Accidental Warrior: The Unlikely Tale of Bloody Hal

by Colin Alexander

  It was Tom Pyke.

  Hal feared he would vomit again. Pyke’s chest had multiple wounds. Wide eyes stared at the sky. Hal could not take his eyes off Pyke’s dead face.

  “Well, tavern boy,” said Tewes, “is that one of the ones you ran away from?”

  “N—no. No, it’s not.” That was all Hal could get out before he had to clamp his jaws.

  “Hah. Then tell me why a woodsranger was riding on the road west in a snowstorm.” Tewes’ words were slurred, but the meaning was clear.

  “Because I told him to.” At Jack Slade’s voice, Hal looked around in surprise. So did Tewes, fast enough that he almost toppled over. Old Jack came to stand over Pyke’s body. “I told him to go. Told him that because of what happened he shouldn’t stay in town. Never would listen to me before. Don’t know why he picked this time to do it.”

  “I thought you didn’t like Tom Pyke,” Hal said. “You didn’t trust him because he was a woodsranger.”

  “Maybe I didn’t trust him completely,” said Slade. “I’ve known him a long time, though. His name isn’t Pyke. He’s the son of some member of the Winthrop family, descended from the old Puritan leaders in Massachusetts. Came to Nieuw Amsterdam with his father, who was leading a mission to the governor. This was when they settled the Border War, Massachusetts and Nieuw Netherlands, up in the Green Mountains, before the revolt. Fell in love with a Dutch girl, one of the van Rensselaers. His Puritan family disowned him and he fled west. Came to the inn then; didn’t know left from right. I told him he wouldn’t last three weeks in the woods. Didn’t listen to me then.” Slade sighed. “Hal is right. Whatever else Tom may have done, he wasn’t part of the attack here.”

  Hal was still staring at Pyke’s dead face. All he could think of was the story Pyke wouldn’t tell him, the one of a man, a daughter and another man.

  Tewes growled at Micah, “So, while you were killing him, the real attackers maybe slipped away. Fine job.”

  Micah spat on the ground. “The messenger said a woodsranger. I got one. It’s one less of the vermin anyway.” He re-mounted and turned his troop back down the road.

  “What do I do with him?” Slade asked.

  “Bury him if you want,” Tewes replied. “I don’t care.”

  “The ground is frozen,” Hal protested. “It’s not possible.”

  “Get the cart, Hal,” said Slade. “We’ll take him to the church.”

  “Whatever you want,” Tewes said. “Just get me another beer first.”

  13

  The New Recruit

  THE CHURCHYARD WAS frozen, snow-covered. Hal cleared the snow from a plot but the ground was iron-hard, proof against any shovel or even pickaxe. Hal’s attack on the earth was futile, but he kept at it until sweat soaked his clothes and tears froze on his cheeks. Finally, Slade helped him carry Tom Pyke’s body to a small shed behind the church building where Pyke could lie, frozen, until the ground thawed enough for burial in the spring.

  Back at the inn, he went outside to the barn to be alone and never mind the cold. Footsteps crunched the snow behind him. He thought if he paid no attention, whoever it was would go on their way, but the footsteps came right up behind him and stopped. He turned around to find Gustavus.

  “I thought we might talk privately,” Gustavus said.

  “Sure,” said Hal. “About what?”

  “Hayry said you are assertive. It’s a good trait. I wanted to talk to you about today.”

  Hal grimaced, certain that Gustavus would tell him that his deception had been found out. He was afraid to guess what would happen next.

  Gustavus saw his face but misinterpreted the reason for it. “I know, I know. You killed a man and it’s bothering you. That’s normal. A man who kills without any feeling is too dangerous to have around, but I can tell you that a man who can’t kill when he has to won’t live very long. You do what you must and don’t worry about it too much. That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No.” Gustavus gestured at the barn door. Inside the barn, Gustavus lit a small oil lamp. “I want to speak to you about Captain Tewes. He has convinced himself that you are in league with those woodsrangers. He is certain that is the reason you were not killed in the attack. Yes, he is drunk again, but I believe he will think the same when he is sober. He’s the sort I mentioned before, who kills without any feeling. Be careful of yourself and watch your back.”

