Lost Nation: A Novel

by Jeffrey Lent

  Chase said, “I have no goodwill today. The Watkin woman was right—we have no authority to rely upon beyond ourselves. And we have failed.”

  Blood said, “Perhaps. It may serve to see it that way.”

  “What do you imply?”

  “Only that it seems to me that any solution arrived at has the potential to be worse than the problem.”

  “The quandary with you Mister Blood is you lack all sense of the brotherhood of man.”

  Blood nodded agreement. “True enough.”

  “We have no recourse here. We are not the keepers of our fates.”

  “Why certainly all men are.”

  “The State refuses us right of citizenry. We have thus an obligation to protect ourselves. To organize ourselves.”

  “The Watkin man abandoned obligation himself, it sounds like.”

  “Perhaps. This does not mean the man should’ve been bludgeoned before his wife and children and strapped like carrion over the back of a horse.”

  “I’d guess those Coos men felt they had no choice. They were a good ways from home. It was not that many of them, compared to this group here.”

  “If we govern ourselves there will be ways for such complaints to be resolved.”

  “You have no authority to govern yourselves.”

  Chase stared at him. Then said, “We assume the authority as free men.”

  Blood shrugged. “I wish you success, Mister Chase. But not one of us is a free man.”

  Chase studied him. He said, “I had no reason to believe you to be a man of God, Mister Blood.”

  “I was not speaking of Him,” Blood said, then turned away.

  In late afternoon a company of seven men led by Peter Chase and Isaac Cole departed by way of ancient Indian foot-trails for the ten-hour march to Lancaster, carrying with them armament rustic and deadly: a pair of long guns, a single horse pistol holding a double charge, two swords, a sickle, and sturdy ironwood clubs. Each man wore a belt knife of varying quality. They carried also a quickly-scribed copy of the constitution of the newly-made Republic of Indian Stream, as well as a writ issued by the new and duly elected magistrate Emil Chase charging the party of seven to secure the person of Paul Watkin, said Watkin being detained against his will and the will of the Republic. All measures necessary were to be employed and no man was to stand in the way of the party. So help them God.

  At dusk there was a thunderstorm which dissipated into a steady drizzle and the men, all young and work-hard, handpicked by the brothers Chase, fell into a steady dog-trot with the lead men calling out warnings against the inclines and obstacles of the trail. They waded through a bog rather than skirt it and came upon Nash Stream and traveled down that along the eastern slope of the escarpment of cliffs that rose above the stream and at midnight came out onto the open road north of Devils Slide that ran west into Lancaster and they kept that pace until a farm dog barked at them as they approached the village. They slowed to a walk and the drizzle covered all sound of their passing and no more dogs barked although one came out from a yard and trailed after them until one of the men bent for a stone and the dog retreated.

  The jail was in the meetinghouse cellar and the front door of that building was shut against the night but not locked. In the dark they went down the stairs and came into a room lit by a guttering candle-lantern. The jailer was asleep with his head down on a table and one of the men tapped him on his nape with a club and the man groaned and spread his arms wide over the tabletop and did not move again. Watkin was awake in the single cell. His face was crusted with dried blood so he looked like an African and one eye was swollen shut. A simple bandage of rough woolsey was wrapped around his head, the cloth soaked through in spots like smallpox. The key to the cell was on a ring on a nail. Watkin was steady on his feet but weak. Cole fed him rum from a clay bottle he carried. Peter Chase unrolled the documents that he’d carried dry inside his shirt, gently lifted the jailer’s head and slid them onto the table and lowered the man’s head back into place.

  One of the young men, the one with the horse pistol, said, “Shit. Is that all there is to it?”

  Isaac Cole looked at him. “We ain’t home yet.”

  There was a pot of cold beans with molasses and salt pork on the table and the men ate it with the single spoon already dug into the beans, passing it turnabout. Then they went up the stairs again in the dark and did not pause at the meetinghouse door but walked out like it was midday and they had just come in on ordinary duty. They went out through the town as silent as they came in. It was like they had never been there. Except each one of them knew it was nothing like that at all.

