October 29th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Mak pissed in the outhouse. He normally used the chamber pot in the middle of the night, but he wanted to leave the house. Sleep was hard to come by of late. Even with Konni’s warm body snuggled up beside him, perhaps accidentally as she’d been keeping to her side of the bed of late, he could not keep his eyes closed for more than a few moments. He missed Jerri. Go ahead and ask for ransom, you northern pig. I’ll give you anything for my little lady. I’ll give you the property. I’ll salt the land. I’ll dig up every grave and chuck the bodies in the river if that’s what it takes! A tear slid down his cheek as he finished his outhouse duty.

He left the outhouse once his face was dry. It was nearly dawn. The sky would soon be a dark shade of blue. It was wiser to just stay awake, so he headed for the firepit. The silence of the night comforted him. He yawned. Oh, now you’re tired…

He stretched his back and cracked his aching shoulder. The farm at this hour reminded him of Grandpa’s story of the attack of the natives. The old man, not so old at the time, had gone out at a similar hour, most likely to do some similar activity, when he’d seen the silhouettes of a half-dozen natives, their bows of reed drawn with arrows knocked. They’d stood motionless, careful not to be discovered. Leaves and feathers flowed in the breeze atop their heads. They’d remained so still that Grandpa was nearly convinced they weren’t there. But in the tense moment of heightened senses, Grandpa heard the release of a bow string, like the plucking of a guitar.

Grandpa collapsed as he’d heard the sound, and the arrow whistled overhead. He’d shouted for his boys. Mak’s pa was about Sherik’s age at the time and was the youngest of four boys. They’d fought the natives off and rarely saw them again. Everyone survived. Even the natives took no casualties.

Why couldn’t this Westen Freight business have happened ten years from now instead? Sherik would be twenty-six, Net seventeen, and I’d only be forty-five. His shoulder ached. It would only get worse with age. Why did this have to happen at all?

He headed for the tool shed to install the steam plough’s new iron wheels. He froze half way there. What looked like the silhouettes from Grandpa’s story stood between the main road and the front door. They approached in a slow walk toward Mak’s house. Mak stayed still, almost too frightened to turn his gaze their way. Almost. They held worse than reed bows. Each of the four silhouettes wielded a long-barreled musket. One had a shorter, fatter one at his belt.

Mak turned and dashed to the house which prompted four shots to go off. He screamed at the sound, louder than he could have imagined in the soft, peaceful night. The four silhouettes pumped their ramrods into their guns, reloading at a professional pace in unison. There’re those soldiers Guvson was allocated.

He opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. The family was awake. Sherik was the only one out of bed. He moved about, shirtless, and sheathed the hunting knife on his belt. He rushed to Lady Marlay, snatched it from the chair it leaned on, and handed it to Mak.

Mak tapped him on the shoulder and reached for a crate in the unused corner of the house. Skylde and Net asked a hundred worried questions in high-pitched voices. Konni rushed from her bed to quiet them. Mak opened the crate and retrieved the powder and bullets. There were about ten balls left in the small box, but only enough powder for maybe six or seven shots, not counting the shot already loaded in the gun. He pocketed the ammunition and rushed to Konni’s cookery. He snatched the first knife he could find. The one the failed assassin had brought with him.

More shots fired. Bullets pierced through the shutters of both windows. Splinters rained onto Net’s bed and the floor. The children yelped.

“Kon, get yourself and the kids under the table,” Mak shouted. “Stack some pots and pans between yourselves and the bullets. Anything thick and sturdy you can find, let’s go!”

She nodded and obeyed without question.

“Sherik, I need you to be my eyes,” Mak moved to a window and opened the broken shutters to get them out of the way. “Look out Net’s window and tell me everything you see while I reload.”

“You can count on me, Pa.” Sherik hopped past Konni, who collected items for her barricade and settled by Net’s window. He swept most of the shards of wood from the bed to the floor using his hand.

This is an unfortunate way to become a man. He felt bad for the boy. That is, until he saw him standing in front of the window, peering out with no sense of stealth or subtlety.

“Boy do you want to taste lead?” Mak shouted.

Sherik regarded him, dumbfounded.

“Get down, you idiot! Don’t present yourself as a target.”

“They’re reloading, Pa.” He did not move from the window.

Mak’s palms grew slick with sweat. “That’s not the point, boy. Move!”

Konni, Skylde, and Net were nestled safely, as safely as can be in such an ordeal, beneath the table, completely hidden behind a wall of household items. That’s one less thing to worry about.

“Get down, Pa!” Sherik shouted and dropped.

Mak did the same and a barrage of bullets whistled toward the house. One knocked on the door, two shattered what was left of Net’s window’s shutters, raining more splinters onto Sherik and the bed, and the other whistled over Mak’s head, hit the far wall, and must have embedded in the wood for Mak never heard it fall.

“Four men with muskets coming toward the house,” Sherik said. Mak was going to interrupt him to say that he already knew that, but Sherik continued his report before he could speak. “And a few more where they’ve been unloading supplies. They have a fire going.”

“How many is a few?”

Sherik popped his head up to peer out the window like a rodent in a field. “I count about five, maybe six. It’s hard to tell.”

