The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Her smile revealed white teeth behind lips shapely and full. “That’s the best judgment I’ve seen from you today,” she said.

  With great gentleness, she slipped a rolled oilcloth under my head. Thunder pealed and wind whipped and gusted. Her eyes saddened. “You’re hurt terribly bad and it’s gonna rain buckets. We’ve got to get you up the bank before the creek rises. You’ll drown otherwise. I’ll tote the gear and come back for you.”

  I heard splashing and scraping; then the holed canoe slithered alongside me. She climbed aboard and threw off Meek’s baled bundle, apparently having done the same with his remains in deeper water.

  The sky blackened with alarming quickness. Lightning flashed downstream. The first splatter of rain pelted my upturned face. I’d never experienced a bleaker moment. I was shot through with pounding agony, weaker’n watered whiskey, unable to do anything for myself. Had I been alone, I believe the wound and the pain would have had their way with me, if I didn’t drown in the meantime. But I wasn’t alone and Hannah Ferrenden had less quit in her than a mothering she-bear.

  She tugged and strained with Meek’s bundle till it rested yonder against my ambush log. The canoe went next. She scouted out a crumbled break in the high bank, stood the vessel in the groove of the break, and by pushing from the stern, slipping, sliding and swearing every inch, warped it over the lip of the bank. Her shrill yell of triumph bested the thunder.

  It seemed I lay forever in the pouring rain before her violet eyes returned and sought mine again. Water streamed from her peaked hat. Black hair hung in straggles about her face. Mud caked her sleeves and her shirt clung to her heaving breasts. It hurt a bunch, but I chuckled at the memory of how stunned the four Shawnee must have been when they made out their prisoner, fresh from the brown Ohio, was a woman instead of a ship’s captain.

  She mistook the short laugh for hopeful spirits on my part. “Good you’re not long in the mouth right now. I can’t drag you … and I can’t carry you.” Her eyes blinked and she shuddered. “It may be the death of you, but we’ve got to get you on your feet. I’ll be your crutch. Let’s sit you up first.”

  Waiting for neither yea nor nay, she none too gently removed the oilcloth from beneath my head, wriggled a slim arm behind my shoulders and heaved. My shoulders cleared the rocks and slime and she scurried sideways, wedging herself under me slick as anything. The dark numbness beckoned anew, but I gritted teeth, and bolstered by her supple strength, tumbled forward in an upright position.

  She braced me backside to backside and we rested. I sucked in fresh breath and fought off another wave of beckoning darkness. The pain was no worse than before. I decided I could get on my feet with her help. The trick was not to fall. If I did, the blow would render me senseless for some unknown time, and not even her unfettered determination could overcome the dead weight of my sizable body.

  “Fetch me my rifle,” I mumbled.

  She toad-hopped in front of me, one fist anchored in the neck of my frock. “What? Say again!”

  “Fetch me my rifle,” I snuck past a heavy tongue.

  “All right,” she acknowledged. “But grab your breeches with your good arm. We don’t want to start over again.”

  Her nimble-minded manner commanded immediate re spect. She knew when to take orders as well as when to give them. Little did I understand how much my survival would depend on her quick thinking in the long hours before nightfall that day and beyond.

  “Here’s your rifle,” she announced, squatting. “What now?”

  Biding the pain, I set the butt plate outside my right knee in water already lapping over my thighs. The downpour continued with no sign of slackening. I gripped the rifle at the center of the barrel with my right arm, and without being told, the judge’s daughter knelt behind me with her shoulder in the middle of my back.

  I rocked and shot upward, the solidly bedded flintlock the perfect lever. My bottom rose from the swirling water. The always alert Hannah Ferrenden felt me falter halfway, clasped the seat of my breeches with both hands and snapped my legs straight.

  The agony in my side was less severe. I staggered from the shallow water, grunting and talking at himself. The wall of the bank brought me to a momentary halt. I ground teeth near to breaking and started climbing. Fervent prayers and ardent curses blended together in a senseless jumble. The final surge over the top of the bank awaited. I clawed with muddy fingers, and arms reached from above and helped me that last insurmountable yard. I fell onto my good shoulder and bumped against the widespread shins of the smiling, cheering Hannah Ferrenden. “By God, you’ve as much gumption as Paw,” she said. “Can’t say such about many others anywhere on the river.”

