Kings Pinnacle (10 page)

Robert and Hugh

Robert had discarded the
ideas of sailing on the cattle ferry or the packet boat at the main
dock in Portpatrick as possible routes to Ireland. The presence of
so many soldiers around the cattle pens and in the town was going
to make it difficult for the two men to leave the country from
Portpatrick. Robert and Hugh had ridden back to their camp where
they both went to sleep after dismounting, pulling their saddles
off their horses, and collapsing on their bed rolls. The two
brothers slept what was left of the night until well into the
following day, finally rousing as the sun was approaching its
zenith. They ate a light meal that they cooked over a small
fire.

“
Weel, Robber, I guess we
will have to come up with another way to get to America,” said
Hugh.

Robert just nodded while
deep in thought. He knew that Hugh wasn’t going to be much help
coming up with a new plan. Hugh was talented alright, but his
talents didn’t lie in planning and strategy. Hugh was more of a
tactician; he could improvise on the fly while riding a horse in
battle or raiding a stronghold. But Hugh wasn’t very creative from
a long term planning point of view.

Robert reconsidered the
possibility of sailing directly to America from Glasgow, Edinburgh,
or one of the other ports in Scotland, but he knew that he would
have more soldiers to deal with at all the major ports in Scotland.
He thought about riding south to England and sailing out of an
English port such as London or Portsmouth, but he and Hugh probably
wouldn’t get across the border before they were captured. Since all
the obvious methods to leave Scotland were blocked, he would have
to find something that was a little out of the ordinary. He needed
to come up with a plan quickly because the longer they stayed in
Scotland, the higher the probability that the military or the other
authorities would apprehend them.

“Pack up your gear, Hugh,”
said Robert. “We need to get on the trail.”

“Aye, Robber,” said Hugh as
he gathered up his belongings and kicked out the camp fire. Hugh
knew that Robert had a new plan or at least the beginnings of a new
plan. He also knew that Robert wasn’t going to tell him what it was
right then, so he didn’t bother to ask. Hugh knew that Robert would
tell him what he needed to know as soon as he needed to know it and
not before. The brothers mounted their horses, and Robert led them
back north toward The Old Military Road. When they finally arrived,
Robert turned Hack northeast toward Stranraer.

The Old Military Road was
built from near Portpatrick to Stranraer. Stranraer was a small
fishing village situated on the south shore of Loch Ryan. Located
on the north side of the isthmus that connects the Portpatrick
peninsula to the mainland, Stranraer was probably not a place where
the British military or the authorities would expect them to go.
Loch Ryan was a long narrow north-south oriented sea loch that was
noted for its calm waters even though its north side was open to
the North Atlantic Ocean.

“
We headed to Stranraer?”
asked Hugh.

Robert just nodded and kicked Hack into
a trot, and Hugh followed.

* * * *

Alex

“
Where ye headed, lad?”
asked the stranger, causing Alex to snap his head around to see who
had spoken.

Alex had heard some noise
behind him a few miles back on the trail, but hadn’t got a good
look at who or what it was. The trail had become so narrow and the
foliage so dense that he had lost track of what was behind him
until the stranger on horseback had unexpectedly overtaken him.
Alex had been walking along lost in thought anyway, but it was
uncharacteristic of him to allow himself to be taken unawares, as
he had been by the stranger.

“West,” was all that Alex
could think to say.

The old, wizened-looking
stranger was dressed all in buckskins and riding a dark brown mare
while leading a pack horse. The old timer’s life history was etched
into the fine lines of his tanned face, around his eyes, nose, and
mouth. The cold set to his stare indicated that he had suffered a
great tragedy in his life, but his easy manner told that he had
come to terms with it, whatever it was, and now it was behind him.
From his buckskin moccasins to his raccoon fur cap, he reeked of
homespun western colonial Americana.

