In Every Clime and Place (26 page)

The hardest thing for a soldier to learn is patience. Movement is noise, noise brings trouble. But squatting on your haunches in the snow is a sore test. Then again, the bowed branches packed with snow kept the worst of the wind out, so it wasn’t too bad.

I found a gap in the branches to use as a peep hole. Soon I saw the lead elements of the war party. Algonquin, probably, all carrying muskets. I counted two dozen, plus a handful of French irregulars. Near the back of the force was an officer in uniform, dove grey coat with blue facings, sword at his hip. I wonder what he did to get assigned out here.

Or to whose mistress he did it.

Fighting thirty heavily armed irregulars was above my pay grade. If I stayed put, they’d walk right past, then I could slip out unseen and run to town.

But could I get there ahead of them? And could the young family?

I didn’t want to live with that on my conscience.

I did want to live, though.

Could I do something to stall them? Other than entertain them with my lingering death?

Maybe. If I timed it just right.

The uniformed officer was almost at the end of the line. A single Indian walked trail behind him, but far behind, watching the backtrail.

I pulled the plug from the muzzle of my musket, eased my tomahawk out of my belt, and waited quietly as they passed. The point man was scanning left and right, but I was well hidden, and it’s hard to stay alert when you’re cold and don’t expect any danger. The others were even less observant. If there was danger, the point man should have spotted it.

I waited until the French officer passed my hide and slipped quietly out from my shelter. I stepped quickly behind him and buried my tomahawk in the back of his head.

The man stiffened and toppled forward. My hatchet stuck fast so I let it go and turned to face the Indian walking the end of the line.

He had a musket, but instead of raising it, he hefted a carved war club. Maybe he wasn’t carrying his musket primed and loaded in this weather. Maybe he just liked the feel of a war club against a skull.

He ran towards me. I cocked my musket and snapped it to my shoulder, desperately hoping that the powder was still dry. I lined up on him, but he was almost on top of me. At the last moment, he darted to his right, trying to get out of line of my shot. He was an old hand at rushing men with guns.

But so was I.

I stepped back and to my right to give myself an extra yard and followed his dodge with my weapon, pulling the trigger as he changed direction toward me again.

To my relief, the musket fired. The ball hit him right in the breastbone a handspan below his throat and he spun around and flopped down in the snow.

I didn’t turn and look to see if any of the others were moving toward me. Maybe they hadn’t heard me strike the Frenchman, but I had no doubt they’d heard the gunshot. I grabbed up the fallen Indian’s war club and ran full tilt into the forest.

When you’ve just killed two men within sight of twenty-eight of their comrades, don’t wonder if they’ll chase you. Don’t look back to see if they’re after you. Don’t run straight if they have guns, be sure to duck and weave through the trees. And don’t slow down.

I ran for all I was worth, the cold air burning my lungs, leaping over fallen logs, bursting through snowy branches, barreling down slopes, always tacking more to my left. South. Toward Londonderry and shelter and safety. I let the fear I’d been holding down slip its leash and drive my legs, the specter of knives and tomahawks and war clubs smothering the pain and fatigue.

Eventually, when my sight started to go grey at the edges and my legs felt like water, I risked a look back.

Nothing.

I slowed my mad dash and tried to listen. Other than the rasping of my breath and the hammering of my heart, I heard nothing.

I continued making my way to the village, now at a stumbling walk. My legs were shaking and my chest heaved, pulling frigid air into my raw lungs. My musket was heavy in my left hand and the war club in my right, but not heavy enough that I thought of dropping either.

I’d snatched up the dead man’s club for several reasons. First, if they caught me, I wanted something to fight with. My tomahawk was stuck in a Frenchman and my gun was empty. The other reason was that I wanted some proof that I’d seen the enemy. John Campbell would probably support me, but Goody Poore might not, and if the local militia captain was some portly political appointee, he might think the raid just a bid for attention by a penniless vagabond with a taste for strong drink.

I’d built a distinguished career as a penniless vagabond, and I freely admit to a liking for the view of the world through the bottom of a glass, but I don’t like being spoken down to by portly political appointees.

It wasn’t long before I staggered into Londonderry. It bore little resemblance to the city in Ireland for which it was named. Just a collection of timber houses and farms near the river, but it had a strong blockhouse and I saw armed militiamen walking the street. I breathed a sigh of relief and stumbled to the blockhouse.

I told the sergeant on duty that I had news for the commander. I was led to a table where a young officer sat.

The sight of the man was reassuring. He was young, tall and broad shouldered and had the weathered face of a life spent outdoors. It was a face I’d seen often enough on both sides of the battle line back over the ocean. Strong-jawed Scots-Irish, more accustomed to smiling at cruel irony than at frivolity. He wore a practical hunting jacket, not a long uniform coat, and he had a tomahawk at his belt instead of a sword.