  Her contention hardly merited the brag. If what she said was true, her paw was surely an old crust, mule-stubborn with mush for brains. Still, I didn’t purposely ignore her compliment. Who could say when—or if—there ever might be another. It was just that nodding my head would hurt. To even return her beaming smile would hurt. Hence, I strolled the coward’s path and passed out.

  I departed a chill, wet, pain-wracked world and surfaced much later in one quite different. There I was protected from the driving rain. I was warm and cozy and dry from crown to sole. And wonder of wonders, the sweet aroma of heated rum perfumed the air. I lay still and quiet with eyes pinched shut, basking in the glory of it all, finding nothing dislikable in my new surroundings. If this wasn’t Heaven, I would willingly pass on the real place, thank you anyway, Lord.

  All would have stayed as it was had I not stretched my leg to ward off growing cramps. At the very first twinge of movement in any muscle on my person, an agonizing bolt of burning agony erupted along my ribs and swept upward, tearing my eyes. I straightened my crampy leg with a vow trees would walk before I moved the tiniest piece of myself again.

  The pain gradually faded. Curiosity won out over caution and I eked open one eye at a time. The upturned canoe arched overhead, rain drumming steadily on the bark hull. Down past my feet, the dim gray light of late afternoon sifted through the holed bow. I lay stark naked, swaddled above and below by coarse woolen blankets. The smell of rum, pleasant and mouth-watering, wafted from under the top blanket. I explored tenderly with an open hand, and confirmed that a swatch of tanned deer hide circled my lower rib cage, held fast with a large knot. Maybe it wasn’t heaven on earth, and maybe it lacked the splendor of the Lord’s domain, but Hannah Ferrenden hadn’t done badly by damn, not badly at all.

  Speaking of my sharp-tongued savior, where was she?

  Without moving my head, I peered about and reached in the shadows beside me. She was nowhere to be seen, and my searching fingers encountered only two long rifles piled together, the single star on one of the stocks telling me it was my own Lancaster. I grinned at the discovery. This woman might—might—be one worth climbing the hill with.

  Had I stayed awake, I likely would have commenced worrying over her. But an awful weariness drooped my eyes and the pound of rain on the canoe’s hull soon put me to sleep. When I came round again in the pitch blackness of night, Hannah Ferrenden was the farthest thing from my mind for I was in the clutches of rampant fever. Sweat plowed furrows on my brow and ran from my chest in rivulets. I shivered and shook uncontrollably, exciting my wound to fresh spasms so powerful I sobbed and moaned aloud. Overwhelmed with misery, I tossed and jerked and thrashed in the web of coarse blankets, driven out of my wits, ready and willing to die.

  The canoe’s bow jerked off the ground. Wind mixed with rain whistled along the curve of the hull, followed by a hollow thunk. Solid weight settled next to me and slim arms eased around my neck and shoulders. A soothing voice reached me through the misery fogging my head. “Hush now, my man, hush now. This kind of carryin’-on won’t help either of us. Hush now, I won’t leave you.”

  Her arms were surprisingly strong. My cheek was brought to smooth wet cloth. Reassuring words vied with the sickness for my complete attention. As she talked, she kissed my forehead, eyes and mou
th. “Quiet now, my man. Trust me. You must save your strength. Hush now.”

  She battled the fever with me, her patience unbounded. When I was afire inside and out, she drew back and blotted my face and upper chest with deerskin dampened in cool water. When the sweat turned cold on my skin and dreadful chills tortured me end to end, she snuggled the length of me and warmed me. The kisses and encouraging words never ceased. Nothing came before my every need. She cared for me with no concern for her own wet garments and tired limbs. Finally, the recurring fever ran its course. Not long after, the shivering and shaking and teeth-chattering cold spells ceased. The whole nightmarish ordeal left me totally spent, too wearied for even words of thanks. I sank into a fitful sleep cradled in her arms.

  When I awoke alone in the blankets, the midnight hour well past, thirst parched my throat so severely the aching throb of the bullet wound seemed a trifle. I longed for water and vittles, but feared I was too worn down to hold my head up and swallow without choking.

