Another conventional Sackett family Western, Ride the Dark Trail, tangentially connected to the Talon family. The character of Em Talon was born Emily Sackett. Though her husband is dead by the story’s beginning, Mr. Talon is presented as an intriguing character with a penchant for architecture and engineering, abilities that would eventually be established as family traits. If you take a look at “The Bastard of Brignogan” in Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures: Volume 2, you will find that “Talon” becomes the nom de guerre of the family’s artistic progenitor because, after his hand is severed by an enemy, he designs and constructs a metal device to replace it.
With the stage set for change, Dad took a step backward in time to the years following the Revolutionary War with his next Chantry novel, 1973’s The Ferguson Rifle. The next year he established Sackett’s Land as the beginning of the Sackett series, and its setting in Elizabethan England was a clean break from anything even resembling a traditional Western. It was also around this time that Dad began planning the first Chantry story, Fair Blows the Wind.
Below is an early version of the first chapter, a draft in which Louis attempted to tell the story without the flashbacks which figure so prominently in the finished book:
CHAPTER I
“All of them!” I had heard the old colonel say it. “Kill them all, for nits make lice, and they are a fearsome lot, the men of this blood.”
Today I was eleven years old and yonder my father lay dead upon the grass, his blade still wet with the blood of those who killed him.
Once they searched the ruins of our home, still smoking from the fire that destroyed it, they would find no teeth or bones to show them I was dead. Then they would spread wide over the fens and hollows of the hills, searching every cot and shed until they found me.
Down upon the Bay of Glandore a vessel lay, a vessel ready to spread its canvas for Italy, and it was in my mind to be aboard at sailing time. The searchers would come to the vessel at the last, I was thinking, for the men of our land were ever loathe to leave it, and although I was but a lad they would not think of an escape by sea…not yet.
There would be a tide soon, and the vessel would sail upon it.
She lay alongside the stone wharf, a clumsy craft, her sails furled, and her hull deep in the water with the cargo she had taken on. I’d been thinking the master of the vessel would have no wish to have this vessel searched by British, particularly by the old colonel, who was a greedy man, quick to find excuse for looting.
Rain fell softly upon the grassy hill, and soft upon the village roofs below, all thatch but the inn where slate tiles shone faintly in the dark. My clothes were soaked through, but the rain had washed away the tears from my face, and left something cold and knotted in my stomach’s pit, for there was fear there, but hatred too. And the fear was mostly that they’d catch and kill me before I grew tall enough to face them with a blade.
When I was still a few yards back from the tavern they came clattering down the road, their horses’ hoofs splashing mud and water, six big men in breastplates and helmets riding behind the hunched and powerful figure of the old colonel. One of those riders would be his son, who wished himself to kill me.
“One day I’ll be as tall as him,” I told myself, “and then I shall see if he stands as brave against a man with a blade as against a child without one.”
Square jawed, his face as if carved from granite, the old colonel went into the tavern. Once his eyes swept past the trees where I crouched I shrank into the darkness, frightened that those small, cruel eyes should find me out, but they left their horses standing in the rain and went within. I went a cable’s length up the muddy track before I crossed and went down to where the vessel lay, its spars dripping with wet, its deck glistening with rain.
The old vessel, squat and dumpy she looked when alongside, creaked at her moorings. The plank was down but there was no watch that I could see, for probably he had gone ashore to round up the crew.
Up the plank I went, expecting each moment to be halted, and then after to where a hatch, still unclosed, was shielded by an awning of sail. I went down the ladder into the hold and found a space between two bales of sheepskins where I wedged myself.
This birthday I would not forget if I lived long to be remembering anything at all. Shivering cold I was, and wet through from the rain, I was tired enough that I fell asleep, and was awakened only by the banging around on deck as the vessel made ready for sea.
Soon I felt the rise and fall of the vessel as she moved out upon the narrow bay. Lying in the dark I could see the emerald green hills of Glandore sliding on either side, could see them in my mind’s eye only, for all was dark and still around me.
Sleep came to me once more and when I awakened my head ached from the closeness of the air, and the rat of hunger gnawed at my belly. Dry I was, too, and longing for somewhat to drink.
No use trying the hatchway. That would be battened down for the sea, so I crawled across the bales, seeking a way out, not to give myself up, for that never entered my mind, but to find the water cask that would stand somewhere amidships, if luck was with me.
A faint crack of light showed and I crept near, able to see nothing, but to hear.
“We were away in time,” a voice was saying, “they came riding fast, and I am thinking there would have been grief and to spare had we lay alongside.”
“Aye…what could they be wanting, to come so lively?”
“Who knows? An excuse to loot the ship, no doubt. The Old One is hard. He burned the manor house, even the barns and sheds, but first he took the silver and linens from the house. They bundled it up like thieves before they fired the house, and all the while the body of himself a-lyin’ there.”
“Did they kill the lad? There was a lad, you know.”
“I saw nothing of him. Donal, and big Jemison, they were tied up, trussed like fowls, and I’d have no liking for what faces them. Good men they were, too, seamen, fishermen, and farmers, like all along this shore.”
