PLUS
CHAPTER SEVEN
A FEW MILES southwest of Bethlehem, Shannon began getting worried. In every direction he looked there were long plumes of chimney smoke. Then he heard the sharp clip-clop of hooves and the creak of carriage springs and he dived off the road and snuggled behind a tree. A sulky came sweeping around the bend. On it was a prosperous-looking young farmer, dressed as if he were going a-courting.
The sulky was a flat-bed carriage with an old, overstuffed easy chair attached to it. The farmer sprawled lazily in the chair with his feet up and every once in a while gave a gentle flick of the whip to encourage his fat little mare. Civilization was looming near.
The sulky was a flat-bed carriage with an old, overstuffed easy chair attached to it. The farmer sprawled lazily in the chair with his feet up and every once in a while gave a gentle flick of the whip to encourage his fat little mare. Civilization was looming near.
With bodies behind him, murderers who knew where, and another party of spoilers roaming about whose intentions Emmett could only guess at, he decided to give the town a pass. It was not the time or place to get caught out and trust to bluff. He found an old Indian trail that seemed to suit his purposes. He became lost somewhere between Bethlehem and Nazareth.
It didn't worry him. He knew he was in the center of a vague triangle formed by Bethlehem, Easton, and Nazareth. If he bore east, he should hook up with the Delaware again.
It didn't worry him. He knew he was in the center of a vague triangle formed by Bethlehem, Easton, and Nazareth. If he bore east, he should hook up with the Delaware again.
He spotted deer sign heading toward the fork of a creek and decided to follow—visions of a venison supper luring him on. He was thinking how good its liver would taste stewed in onions when he heard something heavy, slowly thudding—as if in a wind—wood against wood. But the day was still and clear—some hours yet from the breezes of evening.
He slipped forward, and then the trail crossed a narrow, deeply rutted road. He took the road. It became a path that wound through a small, empty field. On the other side were two oddly long and narrow buildings. The sound was coming from the farthest building.
He slipped forward, and then the trail crossed a narrow, deeply rutted road. He took the road. It became a path that wound through a small, empty field. On the other side were two oddly long and narrow buildings. The sound was coming from the farthest building.
Shannon hesitated and almost turned away, back toward the Indian trail. Then he looked at the field again; it wasn't as empty as he thought. It was pocked with long mounds, dirt rounded and patted down. Graves. There were nearly twenty of them, and all were fresh. However, not all of them were full. Six stood yawning, waiting for some promised burden.
In the center of the graveyard lay what someone had obviously meant to be a large marker—laboriously carved from wood. Shannon stopped and stood above it, staring. Someone had tried to carve a name upon it but had only managed a shaky T. From a few other scratches he realized that only one name—and that a single word—must have been intended. He looked around for some sign of another tombstone; there was nothing. Was this to be the only one? Why?
The thudding sound had stopped, but now it began again. This time it was quicker, in a sort of flurry, as if someone feared they were using up a last burst of energy. Shannon headed for the source of the sound.
He found her, small and weeping, struggling for her bed. A churning paddle lay near her, underneath a window—the source of the sound. There was the putrid smell of corpses all around him, and the girl screamed when he knelt down to help her. His eyes weeping with the odor, he lifted the girl to the bed. He had to turn away when he saw her face. She could be no more than thirteen, and her face and bare arms and legs were a mass of dripping, pus-filled sores. It was smallpox.
He turned back to her. She was writhing and moaning on the bed, babbling, and pleading; but what, Shannon couldn't make out.
"Rest easy," he soothed, "it's only Emmett." He pulled filthy blankets around her, trying to gentle her out. Then her eyes opened wide and she gripped his wrists in fierce manacles.
I renounce thee, Satan," she shouted. "I renounce thee, renounce thee, renounce ..."
Her hands loosened and she fell back, unconscious. Shannon patted the horror that was once someone's little girl and began investigating the room—doing his best to keep the instinctual terror of the pox from him and agonizing about what he could possibly do. Intellectually he knew he was safe—he had bitten the fear back after his mother died and had himself inoculated at the first opportunity. Part of him refused to believe this magical protection and screamed to run, run, run.
There were many beds in the long single room. Three were occupied—by corpses. All of them were women, but much older than the girl. In the other building—identical to the first—he found two more decaying bodies ... of middle-aged men. Shannon knew the answer to the riddle of the empty graves. There were six for those who remained. But there was no one to bury them.
A scattering of outlying sheds abandoned tools, barrows, and a forge told him the people had been working at some kind of mining operation—probably iron. The poverty he saw meant they were working on redemption for some absentee owner living in leisure in one of the large towns he had been trying to avoid. But all this still left the most basic questions unanswered: Who were they? What did the T on the grave marker stand for?
