Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  It was a pleasant enough morning, cold and chill with fair skies and a light, steady breeze from the common source of the wind in recent days, the northwest. Yesterday’s brief snow seemed of a different autumn, but that was what one came to expect from the weather north of the Ohio, for it truly was as Tap described, fickle as the maiden pursued by a dozen lovers.

  “Good morning, Monsieur Downer,” greeted Val Dodd.

  I fisted the cup of green tea he held forth and sipped carefully, guarding my healing lip against the liquid’s fiery touch. I gazed into the meadow where we’d hobbled our horses the previous evening and asked of Dodd, “Bear and Tap off scouting already?”

  “There is apparently some confusion as to what General St. Clair expects of his mounted dragoons this morning, and Monsieur Watkins awaits your orders at Captain Starkweather’s tent. It appears the two of you will scout for the captain till your father arrives with the pack train. Monsieur Jacobs declined to accompany Monsieur Watkins. He ate most heartily of the Hookfin rations and went to help with the cabin the soldiers are throwing up for the Molly Green woman.”

  That was Tap, all right, anything to shuck the saddle. Val Dodd passed me a plate of what had become our standard fare morning, noon, and night, bullock and bread, and I sat on the camp log with him to eat. I would’ve preferred cabin building my ownself, and the resulting opportunity to inquire firsthand as to Molly Green’s health, and in so doing perhaps gain a chance to talk with the mistress personally, though about what I knew not. But I was in Bear’s charge and would hence avoid any action that worsened my troubles with Paw. I’d enough to account for as it was.

  Not wanting to add to that already sizable ledger, I didn’t loll about waiting for Bear to return. I saw to the cleaning and reloading of my long gun, fetched Blue from the meadow and saddled him, then filled two pouches with beef and bread and two canteens from the supply of water Dodd had boiled clear over the fire. When half an hour frittered by with no sign of Bear, my patience evaporated, and I swung into the saddle, thanked Dodd for the supplies, and went in search of him.

  Thinly numbered companies of levy and American regiments formed in front of General St. Clair’s as yet unnamed fort, assigned to either guard the perimeter or to continue scouring forest and meadow to the north, east, and west for grasses to sustain the oxen teams and artillery horses. Other companies prepared to guard the remaining bullock herd and its drovers during their daily graze southward along the military road. Numerous levy and regular soldiers obviously still too ill for duty languished about their tents. Through the open gates of the fort I counted a fatigue of approximately sixty additional uniformed men laboring to finish the final yards of a log-buttressed tunnel accessing the underground powder magazine at the center of the parade.

  Past the gates of the fort, I halted while a motley collection of Kentucky militia bearing piggins brimming with water crossed my path. They were arguing loudly with their officer, a fuzz-cheeked corporal, protesting the need to scout woods they had already traversed countless times. Their complaints had some validity. Bear had made known to me Starkweather’s concurrence with General St. Clair’s decision that the Kentucky militia companies were too undisciplined to be trusted with any assignment except routine scouting patrols and the guarding of road builders once the army was on the march again, which should be soon. With his fort nearly completed, the surrounding meadows grazed out, and the country scouted in all directions, only illness among his forces and the belated arrival of the pack train from Fort Hamilton with fresh provisions prevented the resumption of General St. Clair’s northern advance.

  The confusion regarding the general’s orders of the day that had forestalled the departure of Starkweather’s dragoons had been clarified, for when I rode alongside his striped marquee, the captain was seated on his sorrel before his entire troop, shouting instructions for the morning. “Our horses are in need of sustenance. Therefore, our destination is a large meadow five to six miles to the northeast. We will graze the horses there and return before dusk. We will travel in columns of two, on the alert and watching all the while. Dragoons, form column!”

  As Starkweather’s troop wheeled into proper formation, Ensign Andy Young, flanking the captain atop his own gray mare, pointed in my direction. Starkweather lifted an arm and beckoned me forward. I clapped heels to Blue and he fast-stepped into the meadow. “You will accompany Mr. Watkins in the lead, please. I want no surprises, no ambushes, Mr. Downer, am I understood?”

