[h1]Indiana[/h1]
[h2]Fort Miami[/h2]

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.

[h1]Northern California[/h1]
[h2]Fort Nadezha[/h2]

“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.