  The chill Hal felt had nothing to do with the weather. “Are you saying he is going to kill me?”

  Gustavus shrugged. “I cannot say that. He has this in his head, though, and that is a danger. I feel you deserve warning.”

  Hal searched Gustavus’ face, looking for something more. If Tewes was going to plot murder, what could Hal do about it? He could not simply run away from Gap. He had little money, no horse, and it was the dead of winter. But maybe there was another way. Could he be as casual talking about murdered men as everyone else seemed to be?

  “You lost two guards,” he said to Gustavus. “Would it be useful for you to replace one of them with me?” He held his breath.

  A twitch of a smile told him the answer before Gustavus spoke. “I’ll not be party to breaking an indenture or contract. Are you free to leave here?”

  Carefully, Hal told his story again. He was working for the Slades only for the winter. He planned to leave for Nieuw Amsterdam as soon as he had some money and the weather improved. He was, indeed, free to leave. His deal with Tom Pyke had died with Pyke. Was it fair to the Slades, though? They were counting on his work through the winter. That bothered him, but the Slades would not protect him from Tewes.

  Gustavus nodded as Hal finished. “So, there is no contract forcing you to stay. Listen, Hal Christianson, I am going to Nieuw Amsterdam as soon as the wagons are repaired. I can use another man who can fight and, yes, you can join my service. I’ll supply equipment and food. That will get you to Nieuw Amsterdam a great deal sooner than waiting for spring. It will also take you out of Captain Tewes’ reach.”

  Nieuw Amsterdam! The city where Pyke had said someone would know about Magicals. Suddenly, Hal was sure of his memories again. Maybe there was a way back waiting for him. The offer was good. Almost too good. “Why are you doing this?” Hal asked.

  Gustavus chuckled. “I could tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the reasons are simple. I can use the extra man, as you suspected. Further, you have been very helpful to us. I can repay that by not leaving you for Tewes.”

  “What happens when we reach Nieuw Amsterdam?”

  Gustavus’ expression told Hal he had found a catch. “Well, naturally,” Gustavus began, “assuming you do well, you would stay with us. I would put you on regular pay then.”

  “I may not be able to promise that I would stay.” It would do him no good to reach Nieuw Amsterdam only to have Gustavus ship him off to Fort Christina, wherever on the coast that might be. “I have matters to attend to in Nieuw Amsterdam and then, well, I may need to go elsewhere.”

  “I see.” Gustavus pushed his fingers through his beard. “I’ll make a deal with you. You join my service from here to Nieuw Amsterdam. When we’re ready to leave there, I’ll decide if I want to keep you, and you can decide if you want to stay with my company.”

  White clouds of breath rose between them while Hal pondered. When he asked to join Gustavus, he had thought only to escape the danger of Tewes and to reach Nieuw Amsterdam. Still, his options would be open. Better than at the inn.

  “On that basis,” Hal said, “I’ll take it.”

  Gustavus nodded. “Good. I’ll tell Slade. He won’t be happy, but there is not much he can say if I tell him. You should report to Captain Hayry first thing in the morning. He’ll see that you’re set up properly.”

  Hal almost missed the last sentence. He had already thought of another advantage to traveling with Gustavus: he would be traveling with Johanna. Maybe, if there was no help for him in Nieuw Amsterdam,
he would just stay with Gustavus. And Johanna, of course. For the first time in a long while, the future was beginning to brighten.

  By the time Hal had finished at the barn and returned to the inn, it was clear that Gustavus had wasted no time informing the Slades that Hal was leaving. John was waiting for him at the desk by the entryway. He had with him a small, leather purse. “The rest of your earnings.” It wasn’t much; Hal knew that without counting it, but if Gustavus was providing food and transportation, it might be enough. John handed over the purse, then took Hal’s signature for it. Once that was done, John was pleasant, if a bit formal. Hal could sleep in his room tonight, as long as he moved out with Gustavus’ soldiers in the morning. Hal was also welcome to dinner that evening. John sounded genuinely sorry to see Hal leave, and not only because most of Hal’s work would again fall to him. He also sounded a little jealous of the opportunity Hal had, mumbling something about joining up as well. Then there was a quick handshake and it was over.

