CHAPTER 3

Western Virginia - 22 August 1780

Lazy curls of smoke rose from the rough stone chimney, only
to be torn into wisps by the light breeze The tendrils drifted
upward as if to join the puffy white clouds that sailed
peacefully in the bright, blue sky. The little rough-hewn cabin
sat, almost perfectly centered, in a clearing cut into the woods.
Stumps poked from the ground throughout the clearing, like stubby
sentinels standing guard. To the east of the cabin stood a small
corral of split rails, covered with thatch.

Over the railings clambered two small children who giggled and
screamed as they chased each other. Light brown hair flying, blue
eyes flashing, they raced around, through, and over the corral.
Squirrels scampered across the thatched roof of the corral,
chattering and scolding the starlings that pecked at the thatch
for morsels to eat.

A woman stepped out of the open door of the cabin that faced the
south. She dried her hands on her apron; a slender young woman of
average height with curling chestnut hair that cascaded around her
shoulders. She would have been described as pretty, but she thought
her nose was too long, and her mouth too wide. Her best feature indeed,
was her hair. Her husband loved it; loved to run his fingers through it,
and gaze into her pale blue eyes. Absently she brushed her hair back
from her face, and squinted in the bright sunlight. She smiled as she
watched her two youngest children, and listened to their yelps of delight.

Her gaze moved to the right, to the eastern edge of the clearing, where
the trees parted. A trail began there, leading through the forest,
shaded by the trees that seemed to go on forever. Occasionally visitors
came, riding up the trail, bringing with them gossip, news, conversation,
and sometimes trade goods. As much as the woman loved this place -- its
quiet beauty -- she enjoyed having company. Especially sharing
conversation with another woman. As nice as it was to talk with traders,
only another woman could understand the loneliness she sometimes felt
here, far from the rest of the world. At times she craved conversation.
She sighed and shook her head at such a foolish and selfish thought.

She turned and walked around the cabin toward the western side of the
clearing. Grasses swished around the hem of her dress. The sounds of
children at play became muted, and she could hear, faintly, the ring of
axe on wood. Through the trees her husband, and her eldest son, were busy
clearing trees from the edge of a small field. The field itself was filled
with swaying green stalks of corn nearly ready for the harvest. The bounty
would help sustain them through the long, cold winter.

With time to spare before the harvest her husband had decided to expand
the field, and ready it for next spring's planting. Closing her eyes she
could picture her husband, axe in hand and stripped to the waist, felling
trees; her son harnessing their pair of oxen to the stumps. She could
hear the boy urging the beasts on; the crack and grumble as the roots tore
loose from the rich soil.

The woman and her family were not unique. Many families had pulled up
stakes, and moved out to the western frontier, seeking good and plentiful
land to farm, and space in which to rear their children. It was not easy;
no indeed, this was a hard and demanding life. Yet when she reflected on
all they had gone through, the good and the bad, she had to admit to
herself it was more good than bad.

"All in all," she thought, "It's a very good life."

She stood in the sunlight, enjoying the warmth on her shoulders, breathing
deeply of the rich, sweet-scented air. She smiled and turned back toward
the cabin.

The first shaft pierced her neck at the base of her throat, the impact
stunning her. She gazed at the blurred, feathered shaft in shock, dark
blood running down her chest. She could barely breathe, and needed desperately
to cough. She reached up to touch the pretty feathers.

The second shaft entered the middle of her body just above the belly, and
she lurched backward to the ground. She could not feel her arms or legs.
Blood bubbled from her neck and mouth as she struggled to breathe. The blue
sky grew hazy above her. A shadow moved over her and she felt her hair being
pulled. She no longer cared. A sharp pain began at her forehead, and moved
along the top of her head. She could no longer move. The pulling stopped,
the pain burned even more, and then darkness.

