The White Pelt

By James Annable

It is 1754 as Jamie Graham journeys home from wintering in the lands of Six Nations with his father and a family friend. When they walk into a dimly lit trading post one day, Jamie has no idea that an unintended collision with an English captain, Lord Mowbray, will have repercussions far beyond what he ever imagined.

As he is swept along on this pilgrimage into manhood, Jamie is taken from the social circles of Philadelphia to the western reaches of the frontier where he goes in search of the children taken captive by an Abenaki war party. As he is reluctantly drawn into the first major campaign of the war with the French, Jamie finds himself in the thick of the fighting on Braddock’s Road, experiencing firsthand England’s devastating defeat in the opening stages of the French and Indian war. When his journey reaches its climactic resolution in a small cabin near where his pilgrimage began, Jamie must face one final confrontation with Mowbray where both love and justice hang in the balance.

In this coming-of-age story set during the tumultuous beginning of the French and Indian war, a young man is confronted with the reality of good and evil, and the confusing emotions associated with a budding romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781489748140

James Annable

A collector and teller of stories, Jim is a commercial airline pilot, captain of his own 38 ft vessel the Pilgrimage, a small-time farmer, beekeeper, and spinner of alpaca fiber. His past exploits as a surfer, diver, motocross racer, backpacker, and Marine pilot have now changed to quieter pursuits tending chickens, cows, bees and alpacas on a small, hilly farm in the Shenandoah Valley. He is married to his college sweetheart and they have 5 kids and 5 grandkids.

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Copyright © 2023 James Annable.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-4685-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-4686-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-4814-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911022

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 06/12/2023

CONTENTS

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"I T IS AWFULLY HARD TO kill a man, Jamie," Pa told me that memorable chill-soaked evening, as spring was struggling into the new year of 1754.

An evening that is lodged in my memory, like a splinter embedded deeply into the palm of your hand, persistent, and painful. Because that spring evening was so unseasonably cold, we were attempting to warm ourselves by one of the few fires we would have that year on the trail home. It was not much of a fire, the wood stubbornly refusing to burn, its smoldering, eye-watering smokey entrails more of a stinging reproach than a comfort.

He was talking about the battered and beaten Delaware brave we’d seen that morning, still, it was hard for me to picture my pa having trouble doing anything he set his mind to. He was a big, burly, sandy hair Scot whose personality was even larger, and it seemed everything he did came easily for him. There was much about Pa that was a mystery. This thing of killing, this was something he’d never talked about.

Earlier that morning, we had broken camp at dawn as usual, headed for George Croghan’s post on Aughwick Creek to sell the beaver, fox, and other pelts we had traded and trapped that winter before making our way home, the trail becoming easier to follow the further east we traveled. Heading home, we had come across a small knot of Delaware off the side of the trail. The center of their attention was one of their young men who had been beaten so badly, I was sure he was dead. But as Pa spoke with the others in that party, the wounded youth unexpectedly moved his head to look at us, a frothy, gurgle moan greeting my stare. They had been at Croghans, when this young Delaware came to the defense of an Indian lass being abused by a soldier, and was beaten almost to death. It seemed a miracle that any human could survive such injuries. I have seen as bad or worse since that time, and marvel at how the human body can take such abuse and still live, but the face that morning was unrecognizable. A one-eyed, pulpy mess, now framed in a mass of bloody hair. I wanted to not look, yet found myself staring, appalled. And so the subject of killing came up between me and my pa.

Since my pa and Josephus had traded in these parts for years, they knew of some of the men in this small band of Delaware and offered to delay our journey in order to help them, a kindness and generosity not unusual out in these parts. We stayed with that band for well over a week, while Josephus, who had a knack for healing things, worked on doing what he could for the brave lad who had come so close to dying. It was a lucky thing for him we had come along when we did, as Josephus could do more than most when it came to knowing how to keep a wound from festering. Still, Pa hated to worry Ma, and we could tell that he was in a hurry to head home. Pa was always in a hurry. Josephus more than once would say to me, Jamie, hurry is the great enemy to the soul. There is almost nothing that can be done well in a hurry.

We had set up camp at dusk while traveling east on the Kittaning Path that climbed the hard, iron-cold Allegheny Mountains, going from the sharp-edged heights of pine and boulders and winding back down toward the gentle, softer hills of the Susquehanna River Valley in central Pennsylvania. We were coming from our northwest wintering in the lands of the Six Nations, the most taxing part of our journey now thankfully behind us. Pa, tired and eager to be home, uneasily shared his concern of the growing tension between the Ohio Company of Virginia, French trappers, and many of the native tribes we traded and wintered among. Politics that were confusing and uninteresting.

