The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Blake near broke his heart. “Later, Lem. Scout for tracks, we’ll stick on your heels.”

  Scowling his displeasure, the old sergeant wet parched lips and quartered for fresh sign. The hoofprints he located in short order confirmed what we both expected and feared: Three Feathers had crossed White Oak Creek at dawn and headed downstream. Another mile along the bottom of the tall ridgeline separating us from the Ohio, and the Shawnee straight-lined for the river. We were too late, much too late for overtaking them before they began their crossing.

  But Blake had the same iron in him as Three Feathers. “Lem, have your pull on the jug. We’ve a right hard climb ahead of us. They’re goin’ ta the river low, an’ by all that’s holy, we’re goin’ high.”

  Brother’s adamant refusal to abandon the chase upset neither Lem nor me. Blake loathed those who quit on themselves. He thought even less of anyone who broke promises extended to others. It made no difference if one’s obligations placed a man in mortal danger. Keeping Sarah safe and secure at the plantation had been our appointed task and we’d failed miserably. And before Blake called off the hunt and spent the balance of his days haunted by failure, he’d pursue the Shawnee as we’d planned—clean to the banks of the Ohio. To his way of reasoning, it was the least we owed Sarah and he would see it through whether we stuck with him or not.

  Lem backhanded his mouth and passed Blake the jug. “Too mean for the horses this here trip. We’d best leave ’em below Baker Ridge.”

  Blake nodded and drank. “Remember that rocky cliff where yuh an’ me lolled away an afternoon sippin’ an’ watchin’ flatboats float by?”

  “Yep. That’d do fine. High enough for spyin’ all but still spot particulars with Blaine’s glass.”

  I downed a double slurp and fire seared my gullet. Paw’s last had most assuredly been his finest. “We can’t let Lem starve, brother. We’ll tote the vittles,” I wheezed, my hoarseness greatly amusing Blake.

  With the necessary decisions made, we moved out. In a beech grove watered by shallow seeps, we fashioned hobbles from rope halters and secured the horses against varmints spooking them and setting us afoot. The animals, shed of demanding masters, commenced grazing and ignored our departure.

  The sun neared its zenith as we crested Baker Ridge. Fortified by another dollop of Paw’s best, we quick-footed through sparse timber for Blake and Lem’s cliff overhang ing the Ohio. Time was surely short for Sarah, and our own candle threatened the bottom of the wick.

  A squat tower of stone blocked our path. Unconcerned that the ridgeline died at its base and fell away hundreds of feet on either side, Blake slithered along a ledge no wider than his brow and disappeared round the corner of the tower. Lem boldly did the same, precious whiskey jug clunking the rock wall, long rifle balanced in his other hand. Their success gave me courage enough to inch slowly in Lem’s wake, nose to the wall, heart roaring in my ears. Thankfully, the ledge widened in the curve of the corner and Lem tugged me the last few yards.

  Soon as I turned about I understood why he and Blake liked that lofty perch. The roomy bench we rested upon jutted from the face of the cliff a considerable distance, affording an unobstructed view of the mighty Ohio for miles, both upstream and down. With the plain eye we had no difficulty locating the narrow opening of Tygart’s Creek on the right, and across the Ohio, on the left, the much larger mouth of the Scioto River. Better yet, with the spyglass the trees, rocks and shoreline of the far bank seemed no further than the toes of my moccasins.

  There was only one problem: We were seeking hostile Injuns and none obliged by showing themselves. In truth, there was nothing of import to see anywhere. The muddy current of the Ohio, empty of boats, glistened in the glare of the September sun. A bluish sea of trees covered both sides of water, dead calm with no breeze blowing. We quartered the sky in the event a smudge of campfire smoke lingered above the surrounding forest, but all was clear. We’d pursued the savage heathen most of two days and a night and the Ohio wilderness had apparently swallowed them whole.

  It was then my own stubbornness surfaced. Holding a tight rein on my fright, I settled at the front of the bench, propped elbows on the very lip, and began a thorough, painstaking sweep of everything before us. “I ain’t budging till we’re certain the trail’s lost for keeps. That bristle anybody’s hide?’’

  Lem and Blake wagged their heads and seated themselves. We were too disappointed and tuckered out for bickering amongst ourselves.

