Hunter's Moon

by Jay Heavner

  I think I’ll stop and see what’s here. I’m on no one’s schedule, but my own, and I can do what I want. I’m the CEO of this company anyway.

  Tom pulled the big truck over to the side of the road into some deep weeds that needed cutting. He made sure he was totally off the road which wasn’t easy considering the size of the vehicle. Hopping out, he walked up the path to the old house. At the large, weathered Maryland historical marker that told about Michael Cresap’s deeds and house, stood a tall flag pole bearing three flags, two of which Tom had never seen. The highest was a British flag from the mid-1700s. He recognized the Union Jack in the corner. The next lowest was a Maryland state flag with the seal of the Lord Baltimore family and the family colors of black and yellow. The lower flag he’d seen before “Don’t tread on me.” The coiled snake in the yellow background was quite familiar; it being one of the classic flags from the American Revolution.

  He climbed the stairs to the front door on the right side of the house and opened the door.

  “Hello, welcome to the Michael Cresap House,” came a voice from a middle-aged woman in a Revolutionary War-era dress who sat behind an ancient desk. “I’m Gillian Allen. My family owns the property, and I’ll be your guide today. We welcome donations of any size, thank you.”

  “Well, hello to you, Ms. Gillian Allen. I’m Tom Kenney from Fort Ashby, and yes, I was hoping you could give me a tour of this old, historic house.” He smiled, reached for his wallet, pulled out a $20 bill, folded it, and stuffed it through the slot in the donation box. “Where do we begin?”

  She smiled, “Well, in the beginning, of course. Let’s start right here. You’re in the newest part of the house. The Michael Cresap House is actually set up like a duplex. The family who lived here long ago needed more space, so they decided to add on. The older half of the house has exterior walls over three feet thick, so cutting a new entrance to the new part of the house we are now in was just not practical.”

  “Let me take you upstairs.” She opened an old-style door above two exposed dark, wooden steps. Tom could see a set of winder stairs that ascended around a corner. “Come on,” she said, and up the stairs, they went.

  The upstairs was divided into two bedrooms that contained period beds, a few other pieces of furniture, and some clothes hung behind glass. Tom looked around. “Very nice,” he said.

  “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. The other side, the old side is even better.”

  They went back down the winding stairs and then through another door into the back of the house. This part was the dining area and kitchen and was 1800’s décor. Tom took it all in, nodded approvingly, and they exited out the back door. Gillian commented, “As I said, there’s no internal connection between the two parts of the house, so it’s necessary to go outside to get from one side to the other.”

  They went in the back door of the older part to a room that contained many displays of household goods and items from the 1700s. There were guns, hand tools, and other things that frontiersmen and women would have used daily. “Very nice, no reproductions here,” Tom noted.

  “Yes, it’s all authentic. We’re very fortunate to have all this in one place. While we don’t have anything we can with complete certainty tie to any of the people of this era who were part of town’s history like George Washington, General Braddock, or any of the Cresap family, all the things go back to that time.”

  “Very, very interesting. And to think I have lived here all my life, been by this place dozens of times and never knew all this was here, right at my proverbial fingertips.” She looked at him kind of funny. “What, did I say something funny?” asked Tom.

  “No, it’s been a slow day, and I’ve only had two other people visit today, a man and a woman who was a reporter for the Cumberland paper. She said she wanted to do a story about this place.”

  “She said that, too?”

  “No, the man did. He said he never knew this interesting place was here and he was very surprised, too. They seemed to be working together. Let’s see; she called him….Mr. Goodfellow or something like that.”

  “Could the name have been Godfrey?” Tom asked.

  “Why yes, yes, it was Godfrey. Do you know him?”

  Tom nodded his head yes. “We met under some less than ideal circumstances. He owns the Cumberland paper. And he said the same thing?”

  “Yes. He was interested in Braddock. Seems he’s heard the story of the lost payroll of the General. He said it was kind of a hobby for him, sleuthing out a good story.”

  “Huh, I never would have thought that. That is interesting.”

