PLUS
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMETT REGAINED THE main road after Easton. Now the country rose steep, wild and desolate. If he had a map, it might've been labeled with a variation of the old mariners' charts—Heer Bee Outlaws. He went through the gap in the Kittatinys just at dawn, moving as fast as caution would allow.
He relaxed enough to stake out a creek just at dusk and ambushed a young buck. It was his first venison, Emmett decided from his camp buried deep in the brush, for entirely too long. He gave himself a holiday on the following day, while he jerked the rest of the deer's meat over a green-wood fire. The brush and tree cover was heavy enough so almost no smoke could be seen from the road. He hung that damned hunting shirt in the smoke cloud, in the rather futile hope that some more of his lice would expire and spent the rest of the day sprawled in the sun. The sudden shower that night didn't disturb him. He slept warm and almost dry.
The next day he felt himself a new man. Of what stock? he wryly wondered. Let us see now. English? Not a chance, even though it would bring wealth. Dutch? They seemed to enjoy their riches damned little. Scots-Irish? With their long faces and droning services? Hardly. Perhaps an Indian. No. A Jew? Shannon had met only one in his life, a rather nice fellow, who compared his mother's spare religious services to his own people's. No one here in America seemed to bother them. But remembering circumcision, he decided to stay a Shannon. Emmett chuckled at his own bare humor. At least thoughts such as these passed the miles under his boots painlessly.
There were not many settlers in this country. Here and there would be a log hut, with farmland scraped from the wilderness. The handful of travelers he met on the road greeted him warily, hands never far from their weapons. There were a few villages on the route—rough clusters of half a dozen shacks, not much different from the redemption village below Easton. The road roughly paralleled the Delaware, but often veered inland for miles. Where it met the water, there might be a tiny mill. Shannon was not at home in this wilderness. Although not a man of the city, his experience on the frontier had been intermittent, and he thought the occasional cleared farm much brighter to his eyes than a roaring waterfall hung around with thickets.
At a river bend there was a small ferry. The riverbank had been recut to make a gentler slope. There was a shack for the ferryman, a ramshackle raft large enough for one farm wagon and its unhitched single team, two corralled oxen for the towrope, and a small boat. No people. Emmett walked to the river and looked across to the far bank. Possibly swimmable. But the current was too swift for comfort here, and certainly, it would be deep. Perhaps he could find some planking, or even a dead log he could lash his gear onto. Just as certainly the ferry was not for him. Ferrymen, from Charon forward, required payment.
"You're for the crossing," came the voice behind him.
Emmett spun—and gaped. The heavy man in his fifties was suitable for gaping. He moved on wooden crutches, one crutch propped under the stump of an arm. He had also been scalped.
Very thoroughly. Whoever had taken his hair had not only ripped away most of the man's scalp but taken the man's ears with it. Some men, Emmett had heard, survived being scalped. But he'd never thought to meet such a man, and now wished his thinking had proven true. Most of the man's skull was scarred and barren. A couple of tufts grew out near where his ears had been. Without support, his cheeks draped like those of a hound.
Shannon tried to cover his horror and failed. The man smiled. He must've been used to it. Shannon had the thought that perhaps now he even welcomed the reaction.
"Fivepence," the man said. "Good hard currency, and I'll root the boy out and have him row you across." Shannon shook his head. The only money he had was the forgeries still wrapped in the teamster's pouch. "A rough swim, boy. Man drowned last summer tryin' it."
"Don't look like I've a choice," Emmett said.
The man cupped one hand behind one of the holes in his skull. "Speak slow, son. Since the Sauks went an' relieved me of my echo boards, talk takes a while to get through." He thoughtfully stroked his chops. "You're a soldier."
"Enlistment's expired."
The man smiled, making his face slightly more horrible. "Don't matter a curse to me if you're takin' French leave. Least you're headin' home with what looks like all your parts." Emmett chose not to say anything. "God damned army," the man muttered. "Use you up. Spit you out. And send you home to beg by the door. Happened to me. Happen to all of you fightin', minute we send the redcoats howl in' home."
Emmett saw a glimmer. The man wanted to talk. Maybe he'd not be swimming the Delaware. "Happened to me already," he said. "King's officer grabbed m'promised land the last time by."
"You served afore?"
"I did. Looks like I didn't learn enough first time around."
"Too early for a pannikin?" the man asked.
"Like to," Emmett said. "But I'd best try to get across before it gets later."
"Rest easy, boy. Ain't no way I'd charge a man who burnt powder 'gainst the red 'uns. Eventually my pet idiot'll get tired of chasin' pigs or his own tail out there and come back. He'll take you 'crost."
Emmett followed the man to the porch of his shack, where an already heavily sampled jug of rum sat. Introductions, after the first sear of alcohol, followed. The man's name was Brewster.
"You're headed?"
"Up near Albany. Place called Cherry Valley."
" 'Pears like you're havin' to work your way north."
Emmett grinned. He was wearing better clothes now than when he left Valley Forge, but he had to admit they were a little road-battered. "A man could always use a little coin in his purse."
"You listen to advice?"
"Never turn it down."
"After you cross, you'll hit civilization. Roads're straight. Fences maintained proper. Cattle's fat, and so're the folks. All the housin's got fresh paint, least on the parts you see from the road. Town's called New Kent. Looks a place that should've been named New Eden."
"Looks?" Shannon asked, already getting an idea of what Brewster was going to warn him about.
"Looks is right," Brewster said, reclaiming the jug. "You done any travelin'?"
"Some."
"Maybe you'll follow when I tell you that New Kent's got exactly fifty-three shares. Fifty for the settlers, one for the church, one for ministers, one for the school. Each share ran out 'bout a thousand acres, give or take what the surveyor'd take when he laid out the land.
"Facts're real interesting," Brewster went on, seemingly in an aside. "Tell you anything more when I say last census there warn't but about two thousand people? Legal people, anyway."
"Shit."
"Ee-yup. Town got settled by rich folk, lookin' to grab some land, hang on it a bit and then sell. Didn't work out that way, so they decided they was gonna build it up. 'Course that meant they'd need people who knew which end of a shovel went in th' dirt. And they got 'em, promising 'em the world, a vote in the town affairs, fat oxen an' their daughters. Mebbe should've said fat daughters an' oxen. Rum fuddles a man real easy. Got some fat asses down there, some on four legs, some on two."
"I've been in towns like those," Shannon said, and then, echoing something he'd told his wife years earlier, "but I never got stupid enough to take their damned redemption contracts."
"You looked a man of sense. Problem is, they got a real nasty habit in New Kent of warnin' out people who don't dance to their hornpipes."
"Wouldn't be the first time I've been warned out."
"Mebbe. But these people mean it. They don't mean linger on till plantin' or harvest or hog-killin' time is over. They mean get your butt down th' road now, an' maybe here's a charge'a birdshot or some tar and feathers t' help you on your way."
"Mmm." Emmett considered.
"All I'm suggestin' is that maybe, while we're sittin' here, enjoyin' this rum an' this spring day, you might want to strip off an' clean up. Bucket out the back. Look inside the shack, there's a fresh-stropped razor an' soap. Got some sulfur you can burn, if you got creatures in that fine huntin' shirt of yours. What story you come up with so's not to sound like some wanderin' wastrel's your concern. But figger least I can do is help you look t' match th' story."
Emmett swallowed rum and eyed Brewster suspiciously. "Don't mean to insult the offer, but it's been my experience ain't but few who help somebody out of pure goodness."
"Ain't goodness at all. Those people over there think 'cause their folks brought over some gold an' some fancy names an' dress, this land's God-given to them. But they ain't never the ones who'll cut the roads, make th' farms or hammer th' steel. Just like there weren't no gentry at Mackinac. Except that shitsack officer who said there ain't gonna be trouble with Indians 'cause they're playin' at games.
"You know," Brewster observed, somewhat irrelevantly, "sound of havin' your scalp lifted, from the inside, is just like bubbles poppin'."
Shannon's stomach turned slightly.
"You start cleanin' up. And thinkin' 'bout what you plan to tell those swells in New Kent, with their committee an' paradin' militia they use to run squatters off open land. Mebbe you can figure out some flash that'll get you their gold. Hope you get some of their hide for me."
By the time Brewster's "idiot"—a truly retarded hulk of a young man—showed up, Shannon was clean, neat, fed, and drunk as a judge. The boatman deposited him on the far bank. Shannon turned and waved across the river at Brewster. But he seemed collapsed on his porch and oblivious. Emmett took his example, made it as far as the hilltop and a clump of brush, spread out his blanket and passed out cold…
* * * *
The skeleton must have been hung up years ago. A lot of the bones lay scattered on the path below the tree, or were absent, carried away by wolves or dogs. Mummified skin still clung in bits around the skull and below the rib cage. Emmett couldn't begin to estimate how long it had been there—the rusting chain the skeleton dangled from was buried in the growing wood of the tree. An escaped slave? A thief? Who knew. Maybe even somebody who hadn't taken being warned out that seriously.
Welcome to New Kent, Shannon thought.
It was, Shannon had to agree, a beautiful village. Painted. Laid out by a geometer. The cattle pastured outside the village were grain fed. The village meeting house, set near the square, was more than large enough to accommodate those pious folk who fit the town's description of proper citizens. In that square, under a lowering sky, the militia drilled. Even from this distance, Shannon could see they were all uniformed. And they had music—the twitter of a fife and the clatter of a drum came up to him. Shannon smiled: at first the feral expression of a fox who's just realized the chicken run is open, then forming into an open, ingenuous grin; the grin of a man anyone would be sure to trust his last shilling and youngest daughter to.
Shannon took out the pistol he'd originally planned for trading stock and stuck it, unloaded—not wanting to shoot his bollocks off for the sake of authenticity—into his belt. He started for New Kent.
The first building on the town's outskirts was to be avoided, Brewster had told him. An inn. An inn where the keeper watered the ale, sold short portions and sold venison for beef. Emmett Shannon headed, unerringly, for that first inn.
NEXT: ENTER THE HEROINE
*****
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.
*****
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.
*****
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.
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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