  I patiently studied the Ohio’s banks from Tygart’s Creek to the Scioto. My initial sweep was fruitless. Nothing untoward disturbed the lazy quiet of early afternoon. But the stubbornness of us Tylers was seldom mild and short-lived. I eased cramped legs and arms and started another sweep in the opposite direction. Lem snored beside me. Blake whiled away the time restitching his moccasins.

  I was hard at it, praying for the slightest indication of where the enemy had gone, and the Shawnee went and made it easy for me. Brush parted on the far bank and three warriors armed with smoothbore muskets stepped forth. I trained the lens on them and before I could hiss at Blake and awaken Lem, painted Shawnee were everywhere, perhaps fifty strong, dotting the water’s edge downstream toward the Scioto. I watched dumbfounded, utterly flabbergasted at the number the forest had hidden till they’d chosen to show themselves.

  Blake settled next to Lem and nudged him awake. “Get up, yuh old bear-hound, we done found more Injuns than yuh can shake a stick at.”

  We fell silent, spellbound by the spectacle unfolding on the north bank. Three Feathers rode from the trees and every Redstick eye fixed on him. The same yellow streak and black stripes adorned his heavy-jawed face. He sat the horse tall and straight and spoke with voice and hand gestures. At the finish, a guttural roar of approval and raised muskets, long rifles and bows left no doubt the Injun horde had heard his every word.

  “He don’t know we’re here, so it ain’t us rilin’ him,” Blake said. “What’s he about, Lem?”

  “’Thout no militia ta tussle with, can’t be nothin’ but an ambush of some sort. Why else gather that many Injuns in one place. Scour the river again, Blaine. The slop bucket smells awful ripe of a sudden.”

  Upstream from the Shawnee position the Ohio bent away northeast. Past the point of the bend, the riverbed ran fairly straight for three miles, followed by a sharp turn southeast ward. From the cliff, I glassed the length of that long chute of brown water between the bends and … Lem’s guess was right: The Ohio was no longer empty.

  “What yuh see?” Lem demanded.

  “Two … no … three Kentucky flatboats. Big ones … maybe twelve, fourteen feet wide, fifty long. Well built they be, same as government boats. Raked bows, sleeping and cargo rooms with tarred roofs … chimneys on the first two.”

  “How they manned?” “Regular crews on the roof of the front two. One at the steering oar in the stern, two men at each side broadhorn. Must be more below, the hearth smoke they’re raising.”

  “How ’bout the last one?”

  “Wider than the others. No chimney, just a stern room.” Eared heads bobbed in the forward bay. “Horse boat … Two rows of animals tethered across the beam. One, two … three, four men in the bow, plus the roof crew. Two of ’em forward armed with long rifles.”

  “How far off be they?”

  “Less than a half mile.”

  Lem flopped over on his backside and glanced at Blake and me. “Seein’ as how we’re white men too, ain’t no choice but ta warn ’em.”

  Blake agreed. Then, voice rising, he rasped, “By damn, put the glass on Three Feathers, brother.”

  The Shawnee chieftain, now dismounted, stood at the point of the bend, waving forward two warriors who held a writhing bundle of linsey between them. They stopped and yanked their struggling burden upright. Long golden hair and white skin confirmed my worst dread before I saw clearly the dirt-streaked face. It was our Sarah the two warriors wrestled in front of their Redstick leader.

  “Tel
l me it’s not her,” Lem moaned.

  “It’s Sister, worn ta a frazzle but still full of spunk.’’

  Three Feathers raised his arm and Sarah ceased her twisting and jerking. The ring of Shawnee parted and a figure dressed in buckskins and pelt cap joined them.

  Blake heard my gasp. “Who’s that?”

  “White man,” I answered. “Appears he’s talking at Sarah for Three Feathers.”

  “Eyeball him,” Lem ordered.

  “Bow legs, wide hips, sloped shoulders, lank hair … huge ears and bushy beard.”

  “Simon Meek, that turncoat sonofabitch! He steps from one foot ta the other faster’n a rabbit,” Lem asserted. “Sold his own uncle into captivity, he did.”

  On the far bank the traitor Meek took a length of leather rope from an Injun in the crowd, and the Shawnee gripping Sarah dragged her to a pile of driftwood at the water’s edge. She started struggling anew, and Meek slapped her flush on the cheek. Through watching with plain eye, Blake saw the blow and in a finger snap his Lancaster was sighted on Meek. Lem reached across and grasped the hammer and flint. “Don’t be a fool, lad. That won’t help.”

