Across The Water: Book Two

By W.Wm. Mee

Angus McCaw and his Ranger friends take part in the infamous and much debated 1759 Raid on Odanak, a small Native village just south of Quebec City, and endure the subsequent hardships from returning from that terrible ordeal. Angus and his close knit 'band of brothers' soon march on Montreal in 1760, then go on to travel with Robert Rogers westward to help put down the Pontiac Rebellion at Detroit in 1763.
With the French & Indian War now over, Angus and his 'Band of Brothers' follow their rich and very eccentric leader, Captain Putney Smyth, back to London to claim his rich inheritance.
The rough, backwoods boys, along with several Mohawk braves led by Tahnahani, the blood brother of Angus, have adventures from the steamy brothels of London to the windswept Highlands of Scotland. After a time, 'Sir Putney' finances a 'privateering expedition' to the 'Sugar Islands', where they try their hand at being legalized pirates for the king!
The adventures continues with kidnappings and daring rescues and book two ends when on an April morning in 1776, WAR breaks out between the Thirteen Colonies and Great Britain --- and the 'Band of Brothers' are forced to choose whose side they will fight on in the coming revolution!

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Dec 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466123519

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

Chapter 1: Thelma's Fried Chicken

Late September, 1759

British Camp at Crown Point

Southern end of Lake Champlain

New York frontier

Well I don't give a goddamn what you say, I was lookin' forward ta going up ta Qwee-beck!

Alan McFarlane held the burning twig to his blackened pipe bowel and squinted at Steve Smith through a cloud of smoke. But, Stevie lad, the Major says that Gen'rl Amherst's got somethin' better for us ta do!

Better n' what? a red faced Steve demanded, taking yet another pull of the jug as it made its way around the fire. We bin sittin' here on our arses all bloody summer long when we shoulda bin up there with ta other lads fightin' that Mar-kwiss da Munt-come fella up in Frogland!

Angus spoke up from the shadows where he'd been field cleaning Maude, the battered but beloved musket he'd carried ever since he joined up with the Bonny Prince back in '45. N' just why are ye so hot ta get ta Qwee-beck, Stevie. We got more n' 'nough Frenchies round here ta fight.

Taint so, Angus, n' you damn well knows it! Why, we done chased ta snail-suckers outa Ticonderoger last year n' this here Crown Point pile o' rocks last month! All ta action's up north, n' we're bloody well missin' it!

Harry Hunkin reached for the jug and winked at Alan. Maybe ta reason ol' Stevie 'ear be so 'ot n' bothered 'bout gettin' up ta Qwee-beck is cuz 'e's got 'imself a Frenchie sweet 'eart up there!

Steve's red face suddenly went redder and his eyes narrowed.

Naw, Allen teased. "Stevie's already got his-self a gal"

Ya don't say?! Harry said in mock surprise. What's 'er name?

Alan grinned. Thelma Fishbeck. A tall, skinny lass Stevie met at a church social.

Harry's mock surprise doubled. "Our Stevie was in a Church?!"

Over New Hampsh'r way.

N' what was 'e doin' there?

Alan took a pull on the jug and handed it to Angus. Bettin' on horses n' eatin' fried chicken.

"In church?!" Harry demanded, now fully caught up in their little game.

So Stevie told me, Alan grinned Bettin' on horses n' eatin Thelma's fried chicken!

"T'wern't in ta church! Steve rumbled. It were out back on ta grass."

Harry slapped his knee and chuckled. Out back with Thelma on ta grass! Stevie, you sly ol'dog you!

Alan, nearly bursting now with laughter, continued to add fuel to Steve's growing fire. "I recall it now! When Stevie first told me 'bout Thelma n' her chicken, I asked him if he were a 'leg or a breast' man!"

Harry slapped his thigh again. N' what'd 'e say?!.

Mind yer own fuckin' business! Steve growled --- then he punched Harry right in the face.

Harry, sitting none too steady on a battered camp stool to begin with, went over backwards, landing on Albert Fisk who, after several tastes from an earlier jug, had been dozing on the grass.

Mind ta drink! Alan yelled, instantly trying to retrieve the spilt crockery. Angus, one eye watching Steve, helped Harry and a startled Albert back to their feet.

What happened? Albert asked as he rubbed a rib Harry had landed on.

"Stevie 'it me in da node!" Harry exclaimed, holding the injured appendage with a bloody hand.

Steven? Albert said, surprise mixing with disbelief in his cultured voice. Being an educated man, Albert's choice of vocabulary often caused interesting 'misunderstandings' with his fellow rangers --- especially Steve. What prompted this altercation?

"Twern't no 'vacation' at all! Steve shot back. N' I didn't 'prompt' nothin'! What I did do is punch this foul mouthed bastard in the face!"

You broke my bluddy node!

Wall, you deserved it!

Why?!

