Hawk's Feather (Perry County Frontier Series) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - June 1797

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3 - 1800

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 - England, 1802

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16 - Nassau, in The Bahamas

  Chapter 17 - Gloucester, Massachusetts, May 1806

  Chapter 18 - 1810

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  Copyright © 1987 and 2013 by Katherine R. Chandler. All rights reserved.

  Publication History

  ebook: 2013

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: 1987

  Bacon and Freeman, Publishers

  Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania

  This is a work of fiction. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead.

  All characters and incidents depicted were created by the author.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1 - June 1797

  Because his father was one of the earliest settlers—and that was important in the narrow-valleyed mountain country west of the Susquehanna—Jonas Elan was known to most simply as Jack Elan's boy.

  Their cabin lay on the north slope of Mahanoy Ridge and their neighbors were few. Jack and Martha Elan preferred it that way and Jonas and his younger sister had been raised to it.

  Little Juniata Creek chuckled before their door and Jonas Elan sailed boats of bark on the gin clear water.

  The Elan's closest friend was old Rob Shatto, and he and his wife Becky had seen the sea and knew something of it. Aware of the youth's interest, both took time to tell of the vast oceans and the great ships traveling on them. They had books on such subjects and Jonas Elan studied the sketches and read the words until ships, sails, rigging, and the jargon of the sailor lay comfortably in his mind.

  While other boys turned to the woods around them, Jonas Elan held the seas he had never seen close to his heart. If asked what he wished to grow into, he invariably announced his intention to become a sea captain and sail his ship to the Spice Islands.

  The peculiar desire was good for a chuckle. The men of the north valley were hunters and farmers. None ventured the oceans and it was plain that Jonas would be no different.

  Jack Elan had fought Indians and was known as a skilled hunter. He heard his son's proclamations but kept on with his lessons in woodsmanship and riflery. A man could need both in the Pennsylvania mountains. Jonas knew his young years were good. He roamed the hills with the youths of the Shatto clan, and they were a hardy lot. Around a hundred campfires he learned the wilderness ways. At fifteen he could bark squirrels with his long rifle and he moved through the woods as soundlessly as the deer or fox.

  He was a wiry boy, much like his father, destined to be of average height and build but blessed with a smaller man's quickness of hand and foot.

  Many of the Scotch-Irish settlers in Sherman's Valley were blond-headed and light-skinned but the Elans and the Shattos shared naturally tanned complexions and dark hair and eyes. Some whispered of Indian blood. Such rumors were seldom spoken openly but neither Shatto nor Elan would have cared anyway.

  As he turned sixteen, Jonas Elan had only one real problem in life: Lafe Twiney.

  +++

  The Twiney's raised pigs. So did other families but only Twineys lived like their animals. Old Bacon Twiney had bought a piece of mountain and used another mile. He stacked unsquared logs into a shed for his perpetually pregnant woman and her immense brood. Old timers claimed Bacon Twiney reminded them of another hog raiser called Shcenk, killed during the Fort Robinson fighting thirty years before. Twineys were not popular but, except for Lafe, they were only irksome.

  Lafe Twiney was probably twenty years old—Twineys were casual record keepers. Lafe was also a drinker who grew nasty in his cups.

  More than a year earlier Jonas Elan had run from Lafe's drunken threatening and since then, he had steered clear of the man.

  At sixteen Jonas was no match for Twiney's full grown bulk. Lafe's blundering antagonism was easily avoided but having to ignominiously flee when the brute turned mean rankled Jonas more than a little.

  It was plain enough that Twiney chose his targets. When Jack Elan was near, Lafe ignored young Jonas. Jack Elan was known to have killed Indians and none doubted his willingness to use his black rifle on the likes of Lafe Twiney. With the son, Lafe felt safe and enjoyed making the boy turn tail.

  The Twineys had worn a trace from their holdings along Mahanoy Ridge to the valley road that connected the settlements beginning to appear in Sherman's Valley. The junction of the Twiney path and the road was a natural place for Lafe Twiney to wait in hope of a wagon ride, perhaps to the Blue Ball Tavern or to a lesser den where he and others of his ilk drank themselves sodden with deadening regularity.

