In the beginning…

There was nothing but a boundless silence untouched by time or form.

All was still, and all was nothing. An eruption at the center of the vast void created two entities from this emptiness. Eternal opposites yet forever intertwined.

Becoming the foundation for life and creation, they were neither gods nor mere forces; they were existence itself, the primordial truths of being.

The first humans attempted to record their names…

Allacritus Lux – the Beacon of Light

&

Nox Tinibrus – the Veil of Shadows.

 

Together, they form ‘Et Omnia’ or ‘everything and all.’

 

And so began the Age of Life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adahy & The King’s Bane

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drowning Virtues

 

 

April 1771

Brookline, Massachusetts

 

 

            “Are we in agreement, then?” The salt and peppered-haired man asks, pushing the moleskin coin bag across the table with two fingers.

            “Aye, I’ll give you the name you’re looking for…” the middle-aged redcoat officer says, leaning in toward the man sitting across from him, “Thomas Young,” he whispers under his breath.

            Shifting in his chair, the salt and peppered-haired man is shocked at how easily the name emerged from the redcoat’s mouth,

“Do you mean city leader Thomas Young?!” He asked in a mirrored, cautious tone.

Contrastingly, uneasiness filled the intimate atmosphere amongst the group at the table. The tavern was warm, dimly lit, and full of character. Upbeat stringed music played in the corner, with roars and cheers from every table as conversations melded with the boisterous noise. Its large wooden beams are interconnected into high ceilings, allowing for such elation to echo and double.

“That is what I said. I won’t repeat myself… it may have catastrophic consequences,” the main British officer says with haste and grabs the coin bag, “Let’s go, boys; the ship is leaving soon.”

            The British officers stand up, and their frames tower over the man who has traded coins for a name. As they begin walking out, the salt-and-pepper-haired man drops out his arm, stopping the leading redcoat.

            “Let me ask you this…” he says and stands up, eye to eye with the redcoats, “How did you come across this information that you so willingly revealed to me this evening?”

            The main redcoat looks to the men to his left and right uneasily… and reluctantly answers,

“Our detail was set to guard the King’s shipments. One night, I noticed Boston city leader Thomas Young bribe one of the Massachusetts militiamen for entry to a docked ship… the next morning, a Royal Tax Officer was found murdered, and the shipment was missing. The guards and militiamen claimed only British officers came aboard… but it was not. It was him. I saw him, WE saw him…” the main redcoat says anxiously, as the other redcoats nod their heads in agreement.

            “Why are you shaking?” the salt and peppered-haired man asks softly, patronizingly.

            “We must be gone with haste; I have said too much,” the lead soldier said abruptly and moved quickly out the door with the remaining two soldiers in tow.

As they exit the door, a large African American man stands up from a table adjacent to the exit. His frame is large, and he is bald with a slight gray stubble on his stern face. His eyes dart to the salt and peppered-haired man standing by the table. He nods, and the large man heads outside.

The salt and peppered-haired man then looked around the tavern, and he saw her. She was smoking by the fireplace. Her white stringy hair was prominent, even in the large tavern with so many people. Looking at the man with her ice-blue eyes, she nodded and began putting out her pipe. She proudly carries a sizeable burn scar on her neck, revealed as she stands.  She’s petite yet older, but her body is hardened. She leaned over, tapped her pipe on the hearth, and placed it away. She passes the salt and peppered-haired man and exits the tavern.

            “Alright, Wilfred! It’s been a good night; I will see you next time!” He said to the barkeep as he made his way toward the exit.

            “Stay safe, you Devil, too many rancid and vile creatures lurking about,” replies Wilfred, with an implied slick smile.

            “Do not defecate on my mates like a common whore!”  The man replies with a large smile.

            “You better leave quickly before I present you with your tab!”

            He winces and grabs his chest, imitating a heart attack. The man fake stumbles out of the door with a large smile,

“No! My heart!”

            Outside, the rain was loud and making for a melancholic melody. The atmosphere melded perfectly with the half-moon sky. The large African American man and white-haired woman stood under the overhang, waiting for the man to exit the tavern.

            “Snap out of it, Shakespeare!” The larger man says to the smiling man as he exits the tavern, steadily growing tired of his antics.

            “Oh, Robbie, he’s enjoying the banter; you remember what it was like to be carefree, don’t you?” The white-haired woman said softly in a smooth tone.

            “I have never had the luxury of being carefree. I am a negro. My circumstances only allow for a certain way of life,” he says in a growling, deep tone.

            “Aye, Nyx is right, but you make a fair point, my friend. But lucky for you now, you are no longer enslaved, but a free man, and make a good living torturing the crown… I’d say you’re doing well,” Shakespeare says blithely.

            “Eh, just be quiet.”

            “Let’s follow them. They are headed toward the bay. We take them out quickly and quietly on the road,” Nyx says to the two men.

            Stepping into the rain, Robbie mounts his large horse and leads it to the road.

            “Aye, and I’ll see my coinbag returned to me,” Shakespeare replies, getting on his horse and leading his steed toward the road. Nyx does the same.

            Their stalking of the three redcoats had begun. The rain is thick, and it is hard to see further than a few yards out in front, but the newly placed horse tracks are easy to differentiate on the road, even with the rain. After several minutes, the three were within a hundred yards of the three redcoat officers.

Creeping in silence, the three purposefully muted their gear. It was pinned down for silence, but all sounds drowned in the noise of falling rain. They used extra straps to ensure their packs and bags didn’t flap, and their tools were linen-wrapped to ensure they didn’t click and clack while they crept on unsuspecting prey.

Robbie, Nyx, and Shakespeare all dismounted their horses and tied them to the nearest tree branch off the path in a clearing. Robbie focused on following the redcoats, not to lose them in the forest,

            “Let’s move! Be quick, smooth, and quiet,” the large, brooding man whispers to Shakespeare and Nyx through the weather.

