Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  The officer Tap had identified as Major Denny spoke to the general, and the entire detail reined to a halt smack before us. “You are acquainted with these gentlemen, Major Denny?” the general asked, his tone sounding a little aloof if I heard him right.

  “Yes, sir, one of them. The bowlegged jasper is Tap Jacobs, a fine scout and tracker.”

  St. Clair’s shoulders shook like he was loosening the muscles of his back. “If I may inquire, Mr. Jacobs, what are you about?”

  Not the least awed in the presence of a major general, Tap said bluntly, “We’re bound for Fort Washington for hobbles an’ bells on the orders of General Butler, sir.”

  Tap’s pronouncement roused interest in St. Clair. He leaned forward in the saddle and inspected the old scout anew. “What is your regiment, sir?”

  “None, sir. I’m with the contractors, Caleb Downer and Court Starnes.”

  The general leaned the opposite direction in the saddle. “Mr. Jacobs, I pray you won’t take this as a personal insult, but if you are successful in your mission, it will be the first time anyone associated with William Duer has succeeded at any assignment, and I repeat, any assignment, in recent memory. And with that, I bid you good afternoon. Major, if you please.”

  The major’s arm lifted, and the detail swung into motion, passing over the crest of the rise. My initial excitement at seeing Major General Arthur St. Clair in the flesh faded quickly when I realized my delight that he hadn’t learned I was Caleb Downer’s son was downright selfish and grossly disloyal to Paw. St. Clair’s damning words had put teeth in my fears for Paw. He was on the thinnest of ice with the general and his officers, the whole army in fact, and that would bother and worry Paw day and night. Paw set great store by his reputed honesty in his dealings with others, for he believed only the beat of a man’s heart exceeded the importance of his good name.

  I stepped into the saddle and kicked Blue southward. Tap frowned at my sudden abruptness but followed without commenting aloud. I think he was getting used to my moodiness.

  Our next encounter with military personnel headed the opposite direction from us occurred in late afternoon. Across a bridged ravine the road narrowed and twisted to pass around an outcropping of blue stone higher than a two-story blockhouse. In the bend beyond the blue stone marched the lead ranks of a large force of Kentucky militia, citizen soldiers easily identifiable by their numerous pelt caps, walnut-dyed shirts, patched trousers, shabby footwear, and poor weaponry. No military issue muskets or rifles in decent order graced their shoulders. These sons of the bluegrass toted instead light-caliber flintlocks best suited for hunting squirrels, ancient muskets with stocks pieced together with leather thongs and rope, and even older, rusted blunderbusses with flaring muzzles. And their ages were as varied as their weapons, for I spotted graybeards as well as cheeks too young for the bite of the razor.

  The advance ranks, sauntering along haphazardly four abreast, were followed by a covey of mounted officers. “That’s Colonel Oldham on the gray with the black mane. I tipped many a jug with William my early years,” Tap bragged with a chuckle.

  We cleared the road, and the militia went past. Colonel Oldham called out to Tap and saluted the old scout. “Chrissakes but I wish him luck with that bunch of tadpoles and dying fish. One boo in the dark an’ they’ll be crowdin’ behind each other like rats cowering from a lanthorn in the hold of a ship.”

  The comments of the militia as they filed by did nothing to disprove Tap’s poor opinion of them. “Don’t you tell me to be quiet, Sergeant Fox. You ain’t no more a sergeant than my two-year-old mule.”

  “Yesiree, Fox, you lift your nose any higher, it’ll match St. Clair’s, an’ he’s ridin’, an’ you’re a-walkin’.”

  “Shut up, all of yuhs. You’ll spout a different ditty once we meet up with them redsticks. You’ll damn well wish you was home flouncin’ your woman’s skirt then.”

  “Shut your own trap, Haffey. You ain’t seed a live Injun for twenty goddamn years, an yuh won’t be any braver than the rest of us come the fight.”

  Tap could only shake his head. I counted three hundred and forty-eight pelt caps and hats, and the sentiments I overheard regarding General St. Clair, their own officers, and the folly of attacking the redsticks in their Miami towns on the St. Mary’s never once wavered. “It’s a damn sad day for Kentucky, is all I have to say,” Tap concluded. “I’d rather tend the king’s arse than admit I know anyone from that bunch but Oldham.”

