Thunder in the Valley Page 2

  What upset me most were my fears for Uncle Jeremiah and Stepfather. I sensed that since I’d not personally slighted the Ballards or their as yet unknown “big people,” they wanted me—needed me—under their control for getting at those I loved the most.

  I kept my wits about me by speculating as to who or what had caused my predicament. Who were the Ballards’ “big people”? What did they have against us Hannars? What did they have in store for us?

  Much I didn’t know. But I knew the Ballards, and with that bit of knowledge and some fast brain work I soon answered some of the questions puzzling me. My captors disliked hard labor and mostly hired out as long hunters, scouts, and guides, occasionally tracking down lawbreakers for the High Sheriff of Washington County. Like all men of the trail, they wore moccasins when traveling any great distance, so they wouldn’t lay tracks instantly telling the redskins white men were afoot roundabouts. Yet both Timothy and Joseph wore flat-soled leather boots this morning which likely indicated they’d come from not far off, probably Waterford or Fort Frye, the closest settlements. So it seemed a good bet someone from one of those places with gold coin handy had hired the Ballards and sent them to fetch young Matthan Hannar. But why? We Hannars, by nature closemouthed upcreekers who farmed and trapped, shunned contact with them who preferred their living shoulder-to-shoulder. What contact we had with townsfolk resulted from necessity. I frantically fished my memory for some offense on our part that could have set the local populace against us.

  What I remembered right then and there formed a raw lump in my gut. I commenced praying silently, praying my captivity didn’t concern Abel Stillwagon and Stepfather’s trading ventures with the Ohio Indians up north. If the settlers currently forted up over on the Muskingum at Fort Frye knew of their ventures, particularly the most recent, occurring as it had after St. Clair’s bloody defeat at the hands of those same Ohio Indians, we Hannars indeed faced days of desperate bad trouble . . . perhaps even a public lynching.

  The lump in my gut hardened and grew when Timothy’s “big people,” none other than Colonel Van Hove and his son, Lansford, stepped from the trees crowding the path. The Van Hoves headed by stature and wealth the townspeople of Waterford and the newly built Fort Frye. The colonel forsook the comfort of his private abode with great reluctance. Hirelings tended his land holdings and operated his Wolf Creek grist mill. Even here in the raw wilderness the elder Van Hove dressed in silver-buckled shoes, silk stockings, and short breeches, leather belt with huge silver buckle, white linen shirt, and broadcloth coat. He’d armed himself with a .66-caliber, short-barreled, silver-decorated rifle best suited for close-range shooting. Lansford, though more attired for the outdoors in fringed buckskins and beaded moccasins, sported a belt with a huge brass cinch, and the stock of his long rifle was studded with shiny brass inlays. Such dandified clothing and flashy weapons, all showing little use and wear, told a lot about the Van Hoves. They were townspeople who sallied over the far hill away from the protection of their fellow men only when aroused and bent on punishing the transgressions of those of lesser attainments.

  My heart sank. For the Van Hoves to stoop to hiring the Ballards, whom they despised, and trek this far from the succor of Fort Frye, they indeed believed us Hannars guilty of a gross sin. It couldn’t be anything but the trading with the Injuns.

  We halted before the elder and younger Van Hove, the muzzle of Joseph’s rifle bumping my spine. I watched them closely. Of the two I believed Lansford, more so than his father, downright evil-tempered and mean. The colonel’s son had been present when we’d purchased our tract of land from the Ohio Company at Marietta. His demeanor that day, and his mouthings at a chance meeting later upriver, had prompted Jeremiah to remark back then, “That boy be a bother without tryin’ real hard. The colonel smothers him an’ won’t give him anythin’ important for to do. He yaps ’bout goin’ off and fightin’the Injuns, but he’s too big a coward for that. Yet he’s terrible impatient an’ he’s determined somehow he’ll maken the hero an’ prove the colonel misjudges him. Watch out for him. He’s cold as river ice inside. He don’t care for no man. Given the chance, he’ll kill you for personal gain, sure as day. . . .” Jeremiah’s words from the past fattened my worries.

  “He give you any trouble?” Lansford asked Timothy.

  “Naw, easy as pickin’ a hickory nut offen the ground,” chortled Timothy.

