The Winds of Autumn Read online

  Lem’s good eye twitched. “I swear, lads, your step-mother left what dribble of brains them Maryland dimwits bred into her the other side of the mountains. They was never loaded in our wagons.”

  “Whoa now, Lem,” Blake admonished.

  But Lem was too roused over the penning of the family watch-dogs four miles from the main cabin for quick shushing. He hawked and spat and twisted his rifle butt firmly in place, sure sign a windy tirade was about to burst forth, and Blake let him speak his piece.

  “Them Ohio Injuns ain’t squattin’ scared no place an’ that’s plain as the stink on horse apples. They ain’t crossed the Ohio for a month we know of, but that don’t mean they might not come a-hollerin’ and scalpin’ tomorray, hell, even this very night. An’ here we be with no dogs. Well, she ain’t gettin’ my hair lifted, by damn. Someone has got ta come ta a reckonin’ with yuh paw ’bout her.’’ He paused, then finished hurriedly, head and eyepatch bobbing in opposite directions. “An’ its gonna haft ta be you, Blake. He’d listen if’n you spoke up.”

  Lem and I peered expectantly at Blake atop the stoop. Whenever a tough nut needed cracking, we looked to him out of habit. And I must confess, through thick and thin, when anything mean or downright nasty had to be handled, it wasn’t in Blake’s nature to shirk whatever fell on his wide shoulders. He willingly stepped into the line of fire for those he held near and dear. He loved the challenge.

  A wide smile put us at ease. Straightening stiff as a line soldier, he saluted Lem and me. “You win, Sergeant Shakett. We’ll fetch the dogs home. ’Sides, I can’t taken out for Fort Washington on. the morrow without maken sure everyone here is safe as can be.”

  The words “Fort Washington” yanked my breath away. The shoat was out of the pen for certain. Blake’s “big news” was no longer a puzzlement. Only one thing would draw my brother away with tobacco and maize ready for the harvest: militia duty. He had gone and joined up. He would finally realize his most ardent desire and make war on the Injuns with his fellow Kentuckians. And once he had pledged his oath at Limestone, there would be no change of heart, no betrayal of his word.

  He studied me, a smile still curling the corners of his mouth. It was as if at times he stepped inside my skin and read my thoughts. “Nothing lasts forever, eh, little brother. Sooner or later higher duty calls and the best men part company … for a while. But it’s the right of the bigger brother to follow the warrior path, ain’t it now?”

  I stammered and couldn’t speak, stunned by the enormity of his decision. He was embarking on a venture that left me behind, and I didn’t like it at all.

  “Don’t judge me too harshly, Blaine. We can’t rightly spend all our born days fearin’ the damnable savages. The Tyler family must put its share in the kettle an’ help with the fightin’, no matter the tally.”

  I couldn’t disagree with a solitary word. But that wouldn’t make our parting the least bit more tolerable. We had always been together, close as twins.

  “Well,” Blake said with another disarming smile, “we can tarry an’ starve or get ta the table ’fore Step-mother bars the door. What’s it gonna be, Lem?”

  “We eat, dagnabit,” Lem roared, and charged past him.

  Blake waited and put his arm round me, and we marched into Paw’s lion’s den together, both shaking bad as old Daniel hisself.

  Chapter 2

  Evening, September 10

  A popping blaze in the wide fireplace and three guttering wall candles cast flickering light on the puncheon floor, chinked logs and beamed ceiling of the eating room. The smell of simmering many-meat stew and browning hoecake watered the mouth before the plank door banged shut. Pewter noggins, wooden trenchers, tined forks and carved spoons lined the table, set beforehand by the twins.

  Blake and Lem leaned their rifles at the ready on the latch side of the doorway while I piled Blake’s slouch hat and Lem’s cap atop the corner sideboard. Paw, Emma, Adam and the twins, already seated, ringed the table end nearest the fire. Those not of Emma’s loins were left bench space below the salt opposite them, an Eastern Shore custom we faithfully observed at Emma’s insistence. We ignored the insult for the sake of a full belly, such was Step-mother’s cooking.

  Heads bowed for the blessing, an earnest thanksgiving for the safe return of Blake and Lem capped with Paw’s daily reminder that we seemed powerful short of rain lately. Then Sarah served the table.

