by John Jakes
“Can you fire a rifle?”
“One of the long Kentucky models? I’ve never tried but I’m positive I can learn. I’m fair with pistols. Always have been—”
Suddenly George Clark unfolded his lanky frame, tossed coins on the table:
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“I’ll saddle my horse and we’ll ride out in the country and find out how expert a marksman you are.”
“With a rifle?”
“Yes.”
George Clark had a peculiar, almost secretive expression on his face. Judson noticed it but failed to understand its meaning.
Once more the tall woodsman surveyed the public room. Satisfied, he led Judson toward the side entrance. In twenty minutes, they were cantering along under arching limbs that streamed down yellow and scarlet leaves in the brisk morning wind. The road was alternately dark and dazzling with sunlight.
He had a chance. One chance. He dared not let it slip out of his hands—
The hands that were white from gripping his rein hard, so George wouldn’t see how he was trembling.
iii
George Clark shucked his leather hunting bag off his shoulder, dropped his powder horn on top, then laid his gleaming Kentucky rifle on the pile. From a sheath sewn into the side of the bag, he drew a bone-handled knife. He set to work stripping a square of bark from the trunk of one of the trees in the isolated clearing where they’d stopped. Judson marveled at the swift, sure movements of George’s fingers—and silently cursed the continuing tremor of his own.
Kneeling in the thick layer of fallen leaves, George carefully inscribed a small circle on the moist inner surface of the peeled bark. He tucked his knife back in his boot, dug under the leaves, scratched up some dirt. He rubbed the dirt all around the circular cut, then blew off the excess. When he held up the square, the dirt still clung in the cut outlining a round target.
“Ought to be able to see that,” George said.
“Yes, I can see it fine.” Judson couldn’t remember when he’d been so jittery. Perhaps that was because the stakes had never been quite so high.
George carried the target across the clearing. He pinned it to a trunk with one stab of his knife. He left the knife humming faintly, ambled back through the rustling leaves. Off in the trees that ringed the clearing, their horses blew and stamped.
George waved Judson to his side. Both men hunkered down as George supported the long-barreled rifle on his palms:
“I’ll show you how to load one of these beauties. It’s slower than loading a musket, but your aim’s far more accurate.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Judson eyed the blade-pinned scrap of bark across the clearing. The bark moved a little in the brisk wind. Damn, he’d never hit it. Never—
Yes he would. He’d hit it if he never did another thing.
Patiently, George took him through the routine. First he filled the rifle pan with powder from his smaller priming horn. Then he picked up the second, larger horn, scraped down at the end so the cut-off tip fit like a cap. He pulled off the cap section, held it up:
“One of these is an exact measure of powder.”
He poured the coarse black grains into the barrel, then unlatched a perfectly polished, rust-free plate in the side of the stock.
“Greased patches in here. You lay one over the muzzle opening—”
He did so, then fished in the bag for a ball. He inserted the ball over the patch. He loosened the ramrod clipped to the rifle and handed the rod to Judson:
“You seat both the patch and the ball with a good solid stroke.”
Judson nearly dropped the ramrod. George smiled in a tolerant way. Judson got the ramrod positioned, shoved it down the barrel.
“More, Judson. More. Seat it all the way, good and firm. All right, that’s got it—”
He placed the rifle in Judson’s hand.
“Now cock and fire—and remember to use your sight. Keep reminding yourself that it’s not a musket. You don’t just shut your eyes and let ’er blow—”
He pointed to a spot on the perimeter of the clearing opposite the target.
“Try it from there.”
Feeling as if he were walking to an execution, Judson headed for the indicated place. When he got the rifle to his shoulder, it felt immense. Despite the fall air, he was sweating. The inside of his mouth tasted like brass.
Off to his left, George leaned on the ramrod. The wind fluttered the fringe on the hem and sleeves of his hunting shirt. Judson squinted down the blue barrel. Dammit, why couldn’t he keep his hands from shaking—?
The target seemed to be flapping a lot. Jerkily, he corrected his aim—
“Wait till the wind dies.” George said. “One hit is worth half a dozen hasty misses if you’re aiming for a Delaware who’s been stoking himself on drum talk and Hamilton’s rum.”
When the target finally settled in place, Judson began to apply pressure to the trigger.
More pressure.
More—
He tried not to think of the importance of this one shot. It was impossible. His chance to pull himself out of the morass he’d made was staked on one lead ball—
Steady.
Steady—
He fired.
The recoil almost knocked him off his feet. A thunderous echo went rolling through the glade toward the fields of shocked corn. Birds screeched and beat their wings, rising from the treetops. Smoke blurred Judson’s vision. He hadn’t heard the ball chunk into the trunk. It was a miss. A complete miss—
Dismally, he lowered the rifle to his side. In a moment George Clark came trotting back across the clearing with the scrap of bark:
‘“Well, you were wide of the bull.”
Failure. Again.
Then, disbelieving, he saw the smile on George’s face. George wiggled the tip of his little finger in the semicircle knocked out of the lower edge of the bark square:
“But at least you hit the target itself. Not many accomplish that on the first try.”
