The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Undaunted by the rapidly advancing Shawnee, their deserted captain stuck with his ship and its terrified cargo. He lowered himself into the forward hold with the neighing, prancing, walleyed horses, reappeared on the far gunwale, seized a metal-tipped pole and sprinted for the bow. The charging savages, aware he meant to head the flatboat away from the bank and catch the flow of the current, loosed a withering volley from point-blank range. Feathers on the captain’s peaked hat exploded. Tomahawks flashed past behind and in front of him. An arrow glanced off the long pole.

  “The Lord has his chosen few, don’t he now,” an incredulous Blake said, pounding Lem’s shoulder in admiration.

  The courageous captain’s undoing came a pace shy of the bow. What the Shawnee failed to accomplish, the flooding river did. The horse ship rammed a sawyer, shuddered from bow to stern and lost way. Jerked off stride, the captain shuffled his feet and struggled for balance. He thought of the pole and jammed it hard against the muddy bottom, but by then he was tilted too far over the side. Arms flopping, he disappeared from the round eye of my spyglass behind the starboard bow.

  With his tumble from the gunwale, the last defenders on the middle ship lost heart, jumped feet first and swam for our side of the river. Fresh screeches erupted and top knotted warriors shiny with sweat bounded into the water. Scalps, horses, powder—the plunder of border warfare —were theirs for the having.

  Steady shooting downriver told of different circumstances. Wentsell’s commandeered crew held their Kentucky on course well past the Scioto and matched the Redsticks ball for ball. Swimming warriors and unmanned canoes dotted their wake. Another telling volley, then another spouted lances of flame and gouts of smoke. Such deadly fire proved too much and the Shawnee called off the chase. They broached their canoes and the cheering mutineers faded from the battle site in a bend of the river.

  Lem spat over the edge of the bench. “That’s all well and good for ol’ Tice and them boys, but the day ain’t over.” He nodded at the far bank. “’Tain’t nothin’ pretty ’bout Injuns celebratin’ a whippin’ of white eyes. ’Member what I tells yuh and donna take ta gaggin’ and not keep a lookout for Sarah.”

  Not even Lem’s past recountings, lurid as they were, prepared us for the mind-numbing horror of watching firsthand the brutal savagery of the Shawnee. Soon as they beached the drifting flatboats, they took to stripping and scalping the dead and wounded, each circle of the knife embellished with their triumphant “scalp halloo.” Warriors denied scalps severed heads and hacked arms and legs from the same victims. The butchers paraded back and forth with the prized scalps and bodily remains, splattering each other with blood while they swilled rum stolen from the cargo holds.

  Their drunkenness sparked further unspeakable cruelties. The errant discharge of a musket wounded one of the exhausted horses. His neigh of anguish delighted nearby revelers. They surrounded the open hold and fired ball after ball at the penned animals till they perished twice over. The shooting ended with the discovery of a live riverman hiding below deck on the middle ship. That poor devil, naked except for breeches, was blackened and singed with powder charges shot into his flesh by unballed muskets pressed against his skin at the trigger pull. When he withstood the largest and deepest burn his tormentors could inflict without splitting a musket barrel, the ultimate indignity awaited. A clever Shawnee snuck behind him with a scoop of hot coals from the cooking hearth and deposited them in the seat of his breeches. Much to the delight of his drunken captors, the coals searing his hams spurred the boatman into a mad dash for the stem. He plunged into the cooling river, his agonized wail of pain trailing after him.

  That echoing howl of pure hurt knotted my innards and the bile welled hot and foul. I scooted forward and retched on the rocks far below. I hung over the rim of the bench, heaving till I was plumb empty, a forever hate of the Shawnee etched deep in my heart and mind. There would never be any forgiving what they’d done to the dead and living, four-legged and two-legged, that afternoon. The only good Injun was truly a dead Injun. Of that, I was as certain as my own name.

  Lem patted my back. “Done her often my ownself in younger years. Here … rinse your mouth with the jug. Some strange doin’s on the far bank an’ we need your long eye.”

  I swallowed my embarrassment with the liquor and re-aimed my glass. Three Feathers sat his horse at water’s edge between the beached flatboats. His arm pointed at the waterline along the stern of the horse ship where dark lumps bobbed against the caulked planking. Two warriors, one half the size of the other, stepped into the river from the bank. Overseeing them from the gunwales on either side were drunken Shawnee suddenly silent and unmoving.