But every word was followed, feeling the pride of being a man who was old enough to consider and plan for potential danger, and grateful to have a father like Archibald Graham for my pa. Oh, to be more like him! Instead, it was my mother, Emma, who was a slight, dark-haired woman with large, black eyes, and a complexion so pale it was almost translucent, whom I favored. Strong and capable, she could out walk and outwork most men with a resilience unusual for a refined girl from the upper social circles of Philadelphia. She also had a keen eye, and through some quirk of fate, had unwittingly passed that blessing of eyesight along to me. Although I would have preferred to be a stout, well-muscled man like my pa, I could shoot and throw a hunting knife or hatchet with unerring aim, using either my right or left hand with equal success, which was an unusual thing for a person I discovered. God gave us two hands and I thought everyone could use them both equally well or poorly as may be the case. My eye would tell my hand where a thing ought to go and it somehow went there, whichever hand was doing the throwing. Pa called it a rare fine gift, so maybe it was God’s way of compensating me for being a slender youth of average height, and one who would never be big and imposing as he was.

As spring crept begrudgingly into the fertile Pennsylvania valleys, Pa, Josephus—a free black and my pa’s closest friend—and myself were on our way home, backpacking bulky bundles of an entire winter’s worth of trapped furs, now tired and huddled over a smoky pile of wet sticks pretending to be a fire. Pa and Josephus were as different as a trout is from a fox, with my pa being outgoing and talkative, constantly regaling us with endless stories of his native Scotland, while Josephus was quiet and content within himself, but missing nothing. I had just turned nineteen that winter, my third year wintering with Pa and Josephus as they trapped and traded to the west of John Fraser’s on the Allegheny and west of the Forks of the Ohio, where the Monongahela and the Susquehanna rivers came together. My nature was more like that of Josephus, being on the quiet side, and able to sit still and watchful for hours, something my pa would occasionally remark made me a handy lad to have along hunting.

We had been out for six months and were all eager to get home again where my ma and my twin sister Darby were waiting for us, having expected our return a week earlier. Pa knew they would be beside themselves with worry, but he and Josephus were never ones to overlook the needs of others.

Two days after leaving the Delaware band, we emerged on a warm day from the forest into more open land at the edge of a settlement on the Juniata River, called Aughwick, where George Croghan traded fairly with trappers like us. I carried with me, apart from our bundle, one fur I wouldn’t part with for any price. To my great good fortune, I had acquired a pure white fox pelt from an Abenaki who himself had won it in a bet from a French trapper up north. I thought of giving it to my sister Darby for a present, but it was so beautiful and rare, I was of two minds. Sometimes at night I would take it out and look at it, my imagination flying off to the far north lands it called home, and this beautiful pelt began to embody all of the magical and unseen things of that imaginary place. Looking at it, my mind drifted to the wildness that inhabits the invisible cracks and creases of life, reminding me that there were things both known and unknown in this world. Things we can see, and things we cannot. It came to symbolize for me a thing of goodness, beauty, and mystery in its soft white fur.

But I had time to sort through what I wanted to do with it. Except for my pelt, we planned to trade out our winter’s harvest of fur as quickly as possible, then load our supplies and head home, taking our canoes east on the Juniata to the Susquehanna before traveling overland to Philadelphia where Pa, Ma, Darby, and I had lived with my grandpa when my grandma had passed.

My favorite part of the homeward journey was canoeing down the Juniata River, so I was eager to finish our business with Mr. Croghan. I looked forward to the ease of ghosting downriver with the current, being swept along underneath the bright green of budding trees overhanging the river, carried past spring woodlands bedecked with pink-flowering mountain laurel, white dogwood, and purple redbud. Once we got to Conestoga, we planned to stay with Josephus for a night before joining the well-worn trail east to Philadelphia, fueled by a hot meal and biscuits that Josephus’s wife would make and I would gladly gorge myself on. All these plans gleamed like golden doubloons in my mind in anticipation, our hard-earned reward for enduring the rigors of a half-year’s cold, wearying work.