“I never heard the ball land—”
“Did you expect to, with all the echoes?”
“George, that’s not good enough. Put the target up again.”
George flung the square away.
“Not necessary. With practice, I think you can handle a rifle well enough. I really brought you out here for another reason entirely. A much more important one.”
Thunderstruck, Judson felt a burst of anger over the deception. He opened his mouth—
And shut it, thinking:
That’s one thing you’ll have to stop, boiling every time something doesn’t please you—
George Clark walked toward another tree, his hunting knife back in his hand. Judson saw that peculiar, secretive expression again.
“Before we strike any sort of bargain,” George said, “I want you to know the full extent of what you’ll be facing if you come west.”
“I don’t understand. You already explained—”
“I’m not talking about the hardships. I mean the real purpose for which I’m recruiting men.”
A white-tailed hare hopped halfway across the clearing, discovered them and went bounding away. Judson felt an ominous little tickle along his backbone. His friend looked positively grim.
“You said you’re raising a levy for the defense of Kentucky. To protect the settlements against the Indian attacks—”
“I have one set of vaguely worded orders to that effect, yes,” George replied. “Those orders are meant to be public knowledge. But I have a second set as well. Very much more explicit And secret. Thus far those orders have been seen only by Governor Henry and the special committee of the Burgesses he appointed. Eventually all the men I recruit will know the contents of the second set of orders. But I think you should know them now, while you’ve still time to back out.”
George started to cut a small chip from the tree to which he’d walked. “You see, I came home specifically to present a plan I’ve been hat
ching for months. Governor Henry set up the special committee because he didn’t want to make the decision by himself. The plan was approved—enthusiastically by the governor, somewhat less enthusiastically by the committee—just a few days ago. I declined to bring up the subject at the Raleigh—or anywhere in Williamsburg, for that matter. No man who serves with me will hear anything about the scheme unless we’re in a place where no Tories could be listening. And every man who does hear is pledged to absolute secrecy. Clear?”
Judson nodded.
Below the first mark he’d cut on the tree, and to the left, George cut another. Still further left, he cut one more. He drove the tip of the knife into the highest of the three cuts:
“That’s Detroit—the Hair-Buyer’s headquarters. From there, trade goods—hatchets, scalp knives, rum—travel south to the two British-controlled posts in the Territory—”
He stabbed the second spot.
“Fort Vincennes on the Wabash River—”
Chunk, the knife bit the third place.
“And further west, on the prairies that form the approaches to the Big River, Fort Kaskaskia. The three sources of British strength in the northwest. The three points from which they intend to take the northwest—”
George shoved the knife back in his boot, walked slowly toward the center of the clearing.
“A strategy of cowering inside stockades, awaiting attack, is a strategy of loss, Judson—a strategy of futility. I proposed to Governor Henry that we actively fight for control of the northwest. Destroy British power in the three forts one by one.”
“Attack them?” Judson asked.
“Capture them,” George corrected.
“Can it be done?”
“That’s what I sent two of my best men to find out during the summer.”
“Two of your own men went into British towns?”
“It wasn’t all that hard. The towns are largely French-populated. The British only control the forts. Linn and Moore pretended to be neutral fur traders. They weren’t molested once. But I guarantee you they brought back accurate drawings of the British fortifications at both Kaskaskia and Vincennes—down to the very number of portholes for the swivel cannon. The French don’t care for King George’s soldiers very much, you see. They remember that the fleur-de-lis flew over that part of the country prior to the settlement at the end of the French and Indian War. Consequently, the French at both posts talk freely. They confirmed that war parties being sent into Kentucky are directed from Detroit and equipped from the other two forts. Vincennes and Kaskaskia supply the tomahawks—and the promises of silver for every scalp taken. I plan to put a stop to that Then, once those stations are secure, I’m going after our friend Governor Hamilton at Detroit. With the three forts fallen, there’ll be no further threat of any consequence west of Pittsburgh. And no doubt about who possesses the land, once the inevitable haggling starts.”
“You mean haggling during peace negotiations?”
“Exactly. The war will end sometime. So concerning the northwest, the negotiations can have either a conclusion that’s favorable to us, or one that isn’t. I want to make sure it’s the former. You know the saying about possession being nine points of the law. That’s why I proposed my plan, and why I fought for it when some members of Henry’s committee called it too risky or too expensive. Every man who goes with me must understand my aim, Judson—”
George stared in a hard, challenging way:
“Despite the peculiar technicalities of our situation—for instance, I’m informed King George still hasn’t declared war officially—”
“For fear it would mean we’re recognized as a country,” Judson said.
“Be that as it may, I know who the enemy is, and where. You would be signing on for much more than defensive duty. I mean to march straight to hostile ground, and put it under our new flag.”
“So you’ve answered my question. You believe the forts can be taken.”
“I wouldn’t have argued with the committee for days, and staked my future on the outcome of the plan, if I thought otherwise. I wanted five hundred men. I got three hundred and fifty. If they’re the right kind, I can bring it off.”
