- Chapter 22






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Chapter 22
Geoffrey Watkins studied the giant lizard-birds working their way across the clearing toward the rudimentary village the Cherokees had put together. He estimated they weighed about what a horse did, and they were about the same height. Their bodies were longer, though, with a very heavy and stiff-looking tail. The biggest difference was that, like birds, they moved on two legs instead of four. Their hind legs were hugely muscled, much bigger than the forelimbs, and ended in birdlike feet with three talons. But one of those talons, unlike any bird Watkins had ever seen, was enlarged and cocked back and out of the way while the creature walked.
Their heads swung from side to side and their tongues darted in and out of their mouths, as though they were tasting the air. And even from this distance, he knew their mouths were filled with teeth that made the teeth of two-hundred pound gars seem as nothing. Everything about them shrieked predator.
To make things worse, predators that were also like wolves. Pack hunters. The six creatures moved together, obviously hunting as a team.
He watched them, more fascinated than horrified. He'd dealt with dangerous animals since he was a boy. He figured they could deal with these also.
The animals had been spotted ten minutes before. Luckily, Scott's eight-year-old son had been exploring away from the village and had spotted them at a distance. Still more luckily, the beasts hadn't spotted the boy. He'd been able to get back and give the warning in plenty of time.
By now, clearly, the bird-lizard hunters were already honed in on the village. By smell, he assumed. They'd slowed down quite a bit, and were picking their way across the clearing, trying to spot their prey.
Unless they had the eyesight of eagles—which was always possible, of course, but Watkins didn't think that was likely with land animals—they wouldn't be able to see the humans yet. Everyone except the warriors and the soldiers was hiding in the log huts, and the armed men were positioned for ambush. Still, Watkins was wary. He simply wasn't familiar enough with these monsters to know what their capabilities were. He'd have felt a lot better if they were giant bears or wolves or cougars.
"Chief," Bradley Scott whispered. "We're ready. Sergeant Kershner says the soldiers are ready too."
From somewhere south of them an animal bellowed. None of the people inside the camp recognized the beast making the sound. The six lizard-birds hesitated, and then became agitated. They sniffed the air and turned this way and that, using small hopping motions. For a few seconds, Watkins hoped they might get attracted by other prey. But, after a while, they resumed their careful stalking of the village ahead of them.
The Cherokee chief was glad now that he'd instructed his warriors not to try for head shots. The way the creatures' heads bobbed and swayed as they moved would make them very difficult to hit. Ammunition was getting scarce, but time was even scarcer. To fire and miss, would mean taking time to reload. Even for a man good with a musket, or a well-trained soldier, that took at least a third of a minute. And while the creatures were moving slowly now, everything about the way their bodies were designed made it obvious that they could run very quickly when they wanted to.
The soldiers, with their better muskets, had agreed to fire first. Watkins and Scott and their fourteen warriors would hold their fire until they saw what effect the soldiers' guns had on the monsters. They'd divided themselves into two groups of eight men each. Scott's men would fire after the soldiers, and Watkins' group would be the final reserve. If these things were like most reptiles, they wouldn't die easily.
The soldiers were either very brave or very well-trained. Maybe both, but Geoffrey suspected it was their training. Sergeant Kershner was a stern disciplinarian, when he felt it necessary. Whatever the reason, they waited until the lizard-birds were thirty yards from where they were hidden before they fired their volley.
Kershner, Geoffrey realized at once, must have come to the same conclusion that Watkins had. They hadn't had enough time to develop any detailed plans beyond the rough division of forces. The U.S. sergeant had obviously ordered his men to aim at only the leading two of the six monsters. Probably worried that if they spread their fire they wouldn't hurt any of them enough to matter.
Those two creatures went down, as if they'd been poleaxed. The soldiers were all armed with muskets made at the Harpers Ferry armory. As big and dangerous-looking as the bird-lizards were, each of them had been struck by at least three .69-caliber bullets.
That still left four, completely unharmed. The beasts had scattered at the loud and unexpected noise, but they were already coming back. And now, unfortunately, they weren't bunched in a group.
"Aim for the one on the far left!" Scott shouted. That was also the nearest one to his group, about fifty yards away. "And don't shoot until—"
But three of the warriors had already fired before he got halfway through the command. Even when the Cherokees fought as allies with the Americans, which they often did, they fought as skirmishers. They weren't trained or accustomed to firing in volleys.
Only one of the bullets hit, so far as Watkins could tell. Not surprising, at that range. The targeted monster screeched and jerked around, slashing with its teeth at nothing.
The bullet had struck the tail, not far behind the hip. Geoffrey realized the creature must have thought it was being attacked from the rear. It suddenly dawned on him that the lizard-birds were under the same handicap he and his people were. They didn't know the capabilities of humans any more than humans knew theirs. This would be the first time they'd ever encountered gunfire—and as nasty as those heads looked, they also didn't look as if there was too much room for brains in them either.
Bradley must had come to the same conclusion. There was no point in waiting until the monsters got closer, because they were now just milling around. Agitated and confused, smelling blood and knowing some of them had been attacked, but not knowing from where or by what.
"All right, shoot at him again!"
The other five muskets went off. At least one of the bullets struck something vital. The monster twisted, screeching, twisted back—lashing out now with that ferocious-looking huge claw, again at nothing—and then staggered and fell. When it hit the ground, it kept writhing and lashing out with the claw.
That was enough. These were predators, not fanatics or soldiers trained to fight to the death. Even the most ferocious predators avoided dangerous prey. They went for the weak or lame or young, and ran if they encountered anything that looked like it might put up enough of a fight to kill or injure them.
The three survivors took off at a run, heading for the other side of the clearing. Their speed was frightening. If they'd known enough to charge the soldiers after they fired, they'd have been upon them long before the soldiers could possibly have reloaded. Watkins would remember that.
Belatedly, he realized he was forgetting something even more important. The best defense humans ever had against predators was the knowledge those predators gained that humans were prey to be avoided. And these monsters still had no idea what had happened to them.
Cursing his years and the creakiness of his joints, he lunged into the clearing, waving his arms and shouting as loudly as he could. A few seconds later, Scott and several other Cherokees joined him.
Maybe one of the monsters looked back. He wasn't sure.
 