  It was during those few hours before dawn that I learned Hannah Ferrenden’s cleverness rivaled her patience and determination. I heard her fussing under the bow, heard her skim along, the underside of the hull towards me, heard the whisk of cloth over skin. A jug gurgled and the sharp smell of raw liquor tickled my nose. I waited, confused; then velvet softness brushed my lips. “Eat, my man, eat like the child.”

  The smell was overpowering. I licked at its source, and my tongue encountered the inviting wetness of her rum-smeared breast. Glad for the darkness that hid my startled eyes, I sucked and swallowed a throat-warming dab of liquor without shame and nary a blush. Nothing ever tasted better, not even Paw’s best batches of Kentucky Monongahela.

  The rum-wet breast came and went, and I waited for each return eager as the famished fawn at the teat. I sucked and swallowed till my thirst was sated. My body warmed and glowed everywhere. My head lolled. I heard rather than felt my lips smack together. She ran fingers through my hair, tucked the blanket about me and kissed my forehead. “Now sleep the good deep sleep, my man.”

  And I did.

  Chapter 16

  September 16

  Considering fright and pain had flavored my recent eye openings, I came alive with a start and sought my bearings with utmost diligence.

  Forked limbs at bow and stern propped the canoe’s hull at a steep angle, open side facing Salt Creek. High above the angled hull white clouds scudded across an otherwise blue sky. Closer by, sunlight slanted through treetops laced with late-morning mist. The smell of wood smoke swiveled my eyes toward the water. What I saw wasn’t what I expected. I expected to find Hannah Ferrenden cooking vittles taken from Meek and Stick Injun over an open fire. I looked at her morning bath instead.

  I didn’t want to spy on her, but the enticing sight ruled my eyes and stole my breath. The white skin of her back from shoulder to waist was flawless and unscarred. Thick black hair, brushed free of mats and tangles, swept below the nape of her neck. She was dressed in nothing except what appeared to be white linen drawers that ended at the knee.

  She dipped her cloth in a round metal pot resting short of the fire and swabbed her breasts and naked belly. The heat in my face stung and I turned my head away, fearful she would hear me panting, thankful the blankets covered my middle. She obviously believed I was still asleep, and I had no desire to embarrass or anger her. I closed my eyes and thought of other things, anything but the look and shape of her.

  Her camp arrangement bespoke planning and several forays afield. The fire burned beneath the hovering shade of the hackberries, yet near enough to the creek bank that she could watch upstream and down. The fire itself, smaller than my hands with the fingers spread, flamed with little smoke, the wood therefore white oak or ash and gathered dry despite the storm. A tin noggin with closed lid nestled in red coals. A small skillet with a broken branch thrust in the holding ring for a handle flanked the opposite side of the flames and reeked of fried meat.

  What pleased me most was her awareness that we camped in country never esteemed for its friendliness to white eyes, dressed or undressed. One quick step from her fire, Meek’s trade musket and Stick Injun’s Brown Bess leaned against the largest of the hackberries. Shot pouches and horns hung from their muzzles. Bright fittings and glossy stocks gave evidence of thorough cleaning. I knew without inquiry that if she’d recovered and cleaned the muskets, they were balled and primed. She so fascinated me, this wealthy judge’s daughter who understood the hunting camp, the cooking fire, the long rifle and the whipping of fever, that I lost the will to keep my eyes elsewhere.

  I peeked with a slitted eye, and luck was with me. She still faced the creek, and was busy cropping her hair with Stick Injun’s wide-bladed knife. She cut in measured slice and pitched each handful in the fire. At the finish, not a hair on her head exceeded the length of my middle finger. She sheathed the knife and stood, clasping her full leg breeches. When she bent to pull them over low moccasins, the curve of a rounded breast bobbed betwixt her arm and bare waist. The next breath, she looked my direction over her shoulder. I squeezed my prying eye shut and slacked my jaw as if asleep. My deception apparently succeeded for, according to my ears, she donned her clothing without remark or undo hurry.

  A moccasined foot soon thumped at my hip and her palm covered my forehead. I continued my ruse with a sudden jerk, several blinks and a puzzled frown. Her first words had me grinning inside. “Finally awake, are we.”

