Wetness shone in the feeble light on the haunches of the packhorse string being led before the four Kentucky boats moored beyond the tent line. The boats were tied well up the bank, the rise of the river having covered the low-water mud flat that had imperiled shipments of men and materials the whole of the preceding summer. Paw was there in the middle of the action, shorn of his usual town clothes except for his flat-crowned hat and tall black riding boots. He wore linsey-woolsey trousers and a knee-length canvas coat that shed moisture like duck feathers, a concession to the weather that indicated he was traveling far today.
Paw was conversing with a shorter individual in a similar canvas coat whose huge skull and equally large feet, though he presented but his backside my direction, told me it was Court Starnes. I realized as I drew up to them that while they weren’t being loud about it, they were arguing rather than merely talking. “Court, I’ll say it a last time; it don’t count for squat ten more boatloads of flour and horses are a day’s sail or two behind you. We must move forward this morning with what tonnage we have or risk so enraging St. Clair he’ll surely cancel Duer’s contract and take control from us. That happens, he’ll fight over every farthing due us for months. We may never receive all that’s owed us.”
Starnes’s big skull shook. “All right, if you believe the whole contract’s at stake, I’ll concede to your wishes,” he stated tersely. “I just know if we delay a bit longer, that haughty bastard of a general will get desperate enough he’ll give us armed escorts to protect our men and animals from ambush like we asked earlier.”
“I’ll take Tap, Thaddeus, Timothy, and my Ethan,” Paw affirmed. “Hopefully, we’ll have forty-eight horses to cart six tons of flour, a fair load for each animal. We should raise St. Clair’s camp the fourth day if not sooner. You need to follow straightaway with every ounce of provisions that land in the meantime. Even at that, the army will be on short rations again for a period before you arrive. We cripple St. Clair’s campaign for lack of trying, we’ll be chased out of the country.”
“All right, all right, I don’t need to be reminded more’n once our arses are hanging naked in the wind,” Starnes growled.
Paw was aware I was waiting behind Starnes and motioned for me to follow him as he turned toward the Ohio. Starnes had no way of knowing who I was till I stepped past his shoulder, and I saw his disliking for Paw on his Roman face before he recognized me and smiled hastily. I nodded without speaking and kept moving, wondering if I suddenly spun about would I discover he had no great love for Caleb Downer’s son, either.
A chain of boatmen hefted flour sacks ashore, and Thaddeus and Timothy, both expert packers, lashed them to the saddletrees of the horses Tap led forward. I followed Paw to the farthest boat where the last of the pack animals newly purchased in Kentucky were being off-loaded by others of the boat crew.
“Christ, what a sorry lot,” Paw judged.
What constituted an ideal horse for packing was debated constantly among those who relied upon the creature for their survival and livelihood. Most wagoners agreed the upper portions should feature a short, muscular neck, prominent withers, powerful front- and hindquarters, well-developed back, and rounded barrel with well-sprung ribs. The ideal lower extremities exhibited strong, straight legs with short, wide cannons, short pasterns with moderate slope, and tough feet proportioned to support the overall size and weight of the animal. Spirit wise, the most dependable load-bearers possessed a gentle, friendly nature, had no fear of their handlers, and embarked willingly under pack. The final and ultimate test, though, came on the trail where the animal needed to demonstrate the even temperament, grit, sure feet, and minimum of rock and roll required for what always lay ahead, a long pull upcountry.
The fifteen newly purchased horses could at their very best be deemed the slimmest of pickings. Certain minor shortcomings could be overlooked, but low, rounded withers, overly flat backs, weak pasterns or tender feet invited trouble the first stretch of rough terrain. Paw went over the animals with a critical eye and exploring hands, me right alongside him. There being no sense in asking any beast to do what would only injure or lame him, we eliminated four animals outright. Five more, we determined, would require constant watching. “I wouldn’t risk taking these five,” Paw admitted, “if every pound of flour wasn’t vital. We’ll count on their having stout hearts. Ethan, you’ll bring up the rear and watch for any sign they’re breaking down. We gain enough distance with them, mayhap we can spread the additional load through the rest of the train the last miles.”
