January 1st, 1770: Charles Town

The King's Carriage moved cautiously down a sleeted road. Tiny flakes of snow, like a thin white dust, clung to the fine red dress uniforms of the King's Lifeguard, who surrounded the carriage on foot and on horseback. The road was unpaved, made of mud churned by carriages, wagons, and horses when it was warm, then frozen in it's final rutted pattern before the winter, making even slow travel bumpy and unpleasant. When they hit a large rut, the carriage banged and jittered, and those inside felt compelled to hold on.

"Every road in the New Vorld is like one leading to ein hunters lodge." Queen Charlotte said in a noticeable accent.

"This is the edge of civilization, my dear." said George III, King of Great Britain and Ireland and sovereign of these colonies. He was too young to be old and too old to be young, having reached the age of thirty two, looking almost like a general from a story book in well-groomed officer's uniform with a diamond star on the breast, and a snow-white wig on his head. "The beating heart of nature itself. The trees here saw centuries go by untouched, unthought of by any man but the savage." They hit another bump. He jolted up, his head nearly tapping the ceiling. "We are pushing back the forests, like the Saxons did. Pushing back the sinless wilderness and building a new world. New World! That's what they call it. And by my name that is what it will be."

"It is grand." the Queen said. "But it could use some pavement."

Grey smoke billowed into a grey sky, spit from the twin chimneys of Drayton Hall. Compared to the grand palaces of England, this was a quaint country home with a rustic appeal. There were three stories, the bottom floor for the servants, the upper two making up the residence. Its brick face, parched by winter, was simple and square except for the center, where a columned portico jutted like the front of a Roman temple. Two smaller buildings flanked it, both the size of descent houses in a city. In front, campfires burned surrounded by huddled Guards hunched toward their warmth and wrapped up in blankets, surrounded by the tents they occupied for want of room in the cramped American mansion.

The carriage came to a stop. The King put out his foot, his gilded cane stabbing into the ground as the Captain of the Guard helped him gain his balance on the crusted road.

"Thank you Mr. Lacey." He said, patting the tall, freckled soldier on the back.

"You're majesty." Captain Lacey said politely.

The King pursed his lips and blew, watching his breath come out like the white smoke of the plantation house. "It's a crisp day, wot wot." he said. "Not a baltic frost like in the old country, thank heaven for that, but I still think it is rather cold for a swamp."

"You've said zat before" The Queen said.

"And I will say it again someday." the King said.

They climbed the stairs and went indoors, into a cramped-feeling room with a humble wooden grand staircase clinging to its walls. This, the middle floor of the house, was swarmed with people. Men and women in fine clothes loitered like guests at a grand ball unwilling to leave the hall though the music had stopped. They bowed, and the King started through them like a disinterested Moses.

"Your majesty." the Chamberlain delicately put himself in the path of his monarch. "Lieutenant Colonel Wallace and Mr. Toast await your presence in the parlor."

"Oh yes. Thank you, James." the King lit up. He turned around, and his entourage turned with him like the tail behind a dog. The door was opened and he went into the next room.

It was warmed by a fire, which roared hungrily in its marble fireplace. Two men sat in chairs at the same table until they saw the King, after which they stood and bowed. "You're majesty." they both said at the same time.

"Fine." he dismissed, moving quickly to the fireplace to warm his hands. "The city is absolutely a nightmare. Horrifying. People are shitting in holes like cats. It really has been a tiring day."

"It is an ugly state of affairs." the Lieutenant Colonel said. Lt. Colonel Thomas Wallace was a short, chubby man with sharp eyes and a lipless smile, dressed in the clean uniform of an officer. Next to him was Mr. Hugh Toast, an older man with spectacles, a small cheap wig, and a puritan way of dressing.

"A tiring day." the King looked up. "Do you ever wish you could wake up in a vapor? The troubles and aches of life no longer there. An endless rest in... in warm milk. Wouldn't that be lovely, gentlemen?"

"I expect that must be what heaven is like, if it pleases your majesty." Wallace said.

"Yes." the King replied, looking away from the fireplace. "It would. It would indeed." he tapped his cane. "Well now, what is the story you gentlemen have for me, wot wot?"

"General Burgoyne has sent his finalized plans for your approval." Wallace motioned toward a map on the table. The King came up curiously. A sketched map of the south-eastern continent, from the coast to the Mississippi river. The locations of forts, units, and important cities were identified with scribbled notes. "The General will drive on into Cherokee land..."

"Should he be hearing this?" the King said, looking at a quiet Mr. Toast, who had found his seat and was sitting as serene as an old lady in church.

"Well I sincerely hope Mr. Toast is not in league with the Cherokee."

"I can swear to the you I am not." the aging man said, shifting in his chair.

"I suppose not." the King said. "Carry on then."

"We will swing north slowly, like a door swinging from a southern hinge toward the Ohio. Those forces posted in the Shenandoah will stop raiders from probing into the northern colonies. If they move to the south instead of the north, they will be bounced off of our forts in the Mississippi."

"It's like a fox hunt!" The King said. "I will not worry about the details, Burgoyne can handle that. When you return to him, give him my gratitude."

And then there was a silence, the kind that presages another subject of conversation waiting in the air.

"Your majesty." Mr. Toast spoke up. "If I may..."

"You may."

"Yes. well. The Royal Society, as your majesty is aware, is thoroughly fascinated with the subject of, as they say, 'The Hoary Winter'"

"As well you should."

"Our conversations have naturally turned to, as they say, 'The good ol' country', and the loss of it, and the fear of more loss to come..."

"Don't be so damned proper, wot wot. Say what you mean and I will answer likewise."

"...well, our conversations have turned to the potential of weather laboratories on the wintry rim of the world, to study the advancing arctic so we may be made aware of what is to come. What I mean is permanent scientific camps, funded, at the grace of your majesty, by the crown. The wealth of our members, being after all..."

"Permanent camps?" the King moved toward the fire, rubbing his chin. "Is this new territory for the society?"

"Well, we used to pay for similar laboratories personally or, as they say, out of our own purse. But the loss of the good ol' country has hurt many of us in that respect."

"No no." the king waved. "That is understood. Has the march of the arctic not halted?"

"We do not know." Toast said. "Perhaps it will wash over use like a violent tide, and withdraw to its original purlieu. Or perhaps it move forward forever, until the Caribbean sea is a sheet of ice and all life is rendered cold forever..."

"Surely not." Lt. Colonel Wallace spoke up. "Did the creator not promise after the deluge that no such extinction shall occur until Kingdom come?"

"I can not speak for God, sir." Mr Toast replied. "But I can speak to the palmettos crying ice near the sea. No argument can be made that the climate is not ill. And we cannot know how worse it may get if we chose not to study."

"You will have your funds, sir." the King said, his voice solid and deep. "And I shall expect results. If our future is doom, I will know it."

South Carolina

The young rider clung tightly to his horse as it galloped down the muddy road. The bay strode confidently across the rutted mess of road towards the small village while the boy did his best to hang on. He was a new dispatch rider, used to running messages across Charlestown on foot. This was his first time out of the city as a messenger, and only his third time ever on horseback in his young life. Around the bend, the village of Goose Creek came into view. It wasn't much, just a dozen buildings around a white church. But that would soon change, as all around the outskirts of the village new buildings were in the process of being raised. The need for housing had been dire one ever since the long winter had come on, and now it seemed it was finally starting to take shape.

The horse snorted and spun to the left as the boy yanked on the reigns and prayed that the beast would come to a stop. Once it did, he found the lone two story building in the village and dismounted. He clung tightly to his messenger bag and raced to the building. He flung open the door and startled the clerk inside. Though not much older than the messenger boy, the clerk might as well have been an adult by comparison. He wore a dark blue coat with a white cravat and white shirt with brown breeches while his brown hair was long and tied back behind his head.

