War Path by Kerry Newcomb Read Free Book Online

entered, in formation, and with dignity. But these men of Lincolnshire and Northumberland, Bristol, Torquay, and the Chiltern Hills had gorged themselves on dignity this day and found it bitter to the taste. More than half the reinforcements Farley and Ransom had paraded into the trap now littered the meadow with their lifeless forms. The will to live superceded Ransom’s appeal.
    Corporal Artemus Felker, the last standing drummer, on orders from the major, followed The Retreat with The Call, a series of pronounced drumrolls to inspire the lads to close ranks and maintain the column. Midway through his ratta-tap-tap , a flurry of musket balls splintered the drum’s wooden case, one lodged in Felker’s thigh. The drummer howled, stumbled forward, then crumpled over his instrument, further shattering the case and rupturing the hide head. Sergeant Strode materialized out of the acrid haze, rushed to the fallen man’s side, caught his comrade by the upper arm and dragged him to his feet.
    â€œMy drum,” Felker said through clenched teeth. He was a man of average height, average build, sharp-nosed, with close-set eyes.
    â€œBloody hell, she’s done for Artie,” Strode gruffly admonished, supporting his friend’s weight. “Here come the damn French and they’ll be playing final reveille over our bones if we tarry.”
    â€œWait,” Felker retorted and leaning down, retrieved a scrap of casing emblazoned with the cross of St. George, a symbol of the regimental colors. “Now, get me out of here, you lovely bastard.”
    The French and their Abenaki allies broke from concealment and’ charged the remnants of the column. And there was nothing Ransom could do to stem the rout. The column buckled, broke apart and dissolved before his eyes. The soldiers nearly knocked him off his feet as they rushed past. The major took a look at the approaching horde and joined the footrace.
    He heard the sound of the hunting horn peal above the clamor, saw the long-hunter’s towering figure commanding the center of the wheel-rutted path, where the road cut through the forest and the white oaks parted to permit the passage of the regiment. Ransom scowled. So the wretch had not fled after all, or at least had halted his progress to amuse himself with the regiment’s slaughter.
    If it is the last thing I ever do, I shall confront the coward , the major promised himself. And make him pay for his dishonor . The men of his command were being cut to ribbons, but the way the woods were closer now, Stark was closer, there in the middle of the path framed by the forest’s edge where the trees and underbrush became more pronounced.
    Perhaps some of them would survive to warn Fort Edward, Ransom considered. That was preeminent, warn Fort Edward, regroup, reinforce the ranks, and return to relieve the English defenders of William Henry in due time. He was the last to flee and purposefully slowed so none of his troops would see him bound past like a frightened rabbit. Real or imagined he could sense his pursuers gaining on him. An English major was a prime target, sweet prey for both the Abenaki and the French.
    Before the major’s eyes, men stumbled and fell to the ground to right and left. With every hurried step Ransom expected to feel a lead ball rip through his vitals and leave him mortally wounded for Atoan and his bloodthirsty heathens to have their way with him. He’d heard dark and grisly tales of torture and death endured at the hands of the Abenaki, the Hurons, the Iroquois and did not relish such a fate.
    His wig blew away, Ransom never even so much as slowed to glance over his shoulder, nor did he consider retrieving it this time. He could replace the periwig, but not the head it crowned. He gasped for breath, almost tripped over his own feet, vaulted a dying comrade at arms, and focused on the big man directly before him, not twenty yards away. He ran headlong toward the