? Only 'ome I want is wiv you." He glanced at his shoulder knot. "Corp'ril—me! I'm a man nah, becos you made me one." He insisted he only wanted to keep on serving the "gent" who once had shared stinking straw with him in the roundhouse.

  They landed on the sand spit and were challenged by a Carolina sentinel. Vanderdussen himself came up with old Colonel Barnwell. "May I hope, sir, ye'll sup with us?" the former invited. Ram glanced at the waning sun. "I've too far to go to rejoin my command," he refused regretfully.

  Vanderdussen then asked if Oglethorpe had planned any new operations. "Mr. Barnwell and I feel we need an inspiring deed to encourage our fine young volunteers, sir, for today they received cursed bad news." He lowered his voice. "Another Negra insurrection-devilish bad. All the planters are alarmed."

  Ram swore. Mazzique was in Savannah's jail, so other enemy agents must have incited this new rising. The Carolinians, of course, would want to rush home to protect their families. "You'd best inform the general of this," he suggested. "Now, sir, I'd be obliged if your boatman will put me back on the main."

  Both colonels escorted him across the sand peninsula to the San Marco River, where an outpost guarded a hidden dinghy. Soon he and Hilary were ferried over and, muskets cocked, moved cautiously to where they had staked out their horses in some undergrowth.

  They should be well within Palmer's outpost line; but, fearing the

  stubborn old man had withdrawn his outlying pickets and gone to

  camp again in dismantled Fort Moosa, Ram led his horse cautiously.

  Paralleling their route ran a creek, flowing from the northwest

  and emptying into the San Marco; upstream, it passed near Moosa itself. Suddenly Ram halted. Above croaking bullfrogs and the splash of rising fish, he heard the cocking of a musket.

  Hand over his horse's muzzle, he listened warily. Yes, from the creek came squelching feet in mud, then an oath in Spanish.

  "Canoes! Boats!" Hilary whispered.

  More sounds. A large party was landing—an enemy sortie? If Palmer had indeed holed up at Moosa again, he could be trapped.

  "Mount." If the enemy heard him, they might think he headed a large force coming to attack them. His horse splashed through a boggy patch and Hilary's mount, following, added to the noise. There came urgent Spanish shouts. The full moon was up now, but heavy brush blocked Ram's view of the creek and the men there.

  A figure broke into the open, a grease-glistening Indian.

  "Guard your left!" Ram warned Hilary, cocking a pistol. How far to Moosa? Near enough for shots to be heard? If Palmer wasn't there, then he'd been a fool to give himself away here. But his foot platoon was with the old man.

  More Indians raced from the left.

  "Charge!" he bellowed, as if leading a full horse regiment. Thorns tore his deerskin overalls, tough-limbed bushes almost dragged his feet from the stirrups. A glinting gun barrel made him stretch along his horse's neck. He heard the report but not the bullet. A brave was ahead, bow drawn. Ram fired at him, then had to fight his horse, which was trying to bolt.

  By the time he'd checked it, the Indians were left behind, venting futile war whoops. Hilary yelled a deadly Uchee insult back at them.

  Then a clearing, and beyond it a dark mass. Moosa.

  "Alarm!" Ram yelled, "Stand to your arms! Anstruther!"

  The whooping in rear was swelled by more voices, but the fort was close, lights visible through its broken walls. Perhaps Palmer had left only a small detachment there. If so, it would stand no chance.

  He veered to enter its gateless entrance. A challenge came in broad Scots, then he and Hilary were within and had dismounted.

  "Stand to!" he panted. "A big attack is at hand."

  "I'm Colonel Palmer." The Carolinian came forward, just as a sentinel fired.

  John Mor Mackintosh shouted orders in Gaehc. Ram yelled for his own sergeant, Will Strang, who hurried to him. "Bid your men aim low. There's Indians and Spanish." Balls whizzed through the gaps in the palmetto-log walls as Ram made toward the gateway, guarded by the Highland platoon, which was firing well. But men in it were being hit and now the moonlight revealed a dense mass of Europeans, Negroes and Indians, shooting as they advanced. Even as he was estimating their strength, from the rear came yells, whoops, oaths in English, Gaelic and Spanish. Attackers were swarming through a wall gap.

