Savage Destiny (The Hearts of Liberty Series, Book 1) Page 10

  His initial impression of the intelligence of the young lieutenant colonel confirmed, Hunter went to bed eagerly anticipating the next part of their journey. From Will's Creek, it was one hundred forty miles to the new fort. They would be traveling through dense forest now, and crossing two mountain ranges, innumerable hills, and fording fast-moving streams. It would not be an easy trip, but this was the exciting kind of traveling Hunter relished, where a man had to rely on all his skills to survive.

  The next morning plans were still being made, and the troops were taking a much needed rest, but Hunter wasn't tired and left camp early to scout the trail. He had not gone far when he heard someone moving up fast behind him. Not wanting company, he stepped into the trees to let them pass. When Vernon Avey and his two cronies trotted by, Hunter was tempted to laugh out loud. They had no reason to enter the forest, but if they were tracking him, they would soon turn back, and he remained hidden to see what they would do.

  Vernon was positive the scout hadn't left camp more than three minutes ahead of them, but when they reached a long level stretch and there was no sign of the Indian on the trail ahead, he stopped abruptly. "The devil's vanished," he announced in disgust.

  "Maybe he took another path," Hank suggested.

  Vernon cuffed him hard. "Fool! There ain't no other path."

  "Then he must be traveling much faster than we are," Willis argued. "Come on, let's hurry."

  "I'll decide what we'll do!" Vernon didn't waste a second, however, before continuing on down the trail at a near-run. Hank and Willis exchanged a knowing glance before following, and the three men traversed another hundred yards before giving up their pursuit.

  "He must have left the trail to hunt," Vernon finally surmised. "We'll have to jump him in camp. After dark there won't be no witnesses, and we can say he came after us."

  "Who'd believe that?" Hank asked, and this time he was smart enough to duck out of Vernon's way before he got hit.

  "Everyone will believe it!" Vernon insisted. "The word of three white men will be taken over an Indian's, and with any luck, there won't be enough left of the bastard to talk."

  Hank and Willis pondered that possibility a moment, and agreed. "Sure. Whatever we say will be believed, but we ought to get our stories straight first, just to make certain we're convincing," Willis suggested.

  Vernon herded them back along the trail as he continued to plan. "We'll say he wasn't watching where he was going, and plowed right into us. We backed off, but he came at us again. All we was doing was defending ourselves."

  Hunter waited until the three soldiers were within ten feet of him to step out into the path. Startled, they slammed into each other. Tripping over Willis's feet, Hank would have fallen had Vernon not caught him by the scruff of the neck. They had left their muskets in camp, so Hunter wasn't worried about getting shot, but if they wanted a fight, he was ready.

  "Did Washington decide I need help to scout?" he asked. "Or are you three just lost?"

  Vernon had first planned to overtake Hunter in the woods and beat him senseless before the Indian knew who had hit him, but standing face-to-face with the brave, he lacked the courage to carry out his underhanded plot. He still loathed him though, and tried to make Hunter start the fight he was aching to have. He moved a step ahead of his friends.

  "We was looking for you," he said.

  "Why?"

  "We don't like Indians who think they're better than us!"

  Hunter eyed Vernon coldly. This was the first time anyone had come after him after he had put them in their place, but Hunter wasn't surprised that Vernon hadn't learned his lesson in one session. "Can you name a man who doesn't?" he asked.

  Outraged by that sarcastic taunt, Vernon nearly strangled on a snarl, but it was Willis who carried him forward as he lunged for Hunter. With the finesse of a matador, the Indian stepped aside, and both Willis and Vernon landed facedown on the dusty trail. Cursing each other they struggled to get up, and when they succeeded, they found Hunter observing them with an amused smile.

  "I'm going to kill you!" Vernon shrieked.

  "No, you can only try." Hunter appeared relaxed, but he had shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet, and was ready to block any punch Vernon might throw. He had learned how to fight with his fists at William Johnson's trading post, and he had never been beaten. "There isn't room here on the path. Let's go back to camp and settle our differences there."