A scattering of outlying sheds abandoned tools, barrows, and a forge told him the people had been working at some kind of mining operation—probably iron. The poverty he saw meant they were working on redemption for some absentee owner living in leisure in one of the large towns he had been trying to avoid. But all this still left the most basic questions unanswered: Who were they? What did the T on the grave marker stand for?
Emmett was hurrying back to the girl when he heard the jolting sound of many horses.
He met them at the edge of the graveyard, his rifle at full cock and the pan primed with fresh powder. The men danced their horses around him, but Shannon kept his rifle swinging, always aimed at the leader. There were four men leading two extra horses. The horses' flanks were streaming sweat, and the men had the red-eyed look about them of a long, desperate flight. Shannon caught flashes at their belts of fresh scalps.
It was the Raiders.
* * * *
Emmett got his back to the stone wall of the spring-house, forcing the men into a single, horizontal line. One raider, a pinch-faced little man wearing a filthy Indian blanket, kicked his horse closer as if toying with the idea of crushing Shannon against the wall. Emmett steadied his aim on the leader's chest, finger tightening on the trigger.
This man was huge and looked even bigger draped in a voluminous horseman's caped coat styled a bit like Emmett's, but with red piping that set off the streaming red woolen woman's scarf wrapped about his neck. His long, black hair was tied back with a piece of scarlet ribbon. He wore laced leather leggings, engulfed in a rich pair of cavalry officer's boots with real silver spurs glinting at the heels.
This man was huge and looked even bigger draped in a voluminous horseman's caped coat styled a bit like Emmett's, but with red piping that set off the streaming red woolen woman's scarf wrapped about his neck. His long, black hair was tied back with a piece of scarlet ribbon. He wore laced leather leggings, engulfed in a rich pair of cavalry officer's boots with real silver spurs glinting at the heels.
The whole effect was topped off by a big slouch hat with a green parrot's feather poking out of the band. White teeth gleamed at Shannon through a black bush of a beard. Emmett remembered the head on the post with its vaguely familiar face. Now, he knew that man—just as he knew the one before him.
Tell them I don't like horse stink, Frenchy," Shannon said.
The grin vanished in the beard as Frenchy McShane leaned forward to peer at Emmett with green eyes that sat like polished stones at the end of twin tunnels. Then the beard exploded with a loud, bellowing laugh. "Well, kiss me and call me a fat squaw whore, if it isn't Emmett Shannon," Frenchy said. "Take a care, boys, you're looking at an old mate of mine. He's the trickiest obscene child this side of the Mohawk."
He kicked his horse closer but remained at a respectful distance. Emmett noticed Pinched Face and the others calming their animals. He eased the hammer to half cock and let the butt of the rifle droop, but kept his finger on the trigger; the half-ounce ball would take McShane just below the beard.
Frenchy didn't miss this and he laughed again. "I'll wager you've spiced your load with a little buckshot," Frenchy said.
Shannon grinned back just as mirthlessly. "You know me, McShane." With Frenchy there was never any reason not to lie.
Emmett took note of the two spare horses. They were both saddled and loaded with their riders' gear. "I expect it was your sign I saw a few days back," Emmett said. "Although then there were more of you driving cattle in a terrible rush."
"We encountered an intolerant bunch," Frenchy said. "Most covetous sons of bitches you ever saw. Unfortunately, there were too many of them for our argument to carry. So we let them keep the cows."
Shannon motioned with the rifle at the spare horses. "Looks like they got a little more than cows, Frenchy," he said.
"I'll only mourn one. And not for long at that."
"They put Bill Grady's head on a stump," Shannon said.
"Suspected they might," McShane said.
Then he paused, looking Shannon up and down. "I won't ask you what you're doing in these parts," he said. "It isn't any of my concern. However, unless my guesser's resigned on me from too much rum, you're headed back for the Mohawk."
"That was my intention," Shannon said.
In that case," McShane said, "maybe you'd like to ride with us for a while. I'll be honest with you, Emmett. The profits haven't been much this trip. But I expect to make up for it when we get into the Neutral Ground."
Shannon kept his peace, but Frenchy didn't seem to notice and went on. "I'll tell you, this is one war I'm getting to admire. I never was that happy before with the pickings up on the border. But things are getting pretty fine if I do say so. We're blessed with a Congress that's got its head wedged up a bullock's ass far as it can go, and a king who's climbed all the way in.
"Every place I go all I see is fat farms and big moneybags with no one to tell you, 'No, Frenchy McShane, you cannot take that. It belongs to another.' Good Lord, man, these times no one even knows which side you're on, or dares ask, providing you keep powder and ball handy."
Emmett knew what McShane was getting at. He had first run into him during George's War, where the big Scots-Irishman had won the name Frenchy for his habit of switching sides whenever it suited him. Shake a bag of gold at him and McShane became a fierce ally for your cause. Unfortunately, you had to be most careful your enemy didn't press another, heftier bag his way during an inconvenient moment. Otherwise, you would be on the wrong end of a "French trade."
In the years after the war, Shannon saw him sporadically, but heard of him often; all of it was bad. There were stories about settlers who hired Frenchy to guide them west—and vanished. Rumors that Frenchy—just to keep his murderous hand in—went raiding with the Indians for recreation.
McShane leaned back in his saddle, letting his big cloak fall open. He was fingering something at his belt. "Of course, I can't guarantee our takings, but we can always pick up a dozen scalps or so to tide us over. The bounty on scalps has gone up along with everything else in this war.
"You recall how good I am with scalps, don't you, Emmett? White or Indian, doesn't matter to me. Why with a little weathering I defy any man to tell the difference when McShane's got done with his art."
Shannon finally realized what Frenchy was fingering on his belt. He saw a wrinkled knot trailing long, blond hair. It was the scalp of the woman at the Dutchman's farm.
"What's your decision?" McShane asked. "Shall we give them all hell together?"
Shannon pretended to chew this over a long moment, then shook his head. "As much as I'd like to, Frenchy," he said, "I'll have to say no. I've got some important private business, and it would be wrong of me to say it would not interfere."
The easy friendliness dropped from McShane. He looked over at the shacks. "Something in those sheds," he said, "wouldn't be part of your private business, would it? I'd hate to introduce you to my boys here as an old mate and then have to face them and humbly confess I was wrong and you're a greedy cheat."
"It isn't anything like that," Emmett said. "And I wouldn't go in there if I were you. There's pox about."
Frenchy startled back, barely able to cover his fright. Then he glowered at Shannon, angry and disbelieving. "I suppose you're going to tell me that you've been inoculated and are safe? And I'll have to take your word there's nothing of value about?"
Shannon didn't answer, he simply let his rifle slide up and pulled the hammer back to full cock. From long experience Emmett knew there was no sense arguing with a man like Frenchy McShane when things came to this pass.
In Shannon's mind McShane was already dead, Pinched Face had been clubbed off the horse, and he was choosing which of the remaining two he would tomahawk first, when a scream split the air like shot. Everyone whirled, nearly losing their horses. Then the men were reining back hard and the horses were dancing back, choking for air with their necks nearly bowed in half.
The girl was standing in the doorway of the women's quarters, shrieking. "I renounce thee ... I renounce thee . . . !"
Frenchy fought his fear under control. He gave Emmett a look of grudging respect. "If there's anything there, mate, you're welcome to it and God bless."
The raiders vanished in a cascade of mud.
* * * *
Emmett made a clean bed for the girl in the shack that housed the forge and pumped up the fire until the room was glowing and warm against the night. Brandy laced with opium put her in a groaning sleep, while he washed her and dressed her in a clean gown he'd found. He sprinkled lavender flakes in the water he washed her with and did his best to brush the tangles from her hair, tying the limp locks with bright blue ribbon. Then he sat by her side, sipping steadily at the cider. There was nothing else he could do. If God was kind and he was generous with the laudanum, she would drift off for good sometime in the night.
Despite his mother's teachings, Shannon was cynical about the mercifulness of Heaven. In fact, as he thought about it, he realized that he had long ago lost what little faith she had instilled in him. If Sarah had lived—ah, bugger it! How many bargains, Emmett Shannon, have you tried to make? And not one taken. When Sarah lay dying, he had prayed: take me instead! I'm the sinful one. The doubter. The one with blood on his hands. Maybe that was the trouble. Maybe God was waiting until he piled up a sufficiency of sins so he would be as welcome in Hell as the likes of Frenchy McShane.
As he stared at the sleeping girl, Shannon decided he had little fear of Hell. What could be worse than this? Then he thought about his mother. How long did she suffer? Did she look like this? Did anyone sit with her until she died? Not likely. It would take more than a saint to dare the pox. And what are you doing here, Emmett? Measuring your brow for a halo? Don't give yourself airs, you're at no risk. If it's sainthood you want, kill the child now. That would be the act of a merciful man.
He got out the pistol, loaded and primed it, and studied the girl, figuring where best to put the ball. Then he lost his nerve and, calling himself every kind of a coward, put the pistol aside and took up the cider again.
* * * *
On this night God and Emmett Shannon came to a small understanding about the nature of mercy.
