Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Stark cursed and returned to the animal's side. The masitff stared at him with its large, sad eyes. The long hunter set his rifle aside, glanced around for any sign of movement among the trees. The breeze shifted and carried the stench to his nostrils. Stark had to keep from gagging. He listened to the wind, the chatter of the ravens like mad monks dining on the dead, the rattle of tree limbs, like clicking bones, as they rubbed against each other with every errant breeze.
The long hunter knew what he had to do. There was one survivor of this massacre and by all that was holy, John Stark was going to bring him home. “So what must I do? Carry you?”
The mastiff placed a paw on the man's foot. Stark shook his head in disbelief. Was the great beast truly that far gone or playing the long hunter for a dupe? “Bloody hell, Duchess indeed. I reckon rank has its privileges or so I am told.” Johnny muttered and setting his rifle aside, knelt by the dog and gathering the animal by its brindle coat, hoisted Duchess upon his shoulders. “Damn if I will leave you behind,” he grimaced as the animal's great weight settled on his shoulders. “I swear on my mother's grave, God rest her soul, but I regret that venison I gave you, for I fear it has only added to your bulk.”
Duchess barked. The sound set his ears ringing.
Stark groaned and steadied himself, bearing the weight of the mastiff like another heavy pack. The seventeen miles to Fort Edward just doubled in length with the added burden. So be it. He lifted his gaze to the hills he would have to cross and almost second-guessed himself. He grimaced as he squatted down and took up his rifle. Then he headed for the trees, leaving the dead to the cruel efficiency of nature.
When Stark at last gained the forest's edge and the shade fell around him like a cool cloak, he took a moment to turn and face the scene of slaughter, taking in from a distance the morbid chatter of the ravens, the dead beyond active protest who somehow managed to speak the words he heard with his heart.
“Remember us. Remember.⦔
He allowed the scene to become etched in his heart. These same ghosts had called him by name, charged him with retribution the night before, to free them from the clutches of an endless night.
Avenge us. Have pity. Weep for us.
“No,” said Stark. “Weep for the Abenaki ⦠weep for the French ⦠from this day forth.”
Up until the last couple of days, Atoan and his French allies,
La Marines
had confined themselves with raids, brief forays to discourage the colonial settlers and drive them back to the coast. But this was wholesale slaughter; men, women, and children. It turned his stomach even as it lit a fire of resolve in his heart.
“There will come another day!” he shouted. His words echoed off the emerald hills, carried down to where the sunlight danced upon the shimmering waters. The French and Indians wanted a war, he'd give it to them. But he would fight it
his
way. From this day forth vengeance would have a name.
Johnny Stark.
8
T
o the weary eyes of a hunted man, the moonlit battlements of Fort Edward were just about the prettiest sight imaginable. The great earthen breastworks rose twelve-feet high and were at least half that thick. Blockhouses at each of the five corners of the irregularly-shaped structure assured that whoever tried to storm the walls would be caught in a crossfire of grapeshot from the nine-pounder cannons nestled behind the sheltering ramparts. The main gate was further protected from frontal assault by the swiftly flowing waters of the Hudson River. From this point on, taking a boat any further upriver was hardly worth the effort.
Outside the fort proper, the meadows and rolling riverbank were ablaze with log cabins and stone farmhouses and carefully tended fields. The settlers had surged in from the east coast, lured by the rich farmlands, open countryside and the proximity of the English troops stationed at the fort for the protection of the colonies and to guard against French incursions. Over the year the number of inhabitants had swelled to a sizeable community of several hundred families. And this did not include the regiment stationed inside the fort. But there were less of them now, Stark mused, wondering how many of his own comrades and neighbors had survived the retreat from Bloody Meadow.
From this bend of the river, a steady parade of British troops, Indians, and colonial adventurers had carried their canoes and bateau the seventeen miles overland to Lake George, the gateway to Lake Champlain which in turn flowed north and emptied into the St. Lawrence River, the great artery to the Canadian coast. A man alone could make the journey in a long hard day, climbing hills, and abandoning the twists and turns of the wheel-rutted road connecting Fort William Henry to the settlement of Fort Edward. It took a good deal longer for a man alone, having to dodge war parties, elude French patrols, a man encumbered with a dog the size of a small horse!