  Camp was the last place Vernon wished to go. "There's plenty of room for what I want to do to you!"

  Hunter motioned for Vernon to come forward. "Show me you can do more than talk."

  It was the cool disdain the Indian displayed that sent Vernon into a blind fury. He threw himself at Hunter, and again found his target shifting, while he was in midair. He put out his hands, but still landed so hard he knocked the wind out of himself. He lay gasping on the path and wondering how the Indian had managed to elude him again.

  "Coward!" he gasped.

  "I'm not the one crawling in the dirt," Hunter pointed out. He nodded toward Willis and Hank. "Carry your friend back to camp, and I'll fight all three of you there." With that he turned his back on them and walked away with a long, confident stride. He had yet to meet a white man who could throw a knife with sufficient accuracy to stab him in the back, so that possibility didn't alarm him. His hearing was as acute as his eyesight, and while he appeared to have forgotten them, he was listening to their every move.

  Hank was on the verge of tears. "Get up! Get up!" he cried. Terrified he would have to fight Hunter alone, he yanked on the back of Vernon's shirt.

  Willis was too angry to care what happened to Vernon. He'd gone along with him when they were going to jump Hunter together, but he sure as hell didn't want to fight the savage alone. Of the three of them, he might be the tallest and have the longest reach, but that didn't mean he was much of a fighter.

  "I never should have let you talk me into this," Willis decried. He stepped over Vernon and started back down the trail toward camp. "Hey, Indian!" he called out.

  Hunter glanced over his shoulder.

  "I've got no quarrel with you," Willis assured him. "The fight's off, you understand?"

  "But why? I'll have to fight three men, and you only one."

  Willis shook his head sadly and kept right on walking. "Two men, count me out."

  Hunter doubted that he would have to fight anyone. Vernon was right where he had left him, finally on his feet, and simultaneously brushing off his clothes and pushing Hank's hands away. They presented a comical sight, but Hunter didn't discount the danger of anyone that filled with hatred. He now knew Vernon would sneak and hide, hoping to strike back at him from ambush, rather than approaching him directly. If they did fight the French, he was going to make certain he knew where Vernon was, to avoid being shot in the back.

  "Hurry up, Vernon," he called to him. "I want this fight over by noon."

  A knot of fear-laced anger choked off any response Vernon might have wished to make, and shoving back the last of Hank's attentions he started off down the trail, his fists clenched and his shoulders hunched, as though he were heading into a fierce wind. Muttering curses under his breath to inspire courage, he attempted to convince himself he actually had a chance to beat Hunter in a fair fight.

  Willis was the first to emerge from the trail. As he entered the camp, he turned and began to walk backwards, so as not to miss a second of the excitement he was sure was coming. Other soldiers took note, and came forward to surround him. "There's gonna be a fight," he announced with a near-hysteria that some mistook for pride.

  Hunter had no sooner set foot in the camp, when men began to shout out their bets. That brought Elliott over, but Hunter had no intention of allowing him to stop what he hoped would be his last confrontation with Vernon. Vernon arrived then, with Hank trailing several paces behind.

  "Stay out of this," Hunter asked.

  Elliott had already caught the gist of what was about to
occur, but he hadn't decided what ought to be done. A lieutenant with minimal military training, he knew the men weren't supposed to fight amongst themselves, but they appeared to be so eager for the contest, he wondered if he ought not to allow it. He was no more impressed with Vernon than Hunter was. In his view Vernon was a bully, who could use a good whipping. When he looked at it that way, the fight seemed like a damned good idea.

  "Clear a space!" he shouted, and the troops immediately moved back to form an irregular ring. The men who'd been cleaning their muskets, or were otherwise occupied, came forward now and crowded in behind the first men on the scene. Soon the entire camp was straining to see who would win. That one of the participants was a bully no one admired, and the other an Indian brave whom no one really knew, didn't hamper the crowd's enthusiasm in the slightest. The bloodier the fight, the better, was their only view.

