“Shad says there’ll be a battle at the Forks of the Ohio,” Matt informed him.
“Why?” Harry asked. He didn’t look at Shad.
“Why?” Shad cried. “Why because Lieutenant Colonel George Washington’s gonna build a fort there! And because he’s gonna ask them frog-eaters real polite-like to please go home as soon as possible.”
Stefen and Tammy grinned and Shad panned his moist red face to Matt to tip him another wink.
“Very funny, I’m sure,” Harry said coldly, and he turned to look at Shad. “However, it doesn’t follow that there will be a battle or a war simply because the French have built three forts and the English one. Perhaps it means nothing to you that we have a peace treaty with France. Or haven’t you heard of the Aix-la-Chapelle treaty?”
“The Ox-la-Chapelly!” Shad roared, and he hit his thigh a great smack. “Ain’t that a dandy? He thinks the French’n Indians’n English have lived up to the treaty! Haw! Haw! Don’t you know they been at each other’s throats ever since that blame treaty was signed? Brother, a treaty ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on these days. And if you think them frog-eaters is gonna let Washington set up a fort without them tryin’ to knock it down, then you just come along with me’n Matt and see!”
“Shad,” Matt said, “how soon are you leaving?”
“Just as quick as you fellas get ready. Tell you one of the last things I heard; a Colonel Fry has been given full command of the expedition, pushing Washington back to second place. I want to get up to Wills Creek right fast and do some complaining. I’m gonna tell ’em that Georgie is the best durn soldier, officer, woodsman, fort-building man in the Colonies! I’m gonna tell ’em . . .”
Matt didn’t wait for more. He turned and hurried to the house, as did the others for their homes, leaving Shad ranting and raving by himself at the gate.
In Matt’s family, as in most families, the final decision on any important matter rested with his father. Regardless of who wanted what or how many words were said or tears shed, his father always had the last word. And this, Matt believed, was as it should be. So he sat at the board table in the gathering room with his father and the twins William and Smite, his two younger brothers, and waited with bated impatience as his father stared at the dead fireplace and puffed absently at his pipe.
Finally his father set the pipe aside and cleared his throat. Abruptly his three sons straightened themselves on the bench.
“Matt,” his father spoke slowly, as though feeling for words, “I’ve known for years that your heart belonged to the wilderness and not here in the settlements; that’s why I’ve never restrained you from going off with Shad. It’s been good for you, made a fine strong man of you . . . but war, ah, that’s another matter. You’re still a child when it comes to war.”
Matt said nothing. He stared at his father’s pipe and waited.
“This land that the French and English would fight over is far removed from us. Why do you think it’s your concern?”
“Louisburg was farther, sir, when you went against it with William Pepperell,” Matt countered. “I’ve heard it said that that war was fought over the rights of who should have the taking of fish on the Grand Banks. You’ve never been a fisherman, sir, so I doubt if you went on the expedition with that worry in mind. I always believed you fought because you thought the French were infringing on the Americans.”
His father was silent for a long moment, then he picked up his pipe and checked the dottle it contained in the bowl. He smiled suddenly and turned warm eyes on his son.
“I think I understand what you mean,” he said simply.
In the gathering room, with the young twins underfoot, so that he tripped over them a dozen times in five minutes, Matt arranged his kit, rolling most of his small needs in his blanket.
Already a large group of townspeople had gathered in the yard, and when Matt glanced through the window he saw Shad talking to his father. Then he looked again, surprised. Harry Curry, dressed in a new deerskin shirt, tight-fitting pants and polished jack boots, stood a little aside from the others. A pack and blanket roll were at his feet, a musket in his hand. He seemed to be waiting with a bored, self-contained air.
“Well,” Matt murmured. “What of that now?”
He gathered up his gear and, with a final promise to young Smite that he would do his best to bring him back a St. Francis scalp, he left the house to cross the yard. Harry turned his head and nodded casually at him.
Matt smiled warmly as he approached Harry. “Why, Harry,” he said, “what makes you want to go?”
“It’s my country too,” Harry answered shortly.
Shad was now having an argument with Tammy’s father. Tammy stood back slightly with a red lowered face, and shuffled his feet in the dirt.
“But me no buts!” the old Scot cried angrily. “I don’t fancy to my laddy fighting for the English! And more, I’ll tell ye, I don’t take lightly to his dying for them!”
“Dyin’ for ’em!” Shad cried, and contrived to look aghast. “Why, Mr. Ferguson, we ain’t gonna fight them Frenchies! What ever give you that idea? Say, them frog-eaters is gonna take one look at Colonel Washington’s thousand or so militia and volunteers, and they’re gonna roll up their eyes in dismay and cry, ‘Oh, qui-qui, thees American fellas is some hotsy stuff! Queek, Pierre, turn you foolish self about and let us run, may-qui!’ Naw, we ain’t gonna have no fighting.”
But the old man remained unconvinced. “Who might this Colonel Washington be?” he asked sourly.
“Who is he?” Shad gasped, and he slapped a palm to his forehead as though amazed at Mr. Ferguson’s ignorance. “Why, he’s the soldier that old Dumwiddie thinks the sun rises and sets on. Dumwiddie says give him ten officers like Washington and he’ll have every frog-eatin’, snail-boilin’ Frenchy back whittling clay pipes in Canada within two weeks! That’s who Colonel Washington is!”
“Jim,” Matt’s father said kindly, laying a hand on the old Scot’s brittle shoulder, “it isn’t a question of fighting for the English. That’s something a lot of us are overlooking. These boys want to fight for us, for our land. Washington’s an American like Shad; like you and Tammy are, Jim.”
The old man was silent. He sniffed and stared at the ground, then looked up at the silent ring of intent faces watching him.
“Get the claymore, Tammy,” he muttered.
Tammy’s face brightened with a sudden spasm, and he ran to the west wall of the house, where a blanket roll and a heavy old sword leaned in its frayed scabbard. The boy fetched the sword back to his father and watched him with an expectant eye.
Mr. Ferguson stared at the sword in his hands as though recalling the glory of thousands of long-gone Scotsmen charging across a moor with nothing but blades in their hands, against the slamming English cannons. Then he gave Matt’s father a surreptitious look.
“I but brought it along just in case I decided to lei the laddy go,” he mumbled in half-apology. “Here, Tammy, I have no musket to give ye, but this old claymore was good enough for my father, and good enough for me when it came to a hackin’ ruddy battle. It will have to do ye.”
Then, as the crowd cheered and as the youths were given many hearty backslaps, Shad bent over with a grunt and rooted through his pack. He came up with a silver-plated gorget, the sort of doodad that English officers wear at their necks. He gave it a polish on his sleeve and placed it over his head so that it hung right over his fat throat. Then he picked up his pack and musket and grinned at Matt.
“All right, Matty?” he asked. “Ready to get on?”
Matt nodded. “Ready.”
Shad in the lead,