Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Bear passed me a metal rod. I sliced meat from the tree-strung beef haunch with Miles Starkweather’s gift knife, filled the rod with long, narrow fillets, and took to roasting. Bear waited till I was situated before doing his asking. “You see all you wanted of that pretty Erin today?”

  I snorted and stared at the fire. I couldn’t tell what had really happened, for that would compromise Erin publicly. So I avoided telling any of the details. “Maybe I saw too much of her. Maybe I poisoned the well for myself.”

  I offered nothing more by way of explanation, and Bear thankfully didn’t press. Tap cranked his mouth open to speak, but Bear closed it again with a stern shake of the head. That same stern head shaking kept Val Dodd quiet, too.

  We ate in silence till the beat of hooves drew our attention elsewhere. The approaching horse and rider came not from the headquarters end of the column, but the rear, back toward the Green cart. Miles Starkweather reined his sorrel to a halt in the meadow, stepped down, and walked purposely through the growing darkness to our fire. His stride was that of an officer with orders to be carried out . . . or a bone to pick with someone. I was hoping for the former.

  “Mr. Dodd, I bear orders from General Butler himself.”

  Val Dodd climbed to his feet. “I am listening, Captain. What does your general wish of us?”

  “General Butler has consented to the placing of a heavy guard over the horses at night with both mounted dragoons and infantry. But a messenger is to be dispatched at dawn to Fort Washington. He is to inform Court Starnes that hobbles and bells must be provided for the animals immediately, as many of each as can be had, regardless of the cost. Failure by either the messenger or Mr. Starnes is not acceptable to the general. You understand?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Val Dodd answered with a slow nod, “very clearly. Did General Butler name his would-be messenger?”

  Starkweather slapped his left palm with his gloves. “No, he did not. The choice was left to me.”

  “And who might your choice be?” Bear asked in that smooth manner of his that never offended.

  Starkweather’s gaze fell on me. “Mr. Downer is the best mounted of you Duer men. I would prefer he make the ride, if you and Mr. Dodd concur.”

  It was two days to the Ohio, a fifty-mile journey across wooded terrain where savages might wait in ambush behind any tree or just ’round the next bend. The danger of such a journey for a lone rider dried my throat. I never realized till that moment how much I had depended upon the deceased Hardy Booth, how much, funning aside, I had leaned on his steady strength and gumption. Nor how much I truly missed him.

  “I have no quarrel with your choice of riders, Captain,” Bear said. “It’s just that two riders travelin’ together an’ watchin’ opposite sides of the road have a better chance of getting through to Court Starnes.”

  Bear’s proposal perked my interest like the hound hearing the fox bark. Would he himself accompany me? Perhaps one of the Dodd men, either Ira, Henry or, God forbid, Gabe Hookfin, though the latter seemed the least likely choice given his continuing absence from our camp. The only person I didn’t consider was Tap, he of the overblown belly and ancient mare for a mount.

  And the old border scout, naturally, was Bear’s choice from the get-go. “Mr. Jacobs will ride along with Ethan,” Bear said straightforward as if announcing it was dark in the woods at night.

  Starkweather didn’t share Bear’s confidence. “It is an arduous trek, and I fear Mr. Jacobs’s age and that of his horse will delay the journey and disappoint the general.”

  No matter the truth of the captain’s opinion, Tap’s moon-shaped face turned rooster-comb red at what he considered a personal insult from an officer with no experience fighting the redsticks. The old scout reached for his belted knife. “Why, damn your snobbish hide, I’ll—”

  “Quiet, Tap,” Bear interrupted. “This is my decision, an’ it will stand,” he said, squaring his wide shoulders with those of Starkweather.

  “Mr. Jacobs rides in my stead, Captain. You can overlook the fact he’s a mite hefty an’ his hair’s gone. He’s still feisty enough to bite the head off’n a woods rattler with his hands tied behind him. He knows the Shawnee well as Kenton an’ Tice Wentsell, the best border spies to ever draw a hawk. An’ he’ll be aboard that brown gelding of mine, animal enough to carry him to kingdom come twice over. Meantime, you an’ me will see the army still has horses to bell and hobble when Tap and Ethan bring such to us. That’s how Caleb Downer would want it done, and that’s how we’ll do ’er.”