"Will you look at those crazy savages?" sneered Private Sam Underwood. He'd broken off from reloading his musket to watch the Cherokees in the clearing, shouting and carrying on like wild men. "I told you they wasn't no different from animals."
Sergeant James Kershner decided he'd had enough of Underwood. The Georgian's prejudices were so deep-rooted the man couldn't even think. And he was a nasty bastard, to boot.
"Shut up," he said. "They're smarter than you are. They're trying to make sure those damn lizards learn to stay away from us."
That didn't even budge the sneer on Underwood's face. "You say."
"One more remark like that, Private, and I'll have you arrested. You're still under army discipline, and I'm still in command."
His anger made Kershner's accent thicker than usual. Although he'd been born in Pennsylvania and his parents had given him what they felt was a proper American first name, he hadn't learned English until he joined the army. His whole town was populated by Swabian immigrants and still spoke their dialect of German.
Underwood was just about as stupid as he was nasty. For a moment, he gaped at the sergeant. Then the sneer came back.
"Arrest me, how? You ain't got a brig, Kershner, in case you ain't noticed."
By then, Corporal John Pitzel had his own musket reloaded. "Good point." He cocked the weapon and shoved the barrel into Underwood's neck, just below the jaw bone. He wasn't gentle about it, either. Although English was his native language, Pitzel came from German stock also. He had less use for the Georgian than Kershner did. The man was even stupid enough to make wisecracks about Germans.
Which, given that four out of the eight men in his unit were either German immigrants or born into German immigrant families, including the sergeant in command, qualified him as Stupid First Class. Especially since two of the other three men were Irish immigrants, and Underwood made just as many wisecracks about the Irish.
"I think an execution in the field is called for, Sergeant," said the corporal thinly. "Insubordination during combat."
It finally registered on the private that he'd crossed a line and was in serious trouble. His eyes widened and the sneer vanished. "Hey! Quit jokin' around!"
Kershner considered Pitzel's proposal—which, he knew perfectly well, wasn't a joke at all.
Normally, of course, he'd have dismissed the idea immediately. But there wasn't anything normal about their situation. And the fact was, they were heavily outnumbered by the Cherokees. Even if Underwood's attitudes and habits didn't get them killed, they were bound to produce an ever-widening schism between the soldiers and the Cherokees. Relations were tense enough, as it was.
But what finally tipped the balance had nothing to do with military issues. James Kershner was twenty-four years and had all the normal desires that a man that age had. By now, he was certain they were stranded in this new world for the rest of their lives, with only the Cherokees for company. And he was pretty sure one of the Cherokee girls was even showing some interest. One of Chief Watkins' nieces. He thought her name was Ginger Tansey. A pert and lively girl, about nineteen or so, with a nice smile and bright eyes.
"Shoot him," he commanded.
The bullet damn near took off Underwood's head. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The sergeant swiveled to bring the rest of the men in the unit under his gaze. "Any of you have a problem with this?"
David McLean grunted. "Not bloody fucking likely. I plan to end my days surrounded by grandkids, like a proper Irishman should. And if their grandma is an Indian, I can't say I much give a damn."
The only soldier who looked disturbed was one of the Germans. More confused than disturbed, really. The man was a bit slow-witted.
The one and only native-born American soldier of old English stock in the unit looked downright pleased.
"I couldn't stand that son of a bitch," he pronounced. "And I got no problem at all becoming a squaw man. Beats the alternative, hands down."
"I don't think they like being called 'squaws,' " Kershner said mildly.
"Fine. I got no problem at all becoming the swain of an Injun princess. That beats the alternative even better."
 