"I have a message for Sir Thomas Bennett," the young messenger said. "It is most urgent, sir!"

"Hand it over," the clerk said with irritation in his voice.

Upstairs, the clerk knocked softly on a door and waited to hear his master's voice.

"Enter."

Inside his office, Sir Thomas Bennett peered over a pair of spectacles with an inquisitive look and one bushy eyebrow raised. On the desk before him was a piece of paper with notes jotted down while beside the paper rested a law book. A fire crackled in the corner of the office and gave the small room warmth.

"There's a messenger downstairs, sir, just arrived."

The clerk passed a sealed envelope to Bennett. His pulse quickened at the symbol on the wax seal. Bennett was still in the process of learning about the newly arrived English nobility, but there could be no doubt that the personal seal on the envelope belonged to Lord North. Bennett quickly read the note, a grin forming on his face as he reread it.

"Johnny," he said with a look up at his clerk. Even from behind his spectacles his green eyes danced. "Go fetch Mr. Ames. We're needed in Charlestown."

---

Sergeant William Ames was a short, barrel of a man with black hair that was beginning to show signs of recession, even has Ames did his best to hide it by growing it out. Bennett and Ames found themselves in the courthouse that now served as the British seat of government. They sat on a bench on the second floor. The place was quiet as a tomb with business halted to celebrate the new year.

"The misses didn't think too kindly to this," Ames grunted. "She wanted to attend the new year's day service at the church in town."

Bennett said nothing. He had no wife or children, there had been no time for them in his rise in Virginia social circles. He had finally gotten to a place where he could have hoped to marry someone promising, but the cold came and that Virginia gentry had imploded upon itself. And now he was here, starting back over again. That was why he had decided to work on new year's day, why he had made young Johnny work as well. There was a ball he was due to attend later that night, but until then all Bennett could really do was sit around and bemoan what was and what wasn't.

"Sirs," a voice said from an opening door.

A middle-aged man with a ruddy face came out the door with a swift bow towards Bennett and Ames as the two men stood.

"I am Robert McTavish," he said with a Scottish burr. "Lord North's secretary. He has requested Mr. Bennett's presence. I am afraid, Mr. Ames--"

"Quite all right," Ames said quickly enough. "I know how the game is played, sir. I am not quite of Sir Thomas' class."

McTavish nodded his thanks and led Bennett through the door. Bennett glanced behind and saw Ames sitting back down on the bench with a bemused look on his face. Their partnership had not been a long one, but Bennett already knew that Ames was perhaps the most capable man he had ever come across, but he was still born of the low class and his impressive service in the Seven Years' War had raised him up some, but not enough to warrant an audience with a lord.

"M'lord," Bennett said with a sweeping bow as he entered the office of Lord North.

"Sir Thomas," North said with a curt nod. "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

The first thing that struck Bennett upon seeing Lord North was his resemblance to the king. There were rumors and conjecture, but it was amazing for Bennett to see first hand how much the Chancellor of the Exchequer looked so much like the sovereign. They could have been brothers. North stood from behind his desk and walked around to greet Bennett. He was a pudgy man with a hangdog look upon his face. His graying hair was helped by the white powder in it.

"Have a seat," North said with a motion towards two chairs by a fire.

"So," Bennett said once they were settled. "What can a country lawyer like me do for you, m'lord?"

North smirked and laced his fat fingers together.

"The way I hear it, Sir Thomas, you are more than a simple country lawyer."

"Depends upon whom you ask," Bennett shrugged. "To my opponents, I am the devil himself."

"And to people whose opinions I highly value, you are well known as efficient and discreet."

Bennett had to repress a smile. Lord North had been talking to Bennett's former clients in Virginia. In the last decade Bennett had made something of a cottage industry by working for the Tidewater Gentry in Virginia. He'd catered, cajoled, and kissed more than enough ass among the colonial nobility to earn his knighthood and social standing. Not only could Bennett make problems go away quickly and quietly, he could also do it with enough subservience to make the debauched bastards feel like the royalty they claimed to be.

"So what can a man of my skill set do you help you, m'lord?"

North bit at his lower lip and looked at Bennett with watery eyes.

"Colonel Stephen Butler, are you familiar with the name?"

"Vaguely," Bennett said, leaning forward in his seat as North drew to the heart of the matter. "I think I have meet him since my move here. He was an officer in the British army?"

"Aye, he was a Dragoon in India during the Seven Years' War. Colonel Butler fought bravely in Calcutta and parlayed the war success to a seat in the Commons. He represents --represented-- Bosworth in the midlands. With the weather crisis, things like parliamentary representation have yet to be settled."

"What has Colonel Butler done, m'lord?" Bennett asked.

"Disappeared," North said bluntly. "For the past month, he has not attended meetings in the Commons chamber on the ground floor, and the landlady at his boarding house says she has not seen the Colonel even longer than that. His room was given to a new boarder and the old lady collected his items. She says that it seems he just left and never came back."

Bennett raised his eyebrow. Members of parliament were known to come and go, especially now with the Commons not in session and the extraordinary circumstances of the time. Why would Lord North care about where Colonel Butler was?

Except...

"The Duke of Grafton?" Bennett asked. "The rumors are true, then?"

North nodded. "By god, sir, you are a clever fellow. Yes, the Duke of Grafton is griped with... something. Call it madness or hysteria or even intense melancholy. Whatever ails him, he is in no shape to serve as prime minister. As soon as parliament reconvenes, there will be a no confidence vote against him. As head of the Exchequer I am the natural successor, but there are some who would disagree."

"And Colonel Butler is a Tory." Bennett stated. It was not meant to be a question. "A key vote in the election of the next Tory leader."

North spread his hands as if to say there you have it.

"If the colonel has fled the city, then he needs to be found and brought back in time for the next session in the Commons. If you can do this for me, Sir Thomas, then you will have the thanks of the nation and your government. For king and country, will you assist me?"

Bennett made sure that his smile was not as wide as he wanted it to be when he answered.

"Yes, of course. For king and country."

And, he thought to himself, to have the next prime minister of the United Kingdom in my debt.

Ohio Country

The overcast sky had given way to flurries of snow. Although it was just after three in the afternoon gray clouds hung heavy in the sky, obscuring the sun behind them and making the chilly afternoon dip even lower. The clouds were snow clouds. The flurries would intensify in short order and leave the entire area blanketed in snow.

"We should head back to town before the snow gets too bad, sir."

George Washington looked away from the sky and down at his aide. Lieutenant Reynolds looked up at him a hint of a smile on his face and an expectant look in his eyes. Behind the two officers were the two senior non-commissioned officers in the regiment, Sergeants McCall and Ferguson, on horseback and Washington's slave Henry on foot.

"Let's go," Washington said tightly.

He lead the party the two miles back to Fort Fredrick amidst the continuous snowfall. Halfway there Washington ordered Sergeant McCall to let Henry ride on the back of his horse to quicken their pace. The sergeant made a sour face at the thought of having a slave up so close to him, but he would not disobey orders and let Henry hang on to the rump of his horse for the rest of the way back to the fort.

Fort Fredrick was little more than four wooden walls, but it was a far cry from the building Washington had arrived to find four months earlier. Despite the short autumn season already giving way to an early winter, Washington and his men were able to build proper shelter before the first serious snowfall arrived in November. The soldiers had even managed to help the small settlement next to the fort improve upon their own homes and buildings before the winter.

