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  Praise for the novels of Jim R. Woolard

  COLD MOON

  “In Cold Moon, the seminal early frontier stories of James Fenimore Cooper have found a serious rival at last.”

  —Loren D. Estleman, author of Journey of the Dead

  “Jim Woolard’s Cold Moon takes us back to the Shawnee War of 1793 in the Ohio wilderness, when death lurked at every bend in the dark forest trails and neither side offered any quarter.”

  —Elmer Kelton, author of Bitter Trail

  “Jim R. Woolard has done it again.... A ‘must read’ for every historical fiction fan!”

  —Ellen Recknor, author of Prophet Annie

  THUNDER IN THE VALLEY

  “A must-read for those who crave an exciting tale of American frontier fiction.”

  —Cameron Judd, author of

  Brazos and Confederate Gold

  “Before there were fur trappers ... there were the long hunters like Matthan Hannar. It took someone with the sizable talent of Jim Woolard to bring the drama and passion of that early era to the pages of America’s historical novel.”

  —Terry C. Johnston, bestselling author of

  Cry of the Hawk and Carry the Wind

  “Jim Woolard pulls back the curtain of time to give readers a vivid look at an exciting era of American history.”

  —Robert Vaughan, author of the American Chronicles

  Titles by Jim R. Woolard

  BLOOD AT DAWN

  COLD MOON

  THUNDER IN THE VALLEY

  THE WINDS OF AUTUMN

  Blood at Dawn

  Jim R. Woolard

  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for the novels of Jim R. Woolard

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I - Fort Hamilton

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part II - The March Upcountry

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part III - Fort Jefferson

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part IV - The March Resumed

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part V - Blood at Dawn

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BLOOD AT DAWN

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Berkley edition / February 2001

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2001 by James R. Woolard

  Cover art by Steve Karp

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam, Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-5161-0163-4

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  To my brother Bryan ...

  ... gone too soon but never forgotten

  Prologue

  Eden’s Fork, Ohio

  18 November 1821

  It is hard for an old soldier preparing to meet his maker to silently abide what he has done in the past, rightly or wrongly, that disappointed those about him who deserved better.

  Guilty memories are like sores that fester and won’t heal. Dwell on them too long, and they turn an aging man raw and cantankerous, making him fit company for only those like himself-beings so close to the grave they could kiss the cheek of the devil and feel uplifted by the momentary touch of warm flesh.

  I have started on many previous occasions to confront my past sins and omissions, and always, I have permitted something of lesser merit to blunt my will. Trust me, nothing is harder to face than the slighting of those who were closest to you ... and loved you the most.

  It is no excuse for my inaction that many others who were also there chose to quickly and forever forget the precise details of that savage, bloody dawn, 4 November 17 and 91, when hundreds of white soldiers and militia died under the strike of ball and tomahawk. For who desires to recall the most glorious day in the history of our red enemies? Who desires to recall how, from commanding general to the most spurious of contract suppliers, we so carelessly and foolishly helped the enemy defeat us? No force of arms has ever had more it should want to forget than those who marched with St. Clair.

  Yet, for all the blame that can be parceled out for our horrendous defeat, there were those, both men and women, who stood firm and stout that inglorious early morning. Their story, unfortunately, has gone untold. To date, thirty years to the month after the battle, only the selfish ramblings of our haughty commander, General St. Clair, have been made public. And, as Tap Jacobs observed when we finished perusing that document, never have a pair of fallen breeches been recovered so rapidly and cleverly as those of our disgraced leader.

  After St. Clair published his personal posturing as a private citizen in 18 and 12, I expected either Denny or Sargent or Miles Starkweather, all of whom were present and kept daily journals, would tender a more balanced account of our 17 and 91 campaign. But none was forthcoming, perhaps because those three officers retained lengthy loyalties to our former general when he was allowed to continue as governor of the Northwest Territory. I fault them not, for no matter how righteous the cause, it is difficult to later turn on anyone who offers you a seat at the table in lean and dangerous times.

  I am, therefore, resolved that lest I make the effort, no firsthand recounting of the St. Clair debacle will ever be recorded. It deters me not that scant few will take notice of my completed memoir now that the Injun and Redcoat Wars are well behind us. If I faithfully retell the particulars of that autumn march and resulting battle as I know them, I will at least pay homage long overdue to men such as Bear Watkins, Tap Jacobs, Miles Starkweather and, most importantly, my father, Caleb Downer. At the same time, I will reveal how one can find enemies about your own fire as dangerous as those in the opposing camp, enemies frequently harder to kill than the painted redstick.