  The winter daylight was waning rapidly, and we hurried onward. A few miles later, Tap posed an important question. “Can we make Fort Hamilton afore the horses fail us?”

  I reined Blue to the side of the road and dismounted. We had covered twenty-plus miles since leaving the Dodd camp. By my reckoning, Fort Hamilton was another half-dozen miles. I checked Blue’s legs and those of Tap’s brown gelding. It was a real push for the animals, but both seemed in good fettle.

  “Sure would be special to sleep beneath a roof tonight,” Tap opined from atop his mount. “My bones are achin’ like they was broke an’ never set. I’ll not mention my arse.”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “All right, we’ll push ahead. It’ll be your reward for not griping and carping the whole day. If Ensign Andy Young’s about, perhaps we won’t be turned away. Besides, you’ve eaten every scrap of beef in our poke.”

  The sun was long down and the sunset a dying streak of purple when Fort Hamilton loomed on the far bank of the Great Miami. We forded without difficulty and circled the log pickets to the main gate. The evening sentry barked his challenge from the inside catwalk adjoining the gate.

  “Ensign Young, please!” I replied.

  “Who be you? Answer my challenge, or burn in hell!” cried the sentry.

  The voice possessed a familiar croak. “That you, Private Lawson?”

  By the sputtering curses that erupted on the catwalk, my guess was correct. “You don’t mind, please inform the ensign a friend of Erin Green’s is at the gate. I’d not want you to come to any grief later, Private Lawson.”

  More sputtering curses rent the air. Rupert Lawson was too doggedly stubborn to go himself, but other boots rattled the ladder providing a means of descent from the catwalk and faded into the interior of the fort. A short, quiet wait, and two pairs of boots returned. A new voice called forth, “Identify yourself, please!”

  It was Ensign Andy Young. “Ethan Downer and Tap Jacobs, sir, riding south to the Ohio on General Butler’s orders.”

  “Open the gate,” Young ordered.

  Hinges creaked, and the right-hand gate slowly opened. Andy Young emerged, tricorn clasped tightly against his chest. “Good evening, gentlemen. How may I be of help, Mr. Downer?” he inquired with a friendly smile and firm handshake.

  “Fodder for our horses, hot victuals, and a bed for the night. If that’s too much, we’ll settle for the feeding of our horses.”

  “Nothing is too much for those traveling on General Butler’s orders,” the ensign responded. “I’ll not have it said Andy Young doesn’t abide by the wishes of his superiors. Corporal Balser and Private Langford, step forward!”

  Two uniformed bodies hustled through the gate and came to attention. “Take the mounts of these gentlemen to the picket line on the river. Corporal Balser, you know horses. See that these animals are properly watered and fed from the prairie grass we gathered this morning. I will hold you, and you alone, accountable for their care and protection overnight. Is that understood?”

  Corporal Balser’s prompt “Yes, sir” confirmed he knew exactly what was expected of him. “Satisfied, Mr. Downer?”

  I nodded at the ensign and thanked him. “Then bring your personals and follow me.”

  Tap and I secured our rolled blankets and gear, and Andy Young led us into the fort. Barracks, departmental quarters, and storage depots surrounded the empty parade ground. Grease paper windows glowed in log walls, and the rising smoke of cooking fires hid blinking stars above clay and wattle chi
mneys. Much laughter and caterwauling marked the largest and longest of the buildings as the enlisted men’s barracks. The ensign headed us toward a smaller structure in the opposite quadrant of the parade.

  “There are just three officers on duty, leaving ample room for you two to bunk with us,” reported the ensign.

  Tap, wary how we civilian contractors would be received within the commissioned officers’ barracks, asked from behind me, “We ain’t tramplin’ on any toes, are we, sir?”

  Andy Young paused on the stone stoop of the officers’ barracks. “No, only Captain Steddeman will actually sleep here tonight. Lieutenant Garst bunks in the loft of the quartermaster department. Come along, gentlemen.”