Washington went back to his quarters with Reynolds and Henry in his wake. The slave went about setting the fire in the cabin while Reynolds spread out a map and accompanying documents on a table. Reynolds jotted notes on a piece of paper as Washington donned a pair of spectacles and looked down at the map.

"You sketched this with your own hand, sir?" Reynolds asked with a glance up at the older man. "I am impressed, sir."

"I have some experience with surveying, lieutenant," was all Washington would say.

Reynolds squinted at the map before measuring distances and points on the map. While Reynolds tried to calculate distance, Washington already knew the figure he would come up with.

"I would say forty miles, lieutenant," Washington said before Reynolds could. "The settlement can't be much further than that."

"Forty-two miles, by my calculations."

Washington grunted and looked up as Henry stoked the fire to roaring.

"That'll be all, Henry" Washington said to his slave. "You can retire to your room until I need you."

"Yes, sir," Henry said with a sweeping bow before departing to his own little room off to the side of Washington's.

"Same for you, Lieutenant."

"Sir? Reynolds asked. "You do not wish for me to write the survey report?"

"I am capable," said Washington. "With the weather, I need some activity to occupy my mind. It will do me good. If you need a task, then head into the settlement and see if their supply wagon ever came in. Report back if it has still not arrived. That'll be all."

Reynolds gave Washington a salute before leaving the room. He was alone with just his thoughts and the crackling of the logs in the fire. He sighed and walked towards the window. The snow they had raced to beat was now coming down steady and blanketing the area. It was going to be a long winter, maybe even longer than last year's winter if that were possible.

Just the thought of last year made Washington's melancholy worse. Last year was perhaps the darkest year of his life. All he had fought for as a young man, all his striving to better his place in the world and make himself a true gentleman, had been snatched away from him by the cruel winter. The commission to the British Army he had longed for twenty years ago had come his way, but at a terrible price. He was now a professional soldier by trade, his salary going directly to Martha and his stepchildren to help them in the new house. The land they had purchased in North Carolina was a far cry from Mount Vernon but compared to some of the other Virginia planters the Washingtons had landed on their feet.

Washington turned to his work. The past week had been spent mapping out the area between Fort Fredrick and the Iroquois village. His superiors wanted a detailed map in order to plan a settlement. The ragtag community next to the fort -- dubbed George Town by the residents -- was temporary at best, a site to live on until the Ohio Company and British Army could clear out the space for a proper settlement. The job was part of his bad humor as well. Word had it that in the south, a great expedition was being mounted to drive Cherokee further west. While the men in the south would see plenty of action, Washington was stuck here just sitting and waiting and potentially acting as a diplomat with the Iroquois.

"Enter," Washington said when he heard a knock at the door.

Reynolds entered with snow covering his hat and the shoulders of his coat. He took off his hat and held it to his breast.

"Sir, I talked to Proctor in the village. He says that the supply wagon they've been waiting on has yet to arrive. It's now three days overdue."

Washington looked away from Reynolds and out at the snowfall. Supplies were already running low among the soldiers, so there was no question the village was running out as well. Sickness was also beginning to filter through the barracks and into the town and medicine was supposed to be on the way. That wagon was desperately needed as the heart of winter approached.

"Reynolds," Washington finally said. "Pick the six best men in the regiment and have them mount up. We're going to ride out and see if we can find this missing wagon."

A light snow fall fell upon the field. Lightly forested and inter-spaced with trees the snowfall came down in a light dusting. It was the prelude to a storm to come, and gathering by the fires in the field a growing gathering of native men and women came to flock at the site of the council gathering. The winter's snow was already building up around the trunks of trees and drifts were forming that built up so high that a man had no trouble walking onto the lower branches, and climbing nimbly a little higher so as to see the building show that played out below.

The sea of men carried for what looked to be leagues to the sharp hunters and warriors. And gathering here in this space the multitudes of tribes shuffled through the snow to gather. And with them the multitudes of dress of the tribes they represented.

In one corner of the field were the Miami, who sat stoically by their fires dressed in their light cotton shirts, supplemented by furs. In the gray cloudy light of the weather about them, and in the warm orange crackle of the fires their beaded headbands shone in the light. Their leather moccasins buried in the light snow fall as they sat hunched by the fire, arms resting on their knees. They watched the gathering nations through stony eyes as their women sat cross legged in buckskin dresses and heavy pants, babies clung slung to their mother's backs, their small fisted hands wrapped about their mother's shoulders and necks as they watched the presently peaceable tribes men walking among them with eyes wide with awe and wonder.

The noble Ojibwa stood elsewhere, dressed in their buckskins with their sharp square patterns woven into the layered deer skins with reed and nettle fibers. They peered out thoughtfully and knowingly with a prideful demeanor as they leaned on their long muskets in the gathering snow. Other pelts hung slung over their shoulders to provide warmth in this bitter cold weather, beaver, muskrat, coyote.

The Lenape loitered in the distance. Their former tribe-lands having been so far to the east they had adopted much of the clothes of the western men and they wore woolen and cotton shirts and buck skin pants. Their hair was cut short or combed across their heads if it were long. Some wore small metal crosses about their necks if they had readily converted to the ways of the Puritans, though they held to that tentatively and with half-hearts.

The Ottawa, almost defiant of the weather stood by their fires dressed only in their heavy fibrous cloaks, naked of all else under neath. Their muskets strapped to their backs and their hands wrapped about tomahawks they held out in front of them. Their women in rabbit skin cloaks and tending to morsels of meat they cooked on the fires that warmed them.

The Pottowami had their buffalo robes, and while not summer some had chosen to wear blue as if to identify themselves from the other tribes. Heavy padded leggings helped to keep them warm on this cold snowing afternoon.

And of these tribes there were more. From the Mississauga of Canada to the Menominee from across the great Mishigami. And tribes had drifted in from elsewhere, wary but hopeful that the summons to this location would be of benefit to them as much as the other tribes here. They came in lost, huddled under heavy furs and bright anxious eyes.

All the people gathered below a small hill. A gathering of great men had already begun, and from the spectators below men and women both craned their heads to see who was up there. And more twisted and stretched to see not just who was there, but the two greater names: Pontiac and Guyasuta.

Pontiac stood tall out of the crowd, an imposing figure with a large build. He looked imposing, yet graceful as he spoke with baited breath with the other elders and high-ranking chiefs of the gathered tribes. He looked at each of the men with brown sullen eyes and a wizened face. Heading on into his fifties the fine lines of bearing the weight of so many winters was wearing into his face and his shallow face accentuated his strong, forward pronounced chin. His complexion was like that of tarnishing bronze, dark and earthy. His long oil-black hair hung down to his shoulders, and longer.

Guyasuta was himself too a wizened man with the lines of winter and scars of war. His dark eyes brooding from a strong brow and a head of long black hair. He stood with his arms cross and wrapped about his barrel chest. Occasionally he would reach up to his round chin and scratch thoughtfully at it. His complexion was paler, but very much indian.

Finally, the chiefs stood aside and Pontiac stepped forward with his arms outstretched motioning for silence. He stepped carefully through the building snow. As soon as the tribes had saw his motions for silence, the tense murmurings of the gathering crowd fell silent and all looked up to him expectantly as Pontiac readied himself for his sermon on the mount.

“My fellow brothers and sisters of the great land.” Pontiac called out in an unwavering stern voice, “It is not my duty to call to your attention the great hardships that had befallen our people here in our homes. For it is through all of us that we have come to be burdened by the tremendous onslaught of some foul misfortune. A terror from across the great endless seas to the east, and one which has closed winter tight about us in every passing year. And we as a people have been slinking back, meek and afraid of these changes and too afraid of our own brothers and our own neighbors to not make adequate resistance!”