Here in these parts of the Ohio Valley, George Croghan had been involved in Indian affairs for well over two decades, longer than I had been alive. He not only spoke several Indian dialects, but had even married a Mohawk woman after his first wife had passed away. His log trading-post was such a well-established supply stop on the road to the western frontier, it eventually becoming fortified like many such places in the western stretches of the colonies when the French troubles came upon us. Besides selling or trading necessary provisions, it also provided a place for social interactions on its wide front porch where one could sit and smoke a pipe and catch up on any useful news if a traveler or local settler had a mind for it. And if that didn’t suit, there was a gathering room where you could trade for some rum, ale, or other forms of entertainment that were to be had in such places. Aughwick town itself had sprung up around Croghan’s trading post, and depending on the time of year, it was a bustling enterprise with as many Indians coming and going as fur traders, some of whom were French trappers energetic enough to venture south to sell their pelts.

As we walked into the dimly lit trading post, assaulted by the smoky, ripe odor of unwashed men and dried pelts, Pa and I set our rifles against the wall where they would still be handy and we could keep an eye on them. Having mine for over two years now, I was still mighty proud and pleased with it, and by habit hated to be apart from it in such a crowded place. Pa had purchased my rifle from the same Mennonite gunsmith on Pequea Creek that he and Josephus had purchased theirs, and it shot so well and true through its rifled bore that I could kill a deer at twice the distance the Indians’ muskets could. During the winter, I and the other young men hunted together when we weren’t wrestling or racing through the snowy woods, though most of my time would be spent with Pa working his trap lines. Those years were glorious and carefree, but they had served another purpose too, since I could outshoot and out-wrestle men twice my size from these hard-won lessons, though those lessons came at the expense of many aches, soreness, and bruises suffered.

While I waited for Pa to conclude his fur trading and buy a few provisions, half keeping an eye on our rifles whilst watched the rowdy carryings-on of the men who were intoxicated, amused at what rum would cause a man to do when he didn’t have his wits about him. After about an hour of this, Pa called to me over the din, so I jumped up and turned to leave. But in my haste, I collided with an English soldier as he was walking past me going the opposite way, probably to buy a bit of rum, not realizing I was there either. It surprised both of us.

Although clearly I meant him no harm, he angrily lifted his musket to strike me as I backed away. Automatically reacting to defend myself, I deftly hooked his ankle with a simple Indian wrestling trick and because both of his hands were wrapped around his descending musket butt, a simple push from me sent him tumbling to the ground with his mess kit and musket clattering onto the floor amid the jeering laughter of the men drinking. I quickly turned to leave to find Josephus and Pa, but found my way blocked by what appeared to be an English officer accompanied by several more British soldiers who had followed him in and who now crowded between me and the door.

Do you think you can simply leave now after attacking this English soldier? he asked.

This officer was almost the same age I was, or maybe just a few years older, speaking with a melodic, slight lisp. In facing him, I was reminded of a rattlesnake, his unblinking soulless eyes fixed upon mine, a sharp line of a smile curving up at the ends, and just as that thought came to me his tongue shot out and traced across his lower lip. He was smiling and was speaking to me in a pleasant manner that seem to almost border on friendship, and it took me a moment to process what he had just said.

It was but an accident, and for that I’m sorry, sir, I admitted to him, pasting a smile on my face to signal my own good intentions, half turning to the soldier who was getting to his feet, thinking to give him a hand up.

I think not. You owe more than an apology for this trespass, my friend, he said with a half smile.

The post had gone quiet, and even the drunken rowdies were now silent and watchful of what was playing out before them. They knew as well as any how the British army loved their floggings.

What would you have me owe then? I asked, a bit frustrated and wanting to leave. I meant no harm, and would gladly stand him for any wrong I have done. It was puzzling why this officer had chosen to confront me when obviously I had not meant any ill will, simply just protecting myself from being struck in what appeared to be a very unfortunate misunderstanding.

Four more British soldiers crowded into the room along with a few Iroquois who appeared to be traveling with them, and all of them half-circled me. But my attention was squarely focused on the officer. He was a handsome man, well built and erect, with brownish blonde hair neatly queued and tied behind and beneath his hat. He had thick eyebrows that rose upwards over the bridge of a thin nose that gave him the appearance of wide-eyed innocence and vulnerability. Until you looked into his flat eyes.

The noise in the post had almost died out completely, as we became the center of attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed one of his men move forward, a vicious looking man, who was so broad and heavy, he seemed to fill the greater part of the room.

Should I teach him a lesson, Milord? this giant of a man asked rather loudly in a thick German accent. He looked hopefully at the officer like a bull mastiff waiting for a hunk of deer steak.

