Savage Destiny (The Hearts of Liberty Series, Book 1)

by Phoebe Conn

  * * *

  By the time Hunter caught up with General Braddock's forces, they were encamped at Will's Creek. Since he had last been there, the former Ohio Company's trading post had been fortified with a log stockade. Barracks and powder magazines had been constructed, and the site renamed Fort Cumberland. Consisting mainly of British regulars, joined by colonials and sailors, there were twenty-two hundred men under Braddock's command.

  Located where the creek joined the Potomac River, the newly built fort was on a rise surrounded by thick stands of oak and chestnut. Teeming with men and crowded with pack animals and wagons, the fort presented such a disorganized maze, that it took Hunter half a day to find Byron. He knew better than to merely walk up and tap the young man on the shoulder, and so waited until an opportunity presented itself for him to approach Byron while he was alone.

  Hunter started for him then, but he was still ten feet away when Byron glanced up and saw him. The look on his face was anything but welcoming, but Hunter kept right on coming. No fool, he came to a halt just beyond Byron's reach. "I have some very bad news for you," he announced so softly only Byron would hear.

  Byron nodded toward the open gate of the fort; with Hunter following close behind, he skirted the wagons parked nearby and walked out into the forest. When he was certain their conversation would not be overheard by any curious strangers, he turned to face him. At first glance he hadn't noted much difference in Hunter, but now he saw the last ten months had given the brave's features the same lean, forbidding hardness he saw reflected in his own mirror.

  "When we last parted, I'd no idea you'd seduced my sister. You couldn't possibly have any news worse than that."

  Hunter attempted to explain how Melissa had spurned him rather than the other way around, but he could tell by the sheer meanness of Byron's sneer that he wasn't being heard. "I've married Alanna," he announced abruptly. "So you can't kill me, for her sake."

  Killing him was precisely what Byron had been plotting, and he took a step forward. "You married Alanna just to keep us from killing you? I had no idea you were that great a coward."

  Knowing how deeply Byron had been hurt, and would be again, Hunter refused to be insulted. "You fought with me last summer. You know I'm no coward."

  Byron spit on the ground. "There are no words ugly enough to describe what you are!"

  "I'm your cousin's husband, part of your family, but that isn't the bad news."

  "The hell it isn't! What do my parents say about this?"

  As they talked, Hunter kept a close watch on Byron's hands. He hadn't reached for his knife, but his fingers were curled inward, as though he soon might. "They won't listen to the truth, so they aren't pleased."

  "Lying bastard, you don't even know what the truth is."

  "And neither do you." Hunter waited a moment, and then, in as gentle a manner as he possibly could, he related how Elliott had died. He told the whole story: how he and Alanna had hidden in the forest, and later killed the braves who had murdered Elliott. He described bringing the body home, and the fine funeral his brother had had. When he finished, he waited for the questions he was certain Byron would want to ask.

  Byron recalled the Abenaki who had attacked their wounded, but that they had killed Elliott was too painful a tragedy for him to accept. He listened to Hunter in dumbfounded silence; tears began to roll down his cheeks. Meaning to comfort him, Hunter took a step forward, but Byron shrank back.

  "Get away from me. You spread death like the plague, and I don't want you anywhere near me! How can Alanna even stand the sight of you? She was never strong. Has she finally lost her mind? Is that what happened? She must be crazy to have married you!"

  Hunter stared at the distraught young man. He could feel Byron's pain and shared it, but fearing that he was only adding to it, he started to back away. "It's a large camp. I'll stay out of your way."

  He turned then and started back toward the fort. Byron hurled a rock at him, but it only glanced off his shoulder and he didn't break his stride. He had done his best, but he now felt like a fool for ever hoping Byron and he might again be friends.

  * * *

  General Braddock had three aides-de-camp: Capt. Robert Orme, Capt. Roger Morris, and Col. George Washington. It was to Washington that Hunter offered his services as a scout, and on the strength of his past service, he was welcomed enthusiastically. When on the tenth of June, 1755, the army began moving toward Fort Duquesne, he was out in front, combing the woods for any sign of the enemy they knew had to be aware of their approach.

