Young Dick

by John Jarvis

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The patrol stopped on Squanto’s whispered command and faded into the bushes beside the trail. A month ago they would have blundered into one another and cursed. Squanto continued his whispering into Richard’s ear.

  “Mohawk war party headed east, maybe looking for raiders. If find us they attack, not ask. I think village maybe not far, best we move slowly, quietly east and make wide circle around.”

  “Sergeant, have the men move quietly behind Squanto; I will take rear guard,” Richard ordered O’Hara and watched them move out. Unfortunately, other eyes watched also from a ridge in the distance: the patrol had been spotted.

  Richard’s slow quiet speed was no match for the war party’s fast quiet speed and he never saw the blow from a club that knocked him unconscious to the forest floor. He never heard the volley of musket fire, nor did he see branches and leaves ripped off by shot as he was dragged away by two near-naked braves. He came to, was dropped by the braves and forced to run after them, tied with a rope. He fell often and was dragged along until he regained his footing, grazed and bleeding. This real life nightmare continued until the war party reached their village and triumphantly paraded Richard past the conical tents towards the center. Richard had never before felt the intense hate that was directed towards him from the men, women and children of the village. He had been fearful when captured by the tribe’s people, but now he was completely and utterly terrified, and like animals the Indians sensed it and strained to tear him apart. Women clasped their knives, ready to flay and dismember, and children made faces and mimed his death: but first, the Chief must decide.

  Richard was thrown onto the ground before a man of huge physical proportions with a shaven head apart from a rooster-like comb of spiky black hair. He gave Richard a frozen stare and looked at his possessions that had been thrown beside him. His escort stood proudly beside him, silently showing their pride in his capture. The Chief was about to claim Richard’s pistol when a high-pitched wail penetrated every inner ear, and a wizened old man clad only in loin skins hopped and danced towards Richard’s possessions. He pointed towards them and canted, chanted, pointed to the sky and then the ground, danced towards the fire and pointed again, then threw a gourd of water into it and then began to dance around the camp, chanting and rattling bones as if to ward off some evil spirit. The women grabbed their children and disappeared, the braves backed away fearfully and, as the bones rattled, even the Chief looked concerned. Breaking the impasse, the old man obliquely approached the possessions, yelled a final curse, scooped up a flat stone and thrust it into Richard’s hand. It was Squanto’s farewell gift: an ancient artifact so worn you could hardly make out the markings etched into it.

  The Chief barked an order, pointed to Richard and then to the forest: no one would approach him. Richard gathered up his belongings and limped back the way he had come. He looked back once to see braves nock arrows and make menacing gestures with their spears, then disappeared back down the trail.

  Squanto found him minutes later and supported him back to his company.

  “It was your stone gift that terrified them, Squanto.” Richard said after he had eaten and rested.

  “Very old very strong medicine,” replied Squanto.

  Squanto stopped the patrol and Richard ordered a rest, more for himself than for the company. He had found it hard keeping up to the pace over the last three days, and his bruising and cuts were only now starting to heal.

  “Trail that way, many signs Indian and white man. Indian prisoners carrying load one way, only white and Indian braves come back. Maybe one month, maybe older not newer,” reported Squanto. “Must not mark trail, but go to water roundabout way.”

  They reached the sea in two days and turned north to reach what was left of Fort Louisville. They trudged through energy sapping sand to avoid footprints below high tide, and it was a relief when the smell of stale smoke indicated they were near.

  Fort Louisville had once been the strongest and most expensive fort in North America but had a weakness: it had been built by the French as a coastal defense against the British Navy and its defenses faced seaward. The British Army had attacked overland, reduced the fort during the Seven Years War, and some of the heavy oak beams still smoldered over a year later. The smell of smoke changed to a more unpleasant one – rotting flesh.

  They found the remains of the captured Indian bearers at the forest edge, twenty of them all clubbed or axed to death. Richard did not need to give any orders; the men searched around until they found suitable driftwood and began to bury the remains. Richard’s gamble had paid off: the raiders were using Louisville harbor to ship out the stolen goods. He would have liked to tour the ruins of the fort but had not the time; it was the harbor and what might sail into it that interested him.

  “What are the Indian tactics if they are ambushed?” Richard asked Squanto.

  “They fall back, circle around, then attack,” answered Squanto.

  “We will have to find a place inland and well out of the sounds of gunfire being heard in the harbor,” said Richard.

  “Use trail, this side no matter,” advised Squanto.