  Delighted that he hadn’t held my tardiness against me, I gave him a forceful and forthright, “Yes, sir,” knuckled my forehead, and hustled Blue into motion with another thud of the heels.

  Bear sat his powerful brown gelding at the head of the column. He didn’t act the least surprised to see me and accepted the pouch of victuals and iron canteen I passed him with a slight nod and soft smile, like I was doing exactly what was expected of me. It always amazed me how he often taught more with his quiet, unspoken responses than other men did with a hundred words.

  Bear led the troop across the creek into the untracked, northeastern woods. There were no Injun paths there to chart our course for us. But that didn’t faze Bear. Where Tap Jacobs was most comfortable traveling hostile country afoot, Bear Watkins preferred the saddle. With the gentle pressure of his knees and an occasional flick of reins, he guided the brown gelding through and around trees, boulders, thickets, and other obstacles with an enviable skill, head always level and still, never leaning left or right in the saddle. Never did his decisions or bodily signals cause his animal to hesitate or shy. It was as if he became one with his mount.

  The woods thinned along the base of uplifted terrain short on height and bulk, and the brown gelding slowed. I drew even with Bear’s stirrup. “We’re not hunting squirrels now. We’re hunting a cunning enemy where cover is plentiful, so learn to look wide as you can from the corners of your eyes. With practice you can look behind the points of your shoulders. No, not like that. Don’t turn your head any at all. Be a little sly your ownself. The redstick loves to let you come abreast of him, then loose his ball or arrow. But at the last second, he must take aim with his rifle or draw his bow, and to do that, he has to use his hands and arms, and that’s what will give him away. You see the leveling of a rifle barrel, the glide of tawny flesh, don’t hesitate. Shoot for the body, below whatever moves. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir, look wide, shoot below whatever moves,” I affirmed.

  “Good lad. It’s always better to waste a little powder than chance your last breath,” Bear advised. “Another thing, after you shoot, charge straight at the bugger an’ give him what for with the butt of your rifle before he can reload. That or dismount behind your horse an’ reload your ownself. Don’t never sit the saddle gawkin’ after your ball, wonderin’ if’n you shot true, ’cause if’n you miss or the red devil ain’t alone, you’ll likely be a dead man damn quick. Understand me, lad?”

  The trees thickened, and I was forced to rein Blue behind Bear’s gelding once more. I wasn’t certain he saw my honest and sincere nod that I had indeed understood him. But let me tell you, such was my respect for whatever training Bear deigned to offer, he had me peering first past one shoulder, then the other throughout the morning with no loss of interest, even when I didn’t sight anything of consequence or danger.

  Bear’s unerring sense of direction and ability to sense the lay of the land outside his direct line of vision didn’t fail him, and he brought the troop plumb into the large meadow Starkweather mentioned at the outset of our scout as if he’d visited the site just yesterday. Starkweather complimented Bear openly, then, with sentries posted about the rim of the meadow, the remaining dragoons nibbled at their rations inside the circle of our girth-loosened, grazing horses.

  Ensign Young sought me out of his own accord. Embarrassed at the wealth of beef and bread I carried compared to the scanty fixings borne by the individual dragoons, I attempted to share equally with the ensign, but h
e declined. “I dined with Captain Starkweather last evening, and his table is seldom found lacking. In fact, we supped on tinned sardines and, of all rarities, pickled oysters from the Maryland shore. And the wine was delectable as always.

  “But enough of what’s old news. I came to inform you that Molly Green is some better. Her fever seems less severe and, according to Erin, she slept through part of the night. Annie Bower has been with Molly practically every minute, bathing her patient with cool water and administering her potion of gunpowder, whiskey, and water. While it won’t happen anytime soon, Erin believes her mother will recover completely once she’s warm and snug in her new cabin, the logs of which are being chinked this very morning.”

  I drank from my canteen. I envied the ensign his contact with the mistress and wondered if she ever mentioned my name or inquired as to how I might be. But my pride kept me from broaching those subjects with him. “Glad to hear Molly Green is on the mend. Sergeant Devlin must be the happiest soldier in St. Clair’s army.”