Pontiac spoke almost accusingly, like a scolding parent. But beneath the venom there was an unwavering love and commitment to the people here. He dared not call them his people, for they were all their own, and they were all their own tribe. They had came to this field, to this hill because each in their own way, and in their own tribes had elected by common recognition the value in his and his peer's words and proposals. So they came to seek him out, and to listen.

“Every passing month we slink away into the forests in hopes of living just a little bit longer on our sacred lands as from beyond the Alleghenay in the east. And even so beyond those mountains the tumultuous great ocean across. While we may have feared these strange men, white as the winter's snow which now blankets our home we did not fight them as we could have; and now these very men our stealing our homes from us! These British men! And we let them!

“From some home beyond the world they came as invaders and thieves of common land. Land owned by no man except for by all! They lack the understanding of the natural laws that have for generations and eons ruled the conduct of man in accordance to nature. And now they burn, chop, and destroy the land for themselves and pretend to work upon it like Gods. They enslave the land, and misuse it. And they force those of us who had been the land's children from the land without remorse. They seek to hammer out the thousands of years of wisdom passed down to us from our elders, as we will our children. But if we fail to let up then there will be no land for us to pass onto our children; it will be all eaten away.”

“People of the land, we do not need to live like meek animals avoiding the ravenous wolves of the invader. Together we can come together and to be strong; we can go to the invader and tear down their longhouses. We can go to the invader and we can kill their men, and take their women. We can go to the invader and force them from the land that we all own as common brothers!” Pontiac roared.

He let his words hang a little on the cold air, lowering his hands. “They will try to fight us.” he said, his tone dropping but holding to a noble yell. His words echoed in the snowy din of the winter afternoon, “Many of us will die. But we will go and fight them, as we have as men and as our fathers and grandfathers have gone forth to fight as men. Our enemies will not be noble in battle. They will not be honorable. They do not fight one-to-one as brave warriors and they fall to tricks. They sick upon us wolves. They sell to us whiskey. They have great curses and thunderous guns. They are many.

“But the enemy is not wise! They do not know the land! They came so stubbornly to rape it that they do not know how to live off of it. The people that come to steal the land can not seek to live from it for they know naught how to live except by forcing others to do it for them! They stupidity is an immense folly! And us who have lived through as many winters as cold and terrible as these that have come lately know how to live! They know the plants in the field that still grow in the snow, what food might be found when the snow piles as high as the wigwam! But these men, stupid and fat in the ways of the world when the snow is as high as their wetu they are besieged until the snow clears again and they crawl out into the world again like stupid, lazy old bear!

“It is important for us, my brothers, that we exterminate from our lands this nation which seeks only to destroy us. You see as well as I that we can no longer supply our needs, as we have done for so many generations. Therefore, my brothers, we must all swear their destruction and wait no longer. Nothing prevents us; they are few in numbers, and we can accomplish it.”

There was a thunderous roar of applause from many of the tribes. If not all of them present. Turning to face all the people Pontiac collected the applause of roars and war-cries of approval that rained from all directions. Somewhere distant muskets were fired in celebration and honor and their deep guttural cracks ripped into the still, snowy air cutting the stillness of the falling snow in thunderous pop.

“Break them!” Pontiac shouted out, to a hail of additional applause, “Send them to their distant homes where they earned their place as destroyers of the natural order! We do not seek our extinction!”

The general volley of approval surged into that of high approval and somewhere a tribe began singing a song to their ancestors and there was praise in the air.

Guyasuta stepped up alongside Pontiac and patted him approvingly on the shoulders. The two exchanged glowing smiles and Pontiac retreated, giving Guyasuta the crown of the hill. Guyasuta rose a hand, asking for silence from the tribes and their rapturous cries of ecstasy ebbed away.

“The task set before us is arduous.” Guyasuta stated plainly. He spoke firm but stiffly. “And while many of us have among us our rivalries I beseech upon you those who are noble to set them aside. Our enemy is numerous and uniform. And we must be like them. Uniform and steady, as one as the trees in the forest are one with themselves.

“As we go forth, to affirm our nation do not surrender to petty squabbles. Set aside your anger for one another where it is now, and where it may go in the future. Direct this anger and this pain for the future and the enemy before us. Do not seek out new enemies, for we only need the one great one before us.

“And plainly we see around us men and women who are not of this land, but are like us in having lost the land and being brothers and sisters of their land. We are gracious hosts to them, and I extend my hand as a Seneca and of the Haudenosaunee as a friend and as a willing participant in battles to come with them at my side. Our cause is common, our needs the same. Come together as one brave voice, and as a wind we will topple the ambitions of our foes and blunt their spears with our strength.

“We are not just men of a single tribe, we are a nation our own. As our enemy is. Let us define our nation and plunge the enemy into the cold ocean. The law of nature will be our creed, and the will of God will see it through!”

There was loud applause, and pleasant cheering from the assembly. Though not as excited as they were for Pontiac, Guyasuta had stirred them one and all. And before even the cheering could come to an end Pontiac stepped forward to give one final address.

“The enemy has a fort, not far to the east. They call this fort Detroit, and we will take Detroit from them and use it as our own! Their guns will be our guns and with them we will break the resistance of the enemy and turn back their encroachment on the land. I offer myself to this task, and request from any man here today to come join me in war to take this fort. Those rest among you: return to your warchiefs, and begin planning your own campaigns. Let us never be defeated, lest we die!”

The Ohio Country

George Washington thundered across the snow covered field on his horse while the other six riders traveled in his wake. Snow flurries fell all around them as they raced towards the fire. The blaze and the accompanying smoke could be seen from miles away. Washington and his scouting party had spotted the smoke after an hour's ride east of the fort. Another hour on the road led them to the fire.

Washington was the first to dismount. He slung his long, powerful legs off his horse before it had fully stopped. He had his saber out as he approached the source of the fire: a wooden wagon consumed with flame. Scattered around the wagon were crates, barrels, and two bodies face down in the snow.

"Sir," one of the non-commissioned officers called to him. "There may be ambushers in the woods."

The colonel sheathed his sword and pulled his flintlock pistol from his belt.

"Spread out," he said with an eye towards the fire. "The wagon is too far gone to save. Whoever did this can't be too far past. Look for trails in the snow."

His men complied the orders while Washington approached one of the bodies. It was a man, face down in the snow with blood covering the back of his head. Washington knelt and flipped the body over. Hobby Jones, the Welshman who made the two hundred mile trip to gather supplies from Fort Ohio. Jones' eyes were rolled into the back of his head and the top of his forehead had a deep knife wound on it. It looked as if someone had tried to scalp him and then gave up on the act before fleeing.

The second body was that of Jones' sixteen year old boy Hubert. Hubert, like his father, had been beaten in the back of the head by some hard object and was poorly scalped, Hubert's scalping being a successful but sloppy one that left a few patches of scalp upon his skin. Washington stood and grimaced at the sight.

"We found tracks," Lieutenant Reynolds announced. "They look to be horse tracks, leading northwest away from here off the beaten path. Too narrow to be Jones' wagon."

The young lieutenant made a face at the bloody mess that had been Hubert Jones. Washington remembered that the man was the third son of some English aristocrat, born and raised in England before the cold came and forced him out to the wilderness. This was probably his first taste of the violence that the rough country had to offer.

"Lieutenant," Washington said sternly, just enough to snap Reynolds out from his stupor. "You and Corporal Smith stay here, salvage whatever supplies have not been destroyed and make them ready to transport back to Fort Fredrick. I will lead the men forward to follow the tracks."

"Sir... what if it's a savage hunting party?"