  With a shrug in Tap’s direction, I followed the ensign through the plank door. The old scout mumbled a further protest but quieted while astride the threshold. The sizzle of frying meat and the whistle of steeping water has that effect on souls both thirsty and hungry.

  A private, the only current occupant of the barracks besides us newcomers, cooked at the hearth centering the rear wall. Rope beds holding what appeared to be tick mattresses and woolen blankets filled each corner and the end walls. Wooden dowels and small shelves hung in rows above the rope beds. To the left of the entryway, opposite the swing of the door, stood an upright wooden rack for long guns. To the right reposed a writing desk, complete with clean sheets of parchment, an inkwell, and a small pottery urn that sprouted quill pens. A rectangular table flanked by benches filled the middle of the room.

  Andy Young pointed at the gun rack. “Seat your weapons, gentlemen. This is Private Oakley, who is preparing our dinner. The fare is squirrel shot by Captain Steddeman, beans and dried peas with salt pork and wild onion, bread freshly baked, and black tea freshly steeped. The quality wouldn’t satisfy Miles Starkweather’s palate, but he’s not with us this evening, is he?”

  Hanging his tricorn on a wall peg, the ensign now pointed at the rope beds in the end of the room to the left of the table. “Your choice, gentlemen. Captain Starkweather, Major Denny, and Count Malartie are all in the north with General St. Clair.”

  I was by then feeling unwashed, bewhiskered, and decidedly out of place in such neat and tidy quarters. “Ensign, I would like to look after myself before dinner. May I have a few minutes?”

  “Yes, Mr. Downer, you may. The officers’ water basin and latrine are to the right out the door.”

  “Have you a candle and mirror, sir?”

  Adequately supplied for the venture, I departed the barracks. Mother had always insisted that, weather permitting, we men bathe daily in the creek prior to her serving the evening meal. And to appear unshaven was asking to be dismissed with an empty belly. I stripped naked above the waist, washed with clean water, then shaved by candlelight with Starkweather’s knife. It was sharp as a stropped razor.

  Tap came along, splashed water on face and wrists, visited the latrine, and pronounced himself ready to dine. “I love yer maw, but she’s a mite demandin’ at times, young’un.” Too tired and famished to argue with him, I simply patted his shoulder and agreed.

  Captain Steddeman was present when Tap and I rejoined Andy Young. He was a stalwart officer with jaws big as a steel wolf trap and a closely cropped black beard shot with gray. He said little, coughed constantly, and ate in large gulping swallows. At the conclusion of the meal, he bolted upright and informed the ensign he would “button” the garrison for the night. Everyone at the table sighed with relief as the door banged shut behind him.

  Ensign Young dismissed Private Oakley, and Tap, yawning and shaking his head, refused a final slurp of whiskey, a rare event, and retired to the rope bed of his choice. I took the opportunity to shuck my moccasins and thoroughly dry my feet and footgear in front of the hearth, for while sleeping away from the fire in the open at night protected your scalp, it was an injustice to your lower limbs. I did apologize to Andy Young for the rank smell I unleashed. But the ensign merely smiled and poured more tea into my noggin. “Captain Steddeman won’t be offended, either. He constantly preaches that damp feet are more dangerous to the frontier officer than the redsticks.”

  We talked about Erin and Molly Green, the ensign wondering how they could be spared the rigors of a protracted campaign. Neither of us had a solution to that dilemma for mother or daughter. I made no mention of the incident with Erin and Hookfin. The warmth and longing in Andy Young’s eyes as he discussed Erin and her situation said everything. He was more hopelessly in love with her than I.

  Once Tap was settled and snoring, the ensign went to the writing desk and fetched a sheaf of rolled parchment from a side drawer. “Mr. Downer, I have something that might be of interest to you.”

  I set my noggin aside and waited as he unfurled the sheaf and spread two sheets of parchment side by side on the table. “I’ve not yet shared this with my superiors. What I’m showing you I discovered while reviewing supply vouchers, shipping manifests, and other documents for General St. Clair.”

  “Why would they be of interest to me?” I asked, honestly perplexed.

