Part Three of the Dickinson Backstory

Bettie Rollins gently pressed the soft black soil around the base of the cabbage sprout with the tips of her fingers. She had three more rows to go in their small garden, but the weather was pleasant, so she didn’t mind. The heat in New York was nothing like Virginia. That was one of the things she appreciated about the north. It was June, and she could still work the garden without taking breaks in the middle of the day to escape the humidity and punishing sun.

She stood and brushed dirt from her hands on the small apron she always wore while doing chores. Pushing the sunhat back on her head, she closed her eyes for a moment and let the sun warm her face. The beauty of the surrounding mountains and the meadow where Christopher had started the homestead four years prior was remarkable, surpassing anything she had seen growing up on the Northern Neck of the Potomac. It had been hard work to establish themselves here, but even as the war raged just to the north, they enjoyed a peaceful life.

She looked across the creek bottom and saw her husband, Christopher, emerge from one of their cornfields. He waived at Bettie and smiled as she waived back. Their boys, Michael and Seth, were carrying the tools that needed to be put back in the barn. At eleven and thirteen respectively, their young faces contrasted with the weathered looks of their fathers.

Zac Northup – STUFF is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Bettie walked to the front porch of the house and took a seat on the front steps. A moment later, she was puzzled as Christopher stopped and looked at the tree line near the edge of the field. He had his back to her and remained perfectly still. A moment later, without warning, a shot rang out and a red mist erupted from the back of Christopher Rollins’ head.

Bettie slowly stood and was trying to process what she had just witnessed when a dozen Huron warriors came running out of the forest. The family had talked about what they should do if they ever came under attack. Making such plans was part of life on the frontier. But she was frozen in place, unable to comprehend anything except the danger her sons now faced and the loss she had just sustained.

“Michael, Seth, run!” Bettie screamed.

Huron musket rounds were striking the front walls of the house, and they all congealed into a single cacophonous sound. But then a single shot rose above the others, its distinctiveness standing out for some reason. Looking across the field, she saw Michael’s face contort in agony and fall to the ground. Bettie’s screams choked silent in anguish as a Huron warrior pounced on her son’s body and removed his scalp. Seconds later, Seth suffered the same fate.

Only after did Bettie find her voice, “No, please, God, no!” Watching the Huron warriors stand over her dead sons, Bettie fell to her knees and wretched before slowly collapsing on the front porch and giving into complete, inconsolable grief.

Several of the Hurons ran into the family’s barn and began pulling out the Heifer and horses. Waban, a Huron war chief, slowly walked to the front porch and stood over Bettie. He leaned his rifle against the front post and slowly drew his knife. As he was doing this, a group of warriors ran past and into the house.

Waban gently ran his hand over Bettie’s long brown hair. Kneeling on his haunches, he lifted her chin and looked into her tear-filled eyes. He was bringing the knife to Bettie’s throat just as his head jerked slightly and Bettie felt a spray of blood and brain matter wash over her face. She didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch. She simply collapsed back to the floorboards in grief as Waban’s lifeless body fell on top of her.

John Dickinson and a dozen Rangers rushed up to the house as others shot and killed the Huron near the barn. John pulled Waban’s body off his sister and gently took her in his arms.

“Bettie, I am sorry. I tried to get here in time,” John said as Bettie continued her cries.

Several Rangers had entered the house and once the noise from inside stopped, Frederick Gustafson came out and wiped the blade of his tomahawk with a rag, “We killed the last of the devils, Captain. All is clear.”

John nodded and said nothing for a moment, “Pull all the dead Huron into the dooryard. Burn them. Hitch up the two horses and wagon. Wrap my brother-in-law and nephews in canvas. We are taking my sister and her family back to William Henry.”

Gustafson nodded, “Yes, sir.”

* * * * *

Zac Northup – STUFF is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Get the Book on Amazon

Later that evening, with John holding the reins of the Rollins’ two mares, he guided Bettie and the Rangers through the gates of Fort William Henry. Gustafson issued orders to the men as John helped Bettie down from the wagon that carried her murdered husband and sons. Andrew Lewis stepped out of the administrative building and came over and shook John’s hand.

“It is good to see you, my friend. The scouts brought the news earlier today,” Lewis said.

“You remember my sister, Bettie Rollins?” John asked as he motioned to Bettie, still steadying her with his free hand.

“I do. Mrs. Rollins, I am sorry for your loss.”

Bettie stared at Lewis without responding.

“She needs to see the regimental doctor,” John said.

“Of course,” Lewis said as he waived over a couple women who walked Bettie away.

When they were alone, Lewis placed his hand on John’s shoulder, “John, something else has happened.”

* * * * *

John followed Lewis to the fort’s makeshift mortuary. Outside, a dozen bodies were wrapped and awaiting burial. The men handling the dead wore masks and long leather blacksmith’s gloves as they struggled to lift each body onto a crude handcart. There was a funeral pyre burning just outside the fort’s northernmost wall, and the black smoke obscured the afternoon sun. Lewis walked to a nearby storage shed and stood in the open doorway.

“This way, John.”

John hesitated for a moment but tied a handkerchief around his neck to cover his mouth and walked into the shed.

“I wanted to keep him here until you came back,” Lewis said.

John looked down at Edward. His second oldest son’s body was wrapped for burial like the others, but Lewis had ordered it be kept unsewn so John to see Edward one last time. John struggled to hold back tears as he saw the pox that covered Edward’s face. He took three steps back and leaned against the wall to steady himself. Lewis put his hand on John’s shoulder and guided him outside.

“He got sick a few days after you left. Smallpox spreads so fast. Dozens of men were infected before we realized what was happening. Nearly a hundred men have died,” Lewis said. “I’m sorry, John.”

John did not reply for a moment before he looked at Lewis with a cold determination, “I need to take my family home.”

Lewis shifted his feet a little, “What?”

“Bettie, Edward, my nephews, my brother-in-law… Gideon. I must take them back to Virginia.”

“John, Gideon was buried over a month and a half.”

John shook his head, “I will not leave him in this hellhole.”

“But handling Edward is not safe.”

“I’ll wrap him tight. We’ll use wax canvas,” John replied.

“You can still become infected.”

“I have been inoculated. Martha too.”

“It’s hundreds of miles. The smell, John.”

“I don’t care. I will not leave them here.”

“And Bettie? Does she want this?”

John paused for a moment and thought, “It doesn’t matter, Andrew. This is something I must do.”

Lewis nodded slowly, “I’ll help you with Gideon.”

John shook his head, slowly at first, but then more emphatically, “No, I can manage. Thank you, Andrew. You are a good friend.”

* * * * *

Later that evening, John began to exhume the body of his firstborn son. Covered in dirt, sweat, and mud, he worked alone. Lewis made sure no one else was around.

When he was waist deep, he stopped and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He had kept his emotions in check, as was proper for an officer and leader of men. But when he started digging again, he could no longer hold back the sobs. With each tear, each anguished breath, he picked up the pace of the digging. As the sobbing became uncontrollable, John angrily, frantically, began hacking away at the earth. When he was fully exhausted, he threw the shovel down and gave himself to the wretched heartbreak. He sat in Gideon’s grave and sobbed well into the night.

* * * * *

The next morning, Gustafson and a few of the Rangers wished John safe travels before they returned to their duties. With Bettie comfortably seated beside him, he twitched the reins to prod the horses forward. With four Rangers riding escort, and the remains of their family in the back, John and Bettie Dickinson turned south for the long ride back to Virginia.