The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  “Well, fine an’ by God dandy,” Lem barked. “Here we be, your brother wounded, me with but one decent leg, two women ta fend for, an’ that ain’t enough, we’re caught danglin’ twixt two hard knots who won’t trim their sails ’thout one killin’ the other. That the nub of it?’’

  Blake pondered the stars winking high above the com pound. “I reckon. Three Feathers wants ta fight, Tice’ll oblige him the tick he has the slightest advantage. Wentsell wasn’t shorted on brains neither, though. He won’t let himself or us die needlessly or carelessly.”

  The admiration for Wentsell in Blake’s pronouncement was thick as clabbered porridge. Throughout his recounting of the ranger’s retrieval of Sarah from the Shawnee camp and the outsmarting of their pursuers, he’d throbbed with excitement. As Paw had predicted and prayed against, the lure of the woods and the long rifle had begun to rule Blake’s every thought. And in Wentsell he’d met a companion who lived to burn powder and pluck the feather. Much as I wanted to think otherwise, I’d a bothersome feeling my brother would never accompany me home to Kentucky. It would be Sarah and me … or no Tylers at all.

  His tale told, Blake yawned and came to his feet. “It’s time we rested. Wentsell’ll have no mercy in him when we taken out tomorrow. Bein’ the soundest, I’ll guard the passageway an’ watch for him. You’ll need see ta Sarah’s comfort if’n yuh will, Blaine.”

  Hannah Ferrenden spoke as Blake moved off. “I’ll bring the other blanket, so you can bed by your sister.”

  The hour was late and the compound cooler now, sweat drying of its own accord. The high elevation and towering walls discouraged winged critters and in the stillness, withered grass crackled underfoot. The moon had dipped beyond the rim of the compound and there was only feeble starlight to guide me.

  Sarah slept where shadows puddled behind the thin trees. I slanted my Lancaster against the handy rock wall and hung powder and horn from the muzzle. I turned, and Hannah Ferrenden’s newly opened blanket landed with a fluttery wisp. The barrel of her Brown Bess chinked touching stone beside my Lancaster, and her slim shape filled half the blanket, leaving room for me next to Sarah. Plain as all get-out, the judge’s daughter was with me for yet another night, invite or no invite.

  I admit to being somewhat miffed with her for the embarrassment earlier, and I paid her no mind while loosening my tall moccasins and leggins. But she would have none of that. My backside settled on the blanket and her handsome face suddenly loomed scant inches from my nose. She inquired softly, “Mad at me, are you?”

  My answer wasn’t as surprising to her as I hoped. “Not enough to kick yuh out of my bed.”

  “Good,” she whispered. “It’s a weak man who bears a grudge for any time.” She pillowed her head atop my chest. “And who knows, maybe, just maybe, the first night I’m not here to hold, you’d miss me.”

  Woman knew how to have the last word, she did.

  Chapter 22

  Dawn, September 20

  Tomahawks striking wood startled me awake. Lord God Almighty, the Shawnee had us abed and were chopping our door to pieces. I lunged upright at the waist and peered frantically all around in the gray of first light, wondering as I rubbed the graininess from my eyes how trees had sprouted overnight from the floor of the sleeping cabin.

  My sight cleared enough that I could see pretty good, and there were, of course, no painted Shawnee. It was Wentsell wielding a solitary hatchet, trimming hickory poles at the fire pit with short, solid strokes. Surrounding him were Hannah Ferrenden, Sister Sarah, and Lem. With Blake nowhere about, I was the only soul left in his blankets, which suited me fine; that way, I’d played the fool for myself and nobody else.

  I was tightening laces on moccasins and leggins when Hannah Ferrenden approached. “Mister Wentsell wants the blankets to pad the crutches he’s shaping for Lemuel. He’s sent your brother for water, and will report on his scout of last night soon as Blake returns.”

  I stepped from the blanket and swept it from the ground with a flourish … and nary a wince.

  “Feeling better, Captain Tyler?” she asked. “Not as good as before that red devil shot me, but I’m on the mend.”

  She smiled briefly. “That’s grand, for all three of you men may have to help carry the sergeant one time or another before the day’s out, maybe longer.”

  “How’s his leg?”

  She folded the blankets across her forearm, eyes becoming gravely serious. “No better. Even with the swelling down his knee’s ouchy as a broken tooth. Twisting it like he did, it’ll be months before he walks without splints and a crutch.”

