by John Jakes
Abruptly, the interior of the tavern seemed to tilt and distort. Again he fought to stay on his feet. Searched—but didn’t find the face he sought.
He staggered forward between the tables, smelling the sweat of the long hunters, the teamsters and rivermen gathered over venison and fish and hominy. He was aware of foreheads scratched; comments murmured about his ghastly appearance. None of that made any difference. Two emotions gripped him as he took his faltering steps:
Disappointment that his friend wasn’t here.
And anger over his own consuming awareness of the rum and ale fumes.
As through a fog that receded ahead of him, stirred and swirled back by the motion of his weary body, he saw half a dozen rough-clad men watching him with particular attention from a table beside a window. The men had been poring over a map. As it became apparent that Judson was heading in their general direction, one of the men quickly folded the map and slipped it inside his greasy shirt. His eyes slid to the ravaged arm, then back to Judson’s face, suspiciously.
Judson went by a table of three noisy men wearing homespun shirts. One of the three, in his cups, grabbed Judson’s rifle.
“Stranger, where you come from? Looks like you tangled with—”
Judson wrenched the rifle away so violently the drunk nearly toppled out of his chair. The drunk’s face and those of his companions sobered as Judson stared at them.
“Are you with Major Clark?” Judson asked, hoarse.
One member of the trio had enough courage to meet the glowing blue eyes. “You mean Colonel Clark? He’s carryin’ that rank now.”
“I see. Are you with him or not?”
“Nah, we ain’t. But them lads are.” A thumb indicated the map-readers who sat silently, watching the exchange.
Judson’s features lost a little of their hostility. “Obliged,” he mumbled, shuffling on. The drinker who had seized the rifle swallowed as he eyed Judson’s profile obliquely, then swung around and yelled for another rum, too loudly.
Near the table where the six were seated, Judson squinted into the smoke.
“Have any of you seen Colonel Clark?”
“Yes,” replied the man who’d put the map away. “He’s off lookin’ to the supplies.”
Judson concealed his resentment of the curt tone, asked:
“Will he be coming back here?”
“In a while. Do you have business with the colonel?”
“That’s right.”
“He expectin’ you?”
“I’ll discuss the details with him personally,” Judson said. The fellow who’d answered his questions shrugged. No one invited Judson to sit down.
He supposed he couldn’t blame George’s men for that. Who was to say he wasn’t some Tory sent to spy on the famed frontiersman? Still, the rejection rankled; his anger nearly burst out in a flash of cursing.
Just in time, he remembered the larger objective. With effort, he shuffled away from the six unblinking pairs of eyes and reached a small, unoccupied table along the wall.
It was blessed comfort just to stretch out in the hard wooden chair. The tap boy negotiated a path through the tables, appeared beside him:
“Something, sir?”
“I’m just waiting for—”
He stopped. His pain, his fatigue, his anxiety about the sort of reception he’d get from George, and the cool suspicion of the six men by the window combined in an instant to loosen the rein he’d kept on himself during the long, agonizing miles to Pittsburgh.
The boy tried to be polite: “Waiting, sir? For a friend?”
“Exactly right.” Judson fished in his trousers pocket, touching coins. Something bleak and sad seemed to fill his blue eyes as he finished, “A friend you keep in one of those kegs. Bring me a rum.”
As the boy started away, Judson added, “But just one!”
The boy glanced back, puzzled by the remark. Judson saw the six at the window whispering to one another behind the cover of lifted mugs.
Hell, they’re drinking, he thought. I’m certainly entitled to one.
He needed that rum. It would relax him. Put him more at ease when it came time to explain to George why he was so late catching up to him. The boy returned shortly, Judson paid, then clamped both hands around the battered pewter mug, raised it and gulped.
Yes—better. His teeth chattered less after the very first swallow. Much less after the second.