Paw nearly lost his temper anyway after the boatmen threw packsaddles onto the bank that initially appeared to have been condemned by their former owners in the distant past. But we sorted through the pile of dry, cracked leather strapping, frayed pads, and rotting trees and produced enough acceptable saddles. “Must have been some gleeful laughter in the Limestone taverns when the locals spent Starnes’s money,” Paw speculated. “Damn gleeful!”
A gloomy future loomed that I knew Paw also appreciated. “If there aren’t enough good horses on future boats,” I suggested, “we’ll never deliver the balance of the flour to General St. Clair fast enough to save his campaign. He’s doomed to fail, no matter if we get through or not.”
“Not necessarily,” Paw countered. “The Ohio’s finally on the rise, and tons more flour are en route. The general will have no choice but to loan us horses from his baggage train. He can’t sustain his northern march without adequate rations. I intend to apprise him of the situation by calling upon him with Starkweather soon as we catch up with his regiments.”
The transfer of the flour from the boats to the backs of the unloaded horses consumed an hour of early daylight. Upon completion of the tying and lashing at water’s edge, combining the horses brought by Starnes with those already saddled and loaded at the company stock pen and warehouse, forty-seven animals lined the riverbank. Each animal carried 130 pounds, meaning we were setting out with a total flour shipment of 6,110 pounds. A final animal, the sturdiest and most dependable of the lot, toted the hobbles fashioned by Tap and the wagoners, our field tents, camp gear, evening victuals, and stocks of tea, whiskey, animal fat, and salt.
Paw was mighty anxious to be away. He gave us scant minutes to secure our long guns from his tent, during which time Tige provided each of us travelers leather pouches containing jerked beef and nocake, along with freshly filled canteens, trail victuals to be eaten on the move. The forty-eight pack animals were then divided into four strings of twelve tied head to tail, one each for Paw, Tap, Thaddeus, and Timothy, and off we went, me bringing up the rear on Blue.
We headed east and reined left onto Main Street, those folks out and about despite the rain stopping to watch us pass. The red- and yellow-leafed maples of the river flat surrendered to the stark brown beech and oak covering the higher plateau extending northward to the brow of Paw’s imaginary giant’s eye. We boomed across the causeway spanning the frog pond at Fifth and Main, drawing a curious few from Avery’s Tavern, who graced our effort on behalf of St. Clair’s forces with sincere cheers, their vocal support momentarily brightening the soggy morning.
We weren’t yet beyond the giant’s brow when Erin Green popped to mind, and I started debating what kind of reception I would receive upon sighting her again. My feelings toward her were so unsettling, the mere likelihood Gabe Hookfin was hanging about in my absence gnawed my nerves raw and testy. It was a helpful thing that morning that I was separated from the others, for my company would have been even less thrilling than the weather.
Our pace on level ground was a fast walk, steady and measured. We slowed on the upward inclines and approached a near trot on the downward slopes, Paw knowing from long experience in the lead how to husband the strength of pack animals and draw the maximum miles per day from them without breaking them down.
The rain fell in an incessant patter, thick drops bouncing from hat brim and rein hand and rifle barrel. We rode with those barrels plugged and lock co
vers tied snugly in place. Through the descending veil of water, I could see steam rising from the shoulders of Timothy directly ahead of me. Despite whatever outer garment covered a man, the dampness eventually penetrated to the skin everywhere on the body. It was akin to riding with your arse in a puddle.
We made one brief halt during our initial six-mile trek to Ludlow’s Station, and that solely to check each animal for shifting loads and loose cinches or lashings. The train was loose of muscle and into their work by then, and Paw, anxious to establish what would be expected of them the next several days, cut them no slack. We were under way again without our feet seeming to touch the muddy roadbed more than a minute or two.
Ludlow’s squat gathering of cabins and blockhouse hove into view at noon. Paw’s arm shot upward and swept in a wide circle with the last horse string still crossing McHenry’s Ford. No shouted command was needed, for true to Paw’s training, down the line behind that suddenly upthrust and signaling limb, we halted our mounts on the instant, came alert, and hastily shucked barrel plugs and lock covers from our long guns.