"You called Thelma a --- a 'loose woman'!"

Did no such ding!

Did too!

Did NOT, ya 'ard 'eaded bastard!

Now Angus had to hold Harry back as the two old friends stood glaring at each other across the fire. Alan, having recovered his jug, was all smiles.

Thelma Fishbeck aint like that! Steve rumbled. "She's a good woman. Uglier than sin, but a good woman!"

Albert, still holding his sore rib, stepped forward. I'm sure Harry meant no disrespect to Miss Fishbeck --- whomever she may be.

"N' she aint 'my gal' like Allen said.

No boubt just another harmless misconception, Albert put in.

"Her name's Fishbeck, not 'Conception'!"

But of course, Steven. How silly me.

"N' I aint got no 'Frenchie gal' up in Qwee-beck neither!"

Of course not, Albert beamed, at the same time wondering if his rib was broken.

We was just funnin' ya, Stevie! Allen smiled, holding out the ever present jug as a peace offering. Didn't mean no disrespect to Thelma.

Steve took a deep breath, then, taking the offered jug, passed it over to Harry. Sorry I hit ya, Harry --- sorta! But ya ought not a talked that way 'bout Thelma!

Jeezers, Stevie, Harry said. "We didn't know ya was really sweet on 'er!"

I aint! Steve exploded, going all stiff and red faced again.

I say, old chaps! What's all the bloody ruckus about?! Captain Putney Smyth demanded from the shadows just beyond the fire. I could hear you ruffians carousing all the way to HQ! Taking the jug from Harry, he took a healthy pull and passed it to his adjunct, Raphael Swann.

Nothin' ta fash yerself about, Cap'n, Angus said. Just ta lads gettin' a wee rise out o' Stevie here. How was yer meetin' with the fancy lace crowd?

Capital, Angus! Just capital. General Amherst has finally decided to move northwards!

Ya mean ol' Lead-Bottom has finally decided to get off his arse?! Alan quipped.

Putney frowned at the tall Scot. Allen, we've talked about you showing our officers proper respect.

That we have, Cap'n! Alan beamed. N' I agree with ya --- most of the time. It's only that some ov'em be such daft buggers.

Sadly, Allen, that is often all too true, Putney sighed. But at least we are soon going to be heading north!

The Rangers then hit him with a barrage of questions.

We going after ta Frenchies, Cap'n? Angus asked. I hear they've pulled all ta way back ta Fort Chambly.

Ta whole bloody army goin', Cap'n, or just us Rangers? Alan put in.

When we leabin', sor? Harry muttered, his nose still bleeding.

We off ta Qwee-beck at last, Major? Steve rumbled

Putney held up his hands. Major Rogers will give you all the details in the morning; but no, Steven, it is NOT Quebec! It's a special operation for us Rangers only.

Shite! Allen exclaimed, anger and disappointment clear in his voice. "I knew it! Another drag-ass damned 'scout' up ta fuckin' lake! We just got back from walkin' our bloody feet off n' ta daft buggers be sendin' us out again!"

This is much more than a mere 'scout', Allen, Putney said firmly. The general is sending all the rangers on a raid up near the St. Lawrence. Now, any further details you'll get from Major Rogers in the morning. I do strongly suggest however, that you all get a hot meal and a good nights sleep --- both commodities may be extremely scarce for some time to come! Taking a last pull on the jug, he turned and walked away. Good night, gentlemen, floated back to the startled rangers left by the fire.

Swanny, Angus said, walking over to the captain's adjunct who had remained behind. "What did he mean by that bit about 'our last good meal'? Just where ta hell be they sendin' us?!"

Raphael Swann glanced around the camp, making sure no officers were near. You lads know I shouldn't be telling you what I heard at the officers meeting.

"But --- ? Allen urged the onetime actor and musician.

Come on, Swanny, Harry smiled. We're all mates 'ere!

"It is Qwee-beck, aint it Swanny?!" Steve said.

No, not Quebec, Swanny replied. But almost as far and a lot harder to get to.

Well, out with it lad! Alan urged.

Its --- it's Odanak, way up on the St. Francis!

Oda-what? Steve asked.

Harry turned to the others. Where ta 'ell be ta Saint Francis?

Swanny reached for the jug, took a long pull and faced the men who had become his best friends. Up north, lads. Way the hell up north!

***

Chapter 2: Northward At Last!

Odanak, by God! Major Rogers exclaimed, the word coming out like a foul curse. That vile pest-hole of murderin' Ab'naki way up on the St. Francis! For years now those blood-thirsty bastards have been raidin' south into Vermont n' New Hampshire, even into ol' Mass, then skippin' back up north to their French masters! Guns n' whiskey traded for scalps n' captives!

He fixed the group with his usually laughing eyes, yet there was no dancing mirth there now; no friendly lilt to his voice as he joked with the men. Now Robert Rogers was all business --- and a grim business it was.

