civilians were well clear of the fortifications and the siege redoubts of the French lines, something had gone terribly wrong. Stark recognized the subsequent mutilations as the handiwork of Abenaki war clubs and tomahawks. Perhaps the French had been unable to control the bloodlust of their allies; or maybe they had been active participants and joined in the wholesale slaughter. Either way they must share in the blame.
And in the retribution.
Johnny Stark steeled himself as he removed a spyglass from his belt and surveyed the dead for any signs of life. There were more ravens here than he could count. The carrion birds were feasting on the remains of soldiers, Colonial Militia men, their wives and children. Stark gasped and averted his gaze for a moment, overcome by the enormity of the massacre. There looked to be more than a thousand casualties left to rot along the road.
He knew many of these homesteaders. Like his friends and neighbors around Fort Edward they too had moved close to Fort William Henry, assuming there was safety being so near the proximity of the British troops stationed within. It had proved to be a reckless gamble.
Stark continued to survey the crumpled, twisted forms, speaking their names beneath his breath as he recognized one then another, frozen in death, families with whom he had broken bread, children he had bounced upon his lap, older siblings he had taught the ways of the wilderness. Oh, God, so many. Even the infants, their skulls shattered . He wiped the moisture from his eyes on the sleeve of his fringed hunting shirt.
It was the children, their innocent remains discarded like so many rag dolls that brought Stark close to the breaking point. The horror of it all was more than any man should have to bear. Again he raised the glass to his eye and forced himself to continue the search. He owed the fallen this much. Eventually he altered his stance and began to study what little remained of the fortifications, but again found nothing salvageable. The English artillery had evidently been captured and carried off on French boats for La Marines of Fort Saint Frederick.
Stark grudgingly admired the thoroughness with which the French had completed the destruction of this English bastion. What their cannonades and axes had not accomplished was finished off by buried kegs of gunpowder under the direction of French engineers.
He heard a sound, a moan that seemed to drift toward him from out in the meadow, apart from the congregation of corpses. A pair of hungry ravens dropped out of the sky, intent on dining on the remains of someone or something out among the tall grass. An enormous paw batted them away. Stark heard a halfhearted howl, a protest of pain, then a weak but defiant growl. The ravens, startled and caught off guard by this new attack, decided they had business elsewhere and rose, protesting, into the sky.
Stark tucked his spyglass away and trekked across the field, gingerly stepping around the grisly forms, shot and hacked and scalped and now pecked at and partly devoured. The ravens lifted away from their feast as he passed, then alighted once more in his wake. As he drew close to the depression in the tall grass, a massive head rose up and gave him a warning growl.
The long hunter recognized the black mask and seamed jowls of an enormous mastiff and remembered the beast had not only been the property of the commanding officer but had served as a kind of mascot for the entire garrison. It was a huge and powerful bitch, weighing a little over two hundred pounds and standing nearly a yard tall at the shoulders and fully seven feet in length, from its black nose to the tip of its brindle tail.
The animal lay on its side, its flesh streaked with blood from half a dozen tomahawk wounds and a puckered bullet hole along its ribs. Perhaps the mastiff had been left to die of its wounds because those who had caused the death of its master were loathe to approach such a terrible beast and risk a
And in the retribution.
Johnny Stark steeled himself as he removed a spyglass from his belt and surveyed the dead for any signs of life. There were more ravens here than he could count. The carrion birds were feasting on the remains of soldiers, Colonial Militia men, their wives and children. Stark gasped and averted his gaze for a moment, overcome by the enormity of the massacre. There looked to be more than a thousand casualties left to rot along the road.
He knew many of these homesteaders. Like his friends and neighbors around Fort Edward they too had moved close to Fort William Henry, assuming there was safety being so near the proximity of the British troops stationed within. It had proved to be a reckless gamble.
Stark continued to survey the crumpled, twisted forms, speaking their names beneath his breath as he recognized one then another, frozen in death, families with whom he had broken bread, children he had bounced upon his lap, older siblings he had taught the ways of the wilderness. Oh, God, so many. Even the infants, their skulls shattered . He wiped the moisture from his eyes on the sleeve of his fringed hunting shirt.
It was the children, their innocent remains discarded like so many rag dolls that brought Stark close to the breaking point. The horror of it all was more than any man should have to bear. Again he raised the glass to his eye and forced himself to continue the search. He owed the fallen this much. Eventually he altered his stance and began to study what little remained of the fortifications, but again found nothing salvageable. The English artillery had evidently been captured and carried off on French boats for La Marines of Fort Saint Frederick.
Stark grudgingly admired the thoroughness with which the French had completed the destruction of this English bastion. What their cannonades and axes had not accomplished was finished off by buried kegs of gunpowder under the direction of French engineers.
He heard a sound, a moan that seemed to drift toward him from out in the meadow, apart from the congregation of corpses. A pair of hungry ravens dropped out of the sky, intent on dining on the remains of someone or something out among the tall grass. An enormous paw batted them away. Stark heard a halfhearted howl, a protest of pain, then a weak but defiant growl. The ravens, startled and caught off guard by this new attack, decided they had business elsewhere and rose, protesting, into the sky.
Stark tucked his spyglass away and trekked across the field, gingerly stepping around the grisly forms, shot and hacked and scalped and now pecked at and partly devoured. The ravens lifted away from their feast as he passed, then alighted once more in his wake. As he drew close to the depression in the tall grass, a massive head rose up and gave him a warning growl.
The long hunter recognized the black mask and seamed jowls of an enormous mastiff and remembered the beast had not only been the property of the commanding officer but had served as a kind of mascot for the entire garrison. It was a huge and powerful bitch, weighing a little over two hundred pounds and standing nearly a yard tall at the shoulders and fully seven feet in length, from its black nose to the tip of its brindle tail.
The animal lay on its side, its flesh streaked with blood from half a dozen tomahawk wounds and a puckered bullet hole along its ribs. Perhaps the mastiff had been left to die of its wounds because those who had caused the death of its master were loathe to approach such a terrible beast and risk a
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