  Three hundred men swinging axes cleared the way, followed by packhorses, wagons, and cannon, while the red-coated British regulars and blue-coated Virginians marched through the trees on either side. The road carved out of the forest was twelve feet wide, and the line of march stretched back four miles. The men traversed steep ridges and shallow canyons, and crossed the countless streams that kept the forest floor damp even in summer. In an undulating stream they surged over the main Allegheny, Meadow Mountain, and Great Savage Mountain.

  On June eighteenth, they straggled into Little Meadows. In eight days the long column had traveled only thirty miles from Fort Cumberland; plagued by fever and dysentery, the men were so disheartened and slow, they could make no more than three miles per day. After consulting with his officers, General Braddock took George Washington's advice, left the heavy gear behind, and moved on with a reduced command of twelve hundred.

  Despite the fact they were bringing only the essential artillery, thirty wagons, and packhorses, the smaller force still crept along at a most unsatisfactory pace. The colonials were undismayed by the roughness of the road, while the British insisted upon leveling every bump and constructing bridges at each trickling creek. Bored with the slowness of their progress, Hunter repeatedly scouted the same terrain, but the French and their Indian allies remained unseen. Occasionally he would find an insult carved into a tree, but it struck him as a prank rather than an act of war.

  On the seventh of July, Braddock's forces were within eight miles of Fort Duquesne. To avoid passing through particularly perilous country, they crossed the Monongahela River near the mouth of Turtle Creek, and traveled on the opposite side. Early the next afternoon, they re-crossed the river in preparation of their final approach to the French stronghold.

  Lt. Col. Thomas Gage led the advance guard, followed by Colonel St. Clair with a work detail. Intending to intimidate the French, General Braddock himself was at the front of the remainder of the troops, creating a splendid parade marching to the accompaniment of fifes and drums. Colorful regimental standards waved in the sun-drenched air, as the light cavalry, sailors, British regulars, colonials, and artillerymen with their twelve-pound cannon and howitzers rolled by.

  Hunter understood the general's purpose, for it was widely believed that when confronted by this superior force, Contrecoeur, who was still in command of Fort Duquesne, would surrender. He was known to have only eight hundred French and Canadian troops, but there was also an equal number of Indians camped nearby. In his most recent scouting expeditions, Hunter had gotten close enough to recognize their tribes. In addition to Abenakis, there were Caughnawagas, Hurons, Potawatomis, Ojibwas, Shawanoes, Mingoes, and Ottawas.

  The colonials understood the Indians' love of warfare, but General Braddock discounted their abilities and considered them no match for his soldiers. The general expected the savages to flee at the first sound of cannon fire, but Hunter knew better. The entire journey he had lived in constant anticipation of an ambush. That morning he had crossed the river shortly after dawn, hoping to spring a trap and provide a warning if the place where they would ford the river had been fortified, but the natural site was undisturbed.

  Now, as they crossed the river with no sign of French interference, he was positive their progress had been much too easy and still suspected a trap. He had kept an eye on Byron, without ever giving himself away; with the fort within striking distance, he looked for him again. The troop
s from Virginia were at the rear; riding Marshal, Hunter cantered by them as though he had been summoned by the artillerymen at the end of the line. Once past them, he turned and followed close behind the blue-coated Virginians.

  When Braddock's force had successfully forded the Monongahela without incident, Gage's advance guard continued to lead the way. About a quarter of a mile from the river, they crossed a ravine, and an engineer was mapping out the road when a French officer was sighted coming up the path.

  Capt. Hyacinth Beaujeu was stripped to the waist like an Indian, but wearing the badge of his rank, a silver gorget, around his neck. Apparently startled by the advancing English, the Frenchman turned to give a signal; and with shrill war whoops, a large force of French and Indians appeared. Gage immediately ordered his men to form a line and fire. Beaujeu was shot dead during their third volley, and the majority of his troops began to flee. Elated by what appeared to be a swift victory, Gage brought up two cannon and commenced firing, but the forest provided such excellent cover for the Indians, none were hit.

