The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  I followed their progress from the fringe of the hackberries, one eye on Salt Creek. The narrow stream, still swollen from the recent storm, ran fast and muddy. The air of late morning hung dead calm and beastly hot.

  The patch ready, the sewing of its bottom border to the hull commenced. Hannah Ferrenden poked small slits through cloth and bark with the point of her knife at regular intervals from gunwale to gunwale, then, her thread the thin stands of scrubbed pine root, she stitched from opening to opening, knotting the ends of the strands as she went. After a brief exchange with her Lemuel, she doubled back the same as with my breeches. The sun burned straight overhead when she finished.

  We nooned on a single ash cake apiece and the dregs of our earlier noggin of watered chocolate. It was a short repast, for our seam-stress had the old salt on his feet with the pitch bucket in tow almost before he downed his last bite.

  Sealing the bottom of the patch and each hole wherever the root thread penetrated the hull was mean, messy and smelly, an afternoon of pure drudgery. By the final daubing scrape of their pitch-laden knives, Lem and Hannah Ferrenden were exhausted.

  Lem plopped on the deadfall, drenched with sweat everywhere, fingers and lower sleeves streaked with black pitch. He was thoroughly played out, so much so he clutched the rum jug child-like with both hands for a celebratory swig with Hannah Ferrenden. Even then his arms quaked.

  “Missy,” he said, slipping her the jug, “that be a fine piece of fixin’ we done, the equal of Braxton’s Yard. But,” he continued, nodding at me, “I can’t kneel ta paddle an’ your Captain Tyler yonder can’t ply the knob neither. What for now, girl?”

  Hannah Ferrenden, seated next to him, had her swig and placed the jug on the ground at her feet. “We’ll tie a thwart across the stern and sit you flat on your arse behind it. You lean your chest against it when you stroke, it’ll give you all the leverage you need. Lafe Dare paddled thataway the whole winter and he broke his leg.”

  Lem’s shaggy head shook in amazement. “I’d be honored ta sail any waters with yuh, Mistress Ferrenden,” he declared, doffing his pelt cap.

  The judge’s daughter laughed and patted his forearm. “Thank you, you’re a treasure yourself. But take care, Paw claims I’m too bold and reckless for any man. He says I remind him of salt in the cellar, not wine in the barrel.”

  “Hell’s bells,” Lem bristled, “that don’t scratch my blade none. Where I sally from, they teach a man ta look in his tankard afore he drinks.”

  Laughing again, Hannah Ferrenden rose from the ambush log. “I’ll not forget that … ever,” she promised, a pat of his shoulder accompanying her pledge. “You may rest. Captain Tyler will keep watch so I can bathe.”

  That remark, believe you me, stuck in my ear.

  She approached in a shuffling gait, grabbing up Meek’s musket. The firm set of her sun-reddened jaw warned that her mood wasn’t to be trifled with. She was tired and sweaty and seeking a break from the heat. And I hadn’t forgotten Paw’s sentiment that avoiding a useless fight didn’t make a soul a coward. “Creek’s a sight muddy for any worthwhile bath,” sounded tame enough when I said it.

  She went past without speaking, headed upstream, beckoning me after her with a come-hither motion of the arm. I braced myself, came to my feet and followed, shortening my stride and stepping soft to lessen the strain on my wounds. The continuing absence of sharp pain I counted as further proof I was truly on the mend.

  We wove through light brush and young tree growth. She let me catch her where Lem had slept the previous night on mounded leaves, brown creek water visible below us through thumb-sized saplings. “You can wait here. If you listen close, you can hear the spring Lemuel found this morning. It seeps from the hill above the path and falls into a pool on a shelf of rock. I’ll yell if I want you.”

  I eased down on Lem’s bed of leaves. “Clear water draws Injuns like horse apples do flies,” I said. “Have a good look-see from cover first, then your bath. Anything don’t seem fittin’, don’t be hasty an’ run. Back away with your musket aimed at what disturbs yuh. I see your backside comin’, I’ll cover for yuh.”

  Hannah Ferrenden nodded and moved forward along the narrow opening she called a path. “An’ no singin’ or unnecessary noise,” I told her. “Wentsell says the Shawnee hear better’n they sight or smell.” She pointed a finger skyward without looking about, mind already on cooling waters, not my warning words.

