PLUS
CHAPTER FIVE
TWO DAYS BEYOND Reading, Emmett lay on his belly, rethinking his strategy. After the storm he'd had two days of cold weather, and then blessed warmth had come. The last of the teamster's beef, then one meal grudgingly provided by a farmer after Emmett lugged water enough to float a frigate, plus an unwatched chicken house on Reading's outskirts, had supplied him so far.
But now was the time for redrawing rations. Across the road and up a rise lay the farm he had planned to use for his victualing as far back as Valley Forge. The problem now, Emmett thought, catching and killing a louse caught by the afternoon sun, was that someone else appeared to have gotten here first. Smoke still curled up from the ruined farmhouse and outbuildings.
Shannon had seen this farm months earlier, when he'd been detailed with seven other men, a sergeant, and a brainless ensign, to forage. The problem was, General Washington was a gentleman. His soldiers didn't know— and wouldn't have given a damn if they had—that everyone from Washington up through the Continental Congress was scared spitless their army might be thought similar to the scoundrels of King George. British soldiers were infamous looters, thieves, gamblers, and drunkards, known for quartering themselves in civilian homes without payment. If this meant the Continental Army would be honest and sober, sleeping in the snow if necessary, so be it. It also meant that any foraging party had to pay—on the spot—for supplies. But payment would be in worthless paper currency, and the British paid in gold. It did not matter to the farmers around Valley Forge that selling anything to the enemy was a court-martial offense. Mostly canny Germans, they knew they could outthink or outhide anything from any army, having generations of experience against the larcenous armies and rulers of their homelands. Why should America be different?
Shannon's foraging party had seen the prosperous farm from a distance and, licking their lips, instantly defined the moment as a belated payday, especially since their cretinous ensign was still back at the last inn. Supposedly he wanted to have his horse reshod. Actually, they knew he'd lingered because there was still rum in the cask, and the keeper's wife seemed interested in talking to him about a personal matter.
It had not gone as simply as they'd thought. The farmer was not only a brawny man with a rifle close at hand, but there were at least ten others—sons, farmhands, and others equally uncooperative. A handful of mastiffs growled in the background. "Nein, nein," the farmer kept saying. "We have no beeves for sale. Spanish fever. And raiders. Terrible. I do not know how me und mein kinder will live out the year."
Shannon thought they could probably live on the accumulated fat around their midsections, but said nothing. Instead, he concentrated on getting within musket-butt range of the nearest farmhand. If the soldiers hadn't been so hungry, thirsty, and angry at seeing another Dutch Clever Fellow in action, they might have found this confrontation in a frozen farmyard funny. But in a few seconds it might be even less funny, as Shannon saw his sergeant's hand close around his sword grip.
Then the ensign clattered up in a drunken babble of orders, cautions, and gentility. Of course the good farmer-Mister van Voteffer—was telling the truth. Of course the soldiers of the Continental Congress would never behave like the rascally Britishers. Of course . . .
Of course the foraging party marched—or rather slunk— back down the hill with nothing. That farm had been a frequent topic of conversation when they returned to Valley Forge. Emmett remembered it very, very well. It had been his intention to scout the farm by day. Somewhere there would be an unguarded steer. And there must be a springhouse about. But the smoke and destruction made him wish he could change his plans. If there had been any food at all in his knapsack, Emmett might have kept moving. But there was not. Readying his rifle, he moved toward the ruins, using all the cover he could. Not only could the raiders still be in residence at the farm, but Emmett had no desire to see what he expected to find atop the hill. George's War, plus his experiences on the frontiers, had satisfied whatever interest he had in massacre postmortems.
The first body lay on its back outside the farmyard. Shannon ignored it as he waited for any movement around the farm. There was none. He slid up to the body. One of the farmer's strong young men lying dead in mid-shout and blood-soaked mud, a bullet wound in the stomach.
Shannon stepped into the yard. The mastiffs lay dead around it. He looked at two of the bodies, one knifed, the other's skull cloven with a tomahawk. Indians? This far east? Shannon looked farther.