  She pressed each of my cheeks with the flat of her hand. “Fever’s gone for good, I daresay. You outlast that bullet wound and forgo killing two men at once, you’ll make a fine old man someday,” she pronounced, smiling with eyes and mouth.

  The blunt truth of her observation defied reproach. Violet eyes sparkled and teeth white as her bare back flashed at me. Careful, I warned myself, she’ll keel haul with brains the Lord provided you same as Loraleen and you’ll paint yourself a stuttering lout.

  Her impatience was a godsend. She took silence for agreement, tugged the top blanket past the hide swatch circling my rib cage and untied the knot binding it to me. The smell of rum and dried blood soured the air.

  I watched while she peeled away layers of green oak leaves. Uncovered, the bullet hole showed ragged all around. She reached beyond my feet and produced a brown jug. “Likely pang some,” she warned, uncorking the jug. With no hesitation, she poured a fine stream into the center of the yawning hole. No matter that I was ready, my eyes watered and my heels tattooed the ground. The dull ache I’d endured without undue hardship blossomed into a whole-hearted throb.

  “Firing it with powder and flint’d burt a sight worse,” she admonished. “Ball hit at an angle, gouged a mean hole and went through the big muscle under your shoulder, missing bone all the way. You can stick three fingers in the hole where it went out. Best you could expect, you ask me.”

  I couldn’t argue with that either. Flesh wounds, nasty or not, healed the fastest. She rolled me on my good side with my help, cleared the leaving hole and poured rum again. And again, my eyes watered and my legs shook of their own accord.

  “Yuh learn wounds from your maw?” I asked.

  She pulled fresh leaves from the waist of her shirt. “No, Mother died on the birthing bed when I was three. Surgeon showed me after my brother took a ball in the chest.”

  “lnjuns?”

  “Not hardly. It was a rakeshell affair like everything else in his short life. He insulted the wrong man and chose pistols for the duel. Died within the week.”

  She stretched the makeshift bandage over the wad of new leaves, and held them securely in place while I flattened on my backside.

  “What’s your name?” she inquired, layering the frontal wound with leaves.

  I didn’t answer straight off, and her eyes lifted from her work. A sly grin tweaked her mouth. “Wouldn’t be Tyler, would it? Sarah made much of her two brothers that last night, claimed the oldest, Blake, would tree the Devil on her behalf. From that, I’d venture you’
re Blaine.”

  I found my tongue. “How yuh know I’m not Blake?”

  “’Cause I’m here and Sarah’s not,” she answered, retying the deer hide. She slid the blanket across her handiwork. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  I nodded. There was no hiding anything from a judge’s daughter. “Blake and Tice Wentsell are after Sarah,” I said. “Wentsell sent me an’ Lem after you.”

  “And that explains how you learned of me and where you could lay in wait and ambush Meek. My paw always boasted Wentsell could give you the count of the hairs on the knuckles of any Injun be ever met. But where’s Lem?”

  “Near Chimney Rock, five miles west of here. He twisted his knee bad an’ I came on alone.”

  That much satisfied her for the moment. “And the rest I damn well know.” She slapped her knees and stood. “I better feed you. I’m not partial to starving even troublesome horses.”

  She fed me from the pan with her fingers. “Smells divine,” she said. “Injun had it in an elk-skin bag. What is it?”

  “Pemmican. Yuh mix meal, chopped venison, dried berries an’ deer tallow. Right tasty an’ lasts forever if’n yuh keep the bag tied tight.

  I ate as if a stranger to nourishment of any sort, having my fill and then some. Long draughts of chocolate broth completed my meal. Hannah Ferrenden ate sparingly at the fire, her chewing as precise as her saying of each word when she spoke. Afterwards, she sat a second noggin of watered chocolate braced with dollops of rum in the coals, then sat herself beside me with arms about her knees.

  Her violet eyes reminded me of stone jewels. “We must talk before you sleep again.” She squirmed on her haunches. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I’m damn glad to be shuck of Meek and that dreadful Shawnee. But contrary to what you and your missing Lem and Tice Wentsell intended, we’re worse off with you ambushing Meek.”