Timewatch (24 page)

“Aye, aye,” muttered Bill, tearing off his jacket to reveal a white shirt similar to the ones the other men were wearing.

As J.J. removed his slightly gamey-smelling jacket of deerskin, he heard three distinct shots, probably signals to their would-be rescuers.

“Now you men take shelter at that wall before the Indians gain it,” said Church, pointing to a low wall some yards ahead.

Feeling very exposed, J.J. reluctantly got up and ran after Bill. Bill suddenly stooped down and grabbed some peas. “Go on, lad, gather some. It's certain you must be as hungry as me. A soldier learns to take what Providence provides when he can.”

J.J. stooped down. Bill raised his flintlock and fired. A yell was suddenly cut off. J.J.'s imagination could fill in the rest. A flintlock could make a pretty messy hole in a man.

“On your feet, Tom. Be quick!” Bill yelled as with one powerful hand he hauled J.J. to his feet. They both leaped the low wall with the determination and speed of Olympic hurdlers, his mind spinning crazily as they tumbled down the small bank.

“Good work, Bill. Praise be to God for delivering you and your friend,” said Church a few moments later as he tumbled down near them.

“Tom Eldridge, Benjamin. It's his first campaign.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Church, his large bright eyes assessing J.J. with a friendly look. “You do well, Tom, to stay close to an old campaigner like Bill.”

A volley of shots whistled over their heads, seeming to come from all directions: from the ruins of a stone house, a heap of black rocks, and from behind trees and fence posts. How were they ever going to get out of this mess?

As if reading his thoughts, Church laid a hand comfortingly on J.J.'s shoulder and said, “Many a time I've been in a tight corner, but always a heavenly Providence has watched over me.”

J.J. drew a shaky breath. This time was he supposed to be that Providence? Jeremy had told him that if Church didn't stop Metacom and his Indians who were attacking the English colonies, Count Frontenac would swoop down from the north, conquer the Thirteen Colonies, and claim them for France. Then there would be no American Revolution and no America to stop the Nazis in World War II.

But how was he supposed to help Church when he was having trouble staying alive? He was more a liability to the others than anything. If it hadn't been for Bill, he'd be lying dead right now with his face in some farmer's peas.

“I'm very grateful to Bill …” he began awkwardly.

“I couldn't let a good Englishman have his head taken off by a pack of heathens, could I?” interrupted Bill as he clapped J.J. on the back.

“Now, Bill, some of my best soldiers are Indians, and they are as good Christians as you or me,” reproved Church, his glance roving around the landscape as they talked.

He broke off and shouted to a boat putting off from the other shore, “Hallo! Send your canoe ashore!”

Now Church's men began screaming, “Help, rescue us! Our ammunition is spent!”

“The fools! They'll acquaint the Indians with our plight, who'll harry us even harder!” said Church. Then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Captain, send your canoe ashore or else leave! Do this or I will fire upon you!”

To J.J.'s dismay, the boat turned in the water and sailed away. Little flashes of light came from all around them, and the acrid smell of powder burned in their nostrils as the Indians began firing faster than ever.

One of the men near J.J. muttered, “I'm sore tempted to flee.”

“Aye, before those devils take our heads,” agreed his companion.

“You'd not get far,” said Church, who had overheard their conversation. “Be sparing of your ammunition, and your courage shall be rewarded. God has preserved us thus far and shall continue to keep us safe.”

The men had stopped complaining and were listening intently to Church.

The sun went down in a splendor of crimson and orange, turning the river into a frothing tide of molten gold that dazzled J.J.'s eyes and made him homesick for his grandparent's cottage on Lake of the Woods, where he'd daydreamed on their dock on many an evening just like this one.

Too soon, fingers of twilight began stalking the land, making huge shadows of the Indians, whose long whooping yells tore at J.J.'s nerves.

Where was Dan? Had he made it to New England or maybe even gone back home?