* * * * * * * *

The man paused to wipe the sweat from his face. His son, all of ten years
of age, worked the team of oxen, tapping one massive shoulder with a slender
switch to keep them moving. The man felt pride spreading through his chest
as he watched his son. The boy favored his mother; curly chestnut hair, pale
blue eyes, even the features of his face held silent testimony to his mother.
But the shoulders and hands were patterned after his own. His son would
grow up a big handsome man. The father smiled at the thought. Foolish pride,
but only he and the good Lord knew.

He turned to face the east where the cabin sat, beyond the line of trees and
brush. The ribbon of smoke that should have been a whitish wisp was gray and
black, and looked immense.

Fire! Oh God!, the cabin's on fire! he thought.

He started toward the trees, then stopped. Why were there no screams? His
wife should be yelling at the top of her lungs by now. And the little ones?
She would've sent them to fetch him at the first sign of trouble. A shiver
of fear ran up his spine.

He ran to where they'd laid their two muskets, and scooped them up. Then he
raced over to his son, who still urged the oxen on. The man ran, grabbed the
boy around the waist, tucked him under his arm, and headed into the field of
corn. When he'd gone a few yards, he set the bewildered boy down and turned
in a crouch to face the empty field. The oxen grazed contentedly in their
traces. The father began to load and prime his musket. As he did, he spoke
quietly and urgently to his son.

"Harry, we got trouble. You stay here, and stay hid."

The boy studied his father’s face. "Paw?" he asked.

The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke to him.

"Cabin's afire, Son. Could be nothin', but yer maw should be yellin' her head
off by now, and she ain't. I'm goin' over there now to see why."

"Cain't I help, Paw?" the boy asked.

"No, Harry," said the man, "if I ain't back soon, callin' yer name; or yer Maw
don't come callin' yer name, you stay here 'til dark. Then git on east."

"But why, Paw?"

The man squinted at the ominous, billowing smoke and said quietly, "'Cause
we'll be dead, Son. And you got t' let folks know." He put his hand under
the boy's chin and looked into his eyes. The boy's eyes were tearing.

"Know what, Paw?" he burbled, "What's happenin'?"

"Indians, Harry. Now do what I say, and ye'll be fine. Promise me now."

The boy closed his eyes and tears rolled down his cheeks. He nodded. His eyes
held a look of complete loss.

"Don't load that musket, boy. Y’ won't wanna be makin' no noise, y' hear?"

The boy nodded bleakly. The man leaned over and kissed his son on the cheek.
He held the boy's chin, smiled at him, and said, "I'm proud o’ y', Son.
Always have been. You remember that, Harry."

The man couldn't think of anything else he could say. He stood in a crouch and
made his way to the edge of the corn. He peered across the field, took a deep
breath, then raced to the woods and disappeared.

The boy crept to the edge of the cornfield and looked across to the trees. The
leaves and branches swayed in the summer breeze. Smoke still climbed black and
angry into the sky. There came a crack-bang! that echoed across the field, then
another crack-bang!, then silence. The boy scampered back, picked up his
musket, and moved deep into the swaying green stalks, until he could no longer
see the cleared field behind him. Then he sat, musket across his lap, and hugged
himself, rocking back and forth. Waiting for a call that would never come.

* * * * * * *

From the British Canadian border south to the Georgia colony, all along the
western frontier, British agents were moving among the Indian Nations,
inciting them to make war against the American rebels. These agents planned,
and often led, attacks on frontier settlements. Individual homesteads
disappeared in a fury of fire and blood, and what had been an uneasy truce
between Europeans and natives, exploded into hatred and savagery. Tribes
that had maintained good relations with the settlers were tempted by
British promises: trade alliances, weapons, and perhaps most tempting of
all, no more settlements beyond the Indian Borders set in the treaty of 1768.

Inevitably, tribes turned against each other in their own power struggle.
Six tribes constituted the great bulk of the Iroquois Confederation,
the Hodenosaunee League as it was called in the Algonquian tongue. Two of
the smallest tribes - the Oneida and the Tuscarora - chose neutrality.
Subsequently they were attacked, driven from the traditional hunting grounds
in the Ohio Valley and exiled by the others.

