by Alix Hawley
—Israel, are you all right?
He leans over the horse, twisting up its mane. He says:
—Daddy, I got the men.
—I see that. You do not look right yourself.
He is holding his neck wry, his eyes pinched. He says:
—Only my neck and my head, I am too hot.
—It is too hot for anyone to be riding about like this.
I have him lean down so I can touch his forehead, and he is burning with fever, likely the same one Flanders has. The heat of his head seems to me a sign. All of it is wrong. I feel it building, this wrongness.
I walk beside Israel on his dripping horse. Once we are inside the station, it is all noise and horseshit and bellowing. McGary has got up on a corral rail and is bellowing the loudest:
—We will go to Bryans’ and follow the red halfwits’ trail from there. They will never see us coming.
His skin has the look of red leather now. His words screech high as he finishes, he falls into a fit of coughing. Squire is standing near with his arms crossed. He says:
—How many men have we got?
I get myself up onto another of the fence rails, my knees crack as I do it. I yell:
—The question is how many men have they got? And who are they? Do they have the British with them?
McGary yells hoarse back at me:
—We know who they are, by God! Fucking Indians is who!
I hold up my hands, they feel very empty, I say:
—If they are Shawnee, I know the way they will be thinking. Listen—
—Your Indian-loving is known, Sheriff. You ought to sit at home and sheriff your own self.
Now a laugh from some of the bare-legged Bryans and a slyer cough from McGary all covered in sweat. Rebecca’s face tight at the door of the cabin as though waiting for a slap. I say:
—We should send to Logan’s. At least see if they are all right there, if they can spare us any more men.
Israel says:
—I can go to Logan’s.
His horse is puffing still, its soaked legs tremble. His face is red as an apple, his lips are colourless. To him I say:
—Well all right, go. I will go with you.
Now a great shout from behind:
—He says go! Boone says we are going now!
It is one of Rebecca’s Bryan nephews just at Israel’s back. He has a leaking scarlet burn on his forearm and soot still streaked on his glad face. My words swoop back on me like swallows after flies. The wounded Bryan arm is held up high as the roaring begins, the swinging up onto horses, the women bringing bags and shirts and powder.
—Wait. Wait!
I cry it with all my power but there is no waiting, there is only Martha running out to say Take Neddy’s horse, take it. I turn away, I pay her no heed, so she forces the reins on Israel and says Take it, it is Neddy’s, it is fresh. Polly is running up waving and calling, wrapping her arms round Israel as he leans over her. Squire’s mouth is tight, his head dipping under his hat.
—Wait—
I say it again. But no one hears, they carry on. Beside Susy and her new baby boy, Will Hays stands shaking with ague. Another good rifleman they will not have with them. Jemima’s long-necked Flanders has his gun in spite of having had the slow fever also. He bends to kiss her and touch her belly low. I know what his hand says, with its shot-off finger. Another child, always another child coming, a tide of them, a swamp of them, all full of need. And all of us riding away into the burning sun. My goddamned words have flown wrong and given us no choice.
KEEP TO the rear, I count the backs before me as we ride out towards the remains of Bryans’ Station. Some two hundred of us in a monstrous bulge. Let McGary lead if he so wishes, let him see what it is like.
Once we reach the scorched fields and the one blackened stockade wall left standing, McGary races all round it on his beautiful horse and yells:
—The tracks are here, they have gone northeast. Come on now, come on!
His great hound howls. No one stops, we all swing round and bang the Indian tracks flat with our own horses’ hoofs the thudding shudders up into my neck.
We follow all day in the heat. Israel and I ride last, he on Neddy’s big grey. I pour my canteen over his head and he gives one of his grins, but it is a tired one. His friend Joseph Scholl rides up with more water.
When we reach the Blue Licks in the evening, we make camp. It is a very poor one, we are scattered all about on the flat. Our fires everywhere are very obvious, but I say nothing. I only watch as McGary strides about in his buckle shoes. When he passes, I make myself say:
—No one about to catch.
He walks on. I am too tired and sore to argue further with him. I do not wish to be in this place, it has swallowed too much of me.
Sparks fly up into the night from all the campfires. I listen beside Israel where he sleeps. I do not sleep. Ned, I think of you close by in the salty ground, perhaps it will preserve you, perhaps you are waiting all unchanged there but for your poor lost fingers.
* * *
At dawn all my joints hurt me, my head aches, I have become very old overnight as it seems to me. I get to my feet and stand a moment with pain draining down in my old hurt ankle.
The river is slothful here, the salt spring is very low. The bank on the other side is greener and sloping and more heavily treed. McGary is up scouting along our side without his hat, the rising sun catches in his kinked red hair. He gives a raw shout:
—Devils! You killed my son, you skin-bags of shite!
The cry comes straight from the bottom of his guts. I feel it in mine. His dog sets to barking just as hard. McGary, you have already killed the Shawnee who had your dead son’s shirt. I get to my knees so I can see who he is yelling at. Over the water and back some way near where a hill rises, two men are walking about. Indians. Shawnee? They look in our direction, they do not trouble to hide themselves. I near crawl down to the water to see them better. But McGary has more to say:
—We see you, you bastards. We see you very well.