  Red-eyed and ragged-nerved, his palate desperate for the sting of corn whiskey, Lafe Twiney saw Jonas Elan striding briskly along the valley road. Every time he looked up he seemed to see young Elan. There was something about the youth that gnawed at Lafe's control. Friendly, open-faced, and button-bright, Jonas was all that Lafe was not. Twiney's lip curled in anticipation and he slipped out of sight behind a handy tree.

  The thoughts of Jonas Elan were far from the dusty valley road. He had found a horseshoe, well worn, but worth a penny or two from the blacksmith. The find made him dream of treasure and in the fluff of July clouds he saw mighty galleons and swift schooners sailing seas as blue as the sky above. Someday he would be on those seas, perhaps in his own vessel with sails spread . . . a rude hand that snatched him half off his feet ended his dreaming.

  Lafe Twiney held Jonas on tiptoe, leering down with his snaggle-toothed smirk, enveloping Jonas within the stench of foul breath and long unwashed body. Twiney shook his captive, letting him feel the strength of his arm. Then he held a hard-knuckled fist beneath Jonas' nose and snarled his words.

  "Can't run this time, Elan. This time old Lafe's got you good. How do you like it, boy? How you like knowin' you're goin'a have them smart-alecky ways whomped right out of you?"

  Surprise gone, Jonas hung in Twiney's grasp. Fear knotted his guts and the spill of it showed in his eyes, making Lafe grin in anticipation.

  Jonas twisted frantically but Twiney held him. The boy's efforts fanned Lafe's irritation and his eyes turned ugly. He hauled back his fist and set himself to start the punishing he had looked forward to for more than a year.

  Scared into desperation, Jonas flailed wildly at Twiney's face and head. Fear lent him strength beyond his size, and forgotten in his good right hand was the hard weight of the iron horseshoe.

  Jonas' left fist went unnoticed but the horseshoe's thunk against his skull fogged Lafe Twiney's eyes. Reflex pulled Twiney's hands close for protection but his movements were slow and, panicked into wildness, Jonas windmilled his arms in frantic violence. Jonas did not see Twiney's eyes blank. He was unaware of the horseshoe's solid smashes but Lafe's body was suddenly gone and Jonas leaped clear, fists still clenched and ready, his chest heaving in labored panting.

  Jonas almost ran but his mind saw Twiney flat on his back, arched over a ground hummock, arms limp and unmoving. Reason returned with a snap and Jonas fought his breathing toward normal and controlled limbs trembly from exertion.

  Then he saw the vast blood flow drenching the earth beside Twiney. With increasing horror he
realized that Lafe's head was somehow misshapen and that the man's eyes, though open, gazed at nothing. With mounting disbelief Jonas found the horseshoe still clenched in his fist and began to remember the solid chunking as it had smashed into Twiney's skull. How many times had he struck? Four or five solid hits? He could not tell. Forcing himself to look closer he saw no rise or fall of breathing. Flies were already settling on lax features and Jonas knew, as sure as he stood, that he had killed Lafe Twiney.

  Fear grabbed him and Jonas dove into woods cover and ran until his lungs tired. His feet had found a familiar trail. When he slumped on a mossy log to regain wind and composure he realized with some trepidation that his direction had angled near the Twiney hog farm, a place he diligently avoided at the best of times.

  He still gripped the worn horseshoe and found his fingers hard to pry from around it. Hair and scalp bits caught in the shoe's crooked nails threatened his stomach and he spit away the saliva that flooded his mouth. He dropped the shoe behind his sitting log and kicked leaves over it. Then he thought dogs might be put on the trail of Twiney's killer and they would surely find it.

  Dogs? The sheriff? Realization that he really had killed Lafe Twiney began to reach him. Jonas felt his hands again begin to shake. He forced himself calm and tried to see how things would be.