  Once out away on the road they spoke briefly, voices taut with excitement as they moved.

  “I’d hate to be that feller when he wakes up.”

  “He’ll be out for a while.”

  “It’ll still be some knot.”

  “I tapped him gentle.”

  “It’ll still be a knot.”

  “Nothing like the knot the sheriff leaves on him I bet.”

  “That sheriff ain’t going to like those papers.”

  “They ain’t meant for him to like or not.”

  “Still.”

  “Watkin. How you feeling?”

  “Better now. Some kind of sore though.”

  “You believe you can trot a little?”

  “If I had to.”

  “What I think is, it would be a good idea.”

  “Let’s do her then.”

  Late that afternoon Mose Hutchinson and a party of men came up the road beside the river. There were a dozen men and they were all mounted and well armed. They turned off the road at Indian Stream and rode the three miles up to the Watkin house which they found empty, with even the livestock gone. They sat their horses in the dooryard and after some discussion three of the men dismounted and fired the house and barn while the other men wheeled their horses about, watching the fields and woods around but it was silent as Sunday. The house caught quickly and burned with hard snaps and clear flame but the barn was full of new-made hay and so was slower to catch and when it did it sent up a roiling glut of dismal smoke and Mose Hutchinson watched this knowing a critical error had been made. But the jailer was his brother-in-law and when they left Lancaster midmorning was still speaking in a gibberish none could understand. They returned down to the Lake Road and realized there were no people at the neighboring farms or new pitches and no livestock in sight either and Hutchinson rode in front of the party with his big roan gelding reined in hard so the horse moved sideways. The dawn had come clear after the night of rain and the air was still and fresh and they could smell hay curing somewhere and heard the raw screech of crows and the lone single bark of a raven answering and that was all.

  At the Lake Road they turned northeast toward the mill and followed the river deeper into the settlement. The river ran along the righthand side of the road and although it was late in the year and the water was low there was enough of it moving over the rocks so the sound was a constant rolling growl against which the hoofbeats seemed to echo as if the country had determined to announce the party.

  They came over the slight rise of land that hid Back Lake and saw Emil Chase in his suit of dark wool and his broad brimmed dark hat standing alone in the center of the road. The river here was a jumble of great slabs and blocks of granite and the road was narrow with thick scrub woods along the other side. Hemlocks grew both sides of the road and the light that came here was speckled—a step forward or back could dazzle a man’s eyes. Hutchinson silently swore and sat his horse to a standstill and the party stopped behind him. Chase was fifty yards away. When the party approaching stopped, he reached up and removed his hat and held it down before him with both hands. Hutchinson did not know if this was a signal or manners.

  He called out. “Come down the road, Chase.”

  Chase said, “You’re in trespass, Hutchinson.”

  Hutchinson spurred the horse forward and the company follow
ed close. The sheriff sat his snorting horse in a tight sitting trot, the reins gathered hard in his left hand. His right hand he kept on the long pistol snugged under the belt wrapped high around his waist. With his eyes on the miller before him he also swept the underbrush but there was nothing to be seen. All the horses of the company were jittery. There was no way to know if this was transmitted from their riders or some outside force. He rode within ten feet of Chase and pulled up sideways, his horse pointed toward the woods. If there was trouble coming it would be from there. The horse slung itself back and forth in a sideways motion and Hutchinson let it—it offered excuse to watch about him even as he spoke to the miller. Who stood right where he was, hat in hand.

  The sheriff said, “There is no trespass. I’m the representative of the State of New Hampshire.”

  Chase said, “Which State has made no effort on our behalf. Save to beat a man senseless and take him from his home without showing just cause. As if such treatment would have just cause. England and Washington show no desire to address the issue of this territory. New Hampshire wants us but will not treat us as citizens. We have taken the usual step reasonable men must take to protect their families and holdings under such conditions. We are sovereign and thus you have no authority here, now or before or ever again. I ask you this once to leave. I offer that chance. Which is a single chance more than you provided poor Paul Watkin. Who was guilty of no more than many men and less so than some.”