Robbie makes a one with his index finger, indicating he is taking the first redcoat. With an expert understanding of the coded language they’ve developed over the years, Nyx raises her two fingers, indicating her selection. The final was left for Shakespeare. Within the falling rain, each of the three silently blended into the surrounding brush, using nature to their advantage. They move skillfully as they stalk the three British officers.

While moving through the wet forest, Nyx removes and preps her bow, readying a sharpened arrow. Under cover of rain, Shakespeare takes out his tomahawk from his waistline and tightens his grip, ready to attack. Robbie is last to ready his weapons and removes a small handheld knife.

Rain muted the approaching noises as the three hunters seized the moment and sprang onto their prey.

*Thwipt*

Nyx’s arrow slices through the falling rain, steady on its fateful path.

“Arrggrrl,” the man on the right horse chokes as the deadly arrow enters and exits his neck. Gurgling and choking, he tries to scream through severed vocal cords. Blood mixed with hot breath spray from the hole. Frantically, the man desperately tries to cover it, quickly losing consciousness. His body folds over his horse and lands on the muddy road, with his right foot still attached to the stirrup.

Shakespeare lifts his right arm with the tomahawk in hand; he inhales slowly and exhales. With a fiercely strong throw, the tomahawk folds over itself, making its way through the rain,

“Ahhgg,” the British officer winces but is silenced as the sharpened blade enters his spinal column, quieting his life in moments.

Confusion ensues, and the last British officer scrambles to clear his way out of the kill zone where he’s found himself.  His horse takes off into the wet, rainy night. Robbie begins chasing the third horse into the darkness, close on his heels. The man is sprinting at an incredible pace, but it is not enough to keep up with the horse.

After a few strong gallops, the third and final officer disappears into inclement darkness, avoiding injury and escaping the burly, violent man in pursuit.

“Damn! One has escaped!” Robbie called out to the other two down the road behind him.

“One of them said something about the ship departing soon; let’s catch him at the docks,” Shakespeare shouts back to Robbie, catching his breath, “I’ll grab the horses!”

Nyx emerges from the wet shrubbery, putting her bow into her quiver, “Wow, Robbie, you really spoiled that one!” She says playfully, digging at the man who missed his kill.

“Nyx… do not get me started. How many kills have you squandered, misread, or let slip by you for several reasons?” Robbie replies in his deep voice, not fond of the teasing.

“Don’t turn this against me; we’re not talking about previous times… now is now,” she smiles in response.

Knowing he never wins in an argument with her, he stays quiet and keeps his thoughts to himself, “I second Shakespeare’s approach; let’s catch ‘em at the docks,” the large man says calmly.

“It is agreed to the docks we go,” Shakespeare says, quickly arriving with their horses.

The two others mount their horses in seemingly one motion, and all three hunters make for the docks. Within seconds, they passed the body of the man who was on the receiving end of Nyx’s precise arrow. Rain puddles around his body. Next, they pass the fallen officer with a large gash in his spine; his body is face first in the mud. Each set of the horses’ hooves impacts the muddy ground with force and carries the three hunters through the wet forest.

The hunters come to a fork in the road through the thick rain. The sign reads: Left for Docks.

“There! He’s on the docks now,” Robbie points out as the other two focus in and see the redcoat officer scrambling to tie his horse’s reins and get onto the British transport frigate.

 To their surprise, the British frigate was nearly disembarked, as they were a few moments too late.

“Fuck!” Shakespeare spits out aggressively.

“This is not good, Robbie; what are we to do?” Nyx asks eagerly, “We can try to row to it if we hurry!”

“No,” Shakespeare says coldly.

“No? This man cannot leave with this name! We cannot allow his departure on that transport!” She shouts with ever-growing impatience.

“Nyx, how many times have we suffered? How much more can we endure? Our path isn’t meant for empathy, love, or sympathy. I dare say we have muted these aspects within, have we not?” Shakespeare passionately orates.

“Now, you’ve done it, Nyx…” Robbie says, rolling his eyes.

“The cache of cannon. There are four atop the old perch; Nemo and I placed them there six months ago. Top plans on selling them to a privateer crew,” Shakespeare nods to the perch that sat along the northern route, “who says we cannot use them to maybe… I don’t know… sink a frigate?”

“Shakesp—” she tries to speak, but the man continues.

“Are we not but creatures, vultures, and lions, bound to this eternal plane? We’ve been given devices, words, and actions and enlightened enough to make decisions. I entreat you, my dear lady, are we not then keepers of the sanctity and secrecy of our coterie?”

Robbie exhales and rolls his eyes again.

“And because of that secrecy and sanctity, I am willing to do anything to keep that true, as it has been that way since Top brought me in. But there are women and children, families on that transport frigate… there must be another way,” Nyx replies.

“Aye… think about the consequences of letting that information out, Nyx. Think about the cause,” Robbie says gravely. Their eyes connected, knowing there was no other way but to sink the ship.

“If we fire on the frigate too soon, we will be sought after by militiamen and civilians; you know this will have heavy repercussions,” her words slice through the night air.

“I disagree. Ships merely ‘go missing…’ It is a frequent occurrence,” Shakespeare argues.

“They do… when sailing around the globe on exploration expeditions, not as common among transports from the colonies to England,” she retorts.

The salt and peppered-haired man smack his teeth, “If Top is revealed, the cause is squandered, and all the work we have been doing, all the information collected, all the lives sacrificed for the opportunity we have before us is voided…” Shakespeare argues, “We will be swift in our actions; only Tory scum will gripe about a missing transport ship.”

“Enough! We sink the ship. That’s final. It is the low-risk option before us…” Robbie says definitively to the other two, growing tired of debating.  