"Some of you men have lost kinfolk to these murderin' bastards. I know I have! Well, we're gunna finally do something about it! We're gunna march up there n' give 'em some of their own medicine! Kill, burn n' destroy them just like they've been doing to us for years! So men, whatdaya say? Are you with me?!"

A ragged shout went up from the twenty odd officers and non-coms gathered on the warf outside of the stone fort at Crown Point.

"Are you willing to go up there n' finally put a stop to all their raidin' n' killin'?!

The shout was louder and longer this time.

"Are you willing to row, run, walk, even crawl if need be to get the job done?!

The shout that rose up the third time echoed back like thunder from the distant hills.

Good! Rogers beamed, the hypnotic twinkle back in his dancing gaze. Then look to your gear n' weapons, men, for we leave just after full dark tonight!

That's a fair piece to walk, Major, an aging veteran called out from the crowd. How much grub ya want us to pack?

Nuthin' but a change o' soxs, Clem! Rogers quipped. We'll be takin' a boat ride half way there n' halfway back, with a little walk in-between just to stretch our legs!

The group, used to his humorous exaggerations, laughed deeply, then turned and went off to get ready for the trip. Every man there knew that this would be far more than a 'little boat ride and a walk to stretch their legs', but they also knew that if any man could get them there and back again, it was Major Robert Bloody Rogers!

***

What's wrong, Cap'n? Angus asked Putney Smyth as they gathered for their noon meal. Ya don't look none too happy'. You know somethin' 'bout this trip that we don't?

Steve was cooking up one another one of his 'pepper extravaganzas'. Earlier that spring he'd traded a few scalps for a hefty bag of dried Jamaican peppers and he'd been systematically trying to burn either their tongues or their assholes ever since. Upon hearing Angus' question, the rest of Putney's motley crew stopped to hear the answer.

Well, to begin with, their horse-faced captain said; Young Jack is still off hunting with Tahnahani and his braves and I doubt they'll be back before we leave. Also, Sergeant Lemuel will not be joining us. He's still limping badly from that arrow he took in his leg early last summer and where we're going is no place for a lame man.

Harry cleaned his tin plate with the edge of his shirt and placed it close by Steve's bubbling pot. Harry's asshole it seemed, was immune to both Steve's cooking and his peppers. But ta Maj'r said we'd be in boats 'alf ta time. N' Ol' Lem can row like a bugger 'e can!

Harry, you all know the Major's rules, Putney said. Any man that needs to be carried out or can't keep up gets left behind. Lemuel wouldn't last two days where we're going.

Jeesuskeerist, Cap'n! Alan grunted. Ya make it sound like were marchin' ta Hell n' back!

"To Hell at least, Allen, Putney replied quickly. Getting back might prove another matter altogether."

There ya go again, Cap'n, droppin' those scarifyin' hints again! Angus stepped up to the British officer he had followed for over a year now. He liked Putney, despite him being British, but he was 'flighty'; at times as careless as a bird and at others as worrisome as an old woman. Suppose ya just come out n' tell us what's on yer bloody mind --- sir.

Putney, used to the straightforward ways of the Rangers towards their officers, took no offence at either the young Scot's words or tone. Very well, I'll tell you what is bothering me. I've just come from asking around about this St. Francis River area. All seem to agree that it's a mixture of thick bush and lowland swamp, cut with deep ravines and rushing rivers. There's no roads, no farms and no respite from the leeches, snakes and mosquitoes that swarm constantly about any living creature. Oh, and that it's absolutely crawling with blood-thirsty Abenaki!

Allen shouldered his way past a much smaller Harry and scooped up a large bowl of Steve's 'Pepper Stew'. Och, mahn, is that all, then? N' here I was worried tha' I might be needin' me longjohns!

***

Chapter 3: 'Best Served Cold'

Etienne LaBlanc's cold gray eyes kept sweeping over the trail. He and 'Le Renard Cruel' or Fox had done all they could to lead the prey into their trap, now all that was left was wait. Waiting, however, had never been one of Etienne's strong points. For his entire adult life he had always taken whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Guns, furs, money, women; whatever he took a fancy to. If anyone objected, they did so at their own peril. Etienne was a cold blooded killer that enjoyed his work, especially up close with a knife!

What he and his sometime 'partner' Wolf were both waiting for now was revenge; a revenge that ate away at both their cold hearts like a slow fire or a hungry beast gnawing on its own leg to free itself from a trap. Now, nearly three long years worth of waiting was coming towards them up that trail.

Ang-gus Mac-Kaw, the hated Ranger that had killed Etienne's big brother Samuel and more importantly, caused the death of his two beloved nephews, Ti-Toin and L'Ours. Also coming up the trail was Tahnahani, a young Mohawk war-chief who had killed several of Fox's kinfolk. Both the Ranger and the Mohawk had already escaped them several times before and LaBlanc and Fox were determined that they would not escape them again!