  Hutchinson looked down at the stout miller. “Are you the king here then?”

  “I am the magistrate of the people. Nothing more than that.”

  “And if I do not leave?”

  “I shall arrest you for general trespass and gross bodily harm inflicted upon my fellow citizen Paul Watkin. You may submit freely to the arrest and be assured you’ll receive fair treatment. But I also offer, this once, the opportunity for you to quit the country, upon your oath you won’t return.”

  Hutchinson said, “Where is the Watkin man?”

  “He’s safe and resting. He’s been evil mistreated.”

  “If you’ll turn over to me the men who broke him from the jail in Lancaster I’ll see Watkin is well tended.”

  “I know no such men.”

  “Are you not in charge here?”

  Chase looked at him. Then said, “I’m the voice of the people. That’s all.”

  Hutchinson said, “You risk arrest yourself, Mister Chase. You can not interfere with the discharge of my duties.”

  “You have no duties here. Mister Hutchinson.”

  “You know it well, Chase. I’m the sheriff of Coos County.”

  Chase turned his hat over in his hands and studied it a moment. He said, “But you are not in New Hampshire now, Mister Hutchinson. You are in the independent Republic of Indian Stream. And so I arrest you in the name of that Republic and the people who have created her and the Lord God who blesses us with the freedom to do so.”

  And he did not wait for an answer from the sheriff but placed his hat on his head and stepped forward and seized the reins below the bit of Hutchinson’s gelding. And as he did this men rose out of the rocks and trees and brush and woods both sides of the road, some it seemed coming from the river itself. Armed in every way possible and some ways Hutchinson had not thought of before. One man with a fencepost with a great iron spike driven through the top end. Men with hatchets and sickles and horse pistols in their belts. Clubs of firewood. Plenty of muzzle-loading hunting rifles. A man with only a scythe. That with one broad sweep could gut a horse and hook up to bring the man from the saddle like a fish gaffed. More men than he could count but he guessed between thirty and forty. As he reached to drag his pistol from his belt he turned his head back to his company to call out, to tell them to hold themselves steady and, as he did, Emil Chase reached up and snatched the pistol by the barrel. Hutchinson jerked back and the miller kept his hold, letting go of the reins to bring his other hand up and the gun discharged. A roar of human voice went up and then was muted by a shabby volley. A horse screamed and stumbled and fell and the other horses broke apart, wheeling and slashing as their riders fought them and fought also to discharge their own weapons and the men on the road waded in amongst the riders. As they came the riders fired and a new sound came into the air, the sound of men crying out as they kneeled or reeled or fell prone and still. Hutchinson had only the empty pistol which he now used as a club as the woodsmen surrounded him, three or four of them, one with a pistol of his own. Then a man came close and slipped under the club of the pistol and sank a sickle deep into Hutchinson’s thigh, pinning his leg to the saddle and another man stepped up and with a wooden club held in both hands struck the horse behind the eye and the horse went down. Hutchinson tried to roll free but could not with the sickle in him and so felt his other leg crush beneath the horse that tumbled over as if struck by a black wind. The horse kicked once and was still.

