The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  “Well, ’twasn’t nothin’ for Tabor but grant Tice his wish. He knew with Wentsell holdin’ the edge, he’d shoot him dead no matter what happened after. So, at a nod from Tabor, the brothers rounded up Tice’s gold with some earnest threats of their own. An’ last they saw of Tice, his braided pigtail was slippin’ through the rear door. None ventured after him neither. They knew he might shoot one of ’em just for spite.”

  Lem gulped a finishing breath. “Lads, let’s be truthful with each other. Tice Wentsell can help us free Sarah. He knows the country better’n us’ens an’ he’s wily as Three Feathers. But we hafta follow his lead if’n we trail with him. He says stand, we stand; he says tree, we tree; he says squat, we squat. We can’t afford disagreements or misjudgments ’thout losin’ our own scalps ta the Shawnee. We either trust Wentsell or go it alone. ’Tain’t no in-between with a rogue bull like Tice, no way, nohow. What yuh say, Tyler brothers?”

  Blake’s answer when it came was exactly what I expected. “All right, we’ll follow him long as he don’t take ta frettin’ more about the judge’s daughter than Sarah. He does, Blaine an’ I take our own fork in the trail. It’s Sister we’re after. The daughter’s Wentsell’s head-ache.”

  Lem kicked dirt on the flickering coals of the supper fire. “Good,” he said, rapping me on the arm. “I can’t rightly demand anythin’ more from either of yuh.”

  We finished packing our gear and set off to meet Tice Wentsell, Lem mothering the sipping jug as always. His clucking laugh was harsh and abrupt. “Hell, Blake, I misdoubt even Tice Wentsell can handle a she-devil like this here Hannah Ferrenden.”

  “We’re ’bout ta find out, ain’t we now?”

  Chapter 9

  After Midnight, September 13

  The night was warm and clear. A half-moon hung overhead, its white light bright as a hand-carried lanthorn. We moved eastward on the same path followed the previous dawn by the Shawnee. At Cobb Hollow we turned north for the Ohio. We emerged from the short dry passageway high enough so that the river was a wide band of gray between shores darkened with tree shadow. The mouth of Tygart’s Creek was a slight gap in the black line of the south bank.

  We headed over there, picking a downward course through rock stubble and occasional clumps of thin trees hardy enough to root on the steep incline. Even before we reached level ground, the night chorus of katydids, crickets and winged creatures nagged the ear. In the trees and marshy areas bordering the river the night fair buzzed, hummed and clacked. Close on to Tygart’s Creek, grandfather bullfrogs croaked and skeeters whined in the dark, their bite sharp and bloody.

  Lem slapped his cheek in a vain try at crushing a nocturnal attacker. “Yuh couldn’t lay a sneak on your ownself for all this infernal noise. Wears thin mighty fast, it do.”

  The old sergeant knew the whereabouts of Wentsell’s aforementioned windfall. Sometime in years past a powerful twist of wind had uprooted a cluster of trees and jammed them together in a maze of trunks and limbs. On the western side of the maze at the farthest point from the beaten trail fringing Tygart’s Creek, a bark slab and woven shield of leafed branches hid a slot chest-wide and shoulder-high. Lem peeled away Wentsell’s handiwork, inserted a full arm and tugged into the moonlight a bark canoe with two carved paddles in the bottom. Blake whistled softly. “Clever a hidey-hole I’ve ever laid eyes on. Wonder how long she’s been there?”

  It was a question asked in passing, the kind that often goes unanswered for lack of knowledge. Trickling as it did over my shoulder, Wentsell’s response startled me half out of my tree. “Three months, I recollect.”

  Lem masked our fright best he could. “Fer an ol’ devil’s sake, sing out, Tice. I’m too gone in years fo’ wettin’ breeches.”

  With a throaty chuckle and clap of Lem’s back, Wentsell knelt and ran probing fingers over the framework and walls of the canoe from bow to stem. “She stored well. Seams are solid an’ the varmints ain’t been at her with fang an’ claw. Let’s help the brothers lift ’er overhead, Lem. We’ll wet her behind a snag I knows of.”