He has calmed himself somewhat, now he has the Indians to address. A thin laughing from the other side. Some of the Harrodsburg men are at McGary’s back with their guns ready. They yell as loud as he does from the river’s edge. Red fuckers. Think you can hide.
Little Andy Johnson is there too yelling the loudest, I know his merry voice: There is no hiding here, boys!
One of the Bryans is barefooted and scratching at his beard. He says:
—Not the time for shooting yet.
—Why not? Indian friends of your beloved King George, Bryan? God save him and them?
This from McGary, who now sets to shouting God Save the King in his sawing Irish tone while Johnson prances about like the fool he pretended to be at Old Chillicothe. He catches me looking and stops. Stiff as a board, he salutes me. The Harrodsburg men roar and punch each other’s arms. I salute Johnson back, I say loud:
—Well for once I will agree with my brother-in-law. No shooting.
—Have you turned British again too, Boone? Has love returned after your little quarrels? Will you have one of your loving talks together in the moonlight?
So Johnson says, he will not drop his mad smiling. I say:
—There are plenty of things I would turn back if I could. Listen to me now, do not shoot, do not act the madman here, Johnson.
—It was all acting there, it was all of it false, did you not see it, Dan? Did you think it a real place? Do you think it would be there if you went back again?
He is smiling on and on. I call to McGary:
—We ought to go round to their rear if we must.
McGary’s gun is pointed over the river, his finger is ready, if I take another breath to speak he will fire and it will all begin and all be finished. Across the river the Indians are standing still and talking, as if they were only out for fresh air. They are not Shawnee as I can see now, no glint of big silver earbobs, none of the right paint. They turn
and begin to walk up the hill. McGary roars again.
Beneath his shouting I strain to listen to their voices. Cherokee then? I do not know, I cannot see enough, I cannot hear. I do not know who they are. I cannot talk to them, I do not know enough of any tongue. I get up and go to McGary, who is standing in the water now. Into his ear I say:
—They have led us here.
McGary yells:
—We followed them!
—They are too quick to show themselves, they want us to see. Their trace was very obvious, McGary. They do not leave such clear marks generally. Why would they?
He turns to face me, his eyes a furious light blue. I count the beats of his heart in his neck. He says:
—That man of yours, Black Fish, he is dead, do you know it?
I do not breathe. I say:
—Dead?
—Yes, you goddamned fool.
I stare at his burnt face, I say:
—How do you know? How?
—A trader at Logan’s told me a time ago. Your chief was shot when Bowman and Logan raided their town. Died later. Took him some time, thank Christ.
—How much later?
McGary bursts into wild laughing. His mouth is a black door. I think of the door to your house, my father, and you lying inside. How many days did you lie dying?
McGary stops his laugh, watching me hard, pricking at me. Johnson is watching me too, he is full of knowing. I only ask:
—Why did you not tell me?
—Why would I have done so? You believe what you wish to. But it is true, he is dead, buried or whatever they do with their corpses. You ought to be glad for it.
My knee bones grind as I step at him, I will stuff his words back into his head. Father, what were the last words you said? Why did I not hear? Before I can stop myself I yell:
—He made me his son!
McGary flips his gun to point at my heart. He cries:
—I had a son!
—I had one also!
I am inches from him, my breath is full of his iron sweat and his dirty-smelling shirt. The gun nose trembles. All at once McGary’s eyes go redder than his face and run with tears. He lifts his gaze over my head, he will not look at me any longer, he only points the gun at my eye and yells out:
—My son John is not here to do it. So anyone who is no goddamned coward should follow me now and I will show you the Indians!
His crackling voice echoes round the flat. He whips his gun away from my face and is running to his horse, swinging into the saddle and storming into the low brown river. The Harrodsburg men are fast to mount and ride close behind him. The Bryans get to their horses too and follow. Water sprays up from the hoofs into a great screen.
Goddamned coward.
I will not be called a coward again, Jamesie, I will not hear it. And so we are all slaughtered men.
* * *
My son. My son. I go to Israel. I am half numb but I get to my horse near our fire on the flat. Israel is sleeping still on his belly with his long limbs spread wide. I say:
—Get up, we are going across.
He cracks an eye open, he says:
—To fight?
—Yes. Come on, I have your horse unhobbled, I have your gun. We are going.
There is no way not to go, I know it as I say it. I will make it right, it will be right this time. Israel turns over and half sits, then rolls to his knees with his head at a crazed angle. He says:
—I am sick still. My neck—
—You are no Andy Johnson, put your head on right my boy. We are going. You are no coward either.
I get him to his feet, I rub his neck under his clubbed-up plait, his skin is dry as paper and very hot. I hand him up onto his horse and tug his reins along with mine towards the water. When we have gone a few paces he says in a dreamy fashion:
—Aunt Martha’s horse is a good one.
He is looking at me crooked, his eyes are over-bright with fever, but they are not mad. I do not answer my boy though I fear he sees you, Martha, walking through my mind barefoot, bare-legged, all bare. I do not know why this has come to you now, Israel, perhaps it comes from your uncle Neddy in his poor hidden grave behind us.
