EXERPT

 It is a cold, dark night in November, 1757 at the height of the French and Indian War. On the frontier border of the New York colony, two young women are on the run, fleeing from a brutal massacre with only their wits and a flintlock musket standing between them and the enemy. Read this exciting chapter segment from Maria Schell Burden's upcoming novel, "We Were Patriots: Legends of the Mohawk Valley"

NOVEMBER 1757

Night Watch

The velvety blackness confused and startled her at first. She was unsure what woke her until she heard the distant report of a rifle, and realized it was the second one. She reached her arm across to feel for Christian in the dark but remembered that he and Johan were away with a hunting party and wouldn’t be back until at least the day after next. Hilde, who had been settled comfortably on a blanket near the bed, sprung to her feet and let out a low growl. 

“I hear it, now hush,” Maria said, as she closed her eyes to listen. She placed her hand on the dog’s shoulder, now bristling with hackles raised. Could those shots be a neighbor scaring off a predator from their livestock? Not likely, she thought, realizing that the shots were too close together to be from just one musket. Something was definitely wrong. 

“Good girl,” she whispered. Steadying her breathing, she swung her legs off the edge of the bed and began to pull on the old trousers, boots and work shirt she kept ready under the bed. She stuffed the tails of her nightshift into the waistband of the trousers, tucked her long braid under the collar, patted her thigh and brought Hilde to her side. 

At the door Maria mashed her work hat onto her head, picked up the small hand ax from the firewood basket and tucked it into the waistband of her trousers. She slipped into her warm coat, slung her shot pouch and powder horn over her shoulder and lifted her musket off the pegs. She thought gratefully of the cellar, lined with stone and fitted with a secret space they had created together to hold Christian’s books and papers. Only four days ago they had placed everything there to confirm the space was large enough, and there they remained. 

“Hilde, come,” Maria whispered, stepping out the door and pushing the latch string through the hole. It was a cold November evening full of stars and the bracing air was a shock as she took her first breath. Keeping Hilde close to her thigh, Maria scanned the horizon without moving. Heard and saw nothing in the immediate area. She searched the western horizon, and there, ever so faintly, she felt, then saw a disturbance in the quiet night as a blooming glow erupted about a mile to the west. A volley of shots cracked the silence and shattered any hope that all might be well. 

She moved silently to her left, staying close to the wall, then began to make a slow circle around the house and barn; found nothing amiss. Looking across the road she saw the shape of Johan and Barbara’s house, dark and quiet. She had to get to Barbara quickly.

Her stomach lurched as she thought of the cow, sheep and horses shut in the barn. She nickered for Hilde, who heeled up, and trotted alongside her, back through the yard. She grasped the bar on the door and hoisted it up. She clapped her hands and roused the animals and got them moving toward the open door. Hilde barked, and she shushed her, waving her arms as she drove the confused animals out into the night. Her mare, Johanna, tried to follow her.

“Get, now! GET! She said as loud as she dared, willing the sleepy livestock to find cover in the woods where they might be found later. She took a last look over her shoulder at the animals, so important to their future, ambling toward the hill, and sent up yet another breathless prayer. She brought Hilde, who was already nosing along the wagon rut, back to her side and kept to the shadows of the windbreak trees along the drive until they reached the creek just north of the pike. Her right foot somehow found the first crossing stone, but slipped off, and she plunged knee deep into the icy water, nearly falling. She stifled a curse as water began seeping into her woolen stockings. She shifted the shot pouch, now digging into the flesh at her shoulder as she slogged the last two steps through the frigid creek. Holding the musket at shoulder height, she jumped to the bank. When they reached the pike that separated the Schell farms, she halted and swung her gaze east, then west. Torches bobbed along the horizon, moving from north to south toward the main road; lots of them.

Maria prayed she’d been right to bring the dog, then took a few precious seconds to wipe her feet on some dry, dead brush so she would leave no obvious footprints on the road.

She rapped on the rear door of her sister-in-law’s home, waited a few seconds, then moved to the side of the house where the couple’s sleeping room was located and pounded on the wall with the side of her fist. “Barbara, it is me, Maria! She whispered hoarsely, “Open the door, we’re in danger!”

The door at last creaked open and Barbara let her in, eyes wide. “Get dressed, now! Warm as you can. We must leave the house. Raiders are coming down the road!” Maria gave staccato instructions as she gathered a large hunk of bread, a few apples and cheese from the larder, threw them into a flannel and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat. Barbara was already pulling up her woolen stockings and stuffing her feet into moccasins, the only footwear that currently fit her swelling feet. Hilde and Will circled excitedly around the women’s legs, nosing the floor and each other. Maria swept a woolen cloak over Barbara’s shoulders, snuffed out the candle on the table and pushed her toward the door. Looking distractedly around the kitchen, the pregnant woman circled her hands over her round belly.

“What shall we do?” She panted.

“We go! Now!” Maria said firmly, shouldering through the doorway and looking around the back of the house before drawing the other woman out the door and onto the stone steps. She hesitated for a half second, not sure whether to bring the dogs or leave them locked in the house. Would they be a hindrance, or a measure of protection?

“Dogs, come,” she decided quickly, then ducked her head back inside the jamb, lifted the family’s extra musket from above the door, closed the plank door firmly, pushed the latch string back through, and slid out into the frigid November night.

“Quickly and quietly now. Around the back of the barn and up the hill. I know a place we can hide.” Without a moon to light the way, their feet seemed to find every root and rock as they scrambled toward the cover of the tree-studded hill behind the farm. Just as the women and dogs reached the line of trees and began moving uphill, the raiders came around a bend in the road in the distance. Like an oily puddle oozing in their direction, fingers of flaming torch peeled off, then rejoined the growing main group as the offenders sought their next target. Torches in hand, they moved with a jerky forward-hesitate-forward pace along the pike. Voices rose, floated from the advancing band; wails of distress, cut off by deep, guttural sounds, then brief periods of silence. Captives on a forced march...