The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  “We try, we might as well tomahawk the sergeant ourselves. The Shawnee have turned the table on us. They’ll be surprisin’ us an’ layin’ the sneak on our camp from here out. We’re outnumbered an’ afoot in the middle of their ground, forty miles from the Ohio, sixty miles from the nearest settlement with no hope of reinforcements. Sarah or no Sarah, we’re rowin’ the same oar: Make the river or die. ’Nuff said?”

  Hannah Ferrenden lowered Wentsell’s rifle and faced my brother. “I allow none of this is to your liking, Blake Tyler, but we do have the sergeant and ourselves to think of. Are you prepared to join us?”

  Much as he wanted to say otherwise, Blake couldn’t openly oppose what he had to admit was in the best interest of all, not without stamping himself ungrateful and boorish before the woman who’d just saved his life. For the moment, the judge’s daughter had him boxed good and proper. He smiled, halfheartedly I thought, nodded agreeably, and gathered Lem’s crutches. “If’n we’re traipsin’ south, let’s be about it.”

  We left the Shawnee dead for their fellows to bury, Wentsell remarking he prayed the digging went poorly till after moonrise. He led off, abandoning the rutted trace for the rough bank of the brook. We coursed south by west, skirted the eastern fringe of Slate Cove and passed beyond the brook’s headwaters, climbing to higher ridges where tall white pine mixed with even taller oaks. Blake and I brought up the rear, assisting the hobbling Lem whenever we could. More often than not, during what few blows our dauntless pathfinder begrudged us, Blake said next to nothing and stared down our backtrail. I knew my brother as well as any man ever knew blood kin. When he loved, the feeling ran deep and true and forever. He wasn’t watching alertly for Shawnee during those lulls; his mind was filled with musings about Sarah, how he might yet effect some miraculous rescue of her. I could only bite my tongue and worry for him.

  Wentsell’s cave atop Dry Ridge was a deep recess overhung by a mammoth cap of brown sandstone. Access to the cave required the crossing of a flat bench bare of trees and undergrowth. The ranger bragged no Injun moccasin could descend anything as high and smooth as the overhang. Attacking across the barren bench, moreover, was tantamount to shooting oneself. And if all that didn’t bode well for us, the trail departing the opposite end of the bench wound down into the valley of Strait Creek, which in turn flowed into Brush Creek, our destination for tomorrow.

  We reached the cave at sunset, Blake carrying a thankful Lem the last yards on his back, steadfastly warning the old salt to take care by God where he banged his bearer with Wentsell’s hickory crutches or suffer being dropped short of camp. Too tired to even crawl, Lem complied without hitch or retort.

  We shook out initially for the night in the order we entered the cave, Lem and Blake separating me from Hannah Ferrenden. She smelled old ashes, and uncovered a cooking pit under the forward lip of the overhang. Wentsell, never inclined to fires without screening cover, surprised us by stating oak faggots could be found deeper in the cave. Disregarding Lem’s warning of snakes, Hannah Ferrenden disappeared into the dark gloom and returned shortly, arms laden with faggots. Wentsell then rummaged in his possible sack, which seemed to house an endless supply of sundry items, and produced not only flint and steel for fire starting, but also sassafras root for brewing tea.

  The aroma of that tea boiling in the iron noggin overwhelmed our noses. We sipped it between wolfish gulps of nocake and strips of dried jerk, the jerk from where else but Wentsell’s bottomless sack. The taciturn ranger was almost jovial throughout the evening meal, partly, I suspected, as amends for the ugly incident with Blake at the brook. He confirmed my suspicion before we finished eating with the deliberate revelation that while new habits didn’t come hard to him, the shooting of friends was something only the Frenchies would undertake. It was the closest the hard-knot hunter ventured to an apology.

  At the last sip of tea, we held the fire to check weapons from butt plate to front sight, during which time Hannah Ferrenden saw to my wounds. The scabs so pleased her she replaced the deer-hide bandage minus the rummed leaves. Her own arm wound she dismissed as nothing of consequence, refusing politely Wentsell’s offer of his beaded whiskey canteen. It was her single display of cowardice that long brutal day. When she asked after the ranger’s paining side, Wentsell acknowledged his ribs were badly bruised, but the skin unbroken and the swelling slight, nothing that would impede him on the morrow. And Lem’s leg, the old salt proudly volunteered, was improved from yesterday, the crutches having protected it from the worst of our hike across rough terrain. That same pride didn’t prevent him from accepting the slurp from Wentsell’s canteen declined by Hannah Ferrenden.