But we are in the river. We are going, we are already gone.
On the other side, the Indians have vanished, perhaps they have gone over the top of the hill. McGary has the men dismounting at the foot of the slope. It has a steeper look here, it is rocky in places amidst the bright green of the grass. McGary yells:
—Get yourselves into lines.
They are quick to do it. They like his swift marching about, his fast orders, no thinking to be done. The snapping of gun locks has the sound of small jaws all round.
To Israel I say low:
—Come on, come this way.
I straighten his gun where it is slipping from his back, and we ride round to the far left where some of the Bryans are getting themselves in order. I see his friend Joseph and I call for him to come to us. I get off my horse and I tell my boy to keep to the back behind his uncles. I give him all my shot and keep only a few bullets in my pouch. Israel is redder than ever in the face but he has his gun ready in his hand. He gives me a nod and rides back to the rear while I call to the rest:
—Get into line now, you heard McGary.
The Bryans shuffle themselves straight. McGary is leading a group up the hill already, they are digging their toes into the grass of the slope.
Now shots. Dozens of them, hundreds shattering the morning all to pieces. The men at the crest of the hill are hit and go straight down. The line just behind them turns back to look, I see their faces all confusion.
—Get the sons of bitches!
McGary’s rough voice carries from the height of the hill, and others take up his yell. Sons of bitches.
I keep my men to the left and hold them back. It is all shots and horses braying, the smoke is already thick as a whole forest on fire. Powder burns in my lungs, it has woken my brains, it is the smell of the fort again.
And now in my mind I see Black Fish waiting outside at the fort, his hands folded beneath his blanket. Only he is not there, he will never be there, he is dead, though perhaps McGary lied to spite me. Perhaps he is at the top of the hill. My heart wants to see him in any form.
I will find him and the rest, if they are to be found. I call to my men to follow, I start up the hill now and climb hard. I know the deep ravine that splits the other side of the slope. It is choked up with waiting Indians in the thin trees, with some redcoats too. Near four hundred again, I know the number, it is the same number, it is all the same and I know how it will go. My eyes flick through the smoke, red everywhere, they are everywhere coming up out of the ravine, shooting and running at us, and we have been here only a minute, have we not? And so many down.
Our horses are mad with terror at the endless firing. I let mine go, and it careens off down a side of the ravine into the trees. A redcoat lunges for it. I crouch, I motion to my men to do the same:
—Get down! Get down.
They are pouring from the ravine now, spreading themselves across the hillside and coming for us. I turn and start back down the slope. The Bryans who were behind me see what I am about and begin to step backward, craning to see my face. I keep us to the far left of the slope as best I can. It is stony here and my knees weep blood onto my leggings, the arch of my foot cramps up tight. The men from my line follow. I see Joseph down near the bottom of the hill, I see Israel, he is crouching but not crawling.
—Down! Now!
So I call to my son. I hold up my arm to tell them all wait, wait. One of the Bryans cries something to me and I stretch to hear. Clouds of smoke hump up into the air like ghosts leaving this earth. But there is only human noise, there is nothing else here. And no path for leaving on. I keep my arm up, I yell something but I do not know what I am yelling.
The scrape and bang of hoofs comes so close they near knock me down. McGary on his horse hard at my side, his scarlet eyes abov
e:
—Boone. They are coming round the hill on both sides, get gone. It is done here.
He speaks very cold but he wants to be sure I hear, I will give him that. I nod up at him, there is nothing to say. Once he sees I understand he pivots and gallops for the river. His shining horse brays and halts at a heap of bodies and near throws him. My men stand and begin to run also, they run like children in any direction. The redcoats and Indians are all through our lines, which are not lines any longer. The sound of rib cages bursting, arms cracking, men being torn out of this life. A knife flares bright in my eyes.
My son is not here to do it.
—Israel!
I turn, I yell for him, all the faces melt before me but his, I catch at it. I run to where he crouches near a big stone, shaking gently with his fever. When a grey horse bolts past, I have its reins, I pull it with all my weight towards my boy, it stumbles and near falls onto me. I grab at my boy’s hot hand:
—Get up. Get on, run. Run.
—I will not leave you, Daddy.
His breathless voice, the sick trembling in it. I tug him to his feet. You are not fever-dreaming Israel, you are here in this terrible place, it is my doing. I say:
—Get on now.
The grey horse jerks out of my hand, Israel lets go of me. The flashing knife has caught up, it is close at my shoulder in the smoke and in the hand of an Indian I do not know. A Cherokee perhaps with enormous quills spiking sideways out of his scalp lock. But the eyes are wrong, the face is wrong, it is not Cherokee Jim. And it is not my father. Not my wife. Not you, not any of you I want. I have wished too hard to see you, and I have brought this on by it. Do not think anymore, do not think again in your life, look what your thinking has made you.
I shove the quilled man back with my gun. He plunges backward upslope, but he keeps his knife up and ready and does not run. He speaks as if he knows me. I swivel the gun at him and I fire. The bang is lost in the other shooting. I do not look to see if he is killed. He does not know me—
