Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Tap’s grin faded as rapidly as it had appeared. “No, it ain’t,” he agreed. “But it pains me that you young buckos have no patience with women. You barged about thataway huntin’ game, you’d waste away within the month.”

  Curiosity cooled my temper. “What you mean now?” I inquired.

  Tap’s sigh was only slightly less powerful than the wind. “Dreamers like the mistress ain’t to be hurried. They don’t rush into a man’s arms. They pick and choose their lovers with deliberate care. Around her kind, you go nice an’ easy like the last thing you want is even the smallest kiss. You don’t frighten them off before they can warm up to you. But you best remember, you win her over, you better be prepared to have her in front of your fire forever. She’ll stick to you like a woods tick.”

  “She’s after someone rich enough to build her a mansion,” I pointed out. “She ain’t gonna share her blanket with any man whose horse belongs to his Paw.”

  “For chrissake, Ethan, have a little faith in my judgment of women. Dreams are just wishful longings that hardly ever bear a full tree of fruit for anybody. Your shoulders are plenty wide, you ain’t downright ugly, and twice you risked yourself for her of your own choosin’.” Tap grinned knowingly and winked. “You stop snortin’ an’ pawin’ like a rogue bull ’round her, she might discover she’s in love with you. Ain’t no man gonna get close to a woman who’s fearful of him, not a beautiful one, that’s for damn certain.” Tap’s expression grew serious. “Here she be, lad.”

  “Sorry I was so long, Mr. Jacobs. But I’m rested and ready to follow along,” Erin informed the old scout. She did nod my direction as she stepped twixt the two of us.

  “We’ll take another blow middle of the night, somewhere near water,” Tap announced. “Sharp lookout now, Ethan. We’re more likely to encounter Shawnee on the fringe of St. Clair’s fortifications than here in the deep woods.”

  Our course remained north by northwest, the pace fast and steady. Tap’s counsel was foremost in my mind every stride those many hours. I didn’t doubt what he told me, but it was ridiculous for him to expect I could suddenly be meek and mild and gentlemanly in the presence of Erin Green. The beauty of the woman plain and simple set my blood racing so lightning fast I was afraid my heart might explode from my chest. And her sass and spunk and cleverness, instead of tainting her appeal, only added to her allure. It was all I could do at that very moment to keep myself from sweeping Mistress Erin Green into my arms and having my way with her. My frustration was such I wanted to yell ahead to Tap that patience and rectitude was expected of saints, not young men on the scent.

  I might have dwelled upon that seemingly impossible situation the balance of our night march had not Tap turned my attention elsewhere, a feat he accomplished with a single, probing question: “What you gonna tell your paw when we see him next?”

  At his asking, we were resting beneath the wall of a cut bank that bordered a north-south-running stream. The lip of the cut bank rose no higher than my waist, but once I squatted on my heels, the wind, flowing from the west, blew above my flop-brimmed hat. The mistress, chewing deer jerk and sipping water from the canteen, shivered repeatedly. The moonlit night was as cold as Tap had predicted. “Well, how are you gonna explain yourself to your paw, Ethan?” the old scout asked again.

  “Ain’t much I can say. I was to guard the riding stock. Those were Paw’s exact orders. I’d no permission to do otherwise,” I conceded, “and Paw won’t be inclined to forgive my abandoning my post, whatever the excuse.”

  Erin Green swallowed hastily to clear her windpipe. “You disobeyed your father to rescue me, didn’t you? You’re in trouble because of me, aren’t you?” Her head spun toward Tap. “And what about you, Mr. Jacobs? Are you in trouble with his father?”

  Tap nodded. “Afraid I am. Caleb was countin’ on us returnin’ south with him jack quick to fetch more supplies. He don’t hold with strayin’ from your intended business.”

  “Particularly if it involves helping the daughter of a worthless camp follower,” Erin insinuated.

  “Now wait here, by God,” I blurted. “That’s unfair. Paw wasn’t aware you’d been taken, and the army refused to send out a search party.”

  “Easy, Ethan,” Tap said smoothly, lifting a placating hand. “He’s right, mistress. Let’s not condemn Caleb Downer too quickly. He wasn’t at our fire when Tor Devlin sought us out, an’ Ethan an’ me lit a shuck before he returned from his confab with General St. Clair. It ain’t helpin’ you that has us in trouble. It’s Ethan sneakin’ off agin his paw’s orders an’ me followin’ after him the same way. The reason we done it ain’t important.”