The last daylight was leaching from the sky outside the window where the six still talked softly, their map spread again. One of the men was pointing to the map with the tip of a pelt knife that caught lamplight and flashed—
To his astonishment, Judson discovered that the contents of the mug had disappeared without him even being aware of it.
And no George yet.
Ah, but it was marvelous to stretch his legs. Feel the rum soothe the lingering pain, and his apprehension. The taproom seemed to grow noisier and more smoky. Extra lamps were lit now that full dark had fallen. Judson put away a second rum that tasted even better than the one before.
His spirits improved with remarkable speed. He had just about convinced himself that he should approach George’s suspicious friends, identify himself and state his business. It certainly wasn’t to his advantage that they’d backed him down at first. Hell, he was as valuable to George as any of them!
Yes, he’d speak to them a second time; he made up his mind to it. And if they grew insolent, he’d give them cause to regret it—
“Boy!”
The lad came scampering in response to the yell. “Yes, sir?”
“One more rum—and buy a round for that glum crew at the window.”
Consternation among the six. Surprised, eyeing one another, they didn’t know what to make of Judson’s bold assault on their privacy. Leaning back in his chair, vastly amused and feeling like a new man, he allowed himself a loud chuckle.
When the boy brought a tray of mugs, Judson boomed a thanks, flung coins onto the tray and tipped an extra penny. Then, holding his full mug, he shoved the tap boy lightly with it:
“Go on, now. Serve Colonel Clark’s lieutenants. But they needn’t reciprocate. They don’t look the sort to understand good Virginia manners anyhow.”
He saw a deep scowl at the window table. He responded to it by lifting his mug in a mock toast. Another of the frontiersmen rose from his seat, flushed. Two others pulled him back down because Judson was grinning. A tipsy, insolent grin, but a grin all the same.
His behavior was beginning to cause puzzled comment among others close by. Just as he raised his mug still higher, prolonging the pantomimed toast, he heard a voice at the window table. Belonging to which man, he couldn’t say; the tap boy blocked his view. But the words were clear:
“—some common drunk, that’s all. Not worth a quarrel—”
Judson’s fingers whitened on the mug handle. His cheeks turned livid as he slammed the mug on the table, started to jump up. At that instant, he was aware of heads turning near the door. Through the smoke he saw flame-red hair.
The first expression on George Clark’s face was surprise. Then came brief bewilderment; next, disappointment. And finally, disgust.
George saw Judson half risen from his chair, the rum mug in one hand. George’s eyes grew sadly accusing. His cheeks were white.
Judson let go of the mug, paying no attention to the location of the edge of the table. The mug tipped, clanked on the floor, splattering the rum in a huge pool.
Judson tried to untangle himself from between table and chair. The drinks had addled him more than he’d realized. He slipped on the wet floor, sprawled on hands and knees, his rifle crashing beside him as he called his friend’s name. The name came out as a slurred yelp.
Laughter, then. Scornful laughter, and loud.
Judson’s temples hammered as fast as his pulse. His face felt hot. He fumbled for the rifle, staggered up, ready to call out those who’d laughed—
There were too many. Gaping, guf
fawing mouths ringed him. In stunned confusion, he saw the terrible consequences of his behavior—
The doorway of Semple’s Tavern was empty. George Clark had seen him drinking and walked out.
ii
A full moon haloed George’s head as he stalked away from the tavern. Judson reached the doorway a good half minute after his friend left, and he would have lost him in the darkness save for that silvery light. George was moving rapidly in the direction of the boat landing.
As Judson lunged across the tavern yard, he heard voices raised behind him, and chairs overturned. But he gave little thought to George’s friends who might consider him a threat to their commander. All that concerned him was the contempt on George’s face the moment before he turned and stalked from Semple’s.
Knuckling his eyes and fighting off the rum-fumed dizziness, he kept the dwindling figure in sight only a moment longer. Then George disappeared into the shadows under the log wall of a mercantile establishment.
Desperate, Judson began to run.