Washington stared at Reynolds before turning to look at the carnage around the wagon.

"It's not," was all Washington replied with. "I know it to be true."

With a sharp whistle, he called together the rest of the party and mounted his horse.

"The Lieutenant and Corporal will stay behind. The rest of you, follow my lead and make your arms ready. I expect us to engage enemies very shortly."

Without another word, Washington spurred his horse forward and followed the tracks of the attackers.

Feet crunched through snow as the band wound up the wooden palisades of Detroit. Their arms wrapped tight around themselves, they held blankets over their heads and bodies as if to protect themselves from the cold. Each man walking the procession kept his head bowed low as if in a tired depression. They shuffled, their moccasins kicking up the snow that was gathering around them as they walked up the barren emptiness surrounding Detroit. At the head of the snaking trail walked Pontiac.

His head raised ahead, he shuffled through the snow. The coldness of the air biting his throat and nose. The air was dry, and as he breathed it in it burned the inside of his throat. His throat seemed to burn in the still cold afternoon. Drawing close to the gate, Pontiac's hands wrapped around the heavy weight concealed in his cloak. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. As his eyes met with that of the red coat's at the gate he could feel a chill of the soul.

The guardsman looked tired, and cold. He was growing a sprout of a beard on his chin and a long black cloak hung over his shoulders like a cape. As he approached the war chief he left his musket at the door.

“Now stop right there!” he called out in his strange foreign accent, “You go no further until you explain what is going on here.”

Pontiac stopped, finding the courage in his heart he turned back to his men, their heads bowed and faces concealed. There were hundreds in all, many had flocked to his call. And many more lay in wait in the trees out of the fort's view. He had laid out their divine path before them, and now it was time to take their path.

“My people are cold, and hungry.” Pontiac said, turning to address the guard, “The game is scarce from the forest. We would like to step inside, and speak to your commander. I am willing to offer what I may, provided my people are given food and warmth. After: we shall be on our way.”

It was the British officer's turn to look over Pontiac, and then upon the men he led. He gritted his teeth and curled his lips down. “You look like a sorry lot.” he said, but his voice did not sound nearly charitable but bitter, “What do you have to offer us?”

“Out hunters have killed many beaver.” Pontiac explained, this was true; but it was not for the British, “We are offering to exchange the furs for food. As was customary under when the French were here, and we hope you will offer the same generosity.”

“Oi, and what about us?” the soldier demanded, “We're cold, hungry. We haven't had no good company in a long while.”

Pontiac paused, considering. “What is you want?” he asked considering, hauntingly.

“I hear you have some right good bitches. Say we get to warm our beds with some of your whores.” the guard said. There was no lack of pride in his tone, nor did he suggest he was willing to negotiate on it. “We and the lads haven't had a good fuck in ages. You barbarians share everything, share with us those wives of yours.”

The demands gave Pontiac reason to pause. The cold tension that had snared his heart began to melt to rage. But he couldn't act now, it wasn't time. He had to keep some control. “Then I guess... you give us no choice.” he said, he voice wavering, “But only after we step inside, and we eat.”

“Good as any.” snorted the guard, turning and waving to the gate. With a groan the great wooden doors opened. There was a strain yawn from the hinges holding them on. As they opened, Pontiac stepped forward.

“I expect a good fuck for this!” the guard shouted, following them leisurely inside with them.

The fort of Detroit was a mournful stage of activity. Men warming their hands by bonfires looked up at the unwelcome Indian guests. Craftsmen and work smiths toiled over the routine operations of maintaining the fort, sharpening swords and bayonets, fitting horse-shoes. In a corner men drilled in formation, the low laconic tap-tap-tap of marching drums giving rhythm and time to the men.

To the natives, all of this was foreign and unnatural. They marched ahead towards the central command compound and began to gather in the yard, bunching into a tight group. “Right, I'll get the commander.” the guard from the gate said, spitting as he headed to the door of the command post.

As the gate closed shut behind, Pontiac's grip on the weight he had concealed tightened. The guard stepped up the stoop of the wooden cabin and the gate slammed shut. Pontiac's hand wrapped around the handle, and his finger found the trigger. As the gate latch swung closed with a resounding clang they were locked in.

As fast as a starling Pontiac tore the pistol out from under his cloak. Like a corsair in the south he revealed a bandoleer of numerable loaded pistols hidden under his cloak. The blanket fell away as the pistol came up and fired. The shot split the still winter air like a clap of thunder. The guard at the door flew forward from the impact of the shot, the door spattered with the spray of his blood and he fell aside gasping and gurgling as blood flooded his lungs.

Events evolved fast. Screams and cries of startled panic inflamed the fort as the native warriors sprang to life and produced the fire-arms they held hidden under their coats. Gun fire erupted throughout the fort, the defenders scattering to find cover or their guns. Many were shot down in the snow. The drilling squad, startled rushed to formation to fire on the Indians.

Pontiac turned, shouting: “Before they fire!”

His voice roared as he rose another fresh gun and fired. He was followed by a successive volley of shot unloaded on the British unit before they could fire.

By this time, the men on the palisades had well realized what was going on, and the first ringing shots were starting to be turned inward. The Indian unit scattered, muskets gleaming in the winter sun and returned fire. Pontiac turned on the command post, and forced his way inside, throwing aside the spent pistol.

A redcoat officer made to charge him with a saber the moment he stepped inside. A ball to the face sent him reeling back, half his face carved away. The sword jangled to the ground, the mortal British officer choking and coughing on blood from his busted face. He gleamed up at Pontiac through one remaining good eye as the Indian war chief moved ahead.

Pontiac turned a corner, catching a glint out of the corner of his eye. Pontiac stepped aside in time to be missed by the thrust bayonet of a British regular. The burly white man staggered forward as he recovered from the fast, long thrust of his bayonet tip, sneering bitterly as the Ojibwa. But the sneer disappeared as Pontiac leveled a pistol at him.

He moved aside the moment Pontiac pulled the trigger and the shot crashed harmlessly against the naked wall behind him. Pontiac's heart-skipped a beat, and he cursed under his breath. He threw aside the gun as the regular threw himself against the warleader with the tip of the bayonet out. The blade came swift, and it cut along the side of Pontiac's torso as it tore into the remains of the blanket tied around his neck and buried itself into the log wall.

The Brit grabbed for a knife at his belt side and lunged for Pontiac. The Indian chief grabbed the knife hand and threw it aside. The knife flashing alongside his face. He grabbed from his own sheathed in his buckskin and drew it out, and up into the man's arm pit. The skin broke and there was a sickening crunch as it sheered flesh and cut into bone. He screamed in pain as blood poured from the wound. Pontiac twisted, throwing the regular to the ground. The musket falling back from its own weight. Pontiac pulled the knife from the man's arm-pit and in a wide arc brought it down into his chest.

He fought weakly to force Pontiac off of him. But his strength left him as fast as his breath was sapped away. Pontiac pulled back, and left him to bleed to death on the floor.

Pontiac moved deeper through the command post. Coming on a door he threw it open, pulling out another pistol. “Oh bloody Hell.” a man started, jumping. He was a round, aging figure. A heavy British officer's uniform hanging from his shoulders. Quickly the commander rose his own pistol and fired a quick sudden shot.

It missed. Timbers sprayed against the side of Pontiac's face and the Indian chief returned the fire.

He hit, striking him in the shoulder. With a pained “oomph” the old man spun back and crashed against the wall, his hands reaching out to find support in the cloth-drapped tables under the windows, but only managed to pull a clattering mess of utensils and a tea set over him.