The English officer nodded and watched me expectantly, waiting for me to back down as the German soldier stepped toward me.

The bemused officer began, It is, of course, a lesson you —

Josephus had quietly placed a cocked pistol behind his ear.

The German froze, looking at me and then back to the English officer and then at Josephus, somewhat at a loss.

This lad has apologized, captain. There has been no harm done here. Still looking at the officer, he addressed me, Time to leave now, Jamie Graham!

I didn’t move.

The English officer slowly pivoted and faced Josephus, who had taken a step back. After a moment of silent scrutiny, he motioned the German soldier to move back. Yes, he said quietly, "I do believe you would shoot me. I congratulate you on that, I see you have that in you that you would do such a thing."

He was right in that one thing at least. Pa had told me once that Josephus was a bonnie lad to have with you in a fight, and I had seen firsthand his fearless ability in that regard—once when we were surprised by a Shawnee war party my first year wintering with him and Pa, and during another incident when some French trappers thought to steal our winter’s labor. Josephus did what was needed without hesitating, and when he said he would do a thing, he would do it.

The British captain turned back to me with a quizzical half smile. You do realize, however, what you’ve done now, don’t you?

That confused me, him being so pleased, and so I said nothing, because I did not see that I had done anything wrong or why such a fuss was being made.

Abruptly, he addressed his soldiers. We will leave and press on, he ordered. As the officer’s men and the Iroquois filed slowly past, the captain however seemed fixated on me alone, his reptilian eyes unblinking, something coiled behind them as if ready to strike.

We will meet again I think, Jamie Graham.

About the way he said it filled me with the peculiar, heavy feeling of going into a dark cave where the comforts of light and sound are unwelcome strangers. Something evil and unwell was close at hand, even as I wondered how it would ever be possible to meet again. Hopefully I would never see him again. Ever.

Pa came inside and taking in the scene, retrieved our rifles, then stood beside Josephus. Motionless, we waited until all the British and Iroquois had walked out the door and the heavy clatter of their boots tattooing the loose porch boards, the smell of sweat and fear lingering still, the noisy movement and sound of horses stamping and jingling as the soldiers mounted, and chatter finally returning to the post.

Josephus raised his pistol up, still cocked, and stepped aside so the officer himself could leave. The English captain glanced at my pa and the two men briefly locked eyes as he stalked past. The room was empty of soldiers, and the onlookers began talking among themselves.

Jemmy Alder, a large, heavyset man who helped Croghan at the trading post, approached us, wiping his grimy hands on his leather apron. You will not want the son of Viscount Mowbray for an enemy I think, Archibald Graham, he warned. He was here with those same men a few days ago on their way to Fort Necessity. Apparently, he’d been sent to look the fort over in case there’s trouble from the French and the tribes up north. While they were here, he allowed that German to beat a young Indian buck close to death for coming between that large German and a young squaw here in the post who did not take kindly to his attention.

Pa nodded. I’ve known of the Mowbrays, the Meschins, and such like them, he said slowly, though I never thought to hear those names again, and certainly not here. He shook his head in taut sandy-haired anger. We saw what they did to the poor Delaware lad some days past when we stopped to help him. Then scratching the back of his head and staring at the door in quiet thought, he added, The good captain we just met must be the son of John Mowbray, though Sir John had a reputation for being a decent enough man for being a Sassenach. It’s too bad his son seems to be nothing like him.

And he will have already learned who you are from that rabble hanging around the porch, Jemmy cautioned. And about you as well, Josephus, so look to yourselves.

Pa was silent, his face closed and red, all cheer gone from his face, distractedly picking at a tear in his sleeve, perhaps not comprehending what had just happened and why, but fully understanding the potential consequence of it. I wondered how he knew the British aristocrats he named, names I never heard of, like the Mowbrays and Meschins, and why the trading post incident required us to change our plans. But Pa’s mind was set, and after judging the fullness of the moon, he decided the two of us would leave right then and continue on during the night in the one canoe, while Josephus would head straight away home, heading northeast from Croghan’s to his steading near Conestoga where he lived and farmed with his Delaware woman. Although it wasn’t likely these British might be traveling along the river, Josephus set off on foot for the edge of the woods and disappeared. He had elected to take a little-used Indian trail for his journey home, and we planned to meet him there some time hence.