The whites too had their own civil war. Bloody, savage, and merciless, as
Rebels fought Tories: neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother.

As the Indian ravages increased, word spread among the outlying settlements.
Patrols were sent to gather in, or warn, the families at isolated farms
along the frontiers. It was a hazardous undertaking. Four or five men, with
provisions for a week or more, headed out to the homesteads, often with
only the vaguest of directions, often based on the memory of a trader
who'd seen them more than a year before.

Sometimes the family they sought met the patrols as they fled east, to safety,
or they passed each other unseen, and the patrols found only an abandoned
cabin. All too frequently, what they found were dead bodies and burned cabins.
Rage, hatred, and blood lust grew along the western frontier.

* * * * * * *

Harry awoke confused. He gazed up through green stalks, at a scarlet sky
streaked with gold. He sat up, eyes darting wildly around. Green stalks
everywhere, marching off into shadows. Then he remembered: he was in the
cornfield. The musket still lay across his lap. It all came back to him
like a whirlwind howling through his head. Tears filled his eyes, and trickled down his cheeks.

No one had come calling for him. Maw and Paw were gone, and Harry was
all alone. What about Robert and Meg, his little brother and
little sister? Are they gone too? Did Paw hide them like he did me?

Harry wanted to wail and scream, but Paw had said no noise. He wanted
to run to his mother; he wanted her to hold him, and sing to him, and
make it all go away. But Paw said to stay here 'til dark, and here
he would stay.

Harry put the musket on the ground and scrambled to his feet. He wiped
his face with the dirty sleeve of his shirt then crouched and picked up
the musket. Bent over, he tip-toed through the corn stalks, to the edge
of the field. He looked across the small cleared area. The oxen were
lying stiff on the ground, still in their traces, crimson-black ribbons
adorning their throats. Harry stared at the sight for a time until he
understood what he saw. He shuddered and choked back a sob.

Harry backed away until he was hidden again, and sat down, the musket on
the ground beside him, and hid his face in his hands. He was scared; more
scared than he could remember ever being. He remembered the time he'd
taken down Paw's old musket, and snuck into the woods with it. He'd been
eight years old. He wanted to practice shooting maybe get himself a deer
for Ma. He'd loaded the musket like he'd seen Paw do, tamped it like Paw,
and primed it like Paw. Then he'd lain it across a low branch, aimed at a
tree trunk, and pulled the trigger. The bang deafened him, and the butt
slammed into his shoulder so hard it had knocked him down. It startled him,
and hurt him so bad he'd yelped in surprise, then started to cry.

The sound of his father crashing through the woods, yelling his name, had
been worse. He knew his father would skin him alive. Until now, that had
been the most frightened he'd ever been. This was worse. Harry shivered
and rocked. He waited until the sky was scarlet - almost black - and the
air had cooled. Then he rose, picked up the musket, and crept out of hiding.
Nothing moved. Through the woods to the east he saw a reddish-orange glow.

Harry scampered across to the trees and began to pick his way through the
woods toward the clearing. The glow grew brighter and looked more orange.
A faint crackling sound carried through the trees. Harry hid behind a tree
and peeked into the clearing.

The cabin, the only home he knew, was a tangled heap of smoking logs and
glowing embers. The rough chimney still stood, and as Harry's eyes followed
it to the top, smoke still rose from it -- smoke sucked in from the smoldering
remains of the cabin.

A few paces from Harry's side of the wreckage, something lay upon the ground,
gray in the weak light flickering across the clearing, and the moonlight
just rising above the forest. Harry ducked behind the tree. What was it?
An Indian maybe? Waiting for him? He couldn't figure out why. Harry turned
and peeked around the tree again. The thing hadn't moved. He'd have to go look.

Taking a deep breath, Harry crouched and ran to the thing. He knelt next
to it and looked all around. Nothing moved, no cries of alarm, only the
crackling of the embers. He looked down at the thing. It looked somehow
familiar. Harry leaned over and touched it. The thing was Paw. The body
lay face down, cold. Something was wrong with Paw's head and Harry moved
up towards the shoulders. He gasped and scurried away, keeping his eyes on
the body, almost as if he expected it to leap up and start yelling.
Paw had been scalped.