He dashed past the front of the darkened store and down along the same wall where he’d lost sight of his friend. Panting, he pulled up at the building’s rear corner, conscious of a violin squeaking somewhere ahead.
He glanced back, saw George’s half-dozen friends clustered in the spill of light at Semple’s doorway. He held his position in the shadows until five of them went back inside following a brief, noisy discussion. The alarmists in the group evidently lost the argument. But a sixth man set off toward the fort on the point.
Judson’s breathing had a fast, panicky quality as he crept around to the back of the store. He lost his balance, nearly fell when he stepped into a deep wagon-rut. Cursing, he jammed the butt of his rifle into the rut while he searched the riverfront for a sign of his friend.
With a gasp of relief, he saw him—silhouetted against the mellow glow of lanterns shining inside the moored flatboats.
Five of the river craft were tied to the landing, three along one side, two on the other. Each boat was roughly sixty feet long, twenty wide, and squared off at the ends. Above the timbers of hulls that rose a good three or four feet higher than the moon-dappled water, walls and roofs enclosed most of the deck space. A great wooden steering sweep swung to and fro at the stern of each flatboat.
Windows and roof trapdoors on four of the vessels were thrown open, letting the lamplight show. Only one boat—the one farthest out in the row of three—was totally dark. From the others came an assortment of sounds: that scraping violin; voices; the bleating of sheep; the low of a cow. In one unenclosed section of deck, the horns of a massive bull caught moonlight.
But it was George Clark on whom Judson centered his attention. Near the head of the landing, George was walking back and forth with quick strides, pausing now and again to lift his head toward the moon. Judson was reluctant to abandon the protection of the shadows from which he watched. George’s posture, and his pacing, were conclusive evidence of how angrily his friend had reacted to the sight of him drinking.
With the back of his free hand, Judson wiped sweat off his forehead. He had only two courses: either slink away and hide until his friend departed down the Ohio, or confront him and try to explain the circumstances that had caused him to break his vow. When Judson thought of all the distance he’d come—thought of the terrible fight with the wolves, and the brutalizing trek to Pittsburgh afterward—he really had no choice at all.
“George?”
George’s trained reactions brought him whirling around in a defensive crouch. One hand dropped toward the long knife tucked in his boot. Judson called the name again, and stepped into the moonlight so the red-haired frontiersman could identify him.
George Clark’s supple hands fell to his sides. On the flatboat where the violin sawed away, playing a reel, Judson was astonished to hear female voices, then children’s laughter. His heart hammering, he walked toward the head of the landing where George waited, a slim, almost blade-like figure in the moonlight.
Never had such a short distance seemed so long. Judson’s hands itched and shook. And he was bitterly conscious of the telltale reek of rum. But shock and despair had already sobered his mind.
George turned his head slightly as Judson approached. The moonlight fell across the red-haired Virginian’s lean face. Judson trembled at the chill aloofness of his friend’s features, and found himself wishing for one more drink.
He walked to within three feet of his friend, catching the pungent aroma of pigs drifting from one of the flatboats. Aboard another, a child bawled suddenly. A woman’s gentle voice murmured comfort. Those on a third boat blew out their lamps and pulled the roof trap shut from inside with a loud thump.
Judson started to speak, couldn’t. A night bird sailed low over the Monongahela, moon-silver on its wings. For a brief moment the bird shone as a glowing dot against the woods on the far shore. Then darkness hid its flight.
George said coldly, “I never expected to see you, Judson. When you failed to arrive in Williamsburg—”
“I couldn’t help that.” God, how thick his voice sounded. “I was shot. A light wound, but I couldn’t leave till I recovered. I—I came overland—”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I had a little trouble, but I made it all right. I traveled as fast as I could because I thought you might be gone from here already.”
“Should have been. We were delayed at Redstone, up the river. To my surprise, I picked up twenty families who want to make the trip to Kentucky, danger or no.” He gestured toward the boats. “Getting their belongings stowed took time.”
