Rubbing the stubble on his face, Colin promised himself he would shave in the morning. He wagged his head with a smile. If his mother could only see how lax he’d become with his grooming. He’d managed but a quick wash before supper with nothing more than a small piece of soap. Considering he still wore the same clothing he’d had on when they slogged through all the mud on their way here, no less than a full bath and a change of attire would make him feel human again.
Colin rose from where he’d stooped at the upper end of a small brook that sliced through the large, oval-shaped meadow. He could easily see why the Indians had named it Great Meadows. A gentle evening breeze feathered across his face as he left the small spring behind, reminding him how grateful he was that the weather had finally turned warm. Starting toward the large ring of campfires and makeshift tents, he viewed the setting sun as it crowned the surrounding pines with gold. Not a single dreary cloud in sight.
He calculated that it must be sometime past the middle of May. Surely by now, Mariah had received the letter he’d left at Wills Creek Station. It would have been sent out with the first dispatch rider going back to civilization. As so many times before, Colin was overwhelmed once again with a deep yearning. Mariah. My beautiful Mariah. We’ve had so little time together. So little…
He heaved a woeful sigh as he passed by the herd of horses, hobbled and quietly grazing. Finding Storm among them, he was pleased that the Thoroughbred he’d ridden from home had managed the rigors of the rugged wilderness so well, especially since the mottled gray was a more delicately boned breed of horse. But then, Paladin, whom he’d sold on his trip, had more than proved the breed’s stamina that marvelous day Colin had held Mariah close all the way home from Baltimore—the day he’d fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love. Even after all this time, echoes of her delightful, sparkling laughter rang in his memory. How he wished he could hear it now, on this waning, lonely evening. He missed her so much, his insides ached.
A number of the horses jerked their heads up from the grass. Ears flicking, the herd turned their necks in the direction of the dark woods to the west. Several cows just beyond them mooed low.
Closing his hand around his revolver and drawing the weapon from its holster, Colin tried to peer past the animals. He wheeled to face the camp and raised the firearm high, waving it back and forth until he caught the attention of several of the men.
His heart pounded as he crouched and moved swiftly toward the animals, his only cover in this open space. Waiting and listening, he hoped the other men had remembered to prime their flashpans, then breathed easier, recalling that everyone kept their weapons loaded and ready since Trent’s men had met them at Wills Creek Station.
No unusual sound came to his ears, but several of the horses remained alert and uneasy. Something—or someone—was out there. Bear, mountain cat…or the French?
Movement in the deep shadows produced an Indian wearing only a loincloth and leather leggings that reached halfway up his thighs. A musket dangled from his hand as, glistening with sweat and breathing heavily, he jogged past the horses.
A minute passed. Then two. No other Indians appeared. Not ready to trust that the man was alone, Colin remained hidden, his gun propped on the back of a sturdy quarter horse and aimed in the direction from which the Indian had come. When no other sounds came from the woods, Colin noticed the horses grazed placidly once again. He glanced back at the encampment and spotted the Indian walking with Washington toward the colonel’s tent. Obviously the ruddy man had come with a message.
Colin holstered his pistol and ran across the field for the tent, his curiosity piqued. Was the news good? Or bad?
Approaching the command tent, he noticed a number of enlisted militia milling about outside. Obviously they were as curious as he to learn why the Indian brave had arrived with such haste. Upon entering the sailcloth enclosure, Colin saw that Tuck and the other officers had all gathered inside. The Indian stood next to the colonel.
Washington spied Colin and addressed him in his usual formal manner. “Lieutenant Barclay. Thank you for your vigilance.”
Colin nodded acknowledgment of the compliment, though he was more interested in what the Indian had come to report.
“Gentlemen.” Washington swept a glance around at the officers. “Our visitor comes from our good ally, the great Chief Monakaduto of the Seneca people. Some of you might know him as Half King. I shall allow his messenger to speak the words of Chief Monakaduto.”
He then nodded to the sinewy brown-skinned man. Fully armed with a knife and hatchet tucked in belted and beaded sheaths, the Indian held his musket like a staff. His head was shaved except for a braided hank of top hair adorned with beads similar to the numerous ones decorating his moccasins, an armband, and earrings. The man made a striking picture.
“I come from great Chief Monakaduto,” he spoke in halting English. “He say French warriors come. They come quiet like the fox. This many.” He spread his fingers and thrust them forth three times, then held up four fingers. Thirty-four. “Chief Monakaduto say you come. Chief and Seneca warriors take you. Make war on enemy.”
Dennis Tucker gave a huff under his breath. “Thirty-four. That ain’t so many. Surely they don’t plan on takin’ on all of us.”
Washington pierced him with a withering glare. “Most likely they’ve been sent to spy on us, discover the size of our force and what weaponry we have.”
Compared to the strength of the French force that took the fort from Trent’s men, Colin knew their militia made up a rather pitiful adversary. However, they were supposed to be joined any day by a Colonel Fry, with a regiment of regular British soldiers and a few pieces of field artillery. So far there’d been no word from them.
“It’s vital we intercept this party before they reach our camp.” Washington swept a gaze over his officers. “Each of you pick ten of your best men to accompany me. Captain Trent, I’m putting you in charge here while I’m gone.”
Trent, a seasoned frontiersman, grunted. “You sure, Colonel?”
“Yes. You’ll know what to do.”
