War Path (24 page)

There were only a handful of men present, Ransom and his aide, Lieutenant Penmerry, Robert Rogers, looking somewhat chagrined that the Frenchman had appealed to John Stark for sanctuary among his enemies here at Fort Edward. Moses Shoemaker seconded the toast and gulped his cider down. He was drinking “stone walls,” a mixture of hard cider and rum. It calmed his nerves and took the sharp edge off the morning sunlight as it filtered through the branches.

Damn but the world was bright in spring.

Like Sam Oday and young Locksley Barlow and most of the other Rangers, Shoemaker had used the wedding celebration as an excuse to play the glutton and drink till his belly near burst. He'd passed the remaining hours before dawn dead to the world on the bed of a freight wagon that someone had left unattended alongside the Kit Fox Tavern near the center of town.

“Don't spill your drink,
jehu
. Your hand is all a'tremble,” Barlow chided. He had yet to sleep and was not about to reveal to anyone where he had spent the night.

“Steady enough to shoot your lights out if you sass me ag'in,” Shoemaker grumbled, closing his eyes for a moment while the warmth spread through his limbs. “I feel like the Grand Sachem himself is trying to club my brains loose, from the inside.”

“From the looks of you, I'd say you tied a knot in the dog's tail last night,” said Sam Oday.

“And then some, old friend.” Shoemaker wanly grinned. “But not as twined as the young buck here.” He nodded in Barlow's direction. “I heard a noise and raised up in time to see the younker arm in arm with Tess McDonagel. And I warrant they warmed the blankets, him toes down and her toes up.” He started to laugh then realized there was still a woman present. Moses blushed and knuckled his forehead. “Begging your pardon, Miss Molly … uh … Stark … Missus Stark.”

Molly shook her head in mock dismay then tugged his Scottish bonnet down over his eyes. “As well you should, you old goat.”

“Enough of these antics!” Lieutenant Penmerry blurted out. “Major Ransom has agreed to hear what this man has to say. Well then, let him speak. Or I shall summon our escort to clap the Frenchman in irons and return him to Fort Edward to await his fate. For I suspect he has come to spy on us.”

“Then he is a damn poor one,” Stark snapped.

“One cannot expect an unsophisticated farmer like yourself.…”

“A farmer who has saved your life countless times,” Molly retorted, color creeping to her features. Fire flashed in her eyes. “Without my husband and others like him, Colonel Lucien Barbarat and his heathen allies would already be at the gates. And your topknot would be hanging from an Abenaki trophy belt.”

“Forgive the lieutenant,” Ransom said, interjecting a note of calm before matters spun out of control. “Mister Penmerry is anxious to test his mettle in battle. I am certain the French or Indians will give him ample opportunity before the year is out.” He clasped his hands before him and sat patiently at the table. “And now, sir, you have had your food and drink for which you must pay with a story. Why have you come here and what do you hope to gain?

“Revenge,” said Turcotte. “I have come for revenge.”

“Against Colonel Barbarat?” Stark asked.

“The same.”

“And to that end you would squander your honor and betray your countrymen?”

“It is honor that has brought me to this table. And as for my countrymen … they are all dead.” With that, Benoit Turcotte proceeded to give an account of all that had befallen him from the moment Stark had burned the bateaux and left his captives bound but unharmed on the shore of Lake Champlain. He told how the marines discovered them, how Barbarat, in his fury, dismissed Father Jean Isaac's entreaties and ordered all the
voyageurs
hanged, right there by the caves. They were to be made an example of for the rivermen who plied their trade upon the lakes and rivers.

His voice halting, eyes moist, Turcotte described the scene, how one by one his own brave lads were taken out and summarily executed according to Barbarat's orders.
Hang them high
, said the colonel,
hang them high
. The detachment of marines followed his order to the letter, at first. But as the afternoon wore on, Father Jean Isaac administered last rites all the while beseeching the soldiers to disobey their commander's orders and free their countrymen. As the stench of death began to fill the air some of the marines' resolve crumbled. They began to argue among themselves. A struggle broke out.