  Hunter removed the quiver and bow he'd had slung across his back, then peeled off his buckskin shirt, and tossed it aside. He heard appreciative murmurs for his well-muscled torso, and nothing but snickers when Vernon removed his coat and shirt. His body was pudgy rather than lean and fit, and while his face, neck, and hands were tan, the skin of his chest and back was as pale as a fish's belly. Hunter shook his head, certain this wasn't going to be much of a fight.

  Such blatant disrespect wasn't lost on Vernon, and again abandoning his strategy in favor of a furious rage, he came for Hunter with his hands outstretched, clearly going for his throat. Hunter stood his ground until the last second. He then stepped aside and brought the heel of his hand down on Vernon's left forearm in a brutal blow that shattered both bones with such a sickening crack, it instantly silenced the crowd's cheers.

  Vernon slid to a stop, looked down at the unnatural bend in his arm, and let out a pathetic wail. He sank to his knees, cradled his broken arm against his chest, and began to sob. Embarrassed by such an unmanly display, the crowd dispersed into a dozen smaller groups, where the men who had bet on Hunter collected their winnings, while those who had backed Vernon, muttered in disgust.

  Hunter picked up his shirt, pulled it on, and slung his quiver and bow over his shoulder. He then turned to Elliott. "He ought to have a splint on his arm."

  The fight had been over so quickly, Elliott wasn't certain what he'd seen, but it was clear Vernon was in a bad way. "I shouldn't have let you fight him," he bemoaned aloud. "I didn't realize what you'd do."

  Hunter shrugged. "I would have fought him with my fists, but he wanted to throttle me."

  Afraid he'd be criticized for allowing the fight, Elliott glanced around anxiously, but all he saw reflected in his troops' faces was admiration for Hunter. Then he noticed his brother, William Trent, and George Washington. They were chuckling amongst themselves, so he knew they'd seen the fight and weren't outraged by the result. He breathed a sigh of relief and then shouted for a couple of men to carry Vernon into the storehouse, where he'd receive what medical attention they could provide. Then he confided in Hunter.

  "I doubt you'll hear so much as a cross word after this, but please—don't let it happen again."

  "It was a fair fight."

  "Not really, not when you were so much better than Vernon."

  "He was the one who issued the challenge," Hunter informed him. "He followed me into the woods with Hank and Willis. They didn't mean for me to come out."

  "What?"

  "You heard me." Hunter stared at his friend.

  "I'll court-martial them."

  Hunter knew Willis regretted his association with Vernon, and Hank had abandoned him when he'd been injured. He was positive it wasn't their plan anyway. "Willis and Hank don't matter, and Vernon's in enough trouble. Just take care of his arm."

  Elliott might have continued to argue, but at that instant his attention was diverted by a disheveled band of men who came streaming out of the woods. Tired and dirty, they shuffled into the clearing, their gait slowed by the burden of defeat. Frontiersmen dressed in buckskins, they were led by Ens. Edward Ward, the British naval officer Captain Trent had entrusted with the building of the fort.

  Grateful to have reached Will's Creek, many of the dust-covered men sank to the ground, while the ensign explained how they came to be there to George Washington. For the second time that day, the troops formed a close circle, so as not to miss anything. The ensign had had a one-hundred-forty mile trek on which to practice his report, and physically spent, he gave it with little emotion.

  "We were attacked by at least a thousand French troops. They must have had three hundred canoes and sixty bateaux. They rolled their cannon up to our stockade, and their commander, the Sieur de Contrecoeur, demanded our surrender." The outcome of their confrontation obvious, he paused only a moment. "As soon as we had left, they began tearing down our fort to construct their own."

