to the Far Blue Mountains (1976) (33 page)

Blood splattered, but the next minute he had me wrapped in those huge arms.

"Now!" he gasped, "I break your back!"

His strength was enormous. He had seemed huge and fat. He was all of that, but he was also a man of unbelievable strength. His huge arms wrapped around me and he began to crush. Desperately, I hooked short, smashing blows at his face, and every blow crushed and split the skin, but oblivious to my blows he tightened his grasp. I felt a streak of agony go through me. I struggled, fought to break his hold and could not. I felt my breath going. He was leaning his huge weight on me now. His mouth was wide and gasping. Blood trickled from lips broken by my punches.

I thrust a thumb into his cheek and dug my fingers into the flesh below his ear and behind his jaw. With all my strength, I ripped at his cheek. Something broke and began to tear and he screamed. With a tremendous heave I threw him from me and struck hard with my right hand, and the blow caught him on his upraised chin.

His head went back but, mad with fear, I smashed again and again at his face and body. Hitting his enormous body was useless. I might as well have pounded a huge leather sack filled with wheat. So I struck again and again at his face and he fell back and I staggered, catching myself on the doorjamb.

Somebody caught my arm and I jerked free, turning to see Jeremy Ring.

"All is well," he said. "We have the ship."

Chapter
28

"Sail, ho!"

The call came from the deck, and as one person, we left the smashed and bloody cabin and went to the deck. A fine tall ship was bearing down upon us, flying the flag of Britain. I swore softly, bitterly. I had never thought, as a lad, to look on that flag with anything but respect and affection.

"Stand by," I said. "I do not mean to be taken."

They were lowering a boat, and in a few minutes it was nearing our side. Six men were pulling at the oars. A stalwart, square-shouldered man sat at the tiller.

As they came alongside, he asked, "Is it all right to come aboard?"

"It is," I said.

My men were walking about, picking up dropped weapons. There was a splash of blood here and there and the crew of the ship or what remained aboard had been herded into the waist, where O'Hara and Magill stood guard over them.

As the officer came over the side, I said, "We've had a bit of trouble here, gentlemen, but it is all over now. What can I do for you?'

"We need water," he said, "and seeing you hove to, we thought you might know where it could be had, or might be watering yourself."

"There is fresh water ashore," I said, "and I'll gladly guide you to it, and help you with the watering. As you see," I swept an arm at the deck and the ship's crew, "we've had a spot of trouble here. I am a settler ashore, and came aboard this ship to trade six bales of furs. The master of the ship and his crew attempted to steal my furs and my wife."

He looked around, his face grim. "Well, he didn't, did he?"

"We had more men ashore than he reckoned with, Captain."

"May I see the furs?"

"You may. They are close to the spring where you will get water." I indicated a spot on the shore. "If you will go there, I'll join you."

He hesitated. "You've come well out of this. I hope there is to be no more violence."

Suddenly his head turned sharply, and I looked. Oldfast Wilson leaned against the jamb of the door, his face battered and bloody. His mouth gaped wide where I'd torn his cheek.

"My God in heaven!" The captain of the ship turned to me.

"We had a fight, Captain. The man is uncommonly strong."

"He beat me, damn his soul. Beat me." Oldfast Wilson shook his big head in bewilderment. "I thought no man could do it."

"We're going ashore now, Wilson, and we're taking some powder, shot, and about six hundred pounds of food. If you'll tell me how much I owe, I'll pay."

"Take them and be damned! I'll not touch your money!" He turned his head. "He's Barnabas Sackett, Captain. Wanted by the Queen. I thought to take him back to England."

The captain of the new ship shrugged. "I'm not a warship, only a peaceful trader bound for the Indies. I shall buy his furs if the price is right. I do not know that the Queen wants this man, nor have I been asked to search for him. Nor am I aware of his crimes, if any. He has approached me with courtesy, and I shall respond in the same way."

Two weeks longer we waited, and saw no sign of the Abigail. There was no more time to be spent, so we took our boats and started up a stream that emptied into the sea somewhat to the south of our former route.

And it was then that the fever took me, fever and chills. For days I was ill.

Sometimes we lay up along shore, often we pushed on, but Abby was ever at my side and ever in command. She who knew much of men and ships, and in this my illness, took over. When there was doubt, she resolved it, when there was a decision to be made, she made it.

With her father, aboard ship, Abby had learned much of such things, and understood the necessities of command. So it was fever and chills, chills and fever. And no sooner did I start to get better than Tom Watkins was down with it. Sakim understood it well enough, for it was an illness found in many tropical lands, he said.

For several days we laid up, resting, at a place called Cross Creek. It was a meeting place of many trading paths, but no Indians came while we were there, or if they did, they avoided us.

Lila made a loblolly that she had learned from the Catawba, a dish made with Indian corn and dried peaches. Kane O'Hara killed a buffalo and Jeremy a deer, one of the largest I have ever seen, with a noble rack of horns.

Finally we could walk about, although very weak. Each day I tried a few more footsteps. I was constantly worried about our crops, about the fort, and the worry that must beset Slater and Quill, for we had long overstayed the expected time.

Then there came a day when I determined to wait no longer, but to return to our boats and proceed up the river. We began loading, packing the carrierboat carefully, then the others.

We were just pushing off when four Indians came from the forest and stood looking upon us, and something in the looks of one immediately drew my attention.

"Potaka!" I called.

He stepped into the water and waded toward me, hand outstretched. "Sackett! It is you!"

The Eno laid hold of the gunwale with both hands. "Where is it you go, my friend?"