  “Good. Let’s—”

  “Quiet, Lans,” the colonel interrupted. “I’m in charge here. You all have your orders and I want them obeyed without question!”

  The colonel squinted at me past the fat rimming his cheekbones. “If you wish to live, you follow orders too. I could have you shot now and not a soul would hold me at fault.”

  The colonel squared his shoulders.

  “Time be a-wasting. Let us gather the other two scoundrels. I want all three of them over at the fort before evening.”

  I garnered a little solace from that. At least the colonel would imprison us at Fort Frye and not kill us of his own accord. We would be brought before a court of the people. But I hadn’t been born under a rock. A public trial didn’t bode well for us either. Refuting whatever proof the colonel had against us would be a hard proposition. He seemed almighty sure of himself just now, almighty sure.

  “Let us perform our appointed task, my brothers,” the colonel trumpeted, turning for the clearing and our cabin.

  He led the way, followed by Lansford and Timothy, then me with the younger Ballard’s rifle at my backside. Showing no fear of anyone inside the cabin, the colonel marched across our clearing till he was a few yards beyond the front entrance, stopped, and with a motion of his hand positioned Lansford and Timothy directly before the door, leaving Joseph and me an equal distance from those two as himself.

  “Hello, the cabin,” bellowed the colonel.

  Silence.

  “Hello, the cabin,” the colonel repeated.

  Silence.

  “I be a man of great patience, but it is wearing thin,” proclaimed the colonel. “If I don’t have an answer by a count of three, Matthan, who we hold, will be shot dead. One . . . two . . .”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “What you want with us?” Stepfather demanded from inside the cabin, ending the colonel’s count before my heart burst.

  “I want you and that old goat in there with you out here on that stone stoop, unarmed, double-quick! Any sign of delay or resistance and you can dig a grave for Matthan. . . . Move!”

  “I’m comin’,” Stepfather announced loudly. “Don’t shoot Matthan. Don’t get carried away on me now. I’m comin’ alone. Jeremiah’s leg is hurt an’ he can’t walk. But he won’t cross you an’ cause you to hurt the boy. Here I come.”

  The plank door swung open and Stepfather stepped onto the stoop, hands held away from his flanks. One glance and I knew why he’d been caught off guard so easily. Splotches of blood mottled his shirt. That horrible racking cough had been ravaging him again. Never had his features been so gray and drained. He was hacking his life away and he looked it.

  He swallowed twice, forestalling another bloody outburst, and stuck out his chin as Lansford lifted his rifle from waist to shoulder and drew a bead on him. A solid man rendered thin by illness and suffering greatly, Stepfather stood barefoot on the stone doorstep, devoid of fear. I was never prouder and never loved him more. He gave no quarter and would beg none from the likes of the Van Hoves and the Ballards.

  “Easy, Lans,” cautioned the colonel.

  “What can be done for you, Colonel?” asked Stepfather.

  The colonel threw back his head and laughed, and with his red beard, considerable girth, and spindly legs, he reminded me of a crowing rooster. “John Hannar, the proper question be what can be done for you and your’en. What I can do is haul the lot of you over yonder and call a public meeting tonight at the fort . . . and I denounce the three of you for treason . . . treason for selling gunpowder and whiskey to the very red
devils who butchered the troops of my noble friend, General St. Clair. I intend to hang you all or have you all shot. What do you say about that, John Hannar?”

  “What proof you got I acted treasonable, Colonel?”

  “I have in my possession the sworn statement of the honorable Tice Wentsell,” the colonel retorted haughtily.

  My innards fairly turned over.

  We were doomed. Wentsell, a feared and respected border fighter, spied on the redskins and their doings for General Putnam of the Ohio Company. No one challenged or questioned the word of Wentsell.

  “Mr. Wentsell,” the colonel related, “oversaw you leading a string of packhorses for the headwaters of Pataskala Creek and followed you unseen. He saw you meet with Abel Stillwagon. When you left for home, he observed Stillwagon and a stiff-legged rowdy advancing the powder and corn liquor deeper into Shawnee country. What do you say about that, John Hannar?”

  “I say your eyes be brown ’cause you’re full of horse manure, Colonel,” Stepfather countered.

  Colonel Van Hove was clearly insulted.

