Lost Nation (23 page)

He called out. “Come down the road, Chase.”

Chase said, “You’re in trespass, Hutchinson.”

Hutchinson spurred the horse forward and the company followed close. The sheriff sat his snorting horse in a tight sitting trot, the reins gathered hard in his left hand. His right hand he kept on the long pistol snugged under the belt wrapped high around his waist. With his eyes on the miller before him he also swept the underbrush but there was nothing to be seen. All the horses of the company were jittery. There was no way to know if this was transmitted from their riders or some outside force. He rode within ten feet of Chase and pulled up sideways, his horse pointed toward the woods. If there was trouble coming it would be from there. The horse slung itself back and forth in a sideways motion and Hutchinson let it—it offered excuse to watch about him even as he spoke to the miller. Who stood right where he was, hat in hand.

The sheriff said, “There is no trespass. I’m the representative of the State of New Hampshire.”

Chase said, “Which State has made no effort on our behalf. Save to beat a man senseless and take him from his home without showing just cause. As if such treatment would have just cause. England and Washington show no desire to address the issue of this territory. New Hampshire wants us but will not treat us as citizens. We have taken the usual step reasonable men must take to protect their families and holdings under such conditions. We are sovereign and thus you have no authority
here, now or before or ever again. I ask you this once to leave. I offer that chance. Which is a single chance more than you provided poor Paul Watkin. Who was guilty of no more than many men and less so than some.”

Hutchinson looked down at the stout miller. “Are you the king here then?”

“I am the magistrate of the people. Nothing more than that.”

“And if I do not leave?”

“I shall arrest you for general trespass and gross bodily harm inflicted upon my fellow citizen Paul Watkin. You may submit freely to the arrest and be assured you’ll receive fair treatment. But I also offer, this once, the opportunity for you to quit the country, upon your oath you won’t return.”

Hutchinson said, “Where is the Watkin man?”

“He’s safe and resting. He’s been evil mistreated.”

“If you’ll turn over to me the men who broke him from the jail in Lancaster I’ll see Watkin is well tended.”

“I know no such men.”

“Are you not in charge here?”

Chase looked at him. Then said, “I’m the voice of the people. That’s all.”

Hutchinson said, “You risk arrest yourself, Mister Chase. You can not interfere with the discharge of my duties.”

“You have no duties here. Mister Hutchinson.”

“You know it well, Chase. I’m the sheriff of Coos County.”

Chase turned his hat over in his hands and studied it a moment. He said, “But you are not in New Hampshire now, Mister Hutchinson. You are in the independent Republic of Indian Stream. And so I arrest you in the name of that Republic and the people who have created her and the Lord God who blesses us with the freedom to do so.”

And he did not wait for an answer from the sheriff but placed his hat on his head and stepped forward and seized the reins below the bit of Hutchinson’s gelding. And as he did this men rose out of the rocks and trees and brush and woods both sides of the road, some it seemed coming from the river itself. Armed in every way possible and some ways Hutchinson had not thought of before. One man with a fencepost with a great iron spike driven through the top end. Men with hatchets and
sickles and horse pistols in their belts. Clubs of firewood. Plenty of muzzle-loading hunting rifles. A man with only a scythe. That with one broad sweep could gut a horse and hook up to bring the man from the saddle like a fish gaffed. More men than he could count but he guessed between thirty and forty. As he reached to drag his pistol from his belt he turned his head back to his company to call out, to tell them to hold themselves steady and, as he did, Emil Chase reached up and snatched the pistol by the barrel. Hutchinson jerked back and the miller kept his hold, letting go of the reins to bring his other hand up and the gun discharged. A roar of human voice went up and then was muted by a shabby volley. A horse screamed and stumbled and fell and the other horses broke apart, wheeling and slashing as their riders fought them and fought also to discharge their own weapons and the men on the road waded in amongst the riders. As they came the riders fired and a new sound came into the air, the sound of men crying out as they kneeled or reeled or fell prone and still. Hutchinson had only the empty pistol which he now used as a club as the woodsmen surrounded him, three or four of them, one with a pistol of his own. Then a man came close and slipped under the club of the pistol and sank a sickle deep into Hutchinson’s thigh, pinning his leg to the saddle and another man stepped up and with a wooden club held in both hands struck the horse behind the eye and the horse went down. Hutchinson tried to roll free but could not with the sickle in him and so felt his other leg crush beneath the horse that tumbled over as if struck by a black wind. The horse kicked once and was still.