As the gunfire outside quieted, Pontiac stepped over to the commander. Still alive, the wide-eyed Brit starred up at him in disbelief and horror. “Y-you!” he said, his voice cracked, “You were at Monongahela. Why are you here?”

Henry Galdwin was shaking as he lay against the wall. Pontiac looked down on him, he wasn't looking well. Pale and sickly, as well as old. “We want our land back.” Pontiac demanded. He turned the pistol that he had shot in his hand, brandishing the grip like a war club. Galdwin's eyes went wide as Pontiac swung the pistol up like a club. With a dull thwack it crashed down on the commander's face. Pontiac raised the pistol again, and swung down harder on the general. After repeated blows, Pontiac had reduced his head to a bloodied pulp.

January 5th, 1770: Ninety-Six, South Carolina

General John Burgoyne left his rented home on the north eastern side of town and watched as a slight snow lightly salted the trod ground. The air smelled like construction, a scent made by freshly cut wood, sawdust, and the pungency of mules and horses. Even here in the west cabins came up quickly. The bulk of the newcomers were colonial families, who had sold their eastern properties to wealthy Englishmen for a hefty sum, allowing them to purchase larger lots and acres of uncut wilderness on the frontier.

The General mounted, followed by the men he kept at his side. On his right rode Major Horatio Gates. The dour man was quartermaster for the expedition. Burgoyne found him ill-humored and plain, a man who could easily be mistaken for a colonial by anybody who didn't know better. On his left rode a man more of Burgoyne's breeding; the Baron Lothar von Dahmetal, commander of the Prussian regiment sent by their government to aid in the clearing of these territories; an act, no doubt pointed out to King Frederick by diplomats from his majesty King George, that was to the benefit of both peoples. The differences between Major Gates and Baron von Dahmetal was visually immediate. Major Gates rode slumped, his uniform clean but plain, his expression like that of a puritan riding muleback into gin alley. Baron von Dahmetal was sharply dressed in Prussian blue, badges and metals tinkling on his breast, his cap that of a grenadier, and his expression like a monarch surveying his demesne.

They passed through the town, through soldiers off-duty bargaining with locals for goods, purchasing food and clothing for themselves before their plunge into the American wilderness. The locals came in two groups, often times distinguishable from each other; the new comers busied themselves, acting much like the soldiers in their bartering. The locals stayed in clumps, holding to themselves, eyeing newcomers and keeping their conversations low. They passed such a group of young ladies, and Burgoyne set an especially martial pose as he rode by, keeping his eye on the girl in the lead of the group, newly at the age of marriage with delightful olive skin, sparkling eyes, and hair black as crape. When they were well past her, Burgoyne turned to Major Gates.

"If you had to choose a companion in this wilderness, that one wouldn't be so bad" he said, nodding toward the girl.

"She is a Jewess, sir." Gates said dully.

"Well we share the same God, sir." Burgoyne said. "I believe we could become familiar on that common ground and discover new topics of conversation upon the expansion of our friendship."

"We all have our customs." Gates replied.

"Indeed." Burgoyne said. "And my custom is to enjoy those of others, if there is enjoyment to be found."

"I would think a man at your age would keep his enjoyment for his wife." Gates said.

Burgoyne did not dignify the Major's sally with a response. The Prussian smiled. He understood English though he found it hard to speak it.

At the center, the town was a few old log buildings interspersed with new construction. One the edge of town everything was new, with the smell of fresh lumber permeating, and work going on all around. This place did not have the nauseating scent of disaster and refugees now present in Charles Town, but the rapid growth warned that the fate of the later town could very well be in the future of the former. Or, heaven forbid, the entirety of the new world.

The Army camped on the south side of Ninety-Six creek. Threads of smoke rose from camp fires among the trees. The largest camp was that of the British Regulars, their neatly kept camp stretching on for miles and made apparent by the glow of red uniforms in the light mix of snow and haze. The Prussians kept to their own corner of the woods where the uniforms went from red to a dark blue and the smell of cooking rations took on an almost exotic smell. Surrounding them in a crescent, on the face of the hills as they slanted toward the creek, the irregulars mixed with the colonial troops in a disordered mess. There were less of them then the regulars, but they took up more room. This erked General Burgoyne, and he rode through their camp in search of their commander.

Here was a gathering of the worst; colonists, poor irregulars, and Scots. They put down their tents where they felt, if they had tents at all. Some slept under blankets hung from tree branches, or crude shelters made from sticks leaned onto poles. The colonial troops scarcely noticed an officer riding through their midst, though the others at least showed the proper respects.

He found the commanding officer near the creek, not a young man, but a younger man then Burgoyne, with dark hair tied behind his head and the tight-lipped expression of a church-going New Englander.

"Colonel Lincoln." Burgoyne called.

"What ho!" Lincoln said, startled from watering his horse. "Yes, sir?"

"There is a proper way to order a camp, and what I see here does not seem to be in line with that order. What if the enemy were to spring across this creek?"

"We would defend it well, sir." Lincoln said.

"I am sure you would make the effort." Burgoyne replied. "But it would take much of that effort just to make a line out of this. Bring your men together, man! Establish a quartermaster."

"I will take that wisdom to heart, sir." Lincoln said. "But I must petition to you that what you see is not everything that I have. The men mustered to my command haven't all arrived. What you see, sir, is a military half-baked."

"Well then, by God sir, bake it. I wish to clear these Cherokee before spring so that the coming campaign can be carried on in the summer. If there is a summer coming, I should say."

Lincoln looked surprised. "The Cherokee are not the supreme campaign? Pardon my speech, sir, but if our main thrust is not meant for them, what could it be meant for?"

"The King wishes these lands cleared to the great river." Burgoyne said.

"That is an impressive thrust."

"Yes." Burgoyne stood up straight. "That is how I intend to make it. In the mean time, sir, you and your second officer are invited to my quarters for supper tonight. If we are to go on so long a campaign, I wish all of my officers to know each other. To our relief, much of the fine drink of the old world was saved from the freeze, and we have some of it."

"I will be there, sir." Lincoln said. "Though I must admit that I do not drink."

"That is quite alright." Burgoyne smiled. "I am certain we can find water somewhere nearby the house."

Mount Pleasant, SC

"Good afternoon, madam," Sir Thomas Bennett said with a gracious bow.

He and Ames stood in the doorway of Mrs. Abigail Cross' boarding house. The little old lady with the dour expression before them had to be Mrs Cross. Her wrinkled face and toothless mouth gave her the appearance of one who had sucked on a lemon for far too long. A pair of spectacles stood on the bridge of her nose and threatened to fall off due to her stooped posture.

"There's no rooms for rent," she shouted. Before eyeing Ames and Bennett, making an assumption, and scowling. "Especially not to bloody sodomites."

"I have no interest in renting a room," Bennett said as politely as he could. "Nor do I have an interest in... the sodomic arts. I am here on an inquiry. My name is Sir Thomas Bennett and this is my associate, Sergeant William Ames and we are here at the request of His Majesty's government."

Ames held out a piece of paper written by Lord North's secretary that empowered them with the right to search whatever and whomever they saw fit in the course of their investigation. The letter was stamped with Lord North's personal seal, that of the Exchequer's office, and even the seal of His Majesty's Government. Mrs. Cross took it into her twisted hands and eyed it. Bennett had very little optimism that she could read beyond very basic words, but she would know the seals for sure.

"Colonel Stephen Butler," Bennett said as Ames gingerly plucked the paper from Mrs. Cross' hands. "We understand he recently boarded here."

"That he did, sir." The old lady's sour tone had turned deferential after seeing the letter. "He was a good man, kept to himself. Paid his rent."

"How long ago did he stop coming round?" Ames asked.