In the center of the yard lay a large, overturned black iron kettle. Spilled out of the kettle were the remains of a stew or soup. And in the stew's remains was a small body. The farm's house cat. Nicely parboiled. It must have been a capital jest. Shannon hoped the animal'd clawed hell out of whoever had flung it into the pot.
Just outside the main house's entrance lay another body. A woman. Shannon choked, his throat dry. She had not died easily. He pulled the ragged shift down over her legs.
The woman had been blond, but there were only fringes of hair around her neck. She'd been scalped. Shannon could not bear to turn the body over and see her face. He found four other bodies around the ruins. Two of them—one woman and one probably long-haired man—had also been scalped.
Shannon started looking for tracks. He found them on the lee side of the hill. A herd of cattle had been moved away from the farmhouse toward the road. He scoured the edge of the cattle prints and found a clear print in the mud, of a shod horse. Recently shod. He followed the tracks down the hill, toward the road. They turned northeast, away from Reading, and in the direction he must travel.
Shannon considered. If the raiders—he thought there had been eight, maybe nine of them—were Indians, they most likely would have taken their spoils and headed west. Probably off the roads. He was starting to figure out who had butchered the farmers, and got confirmation on a careful sweep outside the farmyard. He found a dead bullock, killed with a rifle ball in the forehead. Indians, even if they had firearms, would have cut the animal's throat, not wasting powder or shot. The animal had been gutted and rough-butchered. There was enough meat gone, Shannon estimated, for steaks for about nine men.
The raiders weren't Indians. Indians would have either stayed around the carcass, feasting until there was nothing but bones, or else carried the rest of the meat off with them. They wasted nothing. Only white men gave themselves this luxury.
Shannon shivered—and it was not from the wind or the sudden chill as the sun was obscured by heavy clouds. He knew men such as these. Renegades. Some were pro-English Loyalists, grown on the frontiers among the Indians. They fought as the tribesmen did. Their privilege. And when they were caught, they would die as they'd killed others. But there were far worse monsters on the frontiers. Men who chose the Indian way of war because they loved the torture, the ambush murder and the bloody raiding. Outlaws no side would claim.
In his wanderings, Shannon had met some of them, and counted himself lucky he'd never had anything they wanted. They grouped in small parties or operated by themselves, sometimes with, sometimes without, Indian allies. They were men lost to God and the Devil. Any man caught by them would find eventual death very welcome. And a woman....
Shannon stopped thinking about that, and about the body in the farmyard, and puzzled over his own problem. The raiders were moving north. Eventually he might encounter them. That might not be a problem—they would have little interest in a tattered traveler. His problem was more immediate. He had only found six bodies. Even allowing for some burnt to cinders in the fired buildings, there were still live farmers. Farmers who, if they returned to the farm, would see him and draw immediate, obvious, and lethal conclusions.
Shannon stopped thinking about that, and about the body in the farmyard, and puzzled over his own problem. The raiders were moving north. Eventually he might encounter them. That might not be a problem—they would have little interest in a tattered traveler. His problem was more immediate. He had only found six bodies. Even allowing for some burnt to cinders in the fired buildings, there were still live farmers. Farmers who, if they returned to the farm, would see him and draw immediate, obvious, and lethal conclusions.
Emmett thought on. The previous two days—just travel time to Reading—had been warm, and the German farmer would have probably wanted to go to market. The raiders would have waited until the farmers were out of hearing before they moved in.
Shannon blew on a charred beam, and sparks glowed. Assuming the farmers left at first light, the raiders would have waited until . . . noon, maybe, until they attacked. Noon yesterday. Then they . . . took what they wanted, he thought hastily. Spent the night in the farmhouse, and burnt the farm just before dawn as they fled.
The farmers, now, would have reached Reading sometime today. They would do their marketing this day or probably tomorrow. Most likely they would stay in town tomorrow night, then return, unless the farmer was unusually parsimonious and unwilling to pay for an inn. In which case they could be returning now.