"Are you 'certain' dat Mac-Kaw is wid dese Mohawk bas-tards?! LaBlanc asked Fox for the third time. LaBlanc used his broken English rather than listen to Fox butcher his beloved French.

Le Renard Cruel or 'Fox' breathed deeply to calm himself and replied in his own Huron tongue, a language La Blanc knew well but seldom spoke. "That the dog dropping called Tahnahani is there I am 'cer-tain', for my Huron know the dog's face. Besides the hand of Mohawk puppies that follow him, they also saw a tall white-eye in a Ranger coat. Mac-Kaw is 'frere du sangue' with the Mohawk filth. He will be there. They travel, hunt and fight together; probably make the two-backed beast together as well!"

Several of Fox's painted Hurons snorted their pleasure at that last remark, but none of them took their gaze from the trail the hunting party should be coming up any moment now, for despite all the bravado, each man there knew that the Mohawks, though low-life dogs, were dogs with sharp teeth that knew well how to fight.

***

Just ahead, where the trail rises through those rocks? The tall white-eye in the Ranger coat asked the painted, tattooed Native beside him

He Who Shoots Far has a good eye for more that just shooting. Tahnahani. replied softly in his own tongue. It is where I would have chosen for an ambush. A clear line of fire back down the trail, plenty of cover up top. Cruel Fox is a dung eating dog molester, but he is not without guile. We will split in two groups and come at them from both sides.

"And the 'sesquata' called LaBlanc is with this Cruel Fox? The tall Ranger asked. The one that has vowed to kill our brother, Angus?"

Tahnahani nodded. I myself have seen his tracks. He still limps from the ball you put in his right leg up at Oswego. Not much, but it is there for those who have eyes to see.

"For those with the skill to see, Young Jack smiled. I would have missed it."

The young Mohawk chief smiled at the one-time English lord. Man Above bestows different gifts to different men. I have not your skill with a musket.

Blue Heron, Tahnahani's second in command, motioned that his half of the eight brave war-party were ready to move out. Tahnahani nodded and took up his battered trade musket that had been leaning against a tree. Shoots Far, honour me by walking by my side. We may have need of your special skills this day.

Young Jack, once known as Jonathan Birksley the Third of Derbyshire, England, an ensign in the 44th of Foot, much preferred his new name, He Who Shoots Far --- just as he also much preferred the company of his adopted Mohawk 'brothers' and his rough and tumble Ranger friends than the stuffy upper class snobs he once came from. Checking the prime in his fancy fusil, he grinned at the painted 'savage' beside him. "The honour, Tahnahani sachum, is all mine."

***

War, arguably one of three the favourite pastimes of mankind, (the other two being purely biological functions, often crudely referred to as F&F, or 'feeding & fucking'), truly is Hell on Earth.

After all, what is 'war' but one side trying to kill, maim and inflict as much terror and pain on the other side as possible. It started back in mankind's primordial past and will no doubt continue on into the distant and dubious future.

'Forest' warfare however, has the added 'bonus' of complete and utter chaos with total terror thrown in for good measure! The dense greenery and dark shadows make it impossible to see anything beyond the distance of your gun barrel; the ear-splitting sounds of guns, grunts, screams and the scrape of steel assault your ears like a demented blacksmith pounding on an anvil; your own heartbeat threatens to burst from your chest while at the same time your bowels rumble and belch like Vesuvius itself! At the same time your body shivers with cold while your hands are moist with sweat.

In your brain a battle of a different kind is also taking place. Your sense of 'right and wrong' or, 'honour or duty' wage war with the far more ancient code of survival at all costs! Self preservation is a 'Prime Directive' hardwired into our baser brain eons before mankind crawled up out of the slime. All the patriotic speeches, pretty promises and furious flag waving often come down to naught when faced with the hard, cold reality of a certain and very painful death.

Perhaps 'love' is the only other emotion strong enough to make us 'drive forward' when all our senses tell us to turn and run. Not 'love of ourselves', but love for something or someone beyond ourselves. A lover; a friend; a child, a parent --- even such an abstract idea as a group or a country or, Heaven help us, a 'belief'!

Regardless of 'why' we make war, the undeniable fact is that we do! And we do it on a regular basis! In the long and varied history of mankind, no other endeavour has taken up so much of our time, creativity, resources and human lives as 'grim visaged War'.

Perhaps too, that is why the majority of women hate it so; for the wanton waste of all the above mentioned reasons and, just perhaps, one reason more ---.they could be 'jealous' of it, for they both see with their eyes and feel with their hearts just how deeply most men come to love it.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!

Or close the wall up with our honoured dead!

***

Young Jack truly loved war. Oh, it frightened him; made his heart race and his bowels loosen --- but once in the thick of things, both time and heart seemed to slow. His senses became sharper, his movements more fluid, even graceful.