Our return trip was nothing like I’d imagined it, or looked forward to it being, and why we tried to keep to the shadows and avoided any unnecessary splashing as we shoved the canoe off the Aughwick landing and out into the river was still a mystery. Instead of the cheerful banter I’d looked forward to, we kept a watchful, silent vigil as we rode the moonlit river toward home, the swollen fruit of the spring rains and melting snow carrying us eastward.

A few years ago, I once asked my pa when I would become a man, and for once he did not have a ready answer or a story. He furrowed his brows and fixing his eyes on mine, leaning forward a bit while resting his hands on his knees as if to steady himself, he set aside what he was doing.

Jamie lad, you will become a man when a man is needed, he quietly replied, leaning back and crossing his arms, continuing to hold my gaze, his sharp blue eyes steady, unblinking on my own, as if he were trying to tell me something that lay behind those words, and for me to feel their weight.

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T HE JUNIATA RIVER WAS RUNNING high and fast, full from spring snows and rain tumbling down from the western mountains that made the shallow parts readily passable this time of year. But unlike our previous trips home, when we’d only used our paddles to steer and mostly let the current carry us downriver, Pa and I added our strength to the river’s and paddled that night with urgency. Although I knew it had something to do with the misunderstanding at Croghan’s and was eager to ask him more about it, Pa insisted we travel in silence. I wanted to explain to him what had happened with the British soldier, but he didn’t seem interested in hearing any of my account, settling instead into a quiet, rhythmic stroke that soon had my own arms aching.

I only knew the little Pa had told me before we’d left the settlement, when I asked him why we needed such haste.

I did not like the looks of that Sassenach Josephus held at gunpoint, he answered tersely. I have seen the likes of him before. I would soon as not be home as quick as we can. There was the stench of evil in that room.

Guided only by the stars and a path of moonlight reflecting off the water in front of us, we travelled so quietly we heard nothing but the trilling of tree frogs and the soft splash of water from our paddles as they dipped and rose. I could never recall my pa being silent like that before, except when we were hunting or laying traps. And it wasn’t until the false dawn traded the light of the stars and moon for the grayish, ghostly light before sunrise that we stopped for a few hours of sleep and rest, before pressing on.

That morning a thick column of smoke rose above the newly budding trees as we neared Conestoga. I knew without being told that the quickening of Pa’s strokes meant a cabin or barn was afire, but it took a moment longer for me to realize the smoke was coming from the general direction of Josephus’ holding. Since the river was only about two miles from their homestead, Pa and I pulled our heavily loaded canoe onto the bank and just left it there as we made haste. We grabbed our rifles and sprinted through the underbrush toward the smoke.

The ability to run for long distances was not hard. Pa always used to say I had a wee bit of Gillie in me because I truly enjoyed stretching my legs and running for several hours at a time—something that had won the admiration of my friends among the young braves in the Indian villages who always wanted to race and wrestle.

But I did not enjoy this run with my pa. A fearful sense of foreboding hung between us as we sped through the woodlands, through the thick stands of tall pines and white oak that stretched between the river and the cabin. As we got closer, the acrid stench of smoke hung in the air.

We heard the Iroquois jabbering amongst themselves before we saw them. We cleared a copse of trees near Josephus’ holding, and pulled up in horror. The Indians were throwing household items through the door of Josephus’s cabin, and the pole barn nearby was engulfed in flames. From inside the burning structure, a pig squealed as it was slowly being roasted alive. At least eight English soldiers were gathered around a big sugar maple in front of the cabin, where they had Josephus perched on a tall stool. His hands and feet were tied together and a hanging noose was tightened around his neck, the other end being secured to a stout branch above him. One of the soldiers from Croghans periodically poked Josephus with a burning stick that was glowing red-hot on one end. If he flinched too much and fell off the stool, he would hang.

We stopped and knelt down, taking cover on the edge of the clearing, although at that time of the year very little cover existed. Pa turned to me briefly, his face pale, his eyes rapidly darting between the nightmare at the farm and myself, his words stabbing at me as if he were out of air and his body was shaking.

Jamie, I will load for you as you have a better shooting eye, and are handier with a shot of this distance than I am. You shoot every Sassenach that comes near Josephus, starting with the one with the hot stick. I am sorry it has come to this, but for the love of God aim swiftly, and aim truly.

I could not breathe. Josephus at the end of a rope while his holding burned, Pa, now red faced and clenching his teeth so that I thought they would break, staring hard at what was unfolding before us. I’d never known my pa to exhibit this depth of emotion, and trying to put that out of my mind I steeled myself to raise my