  He could turn himself in and tell just how it had happened, but beating a man to death with a horseshoe, even a lout like Twiney, sounded dirty and mean. He could imagine the Twiney's claiming Rafe had been jumped while he was sleeping or something. Who would the authorities believe? Maybe he would go to jail despite his claim of self-defense.

  Or, he could leave now, hiding his trail and moving fast. He could go to . . . sea! Jonas' heart began to pound and his spirit surged. He had planned to do it someday. Why not now? He would take little with him and tell no one. It could be days before anyone missed him enough to tie his absence to Twiney's demise. Once he signed on an outward bound ship, he would write to his folks and tell them how it had happened and that he was safe at sea.

  The plan sounded good and Jonas saw no reason to wait. He dug up the horseshoe and took it with him to Little Juniata Creek. He walked in the water all the way to their cabin and left the creek by climbing tree branches until well away. Rob Shatto might track him down, out unless his Pap took the trail, no one else could. He flipped the horseshoe into the cow's manure where no one would look and figured he had done enough trail hiding.

  Jonas struggled to ignore the memory of Lafe Twiney, head smashed, sprawled on his back, sightless eyes staring, but the ghastliness swelled repeatedly. Twice he turned pukey and his hands shook when he tried to use them. The shipboard heroics that he regularly imagined now held no glory. Bloody fighting was easier handled in thought than in fact. Lafe Twiney was dead and he, Jonas Elan, had killed him. Even the familiar cabin began to close around him and Jonas hurried his preparations before panic could send him running through the deep woods.

  He gathered a few things and stuffed them into his pack. He decided to take his squirrel rifle. He might be a while waiting for the right ship to leave port. He could shoot enough game to keep eating, no matter how long it took.

  What to do with the rifle when he signed aboard reminded him of important friends in Philadelphia. James Cummens, called Blue Moccasin by the old men of the north valleys, had shipping interests and Jonas figured he could leave his rifle in Cummens' hands.

  Jonas tried not to think about his parents' sadness and tried to believe that they would be pleased by his happiness aboard a great ship. He clung to the death of Lafe Twiney as justification and concentrated on how he would search the docks until he found a vessel to his liking. His ship would be bright with paint and her sails would be the yellow of new canvas still unbleached by the sun. The dreaming coming closer to reality helped control his fears and he began to believe that the horror so terrifyingly fresh might, with time and distance, blend with other memories and not start him sweating each time it surfaced.

  By dusk, Jonas Elan was along Sherman's Creek. He would sleep on top of old Kittatiny Mountain, and once beyond Carlisle, no one would recognize him. Thereafter, he could stick to the roads.

  But, he should have a different name to answer to when people asked. He knew which one he wanted. It had been his favorite since he had first dreamed of ships and distant voyages. In the dreams he had been Captain Jonas Hawk, named for his piercing gaze that could sight a sail before all others and, of course, for his deadly skill with cutlass and pistols. The latter had lost their attraction but increased sea hunger took their place.

  Rifle swinging loosely in his hand, Jonas Hawk dreamed his way toward the great ships that lay waiting at Philadelphia.

  +++

  Chapter 2

  By the third week every shipmaster knew Jonas Hawk, the country man who sought the sea. But no ship signed him aboard. Experienced seamen also needed berths. Coastal traders were often family owned and sailed vessels that did not use strangers. Great ships were far fewer and, even there, crewmen spoke for relatives or friends and captains listened.

  If Hawk had grown up with the sea, his fortunes would have fared better, for he presented a clean-cut and vigorous manner that showed intelligence and eagerness to learn. But, experience spoke louder to masters unwilling to wait for knowledge that should have been absorbed at age twelve or even younger.

  Hawk's few coins were quickly gone and his intent to shoot enough small game proved unwieldy. Even squirrels were hunted out near the bustling city. He felt no rapport with the tattooed and broken-nailed seamen who, in the grimiest of ordinaries, swilled rum until sodden. They were hard and unwashed. In them Jonas saw little romance of distant seas. Their tales were of foul pursuits, and most who claimed voyages had somehow seen little beyond drinking dens more dissolute than the ones they currently frequented.