The farmers, now, would have reached Reading sometime today. They would do their marketing this day or probably tomorrow. Most likely they would stay in town tomorrow night, then return, unless the farmer was unusually parsimonious and unwilling to pay for an inn. In which case they could be returning now.
Emmett, boy, you had better be long down that road and leaving no tracks. Then he realized: that wind and those clouds. Again the weather was breaking. He might have more time than he'd thought. He started scouting to see if the raiders had left some scraps. He scuffed carefully around the house, looking at the ground. A beam groaned and sagged. Emmett burnt his fingers shoving it out of the way. The entrance to the root cellar. Very good. That would give him shelter.
Shannon felt someone's eyes on him. The hell. He did not believe in banshees, either. But he kept his rifle ready as he dragged the bodies to a sagging shed and arranged them as neatly as he knew how. He muttered a prayer when he finished.
He found that springhouse. The raiders had smashed almost everything. But he did find a crock of milk, not even soured. The steer's carcass was more than fresh enough. He cut several steaks and started back to his quarters. He thought he could still feel those eyes.
He found that springhouse. The raiders had smashed almost everything. But he did find a crock of milk, not even soured. The steer's carcass was more than fresh enough. He cut several steaks and started back to his quarters. He thought he could still feel those eyes.
Shannon moved underground. It was quite plush, he decided. More than enough potatoes for his kettle. He bent a twisted iron tire into a broiling rack. The sawdust the potatoes were stored in would make a perfect bed. His fire was built near the entrance, with enough of a draw to keep the smoke from suffocating him. Tomorrow, he thought, he would see if those Jesus-abandoned butchers had left anything for an honest man. He turned to his steak, which was sizzling most appetizingly. He heard the cough from just outside.
In a flurry of sawdust, Shannon rolled across the cellar and had his rifle cocked and aimed at the entrance. The cough came again. An experimental, self-announcing sort of cough.
"I hear you," Emmett said. He picked up his knife.
"I hear you," Emmett said. He picked up his knife.
Tattered shoes. Sacking-wrapped legs. Breeches even shabbier than Emmett's own. The ruins of a once-blue uniform coat. Next appeared a pair of hands. Quite empty. Palms up. Shannon scuttled back against the far wall. The man stooped into the cellar. Emmett knew him by his moustaches. Great drooping bedraggled tusks. Behind them hollow eyes and starving cheeks.
At one time the man might have looked quite fearsome, wearing his brass mitre of a cap, bayoneted musket at the charge, part of a deadly blue line. The man was tall, and if well-fed, would be an ox. At the moment all he looked like was one more Hessian deserter. There were thousands of them on the loose in the colonies. "Freund," the man said, attempting a smile.
Shannon did not lower the rifle. Perhaps he was a friend now, since Shannon was the one holding the rifle. But at Washington Heights the Germans had butchered American prisoners. Even their lords the British thought the Hessian legions, led like cattle, were cowardly, dirty peasants. The fact that the Germans held the center of the line at Saratoga and had saved the legendary Black Watch from being obliterated during Howe's attack on the Continental Army did not matter. The British seldom let truth stand in the way of a decent prejudice.
Unlike most Americans, Emmett Shannon didn't actively loathe the German mercenaries. Any more than that neighbor's bull who'd tried to gore him. En masse, under orders, the Hessians were lethal. Shannon had more than one friend who'd dropped with a ball in him in battle, and whose bayonet-spitted body had been recovered later. But he'd also seen what happened when they were broken or when their officers or sergeants were killed. The comparison to cattle was quite apt.
Shannon lowered the rifle, feeling a little disgusted. First there had been the wagon master. Next, being witness to the butchery outside. He was determined he'd return to Cherry Valley as a man, not a murderer. This poor bastard, shivering in fear and cold across from him, had no weapon. Not even a knife to eat with. He was barely more than a boy,
Shannon realized. Some poor dumb farmer whose prince had sold him to the British. He eased his rifle's hammer to half cock and set it on the bag of potatoes beside him, still close at hand. Shannon picked up the knife—and the Hessian's eyes gaped in terror and his hands came up once more.