  They found an ideal ambush site less than a mile down the track. A ridge protected one side of the trail from infiltration and Richard set a second ambush to the right and rear. They settled down to wait, eating only cold food.

  At dawn on the second morning Squanto shook Richard awake.

  “Ship came in the night, no lights.”

  Richard splashed some water from his flask over his eyes to wash the sleep from them. He was in an awkward situation: he should return to the coast and check out the ship, but what if the raiders came when he was away? He whispered up Sergeant O’Hara, who advised him to go.

  “We can handle the ambush, Sir, with the Indian’s help; you are the only one that knows about ships: I say go, Sir.”

  Richard went, fast; he had no cause to move silently and reached the harbor in under an hour. Crawling the last fifty yards, Richard looked through the last stand of bush, wishing he had a ship’s glass. A medium-sized merchant ship around 800 tons rode at anchor in the harbor: she was definitely French, judging by the rake of her bow and masts, but she displayed no colors. She rode bow on, no doubt to deploy any bow chasers, so Richard could not make out her name on the stern. There was a watch on board but no landing party on shore. The sea was her moat. Richard had seen enough; he had to return to his men.

  The ambush was sprung the next morning. The raiding party, making no attempt to move quietly, could be heard half a mile away; Richard’s men had plenty of time to check their flints and powder pans.

  “Steady, lads, fire on my command: first file muskets move forward pistols, then drop. Second file muskets, hold your positions, then pistols. Do not shoot the bearers or you will be carrying their loads.” Sergeant O’Hara was in charge of the first ambush.

  Richard’s orders were of a different type: “Fire at will, then pursue; we must drive them away and give the impression we are a full company.”

  The Sergeant waited until the scouting Mohawks were almost upon them and had sensed their presence.

  “Fire!”

  Ten muskets discharged, dropping three Indians and causing pandemonium within the raiding party; it was difficult to see if they had suffered further casualties. Ten pistols fired, causing definite hits, and the Indians faded away into the right of the forest. The volley from the second file ripped through the remaining raiders, causing the sole survivor to throw down his musket and surrender. The captured Indian bearers hugged their grounded loads in fear. They could not flee, being roped to their burdens.

  The counter-attacking Mohawks came through the forest like cats. Had they all been moving obliquely they would have been difficult to hit, but most ran head on into the second ambush. Richard’s men fired, and then charged forward, screaming and drawing their knives. Squanto let out a terrifying war cry and threw his spear, transfixing a brave to a tree. The sight of drawn
knives, still-loaded pistols and an unknown number of attackers caused the Mohawks to flee far back into the forest. They did not return.

  Richard counted the casualties among his men: one dead from a thrown tomahawk, one seriously wounded from a musket shot and two slightly wounded by knives. The raiders lost six Mohawks, three Frenchmen and one load bearer. There were no wounded; Squanto had seen to that.

  There would be no time to bury the dead; Richard had to move fast if he was to take the ship by using a ruse. He had the belligerent Frenchman dragged out of earshot and gave him a choice: “I can turn you over to the Indians and let them have their justice.” The belligerence was replaced by fear. “You can accompany us in an effort to capture the ship in Louisville harbor and any sign of betrayal will mean your instant death, and if we are successful you will live: which is it?” Richard asked.

  The Frenchman winced, not at the choice of a slow or quick death against life and hope but at Richard’s atrocious French. “I go with you.”

  It was the Indian bearers’ turn to choose. “Can you speak their language?” Richard asked Squanto.

  “I can speak to them,” answered Squanto.

  “Tell them they are free and may take the dead Mohawks’ weapons and return to their homes, but also tell them about their brothers we buried by the sea and ask them if they will join us in an attack on the ship and share some of the spoils.”

  Squanto untied one of the braves and together they untied the rest; he then spoke to them as equals, helping them to regain their pride. They answered without a discussion.

  “They come to help your attack and to sing their dead brothers into the next world, no want spoils, they are in your debt too much,” Squanto translated.

  “Good; now tie them up again loosely and have them conceal their weapons in the packs. Can any of them swim?” Squanto smiled in reply. “I will leave behind four men to carry the dead and help the wounded. Sergeant O’Hara!”

  Sir!”

  “Can any of our men row a longboat?”

  Surprisingly, four of them could. Richard called together Sergeant O’Hara, Squanto and the leader of the bearers. “Have the men strip the jackets off the dead French sergeant: the plan requires strict timing to succeed, so listen carefully.”