  Blake’s temper cooled and his forehead settled against the stock of the rifle. “Bad ta worse with nothin’ in between. It’s just not right,” he muttered. With a deep sigh, he brought his gaze back to the scene across the water.

  Sarah was lifted atop the pile of driftwood. “Meek’s tying her foot fast with the rope,” I related.

  “She’s the decoy for them Kentucky boats,” Lem blurted out. “That’s why the red devil took her.”

  “How yuh know that?”

  “Ponder on it. How couldn’t yuh not put in ta shore for a lone white girl missin’ a hand ta boot. He’s as wily and tricky as Wentsell claims. We were outnumbered at the plantation, but he skedaddled with Sarah rather than fight, then wore hisself out rendezvousing with them Shawnee and Meek over yonder. Nosiree, ’tain’t no lucky throw of the bones this ambush. He was bringin’ Sarah right here from the start. He planned it, him and that treacherous Meek.”

  Lem clucked his tongue and pointed at the Shawnee beating a hasty retreat into the covering forest. “Never doubt a Shakett. Ain’t they cockin’ the rifle, lads.”

  His argument went unchallenged. Once the ambushers were stationed out of sight, Sarah, crouched low atop the driftwood, and Meek, hidden behind it with a flintlock pistol, had the stretch of bank short of the river bend to themselves. Three Feathers’ intentions were abundantly clear: When the approaching flatboats rounded the point, Sarah would rise to her feet and appear a crippled white girl in desperate need of help and rescue, the dirt on her face and dress and her tangled hair convincing onlookers of an unspeakable ordeal in the wilderness. And the hidden Meek with his pistol ensured she’d play her part to perfection or die on the spot.

  “Our gal’s in the worst trouble yet,” Lem said. “She don’t dare cross Meek, an’ we sour their plan, he’ll shoot her.”

  “That ain’t the half of it,” Blake added. “Either way, a whole bunch of white blood will be spilt double-damn-quick.”

  The flatboats came steadily on. A newcorner, tall and slender under feathered hat, talked with the oarsman on the roof of the horse ship. Otherwise, the rain-swollen river, frothing white in places, held the complete attention of the boatmen.

  “One thing might favor Sarah. Dressed out Kentuckies like them might be federal boats with supplies an’ horses for Harmar’s campaign,” Lem reckoned. “If’n so, they got orders ta sail straight through an’ not be hornswoggled into an Injun ambush for no reason whatsoever. They was certainly warned at Fort Pitt how devious the Redsticks be. Any blue soldier coats in sight?”

  I studied each crew member. “None … The chap with the feathered hat on the horse ship seems in command the way he carries himself.”

  “Damn the luck anyhow,” Lem sputtered.

  The flatboats, riding the current in line, drew within yards of the point and the hidden Shawnee. “Can’t we do anything?” I asked, shamed at the shrillness of my words.

  Lem gauged the distance from the cliff to the driftwood pile. “Naw, we’d only get Sarah kilt. We jump the shot on Meek, he’ll show his bait right quick an’ them river rats’ll never hear us straight from up here. They’d likely believe us signalin’ ta take her aboard with the river so high an’ all.”

  He rubbed the empty hole beneath his eyepatch. “Yuh better pray, Tyler boys, pray them rumheads were birthed with souls of stone an’ don’t give in ta almighty temptation. That’d be best for Sarah.”

  Hollow and worthless as we felt, we brothers did as we were told in great earnest.

  Meek played out his string with the patience of a stalking catamount. He let the first two boats round the bend and come abreast of the driftwood; then Sarah popped from her hideaway, stub arm waving frantically. Her cries for help twisted the heads of the closest rivermen. Necks craned, fingers pointed, hunting horns sounded and pandemonium reigned on both vessels. Men scurried from covered rooms, some rushing starboard to gape at Sarah, most climbing wall ladders to join the excited oar tenders and obtain a better view. Less than a third of the gawkers bore arms, muskets in the main.

  The final boat cleared the point and sharp notes blared from a trumpet, calling the milling crews to order. The dandy in the feathered hat and towcloth shirt, every eye on him now, trained a brass telescope on Sarah. We waited stiff as ramrods. The moment of decision was upon us and Sarah’s life hung in the balance.