"It's been almost a month." The old lady still gave Ames a withering look despite their newfound entree. "It's been known to happen, sirs. Renters come and go. He was paid up and I had too many paying people in need of a place to stay."

"So his room has been rented out?" Asked Bennett.

"For a a week now. I held it as long as I could."

"Did he leave anything behind?"

"A whole box of belongings."

Bennett flashed his best pleasing smile. The same smile had worked on judges, clients, and nobility alike.

"Madam, I have a proposition for you."

---

Back at his law office, Bennett sat behind his desk as Ames upturned the box and spilled its contents onto the desk' surface. Clothing, scraps of paper, and other various items.

"I think we may have gotten cheated out of two pounds, Sergeant," Bennett said as he looked at the assortment of items on his desk.

"Better than the four pounds the lady was requesting," Ames said with a chuckle. "What an old crone."

Bennett grunted in agreement as he and Ames started to sift through the items. He found a waistcoat with a few odd stains on it that he set aside. There was a pocketwatch as well. Bennett stared at it for a long moment. This was a rare item indeed. He'd seen advertisements with rewards up to ten and twenty pounds for the recovery of lost and stolen watches. He weighed it carefully in his hands before flipping it open. The glass inside was cracked and the watch was not running. He wound it up but found it still did not work. His eyes then moved to the etched inscription. To Stephen: Come Home Victorious, or Not At All.

"What do you make of this," Bennett asked Ames as he handed him the watch.

"A lovely sentiment," Ames said wryly. "With that type of affection, it could only be a gift from a parent."

"And judging by the state of it, the dear colonel cherishes the gift," Bennett said with a touch of sarcasm.

"Look at this," Ames said as he passed Bennett a slip of paper.

It was more a scrap, torn off a larger sheet with something hastily written on it.

Cpt. B. Roundtree -- 60 Pounds
Augusta

"Augusta," Bennett said softly. "Where is that?"

"Across the river in Georgia," said Ames. "Not exactly the wilderness, but a far cry from Charlestown."

Bennett nodded. Sixty pounds was a substantial sum of money, just a shade under the sixty-two pounds Bennett paid Ames per annum. If this B. Roundtree owed Colonel Butler sixty pounds -- or even better f Colonel Butler was indebted to this man for sixty pounds -- then he was a man they needed to talk to.

"Sergeant," Bennett said as he placed the paper back on the desk. "Have the boy downstairs fetch my riding boots and coat. I don't look forward to the ride to Augusta in this kind of weather."

Standing in the trees, Guyasuta looked out over the open field to the British fort of Miami. Snow had banked up over the open field that gave the hill-top palisade a clear view to the forest Guyasuta and his war party now sat in, squatting on their haunches with their muskets at the ready. A motley collection of braves had assembled around Guyasuta. He had set off previously with just short of several hundred volunteers from Michigan and trekked swiftly down to the Maumee river. As the entourage had traveled it picked up numerable native warriors who came to the side of Guyasuta and his entourage.

Spurred with the promise of salvation in the Master of Light, they had come to walk down the warpath with him. Now his force numbered a hundred more, and they sat waiting pensive. Observing the fort.

Fort Miami had around it a small village of collected houses and misshapen huts erected quickly by frontiersmen looking to huddle up in the protection of the British fort. Guyasuta's scouts had reported that some number of unarmed men and women lived in the confines of the fort's settlement at about half his own force, and that they might have guns. Experienced local traders said the British may occupy the fort at a force greater than what Guyasuta brought to the field.

Numbers aside, Guyasuta wanted the fort removed. The word had reached his lips that if Miami fell, the British garrisons in the west would be severed and if they destroyed it the move would be enough to coerce to the growing rebellion the tribes of the Illinois and possibly further: the Mamaceqtaw. And in liberating the north-west corner they could court French assistance.

A dark shape running across the snowy fields caught Guyasuta's eyes and he looked up and watched it. A young boy dressed in furs and deer hides was nimbly bounding over the drifts of snow. He held in his hand the corner of his blankets to hold them on his shoulders. As he approached the eastern war chief stood to rise.

“The British will not have us in.” the boy said, his voice strained and heavy, “They say they do not have enough supplies to offer us.”

“Would they accept trade?” Guyasuta asked.

“No, they do not have enough. We would need to wait until they get their convoys from across the Apalachians.”

Guyasuta numbly chewed the inside of cheek at that bitter news. He could feel his face redden in anger at the revelation. If they were to take the fort they would not be able to count on the element of surprise.

“If they are unwilling to share.” a brave said behind Guyasuta, “Then we can starve them out.”

The Senaca warleader turned and considered the young warrior with a curious, appraising look. He looked between he and the fort, and mulled over the words. Scratching the stubble of his chin he peered at the village around the fort.

“How long might they last if we drive all the whites into the fort?” he poised, “What do you think?” he turned to the warrior who had spoken earlier. He stepped forward and leaned forward on his musket as he joined Guyasuta in appraising the British establishment.

He was a short slender man, with a cold reddened face. His buck-skins were weighed down by the weight of bags of powder and shot he had acquired from raids on white caravans. His face, long and narrow and as he frowned it only lengthened. “I give them several months.” he said confidently, “If what they say is true.”

“Then we will lock them in behind their walls.” declared Guyasuta in a cold voice, “And you will have the honor of following me to drive these settlers in with the soldiers.” he crooned bitterly, “Burn their long houses, take what we can carry. Force them to waste their lead and shot.

He turned to the nearest warriors, beginning to dictate action. “You will take a team of a dozen, head to the roads and scout them, looking for wagons and men who may come down. Attack them immediately, take their scalps and their supplies and burn what can not be dragged away. Butcher any horses for the meat.” he said to one tall ably built brave. “Take several hand fulls of warriors to the river, and make sure no one leaves by boat. Fire any who come sailing down it.” he ordered another, “Drive away who you may or meet them in the water; capture everything you can. Our assault begins at your first shots.” in ordered another.

Both men nodded readily and picked their guns up, heading into the brush to assemble their men. Quickly, they were off.

For a short time, there was only the silence on the wind and the distant sounds of a small village community. Guyasuta sat in wait with the rest of his men listening to the hammering of an anvil, or the braying of mules. Somewhere a sergeant shouted drill orders and a drummer tapped on a drum. The peaceable silence felt as if it was going to last too long, forever perhaps. But it was cut with the loud roaring blasts from muskets that brought a knife to slash through the humdrum.

At the sounding of the reports the sounds ceased and an air of panic overtook the fort and settlement. Someone shouted they were under-attack, and that Guyasuta took as his cue. Raising his rifle over his head Guyasuta rose to charge across the great white waste and so to did many hundreds of braves, whopping and hollering as they charged across the snowy landscape to the fort, their rifles and bows held tight in their hands.

As it was realized what was happening, a greater furor of terrible fear erupted and the screams of warning became a concert of terror even before the mixed Indian force arrived. With a rattling of fire, the British regulars on the palisades unloaded a battery of musket fire on the charging native warriors. Guyasuta heard the sound of a musket ball cracking past his ear and flinched to the side reflexively as it slammed harmlessly into the snow banks. One man as Guyasuta saw was not as fortunate, and his gut was punctuated by a musket ball and he fell to the snow, clutching at his bleeding stomach with an expression of absolute pain as his guts threatened to leak out. He cried over the ensuing roar of musket fire.