Mak cursed. It was unlikely they could defeat four armed men, let alone the possible five, six, or more at the Westen Freight camp. He crouched beneath his window. It was a poor position. Strong for the moment, but it only delayed defeat. The men would know to either wait with loaded guns and shoot the moment he showed himself, or they’d advance on the house and barge in through the door. He had to do something. “What are they doing, now?”

Sherik poked his eyes over the window ledge, much more subtly than before. The moon lit his face and his eyes gleamed as they searched. He lowered quickly. “They’ve just finished loading. Their guns are aimed. Two at my window, two at yours.”

Mak exhaled a long breath. “We need them to take the shots. I’ll take mine as soon as they start reloading.” He looked around the floor. Konni had taken everything useful. “The broom.” Mak pointed. “Grab the broom, I’ll use this.” He reached for a wooden bowl. “On my signal, lift the broom up before the window, I’ll do the same with the bowl. It’s still dark enough that they might shoot at the first sign of movement.”

Sherik nodded and grabbed the broom.

Mak counted, and on three they lifted their decoys.

Nothing happened. Rivulets of sweat poured down Mak’s uncovered back and he took a chill. It was over. They were likely already advancing on the house. He would have to fight them in close combat. He couldn’t take four men.

Bullets blasted from the barrels outside. The bowl rattled, sending a shock of pain through his arm, and left his grip to clatter on the floor. Konni and the kids yelped.

Sherik’s broom lay before him. Stray bits of straw adorned his hair. The boy had wide eyes and a wild grin. “Get’em, Pa!”

Mak rose, pushed Lady Marlay’s barrel through the window, and aimed at the second in the line of loading men, the biggest of the four. The men wore blue coats and tall lavish winged helms. Their muskets were crafted with brilliant metals that glittered even in moonlight and were fixed with bayonets. Colony soldiers. The fourth in the line looked up and shouted his alert. Mak pulled the trigger.

The house smelt of burnt powder, and he could barely see through the cloud of smoke around him. He fell into cover, out of sight, and reloaded the gun.

“You got one!” Sherik cheered aloud.

He wanted to silence the boy, but the rush of the moment allowed him only to grin and nod.

“They’re two steps closer.” Sherik whispered.

Mak’s gut sank. If they entered the house, it was all over. He took a deep breath.

“Boy, I need you to do something, and I need you to be smart about it, do you hear me?”

Sherik nodded.

“I need you to keep popping your head from there to there.” Mak wagged his finger between both windows. “Keep them guessing, keep them distracted. If they are loaded, don’t show yourself, and try something like we did with the broom.”

“I don’t follow, Pa. What about you?”

“Distract them in any way you can, and don’t be foolish. Got that, boy?”

“Yes.”

“And I mean it about the second part,” Mak said. “Don’t get yourself shot!”

“I won’t, Pa.” There was a sincerity in his eyes that he’d lacked the night Mak confronted him in the barn.

Mak ran to the opposite wall of the house. “I need them to shoot again. I need the noise.”

Sherik nodded and reached for the broom. Mak doubted they would fall for it again so he searched for a better idea.

Guns blasted, and Mak, opened the shutters of the window beside him. Skylde wept. It was a muffled sound from within their shelter. Net’s voice joined soon after. Sherik regarded him with a cocked brow and a tilted head.

“Keep them distracted,” Mak said before climbing out the window. The pre-dawn air chilled his sweaty skin. He skirted the house, his head low, peeked around the corner, and fell back at the sight of flashing muzzles.

The shots echoed across the land. Good job, boy. You’d better be okay. He peeked again. The soldiers reloaded with impressive speed and precision. Not one second was wasted during their efficient movements.

The man Mak had shot lay dead amongst them. They barely seemed to notice him.

A soldier, the one who shouted before Mak had shot, dropped his musket and ripped a shorter, fat gun from his belt.

“The blunderbuss, already?” His comrade spoke in an Albentenian accent.

How did Guvson receive access to the royal army? What was so damned important about Mak’s land that the king would get involved in its seizing? He swallowed through a constricted throat and waited for an opportunity to charge.

“I’m tired of waiting for this good man to poke his stubborn head out,” the blunderbuss wielding soldier replied. He spoke with the usual northerner’s cadence, which Mak never thought he’d find relieving. The Albentenian must have left the crown for the freedoms of the colony. That meant Mak merely had to defeat a governor instead of a king.

The soldier dropped a handful of bullets into the wide muzzle of the stout gun after packing it with powder like any other. He primed it. Mak sped back to the window whence he came and pushed his head through. “Get away from that wall! Hide behind the table!”

Sherik did as he was told. He dove behind Konni’s barricaded table just before the blunderbuss went off. Bullets ripped through the front wall of Mak’s home. Some rang off the pots and pans, others crashed into the wall against Mak’s back, sending a rattle up his spine. The sound was like that of a powerful centaur whipping a handful of gravel at them. He poked his head back into the house. “Everyone alright?”

Three frightened voices assured him from the makeshift shelter. Sherik sat wide-eyed, sucking in heavy breaths. He nodded.

