by Ron Carter
The man dropped his long rifle and in three steps reached the nearest oak, grasped the lower branches, and swung up into the tree. He was eight feet up when the bear made her lunge. Her reaching paw caught his right leg below the knee, and he felt the five long claws punch through the buckskin leggings and drive into his flesh, and he groaned as he scrambled upward. He was twelve feet up, in the new, budding leaves before he stopped and looked down into the small, hate-filled eyes and at the yellow fangs, and he smelled her rancid breath as he watched those terrible claws rake great curls of bark from the tree as the bear tried to follow him. Slowly she settled, bellowed her defiance, and turned away, seeking her strayed cub.
Eli dropped behind a great granite shaft thrusting from the ground, cocked his rifle, and became perfectly still and silent. The midmorning breeze was in his face, carrying the wild stench of a female bear that had been in hibernation for more than four months, and who had borne a cub before the eternal warming of spring lured her from her lair. Gone was the heavy covering of fat she had gained by gorging on berries and nuts and grubs of the previous fall, until nature told her she must seek a den on the slopes of the Green Mountains for her long sleep through the snows of winter, and for the birth of the cub she carried in her womb.
Without movement, Eli watched the small black ball of fur break from the foliage to his left and come at that peculiar, toed-in running gait to his mother, to hide in absolute safety between her front legs, peering out at a world that was new and wondrous and baffling. The black mother cuffed her cub out in front of her, smelled him all over, then licked him. Satisfied he was unharmed, she grunted at him, cuffed him once more, then moved on into the foliage, searching for tender new buds, and opening rotten, fallen tree trunks with one stroke of her huge paw to lap up the grubs and ants that scrambled. The cub cocked his head to watch her, then harmlessly struck the log with a paw and watched for grubs and ants to appear. When they did not, he moved in beside his mother and licked at those she failed to catch.
Eli remained as he was, watching the mother and her cub slowly work their way into the thick bushes and disappear in the forest. He waited until the exuberant sounds of birds and squirrels resumed to tell him the bears were gone before he stood and trotted toward the man who had remained in the oak tree. He was fifteen yards away when he heard the familiar voice.
“That you that hollered?”
“Yes.”
“Eli?”
“Yes. That you, Sykes?”
“That’s me.
“That was close. You all right?”
“No, I’m not all right. That old girl got her claws into my leg. Can I come down yet?”
“She’s gone.”
Ormond Sykes dropped to the ground and limped over to pick up his rifle before he sat down. He clenched his teeth as he reached to gingerly pull his legging away from the torn flesh of his calf. He grimaced as he examined the three long, deep, bloody gashes. Eli dropped to his haunches, watching as Sykes studied the ugly purple wounds.
“She got me good,” Sykes muttered. He flexed his foot, then moved his toes. “I can still move everything so I don’t think she got any strings, but she got deep there for a ways. Sort of scared me. I don’t fancy walkin’ these woods with only one foot.”
Eli leaned forward to take a hard look. “That needs stitching.”
“I figger so. I’ll let her bleed clean first. Then I’ll close ’er up.”
Eli looked at him. “You got gut? And a needle?”
“Gut. No needle.”
“I got one. I better do the stitching.”
“I can do ’er.”
Eli shook his head. “That’s on the outside of your leg. You can’t reach it very well with your left hand. I better do it.”
Sykes shrugged. “If you say so.” He took off his moccasin, then squeezed the torn leg to encourage the bleeding, and turned to Eli. “You see her cub?”
“Heard him off to my left when I saw you. Only had time to call out before that mother scented you and came looking.”
Sykes shook his head. “It sure won’t do to come between a mama bear and her newborn cub just out of hibernation. Must be gettin’ old. I never knew either one was hereabouts until you hollered and she let out that roar. I was one step too slow gettin’ up that tree.”
“You did well. I think she’d have caught most men.”
“She almost caught this one. By the way, how did you come to be here, just when I needed you?”
“On my way to Boston. Business.”
