The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Woman had no taste for idle talk, so I snitched a mite of wind and told it like it was, much as I dared. “Yuh scale the hill behind the canoe,” I started, pointing with my good arm. “Up there Chimney Rock sticks above the trees due south maybe three miles. That’s the first leg. Yuh follow the high ground, keepin’ that big bald egg of a rock square in front of your nose. Yuh lose track of it, yuh climb higher an’ find it again … so far, so good?”

  Her head bobbed as she repeated each word to herself. “What then?”

  “Behind Chimney Rock, there’s stones piled higher’n my head, boulders big as me. From the highest of ’em yuh look off ta the southwest a mile or more, you’ll see where fire blackened a spiny hogback ridge. That’s the second leg. At the bottom of that blackened hogback runs a riffle of water no wider’n my shoulders. Lem’s laid up in a hole where the bank caved in. Yuh sing out, he won’t be pokey answerin’ yuh.”

  Never prone to accept the harness without pondering the road ahead, she chewed the corner of her mouth before asking, “How’s the ground lay before I reach Lem? Can I see the hogback all the while like Chimney Rock?”

  She had sliced past the fat and hit bone. I closed my eyes and walked where she would. “You won’t see the hogback after Chimney Rock till yuh top the hill across from it,” I admitted, “but that don’t jack the wagon none. Straight along you’ll go downhill, then up, downhill a second time, then up again. It’s still mostly high ground with but a smidgen of undergrowth. It’ll pass under your feet right quick. Yuh peer off from that second hill, that spiny hogback’ll be there, black as all get-out. If’n it ain’t smack dab in front of yuh, there’ll be a big enough piece of it hangin’ in the sky left or right ta fill your eyeball. Then down yuh go an’ follow the run straight ta Lem, hollerin’ out ever’ other step.”

  “An’ if I miss the hogback?”

  I snapped my eyes open. Both arms held her knees under her chin and a frown clouded her features. Her fear of the woods was deep and abiding. Unless I spoke quick, she’d clutter her mind with enough worry to confuse Wentsell. “Ain’t a chance in the hundred yuh will. If’n it did happen, no matter how thick the trees, the sun sneaks through here and there. Walk straight for the sun till you hit the run. You’ll have enough daylight, so try upstream five hundred paces. That fails, walk back an’ count the same downstream. If’n nothin’ falls right, follow the water downstream. When the run joins the creek, wheel right an’ follow the creek back here. Yuh can do all that afore sunset.’’

  As I had hoped, knowing she could locate our camp again dampened her fear somewhat. Her face softened and heed ing that encouraging sign, I kept talking while I reached behind me for Lem’s Lancaster. “Yuh best take the old salt his rifle. It’ll make a handy crutch for him.” With the movement, pain shot through my wounded side, but I managed to pass her the weapon butt first. “Take my shot pouch an’ horn, an’ the Injun hatchet. Yuh may have ta cut splints for his bad leg.”

  She accepted the long rifle with a weak smile and came to her feet. “What about the rum jug? Wouldn’t a dram or two help Lem along?”

  “It would,” I conceded. “Nonetheless, Lem’s thirst often exceeds his need an’ he overdoes. Didn’t Meek an’ the Shawnee tote any sort of canteen?”

  Her eyes brightened. She was warming to the task now and made haste accordingly. Rummaging inside Meek’s hide bale, she produced a narrow, sheet-iron canteen with shoulder sling and carved wooden stopper. She let the stopper dangle on its safety cord and poured rum from the jug.

  “Just half full,” I cautioned. “Give him a hearty slurp at the outset, twice that at Chimney Rock, an’ the balance when he grows mulish with yuh later.”

  Her frown returned. “Having a bad leg and all, won’t Lem want to follow the low ground along the run and the creek on the trip back?”

  “No, the high ground’s the safest. The Shawnee travel the creek,” I blurted out, cursing myself inwardly.

  She halted the pouring. “Yuh didn’t mention any damn Injuns before. Is that why you’re sending me across the hills?”

  “Ain’t no cause for yuh ta fuss an’ fret. Any number of streams an’ smaller runs empty into that creek yonder Yuh could waste days searchin’ the wrong watersheds an’ ravines. Dry upland country lends itself ta less troublesome travel whenever you’re afoot, hurt or not. Yuh listen ta me, you’ll find Lem no matter what.”