  The sun died in a waning burst of light, painting the veins of clouds on the western horizon flame yellow. The cooling air birthed an early night breeze that stirred dust and caressed bare skin. Wentsell ordered the fire killed and doled out watch assignments, taking the near corner of the cave himself, and granting me at my request the far end of the recess. Maybe my worries were unfounded, but I believed Blake bore watching a few days. His somber features and continued silence had me greatly concerned.

  I scavenged in vain for a comfortable bedding site in the far reaches of the bench, finally selecting a spot where the curve of the wall met the floor of the cave. I scrunched my backside against the pocked sandstone and propped my Lancaster within easy grab. Feet scraping pebbles noisily aside in the dark startled me till I made out who it was. Hannah Ferrenden whipped her blanket down at my right hip. She settled alongside me and dropped her cheek on my shoulder, a nocturnal privilege now seemingly as familiar to her as her birth-right.

  I was tired and sleepy, but I waited with quiet patience for her to utter the day’s final words, and she didn’t fail her duty. “You’re an intriguing fellow, Captain Tyler, always more than I expect. You were smart enough today not to move when Wentsell drew down on your brother. Had you done so, he would’ve shot Blake dead.” She tucked her black-haired head under my chin. “And you learn good too. I don’t have to remind you each night to put an arm around me, do I now?”

  Satisfied at that, she dozed off before I could thank her for saving Blake’s life. Later, in the full dark of night, I awakened to muttering voices and flitting shadows at Wentsell’s corner of the cave. Things quieted abruptly, and assuming Blake and Wentsell were merely exchanging places on the watch, I drifted back to sleep. That complacent judgment had me cursing at first light, for it was then Wentsell came to tell me Blake, like Sister Sarah, was gone.

  Chapter 26

  September 21

  The rough shake of my lower leg woke me in the faint glimmer of false dawn. Unsure who shook me or why, I grabbed my Lancaster and Wentsell’s calming voice said, “No need for weapons.”

  I slumped back against the pocked wall of the cave, the shape of him more visible the longer I stared. I felt beside me, and my fingers touched nothing but bare sandstone. Wentsell made out my reaching. “Mistress be tendin’ herself yonder.”

  He settled a hip on a heel, shadowy hands clasping the black line of his rifle barrel. Without forewarning or easing words, he announced simply, “Yuh brother’s gone. He went after yuh sister.”

  Heart hammering my chest, I asked, “Yuh let him go?”

  His answer was quick in the coming. “Your brother ain’t easy ta do over twice. This time he held the rifle that was cocked first.”

  He heard my long sigh. “I don’t believe you’re surprised overly much,” he said. “Never met a man who loved his sister the way he cares for yuh Sarah. He said you’d understand. Said not ta fret or worry over him. He frees her, he’ll meet up with yuh on Tygart’s Creek.”

  I had to know what Wentsell thought. “He have any hope atall?”

  Again, he answered quickly. “He bides his time, his prospects ain’t great, but they’re likely. He gets around in the woods quiet-like don’t taste fright easy. He’s gotta ’nuff bold in him for three men, an’ that’s what it’ll take.”

  �
��Short his Lancaster, what are our prospects?”

  “I won’t lie, sorrier ’thout him. But he raises a ruckus anytime soon, he’ll draw some of these Shawnee off’n us awhile. Our big drawback be the sergeant’s leg. Either we raft Brush Creek or mayhap luck onto an Injun horse. We can’t stay ahead of the Redsticks forever with him on those crutches, an’ the two of us can’t tote him in a pole sling, not an’ defend ourselves against ambush or sudden assault.”

  “How far’s Brush Creek?”

  “Most of a day we push hard.”

  “How much whiskey’s still in your fancy canteen?”

  “Five fingers.”

  “He’ll make Brush Creek,” I pronounced confidently.

  Though I couldn’t see clearly yet, I was certain Wentsell grinned. I did hear his short chuckle. “You ain’t no stranger ta Sergeant Lemuel Shakett by God.”

