The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  My mood matching the overcast morning, I weighed possibilities and discovered that as was frequently true in the course of a man’s years, what I had best do would be determined by others and circumstances not of my making. I was powerfully anxious to be underway for Limestone. I was equally anxious to keep my hair. The surest way to achieve the latter was to stay in hiding through the daylight hours and travel the river when I least preferred—at night. With the Shawnee superior in numbers and arms, any other strategy put my life at too great a risk.

  I passed the day where I was. The fog and mist overlaying the Ohio lifted as the clouds thinned late in the morning and the sun broke through. Unlike the storm, the breeze was ongoing, a constant murmur in the trees and shrubs of the island. By mid-afternoon the sun shone in earnest and I crawled a few feet inland, where I lay fully exposed to its warmth and dried my frock and leggins as much as I could. The same sunshine kept most of the gnats and deer flies away and I slept in short snatches.

  My caution was amply rewarded at dusk. I was on the watch again, chewing the last piece of Wentsell’s jerk, and don’t you know, who comes paddling speedily upriver along the far bank but the three Shawnee from the morning. And when they disembarked and proudly displayed to Horse Injun what could only have been freshly taken scalps and weapons, I was truly sorry for their white victims, but damn thankful they weren’t boasting of any cutting they’d perpetrated on one Blaine Tyler.

  The Shawnee rekindled Horse Injun’s fire and seated themselves before it, eating and talking, the river and all about them apparently forgotten in the excitement of their success. I chanced nothing and waited till full dark before I lowered my glass and crept to the dugout, skeeters pestering me everywhere. I ignored them and tugged the dugout from under its covering branches. I worked the heavy stern to the river’s edge, backed into the water to my knees, and rolled the hull upright. With the bow still on the bank anchoring the dugout, I stepped ashore again, strung the Lancaster on my back and secured the paddle. At the launch, the bow cleared the bank with a scrape too faint for my own ears.

  I had known my precise location since the island loomed dead ahead in yesterday’s storm. It was the largest of a trio of islands dividing the Ohio’s channel within sight of each other, and titled on the charts of boatmen simply Three Islands. And twelve miles below the islands awaited the landings and yards of Limestone, gateway to the bluegrass plains of Kentucky.

  The moon rose and I took advantage of the island’s bulk, sticking to the dark shadows it cast till I cleared the western point. Past the point, the thrust of the main current seized the dugout and the yellow flames of the Shawnee fire, then the island itself shrank to specks behind me before disappearing altogether.

  Beyond Three Islands the Ohio was free of major obstructions clean down to Limestone, a wide silver channel winding through towering black hills in the moonlight. In the chill air, I sailed its waters fully clothed except for leggins and tall moccasins, gear that would pull a man under quickly if he found himself in the river for any reason. Not far into the journey, my Lancaster and shot pouch joined them in the bottom of the dugout, allowing me full range of movement with the paddle.

  It was an exhausting, dangerous ride the memory of which blended into a lengthy sameness: hours of vigilant watching broken by spans of furious paddling to steer a safe course among floating debris and avoid the shallower waters of either bank where sawyers and shifting bars of sand lurked to wreck and sink the biggest of ships. In truth, my reaching of Limestone that night can be attributed to moonlight and Providence as much as to the toil and sweat I expended along the way.

  I was still two miles upriver when the lighted tops of several clay and stick chimneys popped into view on the port bow. Though it was nearing or past midnight, enough Limestone dwellers were holding the autumn chill at bay with hearth fires to guide me straight to my destination. Beached flatboats and keelboats moored at anchor filled the shoreline north and south from the yawning limestoned mouth of the creek for which the gateway village was named. The village itself consisted of a cluster of permanent cabins, warehouses and yards shoved against the river by steep hills. The balance of the narrow strand was filled with the countless temporary camps and livestock pens of movers, militiamen, federal troops, overnight travelers and boatmen. In daylight, the entire strand was a beehive of activity where everything in God’s realm almost without exception was bought, sold or traded by barter or silver coin. Any man’s purse could be filled or emptied in the space of a nod. At night, the strand was a mass of shadows large and small resting in uneasy quiet, the smell of trampled earth, smoke, slops and manure greeting me from a quarter mile away.