By now, the rain had stopped and left a low-hanging dew that covered the ground while toads croaked and crickets chirped into the clear night sky. The three hunters moved quickly along the ridge north of the main road, steadily keeping watch on the slowly moving frigate departing the bay.

“Just ahead,” Shakespeare shouts to the others, nodding his head toward the hilltop.

As they made their way to the perch overlooking the bay, the British transport frigate was in the process of unfurling its sails. Pulling out his telescope, Robbie zooms in on the frigate.

“We only have about 15 minutes or so until they are at full mast and out of range,” the large man says calmly.

Shakespeare dismounts and hitches his horse to the nearest low-hanging tree branch and walks over to the hidden cannon under the canvas tarp and broken tree branches. With a strong flick, the tarp removed uncovers four 16-pound cannons, four ramrods, and four triangular piles of 16-pound cannon balls.

“Are ye in the mood to sink a ship?” Shakespeare says to the other two with a devilish smile.

“We need to move,” Nyx says, trying to hurry up the process, “and we only need to use one; they are too heavy for us to move all four in time.”

“Aye; good point, Nyx,” Robbie says as he dismounts his horse. He walks to the closest cannon to the edge and attempts to move it into a good firing location.

Shakespeare gets next to Robbie, and both men exert all of their power to push the cannon toward the ledge. After a few minutes, the men tiredly get the cannon into position, and Nyx rams a charge into the cannon, followed by a 16-pounder ball. She snags up a ramrod and pushes the ball tightly into the cannon.

Robbie angles the cannon barrel in a favorable position, hoping he gauges it properly to hit the frigate.

“Nyx, we need to light some wick; get that lit,” Robbie says to the woman as he calculates the perfect angle.

Within seconds, Nyx has her flint and steel out and is sparking into a tinder under the canvas that was once covering the cannon, and after a few slashes, she gets her tinder to burn and sparks her wick.

Shakespeare grabs two more cannonballs and places them next to the weapon. Robbie was ready, and Nyx looked to be it, too.

“Nyx, when you are ready, spark it!” Robbie says to her, and without hesitation, she does.

BOOOOOM! The ground shakes as the noise overpowers the lingering still air. Silence is removed and replaced by a loud ringing in all their ears. As the smoke clears and the three look to the bay…

“It’s over!! Reload!” Robbie shouts to the others, and Nyx repeats her process of loading the cannon. Robbie calculates the angle again, this time bringing it down just a hair.

“When you’re ready!” He shouts to Nyx, and she drops the sparking wick into the cannon,

BOOOOOM! A second shot erupts from the cannon barrel; the ball rolls through the air with precision, impacting the frigate’s top deck. It was a magnificent display of destruction. Shakespeare sees the civilians on the deck scurrying.

“Hit! Again, reload!” Robbie shouts, and the crew repeats the process, “When you’re ready!”

BOOOOOM! The third shot hits the lower portion of the hull and pierces the ship, compromising its integrity and safety. Screams of all ages and both genders echo from the bay, eerily sticking to the landscape.

“Look, a fire!” Nyx points out as an orange ball glows through the clearing smoke.

Within seconds, the fire spread, and the frigate was ablaze, the wood catching quickly and the newly unfurled sails. The three on the hilltop watched as the ship attempted to sail but faltered just off the coast. The blaze was intense, and the entire frigate was aflame within several minutes. There were no more screams, just the occasional crack or explosion on the ship when the flames engulfed gunpowder reserves.

In an ominous tone, Shakespeare utters as he watches the orange fire glow, “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”

“Aye, I’ll be tonight’s devil,” Robbie says combatively as the words carry a darker, more sinister tone, “It needs to sink. Then we will leave.”  

“Aye; no trace of us, no trace of the redcoat, and no trace of Thomas...” Shakespeare remarks ominously.

“Just another frigate swallowed by the sea…” Nyx adds solemnly, knowing it needs to be done.  

The trio stands there, having kept their word; each internalizes their personal views as the glowing blaze eats away at the wooden ship. It took a couple of hours, but the frigate eventually found its way beneath the surface. Each of the three hunters managed to maneuver the cannon back into its discreet, hidden cache to remove any trace of their presence.

Arriving back to the clearing where they left their horses, the trio mounts them.  Their thoughts were their own as they made their way down the hilltop and back to Brookline Road. After a few silent minutes along the route, they arrive at the neck, the long stretch of road leading into Boston.

 

 

The King’s Highway

 

 

July 1771

Near Santee River

South Carolina

 

Pain in Death, he thinks, as Raven’s hooves clop along the dirt route known as ‘The King’s Highway.’ The dreary wind rustles the leaves of each passing tree, easing the young man’s mind and sending him to a deep meditative state.

Memories ensue. Four full moons have passed since his mother met eternal rest from yellow fever. She was gone. Bedridden for weeks, she suffered. Combating the harsh sickness that caused her violent convulsions and black vomit. The useless honey and ginger remedies administered by the tribe Shaman seemed to make it worse. When they returned from their annual winter trading trip, her body began to fail. In her last moments, she weakly grabbed her son’s hand, forced a smile,

“It’s going to be all right, Adahy. I will be painless,” the words released softly, simultaneously letting out a tear from one of her pale eyes.

Adahy could feel her acceptance of death but was not ready to accept it himself. She was tired and understood her role. He could only think of her as a healthy, happy, and warm soul who, on even his hardest days, was there with an uplifting attitude and the right words,

“Get up and dust yourself off. You’re strong and capable, Adahy. You need to trust and believe in yourself.”

Her words were perfect, always. Adahy refused to leave her side; acceptance had yet to enter his heart or mind. Death is a path we all are bound to face, he thought. Yet, he was unwilling to face this reality. Hours pass, and the high sun has settled beyond the horizon, making way for the night.

Upon the highest branch, a snow-colored owl screeches and hoots into the night. The tent flaps abruptly open, and Adahy’s uncle comes in.