  In that flowing motion in which all parts of him seemed to move together at once, Wentsell rose to his feet. “Be light in two winks. I’ll roust the ol’ jack-tar an’ fetch him an’ the mistress.”

  I shed no tears for Blake that morning. I feared for him, but understood what he was about. He had vowed he would abandon no Tyler to the Shawnee, no matter how small the hope, and he would no more go back on his word than rock would change into water. Waiting for the others, I prayed for him and Sarah, honestly and fervently, for they were deserving of the Lord’s protection.

  The night breeze persisted, strong enough in the graying dawn it rustled the fringe on my sleeve. The yellow sunset and continually cooling air presaged changing weather and with it, welcome relief from the deer flies and gnats besieging us in the sweltering heat for our sweat. Rain of any sort, enough of a downpour to wash out our tracks, wouldn’t be a disappointment either, I decided.

  Wentsell herded Hannah Ferrenden, yawning as she donned her peaked hat, and the old salt, bundled blankets previously borne by Blake strapped now on his back, to the nether end of the cave. she silenced Lem’s customary daybreak griping with the threat that if he didn’t button his mouth he could damn well suffer the burden of his Lancaster too. Jaws on a bear trap snapped slower than Lem’s bad teeth.

  Once beyond the cave, Wentsell naturally assumed the point and I covered the rear. We sidestepped through a narrow defile twice my height, then crisscrossed down the face of a steep, fully treed ridge, seeking always a route Lem could negotiate without sacrificing his crutches. Even a few steps minus his hickory poles and he grunted with pain. Wentsell purposely withheld the old salt’s whiskey ration till our descent of the ridge reached the source of Strait Creek, a thin seam twixt two opposing shelves of rock, the crack no wider than my thumb or longer than my leg. There Lem had his bucking up and the rest of us confined ourselves to handfuls of fresh water. The morning ration of nocake we divided into four equal shares. Before our departure, the judge’s daughter splashed water on her face and neck not once, nor twice, but three times, after which the old salt enjoyed a measure of revenge, commenting she’d removed so much dirt and grime he felt compelled to introduce himself to the new traveler in our party.

  Wentsell shushing Lem’s clucking laugh with a backward glance, on down the ridge we went. Strait Creek fell away on our right, widening and deepening, gaining speed with the fall of the land. We stayed above the creek bed in the cover of the oak forest. Our occasional glimpse of open sky revealed the horse-tail clouds of yesterday were gone, supplanted by tall white galleons snailing across brilliant blue. Among the mixed trunks lining our meandering path, hornbeam leaves, the first to drop each autumn, skittered on the morning breeze. If it weren’t for the Injuns and his crippled leg, Lem lamented, it would be one fine morning, a homeward-bound hunter’s dream come true.

  We nooned where we tired, at the base of a sandstone boulder the size of a Kentucky flatboat. As was his habit, Wentsell scouted ahead, trusting me to guard our backtrail against any surprise. We sat awhile without talking, sipping water from Stick Injun’s canteen. Hannah Ferrenden disrupted the quiet, speaking from the old salt’s far flank. “Lemuel says your brother missed the muster of Captain Jacobs’ militia and they sailed without him. I suppose your Kentuckians will declare him a deserter same as they will Sarah an Injun lover.”

  “Not all of ’em,” I answered, “perhaps enough ta ruin his name. South of the Ohio folks ain’t known for favorin’ any excuse when it comes ta defendin’ hearth an’ home. Their judgment ain’t always pretty or fair, but it’s honest more times than it ain’t.”

  She stood, beating rock dust from the seat of her breeches. “Maybe I can’t help Sarah, but there’ll be no condemnation of your brother. I’ll tell every woman in Limestone his story. No woman finds fault with a man who loves honestly and sincerely with no gain for himself,” she proclaimed, voice quivering. Her head lowered and she looked downhill, thinking and feeling, not seeing. “My father was such a man … leastways I’m told he was when he married my mother.”

  In two long strides she disappeared round the corner of the sandstone boulder. I started to rise and Lem cautioned, “Sit, lad. Ol’ hurts well up in a body now an’ again, an’ they ain’t any more pleasant than before, no matter their age. It’s better most times yuh cry ’bout those alone.”

  No stranger to tears myself, I fell back in place. “Lem, all women so up an’ down, strong one minute, weak the next?”