  Sister disdained help and served alone of her own choosing. She wrapped her stub of a right forearm in a swatch of doeskin, hooked the handle of the kettle, lifted the vessel from the fireplace crane and ladled with her good arm, never missing a beat. Gray eyes sparkled above the linen mask shielding her face from fire heat. A sheen of sweat glistened on her smooth forehead. She hummed as she worked, serving each with a flair. Her long linsey skirt swished behind me and she lingered beside Adam, waiting till he peeked up at her before she gave him his extra ladle full. That she did so every night made their little exchange no less amusing.

  Sarah glowed with life itself. Everyone and everything excited her, a perfect foil for sour Emma. She had overcome the hindrance of a bad arm with cleverness and undaunted spirit. Pity was for others, and any bemoaning of bodily shortcomings repulsed her. Needless to say, Blake and I adored her and could deny her almost nothing.

  Hoecakes sweetened with hardened honey, boiled squash and turnips, and noggins of corn liquor for the grown men completed the supper. Adam and the womenfolk sipped stew broth. Not a word was spoken till trenchers had been emptied clean, most refilled, and emptied again. After the eating, trenchers and tools were pushed to the center of the table and Paw poured a second noggin of Kentucky Monongahela for the menfolk. Adam got a dollop for growth in the second pouring.

  Paw fired his long-stemmed pipe with a glowing coal held in metal tongs. He drew deeply, belched behind a palm and asked, “How be it at Limestone, Blake?”

  “Prime ta bust loose, I reckon. Captain Jacobs was traipsin’ high an’ low buntin’ for recruits ta finish his levy an’ it ain’t likely he’ll scrounge enough. He’s callin’ for a helpin’ hand from all. He’s feared he’ll be stuck with nothin’ but greenhorns that don’t know ta step outen the rain.”

  “Well, ain’t no concern of ourn,” Paw concluded offhandedly, hidden by pipe smoke.

  Blake took the plunge full bore. “I believe it might be, sir. We’ve a hellish big stake in how General Harmar fares. We can’t always trust ta luck ta fend off the Redsticks. I’m throwin’ our powder in the keg.”

  Paw’s noggin thumped the table and his pipe paused midway to his mouth. For a long moment of edgy silence he frowned down our way. Blake looked him back square in the eye. What Paw couldn’t see but was plain across the table was the knuckle-whitening grip Blake had on Lem’s wrist to keep him quiet. It was Blake’s argument to win and he would suffer the consequences.

  Paw had survived lean years, weathered many a tight fix and always won clear in the end. He sniffed out a challenge on the instant. I watched taut as a bowstring. Sometimes his temper rivaled the heralded fury of the Lord.

  The old warrior glowered from his seat at the head of the table, eyes molten, beard quivering. Blake’s return stare never wavered. The womenfolk waited anxiously, crows teetering on a fence rail. My neck throbbed with excitement and Adam, upset whenever Paw and Blake exchanged heated words, fidgeted next to me.

  Blake shocked me to the roots. He didn’t wait. He went for the throat. “I pledged an oath ta Captain Jacobs ’fore we rode home.”

  Half an eternity ticked away. Then with no forewarning Paw’s jaw slackened, his body slumped and he shrank downward. The fight drained out of him like blood from a mortal wound. Tears threatened as it dawned on me sharp as a blow to the vitals that the old lion’s teeth had indeed worn down a goodly lick, ground dull by age, cantankerous back and sprung hip. Yet my respect for him was never greater than when he appeared weakest. He simply no longer had the strength or will for battles already lost. Bl
ake held the upper hand. He had made a promise at Limestone and would hold to it regardless of how harshly Paw protested. The eldest son declared his manhood and Paw knew full well a senseless argument would be for naught: Hence, wisdom overrode the old lion’s pride.

  “When will you leave, son?”

  Pent-up breath departed everyone louder than air rushing from a blacksmith’s bellows. Paw’s question granted his approval, however reluctant, of Blake’s action at Limestone. The standoff ended fast as it had commenced.

  “Well, Blake?” Paw asked.

  A weeping Sarah clasped the table edge with her slender fingers.

  “I’m off in the mornin’, I must answer Captain Jacobs’ muster within the week. I’m due at headquarters day after tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be killed, Blake. Oh, don’t be killed,” Adam blurted out. He sobbed and bit his lip. The thought of his hero really fighting the Injun war and perhaps dying overwhelmed his childish daydreams about such doings. I slid him to me and comforted him.

  “Dry your tears, children,” Step-mother ordered. “Soldierly duty is a sacred honor among men. Your brother’ll make a fine officer and save our home from the miserable savages.”

