Noah fidgeted with the rope draped around his shoulder. No one had told
him how heavy the drum would be after hours of marching in the afternoon
sun. And to make matters worse, Andrew’s uniform chafed. This morning,
he’d felt lucky to take his place when they’d learned his friend was
ill, even though Ma wept like a baby, begging the Colonel to find
someone else.
“There is no one else, Elizabeth, and well you know it. Noah’s the only
one who knows the rhythms.” He handed him Andrew’s uniform. “Hurry up,
boy. We head out within the hour.”
The uniform was too large, of course; Andrew had five years on Noah’s
seven. Still, Noah peacocked round the yard, waiting for Butler to give
the signal to leave.
Now that the sun had warmed, making the wool jacket stink like wet
mutton, he wasn’t quite so keen. And, his shins ached from the drum’s
rim beating against his leg as they passed mile after mile of charred
and smoking cabins north of Forty Fort.
At last Colonel Butler reined in his mount, and Noah signaled the troops
to stop. Ahead, the walls of Wintermoot smoldered, smoke oozing
between the logs of the protecting walls. “Come out, ye villainous
Tories!” Butler shouted. “Come out and show your heads if ye dare.”
When no answer came, the colonel turned to his troops. “Prime and
load,” he ordered. Noah repeated the command on his drum and the
clatter of four hundred muskets being loaded echoed in the smoke
thickening around them. “Make Ready. Take Aim. Fire.”
The troops fired three volleys in all, moving closer to the fort with
each shot. Heat from the blaze beaded sweat on Noah’s forehead; at
least he prayed it was just the heat and not the fear knotted in his
belly causing the beads of moisture. He gripped the drumsticks tight,
drawing his eyebrows together, trying hard not to think of Ma, or
Andrew, or any of the folks he might never see again, when the colonel
shouted, “Prime and load, boy; prime and load.”
But Noah had no time to answer, for in that moment, the woods erupted,
blood-thirsty savages screeching their war cries, materializing from the
very leaves that covered the forest floor, while in front of him
gunfire exploded from the smoking timber. Fighting broke out all around
him, men yelling, musket balls whistling overhead. At first he stayed
close to Butler, but soon the smoke of musket fire—or was it burning
timber?—made it impossible to see past his arm.
“Fall back,” he heard, Butler’s voice muffled by the grunts and flurry
of fighting. Noah scrambled to join the company, but men began to break
and run, Indians relentlessly at their heel; instead, he shrunk into the
surrounding spinny, trying not to see, not to hear, the butchery around
him.
The stink of gunpowder and sweat, blood and soot, permeated the smoke,
burning his eyes. Erratic musket fire cut through the fog and just
beyond the bush that hid him, a great slurping sound, like a boot being
pulled from muck, alerted him and he turned in time to see a bayonet
being pulled from Jeb Johnson’s gut; he retched when the stench of open
bowels reached him.
What happened after, he couldn’t say for sure, a blur of sights and
sounds he’d rather forget: the crack of bones splintered by musket
balls, screams of men dying, screams of men killing, Billy Lothrop’s
vacant stare as his hair was pulled taut, his scalp hacked away.
A boot broke through his cover of branches, and he curled around himself like a doodle bug, waiting for the end.
Noah Taylor was seven years old when war broke out in the tiny hamlet he
called home. His father, Ezra, was part of the Connecticut Continental
Army captured at Fort Washington (see Dec-2013 post) and was jailed
when the Battle of Wyoming broke out in what is now