  “Because you did Erin Green a great service at your own bidding, and you are deserving of something in return. These papers may have much to do with your father’s present troubles, namely, the failure of William Duer and his agents to supply adequate equipment, rations, clothing, and powder for General St. Clair’s campaign.”

  “Keep talking, Ensign,” I said, suddenly captivated by his every word. I swung my bare feet beneath the table so I was facing him.

  “Let me explain. My father, Falkner Kensington Young, the Third, owns the largest shipping and trading house in Philadelphia. Until I talked him into letting me seek a future with the army, I clerked for the family firm, certifying shipping manifests at the company wharves. I spent many months doing precisely what I did with your father at the Fort Washington landing in September. I counted and verified cargo as it was off-loaded from numerous ships. Later, at the company offices, we would review the manifests a final time to insure they were in proper order and that they had been signed by all required parties before payments were extended to ship captains. My father was very exacting and had a passion for accuracy. So, Mr. Downer, I know of what I’m speaking.”

  I had a sip of whiskey from the table jug. “I’ll grant you that, Ensign.”

  “Good. Now let’s look at the shipping manifest to your left for a Kentucky boat captained by Dyson Barch. The boat sailed from Fort Pitt 15 September. It landed at Fort Washington 25 September. The manifest reads sixty saws, sixty broadaxes, sixty adzes, forty dozen files, four hundred pairs of overalls, twelve hundred pairs of stockings, one hundred dozen musket balls, twenty-four kegs of black powder, and so on and so forth. And here, near the bottom, certifying that the quantity of each item listed on the manifest is true and correct, are the mark of Dyson Barch and the signatures of your father, representing Duer, and me, the officer on duty at the Cincinnati landing 25 September. At the very bottom, affixed later, we find the signatures of Court Starnes, chief agent for William Duer, along with that of Army Quartermaster Samuel Hodgdon, these last two required to initiate payment by the army for equipment and supplies received in proper condition.

  “The Barch manifest was included in a bundle of documents given to me by Samuel Hodgdon on the orders of General St. Clair during their stay here yesterday evening. Mr. Downer, General St. Clair has no confidence in Samuel Hodgdon, who is very careless with details in all his transactions. And being personally acquainted with my father, the general asked me to check that the documents were in proper order and that each bore the required signatures, then forward them back to him for final signature and eventual payment of the monies owed Starnes and Duer.”

  The ensign wet his throat with a swallow of tea. “Captain Dyson Barch has a patched eye and a livid scar that runs from the center of his forehead down alongside his nose to the corner of his mouth. I remembered the captain, and hence his boat and its cargo soon as I started reading the manifest.
What I didn’t recall was that the quantities he off-loaded were so generous. I remember them being no more than half of what is shown here. And the more I dwelled upon it, the more I trusted to my memory.”

  I couldn’t help it, my hackles rose. “Now, hold on here, Ensign. My paw’s signature is right there beside yours. He made the count with you, did he not?” I demanded.

  Andy Young nodded. “Yes, he did. But that’s not what I’m doubting.”

  I was admittedly confused and getting angrier. “I’m lost, Ensign!”

  “That’s not my signature,” Andy Young stated blunt as a striking ax. “And I believe your father’s is fake also.”

  Hackles sinking fast, I clasped the edge of the table with both hands and gathered the wind he’d knocked from my sails. “Can you prove that?”

  “Probably not in a court of law. But I know how I write my name, and the letters are a tad small for my hand. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t questioned something else about the manifest.”

  “What about Paw’s name?”

  Ensign Young tapped the second document on the table with a finger. “This is a voucher prepared by your father to request payment for packhorses purchased by him at Limestone, Kentucky, last month. Notice anything unusual about his signature here compared to the Barch manifest?”

  I studied the voucher, the Barch manifest, then the voucher again. “Not much difference that I can tell except his signature on the voucher for the packhorses isn’t nearly as neatly written as that on the manifest.”

  “A sharp eye for detail, Mr. Downer. That’s what led me to finally conclude that I’m correct, that the Barch document is a forgery. Your father and I signed the rightful manifest atop an overturned hogshead that made do for a desk at the landing. These fake signatures, besides the inappropriate size of the letters in my name, are too neat, too precise. They were rendered with great care by the forger, too much care!”