The Ohio Frontier
October 1779

The flotilla of three keelboats lay motionless in the Ohio River, concealed in shadows beneath overhanging boughs along the heavily forested Kentucky shoreline. Kneeling in the prow of the lead boat, Andrew Wade shaded his eyes against the morning sun and peered ahead. “Are you certain you saw something?” he asked the young man beside him.

Captain Niall McLane nodded, his attention concentrated on the river. He said simply, “Wait.”

Andrew gripped the gunwale in keen anticipation and waited, waited with his pulse beating like a drum in his ears. Sure enough, he spied movement on the sun-drenched waterway. A half mile upriver, two large canoes glided swiftly from the mouth of a creek onto the Ohio, propelled by bronzed, muscular arms.

Savages.

Andrew expelled a pent-up breath. Indians both terrified and fascinated him. His only practical knowledge of their deeds and habits was drawn from Niall’s teachings and from listening to the other members of their party of Virginians, all veterans of wilderness warfare. For months, the frontiersmen had regaled him with tales of Indian cruelty—scalpings, ritualized torture, frenzied ceremonies of bloodlust—until he came to believe all savages were in league with the devil.

Wanting a closer look at the storied heathens, Andrew withdrew his brassbound spyglass and raised it to his eye, only to have Niall drag it down again. Pierced by an admonishing stare, Andrew realized his mistake at once—a reflection off glass could betray the presence of the flotilla, which was transporting gunpowder, muskets, and lead shot from the Spanish at New Orleans to beleaguered Fort Pitt, the western headquarters of the American Army. Embarrassed at his carelessness, Andrew stowed the glass in his haversack, then listened intently as Niall spoke with Colonel David Weston, commander of the expedition.

“Looks to be a hunting or scouting party,” Weston noted. “Can you tell which tribe?”

Niall trained his younger, keener gaze on the distant canoes. “Shawnee,” he said finally, his face a study in animosity. He continued watching as the Shawnee reached the Kentucky side of the river. After dragging their canoes onto a narrow strip of beach, they hid the craft in the undergrowth fringing the sand and then disappeared into the dense forest.

Colonel Weston shed a thin smile. “I don’t think they saw us. If they’re headed south, we can cut them off. Let’s go see what sort of mischief they’re up to.” On his command, the oarsmen rowed the keelboats into a slower-moving section of the river, guiding the bows of the shallow-draft vessels onto a soft, sloping bank.

As the boats gently landed, Niall lifted his long rifle to check the priming. Andrew did likewise, going through the motions while his thoughts leaped ahead. There’s no cause for alarm. There’s but a handful of them and more than fifty of us. Even so, as he stepped into the shallows and waded ashore with Niall, his stomach clenched like a fist, his palms now slick with sweat. He had never been in a battle, much less killed a man. Despite his inexperience, he had volunteered for this hazardous undertaking. Bravery hadn’t motivated him, but rather the desire to learn if he had any. Encouraged by his friend, Governor Patrick Henry of Virginia, he had agreed to act as the governor’s liaison to the Spanish at New Orleans. That he was unfamiliar with the beautiful but deadly backcountry seemed a minor drawback at the time.

Not so to Niall McLane. When the two men first met at Fort Pitt, Niall had tried to discourage him from venturing into the frontier. “Have you ever been west of the Blue Ridge, Mr. Wade?”

Put on the defensive by Niall’s direct manner, Andrew admitted, “This is my first time over the mountains.”

“Ever met an Indian?” Niall persisted in a soft-spoken voice that bore the hint of a drawl.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In Williamsburg.”

“Ah,” said Niall, “the ones who talk peace. What about the ones in the woods who would sooner lift your hair than look at you? Ever met any of them?”

Again, Andrew was forced to answer, “No.” Annoyed by Niall’s pointed questioning, he squared his shoulders and vouched for himself. “Captain McLane,” he said, “I’m an accomplished marksman, an experienced hunter, and well versed in the rules of military conduct. I’ve spent the past three years drilling regularly with the James City County militia.”

“That’s all well and good, but where we’re going, close-order drill is about as useful as tits on a tomcat.”

