by Pete Clark
“A witch told you this?” Prescott asked.
“I’m very approachable.”
“Wait; was it the witch of Monmarche Swamp?” Guyasuta was excited.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask her.”
“But she told you about the secret way to the door?”
“She did say ‘secret way.’”
“It must be her. We can ask her to tell us exactly what we need and what lies beyond the door! It is said that there lies a maze of such complexity and doom that it is nigh impossible to pass without the help of the witch.”
“Oh,” said Boone.
“Oh, what?” Guyasuta asked.
“I may have shot her in the face.”
“That might make her not want to help us,” Dawes added.
“Maybe if she isn’t dead, she will still help?” Marchand posed hopefully.
“I’m pretty sure she’s dead. Look, don’t judge me; she wanted me to marry her. I have things to do.”
Franklin rose. “There isn’t anything that can be done about that. We simply need to decide what our next step is. Where shall the path take us? Upon what mighty river will our fates drive? Down what icy slope shall our destinies slide?”
“To that magic door thing in New York, that’s where,” said Boone.
“Right,” said Franklin. “But who is to go? I think that Revere and I are too crucial as symbols to the revolution to take part.”
“Fine,” said Prescott. “But let’s not forget the qualifications that the dead witch told ‘Quick Draw’ over here.”
Boone was about to retort when the tavern door opened and a man in a British officer’s uniform walked in.
“Deus ex machina,” said Dawes.
“That doesn’t even make sense now.” Prescott rose and inserted one of his pistols into the eye of the Brit. “Don’t move. Why are you here? Did you follow us? Tell me and I may not kill you.”
“You have no need for weapons. I too am hunting the Wendigo.” The solder spoke with a thick Scottish accent. “I am here to help you 13, uh 9, men solve the problem of the rippers.”
“Why? And how come you suck so much at counting?” Dawes asked from the comfort of his seat.
“I am Major James Grant. I was here during the last war. And I must tell you, I hate those stupid monsters.”
“Hey,” said Revere. “Aren’t you the Fort Duquesne guy?”
“I was in a lot of other battles too, you know. But yes.” Grant approached the table and sat down. “Listen. I overheard everything and a lot of it I had some suspicions of anyway. I want to help.”
They stared at each other. “Well,” Boone added. “I think he is the only native Brit here and we do need people from three different countries. So, that means Grant and Marchand are definitely in on the ‘track down Hannah mission.’ I will go so that takes care of the three countries we need.”
“See?” Dawes pointed out. “He is Deus ex machina.” Alas, Dawes was ignored again. It was making him a little sad.
“Hang on,” interjected Franklin. “Don’t you need to head south and help battle the Indians and British along the western frontier?”
“What? No. Why?” Boone asked.
“It’s 1775. You’re Daniel Boone. I thought you had some kind of commitment to battle along the southwestern frontier for a while,” Franklin said.
“Nope. Not that I can think of. You’re probably thinking of a different Boone. Maybe Ernie Boone or Tex Boone?”
“Never heard of them.”
“Regardless. I have done a hell of a lot of the legwork on this ripper/Roanoke/Croatoan thing. I am not about to be left out now to go and shoot at some Indians.” Boone was getting a bit red in the face.
“All right.” Franklin was trying to be calm. “I was just doing a bit of fact checking.”
“This is hardly the place for that,” said Guyasuta. “Besides, we still need to be sure we have three different job backgrounds, according to the apparently dead witch of Monmarche Swamp.” He looked around the room. “You guys are pretty much all soldiers. I am a scientist. What else do we have?”
“I’m a politician,” said Franklin. “But I’m much too important to die in some maze.”
“Okay then.” Guyasuta nodded. “But we need someone else.”
“I’m a silversmith. But I’m also super important,” said Revere.
“I’m a tanner,” added Dawes.
“What is that?”
“I tan things.”
“Great. That counts.”
“I’m a doctor, monster hunter, and all around swell guy,” said Prescott. Everyone could tell from the simple way that he sat at the table that he was not about to be held away from this one.
“I think that seems to settle it then,” Guyasuta said. “It shall be me, Marchand, Grant, Boone, Prescott, and Dawes. Agreed?”
Everyone nodded.
“Didn’t the witch say it had to be only five?” Marchand asked.
“That is five,” said Grant.
“No, it’s six,” corrected Boone. “But I think she said at least five.”
“You think?”
“If it doesn’t open, we’ll just have one dude go and stand somewhere far away and then we will try it with five. Okay?”
“I guess. It sure would be nice if we could ask the witch,” Dawes jabbed.
“Hey!” Boone was furiously standing his ground. “Sometimes you need to shoot a witch in the face.”
****
Nancy Hart was the cousin of Daniel Morgan. So one could tell from the get go that she was a badass. She had grown up not in the traditional way of many females, but rather as a hunter and woodsman; she had practiced with a rifle her whole life. She had become such a skilled sniper that no man would enter into a contest with her, as a loss was guaranteed. A loss to a woman would be considered humbling to some. If you knew Nancy Hart, though, it was more of an honor to lose to her. She stood over six feet tall. That was tall for a man of the time; it was nigh gigantism for a woman.