“Let’s go, boy. Time to get up, get out of here, and move on. There is nothing you can do. The time for grieving is over, and your mother needs to be given back to the earth,” his uncle says to him, grabs him, stands him up, and forces him out of the tent.

“Wohali, I will not be forced out or pushed to move on so quickly from her death! She is my mother!”

“And she was my sister, Adahy! Now it’s time to accept her death and look forward to your path,” he says strongly to his nephew.

Adahy stood six feet one inch from the ground and was vigorously built, but he slouched with sadness now. His deerskin-sewn shoes shielded his feet with each step, laced up just above his ankle. Moonlight canvases his face as his eyes swelled with water, but his callous upbringing wouldn’t let a tear escape his eyes.

“I’m not sure what to do, uncle,” he says, lowering his head.

“You must find your other uncle, Adahy,” Wohali says calmly, looking at his nephew and tapping the gold talisman hanging around the young man’s neck.

Adahy lifts his head, and his green eyes peer up from under the faded black tricorn hat that was once his father’s.

“I know,” reluctantly, the words flow from his mouth.

Light brown trousers covered his legs as an inner layer from his ankles to his waist. Black outer leggings shielded his inner layer, they are thigh-high and tied off above the knee by handmade black and brown finger-woven garters.

Adahy’s square jaw and strong chin rested underneath the high cheekbones and carried a slight stubble, while his countenance was that of perpetual rancor. His eyes held pain, a deep pain, ever darkening the light of his soul.

She wanted me to go, he reminds himself, clutching the talisman.

“I have trained you well. Trust your abilities, and you will succeed in your mission,” Wohali says with a breath of reassurance and rests his hands on Adahy’s shoulders,

“I have no doubts about that. Death is a part of us all. It is our destiny. We see it, feel it, smell it, and ultimately accept it as our final pathway as we give ourselves back to the earth. Your mother, Aryana, understood this. Your path takes you away from this life, for now, and I believe you will find your other uncle. He is a prominent figure in the Boston city. At least, from all accounts on the King’s Highway, Thomas Young is a successful businessman and a respected city leader.”

Raven’s hooves have stopped, and they are no longer moving. Now’s a good time to stretch my legs, he thinks to himself as he swings his right leg over the saddle, landing firm on the ground. He takes the reigns and moves Raven off the main route to a shaded grassy patch just off the path.

Blades of grass flow in between his fingers as he squats next to Raven’s face. She takes several bites of the high grass. Along her face, his rough hand runs along her strong jaw,

“I love you, girl.”

With his blonde hair stringing along the side, softly, he leans his head down and touches hers.

He adjusts his tricorn and stands up. Scanning the route and surrounding area, he spots a plume of chimney smoke stemming from the tops of the trees pretty far down the road.  

“That’s where we’ll aim for tonight. You finish up and let me know when you’re ready to go again,” he says, sitting on the grassy patch leaning against the old wooden fence.

“It’s going to be all right, my son. I will be painless, the words reverberated in Adahy’s mind. Adahy tried to carry his pain well in his mind, but it was visible through his lamented green eyes. She was the only person he knew who unconditionally loved him in his life. Her memory captures his thoughts, and her last words weigh on his mind, continuing to plague his daily thoughts.

After several minutes, Raven whines, awakening Adahy from a brief sleep. He stands, puts his left foot in the stirrup, and mounts his horse. Adahy has traveled for a fortnight with his loyal horse, Raven. A rare horse in these parts, gifted by his uncle, Wohali, a member of the tribal war counsel when Adahy turned 16. For the last several years, she has been Adahy’s trusted companion. Each of Raven’s steps seemed to drown out the silence as they made their way down the King’s Highway.

His saddlebags are filled with supplies meant for a journey with no return. Several pistols, ammunition, paper cartridges, extra horns of powder, and a haversack are all stored on right-side saddlebags. Also tightly concealed is a bow and quiver filled with many sharp arrows. In the opposite saddlebags are deer jerky rations, bread, a greatcoat, a tomahawk, and encampment tools. Giving Adahy a proper backrest along the journey, there is a thin wool blanket rolled into a larger one fastened across both saddlebags' tops.

There are three muskets that he carries, each serving its purpose. The blunderbuss with the shorter barrel flared at the tip stayed on his back, fastened securely, and used for close quarters. The second was a British Brown Bess holstered in Raven’s leather left side carrier. The French musket passed down from his father sits across his lap, a Charleville model 1728. Adahy was deadly accurate with all three.

The air becomes staler with each step, and the shade from the overhanging trees on the King’s Highway is a much-welcomed relief in the late afternoon. Sweating quite a lot, Adahy loosens his chest rig. Welcoming airflow to his chest.

Overtop his long-sleeve shirt, he carries one flintlock dragoon in a custom leather holster and two smaller blades sheathed on his ribs. The weapons are fastened to a leather-weaved chest carrier. The rig covered from shoulder to shoulder and down to his waist. A three-inch-wide waistbelt was woven through the carrier's bottom section and buckled on his left side. Two straps wrapped around his shoulders tightly, keeping the chest rig stable and secured to his body. It was designed so Adahy could modify his pistols and knives for any setup that made him more efficient in combat.

After his mother passed, the tribal war council outfitted him with custom gear. A leather saddle, a fitted leather chest carrier, and a custom leather holster for muskets that rested on the front side of his saddle, among other resourceful tools. Adahy found the chest carrier most valuable, as it was quickly concealable by his greatcoat and could be comfortably worn with everyday clothing.

            Adahy’s mind returns to those last moments with each of Raven’s steps. ‘It’s going to be all right, my son. I will be painless.’ The words echoed in his mind, trumping the bird whistles coming from the trees. Nightfall soon arrives to claim the day as the birds whistle into dusk. Adahy rides into the darkness before reaching a lodging tavern along the road. He guides Raven to the hitching post, unsaddles, and ties up the beautiful black horse.