  The Ferrenden Yard squatted on the south bank of Limestone Creek near the Ohio, main cabin, crew quarters, smithy and stable enclosed by pallisaded walls, gated entryway sized to accommodate four hitch wagons. It was the most elaborate yard in all of Limestone and garnered much comment in the taverns. Everyone knew its location and who owned it.

  I drifted past the creek’s mouth, spied an open berth twixt two big boats and plied the paddle with bold strokes. The dugout shot ahead and the current fetched it as I planed hard against the port planking of the keelboat. Two more long strokes opposite the keelboat brought the dugout’s bow flush to the bank. I scooped up moccasins, leggins and my Lancaster, and leaped from the bow, landing solidly on the dark bank without injury to either foot. Alert for the hail or challenge that never sounded, I donned moccasins and leggins and set off for the Ferrenden Yard, leaving the dugout and its paddle for whoever found it. I was in a hurry to say the least.

  The path along the river and the roadway bordering the creek were both deserted. No sign of life or fire showed through the cracks of the Ferrenden Yard’s main gate. A moonlit rope ending in a large knot hung at the side of the gate. I pulled on the knot and the signal bell inside the yard clanged. Not long after, a small port in the wall next to the gate opened with a bang.

  “Who goes there?” a rum-slurred tongue demanded.

  I took no offense. I was exhausted and inclined to get on with things even if it meant dealing with a drunken lout. “Blaine Tyler ta see Mistress Ferrenden.”

  “Who?’’

  “Blaine Tyler from Tygart’s Creek. I’m here at Mistress Ferrenden’s biddin’!”

  The port slammed shut and boots pounded heavily as the gate-keeper went looking for someone of authority. I butted my Lancaster, folded my hands over the muzzle and waited.

  I was about to doze off on my feet when light bathed the inside of the gate and the bar slid back. I held steady as the gate opened half its width and a group of men sallied forth. The yardman in the lead held a lanthorn in front of him, polished tin shield behind the wicks of the candles throwing all its light in my face. A pair of hulking shoulders as wide as those of Abner Johnson of Redstone separated themselves from the crowd. It was too dark for faces to show, but no matter, the booming voice wasn’t Abner’s anyway.

  “You’re Blaine Tyler?”

  I shifted my feet and nodded. “Here ta see Mistress Ferrenden,” I repeated.

  The fist that exploded from behind the lanthom was a complete surprise. It was twice the size of a mallet’s striker and landed on my cheekbone in front of my left ear—any lower and the blow would have broken my jaw. My legs turned to mush and I went down, the lanthom spinning in lazy circles.

  Flat on my backside, through blinding pain, I heard the booming voice say from miles away, “Git his rifle, Lute. He complains, we’ll all deny he had it with him.”

  A booted foot thudded into my shoulder. “We kill him or not, Clell?”

  There was a moment of silence during which I was kicked again. “Naw, no killin’! Stick that bag of gold coin she left for him inside his shirt. We don’t want ta be arrested for thievin’!”

  Rough hands lifted the fold of my frock and a leather sack was pressed against my chest. The lanthorn dimmed and the booming voice ordered, “Kick him good once in the head,
Lute, so he won’t never ring the gate bell again.”

  The blackness went on forever.

  Chapter 30

  October 1–2

  My head was fuzzy and everything a whirling blur for six days and nights. I slept mostly, reassured by a concerned voice I finally identified as that of Lem. He told me not to worry and I didn’t. If the sergeant was with me, then everything would unfold in time and I would yet find Hannah Ferrenden.

  I came awake with all my senses in order in a large room. Sunlight streamed through an open window beyond which I heard the rumble of wheels, the babble of voices and plodding hooves. The rattle of iron tools and crockery beneath my bed suggested I was on the second floor above a sizable kitchen where much was taking place, not a disappointment since I was suddenly near to starvation.

  My exploring fingers found my cheekbone tender and ouchy. The bruise on my forehead made by a kicking boot wasn’t much worse and hurt less. My left shoulder was stiff, but my arm moved without any bones grating. For having suffered a swift and unmerciful beating, I had no permanent injuries. Those same exploring fingers confirmed I rested on a rope bed appointed with layers of both straw and feather ticking, each sewn in separate muslin mattresses. Such comfort previously unknown to me, I sank back and slept again.