  The four of us got the overturned canoe settled on our shoulders, me at the front thwart and Blake at the rear. The quarter-mile portage to the banks of the Ohio wasn’t without difficulty. The upturned hull shadowed the ground about our moccasins and each stride was an undertaking of its own. Blake and I stumbled and lurched now and again, brothers’ muttered curses outdoing the thrumming night critters. Horsemen, I decided, made the poorest of voyagers. Without hearing those exact same words, I knew Blake agreed wholeheartedly.

  Wentsell’s “snag” was the massive trunk of a fallen sycamore undercut by the river. Rock, mud and debris pinioned the deadfall’s lower third high against the bank, while the balance angled into the Ohio, creating a triangular pool of slack water. With Lem and Went-sell at either end, we righted the canoe and sat it down afloat.

  In the waning moonlight, the rising surface of the river sloshed over the very top of the protecting deadfall. The Ohio in flood jellied the resolve of the bravest boatman. At any given moment, a broken dock post, shattered cargo box or splintered deck beam might rear from the rushing froth and hole as big a craft as plied the waterway from Fort Pitt to the Mississippi. And close up like we were, matched against the brute strength of the Ohio, our canoe appeared the most ridiculous of choices for a nighttime crossing—or any crossing—till the raging current slackened. Paw had taught that courting death was for yahoos and the mule headed, and I hadn’t forgotten: It was just that Paw wasn’t present to overrule the hidebound determination of one Tice Wentsell and a certain brother of mine.

  “Who sits where?” Blake inquired.

  “Well, yuh lads done the carryin’, Lem and me ought ta do the paddlin’,” Wentsell answered for the both of them. “With two good eyeballs, I’ll take the bow paddle, leaven yuh an’ Blaine in the center with the rifles an’ gear an’ Lem in the stern. Shakett an’ me ’ve done this afore more’n once.”

  “Yuh, an’ been near killed more’n once crossin’ water such as that at high noon, let alone with no light atall,” Lem reminded him. “Yuh got any particular notion for tonight?”

  Wentsell’s reasoning was terse and straightforward. “The main current comes directly out of the northeast past the point an’ hits the bank yonder upstream. Long ’bout here it starts bendin’ outward again, an’ regains the middle of the river at the mouth of the Scioto. We’ll get in the current’s flow an’ paddle over on the slant. Once we touch quieter water along the far bank, with some mean paddlin’ we should land short of the Scioto … or so I hope.”

  Lem’s head tilted and he peered down his nose at Wentsell. “If’n yer that uncertain, we need cast off ’fore the river takes on a real rise,” he snorted. “We’ll have her loaded jack quick, thank ye.”

  Blake and I had no experience with canoes at all. We forded streams narrow and wide on horseback, swimming our mounts or walking the bottom. Lem was aware of our ignorance, and showed us how bulky gear was stowed in the craft’s hull. On his orders, we rolled shot pouches and hand weapons in our leather leggins and lashed them to the gunwales. Next we removed our frocks and wrapped our rifles, including Wentsell’s, in two bundles, barrel plugs and lock covers securely in place. Wearing only breeches and tall moccasins, we’ climbed gingerly aboard while Lem and Wentsell anchored the canoe. Then we settled on our knees and wedged the rifle bundles lengthwise betwixt our hips and the bark walls. “Even if’n we was ta upset we save the rifles ahead of our ownselves,” Wentsell stated without a hint of humor. “I ain’t aimin’ ta be burnin’ meat for them Shawnee.”

  He placed his paddle in the sharp V of the bow and called over his shoulder. “Let’s shove her out, Sergeant!”

  In a few running, pushing strides we shot past the tip of the deadfall. Wentsell and Lem scrambled over the gun wales. Both snatched up paddles, stroking on opposite sides. The waiting current latched ahold of us and we hurtled downstream as if catapulted, paddles suddenly toy sticks i
n the yawning mouth of a watery monster poised to devour canoe and all in a single gulp.

  The moonlight dwindled next to nothing, darkening the gray surface of the river. Blake and I clung tight to the gunwales, listening to the suck and gurgle of churning water. We could only trust to Lem and Wentsell. Our fate rested with their judgment and skill with the paddles, and they both bent to the task, grunting with each stroke.