Guyasuta never stopped. He came on the nearest cabin like a wolf and went to the door. With a hard kick he threw open the door and with several followers went inside. Standing in the far wall an old man lifted a gun to take aim, but was swiftly brought down by Guyasuta's followers, his body swiftly pulverized as it was perforated by musket shot, painting the far wall thick with blood. Women screamed from the far side of the room, and they were thrown to the floor and tied up as prisoners as Guyasuta and another began riffling through the meager possessions on the shelves for anything easily lifted.

As quickly as they had come the natives threw the captured women out on the street as musket fire filled the air and a chaotic cacophony erupted all around. From the fire-place Guyasuta pulled out a stick and using it as a torch went about the work of setting the hovel on fire. The woven rugs and curtains went up quick and soon the healthy start to a blaze was in full swing.

He darted out onto the street, his body lifted in excitement as his heart raced furiously in his chest. Whoops and hollers by his men echoed in the air. Musket fire was exchanged with the fort, and the smell of smoke was filling the air and mixing with the sharp metallic smell of spent gunpowder.

When a musket ball cracked at his feet sending flakes of frozen dirt and snow up against his leg, he threw himself aside and took cover besides a small shack and blindly returned fire up towards the fort. His men were beginning to take their hidden positions in the unnatural spaces provided by human settlement, attacking the British as they would have in the woods. Hiding behind walls as if they were trees or laying flat against the ground or under carts. A low silvery smoke was drifting across the snowy ground as they battled.

Guyasuta was frantically reloading his gun, his cold hands numbly scrambling for powder and shot and pouring it in, followed by packing the new gunpowder and chasing it with the ball. As he returned the ramrod and cocked back the hammer he swung back out from behind cover to see a settler racing towards his corner from down the street. The ground erupted in fountains of dirt and snow as shots missed, going wide or short around him. The two saw each other and each other's muskets brought up against the two.

The white was first to fire, and the wood alongside Guyasuta's face exploded in a shower of shredded timber. He flinched against the spray, and fired. The musket ball went low, but struck the man in the knee and he fell, his leg bending unnatural as he cried in agony. He hit the ground as a stray shot from the fort struck against his back and tore through he chest. His f ace lit up in gasping pain and he writhed briefly.

It wasn't long before Guyasuta had to move, the heat of the burning cabin hot on his back and the embers were beginning to rain down. The raid had been carried out brutally, and the sky was darkening in the smoke of war. Racing out in the street, the Seneca chief called for a retreat and his order was obeyed. Taking prisoners and loot they fled from the fort and back to the tree line. British shot chased them, but the settlement was emblazoned in great crimson fire. The fires were spreading, the air blackening with smoke so thick the fort was becoming obscured. It occurred to Guyasuta as he and his people fled that the British were firing blindly, hoping to find and hit an Indian where ever they might be.

Another part of him hoped to in seeing the fires, that the whole damn fort catch and burn to the ground for them. It would for his part save him a lot of trouble.




“Another!” the trapper shouted to the barman. A warm jovial light filled the bar room as a winter's wind blew outside. Snow pummeled the windows and the glass rattled in their frames. Obliging the order, the barman walked over and set on the table another bottle of vodka.

“Now Peter, I told you a story. Now you tell me.” the trapper invited with a warm smile on his face. It was late evening outside, almost nightfall. But the storm clouds had largely obscured the sky so evening or night hardly made any difference.

The trapper was a big burly man, his face kissed deeply by the sun and was a deep molasses brown. The cold and alcohol had also reddened it, and his face was blushed a deep red. His nose, Peter noted looked like a big red apple. And his facial hair more gnarled than the fur of a grizzly bear.

“Fine.” Peter Pytorvich Kavinovich said, smiling. He would have been a handsome man once, and a smart light shone in his eyes. Had he not been to war and the wilderness the marks and scars of his face would have made him stand out in city streets as a source of admiration among women and jealousy of men. His chin was round and clean shave, nose neither too wide or too long, his brow was gentle and smoothed easily. And even more so: his voice was heavy and easy to hear.

“There once was a boy in a village,” Peter began telling, “a little village out beyond the Yenisei river. He was a good little boy, tending his families horses. One day he goes out in search of herbs in the forests, and comes across a uniformed man by a horse in a clearing. Being a kindly innocent boy he approaches the man, and asks if he's lost.

“The stranger says he is, and that he has been wandering the wilderness for days and that he is low of vodka.” Peter's trapper friend giggled wetly, “So the boy, being polite and charitable points in the direction of his home and offers to lead him there. And so he does. Later that evening, after refilling his canteen the uniformed man and his horse leave for the wilderness again.

“The next day the village was dead. They were of the tatar.”

The trapper laughed grimly, and rose a wooden cup. “God damn the Cossacks!” he howled, quickly downing the entire glass of vodka before pouring more of his own.

“I believe it is my turn.” he said with a blushed, slurring voice.

“Are you sure friend, you looked a little adrift!” laughed Peter, “I don't know if you can tell an apt story before you forget where you were.”

The trapper smiled sheepishly. “You are right, Peter!” he declared joyfully, “Perhaps then you wouldn't mind if I lead in song!” he declared loudly.

The bar room groaned in despair, men lowered their faces into their hands and Peter smiled nervously, “That may not be the best. Perhaps we could play a game of dice?” he offered.

“Pah.” the trapper spat, “I left mine with my pack. Did you?” he asked.

Peter shook his head.

“Well shit, it seems we are all out of fun. But there is one game we can both play!” he had to catch himself on the meager wooden table, least he tumble onto the floor as he held out a finger in bold announcement, “We can see who between us can drink the most cups of vodka. I will put down fifty rubles.” he declared, stuffing his hands in his pocket and producing a fistful of uncounted coin.

If Peter ever needed to make easy money, it would have been there. While he had a few himself, he was far more sober than his partner who simply being so drunk forgot to realize Peter still had not touched his cup of vodka.

But before he could accept the offer the bar door opened and cold air howled into the fort's saloon. Loud protests sprang out accusingly as the newcomer stepped in and struggled to close the door behind him. With a loud click the latch was shut and the new man turned and apologized to the bar, lowering the hood on his heavy coat. Ringing his hands together he scanned the room, and set his eyes on Peter. He walked towards him.

“Sir Kavinovich,” the man started, he was a spritely skinny man, a pair of spectacles with small lenses rested on the top of a long bent nose.

“Alexei.” Peter said, “What do you want?” the question was cold and business like.

“A word of alert.” said Alexei in his waspy voice, “But sir Bogdan will be entreating the natives tomorrow morning outside the fort's walls to conduct trade. He wants a man of your military caliber there to provide, well back up.”

“He wants me to stand there and look tough then?” Peter quickly stated.

Alexei nodded affirming, “Of course.”

“Why can't he just fire a cannon over their heads and be done with it that way. Any of these savages shake in fear at the sound of so much as a small ship's gun.”

“He would, but the governor doesn't see it fit to waste powder on something like this. He wants you there, among others, to make us look strong. Namely, he wants you there first and foremost.”

“I'm not as spectacular as any of the other people here. Why not Han Su? He's a large bear of a chink.”

“That's the thing, Su is a Mandarin. Bogdan doesn't want to tolerate them so upfront and important.”

“Well I-” Alexei started, he was going to say Bogdan should suck his cock and deal with it, but figured that wasn't the right thing to say to the only individual on more than amiable speaking terms with him from the governor's office.

“Fucking orientals.” the trapper slurred drunkenly, “You can hardly tell what they're saying, the speak so much gibberish.”

“Fine, I'll be there.” Peter said, “What time?”

“Day break. The native chief told he he would arrive by the time the sun rises.”

Peter grumbled annoyed as he stood up, “Then I best pack it in.” he said.

“You're leaving?” the Trapper asked, amazed and perhaps a little offended.

“I am. Sorry, friend.” he said.