“Boston? You? What business you got in Boston?”
“Visit an old friend. Get some papers.”
Sykes studied Eli’s face for a moment. “Well, I reckon you’ll tell me more when you want me to know.” He paused to look at his leg. The flow of fresh blood had slowed.
Eli stood. “I’ll get a fire. We’ll need hot water and a fire for the knife and the needle.”
Sykes groaned. “I just hate that hot knife.”
Eli gathered dry twigs and branches, and worked with flint and steel to kindle a flame. He added shavings and then larger wood pieces until he had a fire burning steadily. He tossed Sykes’s bedroll to him, and while the man rummaged through it for dried gut, Eli studied him thoughtfully.
Ormond Sykes was a free spirit who had roamed the northern woods since Eli could remember. British by birth, American by choice, he had no family anyone knew of, no one place he called home, and came and went for reasons known only to him. From 1776 until 1781 he appeared from time to time out of nowhere to report British troop movements to American officers, and then vanish. Twice he had been asked by American officers to risk his life getting a count on British regiments, and had stolen past their pickets, into their camps to get an accurate report both times. No one, including Sykes himself, knew his age. His hair and beard were pepper-gray, his eyes blue and watery, but he could still cover eighty miles through the forest in one day if he had to, and with a little salt could live off the land indefinitely. Eli had crossed his path a dozen times since his childhood, and the two had come to respect each other as friends.
Eli got his pewter bowl from his pack and poured water into it from his wooden canteen, set it on the fire, then went back for his needle. Minutes later the water was boiling, and Eli dropped the gut into it, then stirred it with his knife until it was soft. He opened Sykes’s torn leather breeches to wash the injured leg, took a breath, and looked Sykes in the eye.
“You ready?”
Sykes grimaced. “Got a belt? Or do I use a rifleball?”
“How about a piece of wood?”
“Get it.”
Eli handed him a piece of ancient, dried pine, Sykes jammed it crosswise through his teeth, turned to lay on his left side, nodded, and muttered “Go ahead” past the wooden stick. Eli passed the blade of his knife through the flame until it was hot, and said, “Here it comes.” Sykes clenched his eyes shut and bit down on the stick.
The sounds and the smoke and the cloying, sweet smell of hot steel burning human flesh, and the groan from Sykes, came together as Eli cauterized the three openings. The bleeding stopped and Eli thrust the blade hissing into the steaming water to maintain the temper in the steel before he laid the knife aside.
“I think we got it.”
Sweat was dripping from Sykes. “Took long enough. What was you doin’? Practicin’?”
A grin touched Eli for a moment and was gone. “No. Maybe next time you’ll get to a tree one step faster.”
Sykes raised on one elbow, wiping at the sweat. “Next time you yell quicker.”
Eli passed the needle through the flame twice, threaded the steaming gut through the eye, and said quietly, “Ready for the stitching?”
“No. But go ahead.” He settled back and took a new grip on the wooden stick with his teeth.
For forty minutes Eli used a piece of oak wood to force the needle through the tough flesh of Sykes’s leg, slowly closing the three long, deep gashes. Then he
washed the sewed-up wound carefully with clean, hot water and said, “Finished.”
Sykes was white-faced and trembling, and his leather shirt was soaked with sweat. He reached to take the stick from his mouth. It was nearly splintered. He raised on one elbow to look at his leg and slowly counted the stitches, in three long rows, knots in a line, the gut strings clipped.
“Thirty-eight. Ever seen thirty-eight before?”
Eli shook his head. “Not that I can recall.”
Sykes began to shake. “Cold.”
Eli worked Sykes’s blanket beneath him, then covered him with his own. “Stay warm. I’ll boil tea.”
Ten minutes later Eli dug Sykes’s wooden bowl from his pack, filled it with steaming tea made from leaves Lydia had insisted he take, and handed it to Sykes. He sipped at it, then looked up at Eli with grateful eyes.
“I’m beholden.”