“You can carry twenty families on those five craft?”
“Yes, and all my men. The boats are exceedingly roomy. And I recruited only a hundred and fifty. I even had trouble finding those. That’s another reason for the delay.”
“I saw some of your men at the tavern,” Judson told him, then added a word that went straight to the issue: “Drinking.”
George Clark uttered a long, almost sad sigh.
“Judson, if that remark is supposed to excuse what I witnessed in Semple’s, I must tell you it won’t. Those men can be trusted with their liquor.”
“Meaning I can’t be?”
“Meaning you gave your pledge. That was the only condition under which I accepted you.”
“My God, I came miles and miles—!” Judson began.
“And look a good deal the worse for it.” George pointed at the filthy bandages.
“Shouldn’t I be entitled to one mug of rum, then?”
“You answer that,” George shot back. “You’re the one who gave the pledge. I’m afraid you traveled to Pittsburgh for nothing, Judson.”
“For nothing—?”
Stunned, disbelieving, Judson was speechless for a moment after that. Then his anger burst out:
“You pious, arrogant son of a bitch! You’re short of men, yet you’d turn me away for downing one drink!”
George’s pale eyes flared in the moonlight. “How many?”
“Well—not one. But not many more. George—”
The other cut in sharply, “I told you in Virginia, we have serious military business down the Ohio. Where we’re going, each man depends on all the others for his safety. I’m responsible for everyone in my party—I must have men I can trust not to weaken when the going’s difficult. You knew that before you started west. You knew that when you ordered up liquor at Semple’s. I am not being puritanical, only practical. Believe me, I didn’t accept every recruit who presented himself these past months, and—”
Suddenly there was unhappiness on George’s face. He pivoted away to keep from displaying it as he finished:
“And much as I might want to, I won’t accept you.”
At first Judson didn’t know whether to guffaw in astonishment or drop to his knees and beg. Then, slowly, he understood that the rejection was final. He understood just how wide the gulf separating him from his boyhood friend had become. And he felt compl
etely stripped of every hope he’d cherished since that day he and George had ridden into the country outside Williamsburg, and he had shot the Kentucky rifle with trembling hands, and given his pledge—
For a moment he almost seemed to see wispy, leather-skinned Angus Fletcher in George’s place. Angus shaking his head. The devil’s blood will tell—
He started to pull the little black-bound testament from the breast pocket of his hunting shirt, ready to fling the book at that tormenting image. But the mind-phantom disappeared. Only George remained, condemning him with austere silence.
The violin fell quiet. Sheep bleated. The river lapped the flatboat hulls with a tranquil rhythm.
“What the hell am I supposed to do, George?” Judson asked finally. “I’ve left everything behind. Everything!”
“I don’t know,” George admitted, weary-sounding now. “Perhaps you can find work here in the settlement.”
“Work! Christ, I don’t know how to do any work! But I can fight—”
“Not in the forest. Not on the Illinois prairie. Not craving spirits so terribly that it hampers your judgment, ruins your stamina, makes you worthless—” Abruptly, George bit off the loud reply. He went on more moderately, “If I could make the decision as your friend, I would. But it’s not possible any longer. All I can do is invite you aboard my boat—” He indicated the dark vessel at the outer end of the three. “—pour you one more rum—”
“Now that the damage is done, eh?”
George winced at the bitterness. Softly:
“No, just—just for old times’ sake. I’ll loan you a little money if you need it, but—that’s the end. Come on, let’s not quarrel any more. The decision’s made. I’d feel much better if you’d enjoy the hospitality of the boat for a bit—”
Ears ringing, eyes blurred, Judson still caught the guilt in George’s voice.
He tried to hate his friend. Tried to summon wrathful words again, but he was unable. He was the guilty one. He was the betrayer. Of everyone including himself.
A dreadful weight seemed to push down on his shoulders. Something George had said a moment ago rang through his mind, almost like a bell tolling for his own life: