Free War Path by Kerry Newcomb

Edward just doubled in length with the added burden. So be it. He lifted his gaze to the hills he would have to cross and almost second-guessed himself. He grimaced as he squatted down and took up his rifle. Then he headed for the trees, leaving the dead to the cruel efficiency of nature.
    When Stark at last gained the forest’s edge and the shade fell around him like a cool cloak, he took a moment to turn and face the scene of slaughter, taking in from a distance the morbid chatter of the ravens, the dead beyond active protest who somehow managed to speak the words he heard with his heart.
    â€œRemember us. Remember.…”
    He allowed the scene to become etched in his heart. These same ghosts had called him by name, charged him with retribution the night before, to free them from the clutches of an endless night.
    Avenge us. Have pity. Weep for us.
    â€œNo,” said Stark. “Weep for the Abenaki … weep for the French … from this day forth.”
    Up until the last couple of days, Atoan and his French allies, La Marines had confined themselves with raids, brief forays to discourage the colonial settlers and drive them back to the coast. But this was wholesale slaughter; men, women, and children. It turned his stomach even as it lit a fire of resolve in his heart.
    â€œThere will come another day!” he shouted. His words echoed off the emerald hills, carried down to where the sunlight danced upon the shimmering waters. The French and Indians wanted a war, he’d give it to them. But he would fight it his way. From this day forth vengeance would have a name.
    Johnny Stark.

8
    T o the weary eyes of a hunted man, the moonlit battlements of Fort Edward were just about the prettiest sight imaginable. The great earthen breastworks rose twelve-feet high and were at least half that thick. Blockhouses at each of the five corners of the irregularly-shaped structure assured that whoever tried to storm the walls would be caught in a crossfire of grapeshot from the nine-pounder cannons nestled behind the sheltering ramparts. The main gate was further protected from frontal assault by the swiftly flowing waters of the Hudson River. From this point on, taking a boat any further upriver was hardly worth the effort.
    Outside the fort proper, the meadows and rolling riverbank were ablaze with log cabins and stone farmhouses and carefully tended fields. The settlers had surged in from the east coast, lured by the rich farmlands, open countryside and the proximity of the English troops stationed at the fort for the protection of the colonies and to guard against French incursions. Over the year the number of inhabitants had swelled to a sizeable community of several hundred families. And this did not include the regiment stationed inside the fort. But there were less of them now, Stark mused, wondering how many of his own comrades and neighbors had survived the retreat from Bloody Meadow.
    From this bend of the river, a steady parade of British troops, Indians, and colonial adventurers had carried their canoes and bateau the seventeen miles overland to Lake George, the gateway to Lake Champlain which in turn flowed north and emptied into the St. Lawrence River, the great artery to the Canadian coast. A man alone could make the journey in a long hard day, climbing hills, and abandoning the twists and turns of the wheel-rutted road connecting Fort William Henry to the settlement of Fort Edward. It took a good deal longer for a man alone, having to dodge war parties, elude French patrols, a man encumbered with a dog the size of a small horse!
    The wilderness was one long seemingly endless invitation, a string of shining hillocks and jewel-flecked lakes linked by glittering rivers that made a man ache to explore them all, follow each to its source. But standing on the night-shrouded hillside, in the aftermath of a warm summer rain that had soaked him to the bone, Stark was less concerned about exploring the