Colin considered that oblique statement a touch ominous, but he also knew Trent would take extra care after having lost the Ohio River fort to the French.
“Barclay.” Washington turned his pockmarked face to Colin, his eyes serious. “You shall come with me as my second-in-command.”
The men who would accompany Washington had a bite to eat and gathered their supplies, but it wasn’t until after ten that night that they left camp. Colin noted with disgust that not a star was visible. Heavy clouds again blanketed the sky, casting the party into thick darkness that grew even blacker as they entered the woods behind the Indian guide. Not a single torch would be permitted this night.
The Seneca, who called himself something like Sequahee, set a fast pace, forcing the men to jog in order to keep up with him on a trace so narrow and overgrown they had to travel single file in silence, with no torches, and no mounts for the officers.
Running behind Washington, Colin noticed within minutes that the men in back of him had begun to slow. He paused to let his winded friend Tuck catch up, then whispered to him. “Keep up. Pass it on.” Then breaking into a full run to rejoin Washington and the Indian, Colin sent a prayer heavenward that the others would do the same. While I’m at it, Lord, keep us all safe. And if it’s Your will, give us a swift victory.
He tried to ignore the cutting straps of his jostling pack and the burning in his chest, along with the aching of his feet. The best way to do that was to allow his mind to fly home to Mariah. He was running headlong into danger for the first time. He could get killed. What would happen to her if he wasn’t there to protect her? He and the bond papers in his breast pocket had been all that kept his mother from selling the girl into some other man’s hands. If he died, the document, along with his other belongings, would be returned to his parents.
The thought distressed him. He should have signed off on the papers before he left, freeing Mariah. If he survived this engagement with the French, he would take care of that matter as soon as he got back to ink and quill at Great Meadows. He would dispatch the papers to her by the first courier.
A stickery branch caught the sleeve of his woolen frock coat. Without slowing, he gave a quick jerk to free himself, then resumed devising his plan. He’d send a letter along, informing Mariah she needn’t tell Mother she was free. She should stay within the family’s protection until he returned.
If he returned.
His chest tightened as a sharp pain gripped his side. But he refused to stop until George did. He couldn’t let the younger man beat him.
About the time Colin was ready to give up, long-legged Washington stumbled to a halt, completely out of breath.
Colin nearly ran into his barely visible leader in the moonless night. Clutching his sides, he bent slightly until his own breathing slowed.
“That brave—is still—running.” Washington gasped, gulping air between words.
“I know.” Colin shook his head in wonder as the man behind him bumped into him. “But he’s not loaded down as we are.”
Others caught up, panting hard. Tuck and some of the others coughed.
“Take two minutes to rest,” Washington ordered. “Pass the word down the line that I’ll be setting a slower pace.”
Colin’s relief was short lived. The new pace might have been slower than the Indian’s, but with Washington’s ground-covering stride, their tall commander was still hard to keep up with except when the trail narrowed so that he had to stop and feel around, searching for the path. Worse, as the hours passed in pitch darkness, up and down hills, crossing streams, Colin sensed the men lagging farther and farther behind.
Panting, he trotted up to Washington and tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir, I think we need to stop,” he whispered. “Take a head count.”
“They’ve fallen behind?” the commander’s quiet tone matched his own.
“I believe so.”
After waiting for several minutes, the count was still seven short.
Washington straightened his broad shoulders and spoke only loud enough for them to hear in the still night. “Men, we can wait no longer. We’ll pick up the stragglers on the way back—if they haven’t already returned to camp.”
Shrouded in heavy rain clouds, the fragile hint of dawn was making an effort to illuminate the forest floor when Colin spotted more light up ahead. A clearing. As he drew closer, he noticed a longhouse with wickiups circled around it. A couple of cook fires already blazed. They’d arrived!
A village dog sensed their presence and began barking, and others joined in, announcing the arrival of the militia.
Washington paused before emerging from the line of trees and turned back to the trailing men. “Straighten yourselves. Look smart as we march in.”
Beyond exhaustion, Colin couldn’t help but grin as he pulled off his hat and tucked any stray hairs back into his queue before replacing it squarely on his head. George Washington truly was a most seriously proper gentleman.
Seneca warriors poured out of their dwellings, hatchets and rifles in hand.
Although Colin was so tired he wanted nothing more than to fall to the ground and sleep for a week, he knew he had to appear fit, show no fear to the villagers as well as be an example for his own men.
From an immense longhouse in the village emerged an Indian in his prime, perhaps forty years of age, powerful looking and heavily adorned with beads and feathers. Already tall, his elaborately quilled headpiece gave him an extra foot in height. Small wonder he was called Half King.
Washington flashed a broad smile and walked immediately to the Indian, his arm outstretched. Grasping the tribal leader’s hand with both of his, he gave a hearty shake. “Great Chief Monakaduto, I bring you greetings from Governor Dinwiddie.”
Half King stared stony faced for a moment. “Wash-ton.” Then gradually, his expression transformed into an enthusiastic grin. “Welcome.” Spreading wide a tattooed arm, he invited the commander into his council house.
George turned to Colin. “Have the men partake of their victuals now. We will be leaving shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” Although Colin would rather have questioned his superior’s judgment, he heeled around to the weary company of militiamen. A portending drop of rain pelted his nose. With a sigh, he met Tuck’s bleary eyes and slowly shook his head. What sort of fighting force could these sagging, bedraggled men possibly make?