  Near the stern the water was deep enough that the shorter savage in the lead had to swim. A few strokes brought him close and he snatched at the nearest lump. His arm rose and dangling from his fingers was the captain’s hat, feather stubs dripping streams of water. He tossed the soaked headpiece to his companion and grabbed at the second lump. He latched onto it, tightened his grip, yanked hard and gained nothing for the effort. Bracing his foot on the planking of the stem, he tugged again with his weight adding strength, and drew shouts of encouragement as the captain’s bead, black hair wound in his fist, slowly emerged from the brown Ohio.

  “That popinjay still suckin’ wind?” Blake inquired.

  The answer was a mighty spit by the captain. He emptied his mouth flush into the face of the savage grasping his hair. A poke at the eye followed, and the short Shawnee opened his hand and retreated hastily, calling for reinforcements. He reclaimed the peaked hat and waved his original companion and three others into the fray. It took all four of them, and then it wasn’t an easy thing. Though tall and slender, the captain possessed the willowy strength of bottom cane. Only after a Shawnee fastened on each of his limbs did they succeed in fetching him before Three Feathers.

  Every painted Redstick had his once-over look at the new prisoner, and events took a puzzling turn for us three watching from afar. Despite the captain’s fiery courage against insurmountable odds, something the Shawnee always respected in an enemy, scornful gestures broke out all round and hoots of laughter wafted to us. Stranger still, near as we could tell, the blatant mockery of the Shawnee was meant for the holder of his hat as much as the captain.

  “Never seen the like. That heathen with the hat ain’t no undergrown upstart. That be Wolf Always Fighting. Most call him Stick Injun, him bein’ bone-thin thataway. But his shortcomin’s don’t mean nothin’. He’s whang tough as the next and mark my words, he won’t take kindly his brothers funnin’ him, lads,” Lem surmised.

  The laughter ceased abruptly at a sharp command from Three Feathers. In the resulting stillness, their leader shouted to the rear, and Meek stirred from his seat atop the driftwood imprisoning Sarah. The traitor peered into the tangle beneath him, aimed his pistol downward and cocked it with his off-hand. His wait was short. Sarah’s tousled, golden hair appeared, then her upper parts. She wiggled free and Meek stood her on her feet, rougher than he needed to be about it.

  “There’ll be another day,” Blake vowed. “An’ whether Sarah lives or not, I pray I’ll see his breastbone in my sights. I’ll grin when I pull the trigger, Lord or no Lord.”

  Without a qualm Lem and me pledged everlasting support for Blake’s damning promise. We were likely to say anything what with Sarah’s fate about to be decided once and for all. They’d taken her to bait an ambush and kept her alive for that sole purpose. She marched in front of Meek undoubtedly knowing certain death loomed, her scalp the one remaining part of her with any value to the Shawnee.

  Before the scalp taking, perhaps out of sheer deviltry, Three Feathers ordered his two white captives brought together nose to nose. Meek pushed Sarah ahead and eased away, as did the Shawnee flanking the captain except for Stick Injun. He stayed at the boatman’s side, the top of his head even with the captain’s shoulder.

  It was a touchy confrontation. Sarah and the captain shared the s
ame skin and both were enemies of the Shawnee. They had little else in common. The captain had no inkling that Meek and his pistol had allowed Sarah no choice in helping lure the flatboats into certain disaster. To the captain she was as willing a traitor as the detestable Meek. Sarah must have felt the captain’s disgust with her. She stared at the ground, her spirit seemingly wrung dry after everything she’d endured.

  The feisty captain insisted on his say with her anyway. His head began bouncing and his hands flew about. I near squeezed the spyglass in two at the unfairness. He was giving Sarah what for, and when she responded not a whit, he rudely lifted her chin and slapped her.

  Now having a Tyler at a disadvantage and rightfully shamed to boot is one thing. Adding insult and ridicule is quite another. Sarah’s foot lashed at the captain’s vitals. In half a heartbeat, he caught the blow on a turned-in thigh and backhanded her other cheek. The captain hesitated, thinking the slap was sufficient to win the brief scrap and put Sarah in her place.