  Bear Watkins was a persuasive fellow. Behind his hirsute countenance lurked a mind second only to that of Paw. Like Paw, he wasted few words and never drifted from the business at hand. Most times, arguing with either of them over men, long guns, Injun fighting, or horses was tantamount to shooting your ownself first in one foot, then the other, a mighty useless sort of habit when you thought on it.

  Miles Starkweather thought on it and saw that disputing the sense of what Bear proposed would only make him appear unduly stubborn. He smiled politely, slapped his gloves against his thigh, and said, “Too bad you don’t command a regiment, Mr. Watkins. I would feel much better about the days ahead if you did. Please dispatch our messengers at first light or shortly thereafter.”

  His gaze settled on me again. “If he would step to the horses, I would like a minute alone with Mr. Downer before I depart.”

  Bear nodded. “Go along, Ethan.”

  Puzzled as well as concerned, I followed the captain into the meadow. I had not forgotten my impression on his arrival that he might have a bone to pick with someone within our camp, namely me, depending on what he might have learned at the Green cart.

  “Mr. Downer, understand me when I say I will not judge you based on the reckless contentions of one Gabe Hookfin.”

  His gloved hand lifted as he saw me stiffen. “Stand easy, Mr. Downer. I repeat. I will not stand in judgment. I simply want to warn you that the same accusations were made to Sergeant Devlin. Unfortunately, Erin was with her mother, so the truth went wanting. It would be wise for you to avoid any meeting with Sergeant Devlin till his ire cools. He is frightfully touchy about Erin and her mother.”

  Though I clenched my fists hard enough my fingernails threatened to break the skin of my palms, I fought to remain calm and not let my anger set me to shaking. In my worry about how I could make things right with Erin, it hadn’t dawned on me how easily Hookfin could arouse Tor Devlin against me. The wheel was spinning backward faster and faster on me.

  Miles Starkweather watched me closely, patiently waiting for me to speak, and after a gulping breath, I told him the straight of it. For some reason I didn’t yet understand, I didn’t want this particular captain thinking poorly of me. “I was searching for Erin at her mother’s request, and no matter what Hookfin claims, I stumbled upon her bath without meaning to.” I dug at the ground with a toe and hoped the dimness of the meadow masked the red on my face. “She was so beautiful, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and neither could Hookfin. He yelled to her like he had caught me deliberately hiding just to watch her, and I couldn’t do anything except apologize to her.”

  It sounded embarrassingly lame after I got it out, and I hastily asked an obvious question. “Did you pick me to be the general’s messenger to keep me away from Erin and the sergeant?”

  “No, you are the best-mounted rider for the task,” Starkweather insisted. “It’s just fortunate for all concerned that you’ll be away from the column a few days. Even then, I suggest you consult with me upon your return before making any attempt to visit with Erin. Tor Devlin’s temper is legend and can try the patience of a saint. He is a very unforgiving soul.”

  I held my tongue then and waited expectantly for any indication the captain believed my explanation as to what had really happened at the brook. But Starkweather abided by his earlier statement that, not having talked with Erin Green, he had no intention of passing judgment on Ethan Downer. He adjusted the sword han
ging at his hip and tugged his gloves tighter over long fingers. “I trust you will be ready to take your leave at dawn. I bid you good evening.”

  A quick salute, and Starkweather was mounted and disappearing from sight. It was a real chore to keep my head from hanging when I stepped alongside Bear at the fire. He shot me a concerned look but didn’t pry. And his previous admonishment kept Tap glumly silent. I had a hunch the old snake biter would be spouting questions tomorrow plumb down to the Ohio.

  New hoofbeats and the tramp of marching feet heralded the arrival of the mounted dragoons and infantry levies assigned to help guard the horses. Commanding those afoot was Daniel Croft, the stubby sergeant with the huge black mustache Erin and I had encountered after fording the Great Miami. Bear assigned me to Croft’s squad for the first half of the night, and much to my chagrin, the sergeant proceeded to ask me so many questions about Erin a lengthy pestering by the effusive Tap would have proved a welcome relief. Through it all, I marveled at how men of every stripe never forgot a solitary detail regarding Erin Green, no matter how little they had enjoyed her company. A word and a smile from her and they were smitten. As I could damn well testify.