            “You are the perfect traveling companion, Raven,” he says, petting the side of the horse’s long face before ritually placing his forehead on hers. “You never disagree with getting off the road.”

He unstraps the greatcoat from the saddlebag and puts it on, buttoning the collar, loosely hiding half his face. Adahy then throws the heavy saddlebags off Raven over his shoulder. He pats Raven’s back,

“Good girl,” Adahy says as he heads into the lodge with the wooden sign out front reading ‘Santee River Tavern.’

The building was nearly empty, and the atmosphere was quiet. One drunken man is unconscious in the corner, and the barkeep seems to have just woken up to the sound of his arrival. He stands up straight, clearing his throat,

            “Good evening, good sir! Welcome to the Santee River Tavern; our motto: highway travelers deserve warm food and uninterrupted sleep.” The older man shares salutations while pouring his guest a pint of ale before looking up. “Would you be staying the night?”

            “Yes, I believe I will,” he replies, still scanning the open tavern for any possible threats or entries of leave. Adahy wasn’t ignorant of the fact that being a half-native brought its own unique challenges.

            “Five pence per night.”

            “Proper rate barkeep, I will stay three nights and give my horse clean water each morn,” he says, placing five shillings on the bar top.

            “Excellent, sir. Right away,” the barkeep grabs a key off the wall under the number three hook. “Room three is yours until you leave.”

Currency never fails to instill excitement and enthusiasm in the colonies.

People have an odd way of acting when they know money is involved; greed motivates evil. It has been almost ten years since King George III imposed his unique taxes on the colonies, and it would seem to have the opposite effect as intended. It wasn’t the first time they were taxed, but it was the first time they’d begun seeing the British trying to enforce it. It was all the talk in taverns along Adahy’s route.

You don’t mess with people’s money, he thought to himself. 

The old barkeep comes around from the backside of the bar and heads outside to fetch new water for Raven’s trough. Adahy opens the left side of his greatcoat, withdrawing a nine-inch clay pipe and a pouch of crisp tobacco. He pulls a generous pinch of tobacco from the bag, firmly packing the pipe bowl with his thumb. Noticing a candle, Adahy grabs it from the candelabra and uses the glowing flame to ignite his freshly packed pipe.

            “Shall I take your things to the room, sir?” He asks with an uneasy tone upon reentering the tavern with the empty water pale.

            “No, that will not be necessary,” Adahy replies and continues, noticing the uneasiness of the barkeep, “doesn’t look like you’ve seen much business as of late.”  

“Aye, our tavern has met a downturn these last several months. It’s a pleasant sight, with fresh faces. We are happy to alleviate the road as a bed and stumps as pillows,” his voice is uneasy, unsure of the weary traveler.

Adahy, looking the barkeep in the eyes, sensing the uneasiness, took a long draw from his pipe, paused, and released the smoke and some quick words,

“Many Redcoats travel through these parts?”

 The old man takes a short pause as sweat begins beading on his forehead. He looks to the green-eyed Adahy, unsure of his intentions,

“Unfortunately…, yes.”

“I assumed. What is your name, barkeep?” Adahy inquires, taking another long draw from the pipe and keeping the ember hot. Smoke dances away from the pipe, melding with the tavern’s dry atmosphere. Adahy’s tone showcased his disdain for the redcoats, and the barkeep opened up.

“Daniel Mullan. I own this establishment,” he states proudly.

Tobacco embers crack and snap as Adahy pulls more smoke through his pipe, “Tell me more, Mr. Mullan.”

As he pours himself an ale, he continues speaking, “Please, just call me Daniel. At first, they were infrequent, but with time, they began badgering our patrons after stopping in weekly from Georgetown and Charleston, stealing as they please.” He looks around his empty tavern, “As you can see, they are effective in their work.”

“That I can see, yes,” Adahy says, pulling the final remnants of smoke from the pipe and, again, scanning the empty tavern. “What else?”

“Well, sir… They claim men’s wives at will and then burn their properties for disputing their actions.” He says, lowering his head, seemingly shameful.  

“Typical British foot soldier. Always resorting to destruction when others disagree with the crown's malicious actions they claim are justified. Terrible wretches,” Adahy says and continues, “Has an attempt been made to cease their conduct? Or has anyone done anything?” Adahy asks directly as he bangs his pipe against his hand, releasing all the used tobacco, and places the pipe back into his greatcoat pocket.

“No, for they are King’s men. A firestorm will erupt if we retaliate with violence. This is not Boston. I’ve often conjured plans in my mind but never acted on my wishes…” he says anxiously and continues, “What do you suggest we do, stranger?”

“Well… Redcoats won’t listen even after a beating,” Adahy says plainly. “There is only one solution, old man. That is death, only… not a death that will bring you trouble or trouble to this tavern.”

Daniel Mullan’s face is petrified at Adahy’s directness, but the green-eyed traveler appeared to be a man who understood violence with a willingness to act on it. Daniel has thought about this solution once or twice and realized the confrontation is imminent. 

            “How?” he asks. “If they are killed here, I will be hung in the streets of Georgetown as a traitor.”

            “Give me the night, Mr. Mullan. I will have your answer in the morn. For now, may I have a refill?”

            “Please, it’s Daniel. And yes, sir, you may.”

Adahy stops Daniel from pouring, “I will require your indefinite discretion, and the Crown’s forces will be on high alert after this. We cannot have misunderstandings between us.” Adahy says frankly.

            “Young sir, the crown and King do not hold my loyalty…the colonies do, the continental cause does. Rest assured, young man, my family and I are no King’s men… haven’t been for nearly 100 years.” He replies confidently before continuing to pour the ale.