  I hefted the Lancaster and Brown Bess. “I get him home ta Tygart’s Creek, I’ll let him better up in front of the hearth with a jug of squeezin’s. First frost, he’ll be talkin’ the hide off’n catamounts.”

  White teeth bit Hannah Ferrenden’s lower lip and she stared at nothing somewhere near my feet. “Yes, even the stench and smoke of Pitt’s Town will be welcome after the blood and horror of the past week,” she admitted wistfully. “Father hasn’t died on me, he might find his daughter less of a nuisance.”

  I stood quietly, making no comment. Folks sometimes spoke personal thoughts aloud without meaning to, and seldom did the inadvertent speaker desire anything more than an understanding ear, if that.

  Blake emerged from the passageway, and with his arrival we joined the others. The fire pit Brother buried the previous evening hadn’t been reopened, undoubtedly on Wentsell’s orders. Vittles were scarce, and I suspected hot vittles would henceforth be scarcer yet.

  The meagerness of our morning fare proved me correct. A handful of meal dampened with water—good old tried and sustaining no-cake—and a little fresh water for drinking was all Wentsell allowed everyone except Lem. In addition to his nocake, the old salt was granted a healthy dollop of Jesse Craven’s whiskey, which besides bucking him up for the day’s travel, numbed his tongue long enough for Wentsell to foretell without interruption what awaited us outside the compound.

  “The Shawnee, a dozen strong, are searchin’ the Scioto south of here this very mornin’. From the sign where Blake an’ me hid above their Paint Creek camp, they learned there be two of us about. Late yesterday, they located Meek’s canoe lodged in some rushes not far downriver. They’ll recognize that canoe as Meek’s, never yuh doubt, an’ they know he’d not willingly part with it much as he hated dry land. An’ no Injun would patch a hull liken yuh did, so now they know more whites are out an’ about close by. They’ll quarter ever’ direction time an’ again till they cut our sign. When they do, they’ll gain on us ever’ hour the sun shines.”

  He paused, sliced a large square from a blanket with his knife, then wrapped the fattest end of one of his tapered hickory poles, padding the very tip with several layers of cloth. Sarah and Hannah Ferrenden, without his asking, did likewise with the other blanket and the second pole, listening while they worked.

  “Ain’t no sense belittlin’ how bad off we be. The Shawnee are clever an’ fearsome, dangerous as rattled snakes with their fangs already fastened in our flesh. We’ve got Sarah, an’ Three Feathers be a hound who don’t never raise his nose. He’ll want her … an’ our scalps, my pigtail most of all. Somewhere short of the Ohio, him decidin’ when an’ where, he an’ his bunch’ll come at us. They’ll ambush us sure as there’ s a devil, surprise and fright bein’ the Shawnee way of war. We’ll hear ’em screech—our only warnin’—then they’ll charge us from point-blank range.”

  Wentsell’s cross-eyes bored into mine so fiercely I blinked. “Take witness of these words, lads, yuh too, Mistress Ferrenden. We hear ’em screech, our first move decides whether we live or die. I yell ‘tree,’ each an’ ever’ one of yuh put as much bark as yuh can ‘twixt them an’ us. An’ don’t knuckle under ta the red bastards, don’t let ’em scare yuh out of fightin’ for yuh life. Past the first shot, you’re still standin’ an’ suckin’ wind, don’t patch. Palm your ball, pour enough powder ta cover it, an’ ram her
home with yuh rod. Just remember, when you palm-load, yuh shoot high left ever’ shot; it never fails ta be so.

  “Last thing. They overwhelm us and the fight comes ta close quarters, fall back on your rifle butt, knife an’ hatchet. Don’t never quit. Spare none of ’em yuh can kill or wound. We want ta survive their ambush, we gots ta match ’em yell for yell an’ blow for blow. Forget that for an instant, the buzzards’ll have their fill of yuh ’fore yuh rot away in the bushes.”

  With his final warning, Wentsell fell silent, securing blanket pad to the hickory pole with leather thongs. His counsel was so powerful and pointed, so easily grasped and remembered, there was nothing to doubt or question. Believe you me, there were some mighty sober faces ringing that ranger. When you’re told in precise detail how you could soon meet your Maker, you don’t start the morning with a bright smile and meaningless chatter. Even the always talkative Lem, his throat no longer afire, was glum as a brooding owl.

  Hannah Ferrenden asked Wentsell, “What for now?”