  Sword out, he ran toward the melee. It was hard to tell friend from foe, but he did recognize two of his own men by their red-faced blue coats. One howled and went down, transfixed by an arrow.

  Palmer was yelling for everyone to rally around him when his voice trailed into a choking gasp.

  More enemy poured in; hundreds. As Ram spitted an Indian, a Negro leaped toward him, musket butt upraised. A figure intervened and there came a horrible, soggy thud. His would-be rescuer fell, and briefly Ram stared down at the bloody mass that had been a face. He saw the corporal's knot. Hilary! Hilary]

  Now he was fighting for his own life. He'd already lost his musket and both pistols were empty. He flung one at a foe, clubbed the other in his left hand while he swung his saber with his right.

  He cut his way to where Mackintosh had rallied some Highlanders. Their broadswords were taking bloody toll, but from every angle marksmen were firing into them and each ball was hitting flesh.

  A screeching brave leaped forward to scalp a dead Scot, but Ram brained him with the pistol butt. A Spaniard kept shouting for the defenders to surrender. Mackintosh roared back his defiant "Loch Moighl" and his clansmen took it up. Then a thick mass of Spaniards, Negroes and Indians overwhelmed them. Ram glimpsed John Mor going down, and the latter's young son, Willliam, in the hands of a huge Negro. Magically, the boy spun like a dancer, unwinding himself from his breachan feile, so that plaid and kilt alone were left in his captor's hands.

  A jar went up Ram's right arm. An Indian's hatchet had sheared off his blade near the hilt. Then he was struggling to break the lock of viselike arms. Their owner's odor gagged him as he did the

  only thing he could—stamp on the brave's moccasined feet. A howl, and the arms parted. Sobbing for breath, he tore off his sword belt and used his scabbard as a flail.

  Realizing he was near a wall gap, he glanced around. Resistance was ending, the massacre had begun.

  He lunged through the gap and ran toward a clump of undergrowth. He tore off his coat and waistcoat. He must reach his rangers, lest they too be surprised. But first he must find cover and catch his breath.

  Then the clump. He flung himself down, oblivious of the lacerating thorns. Gradually his breath came less painfully. He stared fort-ward. The shooting was over, but terrible whoops continued. Soon a mass emerged from the gateway; a core of captives enclosed by Indians, who were beating them with gun butts. Bonfires, evidently to signal victor}', were blazing. Around these, figures danced and yelled. A prisoner was flung into one, and when the tortured, screeching man, clothes alight, rolled free, he was tomahawked and his scalp torn off.

  A shuddering gasp came from behind Ram. Nerves crawling, he looked over his shoulder. A white face stared back at him.

  "Who are ye? Ah, God, ma Father's deid!" It was young Will Mackintosh, nude save for his short tartan hose and sho
es.

  "Anstruthcr. Keep still. Have you a weapon?"

  "Nay. What'll we do?"

  "Lie silent!" Ram was watching the fort. The Spanish leader was evidently regaining control. Some Indians moved out in a wide circle to act as outposts. One came within a dozen yards of the two breath-holding fugitives, but went on without glancing their way.

  How to get past him and to the west? To remain here was to insure certain capture when day came. God, for a weapon! A fantastic thought came. Rolling onto his back. Ram took off his shirt.

  "Keep lookout," he breathed. The linen was tough, but he ripped out the shirt's back. His mind was a jumble of memories: of Baja teaching him in the Ahmedpur prison. It was done, the knot made, a small stone in it. "You must do something very brave," he told Will. "Crawl up on the Indian, then you must stand, so he comes toward you. If he's a firearm he may shoot, but likely he'll seek to take ye prisoner. Understand?"

  "Aye?" The boy's answer held interrogation but no fear.

  "Trust me. Can ye crawl silently till we're near him? You must lure him to ye. Don't let him know I'm near."

  It was much to ask of a boy who'd just seen his father cut down; but the future Continental Colonel William Mackintosh was fearless.

