Accidental Warrior: The Unlikely Tale of Bloody Hal

by Colin Alexander

  Hal shook his head.

  “Stories to frighten little children, really,” Pyke said. “Magicals look like people, right enough, but they’re people nobody has seen before, and they don’t come from anywhere people know. Talk like they’re crazy. The church says Magicals are creations of Satan sent here to lure us from the true path but, because Satan lacks the true sight of God, they are imperfect and we can see through the deception. You know what the church says to do with a Magical?”

  Hal shook his head.

  “Burn it.”

  Hal shuddered. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. He blinked hard, hoping Pyke would be gone when he opened his eyes. But Pyke was still there. “Are you saying that you think I’m a . . . a Magical?”

  Pyke snorted. “I don’t believe in Magicals, or much else the preachers say. Hell, if Satan sent a servant to claim my soul, I doubt it would show up half-naked and shivering from the cold. For all I care, you’re crazy, or you fell and hit your head, or your town got burned by savages who broke the Interdict and you’ve not recovered your senses. I don’t care. Others do, however, and some of the talk you were giving me last night, well, talk like that can cause trouble. You understand what I mean?”

  Hal swallowed hard. “I think so.”

  Pyke studied him. “You better think so, if you know what’s good for you. Now, to my point. There’s an inn in Gap, that’s the nearest town to here, where all the travelers come. The innkeeper, though, he don’t like woodsrangers to begin with. Then he and I had a, well, a misunderstanding a while back and that’s a problem for me because I could do a lot more trading if he let me come around the inn again. Well, it happens I know he needs help at the inn and I figure, if I find him good help, which is where you come in, he’ll look favorably on me coming ’round. It’ll be good for everybody, you too. This is freeman work, no indenture or anything like that,” he added hastily. “What do you say?”

  Hal didn’t know what to say; indeed, he didn’t know what to think, except that refusing seemed like a bad idea. He needed to get his bearings in order to figure out how to get home, and getting out of the woods had to be the first step. Cooperating with Pyke, for now, was better than nothing. What he finally said was, “What do I say when this innkeeper of yours asks me questions?”

  Pyke’s eyes narrowed, as though he might have been reconsidering the things his preacher had said. “What I said before will do. You grew up in a New Sweden town out in the Trans-Delaware woods. Your name will sound right for that.”

  “New Sweden? What’s that?”

  Pyke sighed. “New Sweden is what we call it. They like to say Nya Sverige and pretend they’re really Swedes. They give themselves Swedish names, like yours, even speak what they call Swedish at home, although they really speak mostly English, like almost everyone else today between the French in Canada and the Spanish in Florida. And, truth is, they’re not really Swedes. Oh, some of their ancestors certainly, but they were a mix of Swedes and Finns and Germans even to begin with, and then you had the Dutch when Stuyvesant conquered in 1655 and then the English in 1664 and the ones from the Great Flight when the plague started and I’m sure the odd savage here and there, so what have you really got? They’re settling out there, and that’s where you’re from.” Pyke said that with certainty. “Savages broke the Interdict, burned the town, killed everyone else. You got hit on the head and don’t remember much. You’re bruised and cut up enough; it might be true.” It sounded as though Pyke was trying to reassure himself as well.

  “Okay,” Hal said simply, but Pyke just stared at him. “I mean, yes, it sounds good,” Hal tried.

  Pyke shook his head.

  “What about the innkeeper?” Hal asked, trying to move the conversation away from what he said. “What’s his name? What’s the place like? What will he want me to do?”

  “I’ll tell you as we ride in.”

  Hal’s gaze traveled to the horses. He had ridden a pony once, at a birthday party when he was eight.

  Pyke saw his face. “Son of Our Lord! Tell me you don’t know how to ride a horse!” He sighed. “Fine. Your older brother was thrown and killed when you were little and you’ve been scared of them since. Remember that! But come now, you’ve got to get on. There’s no way you’re walking to Gap from here.”