  The old salt poked at his hurt knee as he answered. “I ain’t the wisest man suckin’ wind. But it seems they ain’t much account they’s not. They ain’t strong an’ don’t feel deep, why make the bother? This gal ran that gunwale at the river ta save a boatload of horses for the very father she weeps over now.” His one eye fixed me dead center. “Yuh don’t latch onto her soon, yuh’ll regret it. Hells bells, failin’ with her would be better’n lastin’ with the rest.”

  Not bein’ the slowest man sucking wind, I was opening my mouth to inquire how he would latch onto Hannah Ferrenden if he was in my place when, as luck would decide it, Wentsell came huffing up the trail from below us. At his alerting hiss, the judge’s daughter popped round the corner of the boulder again, dry-eyed and faintly smiling. She sat gingerly beside Lem as Wentsell reported his findings.

  “No sign of hostiles yet. Further along, next valley west of here, we’ll encounter another buffalo trace twice as wide as the last. Todd followed it with his party in ’87 chasin’ Shawnee north ta Paint Creek. We’ll stick on the higher ground borderin’ that trace till we reach Brush Creek on ta the south.”

  He paused and honored Lem with his lopsided grin. “Yuh tromp that far by dark, I promise yuh won’t be afoot tomorrow. The lad an’ me’ll tie up a raft big ’nuff for yuh an’ the mistress. We must, him an’ me’ll walk ta the river, travelin’ at night.”

  More adept every hour with his hickory poles, Lem bobbed to his feet. “Three years in the amir’s dungeon didn’t trim my wick, neither will one leg hurtin’ a mite. I’m right behind yuh, Mister Wentsell, an’ I expect a King’s raft an’ no less, thank yuh.”

  With our continued descent southward into the valley of Strait Creek, the upland oaks and hickories gave way for stands of ash, sugar maple and black gum, the latter sporting bright scarlet branches. The newly sighted autumnal color drew flowery praise from the fast-recovering painter in our midst. In the bottomland where Strait Creek finally ran a level course, the dominant trees became the walnut, elm and sycamore, towering giants nourished by soil holding water year-round. For Lem, the bottomland with its underbrush, nettles, softer loam and crutch-tangling vines and ivies proved no easier passage than the inclines and rocky enclaves of the forested heights.

  Shortly after entering it, we abandoned the valley of Strait Creek, gaining the next valley westward through a shallow notch in a low line of hills, and slanted southwest for Todd’s Trace. As the afternoon slipped away, Wentsell judged Lem’s endurance wasn’t such he could continue into the twilight hours as originally planned, if that long. So we came about and headed due west to intercept first
the trace, then Brush Creek farther to the north, a shorter distance to travel.

  The old salt, stubborn his middle name, proceeded to prove the ranger wrong. Head lowered, hands jacking, crutches thumping, he pushed himself mile after mile, barking cadence, chanting sea ditties raw as salt on blisters, and recounting blow by blow drunken jousts in countless ports of call, never for an instant slackening his pace or his tongue. He was still flush on Wentsell’s heels when we crested the swell of ground overlooking Brush Creek, an achievement he pointed out to his doubter without hesitation and in no uncertain terms, unfazed by the ranger’s baleful glance.

  We held a quick parley lasting half a minute and agreed, Injuns or no Injuns, we were too exhausted for any raft building before morning. We then agreed to camp where we stood on the lower half of the swell’s western slope, the strong current of Brush Creek within a stone’s throw. Wentsell permitted no fire, and when I finished doling out the evening fare, a palmful of meal each straight from the Oldham pouch, he insisted we eat immediately and spread out for the night.

  Unable to stand once off his feet, Lem claimed our stopping place for himself, a choice no one contested. He passed Hannah Ferrenden the bundled blankets with a reminder that he had his own special protection for skeeters if she wanted any. He had no more than reached for his fat tin when the rest of us scattered hellbent for anywhere else.

  Wentsell scuttled off to the north, the direction from which he believed the Shawnee were bound to appear. I quartered southward, not surprised when the judge’s daughter trailed after me, and discovered a driftwood heap in the willows farther down the slope, piled high by successive floods. I bid my camp follower be seated on a log, and began throwing together a crude, open-faced shelter for her. We’d hardly had occasion or reason to speak since the nooning at the beginning of Strait Creek, and the sound of her voice in the cool of the evening was pleasant on the ear.