Shannon realized. Some poor dumb farmer whose prince had sold him to the British. He eased his rifle's hammer to half cock and set it on the bag of potatoes beside him, still close at hand. Shannon picked up the knife—and the Hessian's eyes gaped in terror and his hands came up once more.
"No, no, you dumb Dutchman," and Shannon, burning his fingers in the process, sawed his steak in half. He dumped the meat on a bit of board, and handed it across. Then it was his turn to gape. Christ, he'd thought he was hungry. The German simply engulfed the steak. Shannon put another steak on his broiler, lifted a potato from the boil and passed it to the Hessian.
They ate in silence, no sound but the hiss of the wind outside and the crackle of the fire. Watching each other warily. The German finished and wiped his hands on his coat. "Danke."
They ate in silence, no sound but the hiss of the wind outside and the crackle of the fire. Watching each other warily. The German finished and wiped his hands on his coat. "Danke."
Shannon grunted. The German tapped himself on the chest. "Johann. Von Knyphausen."
Nein, my "freund." You are not a von, Emmett thought. A bare-arse peasant just like himself. Then he got it. The von whatever was this German's commander—that Dutch general whose name nobody got right.
"Shannon." Emmett, said, thumping his chest. He no longer belonged to anybody's damned army.
The German tried sign language, pointing at Emmett . . . fingers mimicking walking . . . and then hands together and head rested on them. Shannon nodded. Yes. He was going home. The Hessian gabbled on, gesturing wildly. Shannon got something called an Anspach something or other, and the man kept repeating "heimweh."
Shannon shrugged, not understanding. T
They stared at each other.
The German tried again, pointed to Shannon, pointed to himself. Two sets of walking fingers. A questioning look. Like hell, Shannon thought. The German was even more poorly equipped than he was. And Shannon somehow had the idea his sister would not be pleased to be presented with her own pet Dutchman when they reached Cherry Valley. He picked up his knife and casually began stropping it on his moccasin sole, appearing to think about the proposition.
Finally, he looked up and, trying to put regret on his face, shook his head. The German's face went stony. Then turned into a smile. Another gabble, then, without ceremony, he picked up some sacking, pulled it over himself for a blanket, and lay down.
Finally, he looked up and, trying to put regret on his face, shook his head. The German's face went stony. Then turned into a smile. Another gabble, then, without ceremony, he picked up some sacking, pulled it over himself for a blanket, and lay down.
Shannon waited until the man's breathing became regular, then he banked the fire and got ready for sleep. He considered, and his hand moved out, toward the wall. He found the haft of a broken hoe he'd seen earlier, and, in the blackness, propped the haft across two potato sacks. He lay back, thinking he'd best stay awake for another hour or so. His body decided differently, and Emmett blanked out.
He bolted awake as the hoe slammed into his legs and a body crashed. A muffled curse, and Emmett saw a flash—the bastard must've hidden a knife—as he rolled sideways, hand grabbing the rifle by the barrel and sweeping it out like a scythe. Impact, and a shout of pain. Emmett had his tomahawk up and slicing into the darkness. Nothing. Breathing, and suddenly a scrabble, as of some huge rat. Moonlight gleamed down the steps, and Emmett saw the bulk of the Hessian scuttle up them. He went after the German.
The storm had broken for a moment, and cold moonlight blazed as Emmett burst out of the cellar. Running, stumbling down the hill, toward the fence, was the Hessian. There was plenty of time. Emmett eased his breathing, brought the rifle to full cock and sighted. The Hessian's back was centered in the vee notch. Emmett held his breath, put slow pressure on the trigger.
He lowered the weapon. His finger came off the trigger. He watched as the Hessian dove over the fence and, staggering, disappeared into the brush. Emmett was panting as if he'd run for miles. He looked up at the sky and nodded. Perhaps now the murder of the wagon master would be a lighter load.