  Inspired by French officers, the Indians rallied, parted to surround the English bunched along the path, and fired from behind the security of the trees. In their bright red coats, the British regulars were easy prey, while their return fire slammed into the trees and wounded no one. Caught in a murderous cross fire, Gage's troops attempted to fall back, only to be engulfed by Braddock's main force rushing forward to their aid. The result was chaos rather than the orderly form of battle for which Braddock had been trained.

  In the rear, the Virginians quickly broke ranks and adopted the Indians' strategy, firing from behind the natural cover provided by the woods. A well-placed slap on the rear sent Marshal galloping back toward the river, while Hunter knelt down beside Byron and began to fire the musket he had been given. "This is no time to argue," he told him. "Just stay alive."

  "Watch your back," Byron warned. "If the French don't shoot you, I will!"

  Hunter laughed as though Byron's taunt had been a joke, but he made his shots count and fought bravely to keep the enemy at bay. When General Braddock rode by shouting for the Virginians to form in lines on the path, the Indian thought the man daft. "Does he want us all dead?" he asked Byron.

  "No, only you!"

  Most of the Virginians hadn't heard the general's order, and kept firing from cover. Hunter saw George Washington ride up, and to his utter dismay, heard the general again give the order for them to form lines and fight, as though they were facing French regulars on a European battlefield. Washington, knowing the value of their present tactics, argued forcefully for the right to fight from cover like the Indians, but Braddock refused to listen.

  When his fellow Virginians began to fall back to form the suicidal lines Braddock had ordered, Hunter grabbed Byron's arm. "If you want to live to fight again, come with me," he shouted above the gunfire and war whoops ringing all around them.

  "I'm an officer, I can't leave my men!"

  When Byron tried to pull away, Hunter slammed the butt of his musket into his chin. Byron's knees buckled and, going limp, he fell into Hunter's arms. The Indian picked up the musket and ammunition which had fallen from Byron's hands, and then half-carried, half-dragged Byron down the path. As he saw it, he wasn't deserting, just making a strategic retreat. He found cover for them both, and continued to shoot each time one of the opposing Indian allies came into view.

  A model of bravery, despite his misguided view of how the battle should be fought, General Braddock continued to exhort his men to do their best. Four of his mounts were slain, but he fearlessly climbed upon a fifth. When, after three hours of senseless slaughter he finally realized all was lost and called a retreat, he received a mortal wound.

  Sixty-three of his eighty-nine officers had been killed or wounded, and more than nine hundred of his troops were casualties. Thanks to Hunter's prompt interference, Capt. Byron Barclay awoke with a bad headache to find he was among the few who had been unharmed. Just as Hunter had expected, he was not in the least bit grateful.

  Chapter 29

  In the rash to retreat, Byron lost sight of Hunter. Burdened with the responsibility of calming the hysteria in the able-bodied men and caring for the casualties, he had no time to deal with him. He was ashamed to have missed the last of the fighting, but the demands on his attention were so acute as to preclude the possibility of going after Hunter immediately. He intended to settle the score with the Indian at the first opportunity, however.

  The French were not following the retreating army, and the Indians, bent on stealing anything of value that had been left behind, also failed to give chase. Despite the lack of vigorous pursuit, the terrified soldiers bolted across the Monongahela with a frenzy that brought honor to none. As he lay dying, General Braddock hoped to hold his position until the reinforcements they had left behind could arrive, but rather than make camp, his demoralized troops continued to flee toward Fort Cumberland, and he had to give up the plan. When he succumbed to his wounds two days later, he was buried in the road, so the passing wagons would obliterate all trace of his grave and prevent mutilation of his body.

  Humiliated by a repeat of the previous summer's defeat, Byron's spirits sank lower than despair. They had all believed the addition of British troops would enable them to retake Fort Duquesne, and to have been beaten more by their general's archaic tactics than by French courage, he felt not only disgraced, but betrayed. They had traveled several days but were still some distance from Fort Cumberland, when he again saw Hunter, and his anger burst into a blinding rage. The Indian had been helping tend the wounded, but the brave's compassion meant nothing to the embittered Virginian. He grabbed Hunter from behind; bent on beating him to death, he wrestled him to the ground.

