Civilization in the Wilderness
A Tale of Adventure on the American Frontier
A Note: This is a work of historical fiction, and being a work of fiction I have taken some creative liberties. While I have made an effort to avoid any historical inconsistencies, if you happen to notice any, please send me an email at hardihoodbooks@substack.com.
Spelling and vocabulary are modern, although occasionally you will encounter characters using words more common in the nineteenth century than in our own. I have avoided having characters use explicit racial slurs, opting for colloquialisms instead. The attitudes of the characters reflect something of the common attitudes of the day (rather than our own), and none of the attitudes represented herein are my own. With that in mind, please read on.
Chapter One
In April of the year eighteen hundred and seven, in a frontier town somewhere in the state of Kentucky, a meeting took place which would spark a series of events culminating in a continental journey to the edge of the Pacific Ocean. It was a warm afternoon, a little after three, when the meeting took place. It happened by accident, in a tavern on the edge of the frontier town.
The tavern door opened quietly and a short man with long black hair made his way inside. The clock behind the bar, which needed to be wound, had just struck two-thirty.
“He’s an Indian,” said one of the men at the bar.
The newcomer, who was clearly from out of town, padded up to the bar. He wore moccasins and his feet made no noise. When he got to the bar, he slung the rifle he’d been carrying down off his shoulder and rested it against the counter.
“Do they serve Indianfolk here?” mumbled the man who had spoken earlier.
“Shut up, Bert,” said his companion, elbowing Bert in the shoulder.
The bartender made his way over to the stranger. “You’re not from around here,” he said. There was a pint glass in his hand. He stood there waiting for the man to give him his order.
“I’m from Massachusetts. My tribe is the Wampanoag.”
“That much is clear. What are you drinking?”
“Water.”
“Water? You come in here and ask for water? You can get that out of the ground. What you want to come in here for that?”
“I’m thirsty. I’ve been walking all day and I haven’t had any water.”
“Why not?”
“I ran out.”
The bartender started to say something, but a voice called from down at the other end of the bar. It was the owner of the tavern, who’d been watching the stranger since he’d entered.
“Give the man some water, George.”
The bartender shook his head, but obliged. He poured the stranger a glass, watched as the stranger drank it down in one go, went to refill the glass, and returned this time with a full glass and a pitcher.
“Here,” he said. “It don’t cost us nothing. Take as much as you’d like. You come back over here if you want a real drink or some food.”
The Wampanoag man nodded and took his water and the pitcher over to an empty table in the corner where he could sit by himself. He took his gun and laid it across one of the seats and then sat in the other. He drank the water and watched the bar.
There were ten patrons in the room, which made it seem empty – but this was a normal crowd for this time of day. The bartender and his boss busied themselves cleaning the shelves in the back, taking advantage of the afternoon lull. Three men played at cards in the corner opposite the stranger. Four sat at the bar. One napped in the corner and two were smoking by the window, watching the horses go by.
Time passed. The clock on the wall stopped and George, the bartender, went to reset it. As he was doing so, the door opened again and a black man strode in. He was tall and broad across the shoulders. His arms filled the sleeves of his long shirt and he carried a hint of extra weight about his middle. A week’s growth of beard stood out on his face.
As he walked up to the bar, the card game stopped. The men on the stools hushed their conversation and stared at him. George paused on the ladder where he’d been attempting to reset the clock. Nobody spoke or moved.
The black man bellied up to the bar and looked at George. “I’d like a glass of whiskey,” he said. George didn’t move for a second. Then Bert’s voice cut through the air.
“Hey,” he said. “You run off a plantation down in Georgia last year. I know your face. Seen it on a wanted poster s’a matter o’ fact. You killed ten men. And the posse too. Left a trail a blood behind you all the way to Kentucky.”
The black man turned his head to look at Bert. His face tightened.
“They say he killed more than that,” said Bert’s friend on the stool. The two men were armed, but neither of them went for their guns. The black man had a double-barrel pistol on his right hip and a rifle slung over his shoulder, but he didn’t make a move for them.
“You don’t know that was me,” he said in a low voice. “Lot of fellows look like me. That poster could’ve been anyone.”
“It was you,” said Bert.
“Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. What’re you going to do about it?”
Bert’s friend grabbed him by the shoulder, as if to warn him off of this course of action, but Bert shook off the hand.
“We can’t just sit here and let this man walk around free, come in here, take a drink from the bar. He’s wanted for murder.”
The black man’s eye twitched. His hand moved imperceptibly. Suddenly, the two smokers at the window were on their feet with their guns out and pointed at him. Everyone in the bar sprang into action. The black man went for his revolver and Bert and his friend went for theirs. The two men behind them on the stools jumped up and away, letting their stools clatter to the ground. They, too, went for their guns.
Two gunshots rang out. The smokers fell to the ground. The Wampanoag man was still seated, but his rifle was now on the table in front of him and he was reloading a pistol which had appeared in his hands. The black man had the jump on Bert and his friend and he shot them both before they could draw. The two who had jumped away had their guns out now and the black man fired at one of them and missed. “You son of a bitch,” said one of the two as he cocked his gun.
A pitcher of water crashed into the back of his head and knocked him forward. He tripped over his fallen stool and hit the ground. His gun left his hands. The black man took advantage of the confusion to shoot the other fellow. Then he glanced over at George the bartender, still on the ladder watching the whole scene.
The three card players had jumped up and thrown their hands in the air, as if to indicate they wanted no part in this business. Amazingly, the sleeper was still sleeping. The owner of the bar, who wasn’t armed, strolled up to the counter from the back.
“You’re going to have to leave,” he said. “Both of you.”
The black man nodded. The Wampanoag fellow was already up and walking across the floor towards him, rifle slung over his shoulder. He jerked his head towards the door. George and his boss watched them leave.