“Stay away from the windows,” Mak said. “You’ve done your part.”

He nodded again, and Mak left.

He returned to the front corner of the house and watched the soldiers. The other two must have fired their muskets alongside the blunderbuss, for all three were reloading.

Mak held Lady Marlay aimed forward, ready to fire, and spun around the corner. He pulled the trigger and caught the nearest foe in the chest. The soldier dropped the gun that had been kneeling against his knee as he loaded. The soldier toppled over, clutching at his chest.

The other two, again ignoring their fallen comrade, aimed their guns and fired.

Mak dove for cover around the corner. A half-dozen bullets whizzed by and clashed with trunks and branches on the bank of the river. He caught his breath, something easy to lose when facing the barrel of a blunderbuss.

He peeked around the corner to find them reloading again. They did so with much less composure than before. Their focus shifted from their guns to Mak’s corner and back many times. They spilled powder from their cartridges into the grass accidentally, and their hands shook.

Mak wouldn’t have the time to reload Lady Marlay before the soldiers finished with theirs. He charged them. His breath wheezed as he dashed toward the foes. The closest soldier raised his gun to use the bayonet. Black powder spilled from the open pan. The gun would not fire. The man behind him continued to load his blunderbuss.

Mak parried a bayonet thrust with a strong swing of Lady Marlay. Both men lost their weapons and neither had the chance to draw their knives as their arms locked like ram horns. They grappled with even strength. Mak kept an eye on the soldier loading the blunderbuss. There wasn’t much time.

They pushed, but neither was able to make much ground. Mak ignored the loading man and gave his full attention to his immediate foe. The man’s thick brows were drenched with sweat and he clenched his jaw so hard Mak thought his exposed teeth might shatter. He exhaled wildly, spraying Mak with spittle.

The soldier freed his right arm and swung it. Mak blocked with his left. The soldier rained blows and Mak blocked most of them. Some landed on his cheek or chin, but none hurt more than the one that glanced off his aching shoulder.

The strikes continued, but the soldier forgot about keeping Mak’s right arm locked. The hold loosened, and Mak pulled free. He whipped a jab and caught the soldier on the nose. The man was dazed, but answered with a jab of his own, grazing Mak’s ear as he dodged. Mak threw a wild right. His opponent ducked beneath it with ease, leaving a perfect opportunity for an upper-cut.

Mak swept his left fist to meet the man’s face from below. It just missed. Pain seared in his shoulder. With no time to rest, he blocked another blow and thrust his right hand forward, gripping his fingers around the man’s neck.

He pushed forward three steps before the soldier regained strong footing. The soldier reached for Mak’s neck, but he was able to lean back enough to avoid groping fingers. Mak’s opponent gritted his teeth and grunted. He chopped at the arm gripping his throat. Mak winced. He released his grip and caught the man in a bear hug, got a leg behind the soldier and swept him to the ground. He fell with the soldier and crushed him with his full weight.

Air blasted from the foe’s lungs, and he could not get it back. Mak pitied the man. His eyes were wild as he gasped for air. Mak drew his knife and punctured his throat, hoping to grant the man a quick death. He did.

Mak rose to his feet, a sharp, tired breath escaped him. He looked ahead and the sweat on his skin turned to ice. He stared at the fat barrel of a loaded blunderbuss. There was nowhere to hide and avoiding the handful of bullets was far less likely than avoiding a single ball.

“Do it.” Mak extended his arms. “Just leave my family alone when I’m gone.”

“I cannot promise anything,” the man said. “They hired me. I have nothing to do with whatever their plans might be. I know what had happened here, vaguely. Why did you refuse his offer?”

“Because I’m a fool,” Mak shouted. “Now shoot me and protect my family! Get them out of here!”

The soldier stared in silence. The arms that held the blunderbuss were motionless. He’d been through similar situations many times before, there was no doubt. The only part of him that moved were his blue eyes. They twitched from Mak, to the house, to his blunderbuss, and back to Mak again countless times.

“Hurry!” Mak’s whisper was raw and nearly as loud as a scream. He pointed at the distant fire, knowing the soldier wouldn’t look. “Those men over there. How long until they come? Please. I deserve what’s going to happen to me, but my family doesn’t. They wanted to take the deal, I forced them to stay here. Please, help them. Promise me!”

The man nodded deeply. “May you find peace, good man.”

He raised the blunderbuss. Mak closed his eyes. His lips trembled and the nerves in his gut churned. He waited. He mouthed the words “promise me” repeatedly and focused on thoughts of his children.

A loud crack sounded before him. Mak yelped, flinched, and doubled over. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes. The man lay on his back, the blunderbuss out of hand in the dry grass. Konni’s three-legged spider pot lay beside him. He squirmed and groaned.

“Pa, kill him!” Sherik shouted from the window.

Mak dashed forward and grabbed another fallen soldier’s musket. He stood over the dazed soldier who stared up at Mak in bewilderment.

“May you find peace,” Mak said, sincerely.

He drove the bayonet through his throat, killing him quickly, and collapsed on the ground beside him. He caught his breath as he watched the stars slowly fade with the coming of dawn.