"What's that all about?" Bradley Scott wondered. The sound of a gunshot had drawn their attention to the woods where the U.S. soldiers had been waiting in ambush.
"I don't know," said Watkins. "I guess we'll know soon enough."
And, in fact, less than a minute later the soldiers emerged from the woods, dragging the corpse of one of their own with them. They laid him down a few feet into the clearing and several of them took out spades from their knapsacks. Obviously, they planned to dig a grave, right here and now, with no further ado.
"At a guess," Watkins said, "Sergeant Kershner decided to lance a festering boil before it got any bigger. That's the one they called Underwood. I had a feeling he'd be a problem, just from the few times I had to deal with him. He must have finally crossed a line."
Scott rubbed his chin. "It occurs to me, Geoffrey, that we all crossed a line today. Or if we haven't, we should."
Watkins thought about it. Once he'd gotten used to Kershner's accent, he'd come to realize that the young sergeant was very shrewd. Quick-thinking, too. And, it was now obvious, prepared to be decisive and ruthless when he needed to be. All the things a smart old chief looked for in a successor.
And why not? Cherokees had been intermarrying with whites for generations. So had all the southern tribes. Watkins himself was at least a quarter white, in his ancestry. The top chief of the Cherokees, John Ross, was seven-eighths Scottish, if you calculated things the way white people did, by race instead of clan.
They had a lot of years ahead of them. Very dangerous years. But, maybe, their children and their children and their children would have forever. If they started the right way.
"Yes, I think you're right."
 
That evening, before the soldiers started their usual separate campfire, Watkins went over to Sergeant Kershner.
"Why don't you and your men start eating with us from now on?" he suggested. "We cook better than you do, anyway."
He gave their tents a glance. "And starting tomorrow, we should build you a real cabin. Who knows? Winter might be coming."
Kershner's smile was a lot more serene than you'd expect from such a young man. "Good idea. I was just thinking the same thing myself."
 
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