Young Jack, you see, was finally in his element. An element not found while fox hunting with the Vicar or riding with the hounds back on daddy's estate. An element, deep and dark, found only when running with his two-legged pack as they hunted their two-legged prey!

After the first explosive volley, howling Mohawks converged on the surprised Hurons. Young Jack, laying aside his now empty firelock, drew his long scalping knife in one hand and his slender hatchet in the other and, like an eager young lover, went gladly forth into the swirling melee.

The ageless 'Dance of Death' had begun.

***

Shots.

Shouts.

Screams.

More shots.

More screams.

The smell burnt powder.

The taste of spilt blood.

A dryness of the throat.

A wetness of the palms.

Movement -- fast and fleeting.

Sunlight -- mixed with shadow.

Terror mixed with -- something akin to joy.

Suddenly a form is looming.

Big -- strong -- and deadly.

A glint of steel and a jolt to the brain.

A blurred movement and a lick of pain.

Soft flesh yields.

Red blood flows.

A once strong and vital body goes limp.

One heart still pounding, one heart forever still.

Again and again the steps are repeated.

A mindless, thoughtless whirl and twirl.

Hearts pound out the incessant beat.

Thrust! Strike! Block! Thrust again!

And then,

as quickly as it began,

the 'Dance' is over.

Until of course,

the next time

***

Shoots Far! Jack! Come back to us! The voice seemed muffled and far away.

With a sudden start, Young Jack opened his eyes and tried to sit up. Something warm and sticky was in his right eye and tasted salty on his lips. Also his head hurt like a bastard!

Be still, Jack! the Voice said again, this time much clearer. Tahnahani's painted face swam before his one good eye. He was smiling. Welcome back. I thought you were on your way to the Summer Lands for sure!

What --- ?

Happened? Tahnahani injected. He held up a dark wooden warclub made from the twisted root of a tree. This happened.

LaBlanc?!

Tahnahani shrugged. He is as slippery as that dog's pizzle Le Renard Cruel! They both left their men and ran for their lives. Heron and three others went after them. Perhaps they will find them, perhaps not. Right now we have to get you to the doctor at Crown Point. Your head needs sewing.

***

Chapter 4: A Wee Boat Ride

Three bloody days o' none-stop rowin'! Harry grumbled as he plied the third of the five oars in the twenty-four foot whale boat. I don't know what's sorer, me 'ands from rowin' or me arse from sittin'!

Or yer mouth from complainin'! Allen shot back from his place up by the swivel gun.

Count yerself lucky, Harry lad, Steve said from his position just ahead of Harry at the fourth oar: that yer not with those poor buggers in Stark's company! Ta Maj'r sent them down ta Fort Four ta cut a road back up ta Crown Point! Poor bastards'll be swingin' axes fer a month or more!

Quiet back there, Putney Smyth called out from his place in the bow. "And Harry, do try and keep in stroke with the other chaps. We're falling behind the flotilla again."

Nearly two dozen boats with over two hundred men had left Crown Point three nights earlier. Hiding the boats ashore during the day and travelling at night had allowed them so far to stay undetected by the many French bateaux that constantly patrolled this northern section of the lake. Major Rogers boat was somewhere up ahead in the lead while Putney's had been assigned the last and honoured place as rear guard. The half moon had risen some time ago and now turned the lake's limpid waters in a ghostly, silvery world of light and dancing shadow.

(Nine BOAT positions)

* 2 men transferred in from Shepherd's Coy. by Major Rogers.

Bow

Swivel gun

Allen

(gunner)

Putney

Swanny

Albert right oar 5

Steve left oar 4

Harry right oar 3

*Pr. Dobson Tanner left oar 2

Angus right lead oar 1

*Cor. Jack Tarvel

steering

oar

Excuse me, Captain sir, moaned Albert Fitch up front with the fifth oar, a pained expression on his drawn face; but I'm afraid I have to have yet another bowel movement!

Putney breathed deeply and sighed. These Rangers were the best fighting men he had ever seen; loyal, dependable and true, but when not fighting, most times they acted like a gang of misbehaving adolescents! Albert Fitch, the latest to join Putney's inner circle of 'band of brothers', he had thought a cut or two above the norm. He had been counting on Albert along with his aid, Raphael Swann, both highly educated men, to 'set the bar' for gentlemanly behaviour and proper comportment --- however the only 'bar' seemed to be the omnipresent jugs of rum that the Rangers carried with them and that Alan MacFarlane presided over!

"I do beg your pardon Sir, Albert went on, his face now contorted into a mask of pain in the pale moonlight: but it is most imperative that I relieve myself forthwith -- or I fear there shall be a mishap right here in the craft!"

"Ya have to have another shit? Alan quipped from up by the brass swivel. I always knew ya were full of it, but JEEESUS Albert!"

