overland, they were a miserable lot, with each man silent. Dagan continued to worry about Gabe, but did not fail to notice how Kawliga watched over and guided Jubal. His ’little shaman'. Dagan could sense Jubal had the 'gift' and was glad someone was there to guide the boy, someone who understood.
For two days they marched from sunup to sundown and on the third day they made the little arm of the
Yadkin. The rain had been an off and on companion and was now back again.
A makeshift sawmil, a gristmil, and a trading post sat on the banks of the river. A stoop off the side of the sawmil was empty and offered some relief from the rain.
Setting down their packs, Dagan could see a rowdy looking group of men sitting on the porch of the trading post, which was just slightly up the hil. The group was a ragged lot. Most had on moccasins or were shoeless.
Their britches not much more than dirty tattered rags and their coats had gaping holes. What was visible of their shirts wasn't any better.
'A motley group is it not?' Caleb volunteered.
'Aye,' Dagan replied. 'I don't like the looks we're getting, but when the rain stops I'm going to see about getting some coffee. That's the only thing we're short on and it might be a long time before we find another trading post.'
The sky had darkened with the heavy rain.
However, a bolt of lightening lit up the sky so that Dagan could see a sullen man with a battered hat and matted unkempt beard leaning on a porch post, staring at their group.
Kawliga had moved up besides Dagan. 'He looking for trouble, maybe want packs,' the Indian said. Dagan nodded. That had been his thoughts as well.
The two groups of men sat staring across the opening at each other. The store sat on higher ground and as the rain fel it made little rivers that made their way down the slope. Areas where the ground was low
fil ed up then the overflow ran on down past the sawmil into the river. The clouds, though dark, were moving fast and soon the thunder and lightening had moved on.
The rain slowed to a drizzle and then stopped.
Dagan had just finished a bowl of tobacco and was putting his pipe up when Caleb said, 'Here they come.' The fragrance of tobacco hung in the air but the musty odor of unwashed bodies became very strong as the group of men approached.
'There's five,' Caleb whispered. 'One's still on the porch.'
'Probably the owner,' Dagan replied. 'Jubal!'
'Yes, sir.'
'I want you to keep your musket ready, and stay slightly over to the side. Make sure we aren't flanked.
The rest of us will meet them head on. Follow my signal; we have to have surprise on our side. They'll think because we're outnumbered we'll try to talk.' As the ragged group approached the sullen man said, 'Ya'll strangers here about ain't you?'
'We are,' Dagan replied.
'Well, we don't take ’ta strangers,' the man said,
'Special y Britishers.'
The man had closed to within two feet of Dagan by that time. Dagan's action was as swift as a striking snake.
Dagan drove the butt of his musket into the man's chest.
The force of the impact knocked the breath out of the man's lungs and he cried out as his knees buckled.
Before the man hit the ground Dagan brought the barrel
of his gun down across the man's head, feling him.
When Dagan struck his man, Caleb and Kawliga joined in the battle, Caleb fighting two men. One had been hit so hard his eyes refused to focus but his partner landed a punch that felt like a lightening bolt had struck Caleb, causing his jaw to pop and immediately ache.
One man had pull ed a knife and slashed at Caleb but Kawliga charged him and put the man down with his tomahawk. Caleb wobbled awkwardly for a moment before recovering his wits.
Dagan was facing another of the men who was breathing heavily now. The fight had already lasted longer than he would have thought. Dagan's foe had pull ed his blades and the two men circled, each looking for the advantage. Dagan's foot hit a slick muddy spot on the wet ground. Seeing his opponent slip the man slashed out, ripping Dagan's shirt and drawing blood.
With the man off balance, Dagan sent a crashing left to the man's face. Blood started to drip from the man's lips and nose as he struggled to keep his feet under him.
At that time, the man who Caleb had first encountered jumped Dagan from behind. Dagan lurched his body trying to loosen the man's grip. The two men struggled and finally they both hit the ground, roling, wrenching this way and that, before scrambling back on their feet. As Dagan gained his balance, he gave a sudden forward lunge flipping the man over his back and into the rushing river. The man's screams were heard as the swift current swept the man downstream.
Turning back to the melee, Caleb and Kawliga were
holding their own. With three of the rogues down, the numbers were now on Dagan and his group's side.
Kawliga and his opponent circled one another.
Kawliga's foe charged and the two hit the wet ground roling over. Kawliga was much smaller than his man but was quicker. When the man rol ed over, he pull ed a large wicked knife from his boot. Seeing the blade, Kawliga grabbed a hand full of mud and slung it into the man's face and eyes causing the man to spit and sputter.
As the man tried to wipe the mud from his eyes, Kawliga picked up a knife Dagan's foe had dropped and gave it a throw. The blade sunk into the man's throat. With a face full of mud and blood gushing from his neck, the man sunk to his knees then fel face first into the mud Kawliga had just used to his advantage.
Caleb had just landed a blow to his man. It was a vicious left hook. The force of the blow knocked the man backward onto his buttocks. The man felt paralyzed and limp. It suddenly dawned on him the fight was over. His friends were al down. Sitting in the muddy shall ows good sense prevailed. The exhausted man used the last of his strength to jump up and run.
Kawliga quickly picked up a musket to bring the man down but Dagan intervened.
'Let him go. Let's get up to the post and dry out and maybe get a hot meal.'
Jubal had kept his attention on the man on the porch. The man had kept seated al during the fight. As the victors approached the trading post he stood up.
'Glad I am to see ’ em gone. Trash. Trash is what they be. Been here three days drinking up my corn squeezing and eating my food without paying a cent.
Yes sir, I'm glad to see ’ em gone. Supper's on the stove and if you've a mind, a warm bed for the night.' The group was more than willing to accept the man's hospitality.
Chapter Six
The lanthorn hanging off Warrior's stern gave a yel ow glow through the fog. The lanthorn would swing larboard then starboard with the gentle rol of the flagship. The wet fog bit through the clothes of the men on watch. Like a ghost, patches would drift through sections of the ship making them invisible for a time, then visible again. On the larboard side loomed the rocky shoreline.
'I don't like it,' Oxford said as he approached Captain Moffett and Lord Anthony. Both agreed with the master. Above, the faint slapping of cordage against the mast seemed to get on Moffett's nerves.
'Mr. Herrod!'
'Aye, captain.'
'Can you not hear that infernal racket?'
'Aye, sir.'
'Then dammit, man. Do something about it.'
'Aye, sir, right away.'
'Good, I hope I don't have to remind you further to take care of your duties.'