  Erin eyed me with concern. “It was my own fault I was taken. It wouldn’t matter if I apologized to your father for upsetting his plans?”

  “No,” I answered promptly. “It’s better Tap and I report to him alone. Paw’s mighty forceful and strict, but he ain’t cruel. I’ll get what I deserve.”

  Tap’s head shook. “So will I. He won’t be any easier on me ’cause I’m older an’ sided him for years, neither.” The old scout stood upright. “Too bad your paw ain’t swayed by beauty liken us, Ethan. The upcoming mornin’ would appear a tad brighter if’n he was. I’m just thankful he ain’t prone to the whip. Follow me, children. We’ve a distance to mosey yet.”

  Tap quartered toward the northeast now and slowed our pace after pushing hard for an hour. Though we were on the move constantly, the cold made you want to rub hands and stomp feet. The wind finally died to a bumbling rush of air. The moon fell, and it was black and silent all about as prowling creatures sought lair and nest. Our footfalls on the dry leaves sounded thunderously loud, the scrape of dry branch on cloth almost a screech. At the top of a small hillock, Tap stopped to listen and perhaps judge our direction. We plunged onward, the mistress remarking more to herself than anybody how small and insignificant and alone a mere three travelers seemed in the vast Ohio wilderness.

  The harrowing suddenness of that vast wilderness struck a pulse beat later. I was churning inside as to what punishment Paw might proscribe for me. I’m sure the mistress was lost in her own thoughts. Tap’s attention, thank all that’s holy, was where it belonged. The old scout’s fist shot skyward, the signal accompanied by a blunt, hastily whispered, “Down an’ be quiet.”

  My eye caught the rise of his arm, my ear the hissed warning, and I paused in midstride. The distracted mistress for once suffered a misstep. Tap’s abrupt halt startled her, and she stumbled, toppling toward his crouching backside. I lunged forward, planted a foot, and hooked my right arm around her upper body, arresting her fall. In the flurry of the moment, I was acutely aware of the press of my arm against her bosom. She had at least heard Tap’s whispered command, for she offered no resistance. She settled against my solidly braced chest and we sank slowly downward. I came to rest on my left knee, my grip securing her all the while.

  Tap’s spine was rigid as a fence post. The flat of his palm, fingers spread wide, appeared inches from our noses. His alarm was unmistakable. Danger, great danger was upon us. Erin gathered breath without noise but made no attempt to alter or escape my grasp. Me, I tried to focus on what threatened us and not what I held. Be damned, be damned, but I would forever be a heathen sinner.

  Shadows fluttered and joined and separated scant yards from where we knelt. I counted silently as ten tallish figures at first indistinct but for the bulk of chest and thigh crossed our path. Each shadowy form then passed an opening in the trees. I swore I saw the sharp crest of feathered topknots and the thin, straight line of rifle barrels, and I sniffed the rank odor of bear-greased skin over my own stink and that of the mistress’s rosewater. The unmoving stillness of Erin Green’s every muscle confirmed what I saw and smelled was not a figment of rampant imagination.

  Time crawled. My leg began to cramp. I held out till Tap, palm still raised for quiet, eased back on his haunches. I did likewise, and the mistress came to rest in my lap. She made no effort to es
cape my embrace, and we sat thataway till Tap lowered his cautioning hand, something that occurred before my rising nether parts, roused by her weight and warmth, alarmed her. I loosened my arm, and the mistress, with no great hurry, rolled from my lap. On hand and knee, her lips at my ear, she purred, “For a strong man, Mr. Downer, you can be quite gentle.”

  The touching of my ear lobe, coupled with her compliment, absolutely inflamed me, probably more than anything else she could have done except appear in front of me without her clothing. My bodily excitement growing by leaps and bounds, I stammered an excuse about nature’s mysteries to a puzzled Tap and hustled out of sight. Once hidden by the forest, I sucked wind into my lungs, pumping my chest like a blacksmith’s bellows. I couldn’t get enough fresh air fast enough.

