and their wars; all I know is that the land belongs to the Americans and we’re going to fight for it!”
Harry stared at Matt with cold eyes. “All very melodramatic,” he said calmly, “but hardly probable. I greatly doubt that there will be a war. Good night.”
The following morning Shad Holly returned. It was the first of April.
Matt was standing at the stockade gate waiting for a rider to bring news, when a great bellow boomed from the direction of the hamlet.
“Yo, Matty! It’s come! Hi-yi! It’s come at last!”
Matt turned his head and saw Shad puffing up the hill, shouting and waving at every broad step, and bringing their two friends Tammy Ferguson and Stefen Caspary along with him.
Matt knew that Shad’s news must be important, for although he usually entered the town with as much gusto as possible, it being his jovial habit to shout ribald songs and to catch all the pretty girls within reach and give them great sweaty bear hugs and send them shrieking home to their mothers, on this day he had no interest in girls and songs but confined himself to mere shouting.
“All right,” Matt said, as his three friends swaggered up to him, “do you want the settlement to think there’s an Indian raid?”
“To hades with Indian raids!” Shad roared, as if Matt were standing twenty yards from him instead of two. “That’s pokey stuff for old men and little kids that hide in stockades and throw bean bags at one or two smelly Catawbas. There’s gonna be a battle, Matty, an honest to gosh battle!”
Matt reached for the gatepost for support. It had come at last!
“A battle!” he echoed. “Where?”
Shad took a swipe at his moist face and sucked in air to holler again. “At the Forks of the Ohio, that’s where! Just below Murder Town. Old Dumwiddie finally got things moving; told Georgie the boy major—only he ain’t a major no more, he’s a lieutenant colonel now—told him to hotfoot up to the Forks and build him a fort.
“Then, when them frog-eaters come marchin’ down from Canada to ask Georgie what he’s about, he’s gonna whap ’em over the head with his muskit and jab ’em in the pants with his bay’net and slap ’em in the face with the tips of his fingers, and say, ‘This here Ohio belongs to the Americans. We don’t want no frog-eaters here. Now you just count one-two-three, spin yourselves about and march out a here double quick!’ That’s what he’s gonna do!”
“Now wait a minute, Shad,” Matt said. “You’re adding to the facts. Tell it to me straight. How do you know there’s going to be a battle?”
Shad made like a windmill, waving his arms about excitedly. Then he got himself in hand and lumbered up to Matt with a dark scowl on his round moon face.
“I suppose you don’t believe there’s gonna be a battle? I suppose you think I made it all up, eh?”
“How can I believe you?” Matt yelled. “All I’ve heard so far is your wild imagination. What about the battle?”
“They’s got to be a battle, Matt! Old Dumwiddie is gonna force it. He’s tired a chasing himself in circles, and he’s made up his mind he ain’t gonna powder his wig again unless he gets Georgie and Cap’n Tram to build him a fort on the banks of the Ohio! Georgie is at Wills Creek right now waiting for reinforcements, and Tram and Ensign Ward has already gone up with a band a backwoodsmen to start the fort.
“Now, Matt, you know as well as I do that the French ain’t gonna let this happen without they grumble about it just a little bit. And that’s why I say there’s gonna be a battle!”
“And we’re going to help them fight it!” young Tammy cried, pitching his cap into the air.
Matt looked at him, then at Stefen who was grinning with delight.
“Do you mean that Pennsylvania is sending a company of soldiers?”
Shad grinned and winked. “ ’Course she’s sending a company,” he said. “She’s sending us, ain’t she?” Then he broke into loud laughter and pounded his fat thigh.
Matt looked beyond Shad and saw that Harry Curry had silently joined them. Harry stared at Shad for a moment along the line of his nose and then nodded to Matt.
“Shad says there’ll be a battle at the Forks of the Ohio,” Matt informed him.
“Why?” Harry asked. He didn’t look at Shad.
“Why?” Shad cried. “Why because Lieutenant Colonel George Washington’s gonna build a fort there! And because he’s gonna ask them frog-eaters real polite-like to please go home as soon as possible.”
Stefen and Tammy grinned and Shad panned his moist red face to Matt to tip him another wink.
“Very funny, I’m sure,” Harry said coldly, and he turned to look at Shad. “However, it doesn’t follow that there will be a battle or a war simply because the French have built three forts and the English one. Perhaps it means nothing to you that we have a peace treaty with France. Or haven’t you heard of the Aix-la-Chapelle treaty?”
“The Ox-la-Chapelly!” Shad roared, and he hit his thigh a great smack. “Ain’t that a dandy? He thinks the French’n Indians’n English have lived up to the treaty! Haw! Haw! Don’t you know they been at each other’s throats ever since that blame treaty was signed? Brother, a treaty ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on these days. And if you think them frog-eaters is gonna let Washington set up a fort without them tryin’ to knock it down, then you just come along with me’n Matt and see!”
“Shad,” Matt said, “how soon are you leaving?”
“Just as quick as you fellas get ready. Tell you one of the last things I heard; a Colonel Fry has been given full command of the expedition, pushing Washington back to second place. I want to get up to Wills Creek right fast and do some complaining. I’m gonna tell ’em that Georgie is the best durn soldier, officer, woodsman, fort-building man in the Colonies! I’m gonna tell ’em . . .”
Matt didn’t wait for more. He turned and hurried to the house, as did the others for their homes, leaving Shad ranting and raving by himself at the gate.
In Matt’s family, as in most families, the final decision on any important matter rested with his father. Regardless of who wanted what or how many words were said or tears shed, his father always had the last word. And this, Matt believed, was as it should be. So he sat at the board table in the gathering room with his father and the twins William and Smite, his two younger brothers, and waited with bated impatience as his father stared at the dead fireplace and puffed absently at his pipe.
Finally his father set the pipe aside and cleared his throat. Abruptly his three sons straightened themselves on the bench.
“Matt,” his father spoke slowly, as though feeling for words, “I’ve known for years that your heart belonged to the wilderness and not here in the settlements; that’s why I’ve never restrained you from going off with Shad. It’s been good for you, made a fine strong man of you . . . but war, ah, that’s another matter. You’re still a child when it comes to war.”
Matt said nothing. He stared at his father’s pipe and waited.