  4

  History Lessons

  IT TOOK THE entire morning for them to get clear of the woods. When the trees finally gave way to open terrain, Hal saw farms spreading out on both sides of the road. The farm buildings were small, roughly made in some cases, with plenty of horses, wagons and carts around them but not a single mechanized vehicle. There were no power lines or telephone poles. There was nothing anywhere that looked like an electric light. The road was often more rut than road. There was no sign of pavement. Eventually, Hal stopped looking for familiar things.

  His biggest problem was the horse. Pyke had had to show him how to get into the saddle and had then needed to hold the horse while he mounted, but that proved to be just the start of the trouble. They had been riding for maybe an hour or two when the pains began. His butt chafed against the saddle. The insides of his thighs felt like they were in spasm. It seemed that hot needles were being driven into each knee at the point where they touched the saddle. Once begun, the pains just got worse. Shifting his position made it no better. It was only through grim determination that Hal stayed in the saddle. After the previous day, he would rather die than admit weakness. He’d been so scared when he was lost, scared to the point of crying. It seemed an ominous omen of the kind of man he was. Crying was not something a man did—not a real man.

  How long would it be before it was known that he was missing? Bobby and Harry knew, obviously, that he had not returned to Connecticut, but how long would it be before they told anyone else he was missing? Would they admit he had gone to Pennsylvania with them, or would they make up a story that he had disappeared from campus? What about his parents? He spoke infrequently with them and he often did not return their texts. It might be a week before they suspected anything was wrong. Anyway, would it make a difference if anyone did become suspicious?

  Where was he? What Pyke had told him made no sense, but what he saw of the farms they passed was consistent with Pyke’s story. He could understand neither how he had come here, nor how anyone looking for him would be able to do so. And that raised a more frightening question: was the world he remembered the real world? Or was the real world what he saw around him now? Had he been crazy before, and what he saw now was reality? Still, his hand kept going to a back pocket he did not have, to check a phone that was not there. Would he have such a habit if that phone had never been real? Also, there were Pyke’s words from last night. Was it better to be a “Magical” the church would burn, or to be a crazy man who had just recovered his sanity? The choice seemed rather obvious: crazy wouldn’t get him killed.

  Between the pain in his legs and dwelling on his predicament, Hal said nothing as they rode.

  Fortunately, Pyke proved to be a loquacious riding companion who didn’t seem to miss Hal’s side of the conversation. Once they had cleared the woods, he stopped scanning so carefully to each side and launched into a detailed description of their destination. The town was called Gap, for obvious reasons, and in Gap, they were headed for the English Inn. In many ways, as Pyke said, the history of the town was mirrored in that of the inn. It had started as a rectangular, one-story wooden structure built some two centuries before at the T-junction where the road west reached the north–south road and ended. Back then, no road ran further west and the inn was nothing more than a primitive stopping place for the sparse traffic through the region. The original inn had long since been lost to fire, but the growth of commerce and, therefore, the town, had led to its replacement with a much grander structure. The main building, still at the crossroads, was four stories now. The first was built of dressed stone and housed a large sitting room, the dining area and the kitchen. The three stories above w
ere brick. The second floor held the apartments of the owners and rooms for well-paying guests. These rooms had real furniture, beds, upholstered chairs, carpeting and individual fireplaces. The third floor had smaller, more sparsely furnished rooms for the apprentices and less well-paying guests. On top lived the servants and those travelers with little money who insisted on sleeping indoors. Those rooms were cramped with low ceilings and contained only a pallet and a small chest. They were too hot in summer and too cold in winter.

  Out back were the stables, which along with the dining room were the main reason for the inn’s existence. They were housed in a separate barn, next to a small smithy. This led to an even greater flow of traffic and contemplation of a fifth story.

  At about this point in his discourse on the details of the inn, Pyke called a halt. Hal swung clumsily off the horse. His legs did not want to support him when he landed on the ground and it was all he could do to avoid falling on his face. Pyke made a point of not looking at him.