  I blinked in amazement at those words of praise. Emma’s earlier batty-beadedness bad vanished without explanation. Her mood changed every whipstitch, mostly for the worst, and open support by her of anything concerning Blake was of itself cause for celebration.

  “I’m not an officer yet,” Blake corrected, hugging Sarah.

  “You will be, never doubt. Your father served with Lord Dunmore. It’s a fine Tyler tradition you must uphold and I shall pray for you,” Emma swore, earnest as a solemn preacher.

  Paw’d enough of crying and jawboning. “Let us not dillydally the entire evenin’. I’m not happy losin’ Blake for the harvest. But so be it. If’n you listen, the breeze be on the prod, a storm is brewin’.”

  Eyes so sad he might shed tears himself any second, Paw knocked dottle from his pipe and lustily cleared his throat. “I can’t recall a sorrier homecoming. We must all pray day an’ night the Lord will see fit ta extend Blake a protectin’ hand.” Be stood and pointed at the door. “Away with you men. An old he-coon wants his sleep now.”

  Paw had spoken. Edna and Elsie scattered for the loft ladder. Sarah dried her cheeks and began the table cleaning with Emma. I tugged Adam aside. “Don’t fail Blake his last night with us, Splinter. Be about your chore straight off.” He swiped his tears with a sleeve and nodded.

  Lem, Blake and I collected headgear and weapons. Adam followed, palm cupped over a lighted candle. We men bedded down in the smaller dwelling attached to the main cabin by a common roof. An open dog-trot separated the two structures. The absence of a fireplace in our quarters meant the whole family shared the main cabin in the deep cold of winter.

  The sky was inky black, sealed by thick cloud. Way off north thunder clapped and rolled. The wind rustled leaves and swayed large tree branches. Blowing dust assailed eyes and bare hide. Right off a brisk gust snuffled Adam’s precious candle.

  “Run back an’ fire a woodbox faggot at the hearth,” Lem shouted. “We’ll tend the stock.”

  The cows and horses huddled in a dark mass on the lee side of the barn. Some touchy sorting out got them situated in opposite ends of the gloomy interior. They settled and we forked fresh bottom hay to keep them quieted till morning.

  Wind rattled the barn door and whistled overhead. Crossing the yard again, we trotted with hats snugged low and arms upraised against stinging dust. We barged inside, where we found Adam had completed his chore before falling asleep on his rope bed: Two wall candles sputtered and danced, and a smoking wick burned in a Betty lamp centered on the slab workbench.

  With the door barred against weather and intruders, be they red, white or womanly, we surrounded the bench on wobbly stools for some after-meal sipping and manly palaver, oiling and repriming long rifles as the late evening hours whiled away. The warm talk and nightly exchange of things present and past bridged one day to the next in troubled and dangerous times and I cherished every word, every slurp, every minute we three shared together.

  Suckling babes seldom received the care we lavished on our Lancaster flintlocks. Wherever we worked, whether at the home place or the improvement beyond Turkey Neck, a long rifle was always close company, ready for defense of life and limb. Lem even refused to visit Emma’s Castle, as we shamelessly called the family necessary, without his weapon.

  Each evening we rubbed metal parts with bear’s oil, checked the barrel for obstructions and flint for wear, reset and tightened the thumbscrew positioning the flint in the jaws of the hammer, reamed the touchhole with a metal pick and reprimed the firing pan. We shared Paw’s fussiness, trading for and carrying only the finest flints, preferring French black for powder. In charging the barrel prior to seating patch and ball, we counted out the precise seventy two grains of powder. Whenever any rifle was toted fully loaded for more than a day and night, we fired the piece in a hollow log behind the sleeping cabin and reloaded to prevent misfires from damp powder. The log aimed into a high bank so Adam could reclaim the spent balls with a hand trowel. Lem cast lead balls in a bullet mold one week, and I tailor-cut and greased linen patches the next. In the worst crisis imaginable, we might flee buck naked in the middle of the night, but never without rifle, shot pouch and powder horn.

  “Your paw taken the news better’n I’d ever expected,” Lem observed. “Special night like this’un calls for a special drink, don’t it now.”

  He laid his rifle on the table and fetched his possible sack from a dark corner. The sack thumped as he placed it in front of Blake and pulled back the cover flap. “Help yourself, future Colonel Tyler.” His laugh reminded me of a clucking chicken.