            The tavern was quiet, all but the soft snoring of the man in the corner. Daniel’s face has an aura of hope, while Adahy’s face sits still, knowing not everyone can be trusted with these sorts of conversations, but Daniel seems trustworthy enough.  

“We shall see,” Adahy replies before downing the remainder of his ale. He grabs his gear and heads upstairs toward room three.

“Excuse me, sir, what do I call you?” Daniel asks the green-eyed traveler before he walks up the stairs.

“Adahy.”

War Trophies

 

 

Santee River Tavern

South Carolina

 

His eyes winced as the sun peaked through the linen curtains of the room window. Ugh, a few minutes more, he thinks. Moments passed, and finally, he opened his eyes. The privilege of comfort entered his mind, and he quickly got out of bed.

I have it, he thinks to himself.

The plan, if one could label it, was cut and dry. At least, that’s Adahy’s hope. He dresses quickly and gets his gear on, putting his greatcoat on last. Opening the room door, he exits but quickly returns for his tricorn, locking the door behind him.

“Aye, proper morning, Adahy!” Daniel Mullan says cheerfully to the empty tavern as Adahy makes his way down the wooden staircase.

“Good morning, good sir. Shall we have some coffee and a conversation?” Adahy asks in good spirits, entering the tavern barroom.

“A fresh batch was brewed not but half the hour ago,” he replies, grabbing two mugs and the coffee pot off the coals.

Making his way and sitting down at a larger table, Adahy pulls out his tobacco pouch and pipe. Daniel Mullan sits across from him, pouring the steaming coffee into the mugs for the both of them. Adahy takes the mug and sips the black drink, and it’s immediately invigorating,

“Damn, that’s some fine coffee.”

“It’s a batch of beans my trade partners export from the Caribbean, a little town called ‘Havana.’ They have some of the best coffee beans.” Daniel says proudly but quickly shifts topics, “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night… about the Redcoats.” His voice welcomes a more serious tone.

 “Aye. I’ve been thinking about it, too, and I have a plan. It’s quite simple…” He says, taking a sip from his coffee mug and then pinching some tobacco into his pipe, “I kill them,” he says calmly while lighting the tobacco with a candle.

Daniel stays quiet for a moment.

“I will kill them as if I am a group of natives that are furious with English expansion. I will use only a bow, arrows, blades, and tomahawk. It should be a small element of redcoats, and with surprise, darkness, and shadows, I will eliminate them, hopefully quickly,” he says, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

“Angry Indians, huh? You think that will work?” Daniel questions.

“Trust me. I am a native, and the disdain and hatred my people have for the British colonizers is vast. Native war parties are always looking for weak spots and moments to wound the British Empire. I believe this moment will be no different.”

“Aye, I’ve never once thought of that angle, but then again, I am no native, nor know nothing about strategy or war. I know the tavern business and ensuring my guests are comfortable, safe, and well-fed.”

“And you do well in that role, Mr. Mullan. This is my role in life; let me put it to use for you and this town.” Adahy replies, with a half-smile creasing on his face, knowing violence was a tool to be used, but for him, it was also an outlet for release.

“How do you think the British garrison will react to this act?”

“I’m hoping they put all towns near the garrison on alert for natives, and they stay within their walls for a bit. Giving you and this town some time to figure out a long-term plan of resistance… That’s also a very optimistic stance. For all I know, they could come and burn the town down for retribution,” he says halfway laughing, “But let’s be honest, the British are not the ‘go out and attack’ type… so I’m sure they won’t burn the town down.”

“That is not humorous, but I understand your point,” Daniel says, not enthused by Adahy’s idea of a jest.

“I apologize; I may have taken it a bit too far… but the plan is solid. They will be scared and unaware of the motivations of these ‘angry Indians,’ as you so aptly put it, so they won’t have a clear direction on what to do next.” Adahy says confidently.

“How is it you believe this will work?”

“My uncle Wohali has taught me how the British think… or at least, he tried,” Adahy smiled, looking at Daniel.

“It appears you have a clear path, and I understand what you need to do. This moves me to trust you, and I pray that no retribution is taken out on our town,” Daniel says strongly, “would you like some more coffee?”

“Yes sir, I would appreciate that,” Adahy replies, sensing that Mr. Mullan’s deep-down attitude toward the whole idea was wavering, “I promise you, Mr. Mullan, I will make sure they are factual in their assessments that angry natives will be to blame for this action.”

Daniel trusted the abilities of the young man and the confidence he carried. Daniel also sensed he was a trustworthy soul, recognizing that the moment they started talking on the first day.

“It will work, Mr. Mullan. It has, too,” Adahy said, inhaling more tobacco from his pipe.

“I believe you, young man, I do. I have faith it’ll happen as discussed.” Daniel says to Adahy and stands up, placing his right hand on Adahy’s shoulder, “I just hope you are safe in your actions. I will be praying for your safe return. Godspeed.”

“Thanks, old man. I will be.” Adahy replies slyly as Daniel walks away.

Through the smoke, Adahy looks up to see the glaring morning sun rays leaking in through the glass pane windows. Nature is noisy this morning, he thinks to himself; that means it’ll be a quiet night.

 

 

 

**

Early on the third day, Daniel Mullan received information claiming a squad of the belligerent British regulars had left Georgetown and would be here by midday. Daniel remembered what the green-eyed traveler said to him during their planning discussion, “Trust me.”

The two men loaned their trust to each other and would keep it if this operation were successful.

The day started just as any other day along the King’s Highway, with unsuspecting travelers, passersby, and civilians roaming into town. Tucked away within a corner of the town, with all the canvas-flapped storefronts selling their wares and handmade goods, stood Adahy. He patiently waits outside the Tavern with a keen eye on the route out front. Walking the road from Georgetown is a vigorous journey, and the twelve British regulars stop at the Santee River Tavern, as expected. But it’s a smaller element than anticipated. Adahy watches as all walk into the tavern,

Imagine them trying to chase me, Adahy thinks of the humorous picture. He analyzes each British regular: Protruding waists, disheveled gear, cartridge boxes are loose, their brown Bess muskets are old and used, not at all like the threatening redcoats I’ve heard of.