  “Why you worthless, backwoods traitor. Why shouldn’t I hang you this instant? . . . Well, why shouldn’t I?” the colonel raged angrily, spittle dotting his lips and the hairs of his red beard.

  Those next few moments were so utterly quiet I swear I could hear the wisp of smoke from the cabin’s hearth rubbing the top stones of the chimney as it floated free into the sky. My chin trembled. If Stepfather pushed the colonel far enough, we might all die right here in our own dooryard.

  The colonel got his answer all right, but not from Stepfather as he expected. The shutter of the window on his side of the cabin slammed open and the barrel of a musket slid across the sill and centered on his ample belly. “There won’t be any killin’ today, fat man, lessen you’re for meetin’ the Maker first,” rasped Uncle Jeremiah.

  The colonel bristled at this new insult. At the same time a frown shown on his face. Jeremiah’s jumping in had disrupted his carefully planned punishment of the dire sins of us Hannars, and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. But no matter how much he might be chastising himself for being neglectful about Uncle Jeremiah, and no matter how powerfully anxious he might be for delivering us our just dues, he didn’t favor rashness that would give Jeremiah reason to shoot him in the belly.

  I glanced at Lansford. A wolfish sneer bared the younger Van Hove’s teeth. The bastard! He would see us killed no matter what.

  “Take the old man, Colonel,” Lansford commanded.

  The uncertain colonel tilted his gun—I’ve always believed he meant to turn and confront his son before he lost control of the whole affair. But Uncle Jeremiah saw it differently.

  And that’s what counted for all concerned.

  Jeremiah blasted away with the musket and winged the colonel. The ball smashed the colonel’s shoulder and flung him in a half circle, discharging his gun. His errant bullet lanced the hip of our boar hog in the pen by the horse shed and that stud pig let out a squeal of agony heard for miles.

  Lansford had his chance for maken the hero.

  He shot Stepfather square in the face... and my whole life flew to pieces.

  “Git, Matthan!” Jeremiah yelled as he ducked out of sight below the sill of the window.

  Timothy Ballard sprinted for the cabin door to get at Uncle Jeremiah before he could reload. Lansford followed him, knife in hand.

  Jeremiah’s peril goaded me into action. I spun around, clasped the barrel of Joseph Ballard’s rifle with my left hand, and yanked the muzzle past my waist, jerking him forward onto his toes. In his surprise (he had been watching the events in front of the cabin without concern for his prisoner), Joseph triggered off his piece. A haze of powder smoke billowed between us. I thrust the point of my right elbow hard against his jaw and shattered bone. He freed the rifle, grabbed at the source of his pain, and collapsed at my feet.

  Still clutching the smoking barrel of his rifle, I heard the booming report of a gun inside the cabin. I screamed Jeremiah’s name.

  No answer.

  I screamed his name again.

  Then Lansford appeared in the opening of the window and I couldn’t help myself. I turned and taken to heel.

  “We’ll get you, Hannar! We’ll get you!”

  Overcome by plain, honest-to-God fear, I pounded up the footpath past the discarded bundle of deer meat, pounded round the bend in the creek, and pounded across the stream, feet driving water spouts higher than my waist, destination unknown and totally unimportant. I slipped and fell at the edge of the water. My pelt cap flew off and a knee banged on a rock. No pursuit could be seen or heard. That didn’t deter me. Fear was a powerful spur. I lunged up the bank, ignoring the brush that ripped my sleeve and severed the strap holding my powder horn, and darted into the trees. And ran . . . and ran . . . and ran some more. Barren branches lashed my face and hands with red welts; spasms knotted my leg muscles; a hot band of pain encased my chest: I paid them no heed. I fled with the recklessness of a stampeding buffalo.

  I managed another mile before topping a swell of ground fronting a pocket of trees. Here I stumbled. Down the far side of the swell I went on my rump, gun clattering after my careening body. I slid to a halt and rested on my back, too tired to run anymore.

  The fear drained out of me. I thought of Stepfather and Jeremiah and grief brought on the tears. They streamed unchecked down my welted cheeks. I forgot about running away and wept till my eyes ran dry of their own accord.