  When I awakened the second time that day, the sunlight at the window was dimming, and Lem sat on a stool beside the bed. He leaned and peered closely at me. “Seen raw meat more handsome.” His cackling laugh brought a smile to my lips. “You’re a Tyler by God, head hard as rock. Goodly, though, ol’ Cyrus brought word yuh was down an’ hurtin’ in front of the Ferrenden gate. He stumbled on yuh goin’ for his nightly pee in the Ohio. He ain’t missed a night in ten years, weather be damned. He seen yuh here at the roadhouse once with Blake.”

  “We’re at Monet’s?”

  “Yuh, Jules an’ Monique always favored your brother. He’d cut a lick through the hellholes round about, then sleep it off right in that same bed,” he said, nodding my way, “not always by himself neither. But Monique bein’ somewhat wide-minded, she never taken Blake ta task for his escapades. She says it makes him better company at breakfast.”

  “Where’s Hannah Ferrenden?”

  Lem’s good eye blinked and he licked his lips. “Gone from Limestone. Left at dawn seven days ago far as I can tell. Cyrus was enjoyin’ his mornin’ pee, he’s missed a few of those in ten years, but not this here one, an’ he saw her upriver bound on the deck of the Ferrenden keelboat. Nobody keels upriver in high water, but then they ain’t Hannah Ferrenden, be they.”

  Steeling myself against the disappointment washing over me, I asked, “Yuh know why she left?”

  “Not rightly. We ‘fessed up ta the Ohio late in the afternoon same day we left yuh an’ Tice, an’ as luck would have it, a party of surveyors saw us an’ took us aboard out in the middle of the river. We sailed all night an’ beat the storm here ta Limestone by a whisker. All that time she never once talked ’bout anythin’ except waitin’ for yuh at the Ferrenden Yard.”

  I closed my eyes. “Then what happened? Tell me everythin’ yuh know, certain or not.”

  The old salt slid his stool closer to the bed. “She had me brung here ta Monet’s when I asked so’s Monique could tend my leg. Last I seen of the mistress, she said she’d send word soon as yuh arrived. I had a few swigs of rum … well, hell, half a jug, yuh must know … an’ slept plumb through the storm. I didn’t come round till after she was gone the next mornin’.”

  “Have yuh asked after her?”

  “Didn’t learn much. Them lackeys at her yard won’t say nothin’ nohow, an’ I don’t think she was ever outside that stockade afore she went off on her paw’s keelboat.”

  I blew out the longest sigh of my young life, glad my eyes were closed against tears. “She changed her mind is all. One gander at Limestone an’ she bolted for her paw’s gate an’ the safety of Ferrenden Hall.”

  “What ’bout this then?” Lem inquired, gently laying the sack of gold coins atop my chest.

  I knew by the faint clink of the coins what it was. “Pay for what she owed me. I suspect the Ferrendens never leave debts behind ’em.”

  Lem sighed now. “You’re judgin’ her too fast, lad. Maybe some message from her paw was waitin’ here an’ she’d no druthers. Her paw’s poorly, yuh know.”

  “Hell, Lem, sendin’ word here ta Monet’s she was leavin’ wouldn’t of strained her none. It ain’t like goin’ ta the moon.”

  “Maybe she did an’ those yardmen said the hell with it. I’m surprised they passed along her gold coins, though I suspect the bag was fuller at one time.”

  “The big one, Clell, he said somethin’ ’bout not bein’ arrested for thievin’, the bastard,” I responded.

  We fell silent, each with his own thoughts. Lem was right. There was probably some readily understandable explanation for Hannah Ferrenden’s hasty departure upriver, if we only had knowledge of it. But admitting to that didn’t lessen the hurt and disappointment: I had believed us inseparable.

  Lem let me ache over her till the light at the window darkened considerably. “Well, lad, what be for us?”

  I was ready by then for his question. “Paw always said only fools an’ wronged lovers pay ta look at a dead horse’s teeth. We’re goin’ home ta Tygart’s Creek. There’s Adam ta be thought of, an’ Canto and Nabu. An’ that’s where Blake said he’d meet us with Sarah was he ta free her.”