  “Very well,” said Hal as he searched for a way to remove the focus from his failings, “you seem to have made an inventory of everything in the inn and examined its finishing down to the last knot in the wood. You’ve cataloged the town the same way. Why would you do that?”

  “I am an observant man,” said Pyke.

  “Yes, very observant and, I would think, educated. So why do you live in the woods?”

  Pyke paused for a moment, then said, “There are some who would tell you of governors and others who would speak of the rebellion. But mine is the story of a man and a daughter and another man. That’s a story for another time, or maybe for never. The story I will tell you, when we ride again, is the one about the owner of the English Inn. That’s one you should pay close attention to. Now, we should eat and rest a little, Hal. But not for too long. I want to reach Gap before dark.”

  Just like that, the flow of words from Pyke dried up. Hal found his only choice was to try to work the knots out of his leg muscles and share some of the dried beef Pyke pulled from his pack.

  • • •

  Mounting the horse after the too-short break was no easier than it had been the first time. Hal’s legs screamed in protest as soon as he had his feet in the stirrups. There was nothing to do about it, however. He could only try to hide his discomfort from Pyke.

  Pyke was focused on the road, such as it was, and was soon talking about their destination again. “The legend here has it,” Pyke said, “that the original builder, name of Smith, which is not very original, named the place the English Inn to annoy the governor in Nieuw Amsterdam. Maybe he did but, more likely, no one noticed. Oh, some governors have made it an issue about Dutch and English. They’ve insisted on Dutch language, Dutch names, Dutch customs—for all the good it has ever done. Truth is, Nieuw Amsterdam was always something of a mongrel stew from the first: Africans, even Jews, not just Dutch. Of course, it was the English who tried to take over in 1664 and held on for ten years, and the Stuyvesant and van Rensselaer governors never forgot it. That, and there are always more English here—too many, most Dutch would say.”

  “All right.” Hal had learned by this time not to say, ‘okay.’ “So the Dutch here don’t like the English and that is how the place got its name. What does that have to do with the owners?” Pyke’s conversation could head off on a tangent and completely lose its initial purpose.

  “Well, it is connected, young Hal, as you will see. Now, it is said that the ownership of the inn passed to one Timothy Slade on a single roll of the dice. He kept the peace here by promising to maintain the name and the English pride. Likely, the story has colored the truth somewhat although it’s a caution for certain not to play dice. It is true that Timothy Slade was of English descent, you’ll know that from his name, but he had prospered under the Stuyvesant and van Rensselaer governors in Nieuw Amsterdam and intended to continue doing so. I imagine he kept the name for a simple business reason: it was well-known to traders and travelers in these parts. Why change it? And so, it has remained the English Inn through generations of Slades to the present. Even when rebellion and war threw out the governor nine years ago, it made no difference to the Slades. Jack Slade owned the inn then as now. He kept doing business under the Provis, just as before.”

  “Who are the Provis?”

  Pyke had mostly stopped staring at Hal when he asked a question that a five-year-old should be able to answer, but not this time. It was a long stare. “Son,” he said, “you need to learn to stop asking questions, because it seems you don’t even know which ones are foolish beyond belief.”

  “If I don’t ask, how am I ever going to learn?”

  “You don’t need to,” Pyke snapped. “You need to stay alive and work for Slade. Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than open it and invite worse thoughts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Pyke sighed, his temper gone. “Hal, you’re a good youth and for that alone I’d not like to see you hurt, aside from the help you’ll give me. Listen, you save as much of your pay as you can. By spring, next summer for sure, you’ll have enough to go to Nieuw Amsterdam. There are people there who know about Magicals—yes, let’s speak plainly, you and I. If you’re careful, you will find people who can answer questions for you, questions you should forget about for now. By then, I hope you’ll know how to be careful. Are we understood, then? You go to Nieuw Amsterdam next year. Until then, work and keep your mouth shut.”