Hutchinson lay pinned by the horse, his cheek in the sand of the road. He was looking back down the road. There were other men lying prone. One up on all fours trying to crawl to the bushes, puking as he went, his head down as if what he could not see could not hurt him. Hutchinson recognized this man as one of his own. Beyond that he saw that most of his company were off their horses and had formed a tight circle, backs against each other, facing out. Some had long guns, others pistols. Those with pistols held swords in their free hands. The horses were running down the road. Some stopped and turned to watch behind them. One horse stood near the band of men, its legs splayed and trembling, its head down. Immense pink and brown loops of intestines spilled from a gash in its stomach, down into the road dust. His men were not attempting
to reload their weapons but using them as clubs to batter off the attackers. As he watched he saw one of his men step forward and bring his pistol up toward an approaching man, a farmer Hutchinson knew by sight, and the pistol went off and the man had no face at all but sat on the ground and held his hands up where it had been and then folded sideways. The same member of the company turned then and went after another man coming toward him, charging him with a wild roar and slashing with his sword. The man threw up an arm to ward the blow and the swordsman dropped his blade and swiped hard against the man’s ribcage. Then one of the circled company stepped forward and pulled the attacker back into the group. For a moment it was quiet but for the suck of breath and a feeble moaning. The gutted horse wrenched its head in a terrible moan and collapsed with a wet bursting sound. All the men turned to look at it.

Hutchinson called out, “Cease, by damn. All of you.”

At the sound of his voice the militiamen moved together in a clump down the road toward him. He wanted to tell them to remain where they were but his voice had exhausted itself. When speaking his lungs shot with pain and he knew he had broken ribs as well as the crushing his leg endured, where he could feel nothing. As his men approached he saw one of the attackers step close and recognized him. It was Peter Chase, the brother of the miller. His face was black with powder smoke and one eye was closed with a deep bruise and blood welling. Hutchinson drew breath and winced and said, “Where is your brother?”

Peter Chase said, “Why, it’s the sheriff. How you doing down there, Sheriff?”

“Where is your brother?”

“You put a hole in his hand. He’s being tended.”

“Are you in charge here, then?”

Peter Chase looked at him. “We’re all in charge here.”

A mob, thought Hutchinson. His lungs seemed to be filling with blood. He forced himself to speak. If they were talking, they were not killing each other. He said, “This is a mess here. A useless mess.”

Chase said, “It don’t look so pretty from your angle, does it.”

Hutchinson said, “Will you kill us all, then?”

Chase said, “We hadn’t talked that far. We thought you’d have the sense to leave.”

“We’ll leave now.”

“Will you, Mister Hutchinson? It’s quite the load atop you right now, is how it looks to me.” Chase was squatting to look close into the sheriff’s eyes.

Hutchinson said, “It was my brother-in-law got brained last night. He can’t talk right at all. Like a moron, he is.”

Chase said, “He wasn’t much of a jailer anyhow.” Then added, “Is what I hear.”

One of the farmers cried a warning but it was too late. The men of Hutchinson’s company had drawn close, then rushed in to surround the fallen horse and sheriff. A pair of them caught hold of Peter Chase and pulled him to his feet where he struggled briefly but was held with his hands behind his back and a blade against his throat. The man with the knife called out.

“All of you get back. Up the road. All together. Now. Or I swear to God I’ll cut this man’s throat and then we’ll kill as many of you as we can. If we all die trying. Get back now.” His voice the high pitch of a man gone beyond reason but crimson with rage.

Another voice came. Steady, firm and calm. “All right. All of you.”

Hutchinson could only see heavy boots coming across the road. All else was blocked by his own men. But he knew the voice.