  In a while my head stopped whirling and my heart thudded less severely. For chrissake, I told myself, get a grip on your halter, or you’ll have yourself barging into trees again. Tap’s not lying. Keep stomping and snorting like a stud horse and bolting into the night, and you will turn her against you. I delayed my return long as I dared, dallying about and gathering nerve. Then, with the deepest, most forceful breath yet, followed by a prayerful vow to deport myself in a manner more closely befitting my age, I crossed my fingers and rejoined the mistress and Tap.

  Neither of them acted out of the ordinary. Tap frowned and asked, “Yuh ain’t sickly, lad?”

  I couldn’t help but lower my head and inspect the toes of my moccasins as I said, “Naw, I’m hale as ever. What’s next for us?”

  Tap butted his rifle and sipped from his canteen. “We’ll travel west a half mile, then circle to the north to put a little space twixt us an’ them Injuns. Redsticks don’t often come and go on the same path, but we don’t want to chance over-takin’ them. They’re plannin’ on scourin’ St. Clair’s perimeter for the careless an’ the stupid, what we ain’t.”

  I dallied not at all now. Head still lowered, I said, “Lead off. I’m right behind you,” at the same time sneaking a peek at Erin Green. Catching her unawares, I discovered her studying me, lips curled in a whimsical smile.

  That smile, before it disappeared, told me a heap. She knew. The woman knew. She knew precisely the effect she had had on me with her body and her words. And she was enjoying it, perhaps savoring it. Or so I wanted to believe. Maybe the winning of Erin Green wasn’t such an impossible task. Maybe a poor man could succeed with Molly Green’s daughter. Just maybe.

  That thought put a near strut in my gait. Tap led us west, then north, then northeastward. The old scout was doubly cautious after our initial sighting of prowling Shawnee. Our pace slowed to a crawl of a walk, and he never ceased to peer ’round about. He didn’t need tell us we were approaching the Injun trace bordering the St. Clair camp on the west. There was no upraised fist, he simply motioned for us to kneel, which we did quietly for long minutes while he listened and sniffed the breeze bumbling now from our rear quarter.

  The first faint smidgen of dawn light brightened the open spaces among the tree butts. Frost lay white wherever the ground was open to the sky. When we rose to our feet, my joints were stiff and bunched from cold. A musket boomed to the east, followed by the random firing of other long guns. Tap looked at the mistress and me, his breath freezing in icy puffs. “What a waste of powder an’ ball,” he said, head shaking sadly. “We’ll wait an’ cross the trace in full daylight. Ain’t no way we want to be confused for anything other than white folks by them idjit sentries.”

  We waited without further words. Erin Green sipped water from the canteen and passed the vessel to me without meeting my gaze. Soon as Tap judged the light was sufficient, we advanced to the edge of the trace, where he again peered about and listened with great patience. When he was satisfied we were in no immediate danger, he led us across the worn pathway in rapid strides.

  We regained the trees and continued eastward. Though the breeze blew from behind us, we shortly heard the roll of drums, the lowing of cattle, and the cracking of whips. The wind direction did delay our first whiff of perimeter slit trenches and poorly buried cattle carcasses. I knew from minuscule experience that a large army encamped in the same location for only a few days poisoned the air about itself most foully.

  The first sentry we encountered was leaning in the crook of a forked tree, chin resting on his chest. The snores emanating from beneath his tricorn hat equaled those of a sleeping Tap. The regimental coat of dark blue wool faced with red and lined with white, black-painted cartridge box, linen overalls, and most particularly, the bearskin-covered knapsack flanking his brass-buttoned shoes, identified the sleeper as a private of the First American Regiment. A musket, broken wrist clamped with sheet brass and bound with strong cord, slanted casually against the trunk of the forked tree beside his left hip.

  Taking no chances, Tap crept up, laid hold of the slanting musket, and backed off a step before jabbing the private’s belly with its muzzle. He jerked upright, and watery brown eyes ripe with alarm fixed on us. He felt frantically at his side till he realized it was his musket Tap held.

  “You sentries always stand watch in pairs. Who’s with you?” Tap demanded, head turning left and right.

  The private’s chin quivered. “I’m . . . I’m ... I’m stationed here alone,” he managed.