  It is only fair to warn the reader that my recounting will hold no appeal for the squeamish or the faint of heart, for the harshness of some of my recollections wears heavily upon me to this day. I will simply swear here at the outset that what follows will be the truth as best I can render it, and I will suffer the judg
ment of others as to my veracity accordingly.

  Given aloud this date to a clerk in my pay,

  Colonel Ethan Downer

  Part I

  Fort Hamilton

  Chapter 1

  After Midnight, 4 October 1791

  Every now and again, if you suffer a misstep at the outset, the events that follow such a blunder seem to slide from bad to worse as if they have a will of their own. Never was this truer than throughout my experience with the St. Clair campaign, for I found myself in great danger even before I laid eyes on any of the general’s forces.

  My first inkling of trouble came in the deep hours of night. Hardy Booth and I were working ten head of riding stock up the Great Miami River, bound for the general’s newly built Fort Hamilton, and had camped at dark below where Blue Rock Creek joined the river from the east.

  I wasn’t certain at first what had awakened me in my blankets, but once propped on an elbow and listening, I was immediately aware we were no longer alone in the shadowy river bottom. To the north, on the same bank of the river as our camp, plumb where the Blue Rock joined the Miami, hooves struck rock and splashed water.

  Somebody was moving horses, and moving them fast!

  That realization routed the sleep from me. It didn’t take any more brains than those necessary to tell right from left to reckon no one of the same skin color as Hardy and me would be moving horses under cover of darkness. We white folks unfailingly trailed in full daylight when we didn’t run the risk of injuring our stock and could keep a constant watch roundabout. So, if it wasn’t our kind out there shoving for the Miami jack quick, it was those we dreaded meeting the most ... the redstick enemy.

  I pulled my flintlock from twixt my thighs and shook Hardy’s ample shoulder. He awakened with a puzzled grunt. I clasped a palm over his mouth and spoke softly into his ear. “Quiet now, there’s Injuns yonder hazing a sizable bunch of horses.”

  Hardy was a jovial soul, prone to fun anyone, anytime, anywhere, but he wasn’t prone to foolishness of any stripe if his scalp might be at stake. He curled fingers ’round his own long rifle and stared past me toward the creek. The whites of his straining eyes were faint smudges in the shadowy night.

  “What are we to do, Ethan?”

  Hardy was two years my senior, but he would look to me, as Paw had put me in charge of our sojourn south into Kentucky to purchase mounts for General St. Clair’s officers. And when Caleb Downer said how it was to be, everybody in his pay done as he was told. Paw might forgive a man ’most anything else. Never would he brook insubordination.

  I rose to a knee, Hardy crawling alongside of me. “We can’t let ’em come onto us. Get over to our animals and watch for sign they’ve heard what’s happening at the creek.”

  “What do you intend for your ownself?” Hardy asked in a whisper.

  The moon slipped clear of the clouds left from the afternoon rain, and four-legged shapes, a few bearing hatless riders, sprang into view forty-plus yards upstream. The river valley ran flat to the west in the direction the Injuns were traveling. On the near bank of the Miami, wooded hills swept down within a few rods of water’s edge, hiding all but the mouth of Blue Rock Creek from our sight.

  “I’m gonna skirt along the hillside and get a count of how many horses they’re making off with. Paw will likely want to report what we’re seeing to the general and his staff.”

  Hardy stiffened. “It ain’t important enough to get killed over, for chrissake,” he contended. “A damn good guess would do just fine.”

  “Never you fear,” I quietly assured him. “They’re in an all-fired hurry, and I ain’t aiming to draw a step tighter to ’em than necessary. They won’t spy us back here in the willows less’n we attract their attention. Besides, any of them inch our way, I’ll scoot back here like a spooked rabbit. Now, ease back down the bank, and keep our own stock quiet.”

  For a usually bumbling fellow, Hardy slipped through the willows sheltering us slick as a prowling weasel. I looped the shoulder straps of my shot pouch and powder horn over my head, then held fast a brief spell, gathering my nerve. I was no stranger to Injuns. I had, in fact, faced them painted and screeching in the loft of our family cabin. But that experience had put a fear of them in me steady as I sucked wind. You reached near a blazing flame, you took every caution lest you might get burnt terribly bad.

  Once free of the willows, I angled uphill, seeking solid footing on the high side of the looming tree butts. What undergrowth that couldn’t be avoided rustled gently against my leather leggins and linen frock, sound too faint for distant ears. I stalked as Paw had taught me, head level and steady, knees bent, each stride a deliberate step, feeling with the toes of my moccasins for anything that might snap or roll under my weight. Maybe I wasn’t stealthy as a woods panther, but two-legged game seldom heard me approaching. Years of laying the sneak on your own wily brothers can be downright helpful once you’re somewhat growed.