Blood stopped in the road between the two groups of men. He carried only his ox goad. The hound was with him. He spoke to the farmers and trappers.

“Pay no attention to the militiamen. They are surrounded and you could kill them easy. They’re not the proud bunch rode up here with wrong ideas in their heads. They’ve learned something here today. Kill them if you will, but then there would be a new bunch come after them. Let them gimp home and it will be some time and more than a little thought before they’d try it again. That’s what I think. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

Hutchinson said nothing.

Blood did not seem to expect an answer for he went right on. “Kill them, or leave them as they are to gather themselves and make their way home best they can. It makes no difference to me. But when the work is done here, there’s drinks for all. And no charge for it. Mister Chase himself is right this moment setting at his table with his hand
wrapped and the fight out of him. It strikes me enough work has been done this day.” And Hutchinson saw the boots turn and begin to walk up the road.

It was quiet. No man on either side spoke. In the woods somewhere a woodpecker drummed.

Hutchinson worked his thick tongue to moisten his dirt-caked lips. He tried to speak and croaked and paused and swallowed and then said, “Let him go.”

His men looked down at him. The one with the knife bent his head around to look at the sheriff.

Hutchinson strained and lifted his head for all the authority he might summon and repeated, “Let him go.”

After a moment the men holding Peter Chase released him. Chase stood a moment where he was, rubbing his wrists. Then stepped away, toward his neighbors. He stopped also in the middle ground. No one spoke. Peter Chase turned and began to walk up the road in the direction Blood had gone. Blood was no longer in sight. Then the other farmers followed after him, some carrying other men, wounded or dead. None speaking. As they went several kept turning back to watch the militiamen left behind. Who did not move. Just before the farmers went from sight one turned and sent a rifle shot toward the company, aiming high. The militia heard the ball slash the foliage over their heads.

After a few minutes the men of the company broke apart. Some went to look after their casualties: one man dead, two wounded. A pair went down the road to collect the spooked horses. The rest stood guard and worked together to get Hutchinson’s horse off him. They had to pull the sickle free first. Fresh blood ran from the wound and they tied a cloth tight high around his upper thigh. The femur of his other leg was broken. There was no way to know if it was crushed or a clean break. They splinted it as best they could with torn shirts binding in place the short ramrods from three of the horse pistols. Two of their horses were dead. They roped the dead man on behind a rider and tied Hutchinson into the saddle of the dead man’s horse. The two wounded men rode doubled behind others. Once all were mounted they rode off, down the way they had come. They met no one, passed no one. As they went by the mouth of Indian Stream they could see
smoke still rising from the house and barn they had burned. It did not seem possible to still be burning. One of the men dug out a pocket watch. Little more than an hour had passed.

Blood poured free drams of rum and then sold more for the next hour, watching the men emerge from the pallor and shock of what their actions meant to raise toasts to the dead man, and the wounded men, and from there refight the battle with words and finally proceed to threats and ill-made wild plans for future engagements. It was then he ordered all out and shut the tavern for the remainder of the day. Regardless of the rum the men were still sober enough from the engagement of the afternoon to understand this and they left easily, suddenly wanting the comfort of the sight of their homes. Before they departed Peter Chase called for a meeting at nightfall for the Committee of Safety. New patrols were needed. A new vigilance required.

Chase then spoke to Blood. “It’s a good location to meet. It’s central to all but the most far-flung.”

Blood said, “I’d not turn down opportunity for business. But it strikes me, the sort of work you’re at now, strong drink is not the best ingredient served into it.”

Chase said, “What do you propose?”

“The first meetings, when those trappers was killed. They were at the mill. It’s big enough. What’s wrong with that?”

Chase studied him. “My brother’s in this deep enough.”

“Aye. And he stepped freely there.”

“Are you not with us then, Blood? Are you against us?”

Blood gazed upon Peter Chase. He said, “I chose this place as you all did. So I accept the decisions of the majority. Be they made in wisdom or not. But as far as seeing men killed or damaged, it’s not a way I wish for.”