Nancy wanted to join the war. Morgan had, over the last several months, put together a special rifle corps called, predictably, Morgan’s Riflemen. In the unit was a man named Tim Murphy, who was perhaps the only sniper on the continent more skilled than Hart. Sadly, as a woman, Nancy was not permitted to join. This was not likely to stop her. In fact, Hart had already grown as a bit of a folk hero. A group of five British soldiers arrived uninvited to her home and demanded that she prepare a meal for them. After some arguing, she agreed, provided that they would leave their weapons by the door as she was not fond of firearms. The soldiers agreed and sat down to what they thought would be a fine turkey dinner. As they tucked their napkins into their shirts, Nancy walked over to their rifles, picked one up, and demanded that they surrender. At first, they thought she was kidding. One stood and she proved her sincerity by making soup of his skull. Her gun still smoking, a second soldier rose to charge her. She dropped the empty weapon, grabbed another, and killed him in mid-leap with a single bullet. The rest remained quite still until Nancy’s husband came home. Then they had a lovely family party by hanging the remaining soldiers.
Such was the woman she was. So, it should come as no surprise that she dressed as a man and joined Morgan’s group regardless of the regulations. Morgan most likely knew who she was, but even he was not about to mess with Nancy Hart.
Meanwhile, America had officially declared its independence. So there was that.
The British had decided that a giant pincer would be the key to choking off the revolution. In order to do this, they essentially divided their forces into two massive armies. The northern army was busy chasing Washington all over the map, while the southern army’s job was to sweep upwards from Georgia, destroying or capturing any armies, forts, or munitions that the colonies possessed along the way. Once the two armies met, then all resistance would have been crushed. Easy as you please. The man to eventually take charge of the southern army would be the arrogant but
brilliant military man, Charles Cornwallis. However, the force was divided into various smaller contingents and the overall leader of the British south was currently the fairly inept and slow moving General Henry Clinton. His forces were assisted by naval commander Peter Parker. That’s right, Peter Parker. He was a knight of the British Empire and, as far as history tells us, not a super-powered man “with the proportionate strength and speed of a spider.” He was a fine seaman nonetheless.
The British force, after a few small victories, was advancing on Charleston and, more specifically, Sullivan’s Island. This was an island thought to be a geographically significant location in terms of establishing a base from which to take control of the region. The area’s importance was valued by both sides and a force of colonials led by General William Moultrie and supported by Morgan and his riflemen, as well as Francis “The Swamp Fox” Marion and his militia, was preparing to enter into a significant engagement.
The first step was to build a fort on Sullivan’s Island as a way to delay and damage the invading forces. While the construction of the fort proceeded, another band of soldiers led by Henry “Light Horse Harry” Lee had been sent by Washington to aid in the defense. He had 2000 soldiers with him, and it became clear that both countries viewed the coming conflict as a crucial moment in the war. The fort was made of weak timber and sand and was only about half finished when the massive British war fleet arrived, led by nine Men of War and the daunting 50 gun command ship Bristol; upon the Bristol stood Sir Peter Parker. As usual, the Americans were widely outgunned and outnumbered.
On the morning of June 28th, 1776, the British fleet made its advance. The massive warships moved toward the tiny fort.
“So you think we can hold them?”
Moultrie, the commander of the fort, looked to the questioning soldier. “I am confident that victory shall be ours.”
This seemed madness to the less than optimistic Henry Lee. “Those guns shall knock this fort to the ground in thirty minutes time.”
“Then we shall fight them from the ruins,” came Moultrie’s reply.
“I sure wish a giant sea serpent would show up and destroy those ships,” Marion said to no one in particular.
The very first ball from the closest British Man of War – Active - shattered a wooden structure just to the left of Marion. The vessel then began firing off rounds in earnest. Three other MOWs sailed past the Active in a flanking attempt. The fort returned fire on the Active and struck her several times, but the barrage continued.
“Those vessels will flank us,” Lee shouted.
“Not so,” said Marion. Ever able to see and set traps, Marion knew the trouble before it hit. “The water is too shallow; they will run aground. Hey look - there is the sea monster I requested!”
Sure enough, from behind the British ships, a large creature of the depths had emerged, obviously provoked by the violence.
Moultrie shouted over the incessant roar of cannon fire. “We need to get men along both sides of the fort’s sandbars to avoid land attack.”
Morgan took his unit to one side and Marion took the other. As they moved their troops into position, the three advancing warships did indeed run aground as Marion had predicted. They dispersed crews to try and free themselves. As Marion and Morgan got into their respective positions, the colors of the fort were shot down and the flag clung to the fallen staff as it hung out of the fort. A soldier nimbly walked to the narrow staff, retrieved the flag, turned back, and hung the colors once more. He was unhurt.
Morgan’s men lined up along the beachhead and Clinton’s large vessel sailed to the bank, looking to unload its soldiers. As each Brit stuck his head above the edge of the ship’s hull, a bullet zipped either right past his ducking head or, on many occasions, right into it. Nancy Hart struck down three Redcoats with her first three shots; only Tim Murphy could say the same.