  The ensign laughed. “Lord yes, he is. Annie Bower reported he promised Molly on his knees that if she got well, she would never know another day of want or danger, neither she nor her daughter. Then he made Annie vow she would never leave Erin’s side. The sergeant’s not risking Erin’s safety ever again. He even procured Annie a pistol and a long, wickedly keen knife. And as the Lord is my witness, Annie’s taking her new duties mighty seriously. She has her friends caring for Molly and shadows Erin’s every step, whether Erin approves or not.”

  I smiled at the picture of Annie Bower stepping smartly on the heels of the mistress, who was accustomed to marching any direction she pleased whenever the mood hit her. It was a significant change for a young woman who prized her independence and moments of privacy. But from Tor Devlin’s viewpoint and mine also, she was much safer under the constantly watching eyes of Annie Bower, a female whose moral character might be questioned but one I suspected was quite capable of shooting or stabbing any man, red or white, in defense of her charge. I smiled again. Given her obvious liking for me, I doubted Annie Bower would object to my calling on Erin and her mother when I ventured past the newly built Green cabin with future pack trains. I wouldn’t allow the same would be true for other potential suitors except possibly Starkweather and Ensign Andy Young, both of whom would be occupied in the north with the army. I smiled full bore now. The competition would be elsewhere along with the indomitable Sergeant Tor Devlin. The days ahead might prove brighter than I had supposed except for one small hitch: Could I smooth things over with a certain father of mine?

  Ensign Young observed my series of smiles and sudden sobering with a puzzled frown but didn’t pry. “Do we know with certainty that Court Starnes will be with the incoming pack train?”

  “Yes, Gabe Hookfin bragged at the Dodd fire last evening that he would be leading it,” I informed him.

  It was the ensign’s turn to display a most sober countenance. “I’m extremely concerned about trouble twixt your father and Starnes. Your father doesn’t seem a man who would suffer a wrong for any length of time without seeking redress of some nature. He will, I predict, try to find Dyson Barch and somehow make him talk. If that fails, do you think he will confront Starnes directly?”

  My answer was quick in the coming. “Yeah, God forbid, he likely will. Paw’s patience can shrink down next to nothing on him, he’s made to fret in the halter too long. He doesn’t fear Starnes in a fight. But I’m afraid for Paw. If’n they get to brawling, the fight won’t stop till one of them is dead.”

  The ensign’s nod was slow and deliberate. “1 fear that, too. Perhaps the army will move soon, and the campaign will take precedence over all other matters. Leastwise, we can pray for that eventuality.”

  There was a question I had to ask, even though it might challenge the ensign’s loyalties. “Why does General St. Clair believe he can defeat the redsticks come what may?”

  The ensign plucked and chewed on a stem of grass. “General St. Clair is convinced the red enemy cannot muster a force as large as ours. Even if they do so, he believes we possess the deciding military arm in any battle with them, namely, Major Ferguson’s artillery.”

  “Captain Starkweather doesn’t agree with that, does he?” I countered.

  “He doesn’t criticize General St. Clair’s strategy publicly,” Ensign Young confessed. “He has, though, attributed the general’s zeal to engage the enemy to the expresses forwarded almost weekly by President Washington and Secretary of War Knox. The president himself is personally demanding a victory afield before the snow flies, mainly to stifle the complaints of the Marietta and Kentucky settlements. Some enjoying close proximity to the general complain he would sacrifice this entire army to satisfy the president’s wishes.”

  I pondered on that. While I was a mere packhorseman and scout, it surely seemed understandable to even a young man of meager stature that a general in the field wouldn’t hardly dare thwart the desires of President Washington, not without courting the ruination of himself and his career. From where I was seated, General St. Clair’s burdens and responsibilities piled up higher than the Alleghenies. Which meant just as surely there would be a fight with the Shawnee and their red cohorts less’n they abandoned their villages and fled, something Tap and Bear didn’t feel was about to happen. Wise old Tap was correct. In the dealings of men red and white, blood frequently spilled easy as rain wet the ground.

  The ensign and I fell silent, watching Blue and his mare graze. Warm in my blanket coat, I dozed off now and again. When awake, my thinking inevitably centered on my upcoming reunion with Paw to the exclusion of all else, even Erin Green. What would he say? How would he punish me? How long would it take for me to regain his good graces . . . if ever? Would he be merciful, or would he ban me from his sight? It was hard to believe helping another in distress could so foul one’s own existence. It smacked of unfairness. Damned if it didn’t!

  While I rested and dozed, Bear twice circled the meadow afoot, conversing with the sentries. The ever-restless Captain Starkweather passed among the members of his troop, inspecting each dragoon’s horse and equipment. He was a stickler for detail, the captain, which made his error upon our departure strikingly out of character.

  Bear, you must know, had a standing rule about traveling in Injun country the same as Tap. Simply stated, to diminish the likelihood of surprise or ambush, you never returned to camp via the exact same path. With Bear guiding the Starkweather troop the previous day, we had naturally altered our return route to General St. Clair’s fort.

  On this early afternoon, the captain, now leading Bear’s gelding, paused before the ensign and me and, for whatever reason, suddenly ordered his lounging dragoons into the saddle. The captain’s abrupt order came with Bear at the meadow’s northern rim, opposite the point from which we had originally entered the meadow, the farthest distance possible from our commanding officer. “Hold here with Mr. Watkins’s horse, Ensign. At my stirrup, Mr. Downer, if you please,” the captain barked.

  Lost mainly in my own problems, I briskly followed orders, and it wasn’t till the column had formed and was moving that I realized the captain’s intentions. He was riding straight for the shallow notch twixt two opposing hillocks by which we had accessed the meadow. The closely set tree butts bordering the sides of the notch bristled with low branches and tangled brush, affording excellent concealment for those on the stalk. I gave no thought to contesting the captain’s intentions. But Bear’s speech about how to watch to both flanks at once being fresh in my head, I came fully alert, nearly standing in the stirrups before recalling his admonition that one needed to be a little sly so as not to forewarn the lurking enemy.

  I strained my eyes as the captain and I approached the notch, then rode into its narrow mouth. Trees closed about us. But there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen, nothing but dark trunks, low branches, and tangled brush separated by glimmers of sunlight and shadow.

  Relieved no shots or whizzi
ng arrows greeted us, I was easing in the saddle when beyond the head of the captain’s sorrel the thin line of a branch shimmied and rose in defiance of the breeze . . . or had it? I stiffened even as I doubted my own eyes. I stared, and new activity at the end of the branch where it should have mated with a tree trunk made the decision for me, for it matched the short, smooth stroke a practiced hand might employ tugging the hammer of a long gun to full cock.

  The captain was on my left flank, same as the Injun, if he was really there, and the branch if it was a rifle barrel was pointed dead center on the captain’s chest. There being no time to yell a warning, I loosed Blue’s reins, turned slightly in the saddle, and snapped the stock of my own rifle tight to cheek and shoulder, cocking the piece as it settled against flesh and bone. I squeezed the trigger without drawing a true bead, shooting for the enemy’s body as Bear had instructed. The sharp snap of hammer on frizzen jerked the captain’s chin about an instant before the blast of my rifle shocked both him and his sorrel.

  “Injuns!” I screamed, “Injuns!”

  Starkweather’s recovery was nothing short of miraculous. With knees and reins he kept the sorrel from shying and was immediately shouting orders above the echoing report of my shot. “Troop halt! Form line abreast! Form line abreast!”

  Behind us, Ensign Young and the sergeants, voices shrill and laced with excitement, repeated the captain’s orders. “After me, Mr. Downer,” Starkweather called, reining his sorrel to the rear. I spun that Blue horse about and done as ordered, scrunched low in the saddle as I could get.

  Though I had never trained under Miles Starkweather, his strategy was simple and unmistakable. If the Shawnee waited in ambush within the restricting confines of the notch, he refused to fight them on terrain of their choice where his mounted dragoons couldn’t charge and pursue and thus exploit their dual strengths of flying hoof and flashing steel.