  “An’ the Injuns?” she persisted.

  “Probably not a Redstick within fifty miles, but it’s never wise ta chance an encounter with’em,” I answered, masking the lie with an obvious truth.

  She stared at me so long I was afraid sweat would pop on my forehead and betray me. With a sigh of resignation, she finally resumed pouring the rum. “Nothing for me except take you at your word. I wasn’t the runt of the litter where brains are concerned. Without you and Lem for guides and help manning the canoe, I’m a dead woman. There’s no sense whining about how unfair the Lord seems at times or how it would all be different if I hadn’t ordered Paw’s boats ashore to pick up your Sarah. You eat from the platter in front of you or go hungry, right, Blaine Tyler?”

  “That’s as good as I’ll hear it said,” I granted, squeezing my jaw tight then and there. She had talked herself into what had to be done, and I didn’t trust myself not to blurt out something else that might unravel her decision and prolong her departure. The sun waited for no man … or woman.

  Stoppering the canteen, she ducked her head through its shoulder strap, did likewise with my shot pouch and horn, then paused, holding Lem’s rifle in front of her with both hands. With a nod to herself, the judge’s daughter searched Meek’s bale and secured the leather rope that had once tethered her to Stick Injun. She measured the rope against the Lancaster from muzzle to toe plate, and cut a piece the same length with the Shawnee knife. Tied at opposite ends just below the trigger guard and above the front sight, the shortened rope made a workable sling for the barrel-heavy Lancaster, leaving her arms free for the hard day’s march ahead. The remaining piece of rope served as a waist belt behind which she slipped the sheathed knife and Injun hatchet.

  She snatched her macaroni hat from the ground beside the hide bale and, tugging it firmly in place atop black hair, stepped before me. Other than the unmistakably female face and slight swell of breasts beneath the loose forefront of her towcloth shirt, she appeared the tall, slim woodsman off on the hunt. In a display of purpose and courage summoned for the moment, she knuckled her forehead with the precision of the King’s Redcoat and in a voice deepened for my benefit, said with nose held haughtily aloft, “I be ready, Captain Tyler. Any further orders?”

  Her high spirits were irresistible. From flat on my back, I returned her salute and winked my approval. “Remember, Private Ferrenden, march straight for Chimney Rock, bear southwest, cross two rows of hills, an’ look for the blackened hogback. I sincerely wish I could be there an’ watch the ol’ sergeant’s eye bulge when he learns who’s bringin’ him his rum ration. He’ll swear he’s dreamin’.”

  “A healthy pinch will fix that problem for the ol’ sergeant,” Hannah Ferrenden predicted, eyes teeming with orneriness.

  We enjoyed a hearty laugh at absent Lem’s expense, after which she drew herself into the stiffened stance of the soldier, rendered a final salute, wheeled left, and was gone around the bow of the canoe in four quick-stepping strides.

  So swift and abrupt was her departure, my belated order of dismisal was spoken to an empty creek bank.

  Chapter 18

  Evening, September 17

  The sun inched across the sky the entire day … I swear it moved no faster.

  The waiting was most bearable in the hours immediately after Hannah Ferrenden’s departure, for I’d much to accomplish then myself. At the lifting of my left arm, pain ran wild through flesh and muscle torn by Stick Injun’s bullet. But that didn’t discourage me: A man does have his pride to consider. No fellow hunter—not even Lem, who’d known me since ta
dpole age—was about to gaze on me naked in my blankets after I’d camped alone for two nights with a strange female as spirited and inviting as the judge’s daughter. If nothing else, by damn, I’d be dressed, sitting up and taking rum of my own accord when she and Lem returned, thank yuh kindly.

  A dozen failed attempts, much profane cursing and half the morning later, I was seated upright with a breeches leg bunched at each ankle. From there I spent the balance of the forenoon working those same breeches past my hips and buttoning the front flap. My bloodstained frock was next, no great difficulty once I threaded a sleeve over my left arm. With the bulk of me decently covered, I foreswore donning moccasins, leggins and slouch hat. Pride was one thing, unwarranted pain quite another.

  I scrunched around, braced my backbone against the inner hull of the canoe and chewed a wedge of pemmican, allowing myself small sips of rum. The hurt in my side was a constant, jarring throb, but my strength was exhausted and I slept the bulk of the afternoon anyway, Stick Injun’s Brown Bess at half cock across my thighs. Short fight or not, I wanted at least one solitary Redstick to pay dearly for my hair.