  "I'll do ma best," he gulped. He crawled toward the quarry, his slim body startlingly white in the moonlight. Ram, bare to the waist himself, followed. After they had passed over a soggy area, he veered to Will's left. The brave was facing west, clearly watching for a counterattack from Ram's own rangers. Painfully the pair wormed closer. Will, who had learned his hunting from friendly Creeks, glided like a snake. Ram was hard put to keep pace with him.

  The youngster was within fifteen yards of the sentinel before the latter turned alertly, tore a tomahawk from his belt and started warily toward him.

  With desperate courage. Will stood up.

  Ram was crawling in a half circle. Close to the boy, the Indian hesitated, evidently puzzled by his nakedness, and undecided whether to take his scalp now or save him for torture.

  Ram was behind his quarry. One minute more! he prayed. Luckily his shadow was away from him and he almost within the Indian's own.

  The Florida grunted a query in bastard Creek, Will answered.

  Ram was advancing on all fours. Now! He stood, arms ready.

  "Pan lao" As his wrists turned, he hissed the Thug's cr}'. There was a brief struggle, but no sound. The brave crumpled—dead!

  "God, how did ye do it?" Will gasped.

  Ram was rifling the corpse of the tomahawk, pistol, powder, balls.

  "Come!"

  Wraithlike, they turned westward in the moonlight.

  The Moosa massacre was decisive. Already worried by the rising at home and many down with fevers, the Carolinians began leaving, with or without permission. Then the Navy—through carelessness or worse, the troops swore—let several storeships from Cuba slip into the Matanzas River. These factors, added to the sickness in his own regiment, forced Oglethorpe to realize his siege must fail.

  But under a flag he warned the governor that should any more British be tortured or killed, he would hang all his Spanish prisoners. Word came back that all would be treated honorably, that among them was Captain John Mackintosh who, though wounded, would live.

  By then Ram's rangers had been withdrawn from the west and now covered the north. Among several who had escaped early from Moosa were four of his foot; though Strang and the other six were dead. And Hilary.

  The rangers' next task was to cover the retreat northward to the St. John's mouth, where the dispirited little army was taken aboard small craft and returned to St. Simon's Island.

  Oglethorpe, racked by fever, held up until all were landed, then became seriously ill. So Ram sent his own contingent home and remained to help, keeping only Tommy Buller as a groom and Larry White—now recovered from ague—as his orderly.

  In September, word came from Savannah that Mazzique had broken out of the jail, accompanied by Shannon. The latter Oglethorpe himself had captured on his way to Coweta, having found the Irishman goading the Choctaws into attacking the British. So Ram asked leave to return home and organize a manhunt.

  Crossing to the main in a piragua. Ram, with his two-boy escort, rode to New Inverness. The settlement was in deep mourning; over thirty Highlanders had been lost as Moosa; not a family but lamented for its dead. Yet the survivors agreed to send out patrols to prevent Mazzique and Shannon from slipping past toward Florida.

  Ram was about to start for home when a Fort Argyle sergeant and three rangers arrived, sent by William Stephens to warn the Highlanders of the escapes. Finding that Ram had already done so, the noncom decided to return to his post, and the two forces merged. His tales of how Savannah fainthearts had fled into Carolina and beyond, crying that the town would become another Moosa, infuriated Ram. But his secret fear that Lucinda had caught the panic also was dispelled when one ranger said he'd seen her at Shoreacres only two days before.

  All was bleak, he felt, unless Oglethorpe rallied and once more took control. For Walpole might agree to surrender the colony to Spain in return for peace.

  The moon was high when Ram sighted the tower lantern. I'll sleep sound tonight, even with Lucinda beside me, he thought, and sighed from sheer weariness as he touched spur to his tired mount. How far had he ridden today; fifty, sixty miles? As for the boys, they must be asleep in their saddles. He looked back. Yes, they'd not even noticed he'd broken into a trot. He reined in and waited for them. Ten miles back, at the fork, they'd parted with the rangers, who by now were surely bedded down and snoring.

  "Ride to attention!" he shouted, half in earnest.

  "Aye, Colonel!" The pair trotted to regain their proper distance.

