-= 106 =-
21 September, 1782
Georgia (near modern Statesboro, northwest of Savannah)
Edward Grey knelt in the perpetually moist soil of his farm, picking through leaves ravaged by too much water and far too many insects. Yes, that cabbage was good enough, and it went in a sack joining the rest of his meager bounty. It wasn't much, but it would just do..for now. Fortunately the Georgia winters were exceptionally mild and, so long as he didn't foolishly exhaust the soil and picked crops carefully, there was no reason he couldn't keep growing right through the year. That was probably the only reason his gamble was at all possible.
Being out here
was a gamble. They were two days from the nearest British garrison, a small fort on the Carolina border, and three to five from Savannah itself. No help then if the crops turned bad or if he or his wife became ill. They were too close to the Cherokee, and while they showed no interest in his land and even traded once in a long while, if one of their patrols turned ugly.... Edward instinctively raised his head and looked across the low, swampy ground towards the distant foothills. He saw nothing of course, nothing but trees half-doubled on themselves, thin upper branches almost touching the ground.
Being away from Savannah had its good points as well. For one thing, no one contested how much land he chose to claim for himself, and with just a little more money he might go down to Savannah and make it legal. It might take the rest of his life, but one day his yet to be born son or daughter would own a vast estate. Yes, that was something to look forward to, something to make the long days worthwhile. It also kept him out of politics.
When the second American/British war started, Edward was just old enough to slip across the border and join the Army of the South under Lincoln. He'd fought credibly until the disaster at Mobile when he'd simply gone home, watching sullenly as American and Brit alike sacked Savannah. In the end other than a lot of people being killed nothing had changed and he was sick of the lot.
Grey lifted the sack onto his shoulders. This was enough for tonight, and a few of the turnips needed more time anyway. Next would come the animals: a horse for their cart and plow, a cow and bull for meat and milk, and three pigs because they were cheap and easy to maintain. Normally he'd see to the animals and his wife to the garden, but Amanda had been sick this last week. She insisted it was a simple fever, but he could hear her wheezes when she talked and feared pneumonia. How in God's name would he get a doctor here?
He stopped as the three pigs started squealing, all at once. The horse neighed loudly and backed against the thin fence of its corral. Edward looked over and saw four men - he assumed they were men - approaching on horseback. All dressed in white robes slit at the legs with white cloaks billowing in the wind, and all wore white executioner's masks. They spotted him, and the one on the left barked something and pointed.
"Amanda!" Edward cried, dropping his sack and running for the cabin and his rifle. "Bolt the door! Raiders!" The pro-American raids had grown steadily worse over the last few months, and once even a British patrol had been ambushed. This was more their style though, isolated farms or travelers on the road from St. Augustine. Damn them!
--------
"The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants." Eric Crawford muttered this statement, first offered by Thomas Jefferson at the end of the 1773 War of Independence, morning and night almost as a prayer to some forgotten god. Of course, it was far preferable if only the tyrants bled but that wasn't always possible and then he fell back on a seventeenth century poet, Matthew Prior: "The ends must justify the means." As far as Crawford was concerned, freedom justified anything.
Having been forsaken by the cowards in Philadelphia, there was only one way left to secure Georgia's freedom: Make the land ungovernable. Crawford reasoned, correctly, that the great nations of Europe kept colonies primarily for the resources and prestige they offered. Therefore, if Georgia simply became more expensive than it was worth, if it became a constant drain on English coffers and manpower...then they just might give up.
He was a patriot, or at least he thought so. His companions had other motives: Jacob was an escapee from the American prison colonies in southern Florida, a murderer who won deportation from Baltimore rather than death, but could now expect nothing if caught but a noose. Ephraim had been a 'privateer' until the Americans cleared the seas and his ship ran aground near Savannah where most of the crew was hung for piracy. He didn't care about revenge, but he did like money. There were enough
patriots with money willing to pay others to do the raiding for them.
Eric didn't think about that now though, he thought of the fleeing farmer. He signaled again and Ephraim broke off to secure the animals; they would be very welcome back at camp. Eric drew his sword, an American cavalry saber and swung. A glancing blow, just enough to break the farmer's scalp and force him to the ground. Jacob galloped right behind, trampling the fool beneath steel-clad hooves.
Crawford turned sharply, sawing with his reins to pull away from the cabin. He trotted to the groaning farmer who didn't try to get up, but, simply lay on his stomach gasping with blood trickling from his mouth and his right side partially caved. He waved Jacob over and pointed. "I wanted this done cleanly." He'd do what had to be done for liberty, but saw no reason for senseless brutality.
Jacob wiped his nose and glared at the farmer like it was his fault. "I'll tak' care o' it," he promised, leaping off his horse and drawing a wicked curved knife, almost like a miniature scimitar.
Eric grimaced and turned to the cabin. It was small, pale wood already dark from water stains and slightly raised on a foundation. It wasn't likely anyone out here would have anything worth taking, less food and animals of course, but it didn't hurt to check. He dismounted and marched to the door. Locked, which meant someone was inside. Before he could address this stranger the farmer's dying shriek filled the air.
"Jacob!" He whirled as the murderer lifted a bloody scalp grinning like he'd found a new toy.
"Wut?"
"There's someone in here." Eric knocked hard. "Open up and we won't hurt you!" No response. "Open the door!"
"Look out!" Jacob dove to the ground as a musket barrel poked out the open window. It fired, filling the warm, humid air with acrid smoke.