  “We finish the sergeant’s crutches, we’ll sashay west up the valley of the Sunfish. Thataway, the only ford worth the mention be No Name Creek.” He perused the horse-tail clouds scudding across the open roof of the compound. “Weather’ll hold a day or two. Maybe a breeze’ll stumble along an’ ease the heat. Hate ta see the sergeant here waste away ta mere bone an’ tongue,” he quipped with no trace of his usual crooked grin.

  He rapped the ground with the unpadded end of the pole and rose. “We may wish later for every second we waste now. Yuh women stand these crutches under the sergeant’s arms. We’ll take the rest of the blankets bundled in the hide tarp, your saddle pouch with what’s left of the meal an’ the tin noggin, the canteen, my possible sack. Shuck everythin’ else, rum jug an’ all. Blake Tyler, disable Meek’s musket an’ pitch it. More’n one long weapon for everybody walkin’ unhindered be an unnecessary burden. I’ll fess the Brown Bess, the mistress my rifle, Sarah Lem’s piece.”

  Packing completed, gear stowed, priming checked, Wentsell ordered us menfolk into the passageway. “We won’t halt till Lem must, so yuh ladies see ta yourselves back of them trees, just don’t tarry. We’ll wait for yuh the other end of the tunnel.”

  We held the wild plum aside for Lem on his new crutches. The morning was brighter, the air warmer outside the compound. His grin lopsided and cunning, Wentsell trickled water from the canteen, mixed dirt into balls of mud, and smeared three brown streaks on the bare cliff framing the passageway, boldly duplicating the bloody signature Three Feathers painted wherever he killed an enemy. “That’ll give the red sonofabitch somethin’ ta ponder,” he predicted, chuckling. “They’ll waste better part of an hour sneakin’ through the tunnel only ta discover they missed us.”

  Sarah and Hannah Ferrenden made their appearances and we lined out, Wentsell at the point with his possible sack, then Blake with the bundled blankets, the two women toting a flintlock each, Lem on his crutches and yours truly bringing up the rear with the Oldham saddle pouch.

  Wentsell’s reminder departing Painter’s Knob chilled the blood: “Don’t forget, my friends. It’s the Ohio an’ Limestone or your hair.”

  Chapter 23

  Morning till Afternoon, September 20

  We wove a northerly course the early half of the morning. After fording No Name Creek, we continued up the bank of the Sunfish, bending westward with the valley. As we went, cedar pines lent their dark green hue to the hillsides among the oaks and beeches. Hannah Ferrenden noticed their presence, and attempting to bolster Sarah’s spirits, recited the autumnal colors bordering our path. Red sumac daubed the slopes, blue asters carpeted the bottoms. Gold and purple flecked the ash saplings flourishing where older trees perished from lightning, fire and rot. Fat brown and white mushrooms grew underfoot. Orange pawpaws, not quite ripe for eating, hung from small trees of the same name. She missed little, the judge’s daughter. Everything—the beautiful as well as the ugly—fascinated and inspired her. She painted, she informed Sarah, with oils on blank canvas at dawn and sunset, times when nature’s face changed each hour, never minding her father deemed it willful and indulgent. Hells bells, didn’t he waylay himself at every village tavern so as not to suffer thirst either coming or going?

  Sister listened to what Hannah Ferrenden said, but really heard nothing. Her features were drawn, her eyes devoid of spark. More than a few times she swiped a cheekbone with the edge of a hand, drying tears. Her sadness made me ache inside.

  Lem held his pain at bay all morning, and we nooned on the brow of a low ridge paralleling the chortling current of the Sunfish, the swell of ground permitting the ever-vigilant Wentsell to watch upstream and down. I wanted to console Sarah, but rested where I halted when Blake knelt with her and wrapped an arm about her. Left alone, Hannah Ferrenden skirted the reclining Lem and sat beside me.

  “Your sister’s very troubled … and it’s not the deaths in your family or her nightmare with the Shawnee upsetting her. She confessed the evening Meek took me off she’d reconciled herself to a quick demise or, God forbid, a wretched life among those horrid savages.”

  “She say why?”

  “Yes,” Hannah answered, brow lifting. “She’s convinced she returns to Kentucky, your neighbors terrified of the Injuns will hate her out for luring Father’s crew into that ambush.”