  I drifted awake in the earliest hour of evening. Downwind of the hesitant breeze, two deer, the largest a buck, drank in the shallows along the far bank. Crackling behind them startled dripping muzzles from the water and they fled without sound. I stilled, Brown Bess firmly in hand. The head of a black bear soon parted the reedy growth at waiter’s edge. His twitching nose tested the air for scent before he shuffled his rounded body into view. He sniffed upstream and down, not trusting his weak eyes. Raising nothing in particular to fear or eat, the bear lapped water, then disappeared on his original path.

  I loosened my grip on the musket. Deer and bear meat stocked our table all year long, and had Blake and Lem been with me as in past months, the hunt would have commenced straightaway, any remaining camp chores left for those less quick to the pursuit.

  Lord, how I missed my brother. The mere thought of never seeing him again had me in tears instantly. And if anything had happened to him, what about Sarah? Was she still alive? For that matter, would any of us Tylers survive and return home to young Adam?

  I shook my head and sank teeth into my lip, drawing blood where the kettle had split skin days ago. If Lem wasn’t to find me unclothed and abed, neither would he come upon Blake Tyler’s brother bawling like some abandoned calf missing its mother. I dried both eyes with a thumb and chugged a whopping mouthful of hellfire rum that seared me from throat to gizzard.

  As the bottom of the jug touched my blanket, the rustle of leaves disturbed by tramping feet carried from the upper portion of the hill behind the canoe. There was no need for alarm. No Injun would cause such a racket, nor any large animal. Shortly, I overheard Lem’s soft curse each time the stock of his rifle thumped the ground. The mildness of his swearing gave notice the old salt was desperately tired, barely able to stand.

  The judge’s daughter arrived ahead of Lem, face grimy and drawn, the Oldham saddle pouch hanging from her shoulders. Mud coated her knees and moccasins. Her eyes widened at the sight of me clothed and sitting up, but she clumped her heels together and knuckled her forehead, playing the soldier to the last, I suspected, to hide her own tiredness.

  “Private Ferrenden reporting, sir. The ungodly noise tagging after me is your Sergeant Shakett. You’ll smell him before you see him.”

  “I heard that,” Lem ranted, suddenly beside her, butted Lancaster easing his splinted leg. “Yuh mark my words, young woman. Yuh’ll beg for a daub here an’ there afore the night’s ended.”

  The stink of rancid fat curled hair in my nose. “Was the skeeters that bad?”

  “They’d a-carried off a lesser man,” Lem asserted, tattooed jaw quivering.

  “Means nothing to me,” Hannah Ferrenden countered, turning her head aside. “You wash in the creek or sleep in the far bushes.”

  Lem looked to me for help, but I’d none to offer. I didn’t want him sharing my bed either. “Maybe you two can decide who sleeps where after we have our fill of that meal yuh brung and Meek’s rum,” I suggested, patting the brown jug at my hip.

  Armed with an excuse to escape the argument without admitting defeat, Lem backed two steps and fair threw himself down. “Hand me the likker, missy. My body done beat my muster ta the hole.’’

  Hannah Ferrenden placed a muddy foot by my knee, bent from the waist and gripped the neck of the jug. Her piercing glance was sharp as a pointed dagger. She spoke only for my ears. “He brags he’s your bosom friend. I’ll shoot him anyhow if he tries to sleep under the canoe with us.”

  Her sentiments clearly stated, she spun about, planted the jug betwixt Lem’s shins with a resounding thud, then dropped the Oldham saddle pouch on the creek bank as far from Lem as possible. Her back to us all the while, she scooped a shallow pit with her knife where she’d buried yesterday’s ashes and piled twigs and leaves for the start of the cooking fire.

  Lem swilled rum and whispered, “Tended your wound an’ shaved yuh too, eh?”

  Even with dusk on the creep, Lem’s one good eye was keen as ever. I was thankful my long frock hid the crotch of my coarsely sewn breeches. “Can’t hardly make any head way with her if’n she fixes her mind on somethin’.”

  “Ain’t that the burr from the hound’s ear,” Lem responded, swallowing more rum.