  Some folks don’t understand another thing about us Tylers. What finishes the fight with the ordinary bear is just warming to the tussle for us. Sarah leaned into him instead of falling away in pain and faked another kick. The captain’s head lowered as he positioned the same protecting thigh. Sarah had her opening. She sank the fingers of her good hand in his long black hair and took hold. The shocked captain did likewise to Sarah’s blond tresses with both hands. Sister in turn hooked his forearms with her stub, locking them together, and the two of them went hotfooting in a circle, trying their darnnest to uproot hair and kick each other to death every other step.

  The laughter and sheer pleasure of the Shawnee was unbounded. Seldom were they privileged to see their bated enemies attacking each other in a manner most favored by young children. They brandished bloody scalps and weapons, swilled more rum and yelled encouragement to both opponents with equal exuberance.

  Blake and I naturally supported Sarah’s dogged refusal to be unjustly set upon with every speck of Tyler blood we possessed. We forgot the circle of savages surrounding them, and our heads bobbed and weaved tracking every jerk and kick with rapt attention. We were on the verge of matching the shouts of the Shawnee when Lem shook our shoulders and shushed us. “Injuns be beatin’ the brush just over yonder. Some swimmers from the boats made it across and hid out.”

  We brothers held our tongues and yelled for Sarah under our breath. She and the captain were tiring fast. They gulped air and circled on bent knees, too tired to kick any more, both too strongly willed to loose their grips and admit defeat. Their slowdown blunted the excitement of the watchers. The Shawnee started hooting and cat-calling, lagging interest on their part boding ill for the combatants.

  The tall companion of Stick Injun broke rank first. He whooped and stalked the hair-pullers with tomahawk poised. The onlookers hurrahed him, prime for a fresh diversion, anxious to spill yet more white blood. Stick Injun would have none of it. He slid between the stalker and his write prey wielding a wide-bladed knife. He backed off his taller adversary with harsh words and serious thrusts of the thick blade.

  “He touched the prisoner first an’ claims the captain for his own,” Lem explained.

  The taller Shawnee had second thoughts. He forswore his retreat and fell into a challenging stance, one foot forward, tomahawk cocked behind his right ear. “That one ain’t gonna lose no more face over a couple of no-account white eyes,” Lem told us in a whisper.

  “Will they really fight over the captain?” I asked.

  “They will lessen Three Feathers jumps in. He won’t let his heathens cut on each other. He’d kill the prisoners his ownself ’fore he loses a single warrior fightin’ amongst themselves.”

  At Lem’s final word Three Feathers kneed his horse and put himself in the middle of the two disputing Shawnee. All went quiet on the far bank. Beyond Stick Injun, other savages pried Sarah and the captain apart and forced them to their knees. We stiffened with anticipation yet again, worn to the quick from prolonged excitement and worry.

  “Hold firm, lads. This be it for our gal and the popinjay,” Lem warned. “They live or die on the spot.”

  Three Feathers made no impassioned plea for the prisoners as we so hoped he would. Neither did he assert his authority in the matter one way or the other. He sat his horse without uttering a sound, as if his mind was undetermined.

  “What’s he about, damnit?” an impatient Blake asked.

  “Nothin’. He ain’t doin’ nothin’ but sittin’ there.”

  “Yeh, he be,” Lem decided. “He’s awaitin’ a-purpose.”

  The old sergeant never needed to explain what he meant. Canoes from our side of the river landed bearing fresh white prisoners, four in total. The newest captives were hauled ashore without ceremony, prodded to their feet and shoved through the outer ring of the crowd. They reached the throng’s open center, where everyone present saw them, and with a majestic sweep of the arm, Three Feathers offered the assembled heathens double the prisoners for their hideous torturing. His offer was accepted instantly with great enthusiasm, and a large contingent of Shawnee herded the four downtrodden rivermen into the forest, Stick Injun’s former adversary in charge.

  “They’ll burn ’em,” Lem said, sadness cracking his voice.

  None of us felt good about such a prospect, but our eyes never wavered from Sarah. Three Feathers, Stick Injun and Meek exchanged words. Meek then trussed Sarah’s hands in front of her and Stick Injun did the same with the captain, preparing them for travel.

  We could hardly contain our joy. The summer sun had nothing over the brightness of our smiles. We weren’t concerned just then that fifty savages and a white traitor, instead of a mere war party of seven, now controlled Sarah’s destiny. Sister was still alive at least for tonight. And for that small wonderment we were forever grateful.