The wilderness was one long seemingly endless invitation, a string of shining hillocks and jewel-flecked lakes linked by glittering rivers that made a man ache to explore them all, follow each to its source. But standing on the night-shrouded hillside, in the aftermath of a warm summer rain that had soaked him to the bone, Stark was less concerned about exploring the Adirondacks and keener on finding a warm fire and dry clothes, not to mention ridding himself of the burden he had labored under for the last three days.
Oh sweet sight of home. Like the promise of paradise to a grieving sinner, the smell of freshly-roasting venison drifted to him on the moistened breeze. The mastiff stirred where it lay draped across the big man's shoulders and growled, catching the scent.
Stark knelt and gently slid the animal off his benumbed frame. The long hunter sighed with relief and stood, stretched the stiffness out of his back and arms. Duchess whined as if each breath might be her last. But she gamely raised her head and continued to sniff the air. The animal smelled the wood smoke and the pronounced aroma of sizzling meat roasting over open fires, caught the mouthwatering scent from cast-iron cauldrons of hearty stew hung above the crackling flames, warm slabs of crusty bread to sop up the meat juices in the stoneware bowls. Johnny's stomach began to growl.
He pictured the comfortable confines of the Page farmhouse, a sturdy two-story structure of logs and gray stone set on the edge of the settlement. A cheerful fire in the hearth. Another ablaze in the summer kitchen out back. Ephraim and Charity set a fine table. There'd be venison roast and sweet corn and perhaps a chokecherry pie.
And in the aftermath of an evening meal, Molly would bring out the clay pipes for Ephraim and Johnny. The two men would enjoy their tobacco and debate the necessary presence of the British in the colonies while Molly sat nearby, watching the big man relax, her smile full of mysteries, that disturbing expression on her face, the look of a woman who knew some special secret a man like Stark could not hope to fathom. In his mind's eye, he imagined, even now, how the tobacco smoke must be drifting through the open shutters as it followed the trail of the roasting venison up the slope to man and beast on the rise overlooking the settlement.
Suddenly the mastiff abandoned its pitiful pretense and rose up on its legs and barked. Then to Stark's amazement Duchess seemed to experience a miracle healing as she trotted forward a few feet, glanced back to see what was keeping the big man. The mastiff's tail began to wag with furious abandonment. The dog started down the hill toward the settlement then paused again, sensing Johnny was holding back.
“Blood and 'ounds
, you black-faced Dasher. You've gone and played me for a fool,” Stark blurted out. “And here I have carried you all the way from Fort William Henry, more'n seventeen miles what with trying to keep off the road and make my own trail! Saved your life, by heaven and damn near broke my back when you could walk all along!”
The mastiff barked and shook its massive head, flinging droplets of spittle and milky-white saliva over everything within a few yards of the dog's jowls. Stark grumbled and wiped the residue from his hands. Again Duchess barked and this time ran up and nearly knocked the big man over when she placed her ham-sized paws on his chest.
Grumbling, the long hunter checked the animal's bandaged side while struggling to remain upright. The animal barked, fanning his face with its hot breath, loosed its deep, guttural bark that nearly rendered Stark deaf, then dropped down on all fours and began to pant and pace before him.
“Wait up, Duchess. Folks down yonder are apt to be a might skittish after all that's happened. Best we let them come to us.”
To that end Stark gathered enough deadwood to make a fire large enough to be seen by the sentries manning the earthen and timber ramparts of Fort Edward. Once the limbs were stacked, Stark added some kindling, then dusted that feathery pile of dried leaves and twigs with char cloth. He struck his knife blade on a length of flint and showered the tinder with sparks. Before long he had a robust blaze lighting the hilltop.
Taking up Old Abraham, Johnny Stark shouldered the weapon and pointed it at the sky. “This will announce us,” he said and fired into the air. The rifle shot echoed down the long hills. While the flames continued to devour the wood behind him, Johnny reloaded and fired again, then discharged his pistol. He unslung his hunting horn and blew several times on the brass instrument, sounding out his familiar call.