From the slightly elevated terrain at the very rear I could make out that gray smoke huddled about the chimney of the blockhouse. Though the structure had supposedly been abandoned after the army marched for the St. Mary’s and the Shawnee towns, why was Paw cocked in the saddle like a hound on point? Injuns didn’t hang about in daylight, and any army personnel enjoying a repast in their travels to wherever would pose no real danger to us.
Paw, head frozen and gaze never leaving the blockhouse, motioned Tap forward and issued orders that didn’t carry to my straining ears. The old scout reined his brown gelding in a circle and dismounted at the far corner of the blockhouse. Thaddeus and Timothy were also out of the saddle. They eased left and right away from the horse train so as to have a clear field of fire past Paw to our front.
Me, I done what I’d been taught was proper for the situation. I stayed put atop Blue and maintained a look-see roundabout to the flanks and behind us to prevent our being surprised from those quarters, a formidable task what with the blockhouse and its mysterious occupants being the source of all the excitement.
Tap slid along the front wall of the blockhouse, rifle barrel poking ahead of him like a pointing finger. He moved slow and careful, listening close all the while for any noise above his head that would indicate someone watched him through the gun ports cut into the floor of the structure’s overhanging second story. At the entryway, the old scout, exposing only that poking rifle barrel to anyone inside, pushed the door inward with its muzzle.
My wind caught a breath or two. But no flash of exploding powder or flying ball sprang from the wedge of black interior exposed by the swinging door. One foot on the stoop, Tap peeked around the jamb an inch at a time, hesitated, then, belying his sagging paunch, leaped across the threshold. My breath caught a bunch longer, finally easing when the old scout bellowed, “No one to home, Caleb! She’s empty!”
With whoever Paw thought might threaten us having departed, his immediate concern was avoiding further delays. He ordered the horse strings turned about for a fast watering at the creek, activity that naturally left my curiosity aflame. I held my position on the opposite bank of the stream anyway, fully aware I would rouse his temper if I didn’t maintain the expected watch roundabout.
Tap emerged from the blockhouse and conversed with Paw while he and the wagoners proceeded with the watering. I knew soon as the old scout mounted his gelding and rode toward me that we weren’t entirely free of whatever danger Paw had put to flight. Paw wouldn’t bother sending Tap through the rain to relate what he’d found inside the blockhouse lest it was imperative I know straight off rather than hearing it later over the evening fire.
“They was deserters,” Tap revealed, “two all told. They was burnin’ table legs an’ shutters to dry out. By the drippings next to the hearth, they leaned their weapons agin the wall while they built their fire. They sighted your Paw and us’ns an’ lit a shuck out the back entry. Length of them strides in the mud yonder, they’d no interest in greetin’ visitors with more’n their backsides.”
“Must be hell to be that frightened,” I reasoned, shuddering.
“Yeah, probably be. But desertion’s a hangin’ crime with the army, an’ I wouldn’t trust St. Clair to spare me the rope was I guilty of such, no way, no how. I’d die afore I let myself be captured.”
I nodded that I understood Tap’s sentiments, sloshing water from my hat brim. “Paw feel they might linger about?”
Tap nodded now. “They could decide a horse would be plumb helpful gettin’ to the Ohio. An’ bringin’ up the rear, you might appear the best pickin’s.”
I wagged my head. “Won’t be long till there’s as many enemies within our camp as there are Injuns outside of it.”
“Yeah, ain’t no doubt it’s a tangled mess of a campaign. But you keep your barrel unplugged an’ tie that lock cover with but a slipknot, case you need to defend yourself sudden like. Don’t fret any cause they’re white skinned liken you an’ me. Your Paw says we’ll bury ’em where we kill ’em.”
Warnings presented per Paw’s instructions, the old scout kept watch so I could dismount and water Blue. He then wheeled the gelding and splashed across the ford one kick of that animal’s flank ahead of Paw’s yell for us to pull out. With the rain pelting down constant as ever, on backward glance, the open door of the blockhouse was mighty inviting as we departed Ludlow’s Station, mighty inviting.