  It was near the middle of the Ohio, best I can guess, that a tree limb thick as my thigh, round and smooth and dripping mud and slime, brushed across the front of my frock. Without thought, I raised a hand to hold it at bay and the trunk from which it grew, glistening in the feeble light, levered free of the current and thumped the left gunwale from end to end. That watery monster had grown arms and was about to drag us under, kicking and sreaming to the last. We were goners!

  I hadn’t reckoned on Wentsell. He calmly grabbed a limb hovering above his head and brazenly rose upward, balance steady and even. He looked forward, then backward. “Ain’t no other limbs beyond yuh, Lem,” he observed in a booming voice. “When I yells ‘now,’ we’ll push off hard ta the rear with the paddles. Yuh lads duck good and low and stay down ta yuh hear me tell yuh different.”

  He dropped back onto his knees and fastened hold of his paddle. He tapped the deadfall’s trunk with it at several points, found a purchase he approved of, leaned inward and planted himself low and firm. Glancing past me and Blake, he shoved on the paddle handle with every ounce of muscle in him, the cords in his neck bulging, the command of “now” blasting my ears.

  The canoe surged out and back just as the current rolled the deadfall in the opposite direction. The limbs hanging above whipped from sight, and a fraction later one submerged beneath us whumped the underside of the hull forward of me, directly behind Wentsell. I tensed, waiting for the thin bark to tear and water to come gushing in. But no such thing happened. The saddle pouches cached in the bottom softened the blow, and though the canoe lifted slightly, our rearward momentum, aided by the weight of Blake and Lem in the stern section, pulled us out of harm’s way with a loud scrape along the bottom of the bow. Both Wentsell and I were praying aloud before it was over. It was somehow comforting in the scary darkness during a close brush with death to learn the supposedly cold-blooded Tice Wentsell acknowledged a God like us mere mortals.

  “We lost some way, Sergeant. Sweep strokes opposite sides on the four count ’fore we broach,” Wentsell boomed out.

  His voice carried easily above the rush of the current and slap of water along the hull. He never looked back, trusting Lem to still be there hard at it. I snuck a peek past my shoulder and sure enough, he was into it for all he was worth. In the faint moonlight, silver beads dripped from his paddle as it lifted from the river at the finish of each long, full sweep.

  The two of them maintained a grueling pace, never seeming to tire. They worked the paddles with little wasted motion, drawing wind before each stroke. And Wentsell, the paddle a fiddler’s bow in his sturdy hands, kept the craft on course so each of Lem’s powering sweeps counted full measure. I won’t deny that fear of what we all faced if they came up the least bit short played a big part in their refusal to let the river have the final say for us. Either we made the far bank or we forfeited our lives—no small thing when muscles and tendons were cramping with pain and begging for rest.

  Still, there was a brief stint after the moon set and the blinding blackness of late night was everywhere when Wentsell and Lem had to suspect such a feat was beyond them. The current was simply too taxing for the distance involved. Every man has his limits, a barrier beyond which sheer will and determination can no longer force exhausted limbs and burning lungs to carry on. And Blake and I couldn’t exchange places with them: The risk was too great we’d broach the canoe and swamp ourselves.

  What spared us that black night was Wentsell’s keen vigilance. “Lookee starboard, Sergeant. Ain’t that fire on shore?”

  It was a most grand and uplifting discovery. Splotches of red loomed bright, dulled, then brightened again. “By damn,” Blake trumpeted in a shout, “it’s the coals from the timbers of them Kentuckies callin’ us home. Them Redsticks done us one good turn after all.”

  The realization we were within reach of our destination freshened Wentsell and Lem for a last surge of paddling. They sliced the water with a flourish, singing the count to each other in a rhythmic chant. We soon floated beyond the drag of the main current and made better headway with fewer strokes.

  Our arrival on the north bank was as swift as our departure from its opposite. Wentsell called, “Push over left, Sergeant,” and the sharp prow struck solidly, slid forward and ground to a halt.

  “Hold ’er steady while Blaine an’ me drag her snug,” Wentsell ordered.