  It was as if a locked door sprang open, for Wentsell’s contention that others wouldn’t be as understanding and forgiving as he about Sarah furthering the purpose of the heathen enemy, voiced at our camp the midnight following the Shawnee attack, echoed in my mind and my hackles swole at the unfairness. “Blake or me will whip the first man ta open his mouth.”

  “I know you would. But neither of you can stay with her every waking hour. Nor can you change how Sarah feels. She hates herself right now for helping kill so many men to save her own life. I tried claiming I was as much at fault for ordering the boats ashore, but your sister’s too honest for spilling the blame on anybody else’s doorstep.”

  “We’ll take her ta the plantation straightaway,” I suggested. Hannah Ferrenden’s eyes narrowed. “No, I won’t stand for any woman being a prisoner of her own hearth. Sarah’s young. She’s of courting age, and mothers can be unspeakably cruel about tainted goods where their sons are concerned.” She broke off a column of yellowed weed, stripped the seeds and chewed on the stem. “We reach Limestone alive, you and your brother don’t object and Sarah agrees, she can winter with me at Ferrenden Hall, far from anyone who would condemn her out of hand. She’d have her own room next to mine. She could ride and sled and paint with me. She could stay long as she wants and you and Blake and anyone else you like can visit whenever you wish. How’s that sound?”

  “Those were your father’s boatmen the Shawnee slaughtered. He learns what Sarah done, won’t he raise hob over you invitin’ her under his roof?”

  She smiled slyly. “He’ll spare us his powder. He’ll be so overjoyed I’m home to take charge of his big house, he’ll welcome Sarah without a peep of protest and treat her like a second daughter. Father can be an unmitigated tyrant, but he’s too wise to foul his own nest in his last days.”

  With that, she chewed her weed stem, providing time for me to ponder what she was offering to undertake on Sarah’s behalf. Hannah Ferrenden’s proposal was generous and kind and unquestionably Sarah’s best chance of escaping the sentiments—wrongful or not— almost certain to prevail upon our appearance at Limestone or anywhere else in Kentucky. Man or woman, you painted your face once, you were forever branded a friend of the Redsticks, and only a bearer of the pox was more thoroughly shunned and detested. Much as I hoped and prayed we Tylers, all of us, would renew our lives together on Tygart’s Creek, Sarah’s well-being held sway over any selfish leanings I harbored to the contrary: Deciding any other way made me a sorry excuse for a brother.

  I nodded to unstick my tongue. “Talk ta Sarah. Blake an’ I will abide by her wishes. She walks in her moccasins, not we brothers.
”

  A sunny smile warmed Hannah Ferrenden’s face. “You’ll not regret giving her the choice,” she vowed, snapping to her feet. “Who knows?” She giggled excitedly. “Maybe Sarah will forgive me that slap in front of those drunken Shawnee.”

  Wentsell’s sharp hiss pulled the drawstring on our nooning. The delighted Hannah Ferrenden hurried forward, and once Lem balanced himself on his hickory crutches, we set off again along the bank of Sunfish Creek, the old salt’s gripes blistering the air.

  The tireless Wentsell held our feet to the fire long into the afternoon. He roamed ahead periodically, charting the easiest ground for the crutch-bound Lem to traverse. He came down the line other times and walked briefly beside each of us, doling out sips of water from Stick Injun’s canteen, goading us while we drank round yet another bend in the creek. On two occasions, he disappeared down our backtrail, forays he made, Lem asserted, to obscure our tracks and confuse the Shawnee drawing ever closer behind us. The ceaselessly hunting wolverine had nothing on our ranger.

  At Kinner’s Spring, a hillside seep seldom dry, Wentsell relented and we had our second blow of the day. Sarah and Hannah Ferrenden sat together against the same tree, toweling sweat with linsey swatches ripped from the hem of Sarah’s skirt. Blake fetched the sprawling Lem a noggin of cool water, let him drink his fill, then did likewise for me. Wentsell disappeared again back the way we’d come.

  Blake accepted the noggin I returned to him, drank it dry, and seated himself next to me. Scratching his unshaven chin, he announced bold as brass, “Little brother, I don’t never pry into others affairs. But afore an Injun ball maybe snuffs my candle, there be questions I need ask of yuh.”

  Thoroughly puzzled,. I studied him up and down. “Like what?”

  “Like, yuh gonna winter on Tygart’s Creek or upriver at Pitt’s Town?”

  “Why would I winter at Pitt’s Town?”

  “’Cause that’s what she’ll expect,” he persisted.