  Considerable time tolled off and no cry of alarm summoned me. The steady splash of water dropping into the rock bowl lulled suddenly, its fall displaced by what was unquestionably Hannah Ferrenden’s body. She had most likely shed her clothes as was her wont and washed however she could, soap or no soap.

  I eyed the saplings and scant brush separating us for some long minutes. I won’t deny I wasn’t tempted, godawfully, powerfully tempted. The memory of her naked beauty that first morning was fresh and detailed and shortened my wind. Yet try my damnest, I couldn’t bring myself to it. I bore no guilt over that initial morning. She’d disrobed plumb in the open before my very blankets. But she was no paid tavern wench. She was a woman of purpose and spirit who’d won my respect thrice over, and deliberately violating the privacy of her bath while supposedly keeping my distance cheapened and mocked not only her, but myself as well. So, cursing my own high-rnindedness, I dawdled on Lem’s leaf bed in the warm shade and let opportunity take wing.

  I was half-dozing when she reappeared. The sweat and grime of the day’s toil were gone from her face and bare arms. Her towcloth shirt and breeches had been spot-scrubbed and beaten free of loose dirt. Her moccasins were damp and wrinkled from a thorough cleaning. She looked as fresh as she had at our dawn rising.

  She paused and studied the ground roundabouts. “Well, no tracks thisaway except mine and Lem’s from first light. Seems besides a friend of the truth, you’re a gentleman of trust.”

  “Most times anyway,” I agreed with a halfhearted grin.

  “I’d not minded your peeking,” she said, eyes wide and daring, “though you might find me too thin for your taste.”

  I near bit a hole through the inside of my cheek, and for once kept my jaw from flying open. Disappointed I hadn’t swallowed the bait, she tramped past and halted short of the thickening trees. “But you’ve probably judged me already, haven’t you? You did enjoy a good gander at most every part of me during my bath at the fire, didn’t you,” she accused, edging toward me.

  I nodded slowly. “An’ you needn’t worry … I don’t believe the Lord slighted yuh overly much any particular place, Mistress Ferrenden.”

  I heard the low gasp, but she recovered just as quick. Anger, more contrived than deep, I was sure, blazed her eyes and lined her brow. She’d stepped into a snare tied by her own teasing and didn’t like it. “Damn you, Blaine Tyler, you could lie a little now and again if it would help a girl feel better about herself,” she challenged, stomping into the dark shade flanking the creek.

  Playing the gentleman, I smothered my laughter till she was beyond earshot, glad I finally saw how the field was staked. When I spoke of anyone except the judge’s daughter, the plain, blunt, unblemished truth sufficed. Just for her, though, I could on occasion temper that honesty providing whatever I said regarding her bolstered her spirits. Privilege of the handsome female, I supposed, nothing a man need resent nor frown upon, not once he understood what was required of him.

  I unwound from the matted leaves, the fleeting pain in my side a stark reminder I was afield in the forested wilds, not courting the fair damsel within the sheltered confines of some Kentucky stockade. Once we embarked on Salt Creek, there would be precious few moments for laughter and jousting. Any prolonged movement on open water, the Scioto more so than the narrow creek, greatly increased the risk of bringing the Shawnee down on us. War was on the wind, and Wentsell had warned these were the most dangerous of days. Redsticks in large numbers wended across all of Ohio, gathering west of the Miami in anticipation of an autumn ass
ault on their villages by Harmar’s federals and ragtag militia companies. I slow-footed through the waning daylight. The hour was ripe for some forthright palaver with the Water Princess and her Lemuel.

  Hannah Ferrenden, burying ash cake at the fire pit, was too busy to acknowledge my arrival. The exhausted Lem, sprawled where I’d spent the day, Lancaster across his thighs, knew by my squared shoulders and thinned mouth something serious gnawed at me. “Sit, lad, my ear’s always willin’,” he invited, voice hollow with fatigue.

  I leaned instead against the tree supporting Lem’s back side and spoke loud enough for the both of them. “Way I figure it, we shove off early in the mornin’, we should approach Hurricane Tom’s Town toward noon. Wide as the bank is there, we land upstream I can sweep the town for Injuns with the spyglass. Thataway, we don’t bluster into a fight we can’t win, an’ Wentsell’s about, he’ll spy us no matter where we land.”

  Lem’s head dipped. “I’ll stand on that, ol’ Tice won’t miss our comin!”