“Fighters? Were they fighters?”
“Aye. Every last one of the clan were fighting men.”
Nothing more was said of Glandore nor of the fighting there. The rebellion had begun in 1579, and there had been a landing of soldiers from France and Spain a year later, but that only seemed to arouse the English more. Nor had my father approved. “We must fight our own battles. This is between England and us.” And then he had amended it to speak in that dry way he had. “Rather, between Ireland and Henry, for there are many over there who do not believe as he does.”
In this year of 1581 it was a wise man that kept a still tongue. Old rivalries and hatreds had been stirred to flame by the rebellion, and many an Irishman had seized upon the chance to even old scores. And many of the English who had been settled in Ireland in the time of Henry II now fought on the Irish side, for Ireland had a way of winning to her all who lived long upon her green hills.
When I awakened again thirst was choking me, and I must find water or die. Exploring further in the dark hold I came upon a small hatch that opened into a tiny cubbyhole that reeked of tar and rope. Feeling about carefully I discovered old ropes, new ropes, and sails…it was a rope locker I was in, or what passed for it.
The door was not made fast, and I opened it the merest crack. The smell of damp fresh sea air was a gift of the saints, and for a moment I stood there, emptying my lungs of the stuffy, foul air from below decks. There was a fine sea running, and a nice bit of wind, the sails bellying full and fine to see.
The wheel was somewhere behind me, the deck lay before, and somewhere close by must be the water-cask. In a distant flash of lightning I saw the cask and made for it. Opening the bung ever so slightly I filled the cup that hung there. Holding the cup in my two hands I drank, then drank again.
Three times I drained the cup, then crept back to my place of hiding,
seen by no one.
On the fourth day I was suddenly awakened by a change in the ship’s motion. Lying still, I listened, straining my ears to measure and gauge the sounds. Water rustled by the hull, only inches from my ears, but I heard no waves breaking and the motion of the vessel was slightly…we had entered a harbor or river.
Where? We had not come to Spain, and Italy was far beyond…Brittany, then? It would not matter, for the Irish were there, too, and I should find friends soon enough, but suppose it was England?
Frightened, I lay still, my heart thumping heavily. The movement of the ship had slowed, then there was a hail from somewhere not aboard ship. That was followed by the distant thump of a monkey’s-fist, the ball at the ending of a heaving-line some one of our crew had cast to the wharf.
The heaving line would be tied to a heavier line with which our vessel would be made fast to a bollard on the dock. Soon I heard the heavier line dragging along the deck, and I worked my way to the tiny hatch opening to the rope-locker.
Those vessels that came to the Bay of Glandore were few and small, but did not every boy know the sight and sounds of them? In our minds we had made voyages upon them, but to far off places, the Indies or the land Columbus and Cabot had discovered, which some now claimed were not the Indies at all.
My father was one who said the idea was ridiculous, and he had talked with Spanish soldiers who had been with Cortés, Pizarro and Ponce de Leon. Tough men they were, veterans of the Moorish wars, some of them, and of fighting with the peoples across the western waters. Yet such news traveled but slowly except that we in Ireland had long known of the lands across the western seas, for our fishermen had often landed on the shores now called Newfoundland to smoke fish, but found nothing desirable there. Only some Indians to whom we gave a name, who were uncertain friends and often thieves.
The vessel bumped against a stone wharf, grating there before somebody got a rope fender between the hull and the wharf. Then there was a great shouting back and forth, but the voices I heard were English and a great fear came up within me.
If they caught me now I should be taken a prisoner and perhaps beheaded. I had no knowledge of what they might do to an Irish lad, but fearful were the stories I’d heard, and I’d seen my own father fall before them…although a good number it took to cut him down.
Dared I wait until the night? I huddled close to the hatch of the rope-locker, filled with fear and uncertainty, wishing for a chance to be free of the vessel and to lose myself in the town…surely, among all those buildings one small boy could find a place to hide?
My father dead, my mother gone even longer from this earth…or so I supposed…and our clan scattered into hiding.
Suddenly I decided I must escape, and I crawled into the rope-locker and crouched near the door to the deck. Footsteps retreated from the deck and for a moment there was stillness. Easing open the door I saw the deck clear before me, beyond was the gangplank to the dock. In an instant I was out and scrambling.
Seamen were busy about the dock and stern and I made the gangplank unseen. I ran down it, turned to look and my foot missed and I fell. Instantly I knew I was to be crushed between ship and dock, I grabbed out wildly, felt a strong hand grasp my wrist and I was lifted bodily to the wharf.
“Here, now!” I looked up into the long, hawk like face of a soldier…an officer. My heart sank within me. I was caught, fairly and surely. “You’d best get back aboard and get permission from your father to—”
Fear and anger robbed me of my senses. “My father is not aboard,” I said, and the touch of the brogue to my tongue would have told him much had I not blurted it out, “my father was cut down by the likes of you!”