  “Yes, these old things around, old buildings and old smells bring back memories.” She smiled. “I just caught a whiff of old book smell. It reminded me of visits to my great aunt, who lived out in Pleasant Valley across from the Methodist Church near Rocky Gap State Park. Do you know where that is?”

  Tom looked at her, a little surprised. “Why, yes, I do. My great grandfather’s second wife lived near there. She was seventy and had never been married when they married. She had, oh, it must have been 20 or more years of yellow covered National Geographic magazines neatly stored in shelves that I used to read when I was a bored kid visiting.”

  Gillian smiled, “And her name was Nellie Odgers. I looked at those same books when I visited there. It looks like we’re cousins by marriage, Mister Kenney,” and she was grinning.

  Tom grinned, too. “West Virginia and Maryland. Looks like it really is all relative.”

  They both chuckled at that. Their conversation became very cordial from that point. She showed him the rest of the house, from the top where tools of every kind were stored to the damp basement with the barred windows, which had once been as a jail for prisoners waiting for trial upstairs. The old house had also served as a courthouse during the 1800s. Soon the extended tour was over, and Tom bid goodbye to his newfound relative and friend. He walked down the short path to the road where his truck was parked and looked both ways before he crossed. Traffic was very light, so he had no problem. Tom swung open the door to the truck and climbed up and in. He saw Gillian on the porch looking at him. She waved, and he waved back, and they went their separate ways. She entered the old house, and he pulled the truck onto the highway, turned left, crossed through the C & O Canal National Park, and was almost immediately on the toll low water bridge. There’d been a flood recently, and it washed out part of the wooden deck. Everything had been repaired nicely, but he would have to be crazy to risk-taking that heavy, fully loaded truck over the structure.

  What a strange day it had been. He had been to White Tails Nudist Resort and for the first time, not gotten his eyes full. Thank God. His interest in the area’s history had again been tweaked by the visit to the historic house. And he had learned he and Mr. Godfrey had something in common, an interest in Braddock’s lost gold. I wonder if there is any significance to this? Nah, couldn’t be.

  Tom looked at his watch. He’d lost track of time while at the old house. The hours talking to Gillian seemed like mere minutes. Gotta forget about fishing today, he thought. Supper time was coming soon, and he needed to be home. It was an hour’s drive, and he had a mountain to cross before arrival. Wonder what tomorrow would bring? More surprises? The way his life had been going, you could count on it.

  Chapter 7

  Retreat from Battle of Monongahela July 1755

  The easy victory British General Edward Braddock anticipated over the French forces and their Indian allies had not happened. Over 600 of his men, Colonials and British soldiers lay dead on a battlefield in western Pennsylvania. The enemy could not believe their good fortune. Vastly outmanned, they defeated the mighty army which had threatened to push them from the strategic forks of the Ohio, where their stronghold, Fort Duquesne, had been hastily built.

  Luck and sheer bravery overcame the pompous General Braddock and his juggernaut. This time, they had succeeded in stopping the combined British and Colonial forces. Today, they would
celebrate their great victory and enjoy the spoils of war.

  The Indians of various tribes, mostly Canadian and western, walked through the battlefield, looking for anything of value to them. Never had they seen such a bounty of booty to pick from. Guns and knives lay everywhere. Every Indian man had numerous bloody scalps at his side, as did some of the French regulars. The French Canadian allies took as many scalps as the Indians. Many wounded Colonials and British soldiers were killed by a swift tomahawk, or war club blows to the head. A few were not so lucky. They were stripped of all clothing, bound and their faces painted black. These men would die by slow torture at the hands of drunken, howling Indians at Fort Duquesne in the days to come. This was a time for celebration. Tomorrow the fortunes of war could turn, but now was the time to revel in the great victory over their enemy.