  With deliberate care the captain scanned the towering forest and empty shoreline. He finished his look, and satisfied Sarah was nothing more than she appeared—a lone white girl somehow stranded in the wilderness—he closed the telescope and signaled a change of course to starboard. The raked bow of the horse ship swung toward the far bank.

  Certain he’d condemned Sarah to violent death, we watched for the other boats to come about and lay in for the bank. But the captain’s own officers found his judgment wanting. On the second Kentucky a stout mate in tricorn hat, sleeveless vest and leather breeches bulled a path through the gawkers at the stem and challenged the order of his superior, shouting across the open water. The captain, most exact in manner, repeated his previous signal with utmost vigor, untied black hair swishing in time with the slashing telescope. The bright feathers on his rakishly peaked hat danced in the air. His whole demeanor demanded obedience.

  The mate had protested much as he dared. His captain’s order stood, and though he disagreed, with a flourish of tricorn headpiece and overdone bow, he complied with all possible disdain. The second Kentucky slanted toward the bank.

  Blake swore vehemently. “That popinjay captain’s an outright fool. Don’t need but a single boat ta save a wisp of a girl. He’ll have ’em all slaughtered, Sister included.”

  “Maybe not. Catch the lead Kentucky,” Lem urged.

  We tore our eyes from Sarah long enough to discover the course of the foremost flatboat remained unchanged. And captain’s orders to the contrary or not, a change of course was out of the question. Not a steersman on the Ohio possessed the nerve to defy the authority of a long rifle with the muzzle of that weapon centered on his chest from ten feet away by a fellow crew member bent on mutiny.

  “Who’s that? He ain’t no rum rat,” Blake determined.

  The rifle-bearing mutineer was indeed clothed in trail garb from linen frock to tall moccasins. On his hatless head, dark hair massed at the nape of the neck.

  Lem grabbed my sleeve. “Be that a braid hangin’ down his backbone?”

  “It ’tis, runs halfway ta his belt.”

  “I knowed it. Tice Wentsell hisself,” a gleeful Lem fairly yelled, “onliest scout on the river with the gall for teasin’ the scalpin’ knife thataway.”

  “Too bad that popinjay ain’t facin’ his rifle. Them rumheads are about ta be powerful sorry Wentsell ain’t in charge of the whole she-bang,” Blake predicted.

  No Tyler ever uttered a truer sentime
nt, for in the next breath Three Feathers sprang his trap. Muskets blasted, long rifles boomed and piercing war whoops beset the quiet afternoon, echoing far and wide in the river bottom, a bedlam of noise that tightened a man’s throat with fear and alarm. The opening Shawnee volley targeted those gathered at oars and broadhoms. Numerous balls flew true, tearing rivermen from their feet left and right, among them the mate in the tricorn hat. His early demise panicked the survivors, and everyone still standing topside on the bank-bound boats scattered for cover below, quitting their posts and the foot-stomping, irate captain. Only a few shots, ragged and poorly aimed, answered the initial Shawnee volley. The havoc wrought by the ambush was a sight without equal.

  Sarah, bless her, clung to her good sense. She ignored the lurking Meek and lead missiles whizzing past her head, calmly freed her leg, flattened on the driftwood and wriggled deep within that heap of trunks and limbs. By the time Meek, enthralled with the success of the Shawnee, realized what Sarah was about, he could stop her only by playing host to balls from both sides, and that he decided against; she’d be in there, his for the taking, once his Redstick friends finished their bloody task.

  Blake and I shared a meager smile. It wasn’t anything worth crowing about yet, but Sarah had assured herself a safe haven till the shooting halted. “Got more iron than Three Feathers,” Lem bragged, good eye tearing.

  From behind the lingering cloud of powder smoke veiling the forest edge from the Scioto to the point, the enflamed savages, weapons balled and reprimed, launched a full-scale assault on their bewildered and outnumbered foe. Canoes paddled by more frenzied heathen, war whoops beating at out ears, sped from the Scioto’s mouth and braved the accuracy of Wentsell’s flintlock to block any escape down river.

  By some miracle of providence the overwrought captain, feet planted betwixt two of the dead, was still upright and unscathed. He screamed orders down into the horse bay that went unheeded. His remaining crew, completely cowered by the rampaging, screeching, onrushing Shawnee, threw their arms and powder aside and scrambled over the near gunwale into the brown Ohio.