If only he could go back to the 20th century, back to Winnipeg, back to his dad and mom, back to his friends. He didn't belong here with these people who had been dead for over 300 years. This wasn't even his country! What was he doing here?

“The sloop! Benjamin, the sloop!” yelled Bill.

J.J. heard Church exclaim, “Praise be! Captain Golding has come to fetch us!”

And then Bill was pounding on his back, whispering hoarsely, “Did I not tell you, Tom, that Church would find a way?”

More like the captain, whoever he was.

“Send your canoe so we can come aboard!” shouted Church.

As a canoe came bobbing over the waves, J.J. exclaimed, “But it's so small!”

“Big enough for two stout lads at a time,” said Church. “Go now, Tom. You've a good chance to make it safely on deck under cover of the fire of the ship's company.”

“I'd rather wait, sir.”

Church nodded, pleased, J.J. saw, by his decision to wait.

How could he explain that he wasn't being a hero; he was waiting to see if the others could make it out alive. No way could he tell this man how he really felt.

Then while his nerves crawled with fear, he had to sit and watch while close to 20 men ventured out, two at a time, into the canoe. All of them managed to get safely on board the sloop. “Your turn, lad,” Church was saying. “You go with him, Bill.”

Bill shook his head, his expression obstinate. “I'll wait until you both have gone.”

Church began pouring powder down the long barrel of the flintlock and tamping it down with a long slender rod. “I must retrieve my cutlass and hat at the well where I drank when we first came down. I'll not leave them for the Indians to gloat over.”

Bill began arguing with his brother-in-law. Church was shaking his head.

J.J. wondered if he should run to the well and grab the man's things. If he did prevent Church's death by doing this—and it was possible that he could get killed trying—he would condemn thousands of Indians, now and in the future, to lifetimes of poverty, disease, and despair. On the other hand, if Church died, Jeremy said there would be no United States. What should he do?

His mom always said to follow his intuition, but supposing his intuition was wrong?

J.J. shivered. He had to make a decision right now, and it had better be the right one.

Church put a hand on his shoulder and looked encouragingly at him. Now he was turning away. J.J. felt a surge of anger. Why was Church willing to risk dying for a stupid hat and a sword just because he didn't want the Indians to gloat over getting them?

Before he could do anything, Church grabbed his gun and charged over to the well standing about 20 yards away in a small clearing. As he snatched up his hat and cutlass—a heavy sucker with a lethal-looking blade—bullets zipped harmlessly around him. J.J. could see why both whites and Indians were in awe of the man: bullets never seemed to touch him.

That could change, and fast. Church was going to get killed. That wasn't supposed to happen! And it would be all his fault, for acting like a coward and not doing what he was sent here to do.

“To the boat, Tom!” yelled Church, who was sprinting to the river.

It was an impossible distance away, through the field and down to the shore, but with adrenaline pouring through his veins, he found himself whooping and yelling like the soldiers he'd seen in countless Westerns.

The Captain and his men on board the boat were firing enthusiastically now, while the Indians returned their fire. Vines grabbed at J.J.'s ankles as he tore through the peas, the sweat pouring down his face in the still-warm July evening.

The shooting let up a little. Either the Indians were poor shots or else their guns were very inaccurate. With a semiautomatic, a U.S. Marine could have mowed them down in seconds.

Up to his ankles now in the warm water of the river, he had only a few yards more to go. Church, crouched low in the canoe, was yelling, “Good lad!” and extending a hand to help him into the canoe.

He'd made it! J.J. was just lifting up a foot to get into the canoe when something hard and fiery slammed into his back, and then he was falling into the water facedown, voices calling him and hands pulling at him, and then a great roaring darkness …

CHAPTER 26

Since he'd put the piece of cloth soaked in herbs on his tongue just a few seconds ago, Caleb was experiencing the most peculiar sensations. His eyes were playing funny tricks on him, as though he were getting cataracts and couldn't see properly, everything going dim.

Seconds later, he felt himself caught up by what felt like an invisible cloak of energy that wrapped itself about him and propelled him across the singing void, through universes of darkness, into another body.