  Chapter 8

  Before Midnight, September 12

  Anyone who heard it in the darkness of early night as we did would readily agree the scariest sound in all God’s realm is an enemy cocking a rifle near enough that the clicks of the lock setting the hammer are distinct and separate noises.

  We heard that deadly double clicking and froze like opossum feigning death. The ambusher was hidden somewhere in front of us, but with the moon not yet out, we could barely see past our noses. The advantage rested with the unseen rifleman. He was treed. We were caught in the middle of an open glade with no immediate cover of any consequence. And while the powder flash of his shot would pinpoint his location, any return fire on our part exposed us to whoever drew bead alongside him. We were in a flx tight enough to put the shakes on the devil’s henchmen.

  “Sing out! Yuh don’t stink bad as Injuns.”

  We brothers were uncertain, but Lem answered the ringing challenge from the dark without hesitation. “Lemuel Shakett and the Tyler boys here. That be Tice Wentsell with the trigger half-pulled?”

  “It ’tis, yuh ol’ he-bear. Let’s be double careful an’ not blow a hole in a friend.”

  We slowly butted our rifles and held fast. I felt considerably lighter, as if someone had ceased standing on my chest. Lem spoke again into the void of night. “Hope yuh gots a sippin’ jug, yuh ol’ he-bull.”

  Tice Wentsell was a faint shadow smooth as drifting smoke. We heard nothing, and then he was touching Lem on the elbow within reach of a hand. Brush crackled and a large, wide bulk stumbled into Wentsell from behind.

  The renowned ranger grunted heavily at the shock of colliding bodies. “This be Abner Johnson of the Redstone Johnsons. Him and his kin are born with millstones for feet. He don’t hurt me too bad, might be he can tag along over ta Limestone.”

  We shared our first good laugh in hours. The easy manner and wit of Wentsell calmed everyone around him. “Abner’s got a jug he squirreled from our ship, if’n he can find the damn thing again in the dark. We’ll let him hunt whiles we mosey back to your horses an’ palaver a bit.”

  The quietness of Wentsell was most astonis
hing. He was right there with us, then he wasn’t, fading into the blackness of the surrounding trees.

  Lem chuckled. “Never fear,” he said. “I’ll make a little racket for yuh ta follow.”

  Blake’s approach drew a wicker from the bay. None of the horses had spooked or strayed from the beech grove. They were full of browse and springwater and glad for our company, being spoiled and all.

  “We was strikin’ a fire when we heard yuh comin-on. Ain’t no cause ta overlook our vittles,” Wentsell said from one knee.

  With flint and small flat of steel he showered sparks on a tidy mound of dried leaves and sticks. At the first tendril of gray, he puffed igniting leaves into spurts of flame and added tinder with the precision of the King’s tailor. “Found your noggin and pan stashed in the far tree. Hope yuh don’t mind the sharin’ of ’em.”

  “Long as Johnson finds the jug we’ll call her even,” Lem assured him, motioning for Blake and me to break open the packsaddle pouches we’d toted to Baker Ridge and back.

  “Yuh must of been pretty well convinced white folks was wanderin’ yonder if’n you’d a fire underway,” Blake surmised.

  “We was that. Injun horses don’t never have the care yuh give yourn.”

  In the growing firelight Wentsell’s crossed eyes shone bright as obsidian glass. I’d never seen him before in person, and those odd eyes made him appear to be looking in two different directions at once. It took some getting used to so a man didn’t stare at him when he talked to you. Lem claimed Wentsell’s affliction interfered not at all with his marksmanship. He shot with both eyes open and his misses were scarcer than earthly saints.

  I was honestly taken with Tice Wentsell from the very beginning. Lem had spun tales of derring-do and narrow escapes about him forever, and I sized him up when his attention was elsewhere. In the flesh he wasn’t overly big or imposing. He was as men go medium-built, straight across the shoulders and finely limbed. His hands were almost delicate for a borderer who reputedly cut Injun throats with the aplomb of much larger rivals. The braided pigtail every Shawnee on the Ohio longed to stretch over a knife blade hung to his waist, wide as the span of my knuckles and decorated with snippets of ribbon. His beard below berry brown cheekbones was short and neatly trimmed. A tiny silver ring pierced the tip of a straight nose narrow at the bridge. His gentle voice, softly rich in pitch, gave no warning he was the same person Lem repeatedly portrayed as a “friend to sudden death and the worst of enemies.”