  Chaos and confusion reigned in the retreating forces. George Washington, Braddock’s volunteer aide and advisor, had managed to gather a group of the few surviving Colonial soldiers together and guard the rear of the rapidly retreating army. Why the victorious did not pursue and try to annihilate Braddock’s retreating forces, Washington could only speculate, but he was happy for any shred of good fortune coming his way. All he feared had happened. Braddock’s forces trained in European warfare had been cut to pieces by the enemy. They fought in the open against forces that hid behind the boulders and huge trees. The French and Indians could not have picked a better place to fight Braddock’s army. They caught them in a small open valley and surrounded them. The enemy, from their concealed positions, fired down on the Colonials and British forces. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Lightfoot, the white man raised by the Indians, one of Braddock’s few scouts, managed to survive the carnage by crawling into a large hollow tree on the edge of the battlefield. He was far from being a coward. It became very apparent in the first few minutes of the battle if he wanted to survive, he must hide. From inside the hollow tree, he looked through open rot holes as the event unfolded. Smoke filled the battlefield, and he watched in horror as men died, many from friendly fire. The enemy hid behind cover and fired into the cauldron. British soldiers responded, shooting at what targets they could see in the confusion, often Colonial soldiers who blindly returned fire with deadly consequences. The battle had raged around him for hours. Several times he fired from the tree, hoping the smoke from his gun would not draw notice to his concealed position. Washington rode by several times, trying to rally the men in this hopeless battle. Twice Lightfoot shot at men aiming their guns at the tall, red-headed man on his horse. Both, a Huron and a Canadian, dropped to the earth never to rise again.

  After several hours of fighting, a lull fell on the field. Lightfoot carefully crawled from his hiding place. The enemy could return at any time, and he did not want to be mistaken for one of them. Mortally wounded and dead soldiers lay all around. It was difficult not to step on them as there were so many. Faces carried the frozen look of an agonizing death. One did not. It was John DeFayre in his battle soiled British uniform. He looked like he was sleeping. Lightfoot gave John a slight kick, and he groaned. He was alive. Quickly Lightfoot examined the young man for injuries. Aside from the goose egg swelling on his head, he seemed uninjured. Lightfoot shook the man to rouse him from his unconsciousness. “John, wake up now, or you will sleep forever.”

  The young man’s eyes rolled around and then focused on Lightfoot. His hand went to the swelling on his head. He looked at the carnage around him. “What happened?” he asked.

  “You got knocked cold in the battle. All is lost. We must run, or we shall not live to see tomorrow.”

  John DeFayre got up with Lightfoot’s help, and the two stumbled off back down the trail to the Monongahela River. Lightfoot found a gun, powder horn, and haversack lying among the carnage. John would need these, and the dead man would not. Lightfoot was glad his soldier friend still had his red uniform, soiled as it was. It would make an easy target for the enemy, but he hoped it would keep Colonial soldiers guarding the retreating army from mistaking them for pursuers and shoot them dead. He was right. They held their fire and let them join pass. The two men joined the throng crossing the drought-stricken river. In the retreat, there was true democracy. The men of the various state militias and British units, whether Scot, Irish, or Britain, helped each other as best they could. A few men walked dazed, more dead inside than alive. Some refused to help and were cursed vehemently by the others.

  Aside from a hurting head, John DeFayre felt lucky when he compared himself to the other wounded. Some would never survive this day, and many would never be the same. John drank from the river and felt better. He no longer needed help and took an active part in guarding the retreat. It was very rapid, unlike the troop’s methodical journey to this place. A man on a horse appeared in the western distance. All eyes were on this potential threat, and all guns pointed towards the approaching man. It was Washington. He shouted words of encouragement to the men and stopped next to the British soldier, John DeFayre. “You, what’s your name?”

  “DeFayre, sir, John DeFayre,” he said.

  “Well, John DeFayre, “your General is wounded badly. Go to him and serve him in any way you can.”

  “Yes, sir.” The words came rolling out of John’s mouth. The two men’s eyes locked. Never before had a British soldier taken an order from a Colonial. A look of surprise passed between them. Washington nodded to the man, pulled back on the reins of his horse, which turned and headed back toward the scene of the battle. The men around him moved uneasily at the awkward situation, but when John ran off as Washington had directed, they returned to their duty. They had more important things on their minds, like survival, then to ponder what had just happened.

