I wonder how long I’ve been in love with her? he mused as he picked his way along the rutted road. All the way back to camp, he thought what it would be like when he returned home.
But the only time he had to think of Molly for the next few weeks was at night after he’d eaten and lain down on the ground, wrapped in his blanket. The days were filled with work, and the expedition advanced slowly, ponderously through the primeval forest. The soldiers, all wearing swords, left the weapons behind, as well as some of their other heavy gear. The work involved was incredible. The road had to be hacked out, rock ledges drilled and blasted, swamps corduroyed and streams bridged.
Small parties of French and Indians continually hampered their progress, entering into skirmishes with the flank guards Braddock had put out at Washington’s insistence.
Finally Braddock realized that the rate of advance was far too slow, and a council of senior officers was held; the decision was made to detach a part of the force, lightly equipped, to proceed forward as rapidly as possible, with the remainder, and most of the wagons, to follow at a slower pace under the command of Colonel Dunbar, the officer next in seniority to Braddock.
On the morning of July 9 the advance army was on the south bank of Turtle Creek, which flows into the Monongahela. The scouts urged a crossing by marching to the main channel, which because of drought would be easily fordable.
At the first crossing, Washington, who had been riding on a bed in a wagon, ordered one of his horses brought up and saddled, with a pillow placed on the saddle. The fever had left him, but he was still weak from twenty days of illness.
Adam rode close beside him, worried about the officer, but said nothing. He did point to where the British were crossing the river. The red-coated regulars splashed into the stream, relishing the cool water on that hot July day. The river was so low that it exposed a pebbly beach a quarter of a mile wide. Here Braddock paraded his army with unfurled guidons, drums beating, and trumpets blaring.
“I suppose General Braddock thinks this will impress the enemy,” Washington said. “But I don’t think it’ll have much effect on their marksmanship.”
“No, I’d much rather we sent out more scouts,” Adam admitted. He bit his lip, shook his head and asked, “Did you talk to General Braddock about the attack—I mean what we spoke of last night?”
“About letting the men take cover if we’re attacked? I tried, but he only said, ‘There’ll be no hiding behind trees!’ ”
“He’s a fool, sir!” Adam exclaimed angrily. “Look at those troops! Why, it’d be impossible for a marksman to miss them!” The brilliant scarlet coats and the high red mitre caps stood out like a flame against the green woods, and Adam shook his head, saying, “If they jump us, we’re finished!”
Washington did not answer, but when Braddock led the line of troops into a small thicket lined on both sides with towering trees and intensely thick ground cover, he said, “I don’t like this ground!”
He had no sooner spoken than a ragged volley of shots rang out, and red-coated troopers fell writhing to the ground. “It’s a trap!” Washington shouted, and spurring his horse, he drove forward past the line of soldiers to pull up to Braddock. “Sir! There’s a walnut grove back there—we can pull back and see the enemy.”
Braddock stared at him as if he were insane. “Retreat from this rabble? No, sir! You may now see how the British soldier handles an enemy!” Galloping ahead he ordered Colonel Burton to bring his troops forward, then rode to find the Virginia troops had taken to the trees and the Pennsylvania axmen were doing the same. Some of Gage’s men had taken cover also, and Adam saw Braddock’s face turn scarlet with rage. Drawing his sword he galloped up and began beating his own men away from the trees, crying out, “Forward! Charge!”
The troops moved forward, but the firing from the bushes became more intense. “Sir, this is the main body!” Washington cried loudly.
“Nonsense! It’s just a few skirmishers!” Braddock scoffed. He gave a command, and the British fired into the forest. Their musket balls cut leaves from the trees and splintered saplings, but the enemy was firmly entrenched behind the huge trees. They knew, of course, that the British having once fired would have to reload, so they came zigzagging through the trees like phantoms, firing at will, felling the redcoats like stalks of grain before a scythe.