  Tap cocked the stolen musket. The private’s eyes tried to leap from their sockets. “That’s the truth,” he stammered, suddenly bending at the waist as a series of harsh coughs wracked his thin frame, coughs so deep and phlegm-ridden they threatened to expel a lung. The sentry straightened and wiped a gob of snot from his nostrils and upper lip, both of which were red and raw from undue rubbing. “My whole company’s ailin’. Ain’t but half of us able to answer the drum at dawn.”

  It wasn’t lost on me that if the bulk of the private’s company, a unit of the First American Regiment, the best-clothed soldiers in the army, was sickly and confined to their tents, circumstances continued to weigh against General St. Clair without relief. Shoddy equipment, forged shipping manifests, depleted rations, dying pack animals, desertions, the weather, and now illness: What else could hamper, perhaps ruin the general’s expedition before he sighted the red enemy? And what would happen if his faltering, weakening ranks met the red enemy in great force? It gave a man reason, honest cause, to seriously ponder his future safety and that of his companions.

  The private swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yuh gonna report me to Sergeant Harwell?”

  Tap lowered the cock of the musket, gripped the weapon by the barrel, and presented it to the private. “No, lad, I’ll not make trouble for you, an’ I’ve a cure for your heavy eyes. We saw ten Shawnee two hours before daylight, bound thisaway. Come along, Ethan, we’ve got business needs tendin’.”

  Frost crackled beneath our feet. Beyond the private’s forked tree we began to encounter elements of St. Clair’s encampment. A dragoon detail rode past. Its captain, lacking the gaudy neatness of Miles Starkweather, touched the bill of his leather helmet upon sighting the mistress. A body of levies numbering between a squad and a company crossed before us, one profane officer lamenting the necessity of gathering forage for the nocturnal feeding of the bullock herd. Next came the cattle themselves, guarded by infantrymen, then the bank of the creek bordering the west pasture. Smoke from countless fires rose in straggly lines in the crisp air. The log walls of the general’s fort of deposit loomed in the distance. Tap paused at the creek bank and glanced over his shoulder. “Almost home, girl. Ethan, you best tote her across.”

  Before she could object to Tap’s suggestion if she was of such a mind, I had my rifle slung on a shoulder and was lifting Erin Green off the ground. My, but was it fine to smell that rosewater up close again. And the shine of bright gold had nothing on the tiny freckles dusting the side of her neck where it emerged from the collar of her shirt.

  She didn’t squirm even when I held onto her and kept walking once free of the creek. Her face turned, and bright blue eyes looked into mine.
She smiled, tilted her head, wound an arm around my neck, filled her lungs with a deep breath, and kissed me flush on the mouth. It was no quick peck on the lips. The woman laid into it with solid purpose, tearing the scab covering my split lip. Roused by her boldness, I ignored the taste of my own blood and was beginning to match her fervor despite a growing shortage of wind when she abruptly withdrew her lips and said politely, “Please put me down, Mr. Downer.”

  As surprised by this request as I had been by her sudden, ardent embrace, I promptly stood her on the ground. Her eyes had lost their sparkle. “I can never thank you properly,” she said softly. “I owe more that I can repay.”

  Then she was gone, scurrying after Tap. Unsure how—or if—I could call her back, I stood rigid as the lawbreaker strapped in the village stock and watched her catch the old scout and continue with him toward the Dodd fire. Though Paw might be waiting there for me, ready to administer the punishment he believed I justly deserved, at that moment I could think of but one thing: What man had taught Erin Green how to kiss so hard and long and deep?

  Part III

  Fort Jefferson

  Chapter 21

  21 October

  By dawdling behind, I missed the opportunity to escort Erin Green to her family cart. Tap rushed her off without delay soon as Bear Watkins informed them the Mistress Molly Green, after showing signs of improvement, had fallen gravely ill once more. Bear repeated this distressing news to me in the presence of Valentine Dodd, the only other person gracing the Dodd fire. The keenly observant Bear also took note of my rapid eyeballing of the area in all directions.

  “You can relax, Ethan. Your paw ain’t here,” he informed me, tendering a tin cup whose contents steamed in the dawn air.

  It was something, had I not been distracted by romantic daydreams, I should have surmised immediately, for just our personal riding stock along with a few horses bearing the brand of mounted dragoons and numerous ox teams remained in the west meadow. The Dodd pack animals as well as the sizable herd of military baggage animals that had grazed there earlier were missing.