"To the land of the Catawba," I replied. "We now live there, although we plan to go beyond the blue mountains."

"Ah? It is ever beyond the mountains with you, Sackett. But we will come also.

The Catawba are our friends."

With four more rowers it was no time until we reached a point from which we could leave our boats. Once more we concealed them near the opening of a small creek where there was a reed-choked backwater, drawing them well back into the reeds and covering them with others to hide them well. Into each boat we put some water to keep the bottom boards from shrinking. Once more we shouldered our burdens and began the overland trek to the fort, a much shorter distance now due to the fact that the river we had used had taken us closer to Catawba country.

On the first night out Potaka came to me, much disturbed. "Many warrior come this way," he said.

"Who?"

"Tuscarora ... maybe thirty mans ... no woman, no child."

A war party then ... headed toward the Catawba, toward our fort.

"When?"

"Four days ... I think. Maybe three days." It was bad news. Traveling at the speed with which a war party could travel they must have arrived in the fort area as much as two days ago.

The four Eno scattered out and went through the woods. They could fight and would fight, but they were no such warriors as either the Tuscarora or the Catawba. When they returned they reported no sign of Indians.

We moved on, traveling more swiftly. My strength was returning, and Black Tom Watkins could walk once more, yet neither he nor Fitch were well men, and we had to move warily so as not to be surprised by the returning party.

Desperately, I wished to forge ahead, but dared not leave my family at such a time. We kept close, with Enos out ahead and behind.

The months had made me into a woodsman, more so than ever I have been, and Jeremy also. The gay young blade whom I had first met at the down-at-heel inn in London now wore buckskins. The hat with the plume had been put aside for another hat, and he wore moccasins instead of boots. Kane also, had become the complete woodsman, and the others to a degree.

Suddenly we broke out of the woods and the fort lay before us, charred by fire, but standing.

"Kane? Barry? Stay with my wife." Pim, Jeremy, Glasco, and I moved out in a wide skirmish line, our muskets ready.

Sakim and Peter brought up the rear, and the Indians scattered wide on our flanks.

There was no sound from the fort.

No hail from the walls, no welcoming smoke ... only silence and the wind.

The grass bent before it, the leaves stirred upon the trees. Each step I took brought me nearer ... to what?

The gate of the fort stood open, the bar lay on the ground inside. My eyes searched the battlements but nothing moved. We moved toward the gate.

"Sakim? Fitch? Stay outside. Watch the woods. I am going in.

"Pim, after a minute, come in ... and you, Tom."

Musket ready for a sudden shot, I stepped inside. All was still. No sound disturbed the fading afternoon, and then, at the door of our cabin, a body.

Scalped ... and dead. Several days dead, but the weather had been cool.

It was Matt Slater.

Matt Slater, who so loved the land, and who had, at last, wide acres of his own.

A square mile of forest, meadow and fields traded for a plot, six by three.

There was no sign of Quill.

"Scatter out," I said. "We've got to find Quill."

"He may be a prisoner."

"If he is," I said, "we'll go get him. No matter how far we go, or how long it takes."

Our cabin had been looted, our few possessions gone or broken. The same was true in every room until we mounted the ladder to the walk. We saw several patches of blood, dark stains now, some visible on the earth below, some upon the walk. The ladder to the blockhouse had been pushed over, and evidently whoever had made the stand within had fired along the walk on either side, keeping the Indians at a distance.

Pushing gently on the door, I found a timber wedged against it, but managed to get a hand through and moved it enough to open the door.

John Quill sat facing the doorway, his head on his chest, his musket across his knees. There were eight other muskets within the room, all placed in position near loopholes or the door.

Kneeling beside him I touched his hand. Turning sharply I said, "Get Sakim up here! He's alive!"

Chapter
29

We buried Matt Slater on the land he loved, and buried him deep in the earth. We planted a tree close by his head that its fruit might fall where he lay. His years had been given to raising crops, and seeing the yellow grain bright in the sun, so we put him down where the seasons pass, where his blood could feed the soil. We left him there with a marker, simple and plain.

HERE LIES MATTHEW SLATER, A FARMER

A FAITHFUL MAN WHO LOVED THE EARTH

John Quill recovered, though wounded sorely, and told us a little of what had transpired.

They had come suddenly in the dawn, killing a Catawba who had brought meat to the fort, and the gate had been closed against them before they could take his scalp.

Then began a desperate fight, two men against thirty, and they ran from wall to wall, firing here, firing there. The Catawba warriors were far from the village on a hunt, but the old men fought and the women fought, and John Quill and Matt Slater defended the fort.

It was after sundown before they came over the wall and Slater went down fighting four men, and John Quill retreated into the blockhouse where they had gathered food and powder for a stand. Alone, he fought them all through the night and another day. They tried to fire the blockhouse but the timbers were damp from recent rains and would not bum.

"Six men I know I killed," John Quill said, "and mayhap another went, and finally they gave up and one shouted at me in English and told me to come to them, that the tribe would welcome me. They told me I was a great warrior-" John Quill looked at me. "Captain, I am only a farmer. It was all I ever wished to be, like poor Matt, who had his land only to lose it."

"He will never lose it," I said. "He had it when he died, and he had the memory of it in his soul. Nothing can take that from him."

"He was a brave, fine man," Abby said gently, "as you are, John. Our country needs such men to build it and make it grow. God help us always to have them, men who believe in what they are doing, and who will fight for what they believe."

"Aye," I said, "no man ever raised a monument to a cynic or wrote a poem about a man without faith."