Suddenly the general’s horse reared as a musket ball struck its flanks, dumping Braddock unceremoniously to the side. He mounted again and screamed, “Forward! Charge the enemy!”
The massive force was marching in ranks, officers on horseback, drums beating the cadence. A wall of red filled the entire road as the men walked shoulder to shoulder. Behind them were the others, the entire flying column, the militia and the Virginia blues—all walking into a twelve-foot-wide trap, with walls of trees and underbrush on either side of them.
The woods blazed with musket shots. Bullets hailed from the unsecured heights. Within minutes the outer columns were decimated. Every bullet seemed to find a target. The officers ordered their men to face the right and march in formation into the woods despite the fact that there was no target in sight.
The cries of dying men were everywhere, creating a madness that broke the spirit of the troops.
“Hold your positions!”
It was Braddock’s last command, for before he could shout again, a bullet knocked him from his saddle. The shot smashed his elbow and punctured his lungs. He fell to the ground, and a groan went up from the soldiers. Some of them began to run, turning to meet a wall of their own kind marching into the narrow passage.
Mob hysteria took hold, and the road became the landscape of a nightmare. Fallen men were trampled by heavy black boots. Faces contorted with a continuum of emotions, from terror to determination to rage. Commands were ignored; few could even be heard above the curses, bellows, and whines.
It was then that Washington cried out: “Retreat!” He had had two horses shot out from under him, but there was no sign of fear on his stern face. The army fell back in total disarray. They ran like rabbits, and as they fell back, Adam saw the Indians come out of the woods, scalping, looting, and mutilating the dead and wounded, their elated whoops blending with the cries of the living victims.
Braddock had been put in a litter, bleeding from his lungs, as the army fell back. The Virginians and the Pennsylvanians brought up the rear, and it was only the firm hand of George Washington that saved them, Adam knew. He was a marvel, organizing the retreat, sending for help from the troops they’d left behind, taking care of the wounded—he was everywhere at once. Adam was at his side, carrying his orders to this officer and that, and he thought, We’d all die if it weren’t for him!
The count was sickening. Of the 1,451 who had crossed the river at noon, 456 were left dead and a dozen taken prisoner. Of those who escaped, 421 were wounded. This left only 562 unharmed, and it was likely that no more than twenty of the enemy were killed, if that many.
The next day at noon they met Dunbar and the rear guard, but it was too late for Braddock. He died later that night. The last thing he said was, “Next time we will know how to deal with them.”
He was buried, then every wagon and every horse was marched over his grave to conceal it, lest the Indians should dig it up for its graying scalp and resplendent uniform.
Dunbar took command, and before retreating, ordered all stores destroyed, including 150 wagons, many of them valuable. The remnants of the army that had marched out so proudly made its way back to Virginia at a crawl.
Washington and Adam rode together, and only once did the colonel comment on the tragic affair. He repeated to Adam Braddock’s last words: Next time we’ll know how to deal with them. Then he said grimly, “I have learned something, Winslow, and I trust that you have also. European tactics will never win a victory in this country!”
They arrived home, and Adam prepared to ride to Woodbridge, but a message from Charles was waiting for him at Alexandria. It was given to him by one o
f the house slaves, stating only, “Come here as soon as you can. Urgent!”
“Your master wants me now?” he asked the slave, whose name was Junius.
“Yessuh. He say doan go home ’til you see him.”
“All right, let’s go.”
He found Washington, told him of the message, then asked for permission.
“Of course!” Washington said instantly, and a smile lighted his stern face and he put his hand out. “I am in your debt, Adam Winslow—indeed I am! Come to see me at Mount Vernon. We’ll hunt a fox and you can show me your new gun again.”
A warmth filled Adam as he shook Washington’s hand, a warmth that stayed with him until he got to Charles’s plantation. He dismounted wearily, made his way across the yard and up the steps. As Charles came out to meet him, Adam saw immediately that he had been drinking heavily.