  After they had passed through the gate in the thorn hedge, Ram said: "Break off to your homes, but see your mounts watered and fed; they're more weary than we are. Tomorrow go over for galls and cuts."

  The boys gone, he slowed to a walk, thinking of Mazzique. A good sleep and I'll form a large party, he decided. I'll find him somehow, and that cursed Irish traitor too!

  Passing Rob's darkened house, he thought enviously that his cousin must have been asleep for hours. Dismounting at the stables he led the horse into his stall. A lantern shone where Jem slept, rolled in his blankets, so Ram began unsaddling himself. But the old man started up and insisted upon doing what was needful. He said everything was well.

  Stiffly Ram walked to the house. Only when he had mounted the steps did he realize he must rouse Margot to let him in. But the door was ajar. Damme, I've ordered 'em to see all's bolted at night!

  He entered, feeling for his tinderbox. But a lighted candle appeared in the hall's rear; it was carried by Margot.

  "Oh, monsieur. I did not think you would come so soon!"

  "Then why did ye leave the door open?" he demanded irritably. "Woman, some night ye'll have red savages swarming in."

  "I did not leave it open. It must be an accident. But you are hungry, hein? Come, I will bring you food."

  "Good." They went into the study. "Your mistress is well—and the boy?"

  She was lighting more candles from her own. "Madame is a trifle unwell—a slight ague only, monsieur. It is why I am up so late. I gave her a powder and now she sleep sound."

  "And Diccon?"

  "He also is a little unset. Perhaps, mon colonel, it would be best you do not disturb them tonight."

  Sitting in his big chair, he unbuckled his spurs. "I'll sleep here."

  "Oh, monsieur, please! You are too weary. Why not occupy my cot in the closet? The linen is fresh changed and you will rest better. I will use the blue room. And now a leetle wine to give you de Vappetit, hein?" She brought a bottle from the cabinet and poured him a drink, which he downed at a gulp. "You have ridden far?"

  "Ah!" He held out his glass for a refill. "Some sixty miles, I think." Warmth seeped through him.

  With a rustle of petticoats, she left, but soon returned with bread, meat a
nd a bottle of Maderia. "Viola, monsieur."

  He fell to, and Margot vanished. She soon came back to say she had prepared the closet; but that, perhaps, it would be wise to go up to it silently, for Diccon had been fretful and might awaken.

  "But tomorrow, sight of monsieur will cure him," she smiled. "He is most proud of his brave soldier father."

  Though food had renewed his strength, he was still unutterably weary and a little muzzy from the wine. 'Tis well I'll not lie with Lucinda, he told himself, for she'd find me cursed inattentive.

  Yawning, he took a candle. "I'll be quiet," he promised Margot. But keep alert lest your mistress calls. Diccon might need care."

  "Yes, monsieur. I'll be all ears."

  He went upstairs, treading soundlessly, stole into the closet, saw moonlight streaming through the small window, so blew out the candle. He put his coat and sword on a chair, loosened his stock and waistcoat. Sitting on the cot, he tried to pull off his boots, but gave it up as too much trouble and let his head fall back on the pillow.

  His eyes closed.

  "Lud, you've taken your time! I've been asleep hours'*

  "Would ye have me traipsing up here while a light's in the stables? Old Jem must ha' been up with a sick horse. Well, greet me properly!"

  "Men — you're all the same! 'Let's to work and get it over with!' "

  "Aye, but ye love it that way, ye slut."

  "I won't be called so! You above all should know that."

  "I know more than ye think, Luce. You weren't quite the virgin

  with your play actor — I know he got ye with child. So don't come high and mighty with me."

  "Split ye for a damned pimping cully, Rob Anstruther! If I did have an accident, 'twas because you were sick of the pox ye took from some noseless doxy! I'm no street drab, to suffer your insultsl"

  Ram fought to escape from this filthy nightmare.

  "Nay, love, you're no drab. There's none I've ever bedded like ye. . . . How was the player. Luce? Odds he was as my brave cousin, all gentle and supplicating. Poh, they're not for you! Hurt ye, make ye scream — that's your mark! D'ye mind how 'twas when we got Diccon . . . like this?"