  No one saw Mary that evening. Whether she was hiding, Hal never found out. He was, regardless, relieved.

  • • •

  Hal was up early the next morning; in truth, he had hardly slept. It was more that he waited until the first trace of light in the sky, thinking that when he went downstairs there would be a reasonable chance Hayry was there. It took little time to stuff his few spare clothes in a sack and add the purse John had given him.

  Hayry was standing in the darkened entryway. A chill in the air said that he had just come in from the outside.

  “Good morning,” Hal said. “I guess I’m supposed to call you ‘sir’ now?”

  “You call me Kapten Hayry. Here, put this on.”

  ‘This’ proved to be a sleeveless surcoat of blue linen bearing the yellow and white twin crosses of Nya Sverige. Hal slipped it over his leather jacket, then pulled a heavy cloak over that. Just putting it on made him feel different, uncertain. Had he made a mistake? What should he do next?

  Hayry answered that last question without it being asked. “Have you eaten?” he asked. Hal shook his head. “I thought not. Here.” Hayry pulled a large chunk of bread from somewhere under his own cloak and offered it to Hal.

  The crust was rock hard; the center had too stiff a texture to be fresh. However, Hal would not get Mrs. Slade’s breakfast today. He nibbled at the bread. It tasted all right.

  “Come on, then,” Hayry said. “I need to bring you over to the camp and I have plenty of my own work to do.”

  Outside, it was clear and cold. No trace of yesterday’s snow clouds remained in the sky. The eastern horizon was aflame in a band of bright orange, fading to pink higher in the sky. Still higher, where the nighttime dark blue remained, Venus sparkled all alone. It’s going to be a beautiful day, Hal thought. This is a good omen. I hope. He munched the bread as they walked along.

  By the time they reached the wagons, it was light. They were challenged there by a guard wearing a sword and pistol on his belt. Embroidered on his cloak were the same colors Hal now wore. Hayry answered the challenge, then ordered the guard to find Sergeant Anderson.

  “Anderson is English, from somewhere north of here,” Hayry said. “You will recognize him from the dinner on our first night. You won’t have any trouble communicating.”

  The guard returned soon with Anderson, the English soldier who’d accused Tewes of pocketing the Provi toll fees. He was several inches shorter than Hal, but broader through the shoulders. His bushy beard was a light brown, long enough to touch the front of his cloak. He spoke briefly with Hayry in a language Hal did not understand. Then Hayry and the other guard left. Anderson walked in a circle around Hal. He clucked with disapproval when he came back to Hal’s front.

  “So you’re the tavern boy who’s Gustavus’ new recruit. ’Cept, you weren’t no tavern boy, Hayry says, and you didn’t sound like one the other night. Sounded like an expert on how English shit. Want to tell me how I shit?”

  He’s looking for a fight, Hal thought. He remembered the look on Anderson’s face when Hayry had made comments about the English. Anderson wouldn’t say anything to Hayry, but Hal was another matter. “I was only talking about ones wearing orange coats.”

  Anderson decided to be mollified. “Anything you say about Englishmen in orange coats is fine with me. No tavern boy would say any of it, though. Farm boy or woodsranger, I’d guess. Which is it?”

  “I used to live across the Delaware.” Hal was tired of telling the story, tired of telling everyone he couldn’t remember where he came from, but half-afraid that, out of irritation, he would tell someone what he did remember.

  The answer did not bother Anderson, nor did he want any more detail. “If it’s across the Delaware, I guess we might as well just call you a woodsranger and leave it at that. Any problem with that?”

  Hal just shrugged. He could not see that it made a difference.

  “That’s fine,” Anderson said. “The captain tells me you can handle a sword in a fight. Is that true?”

  “It’s true,” Hal said. Well, he had. What happened in the barn wasn’t a fencing match.

  “That’s good. Then I don’t have to show you how to use one.” Anderson chuckled. “Of course, there’s no possibility I could really teach you in less than three months, so it’s a damn good thing you already know, isn’t it, Woodsey?”

  “I guess so,” Hal said.

  “You guess right, Woodsey. Tougher one, now. You ever fire a rifled musket?”

  “No.”