NEXT: THE HEAD ON THE POST
*****
S.O.S. ALLAN'S NEW NOVEL
Between February and May of 1942, German U-boats operated with impunity off the Florida coast, sinking scores of freighters from Cape Canaveral to Key West and killing nearly five thousand people. Residents were horrified witnesses of the attacks—the night skies were aflame and in the morning the beaches were covered with oil and tar, ship parts and charred corpses. The Germans even landed teams of saboteurs charged with disrupting war efforts in the factories of the North. This novel is based on those events. For my own purposes, I set the tale in the fictitious town of Juno Beach on the banks of the equally fictitious Seminole River—all in the very real Palm Beach County, a veritable wilderness in those long ago days. Among the witnesses were my grandfather and grandmother, who operated an orchard and ranch in the area.
Click here for the paperback and Kindle Versions
Click here for the audio version - Read By Ben McLean
*****
A DAUGHTER OF LIBERTY
The year is 1778 and the Revolutionary War has young America trapped in the crossfire of hatred and fear. Diana, an indentured servant, escapes her abusive master with the help of Emmett Shannon, a deserter from the desperate army at Valley Forge. They fall in love and marry, but their happiness is shattered and Diana Shannon must learn to survive on her own. From that moment on she will become a true woman of her times, blazing a path from lawless lands in the grips of the Revolution, to plague-stricken Philadelphia, to the burning of Washington in the War Of 1812.
Click here to buy the novel. Paperback, Kindle or, audiobook.
*****
TWO NEW AUDIOBOOKS ONLY $4.95!
S.O.S. ALLAN'S NEW NOVEL
Click here for the paperback and Kindle Versions
Click here for the audio version - Read By Ben McLean
A DAUGHTER OF LIBERTY
*****
TWO NEW AUDIOBOOKS ONLY $4.95!
Tales Sometimes Tall, but always true, of Allan Cole's years in Hollywood with his late partner, Chris Bunch. How a naked lady almost became our first agent. How we survived La-La Land with only the loss of half our brain cells. How Bunch & Cole became the ultimate Fix-It
Boys. How an alleged Mafia Don was very, very good to us. The guy who cornered the market on movie rocks. Andy Warhol's Fire Extinguisher. The Real Stars Of Hollywood. Why they don't make million dollar movies. See The Seven Pi$$ing Dwarfs. Learn: how to kill a "difficult" actor… And much, much more.
Boys. How an alleged Mafia Don was very, very good to us. The guy who cornered the market on movie rocks. Andy Warhol's Fire Extinguisher. The Real Stars Of Hollywood. Why they don't make million dollar movies. See The Seven Pi$$ing Dwarfs. Learn: how to kill a "difficult" actor… And much, much more.
THE TIMURA TRILOGY: When The Gods Slept, Wolves Of The Gods and The Gods Awaken. This best selling fantasy series now available as trade paperbacks, e-books (in all varieties) and as audiobooks. Visit The Timura Trilogy page for links to all the editions.
NEWLY REVISED KINDLE EDITIONS OF THE TIMURA TRILOGY NOW AVAILABLE. (1) When The Gods Slept;(2) Wolves Of The Gods; (3) The Gods Awaken.
*****
A NATION AT WAR WITH ITSELF: In Book Three Of The Shannon Trilogy, young Patrick Shannon is the heir-apparent to the Shannon fortune, but murder and betrayal at a family gathering send him fleeing into the American frontier, with only the last words of a wise old woman to arm him against what would come. And when the outbreak of the Civil War comes he finds himself fighting on the opposite side of those he loves the most. In The Wars Of The Shannons we see the conflict, both on the battlefield and the homefront, through the eyes of Patrick and the members of his extended Irish-American family as they struggle to survive the conflict that ripped the new nation apart, and yet, offered a dim beacon of hope.
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm- ravaged night.
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