“Père Jean
slipped a knife to me, unobserved by the soldiers. Then he stood in front of me, his black robes concealing me from the others, while I cut myself free,” said Turcotte, reliving in his mind how he sliced through the bonds looped about his wrists and ankles. “I tried to free my brothers, but alas, I was discovered and was forced to flee into the forest.” His tone of voice grew heavy with guilt.
“Les Marines
scattered and searched as best they could but I moved hard and fast. Before long they abandoned the chase and finished off the rest of my friends.” The soldiers had suspected the priest but were loathe to do any more than force him to wait in the boat until every last one of Benoit's companions had paid the price for losing their cargo to Stark's Rangers.

“Later I returned,” Turcotte told the men around him. “The dead hung from the trees, left for the ravens to feed upon, by order of the colonel. Later I learned that the soldiers reported all the
voyageurs
had been executed. Barbarat thought I was dead. And so I was, to one and all. I drifted to Fort Carillon where
Père Jean
hid me in the church. But I soon discovered it was unnecessary. I meant so little to the colonel … once he passed me on the docks and did not recognize me. Why should he? Benoit Turcotte was dead. Not that he ever knew my name.”

He checked his tankard and glanced in Molly's direction. She read his thoughts and brought a pitcher over to refill his cup. “I swore I would find a way to make the colonel pay for his conduct.” He gulped the cider, looked around at the faces of his audience surrounding him in the sunlight. A gentle breeze tugged at Molly's long hair and ruffled her dressing gown, capturing the scent of cherry blossoms for all to enjoy. But with talk of murder and retribution in the air, the sweet scent of spring went unnoticed.

“The Abenaki spent the winter up north where they gathered with the Seneca and Hurons. Now Atoan has called a Great Council and sent word to Colonel Barbarat to join him at the place the Abenaki call
Tobapsqua
, the Pass Through Rock.”

“I know the place,” Stark said. “The mountain drops off at the shoreline, as if it was cleaved with an axe, a straight cliff maybe a couple of hundred feet high with nothing but a pile of jagged-looking rocks rising up out of the water below.”

“That's the place,” Turcotte said. “Now if you cross over Pass Through Rock, on the other side of the mountain, the land slopes down into a valley, bordered by steep ridges, where trees grow thick as bristles on a porcupine. I've heard rumors of caves back in those mountains. When the wind blows through them it makes a moaning sound. The Abenaki say it's the voices of their ancestors and that makes it a sacred place, the Garthering Place. They say wisdom sits there among the rocks and trees.” Benoit Turcotte glanced about at the English faces surrounding him. He had their undivided attention now. “Come the end of this month, that's where Atoan and the elders of his tribe will be. I have heard he's called for the colonel to be there. Lucien Barbarat will have to meet with him, he cannot afford to dishonor the Grand Sachem.”

“Barbarat will have an army to protect him,” scoffed Lieutenant Penmerry.

“No,” Stark said. “Not to a Great Council. It isn't their way. Each war chief can only bring a token force, a dozen men or so. The colonel will have to do the same.”

“Suppose the Seneca come, the Mohawk, perhaps the Huron,” Major Ransom mused aloud. “Then add Barbarat and a detachment of marines.”

“I doubt we'd find more than a hundred men in camp.” Stark glanced over at Rogers who wore a similar expression. Pass Through Rock lay about a hundred and fifty miles over land. He had taken canoes past it before at night. But none of the Rangers had ever put to shore or approached the valley from the landward side. Now was as good a time as any. The Butcher, Colonel Lucien Barbarat, now there was a prize worth the risk. The ghosts of Fort William Henry still cried for vengeance. Who among the Rangers hadn't counted a family member or friend among the slaughtered dead?

“I cannot risk taking the garrison from the fort. But once we receive reinforcements …” Ransom began.

“It will be too late,” Stark interrupted.

Ransom's aide cleared his throat in pointed displeasure at Stark. But the major was accustomed to the frontiersman's lack of convention. The man spoke his mind. And at least what he said was worthwhile, so Ransom made a point of ignoring Stark's disregard for rank.

“See here, Mister Stark. Even if I agreed to leave the settlement unprotected and attempted to carry the war to the French, I do not think the First Regiment could traverse these mountains and reach this Gathering Place in time.”

“We could,” said Robert Rogers, already in step with the big man's thoughts.

“And we will,” said Stark.