  In spite of his headache, John DeFayre rapidly made up the space between him and the wagon carrying General Braddock. Adrenaline can make a man forget his pain. The wagon had four, fierce-looking, huge men, probably Grenadiers, with guns and bayonets ready for any threats on their general. He approached cautiously and said to the suspicious men eyeing him, “Colonel Washington has requested my presence here and directed that I am to serve the stricken General in any way I can.” He thought it would be best not to phrase it as the order Washington had spoken.

  The men looked at John and each other. The leader spoke, “It’s about damn time someone, even if a wretched Colonial, takes charge of this cursed rabble. Get on the wagon and do what you can to comfort the General. He’s in a bad way.”

  John climbed into the wagon and laid his gun off to the side. A surgeon worked on the semiconscious General. Braddock’s face was pale and gray. He did not look good. John spoke to the surgeon, “I was sent here to serve the General. How can I help? How is he?”

  The surgeon looked at John and shook his head. “The General is not well. He has several bullet wounds, some through his torso that I can do little for. He continues to bleed, and I cannot stop it, only slow it down. I fear he will not live long.” He paused. “Do what you can to comfort him and pray to God for his survival. I’ve done all I can.”

  Even after seeing all the bloody, maimed bodies covering the battlefield, it was still a shock to John to hear the General was dying. Often armies fall apart when their leadership is gone. He, too, was glad someone, Washington, the volunteer-Colonial aide, had taken charge. These Colonials had a great deal more skill and fighting ability than the British command had given them credit for.

  For four days, General Braddock’s condition continued to deteriorate. John DeFayre did as he’d been told. He kept the man as comfortable as he could in the wagon as it lumbered over the newly cut wilderness road. It often jolted when the wheels ran over protruding stones and roots the road builders had not removed. John DeFayre often felt the rocking would shatter his bones. Braddock groaned when the wagon rocked and jerked. It continued on at a crisp pace as they still feared the Indians who could show up at any time.

  They neared the Youghiogheny River, and John recognized the ravin
e going down to where he and three other men had buried the entire payroll of General Braddock. The gold coins, Guineas, had filled the two cannons they buried. He looks all around so he could remember this place. Someday soon, he hoped to return and retrieve some, if not all, of the treasure. Of the four men in that detail, he believed only he was still alive. John DeFayre had seen his friend Caleb shot dead at the very beginning of the battle. His commander, Colonel Peter Halkett, was also dead. The last man, Robert Matthews, he remembered seeing still on the ground next to him where Lightfoot found and rescued him.

  John and the surgeon watched over the dying man. On the fourth day, his eyes opened, and he looked around. He spoke to the two men. “We shall know how to fight them next time.” He closed his eyes and lost consciousness.

  “Call for Washington. Braddock’s end is near,” said the surgeon. The Colonel arrived shortly before the General expired. Washington did not like the idea, but he knew they must bury the dead man here. His body would soon become putrid in the July heat of Pennsylvania. Washington performed a short funeral. He read from a borrowed Bible. Over the objections of some of the men, he ordered the General buried in a pit dug in the road. Gunpowder was poured on the grave, and wagons ran over it to obscure its location. Washington knew if the Indians found it, they would desecrate the body. After the service, the surgeon presented Washington with Braddock’s sash. Braddock had directed him to give it to Washington as a thank you for his service. He treasured this possession for the rest of his life.

  With Braddock’s death, John DeFayre was released to travel with the masses back to Fort Cumberland. One evening after a hard day’s travel, Lightfoot found John. The two men talked privately long into the darkness. The next day they would be in Fort Cumberland. Did John still want out of the British Army? Desertion could mean death when caught. John said yes. Tomorrow, as they neared Haystack Mountain, John would look for an X blazed on a giant sycamore tree. There he would leave the road and walk up and over a low ridge. If anyone asked him what he was doing, he would tell them he had to release his bowels that were locked up, and he would need some time alone. It should satisfy any questions raised. Over the ridge, he would find the clothing of a frontier soldier who had died on the trip, which Lightfoot would leave. From that point, he would see the gap in Knobley Mountain. When John reached the Potomac River, he would tear and cut his British Army clothing, put blood on them, and cast them into the river. He must make sure one piece caught on a tree branch in the water so it could be found. Anyone pursuing him would think the Indians killed him and end their pursuit.