  In my haste to help him anchor the canoe for unloading, I stepped over the gunwale without checking the bottom … and plummeted into an underwater hole deeper than I was tall. Initially, there was no great concern on my part. I waited for my feet to land on the shallow riverbed, expecting this before my lungs burst. But my searching toes touched the downward slope of the bank and failed to hold in the mud. Pushing aside an urge to panic, I began swimming. One … two … three up-down pumping of the arms slowed my descent, and with the fourth, I started upwards, kicking my feet scissor-fashion. I held my jaws firm despite lungs screaming for air, and kept my arms pumping and feet kicking.

  My head broke the surface just as I started losing my senses. Fingers clutched the waist of my breeches at the small of the back. The clasping hand advanced several paces and deposited me on the muddy shoreline with a water-logged thud.

  “Welcome ta Ohio, little brother.”

  Chapter 10

  Morning till Afternoon, September 13

  I spent a lengthy spell flat down, heaving for wind and thumbing mud from eyes and ears. The others went quietly about the chore of unloading our gear and rifles. No mention was ever made of my ignominious arrival in the territory north and west of the River Ohio, an oversight I attributed mainly to my rough-barked brother. If he chose not to raze me, no one else dared in his stead.

  What brought me upright once I could breathe and see again were the thick clouds of skeeters swarming round my bare neck and shoulders. I donned leggins over wet breeches and tied the collar of my hunting frock tight under the chin, swatting and cursing with the best of them. Blake and Wentsell were busy daubing every inch of exposed skin with handfuls of the river slime I’d just scraped away. Lem hummed happily as he rubbed himself with a ball of rancid fat he carried in a small tin for such purposes. The fat drove the skeeters off, but downwind he reeked worse than Abner Johnson’s supper meat the prior evening. One whiff of him and I declined his offer to share, preferring the evil-looking mud instead; that way, I could stand my own company.

  “Daylight’s none too far off,” Wentsell said, spitting skeeters, “an’ we need ta scuttle the canoe. Them Shawnee scouts stumble across it, they’ll be on our track in no time. We’ll fill her with rocks, put ’er under an’ ease off ta the east, stickin’ ta the riverbank. There’s a spate of ground yonder high enough these blood-thirsty demons’ll leave off feastin’. Sides, a day of sleep will do us’ens a heap of good.”

  A sharp intake of breath by Blake hinted he might take exception to Wentsell’s strategy. Lem rapped the calf of Brother’s leg with his rifle butt, an act Wentsell, walking toward the canoe, did not see or hear. “Grab some rocks, lad,” Lem said. “Quicker we’re through here, quicker Tice can tell yuh how we’re gonna overtake Sarah an’ them Shawnee.”

  Lem’s suggestion apparently satisfied Blake enough that he waded into the water beside Wentsell and fished the bottom for sinking stones. I followed suit, as puzzled as Blake. The Shawnee were withdrawing north along the Scioto while we headed east. And by wasting the next several hours we conceded them a sizeable lead. I was as anxious as Blake to learn exactly what our famed Injun fighter had in mind.

  By the finish, we had hol
ed the canoe in the center and piled rock in the bow and stern, and even then she sank slowly. Wentsell led off along the bank past the two piles of smoking embers that had once been proud ships. We waded in knee-deep water, the footing slippery all the while, till the first faint glimmer of false dawn softened the surrounding blackness. Bearing away from the river on a gravel bar, we moved inland across a narrow buffalo trace, the yard-wide pathway pounded inches deep by countless hooves. First light found us far enough from the muddy flats of the Ohio that the whine of skeeters diminished to a painful, itching memory, a welcome relief since they’d nearly chewed apart the scab covering my wounded lip.

  Wentsell’s knowledge of the country was remarkable. Unfazed by the heavy morning mist, he quit the trace without notice where no recognizable landmarks existed and bent uphill. He negotiated the close-set trees and stubby, thick brush of the steeply rising ground without breaking stride. Short of a hard pant, we popped into an oval clearing backed by a high shelf of rock over which springwater trickled clean and cold, pooling at ground level in a shallow sinkhole lined with white stone.

  Last from the screening trees was Lem, covering the rear in the face of death threats from each and every one of us. He was heated up and sweating, and his generous coating of spoiled fat had him smelling upwind in the teeth of an early morning breeze. While I admit the river mud we’d packed on ourselves was far from sweet, the stink on Lem was truly potent, foul enough, Wentsell told him bluntly, “ta glorify hog dong.”