31

F
or a day and a half, preparations were made for war, and of the company of Rangers, John Stark and Robert Rogers selected sixty men for the trek north. Two nights later, this band of stalwart souls gathered in the night-shrouded yard of Ephraim's farm. The First Regiment was represented by the presence of Sergeant Tom Strode who had joined the Colonials on their mission, and Major Ransom. The commander of the garrison had made a point of being here to give the buckskin-clad volunteers a proper send-off.

The Rangers made some last-minute preparations, repeating actions they had performed in the day. The raiding party was outfitted with rifles, pistols, tomahawks and hunting knives. Each man carried a water flask, a small pouch of jerked venison and parched corn and Indian
pemmican
, made from pounded berries, nuts, dried meat, back fat, and maple glaze.

From this night on, cold camps were the order of the day for the Rangers dare not risk a fire and alert any Abenaki who might be scouting the mountain ridges to the north. While Charity Page and a number of the ladies circulated among the men, bidding farewell and seeing to any last-minute needs, a word of encouragement, an oil pack of bread and cheese, Robert Rogers made a pretty speech. He invoked their courage and sense of duty; he spoke eloquently and forthrightly of the trial that lay ahead. As the defenses could spare no more than sixty men, the raiding party was going to be outnumbered, but no man expected any less.

“Swiftness and stealth shall be our allies,” Rogers concluded. “You are men to walk the trail with. I trust each man to do his duty. And we shall prevail for our king and for England.” Several of the Rangers raised their tankards of rum and cider, the last real nourishment they would have until they'd reached Pass Through Rock and seen their mission through to its bloody end.

“Well spoken, Major Rogers,” said Ransom. “I echo your sentiments, our immediate survival may well rest on the shoulders of your brave company. I have no doubt but that my French counterpart will attempt to persuade his heathen allies to undertake a full-scale assault upon Fort Edward. And in all honesty, I cannot see us withstanding a siege, despite General Amherst's orders to hold at all cost.”

“The French will have more to worry about than Fort Edward before we are through with them, on my oath,” Rogers replied. He gazed across the field toward Stark's cabin. He could only imagine the scene within. And it was still any man's guess whether John Stark would emerge alone or with Molly following close on his heels, wearing her buckskins and shouldering her rifle.

All eyes were on the cabin.

“I'd hate to be the one to tell her to stay behind,” Sam Oday muttered, sharing a jug with his frequent companions seated across from him. “That isn't Molly's way. But I can tell Johnny wants her to. Plain to see.” Locksley Barlow and Moses Shoemaker shared another of the pine benches Ephraim had placed in front of his house. The benches provided a good place for friends to congregate in the shade of the maple trees and share a jug of cider and smoke their pipes on a warm summer's evening.

“Molly must be burning about now,” Shoemaker chuckled, staring at the cabin. Sensing movement behind him he glanced over his shoulder as Benoit Turcotte ambled over toward them. The
voyageur
had overheard their conversation. He licked his lips, watching them pass the jug around.

“Elle est une grande femme!”
he remarked. “That is … I mean to say.…”

Moses looked up at the Frenchman. “I can parley-voo some.” The old Indian fighter handed the jug to Turcotte. “And Molly sure is a grand woman, ain't no finer between Boston and Quebec or I'm a sea snake. Now drink your fill, Frenchie, cause when we set foot on the War Path, we'll be in for a drought until we run Lucien Barbarat to ground.”

“Merci
, my friend.” Turcotte was eager to warm his belly. They had allowed him a day to rest up, no more, and he was going to need all the strength he could muster to keep up with the company.

“There you go, calling me a
friend
. Best you know right up front, me and the lads will be watching you, and the first time you even so much as step funny.…” He placed a thumb to his neck, drew it across his throat and as if that weren't clear enough, made a horrid slicing sound. “Comprenee-voo?”

“I understand,
monsieur,”
Turcotte said. “And I will remember.”

“See that you do,” Sam Oday told him, patting the fluted barrel of his blunderbuss. For close-up fighting, the weapon was as effective as a hand cannon and could clear a broad swath through a crowd and, at point-blank range, cut a man in half. The ordinarily good-natured Colonial spoke in a grave tone of voice this night, his scarred features lending solemnity to his thoughts.