Part Two of the Fading Darkness Prequel Series of Stories

Get Caught Up With Part I

It was the sound of the rushing water coming from the nearby stream that was unnerving. That, and the crickets. John knew a large Huron raiding party was nearby. But their presence did nothing to change the natural rhythms of the forest. The world that God created did not pay notice to man’s violent tendencies. In this place, far from his home, war and death were as natural as a bird singing, an insect calling its mate, or a deer scampering through the forest.

Crouched behind a deadfall tree scanning for any movement, John raised his cheek from the butt of his rifle and looked to his left. Edward was beside him, Gideon, a few feet further down the line. The rest of the Virginia Rangers were laying concealed in a line that extended thirty yards along the creekbank. It had rained earlier, and their linen hunting shirts, wool pants, and buckskin leggings were still soaked, but they didn’t let the dampness and cold distract them from the approaching danger.

A twig snapped and everyone immediately pulled their rifles into their shoulders and slowly, quietly, cocked the hammers to the rear. Edward looked over and started to say something, but John held his finger to his lips. Another twig snapped. John slowly raised his head a little higher to get a better view of the other side of the creek. He saw a couple Huron warriors before they ducked behind cover. Moments later, musket fire seemed to erupt from everywhere. The Rangers ducked as bullets splintered trees and fragmented against granite boulders. Smoke from the black powder filled the air. The Huron rushed out of the thick underbrush and into the creek.

John turned down the line, “Fire at will!”

Read the Story of John Dickinson in the Fading Darkness series of novels. Through the Fading Darkness | Beyond the Fading Darkness

Several Hurons were shot dead before others scrambled up the creekbank. Some of the Rangers continued to shoot from cover, but most engaged in a melee of hand-to-hand fighting using empty muskets like clubs, stones, tomahawks, and knives.

John, Edward, Gideon, and the ten men around them continued to pick off Huron warriors until John noticed a group crossing downstream to his right, “Shift right, shift right! They are trying to flank us!”

John and the men followed the stream to their right and found good positions that were perpendicular to their original line a short distance away. Each man quickly reloaded and tried to ignore the sounds of the battle behind them. A dozen Huron warriors emerged from a thicket of goutweed, maidenhair fern, and Allegheny vine, and rushed toward their position. The Rangers fired, a few Huron fell, others took cover, but most never broke stride.

John grabbed Gideon by the arm, “Take Edward, go tell Colonel Wentworth we are flanked and are being overrun. Go!”

Gideon grabbed his brother’s sleeve and they both disappeared into the smoke. Moments later, a Huron warrior jumped over the deadfall and landed on top of him. He rolled to the left and got to his feet just as the Huron took a powerful, descending swing with his tomahawk. Using his musket to block the blow, as the warrior tried to reposition his feet, John brought the butt of his rifle across the Huron’s left cheek. The warrior stumbled back but did not go down. John struck him again and felt the man’s nose break. This time, the Huron fell to the ground. John quickly straddled him and brought the long black powder rifle down on the Huron’s skull like a giant axe. He did it two more times to make sure the Indian was dead and looked around to find someone to help.

John rushed to a nearby Ranger who was struggling against a fierce looking warrior twice his size. Just as they killed the Huron with their knives, a loud roar of men came from the rear. He looked over and saw another thirty Rangers rushing toward them. Most dropped their muskets and joined the fight with tomahawks. Seeing the reinforcements, an older Huron warrior with distinctive streaks of grey hair shouted a command, and John watched as they retreated across the creek, into the forest.

The reinforcements quickly reorganized and pursued the Huron as John and his men, collapsed where they stood and tried to catch their breath. The dead and wounded were scattered about, and after a few moments, John got to his feet and walked down the line to check on his men. Some were giving aid and calling for others to help carry their friends to the rear.

Through the smoke, John saw Edward kneeling on the ground. Feeling a lump in his throat, he ran over and paused when he saw Gideon face down in the dirt. There was a massive hole in the boy’s back and blood had soaked through his shirt.

John slowly knelt beside the lifeless body of his oldest son as Edward struggled to hold back tears. He gently turned Gideon’s head. The eyes were frozen in death.

* * * * *

John and Edward Dickinson stood over Gideon’s grave and said a silent prayer. Even though the main gate of Fort William Henry was just over a hundred yards away, the thick vegetation and towering spruce trees lent a quiet and peaceful air to the improvised graveyard that was filled with fallen militiamen and British soldiers. Rays of sunlight penetrated the thick canopy of the forest and cast intermittent shafts on the graves of a select few. Gideon’s was not one of them.

A man dressed as a Virginia militiaman walked up and paused a moment before he placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“John, I am sorry.”

John turned and looked vacantly, “Thank you, Andrew.”

“Gideon was a fine young man.”