Harry panted and swallowed. He couldn't pull his eyes away from the terrible
sight before him. Paw dead. Really dead, and no foolin'. In the back of
his mind, he'd been expecting to see Maw and Paw, Robert and Meg jumping
from behind a tree, laughing at the joke they'd played on him. And now
Harry knew for certain that there'd be no joke, no laughter, ever again.

Pulling his eyes away from his father's body, Harry sniffled, and rubbed
his nose on his sleeve.

Where's Maw? he wondered. He saw nothing to the left but the stumps, dimly
lit. He got up, musket in hand, and crouching, scuttled around the cabin
to his right, ears straining to hear anything other than the crackling.
When he was opposite what had been the front of the cabin, he knelt down
next to a stump and looked further to his right, and behind. The corral
had burned down to a low heap of blackened debris. No bodies that he could
see. He looked to his left -- no movement except leaves and shadows.
He pivoted and peered more closely at the woods. Nothing. Maybe Maw had
gotten away.

Harry shivered. The air had cooled and he was tired and cold, but he had
to find Maw. He just had to. He rose in a crouch, and moved to his right
again, circling the cabin, looking back and forth, and over his shoulders.

When he'd reached the eastern side of the cabin, he'd seen nothing,
and his hopes started to grow. Maybe she'd gotten away after all, maybe
she'd been hiding, maybe . . . !

"Oh God," he whimpered.

On the cabin’s north side lay a body.

* * * * * * *

Isaac Benning looked back to his left. He could just make out a figure
crouching behind a tree -- his brother Benjamin. Looking to his right he
saw another figure standing behind a tree -- his youngest brother, Joseph.
Both waited for a signal from him. They had heard sounds of movement on
the trail ahead, and at Isaac's whistle, they had silently moved into
trees beside the worn track. Just behind him crouched a neighbor, Brian
MacBlane, the fourth member of this patrol. Mac, as they called him,
was also the best tracker and point-man any of them knew, besides the
Porter brothers.

Ranging far south of their home, they were seeking the last few families
in the area still unaccounted for. Yesterday they sent the MacDougals
and their neighbors, John and Mercy Pruitt, back East. Together, the two
families stood a better chance of surviving the three-day journey.
Grateful for the warning, both families had refused an escort. Benning
didn't think they'd have trouble. Pruitt was an excellent woodsman and
trapper. Liam MacDougal, and his four sons - all over the age of fifteen --
were seasoned mountain men. Their women were well protected. It was Pruitt
who had directed the patrol this way, Southwest, to find one more
family. And with what they could carry on their backs, their livestock
turned loose, the men shook hands and headed East. The women gazed
longingly back at their homes. They knew they might never see them again.

Now, at dusk, the patrol was a few miles from the site Pruitt told them
they'd find Charley Tyler and his small family. MacBlane had been sniffing
at the air for an hour or more.

"Somethin's burning up ahead," Mac told Isaac. So they'd slowed their
advance. No point walking into an ambush. And now, something was moving
down the trail ahead and not being the least bit careful, either. In the
fading light, Isaac strained to see through the shadows. Quick footsteps
floated to his ears - but unsteady ones, it seemed. Isaac glanced over
his shoulder at Mac who shrugged and shook his head.

Isaac whistled twice, softly, and leveled his musket at the trail. The
others did the same. The footsteps came closer.

Mac tapped Isaac on the shoulder. He held up two fingers. Isaac nodded.
Two people coming. He put his cheek to the gun and sighted down the barrel,
then saw the two emerge before him: A boy and a girl, holding hands.
They were four or five years old, their clothes torn and filthy, blank
looks on their dirt-smeared, bruised faces. Their hair was wild with leaves
and twigs entangled within. Exhausted, they stumbled as they walked, but
looked like they would keep on going forever.