When the old stranger reined
up his horse where Alex was standing in the trail, he leaned back
in the saddle and threw one leg across the other in an easy manner,
such as men do who are accustomed to sitting in saddles for long
periods. Alex realized that the stranger was not a threat, so he
also relaxed.

The stranger’s musket, which
was covered in a brightly colored woolen sheath, was resting in the
crook of his arm. The pack horse was carrying a bundle of goods
that looked like it weighed one or two hundred pounds and was
covered by a canvas tarp. The stranger was one of the so called
“longhunters” who lived in the west and hunted for a living.
Longhunters traded the hides and furs that they skinned for
supplies and other trade goods back in the east.

As Alex gazed at the
stranger’s face, he realized that the man was not nearly as old as
he had first thought. It was just that the Longhunter had lived
outdoors most of his life, so the sun and wind had taken quite a
toll on his face and hands.

“West, huh? Is that all ye
got to say for yourself, lad?” said the Longhunter who was slightly
perturbed at the short answer from Alex.

“Sorry. You kinda startled
me. I wasn’t paying much attention to who or what was coming up
behind me on the trail.”

“Weel, ye wouldn’t be the
first. You’re a long way from nowhere lad,” said the older Scot,
softening a bit.

“I was a wanting to see a
bit of the west before I died, so I thought I would head this way
to see what I could see,” said Alex.

“That’s as good a reason as
any. Why don’t ye walk a spell with me? My name’s Alexander
Glendenning,” said the older Scot, smiling as he dismounted and
stuck out his hand to shake hands with Alex.

Alex grasped his hand and said, “Mine’s
Alexander Mackenzie.”

“Weel, Alexander, seein’ as
how we share the same name, let’s be off. We can make a few more
miles before sundown. Anyone named Alexander can’t be all bad. I
need to walk a bit and let my horse rest anyway,” said the
Longhunter with an easy smile.

They had met just west of
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and were both obviously traveling in the
same direction on The Great Wagon Road, so why not travel along
together, thought Alex. Alex had liked the Longhunter as soon as he
had spoken to him and was glad for his company on the
trail.

They walked together for a
few more miles, continuing along the trail southwest of Gettysburg.
By sundown, they had entered the valley that led up to the slopes
of the first Appalachian mountain range that divides the eastern
coastal plains from the interior of the country. Just over the
mountains was the border between Pennsylvania and Maryland. The
trail followed a pass along the mountain valleys that crossed the
Blue Ridge Mountains, the easternmost range of the
Appalachians.

Alex had been on the trail
for several days. He hadn’t hunted since he had left the German
family at York and now his food supply was getting low. He was
getting hungry.

“Let’s stop and camp for the
night,” said the Longhunter. “We can take on the brae and mountains
tomorrow. Ye got anything to eat, lad?”

“Not much,” said Alex
looking in his rucksack for something to eat.

“Weel, I just had a bit of
luck hunting recently and can treat us both to a pretty good spread
tonight. I also have some supplies that I’ve just traded for in
Philadelphia,” said the Longhunter.

After the meal, which
consisted of the meat that the Longhunter had in his game bag and
some beans mixed with corn that he had fried in a little fat over
the fire, they fell to talking, after cleaning up the remains of
the meal and packing away their gear.

“How long have ye been in
America, Alex?” asked the Longhunter.

“
Only a few weeks,”
answered Alex.

“That’s what I thought based
on the cut of your clothes. Where do ye hail from, lad?”

“
I come from Scotland by
way of Ireland.”

“Then you’re what they’re
calling a Scots Irish, Alex.”

“I guess so. Where do you
come from, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?” queried
Alex.

“No need to call me sir, and
ye probably guessed by my accent that I am from Scotland,
too.”

“
I thought so.”

“
Where do you hail from in
Scotland, laddie?”

“I’m from the lowlands just
north of the border.”

“Aye, I’m a highlander
myself,” said the Longhunter.

“How long have you been
here?”