  The revamped raiding party arrived at the edge of the forest at noon. The Frenchman, with O’Hara’s pistol rammed in his back, signaled the ship with a wave. The party could see the sun reflect off more than one glass from the ship as they were well scrutinized. After what seemed an age, a longboat was lowered and a crew of six began to row towards the shore. They landed but kept the longboat afloat the loads of beaver pelts and stolen items would ground the boat otherwise. Two of the sailors shouted a greeting to Jean-Paul the Frenchman, who made a tight-lipped reply. This was the crucial moment: an alarm now would leave them with only a partial success if the ship sailed away. The Frenchman played his role and nodded to the edge of the forest where the bearers had appeared. The crew wandered over to inspect the booty; they would receive a small percentage of it. When they stepped out of sight they were quickly overpowered, disarmed and tied up. Their jackets and caps were taken by the four men who could row and two who could not. The new party drove the bearers towards the longboat and began loading, leaving a space in the stern for the non-rowers.

  At a nod from O’Hara, one of the bearers slipped his lead and raced down the beach; he was incredibly fast. A shot rang out and he dropped onto the hard sand.

  All eyes on the boat were focused on the incident and did not see Richard Squanto and six Indians enter the water armed with knives and tomahawks and begin to swim towards the French vessel away from the landing party. Had they looked they would have only seen Richard’s slow breast-stroke; the Indians had swum the first fifty yards underwater.

  The longboat rowed not too sharply towards the mother ship with the two non-rowers unable to use their oars because of the load. The Frenchman was in the bow, still under O’Hara’s gun. When they came alongside, it almost all came together. O’Hara pushed the Frenchman overboard and shot the French bosun in the face, the two non rowers raised the muskets and fired into the French sailors, and the four rowers clambered aboard and formed a firing line. O’Hara and the two non-rowers followed, but there was no sign of Richard and the Indians.

  The sailors were no match for the disciplined fire of the Sergeant and his men and took cover behind comings and the deckhouse, but the other watches were spilling onto the deck fully armed. There could only be one conclusion.

  Captain Dupries had heard a ‘thunk’ on the timber of his stern cabin and was coming on deck to investigate when the firing began.

  “Merde!” He took in the scene and ran to the rail gun. It was the Sergeant and his men’s turn to take cover. He blew on the match and was about to apply it when it was snatched out of his hand and a knife prodded his throat. The noise he had heard was Squanto’s harpoon securing the rope that the Indians used to climb aboard. Richard had entered the open stern window hoping to capture the Captain and was the last on the quarterdeck.

  The sight of the savages and the rail-gun trained on them caused the French crew to pause.

  “Surrender your ship, Sir, and live, or fight on and die,” Richard ordered. Captain Dupries slumped in Squanto’s embrace and ordered his crew to lay down their arms.

  ’We have done it,’ Richard thought to himself. O’Hara thought about the Frenchman he had heaved into the water and checked the longboat; he was nowhere to be seen and stayed that way.

  Allowing the French crew no time for second thoughts, Richard issued a series of orders to secure the ship. The crew was bundled down into the hold and locked in with guards on the door and hatches, the Captain confined to his cabin with Squanto as a babysitter, the dead heaved overboard, the wounded sent to a makeshift sick bay, and the remainder of the loads brought aboard after a quick burial of the dead soldier.

  The Indians swam back to shore and prepared their dead for the final spiritual journey and then disappeared into the forest without a farewell wave.

  The ship ‘Juliet’ had no doctor, so Richard attended to the wounded with what medicines he could gather. As he probed and patched he told the crew members they would be released once they reached New York because they were not responsible for the Captain’s crimes and had only obeyed orders. The French found Richard rather strange, shooting the hell out of them one minute, then patching them up the next, but they accepted his explanations.

  The Captain was a beaten man and terrified of Squanto. He readily agreed to plot a course to New York and take his chances there. Richard had no navigation skills, a fact he concealed from the Captain, but he could read a chart and check the landmarks as they sailed south with the coast on the starboard bow, and he made the Captain aware of this.

  Sergeant O’Hara’s detailed search of the ship revealed a pleasant surprise: Juliet was carrying an almost full cargo of pelts and furs worth a small fortune.

  A skeleton crew sailed Juliet south, always supervised by armed guards and the Captain by Squanto, who had recovered his harpoon and carried it everywhere, looking like some native Neptune. The weather was kind and the wind fair for the uneventful journey that saw Juliet sail into New York harbor a week later.