  “How long do we tarry Wentsell’s not anywhere to be seen?” Hannah Ferrenden inquired, still hunched over her cooking.

  “We wait past dark same as he would for us. Him an’ Blake don’t show by midnight, they likely ain’t alive an’ hope’s gone for Sarah too,” I concluded reluctantly.

  “An’ then what?”

  “Left ta ourselves, the moon’s shinin’ we’ll paddle for the Ohio the whole night. Whenever yuh an’ Lem fall out or daylight breaks, we’ll hole up an’ rest. There’s too many Injuns about ta risk travelin’ days on the lower Scioto.” I glanced at each of them in turn. “Everybody hooked on the same line?”

  Two heads bobbed without hesitation, our cook smiling pleasantly round her shoulder. Not even a saint would have guessed she’d ever been angry with me.

  Before either could look away, I went right on talking. “An’ now for tonight. Lem, you’ve said many times the last night before castin’ off is the most dangerous, that folks begin ponderin’ too far down the path an’ let themselves be taken unawares, ain’t that the shank of it?”

  “Damn tootin’, bucko, death don’t never sleep nor walk with heavy feet,” the old salt chimed. “I’ll bed up above agin, yuh an’ missy here with the canoe. An’ we clean an’ prime ever’ gun soon as we’ve et.”

  His next words deserved a kiss on his purple tattoo. “An’ in the mornin,” he announced following a hasty breath, “no fire, no baths, no dallyin’! We pop from cover, launch her an’ never glance back. Earlier we sight Tom’s Town the sooner we have Tice an’ your brother sidin’ us.”

  We were both watching Hannah Ferrenden. She flashed her sweet smile and raised both arms. “Fear not, I surrender! No girl can argue with two men when they’re swingin’ the same stick. Let’ s eat.”

  With the pemmican in short supply and the rum jug practically empty, the evening fare ran to ash cake and boiled water thin on chocolate. But no complaints were rendered: There was enough for all and a full belly was an answered prayer to weary travelers. The meal behind us, we wormed the ball from Meek’s musket, declared the powder dry and didn’t fuss reloading the Lancasters and Brown Bess. We checked flints and reprimed pans and called it a day. The cook buried her fire and at dusk, Lem thumped into the trees, splinted leg scoring the bank as he went.

  Pitch smell or no, Hannah Ferrenden would hear of nothing except our passing the last night on Salt Creek as we had the one before, blanketed beneath the patched canoe with her snuggled tight against my chest and shoulder. My eyes had grown heavy when she decided the events of the afternoon warranted a final comment. “I swore I’d not foist myself on you like the powdered sillies and I won’t. Neither will I burden you descending the creek. Now, if you’ll put an arm around me, I believe I can sleep the autumn out.”

  And soft and warm as she was, she didn’t need to ask twice.

  Part 4

  Return

  Chapter 20

  Morning, September 19

  Under a pale dawn sky, Salt Creek shouldered close-set banks walled by low-hanging branches, brush, an occasional canebrake and tangles of swaying reeds. Morning mist spun silver webs above the brown water that fled before the canoe’s thrusting bow and Hannah Ferrenden’s flashing paddle. Beneath my seated rump, the hull surged with each of Lem’s grunting strokes at the stern. We were underway early and making excellent speed, thanks in the main due the nimble-minded female kneeling in front of me.

  She was first from the blanket, whipped together the cold daybreak meal and repacked Meek’s bundle at half its former bulk, all in advance of Lem and me drawing a good-morning breath. Down the steep bank slid the righted canoe, followed by the bundled gear and spare weapons. The hide bundle she stowed aft the canoe’s middle; the muskets she secured to opposite gunwales with slip-knotted lanyards sliced from the remains of the oilcloth. A deadfall branch passed judgment and became the stern thwart for Lem she’d proposed yesterday. We washed down our ration of nocake with springwater in time to answer her offhand, but pointed, “It’ll be noon you just sit there.”

  At the launch, she held the stern in the shallows and sent Lem aboard, waded into deeper water, ordered me in place, then with quick strides scrambled over the port gunwale at the bow with a leap befitting the squirrel. She was on her knees, paddle poised, when Lem made his initial sweep behind me.