  I spent the balance of the night with my backside flush to Tap’s spine. It didn’t bother me a lick the old scout was by then too exhausted for anything but sleep. I tossed fitfully, and my dreams ran sour on me before dawn. The prospect of hurrying forever through the forest in pursuit of an Erin who refused to stop and face me, regardless of how loudly I yelled after her, was so disturbing I came awake in a sweat, quaking and moaning. I grasped the rifle twixt my thighs with both hands, listened without moving, and was relieved to hear nothing except rasping snores and smacking lips.

  Bad enough to be hopelessly in love, worse yet to confirm it by acting the fool in front of friends and strangers. Even the smitten have their pride.

  Chapter 10

  8 October

  Whether Bear Watkins observed my fitful night, I was never to learn. But he had figured what was upsetting me, and prior to my departure for the Ohio, he led me into the trees where the two of us were in no danger of being overheard. The squaring of his thick shoulders and the butting of his rifle told me he was speaking as the man Paw had left in charge, and I came alert accordingly. While seen less often, Bear’s wrath equaled that of my absent father.

  “Lad, I’ll not have you be the death of Tap,” he stated vehemently. “Was we back at the Downer place, I’d not fault you for mooning over Erin Green. But your attention needs to be on your duty an’ nothin’ else.”

  He was flush on the mark. Till he spoke, achieving even a minute alone with her had been foremost on my mind. “Ethan, lovesickness can get you killed fast as anything in enemy country. You listenin’ to what I say?”

  I forced myself to meet his intent gaze, not an easy feat given my embarrassment that he had had to single me out and yank my chain good and proper. I fought the urge to look at his feet and nodded. Weakness gained you naught with Bear Watkins.

  Still watching me with nary a blink, Bear lifted his rifle and cradled it in the crook of his elbow. “I’ll take you at your word, Ethan. Mayhap a time apart from her will set your thinking to rights. Now, you an’ Tap ride straight through the day an’ rest your animals overnight. You should sight Fort Washington late tomorrow evenin’. Find your Paw soon as you can, an’ tell him, not Court Starnes, what needs to be done.”

  Bear hawked, turned at the waist, leaned forward, and spat, affording me a chance to suck some wind. His voice and his gaze were just as firm as before when he continued. “You set the pace for Tap. He’ll carp his arse hurts, and he can’t feel his feet his legs are so cramped. Ignore him. His complaints get tiresome on the ear, threaten to tie him in the saddle. That always stifles him for me. You followin’ me here?”

  He waited for my nod. “Sleep without a fire tonight. Expect the Shawnee anytime, day or night. Never doubt they’re scoutin’ the military road, every last mile of it. They spy on all we’re about, whether we lay eye on them or not. Understood?”

  Bear wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. That he felt compelled to do so deepened my embarrassment. I was losing ground with friends as well as the ladies. I wasn’t careful, I’d either be dead or home in Kentucky milking the cow and following the bidding of my house-bound sisters, a fate worse than death. It was time for Ethan Downer to get his thinking in order, and damn fast.

  Bear wasn’t seeking any lengthy, windy promises maybe I wouldn’t keep, and I didn’t spout off with any. I simply met his hard gaze best I could and said, “I’ll not fail Tap. I’ll not let my troubles bring him to harm.”

  “See to that, lad, for his blood would be on your hands,” Bear warned solemnly. He glanced skyward. “The sun’s up, the weather shows fair, and messengers should be ahorseback and travelin’. Come along.”

  Aware Bear had left much more skin on my behind than Paw would have in similar circumstances, I followed him to the morning fire determined to devote my sole attention to the ride ahead. If I didn’t, I wasn’t acting, but was indeed becoming, the addled fool I loathed. Only an addled fool tortured himself over a woman whose true intentions were unknown to him, a woman who might well never speak to him again. I wasn’t a terribly happy fellow as I swung aboard Blue and led Tap from our camp. Sometimes I feared I was as green as new apples, just like Paw claimed.