  Although caught off guard, Hunter quickly recovered. He grabbed Byron's wrists and held on, forcefully preventing him from throwing any punches. Infuriated, Byron tried to break free, when he pulled back, Hunter lunged forward, sending him rolling in the dirt. Hunter sprang to his feet and assumed a defensive stance, waiting for Byron to come at him.

  Among the onlookers were several men who had seen Hunter fight Vernon Avey; expecting another brutal spectacle, they cheered him on. Hunter recalled Byron's warning that each man he bettered in a contest, whether it was with his fists or an ax, would bear him a grudge. He wasn't facing an old enemy out for revenge now, though, but the friend who had issued that warning. He took a step back.

  "I don't want to fight you," Hunter swore.

  "Not when I can fight back, you mean!" Byron crouched low, waiting for another chance to rush Hunter.

  Hunter shook his head. "Not ever."

  Determined, Byron took a step closer. "Come on, I know you know how to fight."

  "I have no argument with you."

  "Liar!" Byron screamed. He went for Hunter then, meaning to blacken both his eyes, but the wily Indian blocked his punches and withdrew without throwing any of his own. "Damn you!" the irate Virginian swore. Reflecting his mood, the surrounding crowd grew restless. They wanted blood, and Byron was determined to supply it. Again attempting to knock Hunter off his feet, he threw his whole body at him, pummeled his stomach, and tried to trip him.

  Byron had adopted such a wild combination of tactics, Hunter did not know what to expect from him next, but he again concentrated on repelling Byron's blows rather than landing any of his own. Choosing only to defend himself, he disappointed the bystanders badly, and they began to boo him. Undaunted, he continued to ward off Byron's punches, and hoped the young man would soon come to his senses.

  "You've no right to live when Melissa's dead!" Byron hissed.

  Hunter stubbornly refused to respond to that taunt. Melissa had caused him enough sorrow, and he was far too proud a man to argue about how badly she had betrayed him in front of a crowd of strangers. He just stared at Byron, willing him to see the truth, but sadly, he did not.

  Sick with a consuming rage, Byron saw only a defiant Indian who had cost him th
e lives of a dearly loved sister and brother, and then stolen his fragile cousin's heart. The brave had devastated his once perfect family, and Byron wanted him to pay. "I'm going to kill you," he snarled.

  Hunter had survived similar threats, and wasn't intimidated. He and Byron were of nearly equal weight and stature, but he was certain he had greater stamina. All he need do was wait until Byron wore himself out with threats, and wild punches that damaged only the air. Then perhaps he could reason with him.

  As Byron saw it, he was defending the honor of his entire family; confident he was in the right, he strove to prevail. Each time Hunter backed away, he came at him again. Relentless in his determination to succeed in humiliating the Indian brave in front of everyone, he fought like a demon. He landed only one punch in three, but that was sufficient to fuel his anger.

  Eager to see a less one-sided fight, the crowd coalesced into a solid ring and blocked Hunter's further retreat. Forced to stand his ground, Hunter could bear only a few minutes of Byron's furious assault, before he was forced to defend himself more vigorously. With a methodical rhythm, he came back at Byron with the controlled fury that had made him a champion in New York. He knew how to hurt a man in a variety of brutal ways, but chose to incapacitate Byron with a series of rib-cracking blows that, while painful, would not cause permanent harm either to his body or his looks.

  At first elated by the change in Hunter's strategy, Byron soon realized that the Indian was as tough as he appeared. His anger kept him battling Hunter long past the point another man would have fallen, but he felt only rage rather than pain, until Hunter landed a blow in his solar plexus. The wind forced out of him, he staggered backwards; and when he tried to take a deep breath, the agony that filled his chest made him cry out in pain. Bewildered, he looked at Hunter, knowing he was beaten and expecting no mercy, but rather than knocking him unconscious, Hunter came forward, slipped his arm around his waist, and began to lead him away.