“We better get out of town,” said the black man when the door closed behind them. “There’ll be a warrant for us and a posse out within the hour.” His newfound comrade nodded and pointed down the road. They made for the edge of town and headed down past the farms and into the woodlands. The escaped slave quickly let his new friend take the lead, as the other man moved silently through the trees, zigging and zagging and taking a path that seemed to make little sense. He trusted that the fellow knew what he was doing.
“If you don’t mind,” he called out as he crashed through the brush in the rear, “You’ll have to slow down for me. I can’t do what you’re doing.”
The other man stopped and looked back. Then he nodded. “We must make haste,” he said. “No time to spare.” But he slowed his course and waited for his new companion, who was painfully aware of the noise he was making in contrast to the Wampanoag man.
They came to a stream and jumped in. It reached little more than a foot at the deepest places, but it covered their shoes and ankles. They walked upstream in silence, wading through the water and letting it soak their boots and pantlegs.
After an hour or two, they left the stream and cut away into the woods to the northeast. The day was growing late. Eventually, the Wampanoag man called a halt.
“We’ve lost them,” he said. “We can look for a place to make camp and continue on in the morning. We’ll have to take turns keeping watch.”
The other man was breathing hard, but he nodded vigorously. “Yes, to all of that,” he said. When he caught his breath, he added, “Say, I never thanked you. I reckon you saved my life.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Daniel.”
The other man took it. “Sagamore,” he said.
Chapter Two
Sagamore was awake at dawn. Daniel roused himself shortly thereafter. Neither of them had any food and Daniel didn’t want to ask his new friend if they could wait around while he boiled some water for coffee, so they wasted no time in camp once they were up. Within what felt like minutes to Daniel, they were on their feet and walking through the woods.
Daniel had a small pack with him, but it was noticeably light. There wasn’t much in it aside from a blanket, the last of his coffee, a little water, and cartridges for his gun. Sagamore didn’t carry anything. He drank from streams when they came upon them, but otherwise showed no sign of needing anything at all.
Daniel found himself growing hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the previous morning and he’d been hoping to get a meal in town. But now it had been over a day and there was little prospect of food for the foreseeable future. The hunger gnawed at him, and he wondered if Sagamore were feeling the same, but the other man spoke little and showed no sign of fatigue.
This wasn’t the first time Daniel had gone longer than a day without food. His hunger faded gradually and was replaced by a sensation of weakness and lethargy throughout his body. He kept his eyes on his new friend’s back and focused on placing his feet where the other man had tread. Eventually, they came to a large clearing and Sagamore stopped.
Daniel slumped against a tree. “Do you think we can take a rest?” he asked. Sagamore nodded. “I could use something to eat about now,” Daniel added. “It’s been yesterday since I ate anything.”
Sagamore nodded again. “Wait here,” he said. He started off and then turned back. “Wait a short while and then try to get a fire going.” Then he disappeared into the woods, leaving Daniel to rest with his back against the tree and his legs spread forward on the ground in front of him.
Daniel rested for what seemed like an hour. When Sagamore returned, he was carrying a leather bag filled with blackberries and a couple squirrels he’d killed. He poured the wild blackberries on the ground and folded up the bag and placed it back in one of his pockets. He pulled a couple of green fruits out of another pocket and when Daniel made a face he said they were edible. The two of them roasted the squirrels over the fire that Daniel had going, and they ate the fruit. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough for now.
They slept in the woods again that night. In the morning, Sagamore said that they should make for a town. He said they’d have to risk it. Maybe they could make their way north and get out of the state, but first they’d need to pick up a few things. Daniel agreed. He was hoping for a warm meal somewhere and some whiskey.
Lacking a map and neither man being from Kentucky, they didn’t know the names of the nearby towns, only that most of them would lie to the east. The edge of true wilderness wasn’t clearly defined, but it lay somewhere to their west. The land on which they walked was wild, but occasionally they came across signs of habitation, though they saw no one all day. Towards nightfall, they happened upon a collection of farms. Not wishing to disturb the owners of the farms, they retreated westward into the woods to make camp. Tomorrow, Sagamore reckoned, they should head east and see if they could find a town. There, they could get their bearings and plan the next part of their journey. Maybe there would be some wagons heading northeast, or maybe they could buy some horses.
“I don’t have hardly any money left,” said Daniel when Sagamore mentioned the horses.
“Maybe we can steal some horses,” said Sagamore.
“You reckon they won’t be looking for us? Might be a warrant out for a Negro and an Injun traveling together.”
“We can risk it,” said Sagamore. “News doesn’t travel fast in these parts.”
“That kind of news does,” said Daniel.
“How did you get this far north?” asked Sagamore.
“Luck I guess.”
“Maybe your luck will hold out.”
In the morning, they made their way east, past the farms. The men in the fields didn’t give them a second glance. As they approached what was clearly a town, Daniel grew apprehensive, though he didn’t show it on his face. He touched his gun nervously and looked about.
But nobody paid them any mind in the streets and they saw no “Wanted” posters. The town was larger than they had expected and they quickly found themselves in a bustling commercial district. Shops were thronged with customers and the streets were loud with carts and horses. They passed insurance offices, new joint stock companies, and three distilleries. There were several taverns, two blacksmiths, a tinsmith, a coppersmith, and a glassmaker all on the same street.
As they turned a corner, an advertisement posted on a doorway caught both of their eyes.
“Wanted: Men for a perilous continental expedition. Long years away from the settled states. Return uncertain. In the event of return, pay will be generous. Experience in woodcraft preferred. Willingness to endure privation required. See inside.”
“Well,” said Daniel, glancing at his companion. “This could be our luck.”
He went up and knocked on the door.
Read Chapters Three and Four.