The hour being but early afternoon, it was apparent our destination was Fort Hamilton, sixteen miles to the northwest. We would arrive there well after dark, but Paw was likely figuring forage in the form of collected prairie grass might be available, and a night in the presence of soldiers offered protection from at least the red enemy.
The rain ceased at nightfall. Its ending inspired no lift in my spirits, for by then my thighs and calves, trapped twixt wet cloth and wet skin and sawed back and forth with Blue’s every stride, were chafed raw. My hat brim drooped to my nose, and water trickled in runnels round my belly hole. My tender skull thumped and throbbed. And though my lock cover was securely in place, I doubted my priming was dry enough to accept sparks from my rifle’s flint. We rode the final few miles humped in the saddle like broken old men, too exhausted to fear attack from the surrounding darkness, dwelling solely on Fort Hamilton with its warming fire and hope of something hot and drinkable.
Paw’s booming “Hello the fort” jerked me awake in the saddle. The sentry’s answering challenge rang from the black mass suddenly blocking the roadway. A wedge of faint light bloomed before Paw and widened as gates cleaving the black mass swung open. Uniformed infantrymen ran forth and led the pack strings westward along the fort’s picketed curtain toward the Great Miami. I waited till the road cleared and clucked Blue forward.
At the gate I recognized Captain Lucas Steddeman not by his wolf-trap jaws or officer’s epaulettes but by his familiar hawking spit. “Well, by damned, young Mr. Downer has returned as promised. Too bad Ensign Young ain’t about to greet yuh.”
I halted Blue. “He’s gone?” I stammered dully.
“Yes, sir. Orders come yesterday directly from St. Clair’s own quill no less. The ensign was in the saddle and gone in less’n twenty minutes. Wants to be part of a fight the worst way, that boy does.” The captain chuckled, the first lightening of his normally sour demeanor I’d ever witnessed, and from how the sentries stared at him, perhaps the first occasion for everybody else acquainted with him. “He’s so anxious to engage the redsticks, he lays into wavin’ that sword of his about, he might accidentally scalp hisself. Follow me, Mr. Downer, you’ll find me downright hospitable to men who’ve ridden all day in the rain to feed a hungry army.”
Captain Steddeman’s claim proved no idle boast. In a controlled rush, he assigned our horses to their previous hostler, Corporal Balser, dispatched the wagoners to the enlisted men’s barracks, sent a messenger to roust Oakley, the cook, from his
bunk, then personally stoked the hearth fire of the commissioned officers’ quarters into a roaring blaze. He next brusquely ordered Paw, Tap, and me from our clothes, stripping blankets from his own bed as well as those belonging to his absent fellow officers to hide our nakedness. We hadn’t any more gathered before the fire when our robustly smiling host offered a tin of bear’s grease to soothe our raw thighs and set a jug of whiskey on the table to slacken our thirst. Three long swallows later, a beaming Tap Jacobs solemnly and most reverently nominated Captain Lucas Steddeman for sainthood in the church of his choice.
We cheered Private Oakley’s entry, for he bore our dinner with him in a large kettle. The kettle contained a dish new to us, a concoction of hard biscuit and molasses called burgoo the captain explained Oakley had learned to prepare during his years as a pressed seaman aboard British naval ships. Taste was lacking, but served hot, the concoction slid down the gullet slick as greased butter and seemed to warm your innards for hours afterward.
All things considered, it was a highly enjoyable repast that overshadowed my disappointment that we had missed Ensign Andy Young. It was good we made the most of it, for Paw, Tap, and I were not to be together again, warm, entirely dry, and pleasantly full of belly at one and the same time for many, many moons to come.
Chapter 15
16 October till 18 October
Paw’s unrelenting approach to the business at hand was fully evident before first light. His call to be up and about sounded ahead of Captain Steddeman’s morning spit, which meant we went to bed in the dark and rose in the dark. “Ain’t fair when a man can’t sleep till daylight,” Tap groused. “Pity some men givin’ orders trust others are liken them, young forever.”
Blood at Dawn Page 15