  After that I went crazy for a while, crazy as a fox with the wild fever, the fever so maddening he bites at everything—trees, rocks, even his own limbs. I flailed the stony ground with my hands and cursed and damned Stepfather for bringing the law down on us. I cursed and damned God Almighty for letting Stepfather and Jeremiah die at the hands of the Van Hoves and the Ballards. And I cursed and damned my own stupidity and foolishness for being the real cause of it all.

  The swelling pain in my hands made me cease the thrashing and swearing. I cradled Joseph Ballard’s rifle in my arms and rocked back and forth as if I held a baby, moaning and blubbering in my own private hell, as lost as a man adrift on a stormy sea.

  Chapter 3

  Late Afternoon—January 7

  I rocked for hours. Gray clouds covered over the sky and a gusting wind blew up a rain that matted hair and started teeth chattering. Too spent and empty for caring if anyone hunted me, I ignored the rivulets collecting in the open pan of Joseph Ballard’s rifle. I’d no powder for it anyway. I sat wide-eyed, seeing nothing.

  Though wet and shivering, I stayed put. If I moved I might flee again in sheer panic and waste whatever measure of strength and presence of mind still in my possession. Yet I knew I couldn’t stay there in the darkening forest forever. Sooner or later they’d be after me, and not a soul remained who’d give me a helping hand. And my chances, with an empty rifle and no gunpowder, no food, not even a covering for my head, weren’ t worth bragging about.

  All of Jeremiah’s training called for careful planning and decisive action if my life was to be spared. But bitterness and grief and fear muddled my brain. My quandary was such I couldn’t sort out what needed doing first.

  If only Jeremiah were there with me. He’d always been my rock. His advice had never failed me. I asked myself what that wise old sage would do. Would he surrender at Fort Frye and plead his innocence? Or would he cut south for the Ohio River? Or would he sneak up the Muskingum into Indian country? And what about the supplies I needed? How would Uncle secure powder, food, and dry clothing?

  But try as I might, I’d no ready answers. A shelled cob of corn had more kernels of wisdom. I could only repeat the same question—what would Jeremiah do?—endlessly, over and over, again and again . . . over and over, again and again . . .

  A noise from somewhere.

  Or was there?

  I looked up and gasped aloud.

  Gray beard and hair haloing his weathered countenance, Uncle Jeremiah sat cross-legged on th
e swell of ground I’d tumbled down earlier, calmly puffing on his pipe carved in the shape of a sea nymph.

  A shake of the head in disbelief produced no change. He remained right dead center in front of me. He wasn’t really there. I knew that. He was a figment of the mind—something existing only in my eyes, a quirk spawned by utter desperation and loneliness.

  But I really didn’t concern myself with all that. If I’d gone loony, so be it. How I craved his understanding and guidance.

  Uncle took the pipe from his mouth. “Nephew, there be plannin’ an’ doin’ required of you. First, though, rest easy. The Lord ain’t abandoned you. It just appears He has. He’ll always be with you in spirit and teachin’s, just as I will. Don’t forget that! You stick with our teachin’s an’ you got a solid chance of gettin’ clear of this here silly fuss.”

  Jeremiah sighed heavily. “I loved my brother John. But he owed for his deeds one way or the other an’ he knowed it. Dead be dead no matter where, an’ John and me was gettin’ on anyways, him from the gallopin’ cough an’ me from age. That’s why I winged that strutter of a colonel, even though I was sure it would likely get both of us kilt. I reckoned on you having the sense God give geese, that you’d make your break, an’ you done it. That’s what counted, your gittin’ away.

  “I also reckoned the Ballards an’ Lansford would be obliged to cart the colonel to Fort Frye first an’ return for you later. Howsomever, Lansford will head a meetin’ tonight, never doubt. He’ll tell all who will lend an ear how loathsome we Hannars be an’ how I shot the colonel, an’ tomorray a troop of our uproused militia will be frothin’ to hound the life out of you. The God-fearing will follow him out of blind anger an’ hate for anyone that dared for an eyewink connive with the red Injuns. But even the dunderheads what maypass stands around durin’ mean times wringin’ their hands an’ stam-merin’, ‘oh gosh, oh gosh,’ not knowin’ what to do next, will side with Lansford this time round. The crowd will tender them the courage they can never find themselves.” Uncle paused and drew on his pipe. I said nothing, totally entranced by his words.