He must have slept for a while because suddenly he found himself starting up at the sound of her voice. "Mother Wettstein! Mother Wettstein!" The girl was sitting up, her eyes staring past him into the shadows.
Emmett tried to hush her and feed her some more of the potion, but she pushed it weakly away. He tried again, but she pulled her head back sharply and some of the mixture spilled on the blankets. "Mother Wettstein," she cried again. "Please, Mother Wettstein!"
Shannon didn't know what to do, so he just said: "She's here."
The girl nodded and lay back. She touched her head and her heart. "I renounce thee, Satan," she said. Very firm. "I renounce thee." Again she made the gesture to the head and the heart. A blessing? What?
Part of the puzzle began coming to him. The separate quarters for men and women. There were no young people except the girl. Was it some religious order? A vow of chastity? Shannon had heard of such things. A covenant. Swearing off all but the plainest of livelihoods. Some made a practice of adopting children so the covenant wouldn't die off. Was this what was happening here? Was the girl the last . . . He found it difficult to allow himself to complete the thought.
"Mother Wettstein. Please, Mother Wettstein!"
But he had to. When the girl died, it was likely she was the very last of her kind. No human being could be more alone than this. To die with a stranger at your side and no one to know your history.
"I renounce thee ... I renounce thee."
The plea was accompanied by the sign at the head and her heart. She wanted to be baptized. She was saying she knew Satan and was making the adult choice of renouncing him, and now she was begging for Shannon to purify her soul. He couldn't think of the words. Even if he could, they would be Catholic. Was the ritual any good for people who weren't Catholic? Would the girl hate him if she knew? Don't be a fool, Emmett. You don't believe any of this anyway. Then it struck him this might be the greatest evil of all: to perform a baptism and be empty of all faith.
"I renounce—"
Shannon drew some water and took it to her. She was quiet now as if she realized what he was doing. He couldn't think of any proper words, so he sprinkled her with water and said: "Dear Heavenly Father, if you're listening now, please have mercy on this child. Don't blame her for my ignorance, and please, Lord, if you have any pity in your— ah, I'm sorry for that. Pay no attention to this heathen and let this poor girl find peace."
He sprinkled a little more water, hoping it was enough, and as an afterthought crossed himself as humbly as he could. The girl smiled and he felt a little better. She was quiet for a few moments. Then she began pitching and moaning again.
"What's troubling you, lass?" he asked.
"No . . . one will . . . know!"
Oh, he could see it now: for some reason she was ashamed.
"I won't tell," he said.
Her hands were on his wrists again, strong and desperate. "No! Tell. Please, tell. Tell someone."
"Tell them what? What should I tell them?"
No answer. Just the hard grip. Then, "Tell them! Tell them Wettstein! Tell them Klee! Francis Klee. And Leon-hard. And Alfred. All Klees! All Klees!"
Emmett's heart was near bursting. He wanted to help, but how? Think, Shannon, think. What's she trying to say?
"Moira," the girl cried. "Tell them Moira. Moira Werner. And Charles. Yes, Charles . . . Charles . . . Gutkind. Gutkind. Charles Gutkind. And Henri. Not . . . forget . . . No. Henri, too. Henri Gutkind ..."
It was a list of names. But— Oh, don't be such a stupid man, Emmett Shannon. They're the names of the people here. She wants you to know all the names and tell someone. Write it down, maybe. So no one will forget. Otherwise, the covenant will be lost to history forever.
"Tell me the rest, lass," he said. "I'll remember. I promise to God I'll remember."
Shannon listened for half an hour and more, committing the names to memory. He almost wept when he learned the girl's name. It was Anne, like his mother's. Finally she was done. She fell back into the bed like a whirling dervish had caught her and was sucking her down.
But what of the people themselves? What was the name of the covenant? This time it was Emmett who gripped another's wrists, ignoring the sores breaking and running under his palms. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Who are your people?"
She tried to answer, but words wouldn't come. She shook her head hard, trying to get it out.
"It starts with a T," Shannon pressed. "On the marker. A T. T . . . T . . . T . . . What's the rest?"
Suddenly the girl smiled. For the first time since he had come to this terrible place, she looked at him and knew he was there. Anne opened her mouth and began to form the word . . .
Shannon buried them all the next day. He set the buildings ablaze so that no one else would stumble on this place and have the pox wriggle into their flesh and burst through again in great, weeping sores.
He placed the wooden marker firmly in the ground.
There was still only the letter T upon it.
NEXT: The Village Of Fools
*****
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
And get the handsome CD Audiobook - Read By Ben McLean
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*****
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
And get the handsome CD Audiobook - Read By Ben McLean
New! Download The Audibook For Only $4.98
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.
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