  As I gingerly crested the hilltop separating me from a look-see into the creek bed where all the commotion was occurring, the moon ducked behind a thick cloud. My brief glance before the moon disappeared left me with the disturbing notion it was riding stock the Injuns had stolen. If that were true, given their large number, more than a few of General St. Clair’s mounted cavalrymen were perhaps going off to war afoot. On the opposite hand, if those were packhorses wending past beneath me, the blow to his campaign was damaging but less severe. No matter how much gold or federal scrip you had in your fist, good riding mounts were much scarcer than toting animals south of the Ohio. Either way, the general would welcome an accurate report of his losses, the sooner the better.

  I slipped over the crest of the hill. Problem was, the lower I descended twixt the thick beech and oak trunks, I still couldn’t see a whit better in the dim, murky light. The ground leveled at the bottom of the hill, and the brush thickened as I neared the creek. Fearing I’d arrive too late for my look-see, I forged ahead, trusting to the darkness, the splash of water under pounding hooves, and the yipping of the horse-hazing redsticks to mask my presence.

  The moon suddenly reappeared, and to my right, at the outer fringe of the brush overgrowing the creek bank, not four paces from the muzzle of my rifle, rode an Injun. My innards tried to climb into my throat, but I stifled the fright welling inside me with a forceful swallow, halted in midstride, and hunkered down in the screening brush. Not a part of me moved afterward except the balls of my eyes.

  Curiosity replaced surprise when I saw the rider hadn’t spotted me, for he was a most peculiar specimen of enemy. His chest wasn’t bare and painted. He wore instead a wide-sleeved, ruffled, satiny white shirt with large pewter buttons. A flat-crowned hat covered the top of his skull where heathens always displayed roached topknots. And lo and behold, wasn’t that a braided pigtail of hair descending well below the nape of his neck? A good goddamn if it wasn’t.

  I resisted the urge to scratch myself somewhere. Injuns shunned hats when on the warpath and rarely, if ever, wore their hair long and braided on such ventures. I stuck my chin forward and peered harder. Best I could tell, what with how the rider was holding the reins so awkwardly in front of his fancy shirt, his hands appeared to be tied at the wrists. What I next made out popped my jaws apart. Be damned if a leather gag wasn’t tied over his mouth. My heart thudded and thumped.

  I had stumbled upon a white captive!

  What followed shocked even me. I suspect the taking of my ten-year-old brother Aaron by the Shawnee from the sleeping loft we shared, never to be seen by kin again, had much to do with it. So did the fight that broke out among the stolen horses farther downstream. Squeals and whinnies rent the night air, drawing the rearmost Injuns past their prisoner to the Miami and leaving him untended for a scant minute smack in front of me.

  Whatever blunted what little sense I possessed and goaded me into action, soon as the unexpected opportunity to attempt a rescue presented itself, my feet were moving almost before I realized what was happeni
ng. And once I stepped forth into the chill waters of the creek, there was no retreating.

  Standing as I did within two inches of six feet, it was no great challenge for me to rise on my toes in the shallow Blue Rock and wrap an arm ’round the waist of the Injun captive. With a hefty tug, I yanked him toward me. Thank the Lord his legs weren’t bound in any way. He came clear of the saddle without hanging up in the stirrups, the gag in his mouth muffling a yelp of alarm.

  Not wanting to tarry for a second, gentleness was the last thing on my mind. I took full advantage of the lightness of the body I held and lunged for the protective cover of the creek bank. I extended an arm in front of me, parted brush with the barrel of my flintlock, and without hesitating, scampered for the hillside and its beckoning woods, my freed captive bouncing on the point of my hip with each jolting, stretching stride.

  The ruckus downstream at the river was petering out by the time the ground began slanting uphill. By then, too, my rescued captive was squirming and kicking, undoubtedly from my rough handling. His protests threw me off balance, and to avert a nasty fall for the both us, I cast him nose down at the base of a massive tree trunk.

  I let him lie there while I listened for any pursuit and regained my wind. When he didn’t stir whatsoever, I grew concerned that I had done my new traveling companion harm. Stepping across his prone body with my right leg, I reached under his chest to roll him over and got the biggest surprise yet of what was proving to be the most unusual night of my young life. My fingers hadn’t grasped the hardened muscle of a male rib cage. They were folded around a female breast large enough to fill my entire hand.