Daniel Mullan gets to work in the tavern, and within a short time, the redcoats are lively and drunk. As expected, the men are barking insults at the locals, being hostile and combative with the civilian men, and forcing themselves onto the women.

Wild and irregular, these men have no place here, Daniel thinks to himself, watching them men act out.

Hours pass, and their behavior only gets worse as they drunkenly spew anti-patriot language. Two soldiers lay claim to a townsman’s wife, promising their return the next day. After harassing Daniel and not paying their tab, they stumble outside under the dark new moon sky.

The air is dank on the King’s Highway this late, with frogs loudly croaking in the shadows as if the shadows are speaking. Halfway to the garrison, four furlongs south, the drunken redcoats find themselves chanting their national anthem, happily singing out of tune with their words and steps, blending sounds with the croaking frogs.

“God save great George our king,

Long live our noble king,

God save the king.

Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us,

God save the ki-”

            *Thwipt*

            An arrow slices through the neck of the tallest redcoat in the group's rear, releasing a steady outflow of blood, replacing his singing with choking and gurgling. Panic consumes the other men.

            *Thwipt*

            A second arrow immediately follows the first, striking another redcoat in the chest. In the stillness of the night, you can hear the arrowhead piercing his air-filled lung. Gasping with their last breaths, the two immediately fell to their knees, quickly bleeding out. The rest of the drunken soldiers begin panicking and aimlessly firing their muskets into the dark wilderness. Flashes erupt from their musket locks, and trees split from the British shots. Another arrow emerges from the shadows and cuts the muggy night air.

            *Thwipt*

            A third soldier releases a quick wheeze, dropping on the road. A fierce, precise arrow penetrates between his clavicle bones, snapping his spinal cord on the way out. The remaining nine soldiers huddle around the fallen; two make attempts to treat the wounded. In a drunken stupor, the frantic and overwhelmed redcoats fail to distinguish the origins of the massacre, still firing randomly into the darkness.

The musket firing and smoke blended with the pitch blackness and horrifying screams, making for a hellish sight. Each musket flash showcases another gruesome death. Adahy uses this to his advantage; he knows that confusion is a tool in the battlespace. He moves within shadows, and multiple arrows begin raining misery onto the redcoats from a new position.

            *Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt, Thwipt*

            Within moments, the firing had stopped, and croaking frogs quickly rejoined the dying men's newly faint gurgles and groans. 

From the garrison's outer perimeter, the pair of roving external foot patrols heard the struggling musket fire. They begin running toward the sound of the drowning musket fire. Immediately after the guards start their sprint, it falls quiet in the wilderness, excluding the frogs. A few minutes pass, and the two guards come across the dead. Musket smoke still floats in the air above the warm, lifeless bodies.

As the two redcoats get closer, they see a mutilated pile of twelve British regulars with a collection of arrows in each. One of the guards immediately vomited on the road. A combination of seldom sprinting and the defiled dead. Corporal Werdon, the taller redcoat, says unclenched,

            “Bloody fucking hell, bear witness to slaughter, greenhorn.”

            “This is the work of savages! It had to be a column with their blasted arrows! Tormenting us from the shadows!” Lance Corporal Gill says deliriously, eyes wide, looking in all directions, dropping to the ground on his knees, seemingly losing his bearings, with vomit still on his chin.

            “Bloody natives. Why scalp them? The red savages in these parts don’t have a reputation for scalps,” Corporal Werdon speculatively says, looking at the body as he rolls it over with his musket barrel.

            The other redcoat was becoming delirious and quickly losing his sanity from the sights and smells.

“Disgraced war trophies, awful bloody things, we must leave now! Who knows how many more there are near?” Fear controls Lance Corporal Gill.

            “We need to report this immediately. This will not be good for us,” says Corporal Werdon, the collected recoat. “Get back on your feet! You’re embarrassing the Crown!”

            The two redcoats sprint back to the garrison as quickly as they left. A caravan is sent within minutes to ensure the men’s story’s legitimacy and collect bodies. Just before dawn, the procession of fifty British infantry regulars and horse-drawn wagons returned. It followed with dreadful news, carrying twelve scalped soldiers, confirming the two men’s story.

The door opens from the headquarters building, and a gangling Major emerges with a war-hardened face. Before him was the entire garrison standing at attention, ready for his word about the attack.

“Men, we have been attacked. Targeted, one might say. We’ve been on the receiving end of a despicable disgrace to the Crown’s men. There will be changes.” As he speaks, his tone is stern; he pauses. The men know what he says goes. He continues, “Patrols will be doubled for rovers and doubled in size. You will no longer drink at local taverns until these savage culprits are brought to justice.”

No matter their discipline, you can hear scoffs from the men throughout the formation.

“I will not have my men slaughtered by savages! Cease your griping,” the Major snaps quickly and continues, “Captain, send a message to all local taverns and towns about this slaughter. Our men will not be subject to provocation and targeted attacks,” he directs his words at the younger Captain and walks back into the headquarters building. The grumbling among the men is a dull roar, and within moments, they are released from their formation.

“See, I told you, Gill…” the Corporal looked to the younger man, “This attack will not be good for us,” saying in a darker tone.

“After what I saw, I never wish that upon my worst enemy.” Lance Corporal Gill replies.

“Don’t be such a coward. You should be upset that we are stuck here to drink and cannot share festivities with the townswomen. What do they expect us to do? This place will eat itself in a fortnight.” He angrily scoffs, walking off.