Judson said, “I’d be proud to be one of them.”
“I confess good judgment still leaves some doubt about whether I should take you on—”
“I swear to God I’ll obey every order—keep myself straight—”
Because this is the last chance left for me.
George pondered only a moment:
“All right.”
Judson let out a yell of pleasure, cut short by George’s raised hand:
“If you don’t honor that promise, I’ll do what I would with any man who fails me. Send him home if it’s possible. If it’s not, leave him behind.”
“Understood.”
“Are you sure? I’ll abandon the laggards in the middle of enemy country if necessary.”
At that moment, Judson was stricken with doubt. Could he do it? Did he have the strength and will to endure—to perform as expected?
He knew how his father would answer the question. Angus Fletcher would totally reject the idea that his younger son could overcome his own nature. Even now, the old man’s words whispered in his mind, unsettling him—
Devil’s blood.
That was a convenient, if vicious, catchphrase for some terrible flaw in his character; but Judson no longer doubted the existence of the flaw itself. It was a foe waiting to destroy him. A foe as dangerous as any of those tribal warriors George described. An inescapable foe; one he must confront and defeat forever.
Was it possible?
He had grave and terrible doubt. But he had no doubt about the finality of the opportunity. That tipped the balance. He committed himself with a fervency that barely suggested a fraction of the fear and hope seething inside.
“Agreed. Every bit of it—agreed.”
George Clark smiled then; a cordial smile. But still not the same sort of smile Judson remembered from their boyhood. It was the controlled smile of a military commander who could never again enjoy the same equal relationship with an old friend. And Judson knew full well that the responsibility for fulfilling the bargain was his, not George’s. The prospect was both joyful and terrifying.
“Then let’s be leaving,” George said. “You’d best clean up your affairs at home—”
“I will, immediately.”
“When you’ve done so, meet me back in Williamsburg no later than three weeks from today.” Again Judson heard that warning note in his friend’s voice. “Three weeks at the outside. If you’re not here, I won’t wait.”
“I’ll be here, you can count on it. Will we be heading across the mountains then?”
“In slow stages,” George replied as they collected the rifle and gear. “I plan to visit quite a few settlements between here and the forks of the Ohio. Recruit my men as I go, and have them ready to leave Pittsburgh no later than next April or May. The tribes settle in for the winter pretty much the way the armies do, thank God. But we’ll still have a fair piece of ground to cover before spring—”
He tapped the rifle. “While you’re home, buy one of these. Oh, and perhaps a good compass. Do some practicing with the rifle.”
“George, I’ll learn how to knock out a redbird’s eye at a hundred yards,” Judson promised.
“Two hundred,” George said, perfectly serious. “And you’ll do better if you imagine it’s the eye of a redcoat on the parapet at Vincennes.”
But George’s severe manner couldn’t destroy Judson’s feeling that perhaps, at last, he was negotiating a way out of his troubles. He knew one fact for certain. He wouldn’t give George cause to regret his trust.
He’d die first.
iv
Judson stayed the night in Williamsburg. But he had no further opportunity to talk with George Clark. His friend returned to Governor Henry’s office in the late morning and remained until well after dark. By that time Judson had al
ready fallen into exhausted sleep in his rented room at the Raleigh. Next morning at dawn, he set out for home.
The golden radiance of the October sunrise filled him with a mystical feeling close to that which he’d experienced in June over a year ago, when Richard Henry Lee rose to introduce the resolution for independency. A long-forgotten passage of scripture popped into his head. With it came memories of how he’d learned his Bible—and then, later, consciously put it out of mind.
Verses had stayed stored in his mental baggage against his will. Because of his perpetual fear of displeasing Angus, no doubt. He remembered those dim Sundays of boyhood when he and Donald were dragged to the country church. He remembered how his father always sat perfectly rigid, and cast disapproving looks at Judson’s slightest squirm.
But now, he didn’t at all object to having a passage of scripture in his thoughts. The story from St. John fitted him in an oblique sort of way—
Lazarus, come forth.
And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes—
He couldn’t recall the next part exactly. Some line or other about a face covered with a napkin. It had probably once made sense to the Hebrews, but he’d giggled when he first heard it. Earning a sharp thwack on the ear from Angus, right in the pew.
The rest came back easily, making his backbone ripple in an eerie way.
Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.
Risen from the dead?
Well, not quite. But stirring. Stirring.
How ironic, Judson thought as he jogged along. A Bible verse he hadn’t thought of in years—a verse forced into his head by the discipline of the man who hated and disowned him—brought him cheer and comfort in an unexpected place and time. Even mental pictures of his father’s face couldn’t dampen his happiness.
As he rode, he savored the sight of grouse in the fields, fleecy clouds in the sky. He hailed a small girl in a cottage yard. Proudly, she held up her calico kitten as he went by. He smiled as if the scruffy little animal was the most elegant of house cats. Perhaps the black tomb of his existence was freeing him at last, and he was going forth, alive, onto firm ground—