Bristling with indignation, Andrew gauged his antagonist and saw a young man whose appearance defied military regulations. Even so, at first sight, Niall McLane had drawn his immediate and admiring attention, so powerful was he, rising several inches above Andrew, and yet moving with a natural litheness like that of men bred to the forest. He carried a slender long rifle in his hands, a steel-headed tomahawk and a stag-handled knife at his belt, reminiscent of the long hunters Andrew had seen on his travels to Richmond. Niall’s large frame was clad in a hunting shirt made of the skin of a deer, tanned to a beautiful softness and dyed green. The shirt’s fine fringe hung almost to his knees. Below it, he wore deerskin leggings, beaded at the seams, and tight-fitting moccasins, soft and light. His thick, dark brown hair was cropped short, frontier-style, curling about his head as though windblown. But his most arresting feature was man-made—a line of whitened scar tissue encircling his neck where a gentleman’s stock would rest, or a hangman’s noose. Taking no pains to conceal the disfigurement, he wore it like a ghastly necklace.

That Niall was intelligent and dangerous was apparent from the start, reinforced by his formidable reputation as an Indian fighter and scout. As a former Shawnee captive, he knew the frontier and its natives as few white men did, and while Andrew hated to admit it, especially to himself, Niall’s reservations about him were not without merit. His concern, however, was surprising.

“I wish you would think twice about this,” Niall said. “You seem like an upstanding man, and I’m told you have a family back in Williamsburg. I’d hate for something to happen to you out here.”

“Captain, whether or not you approve, I am going.”

“Then you had better pay close attention and do exactly what you’re told,” was Niall’s warning. “You have a lot to learn if you plan to stay alive.”

Andrew had embarked on the journey fully prepared to dislike Niall McLane every step of the way. Instead, he found himself seeking him out, learning from him, and observing his innate abilities with a reverence he had never afforded another soul. Whether by Colonel Weston’s order or his own quiet design, Niall took it upon himself to tutor Andrew in the stealthy arts of the backwoods—teaching him to move without sound, to identify time-worn tracks, to uncover secrets of the forest invisible to untrained eyes. The leafy grandeur of the wilderness often tantalized Andrew with its beauty, and yet, when darkness swept in deep and thick, the vast, unknown silence terrified him. Without Niall’s calming presence and instinctive skills in the woods, Andrew would have been swallowed by that immensity. Slowly, under Niall’s patient tutelage, he shed his civilized veneer to become something of a woodsman himself.

Now, bracing for a confrontation with a band of Shawnee, he hoped to put his training to the test. He knelt beside his mentor on the riverbank, awaiting Weston’s order to advance.

“Nervous?” Niall asked, surveying his pale face.

Andrew knew better than to try to fool him. “Somewhat.”

“If you want, you can stay here and help guard the boats.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m not ready for this?”

“It’s my way of saying you have a choice.”

“I’m going with you.”

Niall sighed. “So be it.” He gripped Andrew’s shoulder. “Stay close to me. Pay attention to our route so you can find your way back here alone if need be.”

“I understand.”

“If you find yourself in a tight scratch, remember the weak points—throat, knee, groin.”

Little did Andrew realize how prophetic those words would turn out to be.

With Colonel Weston leading the way, the detachment of Virginians penetrated the forest in search of their prey. They were a fearsome force, heavily armed, their bodies bearing the proof of their hardiness—bullet and knife scars, an eye gouged out, a finger or ear missing. Andrew, traveling in their midst, experienced the acute sensation of being overmatched and out of his element. As the wilderness closed in around him, everything he saw had a peculiar vividness—the splash of sunlight against lichen-crusted oak, the red flurry of a cardinal taking flight, the occasional glimmer of silvery river through the trees to his left. His thoughts, too, were intensely focused, though not on the business at hand. He was thinking of home, of his toddling son and his beloved wife.

Clarice…

Countless times since leaving Williamsburg, he had longed for her embrace. He shivered in the warm October afternoon, unnerved by the prospect of never seeing her again. Steeling himself, he pushed Clarice from his mind to concentrate on his immediate situation, straining with his senses to feel his surroundings as Niall had taught him to do. To his right and left, Colonel Weston’s men had fanned out into the gloom beneath the canopy of trees. Using foliage to break up their silhouettes, they blended so well with the forest that most of them eluded Andrew’s detection. He glanced at Niall, noting his predatory demeanor, his air of absolute confidence, and edged closer to him.