"It's those damned peppers Steve puts in everything! Albert barked. Who ever heard of peppers in porridge for Christ's sake?!"

Didn't have no sugar left, Steve rumbled. "Porridge tastes like dog puke without somethin' in it!"

"Not bloody peppers!" Albert shot back, then, turning, he once again pleaded with his none-too-happy captain. Sir, I beg you, please have pity on a suffering soul!

"Oh, very well! Corporal Tarvel! Be so good as to set us ashore once again! We seem to have another 'gastronomical emergency'.

Right you are, sor! Corporal Jack Tarvel called from his place at the steering oar. Both he and Private Dobson Tanner had been transferred over from Sheppard's Company of Rangers just before they left Crown Point.

I'll put 'er in by that little crick ,sor, Tarvel grinned. Nice spot with plenty o' handy bushes close by.

The men chuckled at this, adding to Albert's growing discomfort.

***

The whaleboats the Rangers were using were made of lightweight cedar planks, pointed at both bow and stern and between twenty and thirty feet long. Each one was equipped with five or more rowing stations, a portable mast for 'running before the wind', a steering oar instead of a rudder at the stern and brass swivel gun mounted on the bow that could fire either a led ball the size of a lemon or a handful of musket balls. Whaleboats were faster, lighter and far more manoeuvrable than the bigger, heavier, thick planked 'bateaux' that were the workhorse of the New World's limitless waterways.

They were however absolutely no match for the fifty some odd foot, multi gunned two-masted French sloop that suddenly appeared out of the shadows and opened fire on the distant, strung out flotilla of Ranger whaleboats.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

Four of what sounded like six pounders let go a broadside at the strung out line of Ranger laden craft. The French sloop had cut between the flotilla and Putney's lagging beached boat and was swinging around to rake the rear of the flotilla with the guns on its other side. Return fire from muskets and several small brass swivel guns came from the distant Rangers, but would be like a flock of sparrows pecking away at an attacking hawk.

Back into the boat! Putney yelled at the bushes.

Harry, Swanny and one of the new men, Private Dobson Tanner, emerged from behind various trees and shrubs, all three hastily doing up breaches and adjusting gear. In true Ranger fashion, these three had not wasted an opportunity to relieve themselves when Albert had been quickly put ashore.

Where's Albert! Angus called out. With Lemuel Higgins still recovering from his wounds at Crown Point, Angus had been temporarily promoted as sergeant for the duration of this outing.

Still in ta bloody bushes, Angus --- I mean, ser'gnt! Harry replied Poor bastards got ta trots right proper 'e 'as!"

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

The second broadside swept the rapidly disappearing flotilla. The peal of the heavy guns rolled away like thunder in the night, the streaks of flame like belching dragons.

Albert's over here near me, Angus! Swanny shouted through the din.

"Well drag ta daft bugger out here now!" Angus bellowed. The three quickly did as they were ordered and soon a bare-assed Albert was back on board.

It's a Frog sloop, sir! Alan, pointing at the large two masted shadow some hundred yards ahead, turned and patted the brass swivel gun mounted on the boats bow. Get me close enough, sir, n' I'll sweep their stern with grapeshot!

Putney's large horse teeth showed as he jutted out his angular jaw. Need a tad more than grapeshot for that brute, old boy. But I will trouble you for that jug you have in your pack.

Alan frowned. "By the mass, sir, I like a drink as well as the next man, but do ye think that 'the now' be ta right time?!"

"Oh, I'm not going to drink it, Allen --- I'm going to throw it. With that Putney leaned back and plucked the dirty red headscarf off Steve's unruly locks. Then, uncorking the crock, he stuffed half the silk scarf into the neck, leaving the other end dangling like a hound's tongue. Anyone of you chaps have a light?"

***

The five oars bent as the rowers strained to catch up with the fast fading sloop. The Ranger flotilla itself was reduced to a far off string of silver in the shadowy moonlight. While the oarsmen leaned into their work and Allen double charged his small cannon, Swanny repeatedly struck flint and steel in a desperate attempt to light the brandy soaked 'wick' that Steve's headscarf had become.

Closer Corporal Tarvel, Captain Smyth called back to the moonlit steersman. Bring us right up under her stern.

You mean ta toss that up on deck do ya, sor? Harry gasped, panting as he rowed.

I do indeed, Harry. N' let's hope I haven't lost all my cricket skills, eh what?!

While the French sloop continued to tack back and forth firing at the strung out line of bateaux, Putney's smaller craft rowed up to its stern and tossed the lit 'cocktail' up onto the main deck. There was a slight smashing sound, followed by a deep 'whoooomph'!

Instantly the silvery-blueness of the night was turned to brilliant orange and yellows as the hungry flames licked their eager way up the tarred ropes and sun-dried sails. As Alan's dearly loved spirits soaked the aged wood and seeped into tiny cracks and hemp calking, the entire vessel seemed to take on an inner glow as a golden light blazed forth much like a candle set in a window to welcome home a long gone friend.