“Not at all.” He laid Sykes’s rifle beside him on the blankets. “I’ll be back directly. You’ll need fresh broth and something to pull the poison out of your leg.”
Fifteen minutes later Sykes heard a single, sharp rifle crack, and soon Eli was back, skinning a young buck deer. He cut the hide into strips, then brought them and the liver to Sykes’s blankets. He slit the liver open, laid it over the stitches, and used the strips of hide to tie it into place.
“That’ll draw out the poison, if there is any.”
Eli added wood to the fire, fresh water to the pewter bowl, then dropped chunks of fat brisket and lean deer ham and salt into the boiling mass until it thickened. He poured it into Sykes’s wooden bowl and waited until it stopped steaming before he brought it to him.
“There’s blood and fat there. It’ll help.”
Sykes sipped at it until it was gone, then handed the bowl back to Eli. “Makes me sleepy.”
“You rest. I’ll be here.”
Eli finished cutting up the deer and hung the front quarters and single hindquarter ten feet above ground level in a tree thirty yards down the gentle north slope, then made his way back through the patchy snow that still remained on the north side of trees and rocks where the spring sun did not reach the earth. He dropped to his haunches beside Sykes, who lay on his left side breathing deep and slow as he slept, and he studied the man’s color. It was returning from white to the brown of years in sun and wind and snow. Eli glanced at the sun in the western sky and reckoned the time to be about half past three. Quietly he fed the fire and set more water to boil to wash the knife and the bowl, and his hands that still showed blood from his work with the torn leg. He walked quietly to the edge of the small clearing, looking for a sapling pine that was tall enough and thick enough, selected one, and used his tomahawk to cut it free at ground level. Twenty minutes later he had trimmed it, shortened it, and lashed a cross-member at the top, then wrapped the crossbar with deerhide. He tucked it beneath his own arm, tested it, then laid it beside Sykes, satisfied the crutch would work.
The sun was deep in the western trees before Sykes muttered in his sleep, then stirred, and opened his eyes. He moved his leg before he remembered, and groaned at the throbbing pain. He raised himself on one elbow, swallowed at the sour taste in his mouth, then saw the crutch, and Eli adding wood to the fire.
“Forgot about the leg.”
Eli walked to him and dropped to one knee to place his hand against Sykes’s forehead.
“Fevered. It’ll probably hold ’til morning. Can you eat some venison strips?”
“I kin try.”
Dusk was settling and the chill of evening was oncoming when Eli came from the fire with ten long strips of deer ham sizzling on a stick, and a bowl of steaming tea. He paused to pinch a little salt onto them, then rammed one end of the stick into the ground beside the blankets. Sykes sat up and reached for the first strip of black, smoking meat.
Eli stood, and Sykes asked, “Where you going? You got to eat some of this meat.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Fifteen minutes later Eli had a huge mound of pine boughs stacked next to Sykes and sat down cross-legged at the edge of the blanket, next to the stick of meat. He reached for the next strip, and spoke to Sykes as he chewed.
“Surprised to find you this far south this time of year. Thought you would be up by the big lakes, or somewhere east of here.”
“I woulda been. But there’s things happenin’ up there that someone’s got to go tell to Congress, or Gen’l Washington, or someone.”
Eli slowed in his chewing. “Bad things?”
The firelight made caverns of Sykes’s eyes and craggy face. “More like mixed-up. Confused, I guess.”
“What’s happened?”
“Well, there was talk goin’ ’round up there about the British bringin’ in muskets and cannon and shot, and supplyin’ the Loyalists up above the Canadian border, gettin’ ’em ready to attack from up there. Raisin’ an army.”
“You mean after the surrender? The British surrendered a year ago.”
“I know that. But this was like they was secret in tryin’ to raise an army of American Loyalists to do what they couldn’t do theirselves.”
Eli was not moving. “Go on.”
“So I decided to take a look up there. I been up there on snowshoes since January, lookin’ for this Loyalist army. All up and down the St. Lawrence, clear to the big lakes. Erie. Huron. Michigan. Ontario. Superior. All of ’em. There isn’t no such army up there. Just talk.”