It wasn't what he'd expected, but then he hadn't really known
what
to expect. He'd been prepared for failure but not for success.

It was a neat trick, a kind of immortality. He acknowledged to himself that he'd badly wanted, just once more, to feel the juices of a young man's body running through his veins again, to feel muscles that worked smoothly and didn't falter. When he was young, he had taken all that for granted: the splendid physical health and suppleness; the ability to stay up all night with scarcely any loss of energy; and the general feeling of well-being. Oh, he still had more stamina than many men half his age, but there was a difference now. Like a miser apportioning his gold, he was careful to expend only a rationed amount of his carefully hoarded energy. So he spent the small coin of his force, knowing that his reserve of strength was gradually dwindling until one day, bankrupted of that natural life force, death would claim him.

“Captain Golding, do you wish us to send the canoe to Mr. Church and his men?”

Dazzled by the glare of sunshine on the water, Caleb put a hand to his eyes. He was standing on a 50-foot sloop. Information from the captain's mind told him that it had a shallow draft—easy to see that it had to be shallow in this river—and a hickory keel with a hull built of oak.

Indians were firing on his crew and the sloop. On the shore lay a small body of men, Englishmen, judging by their white shirts and light complexions, who looked in desperate trouble.

A shot came whistling by his ear and right through a sail. Too close by half!

A young sailor dressed in rough, stained trousers and a shirt rushed over to him. “Captain Golding, the men's chances of surviving the Indian attack be small, sir, if we do not fetch them off.”

“Send the canoe,” commanded Caleb gruffly.

The sailor grinned and dashed away to carry out the order. More shots were being aimed their way, but most of them fell harmlessly short. The distance was too great.

Caleb could feel his spirits rising, the adrenaline flowing through his body, a young man's body, strong and fit.

He drew in a lungful of air, fresh, and full of the woodsy scents of a forest that had stood untouched for centuries. The river was clear and looked clean enough to drink. Pollution wasn't a problem here and wouldn't be for another couple of centuries.

A heavy burst of firing, this time from the men around him, snared his attention. It took some time for the canoe to make the ten trips to get off the 20 men. There wasn't much for him to do, just watch as the Englishmen took a run for the canoe while the soldiers on board kept the Indians busy by firing at them with those archaic weapons of theirs.

Only one man left. He seemed to be waiting for someone, a boy running through the water. The boy was yelling something. He'd just reached the canoe when he arched his back and fell into the water. The man—it had to be Church—was hauling his companion into the canoe and paddling like fury.

Another hail of bullets, miraculously missing Church, whistled though the air. Caleb let out an involuntary sigh of relief. The captain's memories told him how Church had settled on a farm in Little Compton, Rhode Island, and made friends of the Sakonnet Indians who lived near him and learned their techniques of warfare. His bravery and respect for Indians impressed the tribes and drew many to him, including Awashonks, the leader of the Sakonnets. When war came, he encouraged her not to join Philip in his war against the whites.

“Take up the lad first!” shouted Church.

When the boy was laid on the deck, it was obvious that he was quite dead.

“Poor Tom. He took the bullet meant for me. He is with our Lord now,” said Church, turning the boy over and reverently closing the eyes that were staring sightlessly into the darkening sky.

Caleb shook his head and shouted an order to take up the anchor and set sail.

Then, looking at the still form of the dead boy, he was torn by the unfairness of it all, that someone so young had to die, someone about the same age as J.J.

What was it the boy had yelled? “Jeremy, get me out of here!”

Caleb stared again at the corpse. He knew with a terrible certainty that the boy lying on his deck had to have been his young cousin.

But, damn it all, this wasn't the way things were supposed to happen! No one had mentioned that in the course of attempting to change history you could get killed.

Caleb could feel a shrinking in his bones, as though he were becoming several sizes smaller and weaker. Face it, he told himself. I've been spoiled, gone soft, addicted to luxury. But I agreed to this adventure. Now I have to do whatever it takes!