Isaac looked beyond them and saw nothing. Whispering to Mac over his
shoulder, "Cover me," he laid down his musket, and ran to the trail.

"Wait!" whispered Mac, but Isaac didn't stop. He vaulted over a fallen log,
and onto the trail. In two loping strides he was in front of the children.
He grabbed a handful of shirt in each hand and lifted them up. They let go
of each other as he hoisted them over his shoulders, turned, and raced back
to the trees. He dropped to his knees, pulled the children down and clutched
them to his chest.

His heart raced, and nearly drowned out the sounds around him. He glanced
over his shoulder but saw nothing. He heard a snap in front of him and
turned to find Mac standing before him, musket at the ready as he surveyed
the trail.

"Are ye tryin' t' git yerself kilt, Isaac?" he whispered.

"Sorry, Mac," Isaac replied, "had t' do it, I reckon." He heard gentle
rustling as his brothers approached.

Joseph knelt and brushed the hair back from the children's faces, and peered
at them. "What're you pups doin' walkin' these woods at night?" he asked gently,
"Why ain't you in bed dreamin'?"

The children made no reply, the blank expressions didn't change. Benjamin
inspected their clothing, the bruises on their faces, then turned to Isaac,
"I reckon they ain't here by choice. Awful quiet, ain't they?"

"Reco'nize 'em?" asked Mac.

"Nope."

"Nuh-uh." said the brothers.

"They're too little to've come far. Mac," Isaac said looking at his neighbor.
"Can you still smell smoke?"

Mac sniffed, turning his head left and right. Then he stepped close to the
children and sniffed again. He straightened and nodded.

"Yep. It's stronger. These young'uns have it on 'em too."

"How many in this family we're lookin' fer?" asked Benjamin.

"Five, Missus Pruitt says -- one young'un 'bout ten, and two little'uns,"
said Mac, "and I'd say we've found the two little'uns."

Isaac nodded, "Or they found us." Mac smiled.

Benjamin shook his head. "Not much use in goin' on, is there?"

Joseph answered "Prob'ly not. Indians already been and gone. Reckon they
figured these two wasn't worth the trouble o' killin'."

Mac spoke to Isaac, "Yer brother's prob'ly right, but I'd feel better takin'
a look anyhow."

Isaac nodded. The two children were falling asleep. "Me too, Mac. Got t'
make certain."

"You reckon you can handle these young'uns for a few hours?" He asked Joseph.

"Yeah, I reckon. How long?"

Benjamin shrugged.

Mac spoke to Isaac, "If Pruitt was right, mebbe an hour there at a trot,
an hour or so back?"

Isaac nodded "If'n we're not back in three hours, you pack them little'uns
up and git. Joseph?"

The youngest seemed put out. Joseph mumbled something Isaac couldn't make out.

"What's that?" Isaac asked.

Joseph looked back at his big brother and said, "I'd rather come with
y'all. Not wait here like some wet-nurse."

"I know that. But we can't take them young'uns with us, and we can't
leave 'em here by themselves. Right now, Little brother, you're the one
we're countin' on t' keep 'em safe."

Joseph smiled sheepishly, "All right then, you'd best git movin'."

He pulled the boy away from Isaac, and sat down with his back against
a tree, facing the trail. Joseph gathered the little girl to his chest.
He smiled, "Look at me: Papa Joseph."

Isaac chuckled, took his musket from Benjamin, and nodded to Mac.

Mac walked to the trail, turned back and nodded, then trotted up the trail.

Isaac said, "Remember! Three hours, no more."

Joseph nodded.

Isaac clapped Benjamin on the shoulder and said, "Let's go," and followed Mac.

Benjamin turned to Joseph, "See ye in a while, Little Brother." Then he too,
trotted off.

Joseph held the drowsy children a little closer. "Well now, I guess we'll
jest set awhile." He leaned back against the tree, sighed, and watched the
trail as the light of the moon began to filter through the trees.

-- --