  We rode south under a sky dotted with high clouds. A moderate wind stiff enough to flutter the brim of my hat and toss Blue’s mane blew from the southwest. I won’t deny I didn’t stand in the stirrups and give the Green cart careful scrutiny as we went past, but no female of red hair, mother or daughter, was out and about. Nor were Hookfin or Sergeant Devlin. Annie Bower and the harlots were easing the old swaybacked horse twixt the poles of the cart. They hooted and hollered, mostly ribbing Tap for not calling on them in recent days. The old scout yelled a ribald retort, and then we were beyond the cart and free of the column.

  The brook where I had sought Erin the previous day was still running brown west of the ford as we splashed across. Afraid I was about to relive the scene upstream in all its gory details, I drew a snort of surprise from Blue when I thumped him into a gallop with my heels. A few dodges around protruding stumps, and I hastily slowed him to a trot. It was a small man who endangered a fine mount to assuage his own tormented feelings.

  Backtracking on the St. Clair military road at any constant pace was a formidable task. Granted, the way had been cleared to a width of a half-dozen yards in most places. But in addition to the stumps and small brush littering its uneven surface, the open swath twisted left and right at random, the army having sought to avoid huge fallen timbers whenever possible and gain the most level course in traversing the ascending and descending slopes. And while the rider’s eyes had to be constantly fixed on the dangers of the open path directly ahead and below his mount’s nose, oak and hickory butts frequently wider than the arm span of a giant dominated the uplands, pushing hard on the edge of the road. In bottoms cut by small runs of water and outcroppings of stone white here and brown there, butts smaller but more frequent in number, these of black walnut, maple, and beech, undershot with screening brush, crowded the roadway no less hard. Everything weighed against those traveling in light company and favored those lying in wait, fingers caressing the trigger of a long gun balled and primed. With each mile, women and love seemed ever more distant.

  Through the morning, Tap and I hardly spoke. The only sounds were the beat of hooves beneath us, the sigh of the wind, and the hollow thudding that arose whenever we crossed the wooden army bridges, large and small, that spanned every measurable waterway and abrupt break in the terrain. The echoes of our crossings rippled in every direction, announcing our passage, but walking the animals at each bridge would have lengthened our journey unreasonably, sacrificing too much time for what little extra safety we might have gained. As Tap observed early on, “I’d rather be on the move if’n I’m ambushed. Injuns disa
ppearin’ behind a runnin’ horse be a mighty attractive sight. You can’t enjoy your whiskey, yuh ain’t alive to drink her down.”

  We chewed stringy fingers of roasted beef and sipped water from tin canteens in the saddle. When we did rest the horses, we did so whenever possible on the highest available ground where the trees were thinner and we could maintain a more effective watch to both sides of the road. It was during one of the brief blowing of our mounts in early afternoon, still well above the lower reaches of Seven Mile Creek, that we first heard the pounding approach of other riders from the south in the direction of Fort Hamilton.

  Tap came upright, eyes squinting against the sunshine. “Must be our’n. Ain’t no Injuns gonna sashay about in the open this hour of the day.”

  We straddled the road and waited. A military detail totaling six riders hove into view below us. “Well, for the love of God if’n it ain’t him!” Tap sang out.

  Tap had been around Fort Washington with Paw for weeks, so for him to become all excited about sighting any particular soldier called for some explanation. “Who is it?” I asked, foolishly rising onto my toes in hopes of seeing better when we already held the high ground.

  “It’s St. Clair his-by-God-ownself with his private minions,” Tap answered, his voice lowering. “He’s in the middle up front with Major Denny on his left, and Count Malartie, his aide-de-camp, on his right.”

  Major General Arthur St. Clair was a mighty striking figure astride his muscular white horse, like a diamond among shards of coal. The silver stars on his gold epaulettes sparkled in the sun, and the red turban of his bearskin-crested cap, bathed with the same bright light, seemed afire. As he rode up to us, I made out his blue coat was trimmed and lined with buff. His vest and breeches were of the same tannish brown. His boots were tall and fashioned of soft, black leather. Though his face was stern, it was not ugly, and his shadowed eyes held a man’s attention when he looked at you, which he was doing with me just now. He inspected me carefully, then gave Blue a going over, too. Thorough, I decided, very thorough was Major General Arthur St. Clair.