"Get out of here!" someone screamed. A woman. Christ, what kind of fool dragged a woman out here? Crawford glared at the dead farmer.
"I got her!" Jacob howled. He hated being shot at almost as much as he feared the noose, and he charged.
"Wait!" Eric roared, but he was too late. Jacob threw his heavy body into the window frame, shattering it and falling inside in a shower of glass and wood. A thump, like wood on wood, then a roar followed by a piercing scream. More thumps, something heavy slammed into the door from the inside, a wail and a sob. Crawford stood back, saber out as someone released the door's bolt and it opened slowly.
Jacob stood there, flushed, blood dribbling from his hands. He wiped them, still holding his bloody knife. Behind him a mass on the floor sobbed. He grinned nastily. "No problem!"
"The next time I say wait," Crawford snarled, "I mean wait!"
"I have her first," Jacob added, turning his back. He froze as Eric jabbed him in the back with his sword. "'Ey! Don' worry I'll share!"
"Go help Ephraim with the animals," Eric hissed.
"Later! She shot a' me, I'm gon'have some fun first!" The murderer turned slowly, as if to reason, but abruptly lashed out with his knife. He caught Eric's sword deflecting it away and lunged forward. Crawford had served too many years to fall for such a simple ploy, however. As his blade deflected away to the right, he caught Jacob with a left hook followed by his sword hilt. Jacob's hands immediately rose to protect his broken and bloody nose through the mask. Crawford grabbed him by the shirt and threw him outside. He turned cooly, standing between Jacob and the woman with both hands on his blade.
"Don't ever do that again."
Jacob sat up, still protecting his nose and glared, then stood and ran to the animals. Crawford sighed and turned. Amanda Grey had regained her knees. Along with an obvious fever - face bright red but not a trace of sweat - she sported several scratches and bruises and Jacob had already seen fit to tear the bodice of her dress. She clutched it close and glared at him, more angry than afraid, nor did she stop when he retrieved a blanket so she could cover herself.
"I apologize for your treatment," Crawford told her solemnly.
"You killed my husband," Amanda spat.
"Yes."
"Why!?"
"Freedom." He gave her another moment to collect her wits, then brought his blade down: He watched the gathering red pool somberly, wiped his sword, and sheathed it. "The blood of patriots and tyrants," he murmured.
-------
There are rules; standards of conduct that govern everything a civilized man can possibly run into. Some of them come from God, some from country and family. Some sneak in as etiquette and custom, and still others are just common decency. These hard lessons Dieter von Zahringen learned at the knee and occasional strap of his Baden schoolmasters, and though he believed some of those rules could be bent and twisted without defying God's will, there were lines no honorable nor civilized man dare cross.
This, he thought looking over the smoking remains of a farmer's cabin and the scalped bodies of man and wife, came awfully close. The Badener wasn't some idealistic fool, he knew people died in war and occasionally civilians wound up in the middle...but there hadn't been a battle here. No sign either of them were British soldiers or spies. This wasn't war, but murder.
Von Zahringen's American uniform was long gone, and that from Baden lay with his rifle within the walled camp of the Echota; they weren't taking any chances after Exeter's raid several years before. Today his clothing was simple tan leathers, his only weapon a knife. He signaled to two of his Cherokee friends, pointed at the bodies and made scooping motions. Both frowned, one folded his arms. Von Zahringen gestured 'please,' and one grimaced producing a sharp stake. He didn't blame them, it would be an arduous few hours for even a minimal burial and they didn't like being around dead people any more than the next man. Especially dead white people. The German had been shocked to learn the distrust, animosity and even contempt between white man and red ran both ways. If not for the technological differences coupled with a strong desire to remain in their ancestral lands the Cherokee would have happily risen up generations ago. They saw the white settlements as a plague, and though they merely disapproved of the French (who at least had the decency to destroy their ancient enemy the Creek,) they hated Englishmen, and absolutely loathed Americans. When he'd arrived in Cherokee lands after the war it'd been a dicey few days while they decided what to do with him. One powerful contingent, mostly young braves, would've seen him killed but the new chief stepped in. He was a proud, wise and seemingly ancient man whose name translated as 'Bear Claw'. Von Zahringen couldn't pronounce Cherokee names for the life of him.
The Badener liked the Cherokee, even the ones who didn't think so much of him. Their life seemed simpler, more pure, without the intricate courts of Europe where a frown meant trouble and a smile promised worse, and your best friend today might be your mortal enemy tomorrow. At least the Indians told you to your face if they didn't like you. As for these rebels fighting British rule in Georgia ... he didn't really care either way. He applauded their cause, but despised their tactics - and anyway two nations fighting for honor and glory was far different than a small grass roots rebellion. He wouldn't have fought for America in '73, and would be perfectly happy to let these raiders and the Brits sort out their own mess if not for the scalpings. Most Indians didn't scalp their victims, but enough did to make it almost a trademark for those who would demonize the 'ungodly savages.' The British would assume the Cherokee destroyed this farm and others and retaliate. That was intolerable.
Some hours later the two bodies, wrapped in furs were lowered onto a bed of sticks within a hole. Von Zahringen muttered a Catholic prayer, it was the least and the most he could do for them. No, he realized, staring at the corpses as his companions began shoving dirt over them. Not the most. Not quite.
"Can you track who did this?" he asked one of the Cherokee in his abhorrent and laughable attempt at their tongue. The Indian looked around for some moments then nodded.
"Then we hunt." Von Zahringen drew his knife and they were off.