Exactly the kind of officer we wanted on a day like this.

“I’m Lieutenant Stark, Mr Roberts,” he said. “I’m told you’ve seen this warband.”

“Yes sir. Two dozen Indians and a half dozen French rangers. They were led by a French officer.” I handed over the club. “Took this off one of them.”

“You attacked a band of thirty warriors?”

“Not for all the tea in China, sir. I just let ’em pass by and ambushed the rear of the column.”

The shadow of a grin played across his lips at that. “But why strike at all?”

“Wasn’t sure John Campbell and his family had enough of a start,” I replied. “Figured I’d delay them a bit. I got the officer and one Indian.”

“Then you got away,” he said.

“Seemed like enough work for one day.”

“Well done.” He was studying the war club. “Abenaki,” he said. “Out of St Francis.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

“No doubt in my mind,” he said. “I’ve been there. Spent a winter with the Abenaki. They took me captive and made me run the gauntlet. But then they did adopt me into the tribe.”

“It was him or me, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t worry, Roberts. We do what we have to do.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “You probably saved the village. With the militia called up and the livestock and noncombatants sheltered, we can hold off thirty warriors. If they’d hit us unawares, half the town would be in flames by the time we could react. Get some breakfast. We’ll find some work for you if they do attack.”

I found a seat at a table and thought about the men I’d killed. The French officer, who had traveled far across the ocean from his homeland to serve his king, only to die, not wreathed in glory on a battlefield, which he might have been prepared for, but ambushed in a remote wilderness while on a scalp-hunting raid. And the Indian, caught up in the middle of a war between two European empires, either of which would call him a savage and destroy his way of life once they’d won and didn’t need any more savages to do their murdering for them.

I’d marched beside a lot of men just like them. Shared campfires and bad food and drink and exaggerated stories. And now they were dead and I was alive, not because I was more righteous, just quicker and sneakier. More savage.

But I had saved two lives last night. Two people who would certainly have died without my aid. Did that balance the scales? Was I fated to both giveth and taketh away? If I did as much harm as good, what was the point of continuing this vagabond existence?

A young woman placed a plate of food and a mug of tea before me, breaking my thoughts.

“Here you are, good sir,” she said. She hovered a moment. I looked up at her. “I couldn’t help overhearing how you saved us all. It sounds terrifying. Alone in the forest with all those Indians and Frenchmen.”

I looked at the young woman, from her loose golden curls, her blue eyes, wide and shining with excitement, her lips parted and her breathing quick, to the firm, young curves that her modest, God-fearing dress couldn’t quite hide. She gave a little shiver of guilty pleasure at the idea of danger close but not too close.

“Would it be too forward of me to ask you about it?” She chewed her lip as she awaited my reply.

I took a sip of tea, then turned to face her, putting on my roguish smile.

“So, there I was...”

More adventures with Patrick Leclerc’s immortal healer can be found in the urban fantasy novel
OUT OF NOWHERE
and the historical fantasy short stories
ADVANCING ON PARIS
and
A MATTER OF HONOR
.

About the Author

THE DAY AFTER PATRICK LECLERC GRADUATED from high school, he was standing at a terrified approximation of attention while a Drill Instructor roared at him in the sweltering heat of the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, SC, and the sand fleas tried to chew their way to his soul. This might be considered the first in a series of hasty life decisions.

Today, he makes good use of his history degree by working as a paramedic for an ever-changing parade of ambulance companies in the Northern suburbs of Boston. When not writing he enjoys cooking, fencing, brewing his own beer, and making witty, insightful remarks with career-limiting candor.

In the lulls between runs on the ambulance—and sometimes the lulls between employment at various ambulance companies—he writes fiction.

You can find more of it at
http://inkandbourbon.com/

Twitter:
https://twitter.com/PatrickLeCler17

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/patrick.leclerc.5205?hc_location=stream

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Give and Take

This short story is an early adventure with the protagonist of my novel
Out of Nowhere
. If you liked the short story, you will probably enjoy the novel. Keep an eye out for more historical shorts in the series.
Advancing on Paris
and
A Matter of Honor
should be available soon.

Thank you again for shipping out with me,

Patrick LeClerc

Also Available!

Novels and Anthologies Available from
Firedance Books
…

OUT OF NOWHERE
by Patrick LeClerc.

KINLESS
Book One of Two by Stephen Godden.

TALES OF THE SHONRI: CITY OF LIGHTS
by Stephen Godden.

THE WALKER’S DAUGHTER
by Janet Allison Brown.

STILLNESS DANCING
by Jae Erwin.

EXPECT CIVILIAN CASUALTIES
by Gary Bonn.

THE EVIL AND THE FEAR
by Gary Bonn.

THE FIREDANCE ANTHOLOGY
– Words That Burn.

BROKEN WORLDS
Volume One.

THE BEST OF WRITERLOT
Volume One.