But oh, what she’d give for a pretty petticoat.
2
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1770
The overly crowded parlor reminded Clay of why he preferred the far-flung frontier. Chambers like this, no matter how genteel, were a cauldron of barely civilized scents that left him longing for clean air and expansive views. Heavy perfumes barely masked perspiring, unbathed bodies layered in lush fabrics amid the city’s heat. He pulled discreetly at his own freshly laundered stock, casting a baleful eye at the tall, closed windows with their British crown glass.
Two more days. No longer would he be confined to brick buildings and slop-strewn streets. True, he could turn a corner here without being met with a hatchet, and a pint of ale was as easily gotten as the plague. But in the bowels of teeming Philadelphia he felt tethered. Suffocated. Even dim-witted. Lulled into a civilized lethargy that the wilderness never allowed him.
Close to a hundred Philadelphians had come to hear him talk, crowding into his kin’s glittering parlor on Front Street atop the Delaware River’s western embankment. He was far from an orator, yet they sat spellbound, starved for news about the latest unrest from a region most had never seen nor wanted to. Or mayhap drawn by him most of all, the white Indian, a so-called redeemed savage brought back from the brink of heathenism in the nick of time.
The aftermath of the last war weighed heavy. He read the questions on their faces, the fears there would be another. Mayhap his coming was a blessed reprieve from the angry outpourings about the Stamp Act being forced on the colonists by Parliament. Mayhap it gave them reason for thankfulness that somewhere else in the world there was more danger, turmoil, and uncertainty.
“Colonel Tygart.” His host—and uncle—was before him, a blushing belle on each arm. “More of your admirers wish to meet you.”
Clay inclined his head. Gave a small bow. If she’d lived to see it, his aunt would be pleased her training had taken hold. The young women looked at him coyly, each fluttering their fans hard as a hummingbird’s wings.
“I was captivated by your speech,” said one. “We only glean the scantest bits from newspapers and broadsheets of exploits in the West. Never have I heard a firsthand account such as yours.”
“No doubt your call for men and arms along the border will be heeded after so rousing a message,” said the other, touching his coat sleeve with the tip of her fan. “From a true hero of the Seven Years’ War—and a former captive. How horrifying!”
“I didn’t mean to paint so grim a picture,” he returned, “given I lived to tell the tale.”
“I’m sure you’ve spared us the most distressing details as any gentleman would. My only wish is that you looked more the part.”
Bemused now, he smiled. “Greasy buckskins, feathers, and the like?”
They giggled like schoolgirls, though his uncle remained unsmiling. His Quaker kin still found it hard to make peace with his straddling both worlds. And his forsaking their faith had widened the rift. Though he’d been back among the whites for as long as he’d been with the Indians, he retained an Indian taint.
“I regret hearing that the abundance of game grows less and less the farther colonists push west, the prized elk and buffalo foremost.” His uncle’s thoughtful comments surprised him. “Though I’m glad the predatory wolves are not the threat they once were.”
“Wherever you hear the ring of an axe you’ll find it so.” Could they hear the lament in his voice? “But there are still deer and bear aplenty. And panthers are just as much a danger as the wolves.”
The dining room doors were being opened, a long table a-glitter with candlelight. Offering each lady an arm, Clay started a slow walk across the carpeted floor, aware of too many appraising glances. His senses, honed sharp by his past, provided ongoing entertainment. He took note of the beauty patch, big as a tick, on the chin of the mayor’s wife. The missing gilt button on one gentleman’s waistcoat. A servant’s bruised eye and tarnished buckle. The failed soufflé at supper.
While tolerating some aspects of civilization, others he embraced. An overburdened table was one of them, laden with Philadelphia’s beef and pork pies and hearty northern fare. Many a winter he’d scraped by on wild game and roots. The ravenous frontier was as much a force to be reckoned with as the treacherous frontier.
Soon he’d be three hundred miles to westernmost Virginia and Pennsylvania’s borders, with a tattered, winter-weakened militia in dire need of powder, mustering, and more, and the back settlers, as they were called, in need of defense.
As he took his place around the elegant table, he pondered all he hadn’t said in his honest speech about British America’s embattled borders. Best save that for a more hardened audience.
Packhorses and provisions. Indian trade goods. Powder. Bullet lead. Rifle pouch. Flint and steel. Salt. Clay surveyed the growing heap and the pawing horseflesh before him. The journey out was always more comfortable than the journey back. For now, he familiarized himself with his stores, gotten from a list he’d made that would be paid and supplied by the colonial treasury.
He had no need of a guide as so many did—those who were unfamiliar with the backwoods and the deer or buffalo paths connecting stations and settlements. Seasoned bordermen knew to avoid the treacherous Indian trails that ran the depth and breadth of the frontier, spiderwebbing in every direction.
“We’re going to ride to Pitt in fine style.” The jovial voice cut into Clay’s musings as his longtime partner descended the mercantile steps. A man who, if pressed, could likely outwit him and every other borderman Clay knew.
Jude Early looked at the line of horses and provisions that needed loading, then cast a baleful glance at the spring sky as the Quaker merchant appeared behind him, list in hand. “Think we’ll clear Philadelphia by the forenoon?”
“If we cut to the chase,” Clay replied, settling a packsaddle into place.
He’d thanked his host, bade farewell to his city kin, and prepared himself mentally for what lay ahead. Barring mishaps, he reckoned on seeing Fort Tygart by May. The backcountry, that region of particular concern to the king and colonial government, would be aflame with Indian raids after a long, white winter.
Lord willing, he and Jude and Maddie would reach Fort Pitt first, then drop down some hundred miles to the war-torn Monongahela country. There his unseen, picketed namesake stood on an overlook above the Buckhannon River, smack in the middle of what he himself considered the ring of fire that was western Pennsylvania, northwestern Virginia, and the Ohio.
“Colonel Tygart . . .”