With the stealthy footfalls of a hunter, Niall’s moccasined feet took him silently through the deep woods, his rapid gaze piercing the shadows like the eyes of a wild creature. Andrew, trailing him like a shadow, felt in his veins his first thrill of the chase. Taking care to avoid stepping on sticks and loose stones, he skirted a clump of serviceberry bushes, scaled a low, limestone ledge at the foot of a rise, and continued after Niall. They had covered but a few more yards when Niall abruptly halted, his hand raised in caution.

Andrew held still, the back of his neck prickling with a fiery warning of a threat he could not yet name. He fixed his gaze on Niall, awaiting his bidding. At times, his friend demonstrated an uncanny degree of perception, a kind of sixth sense that enabled him to see, hear, and feel things in ways Andrew could not. Niall had that look about him now, his face intent, eyes scanning the woods all around, head tilted to home in on the least intrusion of sound.

Andrew staggered back when Niall suddenly shouted, “Take cover!”

No sooner did he speak than a chorus of high-pitched howls burst upon the shadowy woodlands. The undulating war whoops seemed to pour from hundreds of throats, and yet Andrew, gazing wildly about, could not see a single Shawnee. Rooted in shock, he felt Niall seize his arm and drag him over the ledge as murderous fire erupted from scores of hidden weapons. Bullets hummed like hornets overhead, screams of pain rent the air. Risking a glance up the slope, Andrew saw puffs of smoke billowing from thickets to form drifting white clouds.

Beside him, Niall rose from concealment and fired at a flitting figure. His victim dropped straight down as though poleaxed. Swiftly reloading, he told Andrew, “They’ll use the trees to get closer. Keep an eye to your left. Don’t shoot until you can take a good aim at one of them.”

Andrew could hear Colonel Weston bellowing orders for his men to fall back and regroup, but for many, the call came too late. Fully a third of Weston’s command lay dead or wounded. The rest were in desperate trouble, for the Shawnee were closing the jaws of their clever trap, and from the volume of their fire, Andrew reckoned they outnumbered the Virginians by better than two to one. The canoes on the Ohio had been nothing more than successful decoys.

Having recovered his wits sufficiently to put his rifle to use, Andrew found his aim was as unsteady as the rest of him. Worse, his targets moved like phantoms, darting from tree to rock to bush, advancing inexorably toward a complete encirclement of the frontiersmen. He squeezed off an ineffectual shot, then crouched behind the rock ledge to reload. With sweat-slick hands, he poured a charge from his powder horn down the muzzle, fumbled to get the patch and ball started, and finally rammed the shot home. He then primed the flash pan, spilling gunpowder in his haste. By the time he was ready to fire again, Niall had twice duplicated his efforts and was pulling the trigger for the third time.

Andrew rose to take aim but then froze, wide eyes staring. Just yards away, an injured Virginian was crawling for cover, his shirtfront and thigh saturated with blood. A half dozen Shawnee warriors fell upon the hapless man like a pack of hungry wolves. One attacker seized a fistful of flaxen hair, flensed the crown of the man’s head with his knife, from the upper forehead to the back of the neck, and then tore away the scalp lock with both hands. He straightened, waving his trophy aloft, his war-painted features twisting into a grotesquerie of exultation.

Niall’s shot entered his left eye and blew out the back of his skull. As the warrior’s body flopped to the ground, a stunned Andrew slid down behind the ledge, moaning in horror, “Dear God... oh dear God…” Above the din of war cries and gunshots, he heard the shrieks and groans of wounded comrades, brave men reduced to begging for mercy and death while being tortured alive. As much as he wanted to, Andrew knew he could do nothing to help them. As things stood, he would be lucky to escape the same fate.

Niall dropped down beside him to reload. “We can’t stay here,” he said, his face dark with fury. Pointing with his chin, he indicated a small stand of white oaks a short distance away. “When I give the word, head for those trees as fast as you can.”

Andrew gaped at him. “Run straight at the Indians?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of plan is that?”

“One they won’t expect.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m a Virginian, and I’m going to punch right through those bastards.”

Andrew flinched as a musket ball ricocheted off the top of the ledge.

“Andrew, we can make it,” Niall insisted, though their chance of survival was clearly poor at best. “Are you with me?” he demanded. When Andrew only stammered in response, Niall struck him hard across the face, then seized his shirtfront and shook him. “Do you want to die?” he asked fiercely.

Stung by his vehemence, Andrew collected himself. “No,” he managed.

“Then do as I say. Don’t waste lead. Let me shoot first. Try to hold off until I’m empty so one of us is always loaded. Ready?”