Minutes later the moonlit settlement began to teem with activity. First came the answering gunfire, tongues of flame lapped the night air as men hurried from their houses and cabins and fired into the air. He could hear the excited voices, a chorus of happy shouts, as if a celebration had just begun. Then joining in with the Colonials, a series of drumrolls floated over the walls of the fort to mingle with the blaring discordant “halloos” from other hunting horns as the entire settlement joined in to welcome one who was feared lost after the rest of the relief column straggled in.
Johnny Stark had come home!
9
J
ohnny Stark made his way through the ranks of his countrymen and climbed atop the boxes stacked in the center of the Council House, a longhouse erected in the center of the settlement where the colonists were wont to gather, to air their grievances and settle their disputes before one and all. Lanterns were hung from every post supporting the timber and mud-chinked roof overhead, and the glare from all those sallow lights painted the log walls with dancing shadows that belied the serious nature of this gathering.
Molly was there escorted by her kindly uncle, Ephraim Page, who had insisted Charity remain at home with the other womenfolk, until after Stark gave his report. Ephraim, with his flowing white beard, unruly white hair and somber black frock coat more closely resembled some biblical prophet or a fire-and-brimstone Bible-thumper than a gunsmith. However much he thought this was a man's affair, he knew his sage advice would be wasted on his headstrong niece. Much like her Irish mother, Molly Page had a mind of her own and she was going to be with Johnny Stark and did not care to listen to any word to the contrary.
Stark glanced in her direction. Whatever emotion the sight of her instilled remained hidden beneath his stony expression. His gaze swept across a row of familiar faces. There was Sam Oday, black scarf concealing his mangled scalp, blunderbuss in the crook of his arm. Moses Shoemaker, wrinkled and wise, a bandage around one bony calf where a musket ball had carved through his leathery muscle, and Locksley Barlow, leaning on his Pennsylvania long rifle, his youthful eyes grown serious now, since the events of the last few days. Barlow had helped carry Shoemaker throughout the retreat and was not going to let the wounded old jehu forget it, not for a while anyway. Robert Rogers worked his way to the fore and held up his hand to bring some order to the congregation.
“Quiet down now, good lads,” he said, then noticing Molly (they weren't all lads here) attempted to correct himself, then decided the hell with it, he was already down the trail and beyond turning back. Anyway, in her hunting shirt and breeches she could almost pass for one of the young men if she tucked her hair back and stood so as not to emphasize her rounded figure. “Quiet, and we will hear what Johnny has to say.”
“Better wait for the column I seen marching down from the fort,” Cassius Fargo called out from the doorway. “I reckon Ransom has sent one of his aides to give a listen.” The dour-looking frontiersman glanced sharply in Stark's direction where the big man commanded the attention of his comrades at arms by the sheer force of his character and towering build. Cassius frowned, his brow knotted like a length of coarse rope someone had glued to his forehead. Fargo abstained from further comment, but cleared the doorway as the tramp, tramp, tramp of a dozen soldiers marching in close order drifted through the opening, followed soon after by a youthful-looking lieutenant, a foppish young dandy dressed in the uniform of the 1st regiment. Allan Penmerry had missed accompanying the relief column due to a stomach disorder although there was some discussion among the militiamen that the disorder was that he had no “stomach for a fight.” Penmerry's escort dutifully waited outside, allowing the lieutenant to venture alone into the Council House. He made no attempt to hide his disdain for these provincials and longed for the day when he might walk the hallowed hills of Cornwall again.
Penmerry's pale green eyes swept across the crowd and alighted on the man of the hour. It was obvious the officer in his red coat and white periwig, his silver-hilted sword dangling from his belt, felt decidedly uncomfortable in the midst of this rough lot. Even the townsmen seemed only one step removed from the savages who plagued the frontier, although storekeepers and craftsmen like Ephraim gave him hope that some semblance of civilization might eventually prevail on the frontier.
“Mister Stark!” Penmerry spoke the name in a precise clipped tone. “It is proper to report to one's commanding officer on returning from a patrol.”