  “Hah!” Anderson slapped his thigh. “Almost no one north of Fort Christina has. They’re new. Virginians started making them a few years ago. Nya Sverige’s got ’em. Used ’em on the Calverts of Mary’s Land two years ago and a fine effect that had. Gustavus gets the best for his company, so we’ve got ’em. It’s a little different than your regular musket, you know.” He looked at Hal’s face. “You have fired one of those, haven’t you?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.” Hal looked at the ground. He did not want to see Anderson’s reaction.

  “Bull piddle.” Anderson spat into the snow, then scratched at his beard. “Well, come along then, Woodsey. I guess I’ll have to show you.”

  Hal trailed Anderson through the Nya Sverige camp, past cook fires, past men stamping their feet to warm up. Finally they stopped at a wagon at the far side. Beyond it, a hundred yards of open snow stretched to the trees. Anderson reached into the wagon and came out with a five-foot-long weapon.

  “This is a rifled musket, Woodsey. Most people just call it a rifle.”

  “I know that.”

  “You do, eh? I thought you said you’d never seen one. Never mind. Here, take it.”

  Hal gasped as he took hold of the rifle. It weighed at least ten pounds. The wooden stock and grip were smooth to the touch. The metal barrel was ice cold.

  “This is a sixty caliber rifle,” Anderson was saying. “It’s called a rifle because they’ve got grooves cut along the inside of the barrel. I don’t need to know how they do that and neither do you. This is the kind of shot it fires.” Anderson held up a little cone-shaped bullet. “It’s not just a ball, like you shoot out of a regular musket, although you said you haven’t done that either. Don’t matter. The base is hollow. When you fire, it gets bigger and catches the grooves in the barrel. That spins the shot so you can shoot straight one hell of a lot farther. A regular musket is good to a hundred yards, maybe two hundred. With this, you can kill a man at five hundred yards. A good marksman can take a man down from even farther. Here, let me show you how to load it.”

  Anderson took the rifle back, then reached into the wagon and came out with a paper cartridge. He bit the end off it and poured the contents, which were bullet and gunpowder, down the barrel. He pulled a ramrod from a clip alongside the barrel and used it to pack down the contents of the barrel. Finally, he pushed a little cap into a clip at the back of the barrel.

  “It’s ready to shoot now,” he said. “You try it. Aim for that bare oak at the
edge.”

  Gingerly, Hal took the loaded weapon back, trying not to drop it. The hard work at the inn had toughened his muscles, but the rifle was unwieldy. When he raised it to his shoulder, he found it impossible to keep the barrel from drooping down to the ground.

  Anderson laughed. “You gotta be stronger than that, Woodsey. Sight down the barrel and keep it level, unless you’re trying to kill groundhogs.”

  Hal was sweating in spite of the chill air. He could swing a fifty-pound bale of hay, but all the weight of the rifle seemed to sit at the end. Try as he did to keep it steady at the tree, it kept wavering, left, right, up and down.

  “Steady it,” Anderson urged. “Now pull the trigger.”

  Hal might have closed his eyes; he was not sure afterward. He tugged at the trigger, which snapped the hammer forward against the percussion cap. There was a flash, a cloud of smoke and a loud explosion. Flame and more smoke shot out the front of the muzzle while the stock shot back into his shoulder with enough force to knock him back a couple of steps. Hal yelped and grabbed at his shoulder, dropping the rifle into the snow. When he looked up again, through tears in his eyes, he saw Anderson doubled over with laughter. The tree was unmarked, of course.

  “God’s own blood!” the sergeant roared. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so silly. You sure weren’t lying, Woodsey, when you said you hadn’t used one of these.”

  “I told you I never did anything like this.” Hal’s pride ached as badly as his shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you.” Anderson’s laughter was replaced by a hint of irritation. “Now you seen one, though, so it ain’t true any longer that you ain’t seen one.” Anderson picked the rifle out of the snow and carefully cleaned the muzzle opening and the clip for the percussion cap. “Well enough, Woodsey, now you do it from the start.” He held the rifle out to Hal again.

  Hal was incredulous. He did not want to touch a rifle again. He tried moving his arm and winced at the sensation in his shoulder. “I can’t do it. No way.”