  After a few awkward passes, the experienced Lem achieved a degree of smoothness and maintained a steady pace. Hannah Ferrenden, in turn, never worked against his effort. She was always on balance, her stroke measured and free of strain, upper arm pushing the knob of the handle forward while her lower arm pulled the shaft past the hip. Her feathered blade was perfectly level traveling ahead to regain the water. She was the equal of Lem and Wentsell, and no more of a burden than feathers to a packhorse.

  Neither she nor Lem knew any quit. Their pace remained constant, the oilcloth patch held without leaking and we ran the Salt in the top quarter of the wick. A widening expanse of sky downstream warned us when we neared the Scioto. “Lay to, missy,” Lem yelled, “or we’ll broach and capsize.”

  The Scioto, engorged by runoff from upriver cloudbursts, rushed southward, threatening its banks. We shot from the mouth of the Salt, skimmed sideways an unsettling catch of wind in throat, then swung round in line with the swift current, Lem’s chant of “Good girl! Good girl!” ringing forth.

  The old salt wisely centered the main current as much as he could, letting its power ease the paddling. I swept either shore with my spyglass, expecting everything, and located exactly nothing with two legs and war paint. I persisted anyway—the best course in uncertain country.

  We rode the swirling crest of the Scioto through the morning hours, seeking and finding a channel free of snags, bars and floating driftwood. Though their vigilance never slackened, Lem rested when he could, Hannah Ferrenden the same. In what seemed an impossibly short while for the miles we covered, Lem’s dripping padded tapped my shoulder. “Tom’s Town ain’t far. Be ready an’ I’ll beach us shy liken yuh planned.”

  The high ground bordering the river to the east receded, and Lem had no difficulty pinpointing the bluff that backed the clear sprawl of ground fronting the deserted townsite. He steered us around a jutting point capped with rock slabs, and made the bank where fully grown willows leaned outward. “Stand an’ reach, missy, hold us fast while the lad has his scout.”

  Hannah Ferrenden straightened slowly as Lem’s backing strokes in the calmer water steadied the canoe. At her full height, sturdy branches hung within arm’s length. She grasped with both hands, feet spread against the drag of the sluggish current. Lem hooked his paddle blade over a tree root and moored us long enough for me to sweep the open area downstream section by section.

  “Well?” Hannah Ferrenden prompted.

  “Nothin’,” I answered, “nothin’ but heat shimmers an’ a few blackbirds.”

  It was then the old salt, looking elsewhere, spied a body well below us on the far bank. “Sw
ing starboard, lad, an’ see if’n that ain’t ol’ Tice yonder. Wouldn’t no Injun uncover hisself liken that.”

  I came about, and there in the lens of my glass was Wentsell’s tidy frame and burnished face with the short, neatly trimmed beard. His silver nose ring winked in the sunlight. Since he faced me as he did, his famed pigtail was hidden behind him. He appeared no different than when I’d last seen him five days ago. He raised his long rifle and waggled the barrel above his hatless head.

  Lem nodded vigorously. “He wants we should come over. Take your station, missy, ain’t no cause ta waste the mornin’ here.”

  The ranger was a sight for sore eyes, yet encountering him alone gave rise to considerable trepidation within me. Wentsell could tell of Sarah … and Blake … and perhaps his news would wax sour on the ear.

  “Draw starboard till I whoa yuh, missy,” Lem ordered.

  We bumped the canoe from the. shade of the willows, squinting against the sudden glare of the high noon sun, gained the current and sliced across the swollen belly of the Scioto on the slant, bow fixed on Wentsell. He waited at river’s edge in the forepart of a small glade. Tall beech and walnut arced in a half-circle behind him. Except for random clumps of poor brush, the shallow glade offered shoreline suitable for landing.

  We completed the crossing, and paralleling the bank, closed on Wentsell at a rapid clip. We were within mere yards of him, about to ease the paddles, when too late to avert disaster, the judge’s daughter sang out:

  “Bear port! Sawyer dead on!”

  The patch-shielded bow took a terrific blow and jerked upward. A sliding rasp sounded beneath Hannah Ferrenden’s knees, and the jagged stub of an axle-thick tree limb smashed through the hull, barely missing her moccasined feet. Cross-ribs fractured and bark flew in pieces large and small. The canoe slammed to a full stop, impaled on the broken limb, the sharp nose of the stub tickling the front flap of my breeches, causing me to reflect momentarily with all my being on the might of the Lord and how for the second time, at his whim, he had most thankfully intervened and salvaged my manhood.