John nodded without saying anything.

“Have you written to Martha?” Andrew asked.

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

John looked at Lewis, “I don’t know how. I told her I would keep them safe. I told her I would bring them both home alive.”

“He was in the militia and was here by orders of the Governor. It’s not your fault,” Andrew replied.

“I should have left him and his brother back at camp. They would have been able to serve here safely. But they begged me to come with the company.”

“I know.”

“I should have said no, Andrew.”

“It does no good to think this way, John.”

Andrew pointed at Edward, “Edward here is still with us, and I am sure your two boys at home are safe and sound. Gideon was where he wanted to be. You should be proud of that.”

“Proud?” John asked as he shook his head in bewilderment. “No, I am not proud. I am ashamed I allowed my son to waste his life for this awful war.”

Andrew nodded and placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder, “I hear you have a new post, young man?”

John placed his arm around Edward’s and gave him a brief hug before straightening the boy’s coat as if he was going through an inspection, “I have spoken with the Colonel. Edward will stay here in garrison and serve as his aide. He’ll be safe.”

Andrew smiled and gave Edward a friendly jab, “A Colonel’s aide? That’s an important job, young man. You’ll become an ensign before you know it.”

“Yes, sir,” Edward replied quietly but with respect.

“We should get back. I believe we have orders to go out again,” Andrew said.

John took one last look at Gideon’s grave and bowed his head. Andrew and Edward did the same.

“Amen,” John said with a whisper.

“Amen,” Edward and Andrew echoed before the three of them turned and walked away.

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* * * * *

The smell overtook them before they could see what was left of the Moravian village. When they came to the edge of the meadow where the cabins and small church had stood, the Rangers took a knee. The lead scout on point turned and made eye contact with John as he made his way up to the front of the line. No one spoke, and everyone was alert and ready. Completely concealed from anyone who might be waiting for them in the village, John knelt beside the scout and watched for any signs of life. After a moment, he motioned for the scout to move into the village. Cautiously, they crept forward and searched the few buildings that were not completely burned down.

Men turned some of the bodies over to check for signs of life. Most of them wretched. John walked to the pile of dead women and children. A young woman with what was left of her long blond hair lay on her back, her eyes frozen open in death. He knelt beside her and started to close them but could not bring himself to do it.

A heavy-set Ranger named Frederick Gustafson walked up, “There are no survivors, Captain. We can see no sign of resistance either.”

John stood up and checked the powder in the pan of his flintlock rifle, “They were Moravian Christians. Pacifists. I doubt there was a weapon in the entire village. Are there any signs of who did this?”

“It looks like a mixed party of French and savages to me. Some of them wore hard soled shoes. The rest had moccasins.”

“Which way did they go?” John asked.

“Northwest.”

John paused for a moment before a look of fear washed over his face, “We must go. There is a homestead nearby.”

Gustafson saw the urgency on John’s face, “Yes, sir.” Gustafson called out to the men to form up but John was already running into the forest.

* * * * *

Waban and Henri’s raiding party walked in a single file down a narrow draw. Waban was in the front and Henri immediately behind. The trail followed a fast-flowing stream, bordered with spruce and ferns, and sunlight reflected off the deeper pools of water.

They came to a fork in the trail and Waban motioned for the group to follow him to the right. Henri raised his hand, and the entire line came to a halt. Everyone except Waban stepped off the trail and took a knee. Henri looked at Waban, “What are you doing?”

“I am walking, what does it look like I am doing?” Waban replied indifferently.

Henri pointed at the left fork, “Fort Carillon is that way.”

Waban tilted his head to the right, “Yes, but there are settlements this way. We must make sure they do not pose a threat to your general’s approach to William Henry.”

“That is not our mission. We are to only to perform reconnaissance.”

Waban exhaled and stepped closer to Henri, “Do you not think for yourself, Frenchman?”

“Of course, but I have seen the things you do when you think. I have had enough of your initiatives. I cannot stomach anymore.” Henri points at the left fork again, “We will go this way. That is my order.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I too have had enough,” Waban replied. As Henri looked down the line to give the order, Waban drew his knife and stabbed Henri in the abdomen. Henri went to his knees in agony just before Waban kicked him in the face and knocked him unconscious.

As Waban was wiping his blade clean on Henri’s shirt, the other Huron warriors attacked and murdered the rest of the French Rangers. When it was over, Waban looked down at Henri before he spoke to his men, “Throw the French dogs in the stream.”

The warriors pitched the Frenchmen into the creek and watched as they washed away. Waban tucked his knife in his belt, dragged Henri by his collar to the creekbank, and used his foot to push him into the water. He looked at his warriors, lifted his rifle in the air and gave a war cry. The rest of the warriors respond in the same way and followed Waban as he jogged down the right fork of the trail.