“Keep up a steady fire, boys,” Morgan shouted. “They shall not set one foot upon our soil.”
True to his word, the rifle fire of Morgan’s special brigade of marksmen was so accurate and continuous that the British were not only prevented from invading, but they also could scarcely lift up their heads to see the sky. Clinton knew he would never get around this wall of lead. Yet he remained in position to draw fire in the hopes that the other beachhead was having success.
It wasn’t. The western land assault team could not land, either. First of all, they were not getting the artillery support they expected. This was partially due to the surprisingly accurate and intense cannon fire from the fort, and also because several British warships were busy fighting the sea monster. Later, Clinton was famed as saying, “These damn colonials are tough, sure, but they’d stand no match if only a bloody sea monster didn’t stir to their defense at every turn.”
Marion was charged with holding back the other landing party. Although his men were no less brave, they did not have the training or skill of Morgan’s force. Also complicating matters was the influx of mudmen shambling at them from their weak side.
“Mudmen!” The scout who let out the cry was overwhelmed and swallowed up by the closest beast. Men fired at the monsters, but the bullets merely struck them with a useless glop.
“Sand,” cried Marion. “We need to hit them with sand.” He called to the beach lines. “Maintain fire to hold off the ships. You men, saw these trees here and those there.” He pointed feverishly to a number of seemingly random trees. “Cut them three quarters through, but don’t let any fall. You men here.” Another group responded to his command. “Pull those sand bags from the lower walls and hurry now.”
All was a flutter. Sawing and firing and running. Marion was cutting a pliable branch from a tree. It was about four feet long and very springy, perfect for his plan. Men returned with the sandbags as part of the lines were being overrun by the handful of mudmen. “Here,” shouted Marion. He positioned two men on either side of the branch and bid they hold it tight. He put a small bag in the center of the branch and pulled it back. He took his best guess at aiming and let loose. The bag sailed through the air as if launched by a bow. It struck the nearest mudman and the sandbag exploded. The sand mixed with the mudman and, in seconds, he was frozen in place like stone. A bullet struck him and he shattered to pieces. Up went a series of huzzahs.
“Stop with those infernal huzzahs. Get more branches and shoot sand at these shambling bitches.”
Another flurry and soon there were four or five “sand launchers.” One soldier was heard to shout, “Build a castle out of this, you dirt encrusted whore.” This was unfortunate as it lacked style and grace, but such was war. At least it was better than huzzah, thought Marion.
With the mudmen done for, it was time to take care of the British. The patriots were holding, but the ship was on the edge of the shoreline and men were preparing to disembark. This was exactly what Marion had planned for.
“I need a man on each of those trees.” The order was quickly obeyed. The awe-inspiring warship was nearly within arm’s reach. Marion climbed atop a large rock to rise above the fray. “Now men, on my command - heave.” Nothing. “That was the command - heave.”
There was a tremendous tearing noise and, a second later, it appeared as if the very forest was launching an attack on the British warship. The weakened trees collapsed on the deck and sides of the ship. The damage was catastrophic. The British commander called for an immediate retreat, but he need not have bothered, as the surviving men of the crippled vessel were already working on it.
As the ship began to limp away in defeat, Marion rose up and shouted. “There, you see now, boys? The power of America. Now you see what you get when you mess with the motherfucking Swamp Fox!”
“Who is the Swamp Fox?”
“It’s me, you bastard. I’m the Swamp Fox.”
The battle was a clear victory for the patriots. They suffered few casualties while the Brits had many. The Americans were also able to recover most of the cannonballs they had fired. It was a large
win that would secure the southern theater from British invasion for the next couple of years. Just a few days after the battle, America declared its independence. But New York, Saratoga, and the Wendigo waited - and that was a different story indeed.
CHAPTER NINE:
The Flowers of the Fallen
Arnold, with the help of Ethan Allen, had captured powder and a cannon from Fort Ticonderoga, which had been invaluable to Washington’s army. However, as the war trudged on, munitions grew scarce and money grew scarcer. The patriots needed to find a way to raise more. Many colonials had already given so much that it would be difficult to keep pumping them for money, but it was desperately needed to pay the soldiers and to procure supplies, such as clothing and food. The revolution was in dire straits, largely due to money.
Franklin and Revere informed Marion and Morgan, along with Arnold, of what Prescott and the others had discovered, as well as what they were doing. Marion, Morgan, and Arnold, having played significant roles in the previous anti-ripper movement, were considered valuable to the group. They got together to discuss both the problem of the cause’s lack of funding and what they could do to help the anti-ripper movement, or what Revere had started to refer to as the ARM.
“I know where we can find money. We can also find ripper information in the same area,” Marion said, as the three of them rode calm and easy on their horses across the morning sun of Connecticut.
“What do you have in mind?” Arnold asked.
Morgan’s face took on its usual tone of fury. “I think I know what he has in mind and I think it’s a pretty stupid idea.”
“I don’t see why. He wanted us to come back and visit, he has plenty of valuables, and he’s right near our buddy, who is basically our top info guy on the rippers and Croatan.”
“Perhaps you could clarify for my benefit,” said Arnold.
“So we’re friends with this dragon,” said Marion.