“I have been here since I
was a lad. Famine drove me and my folks out of the highlands. We
took a ship direct from Glasgow to Philadelphia. When I first
arrived in America, I lived with my parents in Philadelphia. It
wasn’t as crowded back then, but after they died, I didn’t want to
live in town anymore, so I moved out west and started hunting and
trading for a living. I married a woman from one of the Iroquois
tribes, and we had a son, but they both died from a fever that some
settlers brought over with them from the old country. Now, I hunt,
trade, and pretty much keep to myself. I have a small cabin a ways
west of Fort Cumberland. The next stop on the trail is Hagerstown
and Williamsport is after that. There’s a ferry at Williamsport
that crosses the Potomac. Folks call it the Watkins Ferry, after
the man who runs it. That’s where I will turn west and follow the
Potomac to Fort Cumberland. My cabin is only about ten miles
further past Fort Cumberland.”

“How far is it to
Williamsport?” asked Alex.

“It’s about ten miles
through the mountains and probably another twenty miles to the
ferry. We should be in there by late tomorrow if our luck holds.
I’ll tell you what, I’ll call you Alex and you can call me
Alexander since I’m a wee bit older than ye are. That way we can
tell who’s talking about who,” replied the old Longhunter with a
smile.

“That sounds good to me,”
said the smiling Alex.

Alex felt much better after
meeting the Longhunter, and he smiled for the first time since he
had arrived in America. He hadn’t realized till then how sad and
lonely he had actually been. It was as if he had been living in a
trance, where things were happening around him that he was not a
part of. Now he had bounced back to the real world and had started
living again. He had finally found someone in America that he could
talk to and perhaps be friends with.

* * * *

Samuel

“
You’re never gonna sell
these muskets to the settlers or any of the state militias or to
the British Army for that matter,” said the trader after having
examined several of the rifles.

Samuel Ruskin already knew the answer,
but he asked the question anyway, “Why not?”

“Well, first of all these
stocks are not made of walnut heartwood. It looks like some other
kind of wood that’s been stained to look like walnut. The barrels
aren’t nearly long enough. These muskets won’t be as accurate as
they would if they had longer barrels. The barrel forging welds are
not overlapped enough, and you can see the weld lines along them.
You shouldn’t be able to see the weld line at all if the weld was
done proper. Sometimes it takes three or four days to forge a
proper barrel; these barrels look like rushed, shoddy
work.”

The trader cocked the flintlock of the
musket he was holding and examined the firelock
mechanism.

“These flintlock fittings
are made of iron. They work better and last longer if they are made
of brass because brass won’t rust,” continued the
trader.

The trader paused and
inspected a few more of the muskets. He suddenly looked up at
Samuel Ruskin with a puzzled look on his face.

“
Where’d you come by these
guns?” asked the wily trader.

“Never mind where I got em.
Do you think there might be any other markets for them other than
the settlers or the militia?”

“
I think I know what yer
gettin at, and I don’t want to have nothing to do with that,” said
the trader.

“
Well, who might I talk to
about that?”

“
I said I don’t know
nothing about it,” replied the trader.

“
Come on now, you surely
know someone I can talk to?”

“
Selling muskets to
Iroquois is against the law, and it is bad business and bad for
other business,” replied the trader.

Before it had arrived in
Larne, the Ocean Monarch had taken on a cargo of crates in England
to transport to America along with its passengers. The cargo was
labeled, “Forged Iron Wagon Fittings,” but the heavy crates were
not wagon parts. Each of the long wooden boxes contained six
muskets, and there were twenty of the crates. Samuel Ruskin was
going to try his hand at selling guns in the colonies in spite of
the British prohibitions against such sales. Bribing the customs
officials in Philadelphia to allow the crates to be offloaded
without inspection had been easy. He had commissioned the
manufacture of the rifles in England with the intent to ship them
to America and sell them at a profit, but it looked like it was
going to be harder than he first thought. The people in America
were more astute than he had counted on when he hatched his scheme
in England.