Eli shrugged. “Talk can’t do much harm.”
“That wasn’t all. While I was up there I took a look at all them British forts. The ones they was supposed to abandon when they surrendered. Well, they ain’t doin’ it. They still got their army up there, holdin’ them forts, and they’re closin’ off all Americans from gettin’ to the lakes. All the fishing and fur trade, everything. The peace treaty says they can’t do that, but they’re doin’ it. I seen it.”
Eli’s brow wrinkled down in question. “Are they trying to start another war?”
Sykes chewed for a moment before answering. “You’ll have to ask the British. But there’s more. Rumor reached us up there that the British are also workin’ with the Barbary pirates to capture American sailors and make ’em swear loyalty to the British crown.”
“The Barbary pirates?” Eli exclaimed. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Neither could I. Then I heard the British and the Spanish are both tryin’ to shut down our ships from usin’ the Mississippi River.”
Eli had forgotten about the venison strip in his hand. “The British gave us use of the Mississippi in the surrender treaty. What have the Spanish got to do with it?”
“The British might of give us use of it, but that’s not what’s happenin’. As for the Spanish, they told us the river was closed to Americans anywhere the Spanish had control of both sides of it. And they’re closin’ it.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. The French got wind of the Spanish closin’ the Mississippi, and they joined with ’em. Then they told us we was to quit tradin’ with the French islands down in the West Indies.”
Silence held for a moment before Eli spoke. “Wait a minute. The French helped us at Yorktown. Matter of fact, I don’t think we’d have won without them. Now you’re telling me they’re doing things to hurt us? The French and the Spanish?”
“That’s what’s bein’ said up north. So I figgered someone better come on down and tell Congress. Or someone.” Sykes paused, then remembered, and went on.
“One more thing. There’s rumor up in the north woods that no one knows whether Vermont is even a state. Seems like New York claims Vermont, and Vermont claims to be an independent republic, and the British was tryin’ to make a deal to take Vermont as a British colony. I can’t hardly follow all that. I thought Vermont was one of the United States.”
“I know about all that. I live in Vermont. That’ll all work out.”
Sykes worked on the hot tea for a time. “Well, anyway, you asked what I’m doin�
�� down here. That’s the answer.” He turned his head to look at Eli. “You live in Vermont now?”
“Yes. Near my sister and her husband. I married five years ago. I have a four-year-old daughter.”
“Your wife?”
“Passed on.”
Sykes’s face fell. “Sorry to hear it. Sorry.” He went on. “Headed for Boston? For what?”
“Business. Some money there.”
Sykes’s brows raised in surprise. “Money? Never figgered you to be interested in money.”
“I’m not.”
“Never figgered you to marry and settle down, neither.”
“It happened.” Eli raised the cool venison strip and took a bite.
For a time both men sat in the deep dusk with the firelight working on their faces, each with his own thoughts. Suddenly Sykes raised a hand.
“I’m goin’ to be laid up here for a while, maybe a week, ten days, an’ then I’m goin’ to be walkin’ slow for a while. If you’re goin’ to Boston, why don’t you talk with someone there and tell ’em what I seen up there. I mean about the British forts, and there isn’t no Loyalist armies. Maybe about the Mississippi, and the Spanish and French.”
“You want me to do that?”
“Don’t you think someone ought to know? Washington, maybe?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then you tell ’em. You’ll do it better’n me. Besides, I can’t hardly abide bein’ in a town. Hate it.”
“I’ll see what I can do. For now, I’m going to spread those pine boughs to sleep on, and feed the fire. Tomorrow I’ll build a lean-to. We might be here a while. If that leg goes rotten, we’ll have to take care of it.”
Sykes’s mouth fell open. “You mean cut ’er off?”
“If we have to.”
“Well, now,” Sykes stammered, “that’s not goin’ to happen.”
“I hope you’re right. A day or two will tell. For now, we leave that deer liver where it is overnight and take a look in the morning.”