  We watched silently while Hannah Ferrenden carried Meek’s musket to her freshly dug pit. She knelt, drew the hammer to full cock, plugged the touchhole with a splinter, added powder to the pan from the traitor’s horn and closed the frizzen. Holding the weapon sideways with the pan just above her pile of leaf-shrouded twigs, she triggered the piece. Sparks flared and with a hiss, burning powder rained on the dry tinder. She leaned close and blew gently on the smoking leaves till she achieved a bright spear of flame. With deft fingers, she quickly built a curved tier of branches over igniting leaves and twigs.

  “Ain’t been tethered ta the hearth overly much, has she now,” Lem observed, raspy voice still low.

  I risked no comment, for Hannah Ferrenden was on the move toward him. She passed behind him and untied Meek’s hide bale. She extracted the fry pan and tin boiling noggin, then stepped beside me and pointed at the pemmican bag, which I hastily handed to her. Wedging the bag under one arm, without so much as a by-your-leave, she helped herself to Lem’s Lancaster with her free hand.

  The old salt’s mouth sprang open, but before he could protest aloud, Hannah Ferrenden jabbed his chest with the barrel of his own rifle. “Wouldn’t deny me protection while I’m at the creek, would you, Sergeant?” she inquired with a scathing glare. “And don’t hog that rum. I’ll want some later for doctoring.”

  Much as I’d experienced with her, Lem was in water over his head and quickly realized that surrender was preferable to outright embarrassment. He nodded glumly, lifted the jug from his lap, and sat it at arm’s length. With a curt nod in return, Hannah Ferrenden wheeled right, paused long enough at the creek bank to lay the pan and pemmican bag by the fire, then went off downstream with long rifle and noggin.

  Lem glowered after her. “High-strung as a breedy colt that refuses the halter. She always so touchy ’bout yuh?”

  “Me! It’s you an’ the stink she’s upset with.”

  “Naw, it ain’t,” Lem contended, “not really. I stunk from the gitgo. There weren’t no trouble till she stumbled anglin’ down the hill yonder an’ I joshed—funnin’ her was all —how she seemed three-footed as Blaine Tyler. Her hackles swol’ then an’ there. She got madder’n a dog-prodded bear, stomped the ground an’ left me ta follow along.” Lem straightened and checked Hannah Ferrenden’s whereabouts. “Hells bells, lad, I asked her at Chimney Rock why she wears men’s breeches. Know what she done? She just laughed an’ joked ol’ he-goats can’t peek up long breeches liken they can a woman’s skirt. Didn’t bother her none neither when I asked her why she cropped her hair so. She looked at me cold as a gallows judge an’ said no Redstick or anybody’ e
lse, by damn, was gonna catch holt of her by the hair agin. If’n none of that treed her, it must of been me allowin’ as how yuh an’ her would be hard-pressed skirtin’ cow flop in a flat pasture.”

  I didn’t admit such to Lem, but I attached scant credence to his personal slant on the feelings of our female companion for one Blaine Tyler. Put Blake in my place and maybe that would be the way of it. What was more likely, she’d been insulted by Lem’s jibe and had lost her temper with him after enduring hours of his thorny company. Paw always claimed Lem could try the patience of the Lord’s saints on even his best day.

  With dusk fully upon us, the fire loomed brighter by the moment and I talked to the old salt in a rush. “There’s things I need tell while she’s not underfoot,” I said. “Four Shawnee went past on the creek at first light. We were plain lucky the high water hid the bodies of Stick Injun an’ Meek somewheres below here. Creek sinks, they may surface an’ give us away next time. The faster we’re gone from here, the better.”

  Lem squinted at the bow of the canoe, stroking his chin. “She told me of your plan. That’s a sizable hole.”

  “Too bad for us his feet aren’t smaller, huh, Sergeant,” Hannah Ferrenden said from the brush nearby, her silent approach affirming that, unlike me, clumsiness wasn’t a constant affliction for her.

  She returned Lem’s rifle and toted her noggin of water to the cooking pit. “Well, can you patch the canoe or not, Sergeant?” she goaded. “If you can’t, I will.”

  Fast as wood popping in the flames, Lem’s dander was on the rise. “An’ just how would yuh go at such a chore, missy?” he demanded.

  “The hole is well forward,” she answered calmly, slicing rounds of pemmican with her knife and dropping them into the fry pan. “I’d cut a sling from that oilcloth your friend’s sittin’ on, lash one end to the starboard gunwale, run the sling under the hull where the hole be, stretch it tight and tie the other end to the port gunwale.”