Then the flames reached the powder magazine and the entire ship gave one giant cough and exploded into smithereens! Burning bits of ship and bodies flew hither and yon; tiny motes of burning canvas and great searing swatches of flaming sail blew upwards, outwards and, inevitably, downwards; to hiss and sizzle as the dancing flames and burning embers met the moon-kissed waves.

***

Jesus, Joseph n' Mary, sir! Alan exclaimed as he stood poised to touch his glowing linstock to his small cannon. "You sure blew that bunch o' snail-suckers ta Hell!"

Indeed, Alan, Putney managed coolly, though his palms were wet and his heart was pounding. It would appear so.

Corporal Tarvel steered the boat on through the wreckage of burning wood and floating bodies. Here and there someone called out or was seen swimming for shore, but the corporal kept his course and soon caught up to the Ranger flotilla

Smyth?! a familiar voice called out. That you Smyth?

In the flesh, sir! Putney called out as his boat came alongside the Major's. Rogers nodded at the smouldering hulk that had just moments ago been a fine, French sloop.

"That your handiwork?"

"T'was a team effort, sir. I but supplied the arm. McFarlane here supplied the wherewithal, along with Private Smith's scarf for a wick."

"My best scarf too!" Steve muttered beneath his breath.

"My best jug as well!" Alan said none too quietly.

Rogers smiled at the tall Scot. "Well, I'll see you lads get a whole case to celebrate with when we get back from this little jaunt, but for now it's back to rowing. Your little firework display will draw the Frenchies like moths to a flame --- n' that one hellova big flame you lads lit back there! Rogers raised his voice for all to hear. To oars men, you've had yer rest for the night! I want to be in Misisquey Bay by sunrise!

***

Chapter 5: A Little Walk To Stretch The Legs

Shortly after sunrise they landed at Misaquay Bay, the northern end of Lake Champlain. The seven Rangers killed by the French sloop’s cannon were buried ashore in unmarked graves and two boats were sent back with the wounded. The remaining boats were pulled out of the water and covered with brush and cut pine bows. Rogers left four of his Stockbridge natives behind on a distant hill to watch over the boats and extra supplies. If the boats were discovered they were under strict orders to immediately bring him word. After checking their gear and a hasty 'meal' of hardtack and dried corn, Rogers led the one hundred and eighty three remaining men eastwards into a mid September rainstorm. Eight hours later, the cold, wet, hungry and very tired group made a camp on the edge of a mosquito infested swamp.

Sitting round a smoky fire of wet wood in the drizzling rain, Putney's 'Band of Brothers' did what they did best, (other than fighting or drinking) --- they bitched n' complained.

My feet are killin' me!' Steve rumbled. Bloody deerhide mocs get slippery as a snot-covered eel when wet!"

You should try these fuckin' army shoes! Harry put in. Pinch like a bastard n' the damn sole's already comin' off!

Jeesus, boys! Allen grinned. First its yer asses, now its yer bloody feet. If you two had wings you'd probably bitch about yer goddamned feathers!

"I seed you limpin' thar a whiles back!" Steve growled.

Just stubbed my toe is all, Allen replied. Once I get my wind, I'm good ta go!

"Good fer nuthin's more like it," Steve grinned, his natural good nature overriding his sore feet and grumpiness. He'd taken off his soaked moccasins and was massaging his feet gone fish-belly white after hours of walking in water.

After passing round both the bag of dried corn, dried jerky and ever-present jug, most made ready to bed down for the night. Angus cut some fresh pine bows for a 'bed' on the soggy ground, laid down his damp blanket, then dug out his battered clay pipe and began to fill the bowl.

Got any spare 'baccy' fer a feller Ranger? a strange voice said out of the purple blackness of the fast falling night.

His free hand on the hilt of his dirk, Angus looked around for the speaker. He emerged like a swift moving mountain out of the deepening shadow. Tall, wide, heavy and muscular, the grinning form advanced on Angus like a silent avalanche. A meaty paw was out-thrust, offering friendship. The round face behind it seemed to offer the same.

Josh Vingler be my name, the mountain rumbled, the small eyes in the large head catching the fire's light. You be Angus McCaw, if I aint mistaken?

You be right there, friend, though I don't recall meetin' you before.

That's 'cause we aint! the large apparition said, his voice sounding like the grinding of rocks. But I hear'd tell o' ye. Yer da lucky bastard dat Etienne LaBlanc's been tryin' ta kill fer some time now.

I knew a LaBlanc once, Angus said cautiously. Up Oswego ways.

Dat'd be Samuel LaBlanc, Etienne's older brudder. Da one you shot, so ta story I heard goes. Mean bastards da pair ov'em, but Etienne be da smart one.