  A low moan emanated from the troops, for all appreciated the depth of the disaster Ensign Ward had described. Washington had insisted that a fort placed where the Monongahela and Allegheny rivers joined to form the Ohio River, was vital to the defense of the Ohio Valley. That it had fallen to the French as soon as it was built, meant war with France was inevitable.

  Hunter heard the troops' sorrowful murmur, but it was followed by the howl of a wolf that went unnoticed by the others. He glanced toward the forest, expecting to see the beast which had crossed his path, but a squirrel scrambling up a pine tree was the only animal in sight. He had heard the wolf though, as clearly as he had seen him. His howl had signaled the coming of war, and death.

  Chapter 7

  The ballroom of the Governor Palace was ablaze with the light of a thousand candles, but so crowded that the dancers frequently toured the adjacent gardens not simply for a breath of fresh air, but to have a chance to breathe at all. Melissa's hand rested lightly on Ian's arm as they strolled down a secluded path, but her mood was agitated in the extreme. Her monthly flow was now six days overdue, and this was the first time she had ever been late.

  That she might be pregnant was so abhorrent a thought, she could not bring herself to accept it. Her guilty conscience had caused her to suffer a great deal of distress, and quite naturally her body's delicate rhythm would be affected. That was a plausible excuse for the delay in what had previously been a predictable sequence. That she could not sleep well was undoubtedly a factor also. She had already been nearly exhausted by guilt, and now with this additional worry, she was grateful to have an hour or two of sleep a night.

  She followed Ian numbly, unmindful of where he was leading her. He was a fine man, and her admiration for him had continued to grow. He had been her escort at several parties that week, and he had also brought her to the ball. They had not discussed their future as yet, but Melissa was counting on him to provide the safe haven she craved more urgently with each passing hour.

  They had left the others far behind, and while they could still hear the music, they had no fear of being seen or overheard. Ian drew Melissa into his arms. "I love you," he whispered.

  "I love you, too," Melissa responded easily, but she clung to him with a desperation she could no longer hide. She was badly frightened, and drank in his attentions as though she were dying of loneliness.

  She responded to each of his kisses with increasing passion, until he had to take a step back in an effort to restore control to her emotions as well as his own.

  Melissa's pretty blush had matched the pale rose satin of her gown while they were dancing, and now, bathed in Ian's affection, she could feel the heat of that charming glow clear to her toes. He was looking down at her with an adoring glance that filled her with hope, and in an instant, she knew precisely what she wanted.

  "Let's get married," she begged.

  Surprised by her sudden enthusiasm for marriage, Ian cocked his head slightly. "I was willing to ask for your hand two weeks ago, but you asked me to wait. Has your father had enough time to regard me as a serious suitor?"

  Actually, her father had no idea her current romance was more serious
than any of the others, and when she considered the reason for his view, she was deeply embarrassed by how many frivolous flirtations she had enjoyed. In the last week, both her parents had gone out of their way to see that she renewed her acquaintances with the sons of Virginia's most prominent planters. If she were totally honest with herself, she knew they would prefer her to wed one of them, any one of whom could provide a secure future.

  It was not security which concerned her most however, and she was dreadfully afraid she did not have the weeks, or months, it might take to wring a proposal from a man of her parents' choosing. Even if she did receive an unexpectedly prompt proposal, as she had with Ian, the elaborate wedding both families would insist upon planning would still be several months away.

  "My father likes you, of course, he does, but I know that he'd prefer me to wed one of his friends' sons. Being around them this past week has put ideas in his head that I really don't want him to have. If you asked for my hand now, he might forbid me to see you again. We dare not take that risk."

  "I'll be promoted to captain soon, and that ought to impress him. I could wait until then."

  "No!" Melissa threw herself into Ian's arms, and when he enfolded her in a warm embrace, she blurted out what she truly wanted. "I think we should elope tonight."

  Stunned by her request, Ian loosened her hold on him and held her at arm's length. He had not the slightest doubt that he loved her, but her suggestion struck him as preposterous. "You can't possibly mean that."