  “How soon we leavin?”

  I threw the coverlet off my legs, sat up suddenly, and swung my feet to the puncheon floorboards, narrowly missing Lem, who cocked himself sideways to avoid being struck. When my senses didn’t whirl, not much anyway, I smiled. “Tomorrow!”

  “Yuh sure?”

  I felt along my ribs. “I’m better’n you’d guess. The bastards hit me in the head an’ shoulder, nowhere near my bullet wound. I can travel.”

  “We gonna walk or hire a wagon?”

  I drew back, puzzled. “Where the hell’s our horses, Blake’s bay an’ the mare. Abner Johnson brought ’em ta Limestone, didn’t he?”

  Lem slid his stool a full step away from the bed before nodding. “They’re stabled at the Ferrenden Yard.”

  I stared him straight in the face. “Then we’re ridin an’ not walkin’. I’ll go home with my tail twixt my legs without Sarah an’ Blake. But I’m not sheddin’ Limestone without my brother’s horse an’ my rifle. Yuh understand, Sergeant?”

  The old salt’s shaggy head dipped and the brow off his good eye arched. “I’ve long reckoned one of the Tyler boys would get me killed sooner or later. I was always sure till now it’d be your brother. But I shouldn’t suffer no surprise. I can’t hardly tell anymore which of yuh I’m talkin’ ta.” His brow arched higher. “There’s half a dozen rum rats at that yard, yuh know.”

  I lifted the coin sack from the coverlet and bounced it on my palm, winking broadly. “We’ve got bait they missed out on, don’t we now.”

  He had a dozen questions, but I waved them aside, opened the pouch and extracted two of the doubloons. “Yuh don’t have Monique feed me, I’m gonna bite offen yuh ear. Yuh don’t mind, fetch me a King’s platter.”

  He minded, but thumped down the steps, muttering curses. Monique herself returned with him, yellow hair and flower-blue eyes matching the print of her calico dress. The span of her waist was that of a gnat and her bosom startling. Jules’s exacting taste extended to more than fine wine and good talk. She laughed at the hurried covering of my nakedness with the bed wrap, and balanced a steaming platter across my lap. “You men! Always so daring with your breeches on,” she chided. “Eat, my man, and please a friend of your brother’s.” She kissed my forehead and was away in a flash, a swirl of yellow and blue.

  I devoured salted pork shoulder, baked trout, beans, peas, mush, and fresh bread, washing it down with generous gulps of red wine from the pewter tankard that accompanied the platter. I finished the meal with a deliberate belch, interruptin
g Lem’s upright nap on the stool. I handed him the empty platter and the coin sack. “Buy yerself some rum if’n you like,” I offered.

  I stood, testing my sea legs, and found them solid with no dizziness. I crossed to the window and closed the shutters on the black night. Lem paused at the door, employing just one crutch to free a hand for the platter, and I said, “If’n you’ll bring my clothes early, we’ll trap ourselves six rats at once.”

  Filled with much food and wine, I slept soundly without dreams good or bad. It seemed my head had no more than wanned the goose-feather pillows when Lem was shaking my foot, fearful he’d hurt me unnecessarily if he touched me any higher on the body. Only the faintest hint of gray showed at the window he’d opened; always one to follow orders, the sergeant. The clean frock and breeches he spread on the coverlet were a testament to the skills of Monique’s hired woman.

  I dressed quickly, pleased I experienced no sharp pain anywhere. “Sergeant, yuh remember yer yarn of Wentsell and the McDowds, how Tice pulled their fangs? Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Where’ s the coin sack?”

  He retrieved the leather bag from his frock wallet. I declined receipt of it, saying, “Find Jules an’ tell him we have need of a full sack. He can advance the money against our tobacco harvest. Hurry now, we must catch the Ferrenden crew half asleep at breakfast.”

  When I descended the stairs, Monique and her hired woman were at the huge roadhouse hearth baking bread for guests still abed. Jules came from the tavern room, portly and light-footed as ever, gentleman’s beard freshly trimmed. He held up for my approval a sack now bulging with doubloons. “Anything for Blake Tyler’s brother, monsieur,” he said with a slight bow.