  Hal nodded. His safety depended on keeping his mouth shut until he reached Nieuw Amsterdam; that was clear. But Nieuw Amsterdam was what New York had been called over three hundred and fifty years ago, or so his memory told him. To speak of it in the present tense, as Pyke did, was another thing that made no sense.

  Thinking about that, he almost missed Pyke’s answer to his question. “The Provis are the Provisional Government. They won the war. Why they still call themselves ‘provisional,’ I have no idea. They look pretty permanent. English, of course, so the English win after all. Plenty of Dutch supported them, though. Folk were pretty sick of the last few governors although, as the saying goes, you should be careful what you wish for lest you get it. But that’s a different story. I was trying to tell you about the Slades before you distracted me.”

  Hal decided it was a good idea to apologize again. “Please go ahead about the Slades. I need to hear this.”

  “Indeed. Well, Jack Slade who owns the inn now is the eldest son of John Slade, the son of Worthy Slade, who was the son of Timothy Slade who had won the inn. He is a wealthy man now and the Slades, after these four generations, are related to almost all the prosperous families in the area. Old Jack, however, has had less luck with his family than with his business. He married Nell Bradford, daughter of wealthy farmers, on the day of his twenty-fifth birthday. She bore him a son just eight months later, proof of the old saying that an eager bride can do in seven or eight months what takes an older woman nine. Young Timothy was followed by two daughters, Elizabeth and Sarah, and then another son, John. But, there was trouble coming for Old Jack. Little Timothy died of a fever in his seventh year. Now Elizabeth grew up and married well, all thought, but her husband, from an excellent Nassau family, proved to be a hopeless drunk and died when he fell from his horse. I would think that would have been a good thing, give her a chance at a decent man, but she came home a widow, acted like she was disgraced. She almost never speaks and takes no interest in daily affairs. Sarah is nineteen, an attractive lass, should have been married by now. Totally brainless, I’m afraid. Well, Jack Slade is not the fourth of his family to own the inn just so he can pass it to the son of another family. That leaves young John, who is sixteen. He will inherit, but he isn’t ready yet. Nell runs the kitchen, always has, but that is her limit. Elizabeth is unwilling, Sarah unable. Slade has taken on two apprentices, a journeyman smith, and five servants from families in the area to work inside the inn, but it’s not enough. There are a hundred and one things to manage, from horses in the stables to
the work in the smithy to arranging food for man and beast and on and on. John is smart with the books and the writing, but, shall we say, he prefers to avoid the physical tasks. Slade had a man to handle a lot of that work, but he ran off. This state of affairs has not escaped my sharp eye. This is where you come in, young Hal. You’re a grown man, a strong man I’m sure, or will be with some food. Do the heavy work for the Slades and you will do well.”

  “And earn Tom Pyke the gratitude of Jack Slade,” Hal added.

  “Of course. As I said, that is the whole point.”

  5

  The English Inn at Gap

  DESPITE PYKE’S BUILd up, the town of Gap wasn’t that impressive to Hal’s eyes. Granted, the road turned into a real road west of the town. It was still beaten, bare earth but it was solid, cleared and wide enough for at least three wagons abreast. The farms looked more prosperous too, as they neared the town. The barns were larger, there were more animals in the fields and the houses had been painted. Still, the town itself was a disappointment.

  They rode down the middle of the road, low wooden buildings in ranks along either side. Most were two stories tall, often with a shop on the first floor. The wood siding was painted a variety of colors, but on many, the paint was peeling. An elevated boardwalk ran in front of the buildings so that the citizens would not have to step in the dirt or dodge horses and wagons. Signs, drawn with varying artistry and skill, projected from the storefronts, advertising everything from Malcolm’s Shave and Dentistry to Hans Reuter’s Dry Goods. There were plenty of people outside in the late afternoon sun, most strolling from one building to another. A wagon loaded with hay trundled down the middle of the road in front of them, the two horses pulling it seeming in no more of a hurry than the man slouched on the buckboard. It followed a wagon loaded with squash and pumpkins and drawn by a single horse. There was nothing mechanical in sight. There was no sign that any building had electricity.