  Hutchinson lay pinned by the horse, his cheek in the sand of the road. He was looking back down the road. There were other men lying prone. One up on all fours trying to crawl to the bushes, puking as he went, his head down as if what he could not see could not hurt him. Hutchinson recognized this man as one of his own. Beyond that he saw that most of his company were off their horses and had formed a tight circle, backs against each other, facing out. Some had long guns, others pistols. Those with pistols held swords in their free hands. The horses were running down the road. Some stopped and turned to watch behind them. One horse stood near the band of men, its legs splayed and trembling, its head down. Immense pink and brown loops of intestines spilled from a gash in its stomach, down into the road dust. His men were not attempting to reload their weapons but using them as clubs to batter off the attackers. As he watched he saw one of his men step forward and bring his pistol up toward an approaching man, a farmer Hutchinson knew by sight, and the pistol went off and the man had no face at all but sat on the ground and held his hands up where it had been and then folded sideways. The same member of the company turned then and went after another man coming toward him, charging him with a wild roar and slashing with his sword. The man threw up an arm to ward the blow and the swordsman dropped his blade and swiped hard against the man’s ribcage. Then one of the circled company stepped forward and pulled the attacker back into the group. For a moment it was quiet but for the suck of breath and a feeble moaning. The gutted horse wrenched its head in a terrible moan and collapsed with a wet bursting sound. All the men turned to look at it.

  Hutchinson called out, “Cease, by damn. All of you.”

  At the sound of his voice the militiamen moved together in a clump down the road toward him. He wanted to tell them to remain where they were but his voice had exhausted itself. When speaking his lungs shot with pain and he knew he had broken ribs as well as the crushing his leg endured, where he could feel nothing. As his men approached he saw one of the attackers step close and recognized him. It was Peter Chase, the brother of the miller. His face was black with powder smoke and one eye was closed with a deep bruise and blood welling. Hutchinson drew breath and winced and said, “Where is your brother?”

  Peter Chase said, “Why, it’s the sheriff. How you doing down there, Sheriff?”

  “Where is your brother?”

  “You put a hole in his hand. He’s being tended.”

  “Are you in charge here, then?”

  Peter Chase looked at him. “We’re all in charge here.”

  A mob, thought Hutchinson. His lungs seemed to be filling with blood. He forced himself to speak. If they were talking, they were not killing each other. He said, “This is a mess here. A useless mess.”

  Chase said, “It don’t look so pretty from your angle, does it.”

  Hutchinson said, “Will you kill us all, then?”

  Chase said, “We hadn’t talked that far. We thought you’d have the sense to leave.”

  “We’ll leave now.”

  “Will you, Mister Hutchinson? It’s quite the load atop
you right now, is how it looks to me.” Chase was squatting to look close into the sheriff’s eyes.

  Hutchinson said, “It was my brother-in-law got brained last night. He can’t talk right at all. Like a moron, he is.”

  Chase said, “He wasn’t much of a jailer anyhow.” Then added, “Is what I hear.”

  One of the farmers cried a warning but it was too late. The men of Hutchinson’s company had drawn close, then rushed in to surround the fallen horse and sheriff. A pair of them caught hold of Peter Chase and pulled him to his feet where he struggled briefly but was held with his hands behind his back and a blade against his throat. The man with the knife called out.

  “All of you get back. Up the road. All together. Now. Or I swear to God I’ll cut this man’s throat and then we’ll kill as many of you as we can. If we all die trying. Get back now.” His voice the high pitch of a man gone beyond reason but crimson with rage.

  Another voice came. Steady, firm and calm. “All right. All of you.”

  Hutchinson could only see heavy boots coming across the road. All else was blocked by his own men. But he knew the voice.

  Blood stopped in the road between the two groups of men. He carried only his ox goad. The hound was with him. He spoke to the farmers and trappers.

  “Pay no attention to the militiamen. They are surrounded and you could kill them easy. They’re not the proud bunch rode up here with wrong ideas in their heads. They’ve learned something here today. Kill them if you will, but then there would be a new bunch come after them. Let them gimp home and it will be some time and more than a little thought before they’d try it again. That’s what I think. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

  Hutchinson said nothing.

  Blood did not seem to expect an answer for he went right on. “Kill them, or leave them as they are to gather themselves and make their way home best they can. It makes no difference to me. But when the work is done here, there’s drinks for all. And no charge for it. Mister Chase himself is right this moment setting at his table with his hand wrapped and the fight out of him. It strikes me enough work has been done this day.” And Hutchinson saw the boots turn and begin to walk up the road.