  Blake lifted a brown jug from the sack, yanked the wooden stopper and downed a healthy slug. His eyes watered and he blew out a fiery breath. “Rum, you ol’ war horse. Where’d you get rum?”

  “Traded Josh Oldham, our upright teetotalen, boneheaded neighbor for it. He was glad ta be shuck of that jug ’fore his missus stumbled onto it an’ called him ta task. That woman scares the Lord now an’ again, sure as I’m a-sittin’ here. ’Thout that bosomy daughter, the whole family be a day late an’ three bundles shy of a load ever’ time the wheel turns.”

  Blake laughed with Lem and handed me the jug. The sickly sweet rum was smooth on the swallow and hell when it hit bottom. I sipped carefully the first couple of rounds. Lem and Blake’s natural tolerance exceeded mine by a sizable margin.

  “Well, big brother, your dream is in sight on the horizon,” I said. “You get your chance ta bear arms and draw bead on the hated enemy. I’m more than a little perturbed you’re leavin’ me behind. And more than a little jealous, bein’ real honest with you. Why aren’t you taggin’ along, Lem?”

  “I’ve enough of sleepin’ on cold ground an’ takin’ orders from officers too stupid ta know which end a horse eats with. ’Sides, them Shawnee ain’t the least bit friendly far away, let alone right plumb in the middle of their huntin’ grounds. It’s a young buck’s fight for sure.”

  “An’ I can’t rightly wait for the whole shebang ta start,” Blake stated, a trace of rum slur in his speech.

  Lem lowered the jug to a knee. “’Fore my head fuzzes over, let me tell you one terrible important thing, you young hellion.” His good eye settled on Blake. “Dead be dead no matter where. Dead be somethin’ you can’t get over an’ you can’t outgrow an’ the early grave ain’t nothin’ ta long for.”

  He slurped rum and wiped his mouth with a sleeve already wet. “Keep your damn head down an’ don’t never forget, heroes bleed same as simpletons. No one can tell when the battle starts what may be asked of you ’fore its over ta come out the far side standin’ an’ breathin’. But by God, you gots ta be ready an’ save your own hide when the time be ripe. Remember Obidiah True an’ you can’t never go wrong.”

  “Obidiah True?” I questioned. L
em told countless stories and yarns in the span of a single week, but the name was a new one best I could recollect.

  Lem passed Blake the rum. “Bravest man I ever knowed. Happened after that mad, crazy, hell-bent-for-daylight retreat when the Injuns routed us back in 17 an’ 55. Braddock’s Folly I’ve heard it called more’n once since. O1’ Obidiah was left by his lonesome, wounded high in the chest, back up under some bushes where he’d crawled. Though he’d lost his shot pouch—a ball severed the shoulder strap—he drug his rifle an’ horn under there with him for company.”

  Lem smacked his lips and shook his head at such a painful memory. “Two days he raid in there, too scared ta move. Two days he watched them red devils scalp an’ strip the dead an’ scavenge every knife, tomahawk and gun. No water, no vittles, nothin’. Hell had nothin’ on ol’ Obidiah.”

  Lem motioned for the jug, and we watched the Adam’s apple in his skinny neck bob three times. Had a hollow leg that man, I swear. We sat silently, spellbound as always.

  “Them Injuns finally slunk off an’ Obidiah found hisself all alone, liken ta die of thirst an’ starvation. That very night a fat raccoon trundled down a deadfall leanin’ agin another tree an’ waddled past not ten feet away. A few hours later, back he waddles, full of water an’ frogs most likely. Now, Obidiah is beside hisself. He’d eat the beast raw if’n he could kill it. But he can’t. He ain’t got no ball for his rifle. If’n he did, he’d shoot that coon, Injuns or no Injuns ta hear his shot….” Lem’s voice trailed off and his head nodded.

  Blake reached across the bench and shook him. “Don’t you dare pass out. We’ll throw you out an’ bar the door if’n you don’t finish,” he threatened.

  Lem righted himself and limited his intake to a small sip from the jug. “Just restin’ me talker, damn your anxious hide. Let me see now. Yeh, Obidiah was terrible desperate. ’Twasn’t no balls layin’ anywheres close about for easy pickin’ far as he could tell. He discovered he still had his knife, but he knowed he’d never hit that raccoon with it stiff an’ sore like he was. He couldn’t move a whisker ’thout nearly passin’ out with his pain.