He tightened his grasp upon my wrist. “Irish, are you? And from where?”
“I am,” and boldly I told him my name, “and I am not running from fear.”
He glanced quickly to right and left but there was nobody within hearing. He jerked me away from the edge of the wharf to a pile of barrels, and then he held me off and looked me up and down.
“One thing, my lad, you had better learn. Not to speak until spoken to, nor to answer questions before they are asked. I asked only where you were from, not who and what you were.”
“That name of yours,” he added, “you’d best forget it now, now and for always. They’ve killed your kind, and the men who do the killing would kill a boy as well. Let them even get a smell that you are alive and they would hunt you down wherever you were.”
“Your lot have given us trouble, and there’s property besides.” He looked me over again. “I should turn you in, but I’ve faced your men with swords in their hands, and good fighters they were. I am going to let you run, lad, but if you ever say you saw me here or that I freed you I’ll give you the lie.”
He slacked his grip and I made to run but he held me tight again. “Lad, do you have money? Some coins, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
“Here, then. You’ll be wanting some’at to eat. Now be off with you.”
He turned his back on me, a tall, fine looking man with square shoulders, handsome in his uniform. That one look, and then I was gone. Walking swiftly up the street, dodging around carts and wagons, with one thing only in mind, to get far, far away from the boat.
I believe that the version you have just read was discarded because Louis discovered that telling this story in chronological order was destined to be a problem structurally. Starting on the Carolina coast and only then doing flashbacks into Tatton Chantry’s early life allowed Louis to begin in the midst of the action and at a critical phase of the protagonist’s life. More importantly, he was able to immediately tie the narrative to the sort of frontier experience that his audience expected without drawing too much attention to the fact that the hero’s North American adventure is just one of many “acts” in the story.
There is an entry in Louis’s journal from December 1, 1975, that reads: “Beginning my Chantry novel this morning. Made a false start or two, not far off the beam but not right, so am beginning again.” Whether that was this version or another, Dad did not feel he was ready to complete it. On February 14, 1976, he wrote: “Back to Tatton Chantry now. Will stay with him. Part of it to do with unsettled nature of building…”
That comment relates to the fact that he and my mom had finally been able to sell our old and long-vacant West Hollywood house and could afford to build Dad a large office attached to our new place in West Los Angeles. On May 21, 1977, he finally finished the last page:
“Completed last night the Chantry book that will chronologically be the first in the series. I have been writing them rather at random and am trying to bring some organization into my families as of now. This book will go in next week. Kathy is proofing it for me now , and I will take her notes and some of my own and retouch the mss. [manuscript].”
Shifting backward in time to 1972 or so, I’ll share some elements that Louis created while he was in the initial planning stages. First off, a brief outline and a descriptive paragraph:
UNKNOWN CHANTRY STORY
Ireland - Chantry
England - Street boy, apprentice. His friend a prince.
Escapes to sea after recognition
Prisoner in Spain - Armorer
Soldier in Italy
Merchant Venturer
Castaway
Meets Spanish girl and others.
Hides treasure
Moves south - Indians
To St. Augustine
Arrested and thrown in prison.
Escapes through help of girl & Indian & old soldier or other.
English officer who tries to capture also recognizes him
TATTON CHANTRY:
Escapes Ireland after murder of his parents by British soldiers; stows away on a ship he believes bound for France; arrives in England, esca
pes into town abetted by kindly British officer; is seen by his enemies and hunted by them. Is aided by a man named Sackett, becomes a street kid, Sackett again aids him and he is apprenticed to an armorer with a fencing academy adjoining. After several years of training, education, etc. He is found by his enemies and[,] escaping[,] is swept up by a press gang.
His ship is captured by the Spanish and he is briefly a prisoner; attracts the attention of an Irishman who procures his release and he works with an armorer in Spain; learns Arabic and reads old manuscripts on make of steel. Escapes Spain. Arrives in Italy and becomes a free-lance soldier there.
As you can see, there was still a great deal to be worked out. I find it interesting that the bit about being “apprenticed to an armorer” ended up being shifted over to become part of the Talon origin story in Lost Treasures: Volume 2’s “The Bastard of Brignogan.” The basic configuration of “the Three Families” was taking shape; the Chantry characters skew toward scholarship, the Talons tend to be artisans or engineers, and the Sacketts are the more blue- or brown-collar, working-class, or laborer-type characters.
Next we have an experimental time line:
Born 1570, Munster, Ireland
Family wiped out 1581
Escaped Ireland 1583
An additional detail is that, when Louis first started thinking about the story, the plan was for Tatton’s North American adventure to have gone on a bit longer. Notes indicate that Dad initially had Tatton guiding Don Diego and his party to an outpost in Florida, where he would be imprisoned for a time by the Spanish.
Here is a sketch of some dialogue intended for a sequel or a version of Fair Blows the Wind that contained a more protracted return to Ireland:
Tatton…returns to Ireland with girl; buys estate; is recognized by old servitor
“We will say nothing about that.”
Fair Blows the Wind Page 29