“Glad you’re home, Adam,” Charles mumbled. He stood there swaying slightly; there was a hollowness in his cheeks, and dark shadows underscored his eyes.
“What’s wrong, Charles?” Adam asked sharply.
“It’s bad news, I’m afraid.
“Business?”
“Well—yes, but not like you think.” Charles seemed embarrassed, and he rubbed his face with his palm, then held his hand out in a helpless gesture. In a panic-stricken voice he hurriedly said, “I know you’ll blame me, Adam—but it’s not my fault!”
“Spit it out, man!” Adam snapped. “I’ve got to get home.”
“Molly’s not there!”
Adam stared at Charles, fear gripping him. “What does that mean? Where is she?”
“Well, you remember I told you that Stirling was pressing us on the loans?”
“Yes? Did he call them?”
Charles shifted his feet and could not meet Adam’s eyes. “Yes, he called some of them—but Saul and I sold off some land and managed to save most of the important things, but—he had a lien on the gunshop.”
“He took that, too?” Adam asked, but was relieved. “Well, it’s just a place. We can find another. Did you bring Molly here?”
“No, she’s not here, Adam.”
Adam lost his patience. “Where is she, then?”
“Stirling has her, Adam!”
A chilling silence fell between them. Charles’s eyes were filled with shame as he tried to explain. “He—took over the shop, and since she was an indentured servant, he claimed her, too. I tried to stop him—really I did, Adam!”
Adam stared at him. “I guess you didn’t try too hard, Charles. But he can’t make it stick.”
“No, not legally—but he has her, Adam! He took her by force a week ago. And he left you a message.”
“What was it?”
“He said if you came to his place, he’d kill you!” Charles held out his hands impotently, and added bitterly, “I got the lawyers on it, but what good does that do? You know the kind of man he is, Adam!”
“I know, all right.” Adam stared at Charles, then asked quietly, his voice steady, “Do you know where he’s holed up?”
“Yes. He’s in the house on that tract of land you liked on the Mohawk River—the one we got from Cartwright. It’s on the bluff by the old Indian burial ground.”
Adam turned and ran to his horse. Charles shouted after him, “Adam! He’s not alone there! He’s hired a bunch of Indians to guard the place. It’ll be like trying to get into a fortress!”
Adam ignored him, and for a long moment Charles watched him ride down the road, and then ran across the yard yelling at the top of his lungs, “Junius! Junius! Saddle my horse!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CAPTURE THE CASTLE
Summer heat lay like a blanket in the Hudson River valley as Adam led Charles along the eastern foothills of the Appalachians, draining the strength of the horses so quickly that they had to exchange mounts three times before they reached the spot where the Mohawk joins the Hudson. The Green Mountains lay east, and Lake Ontario was directly west.
Charles had managed to stay in the saddle only by dogged determination, for Adam had ridden twenty hours at a stretch, stopping only long enough to eat and rest the horses. Now as they turned west, the younger man called out, “Adam! Wait a minute!”
Adam pulled his horse to a halt, turned in the saddle, his face grim. “What is it?”
Charles drew close, straightening up in the saddle to get the kink out of his back. He groaned wearily, saying, “Adam, we’ve got to rest these horses or they’ll break down on us!”
“They’ll make it.”
“No they won’t!” Charles argued. “Look at this animal—he’s windbroke already. Be a miracle if he gets there at all.” He looked at the three horses Adam was leading, and added, “Why don’t I dump this nag and ride a fresh one?”
“Because these horses are our ticket out of this place, Charles. When we get Molly back, we’ve still got to get away, and if Stirling has any good Indians hired, we’ll need all the speed we can get.” He looked at Charles’s mount, then at his own, and shook his head. “You’re right, though. These two are about finished.”
“How far do you think we have to go, Adam?”
“Maybe thirty miles—but there’s a settler I know about five miles from here. We’ll trade these two animals for fresh mounts.”
He spoke to his horse, and as they proceeded at a slower pace, Charles was silent. He had thought he’d known this dark half-brother of his, but since he’d given him the news about Molly, the easygoing mildness in Adam’s makeup had disappeared. I don’t know this man, Charles thought as they plodded along. He’s like an Indian now—and I’m glad he’s not on my trail!
They reached the cabin of Adam’s friend, found nobody home, and took fresh mounts—a tall buckskin for Charles and a powerful gelding for Adam. They made a quick meal of some cold beef in the smokehouse, then, after Adam left a note explaining the situation, they plunged immediately along the overgrown trail that followed the twisting banks of the Mohawk.
It was late afternoon the following day when Adam finally pulled up and slipped from the saddle. “The house is only three miles from here. We’ll eat and sleep until dark.”
“Will it be all right to make a fire?” Charles asked.
“Better not. My guess is that Stirling will be expecting me, and he’ll probably have those Iroquois fanned out as scouts.”
They had a quick meal, and when they finished, Adam lay down with his head on his saddle and closed his eyes. Charles stared at him, and said heatedly, “Well, are you going to let me in on the plan? After all, I’m all the help you have!”
Adam’s eyes opened, and he rolled over on his side to look at his brother. His dark blue eyes were intent, and there was a sudden break in the austere hard cast that had been on his face for days. A smile suddenly broke across his broad lips, and he mused, “I’ve been wondering about that, Charles.” He studied Charles’s wedge-shaped face and added, “Didn’t expect it of you, to be honest. You can get hurt—I guess you know that?”
“You think I’m an idiot?” Charles snapped. “We can both get killed—probably will. It’d be just my luck!” He picked up a dead stick, slapped his palm with it, then suddenly broke it in two and threw the pieces aside. Glaring at Adam he said with a streak of irritation in his voice, “I don’t know what I’m doing out here. Looking out for my own skin—that’s been my way. Why’d you get me into this?”
Adam considered the face of his brother, and after a long pause he said, “You fooled me, Charles. I never figured you to risk your scalp for anybody—least of all me.”
Charles stared at him, a baffled look in his bright blue eyes. “We Winslows haven’t been all that close, have we? Guess I’ve been jealous of you.”
“Why—!” Adam sat up, astonishment in his face as he replied, “That’s crazy, Charles! You’re the bright one of the family—always have been.”
Charles nodded, but there was a disgust in his face as he said slowly, “A man can get too smart, Adam. Like
this mess we’re in now. I wasn’t very smart to let this happen, was I? Guess that’s why I’m sitting here waiting for a bunch of Iroquois to swoop down and butcher me. It was my fault—and I always liked Molly.”
“We’ll get her.”
There was confidence in Adam’s voice, and Charles stared at him, incredulous. “You’re sure of that, aren’t you? Wish I had as much confidence.”
“I’m praying about it, Charles,” Adam said quietly.
“Oh? You’ve prayed about it, and that settles it?” Charles shook his head in disgust. “Can’t believe that prayer’s going to get her away from Henry.”
“We’ll do our part, but God’s going to help us!”
Charles stared at Adam, his face a curious mixture of disgust and longing. “Well—you’ll have to do the praying, brother. But do you also have a plan—something we can actually do?”
Adam nodded and sat up. Picking up a stick, he drew a curving line in the dust, saying, “Here’s the river—and right about here is where the house is.” He drew an X beside the wavy line, and said quickly, “The house is built up on a high bluff overlooking the river—must be a hundred feet or more—and it’s plenty steep, Charles. I always liked the location. It’s like a fort, see? The house is in a sort of projection with steep gullies on both sides—so there’s only one way for anybody attacking the place to hit.”
“Just one way?”
“Right! The place is practically impregnable, because there’s an open space in front, a high wall closing off the house, just like a fort.”
Charles looked at the lines in the dust, then up at Adam. “So, how in the world are we going to take a place like that?”
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