N just how would you be knowin' that?

The mountain descended on a fallen log. Though half sunk in the soggy ground, the log sunk deeper. I ran wid da bastard a few years back. Nastiest piece o' shit ever scraped of'n a boot!

Angus smiled, instantly liking this grinning giant with the winning smile. I take it that you were none too fond of the Brothers LaBlanc?

The mountain shrugged. Jacque ain't half bad. He's a big bugger like me, but dumb as a post. He's up in Montreal someplace doin' time fer killin' some rich bastard. Rich bastards always get ya in trouble. 'Backy?

Angus handed over his tobacco pouch, a gift from his 'blood brother', Tahnahani. It was a beautiful thing of soft tanned deer hide and decorated with beads by Tahnahani's little sister, Morning Dove. The large newcomer's meaty paw took it reverently.

Nice lookin' pouch. Injun work?

Angus nodded, thinking of the small, delicate hands that had made it. Morning Dove had been creeping into his thoughts more and more of late.

Don't hold much wid Injun truck myself, the mountain rumbled, filling his own pipe then handing back the pouch. Not since ta red bastards killed my folks n' half my kin.

Where was this? Angus asked, at the same time striking a light from his tinderbox.

Up da Mohawk, past German Flats. Us Vingler's been up dere fer years, dough aint many of us left dere now.

Both men lit their pipes and smoked in silence as the night closed in all around them. Suddenly then the mountain rumbled again. I trapped furs one winter wid da LaBlancs. All tree ov'em. Samuel was a nasty piece o' work n' Etienne's twice as bad, but I got along alright wid Jacques. He's fine as long as ya don't rile him up.

Angus drew on his pipe You have a fallin' out with them brothers over somethin'?

This time the mountain chuckled. Jaa! Ya might say dat. Da slimy bastard Etienne tried to cheat me! Pulled a knife n' was fixin' to do me in!

And?

And I broke da bastard's jaw! Laid da thievin' little sonovabitch out cold! I had a mind to shove his knife up his ass, but Samuel had a pistol on him. He was always right handy wid a pistol was Samuel.

"Not 'handy' enough," Angus put in dryly.

This time the mountain's chuckle threatened to become a roar. Haaaaa! By gott im hemmil, yer right dere Angus McCaw! Ol' Samuel musta been off his feed dat day up dere in Oswager when he drew down on you!

It was a close run thing, Angus admitted.

I hear some fancy feller caught da ball meant fer you?

Something like that. Angus decided to change the subject. What company you with?

Speakman's. But most o' dem went up ta Qwee-bec.

But not you?

I aint got notin' again no Frenchmen. Injun's now be 'nother ting altogeder! I plan ta kill me every red sonovabitch I see! When I heard tell ta Major was 'ceptin' transfers ta go huntin' Abnaki bastards, I up n' moseyed right on over

Well, Joshua Vingler from German Flats, Angus said evenly, fixing the big man with a serious stare "yer welcome to share my tobacco n' my fire, but I'll tell ya right now that I don't share your feelings 'bout the Natives. There be some mighty fine 'red Injuns' as you call them out there. Brave, honest n' truer than a lotta white folks I've met! Some of my best friends are Mohawks. So if we're to be friends, you best be knowing where I stand from ta start."

This time the mountain remained silent. Then, suddenly the huge paw shot out and gripped Angus by the shoulder. The Scot's right hand was on the hilt of his dirk before he realized that the buffets he was receiving on his back were meant to be gentle pats of friendship.

"By gott, I heard you were an Injun lover, but I scarce believed it! Most fellers don't cross me when I get to rantin' on 'bout ta red bastards --- but gott im hemmil, McCaw, you got more sand dan most! Heard 'dat' 'bout ya too!"

The friendly pats continued and Angus felt his teeth rattle. You n' me'll take care o' dat back-stabbin', fur-stealin' Etienne LaBlanc bastard soon as we get back from dis little Abnaki hunt. Now, how 'bout anoder pinch o' dat 'backy o' yern before we turn in?

***

Anyone know why n' hell we're always marchin' through a bloody goddamned swamp? Steve grumbled as they waded knee deep in the brackish water. Clouds of flies and mosquitoes buzzed around them in the mid September sunshine.

"Aint a whole hellova lot up here but swamp!" replied Abel Watson, another Ranger that had 'transferred in' to go 'Abnaki hunting'. Abel was an averaged sized man of slight build with a greying beard. Rumour had it that he had once been a priest or vicar or something up near the Canadian border. Rumour went on to say that his church had been burnt in an Abnaki raid and that Abel now felt that God had set him on a mission to 'chastise the heathen'. When asked about it, the mild spoken man would just smile and say that 'God did indeed work in mysterious ways'. True or not, Angus and his longtime mates found 'Father Abe', (as the other Rangers often referred to him), to