Andrew swallowed, murmured a prayer, nodded.

“Now!”

To Andrew’s astonishment, they reached the stand of oak trees unscathed, but there, encountering the loosely formed Shawnee battle line, he forgot Niall’s directive to conserve his fire. When a trio of warriors cut off their escape path, he panicked, pulled the trigger and missed all three.

Niall plugged the lead Shawnee in the chest, sending him staggering into his companions. Before they could recover, he descended upon them with his knife, a man possessed with maniacal strength and will. He slashed one’s throat and gutted the second with a jagged upward thrust. Retrieving his rifle, he signaled Andrew to follow him and kept going, reloading as he ran.
Bushes quivered ahead. Unearthly shrieks rent the air as four more warriors exploded from concealment. Still in the process of loading, Niall had the hickory ramrod down the barrel and could not extract it in time for a clean shot. He fired, sending ramrod and all at the attackers, spearing one through the neck. He dropped his rifle. Knife and tomahawk unsheathed, he roared a blood-curdling challenge and charged the remaining three.

Nothing so aroused a warrior’s respect as an enemy’s bravery in battle. Awed by Niall’s fearlessness, the Shawnee declined to shoot him outright and instead drew blades and tomahawks.

By then, Andrew had managed to reload his rifle. He took aim at the nearest Shawnee and squeezed the trigger. The flint fell, sparks flew, powder flashed in the pan and then died with a fizzle. A groan escaped him. His rifle was fouled, useless. He threw it down and with a shaky hand, drew his long knife.

He saw Niall grappling with two husky warriors while a third writhed in death throes at his feet. The front of Niall’s hunting shirt bore a spreading stain of blood; a bright red rivulet spilled down his face from his gashed forehead. Although Andrew’s conscience demanded he go to Niall’s aid, terror controlled him. His urge was to save himself. When a Shawnee burst from the underbrush and rushed at him, flourishing a tomahawk, he ran for his life.

Fleeing through the forest, footsteps pounding behind him, he felt the evil at his back and realized he was going to die. He sobbed as he fled. Blinded by tears, he caught his foot on a root and sprawled face down on the forest floor. Memories flooded through his mind in split-second fragments, shards of a shattered mirror: Clarice nursing William—her serene face against midnight hair—the warmth in her dark eyes—a last embrace, her arms holding him tightly.

“No!” With his heart thudding against his ribs, Andrew rolled onto his back, beheld a painted, menacing face above him, and kicked wildly at his assailant.

Unable to get past Andrew’s flailing legs, the Shawnee struck at what he could reach. His tomahawk stroked downward and bit deep into flesh.

Pain exploded through Andrew’s groin. Mouth gaping, spine arching against an agony that shocked him nearly senseless, he paid no heed as the Shawnee straddled him, barely felt the hot sting of a knife’s edge applied to his hairline.

Intent on collecting a trophy, the Shawnee failed to hear the soft tread behind him. All at once, he stiffened like a statue, a puzzled look on his face as he toppled forward with a tomahawk buried in his skull.

Niall flung the body aside. Breathing raggedly, he hoisted Andrew up, teeth gritted as the strain pulled at the deep gash across his upper chest. He dragged his friend—a sagging, moaning dead weight—across a shallow creek and up a rise into the cover of a dense thicket.

Despite the hot, wet stickiness of the blood saturating his hunting shirt, Niall made Andrew’s injury his first concern. He lifted the gore-darkened hem of Andrew’s shirt, and what he uncovered made him shudder.

Propped against a sapling, Andrew looked down at his blood-soaked crotch and saw his testicles hanging by a thin flap of skin. Slowly, his mind registered the unimaginable. Castrated. His splayed fingers dug into the earth as a horrified scream welled up in his throat.

Niall clamped his hand over Andrew’s mouth, whispering, “No—don’t yell.” Wincing with each movement, he got his arm around him and quieted him, smothering whimpers against his chest.

Andrew quivered in shock and disbelief. After a time, racked by excruciating pain, he leaned his head back against Niall’s shoulder and regained awareness. The cruelty of his fate, the ghastliness of his wound, the shame of his cowardice, all crushed his soul when he saw the compassion in Niall’s eyes.

“Kill me,” he begged in a whisper. “Please just kill me.”

Prologue – The Cruelty of Fate

In the shadow of a revolution,

their greatest battle has just begun.