  The plans of Jonas Hawk had gone awry. In Sherman's Valley, it had all seemed simple, but reality intruded and nothing was going right. Loneliness crowded his soul. If his father or mother had appeared with outstretched arms, Jonas would have fallen into them and surrendered gratefully to the comforts of home and familiar things. Without solace or support Jonas saw no choice except to keep looking. The hunt for Lafe Twiney's killer would be closing in. He had to get away. Perhaps as a stowaway? It was often done and wherever the ship dumped him would be further from the sheriff's men.

  +++

  When Jack Elan's letter arrived, James Cummens had been busy along the Delaware overseeing construction of his new home. It would be a grand estate with broad lawns sweeping to the river. With his many interests prospering, Cummens allowed his son more decision making while he supervised the laying of brick and raising of stables.

  Elan's letter was brief. It reminded Cummens of the old days in the north valleys when men like Jack Elan, Rob Shatto, the Robinsons, and others had fought like panthers to stay alive.

  Among them, he, James Cummens, had been called Blue Moccasin. Even these decades later he favored the name. How long ago had that been . . . but Elan's letter began:

  Friend Blue,

  Our son, Jonas, has gone away. He is old enough, so it is his right.

  We expect he aims for the sea as sailoring has been his interest since childhood.

  Here in Sherman's Valley the sea means Philadelphia or Baltimore. It could be that Jonas is heading your way.

  We can speak well of the boy and do not hesitate in asking your help if he appears.

  If you can assist him in finding a place, your friend will be grateful.

  Martha is not too well, but my legs still move, teeth ain't real bad, and my shooting eye remains true. Can't ask for much more.

  Your Servant,

  Jack Elan

  The 2nd Instant of July, 1797

  Cummens rose, stepping easily in the blue moccasins he still wore indoors. His office windows overlooked the long wharves, rope walk, and vast warehouses that measured his mercantile prominence.

 
His father had begun the Cummens fortunes through trading furs, shipping lumber, and selling salt for preserving fish. While his half-Indian son had lived among his mother's people, Paul Cummens had prospered and built the docks and offices still in use.

  Later, the senior Cummens had surrendered the reins to his wild son, and James, known to many as Blue Moccasin, had astonished his father with business acumen that old Paul had never imagined.

  Those had been heady times as Cummens interests flourished. With the Revolution, most was lost but with peace, James Cummens built on what remained. As the century approached its end he could look with satisfaction on trade and profits better than they had ever known.

  They were old now, he, Jack Elan, and Rob Shatto. Rob was certainly well into his sixties. Jack was a few years younger and he, Blue Moccasin, one year Elan's junior. Funny how old men began studying on ages. So many went to their maker before their hair grayed that any left into their sixtieth year were already ancient. Of course a man might live to be a hundred; some did. Blue wasn't sure he hoped to linger that long. But with a son beginning to take hold in the businesses he certainly needed another dozen or so years at least.

  Now there was the matter of Jack Elan's boy needing a hand up. Cummens remembered Jonas only as a child, black-haired like his father, but beyond that nothing stood out. Blue gave his bell a clang and a clerk came running. If young Elan was in Philadelphia, he would be found. Then, James Cummens, "Prince of Industry," —Blue's lips quirked—would see what was to be done.

  +++

  Jonas was perched on an oak bollard watching a low-sided coaster secure from its voyage up Delaware Bay. The wind was light from the south and the vessel had slid unassisted alongside the dock. The master had furled all but a staysail and at the right moment released his halyard so that the sail fell to the deck and the ship lost way without creaking a dock line.

  It was skillful work and fit the youth's visualization of how it should be. In contrary winds, ships were towed close by longboats rowed by straining seamen. Well beyond the docks, pilings had been grouped and, once within reach, a ship laid a line and winched itself close while a small boat took another line to the next secure point. Eventually the ship was warped alongside but it was a lengthy and clumsy process that no one preferred.