“Wait for me!” Gill says as he catches up with Corporal Werdon, who is grumbling under his breath. “You can smell it, Gill, the disorderly conduct reports being prepared while the men run out of suitable activities for solidified soldiers. This is a fucking mess. The next chance we get, we will request a transfer. I’m not being stuck with this timid regiment.” Werdon says and goes back to under-his-breathe complaints.

As the two men continue walking, the grumbling gripes are growing outside of every tent and next to all the fire pits, and complaints are ever-growing and quietly echoing throughout the British fort. The men, now confined to their fort, are effective prisoners under their own flag.

 

 

 

**

Creeping over the horizon, the sun breaks the plane, disbursing light into the world. Dawn was Adahy’s favorite time; the crisp, cool air from the black nights prior and the aroma of the fresh sun on the earth was perfect. Adahy sits atop Raven, riding toward the entrance of the Santee River Tavern. He unsaddles the black mare and ties her reigns to the hitching post. Adahy presses his forehead against the horse’s head for a brief moment, collects his thoughts, and walks inside.

Mr. Mullan was awake, rummaging through some wooden crates behind the counter. No drunken fool was unconscious in the corner this morn, and the small wooden doors over the windows had been opened, letting in the beautiful early sunshine. The old barkeep speaks from behind the counter, still occupied,

            “Weary traveler, may I offer you some crisp steaming coffee?”

            “Many redcoats travel through these parts?” Adahy asks in a mirrored tone, like the first day he arrived.

Daniel, recognizing the voice, lifts his head, smiling, and comes around the bar, “Adahy, young man! I must shake your hand. The garrison redcoats are restricted from local establishments indefinitely due to some trouble with some Indians, said they scalped ‘em.” Daniel says slyly, with a look in his eye.

            “It’s a temporary fix, old man. Once they realize there are not any real natives taking advantage of their drunken soldiers, they will soon be back tormenting the local people.”

            “I know…” Daniel tells Adahy quietly, “I will use this peaceful time to contact my friends in the northeast and persuade them to come here and work if more issues arise about the garrison redcoats. A growing sentiment echoes in the shadows of taverns and meetinghouses. Men meet, men talk, and men plan. Soon, there might be enough collective support.”

            Adahy, never being one for politics, breezes over the words, “I’ll take you up on that coffee if you don’t mind,” trying to change the subject.

            “Right away. Would you like some forced eggs as well?” Daniel asks Adahy as he grabs the kettle for the coffee.

            “No, thank you, coffee is fine.”

            The old barkeep rounds behind the counter, boiling the water over the fire. In what seemed like seconds, the distinct bean aroma filled the tavern quickly and was a welcoming scent to the journeying young man. Upon the coffee’s completion, Daniel pours Adahy and himself two steaming mugs; together, they enjoy the silence and the piping black sludge.

Forty minutes pass, and Adahy stands up; his tall stature towers above the sitting Daniel,

“Well, old man, I’m off. Time to continue my path. This is the best coffee I have had in an exceptionally long time. Thank you, and your hospitality has been generous.”

Daniel stands, “Aye, well, it was my pleasure. If you don’t mind, where are you headed?” He asks as he takes the last sip of the coffee.

            “Boston, by way of the king’s highway,” Adahy says.

“What is a young man of your talent doing headed to Boston? You would be a perfect fit for the underground continental cause in Philadelphia. They need capable young men like yourself.” Daniel Mullan says to him convincingly.

“You know, a fortnight ago, I would’ve never spoken to you of my travels or path, but after this week, I do believe we have gained a sense of trust and confinement in each other. Would you agree?”

“Aye,” Daniel replies firmly,

“Before my mother died, she instructed me to find my father’s brother, a man named ‘Thomas Young,’ who could help me learn more about my father and that side of my family,” Adahy says plainly and continues, “Mother died of yellow fever. According to her, my father was on the run for years by privateers, bounty hunters, and mercenaries, all hired by King George II, before they eventually caught up to him and killed him. She rarely spoke his name.”

            Being taken aback, Daniel stands up, “Thomas Young was one of the most notorious officers in the French & Indian War. He’s a well-known patriot.”

            “That is the man I need to find,” Adahy replies smoothly to the old barkeep.

            “Well, Adahy, I believe you will find who you are looking for. He is a leader in the city and doing great things for the continental cause, or so that’s what my friends in Philadelphia have conveyed to me. My younger, well younger than me, Cousin Wilfred, owns ‘Mug Tavern’ outside Boston in the small-town Brookline… if you ever need a good ale and a place to relax, that is the place to be.”

            Adahy listens to his words and remembers the names of his cousin and tavern in case he needs to utilize the resource later in life. It’s always a good idea to keep in contact with trustworthy people and locations; Adahy learned this early in life. Daniel seemed happier or at least more at ease than he had been when Adahy first arrived, and seeing that made Adahy proud and filled him with gratification.  

            “It has been a busy few days, but I am glad to put your redcoat worries at ease. It does people no good to be bullied, harmed, or killed by their King and his men… I am always happy to help in that area when I can,” Adahy conveys directly to Daniel Mullan.

            “Aye, thank you. Your actions will spread through the colonies fast. It might even reach the ears of the clandestine cabals in Boston; you never know. Now, drink the rest of this coffee before you embark; you’ll need it.” Mr. Mullan fills the mug to the brim as Adahy sits back down, withdrawing his clay pipe and tobacco pouch for one last smoke before getting on the road.

By midday, the sun was at full brilliance with no clouds in the blue sky, a genuinely riveting sight. Adahy had left the Santee River Tavern but still couldn’t get over that damn coffee. Before leaving, he had Mr. Mullan fill up one of his spare canteens with as much as it could carry. He grabs the gold talisman with his left hand and clutches it tightly, thinking of his mother. The sentiments fade from missing his mother to the mission and her wish for him. The road was long indeed, but the resilience within Adahy was great. He was optimistically steadfast and youthfully determined.