Prologue

Hugging his muzzle-loading, long rifle close to his chest, Nathanael Winsor walked through the misty Maine woods with a number of his fellows detached from General Benedict Arnold’s army that was headed north to invade Canada.

A Groton resident, he’d arrived too late to help out against the British troops that had retreated from Concord earlier in the year, but earned his veteran’s status at the Battle of Breed’s Hill. Afterwards, he’d discovered that he had a taste for battle and when Arnold asked for volunteers to accompany him on a bold move to capture Canada from the British, he fancied the adventure.

Unfortunately, adventure had taken a back seat in the buggy to the sheer drudgery of marching through unmarked wilderness and the onset of winter. That had been bad enough, but poor planning and inexperience made things worse. First, the boats used to get the army up the Kennebec River leaked, spoiling both gunpowder and food supplies. As cold weather set in the men began to go hungry and many turned back. Maybe he should have too, but Nathanael had always had a stubborn streak and once he’d set his mind on something, it was seldom he changed it.

Not that he didn’t have second thoughts at times. Just now, for instance, with his stomach growling, he couldn’t decide which was worse; hunger or the constant, discomforting cold.

To add to his misery, a light snow had fallen during the night, crusting the surface of the ground in patches of white. Feet crunching as he walked, Natty reached a big tree and took a moment to rest against it.

Behind him, the rest of the hunting party caught up. There were a dozen of them, chosen, like himself, because they were all good shots, to range afield in search of game which was desperately needed to feed Arnold’s dwindling army and fuel its passage over the final leg of the march to the Chaudiere River.

They had left the army a few days before as it huddled around its meagre campfires and moved up along the Kennebec. One good thing about the snowfall, it made tracking game easier and signs had pointed away from the river. Wary of local Indians, the hunting party had spread out along the trail with Natty in the lead. Now, pausing behind the tree, he watched the others as they drew up to him.

“Find anything, Natty?” asked Homer Lawton, a volunteer from Pepperell.

“Just resting a bit, but it can’t be long now.”

“Sure is cold,” said Homer, his breath steaming on the frigid air.

Nathanael didn’t reply.

“All right,” he said finally, as the rest of the party gathered around the tree. “We must be close now. Spread out and let’s see if we can flush something out.”

Slowly, the ragged figures moved off to left and right of the tree and when all were in a rough line, Nathanael stepped out and led the way forward.

As he walked, Nathanael could not help noticing how quiet the forest was. All around him, leafless, lifeless trees stood motionless and overhead a slate grey sky hung featureless and lowering. Along the ground, the morning mist still clung, revealing the game trail only a few feet at a time.

Suddenly, Nathanael stopped.

The deer sign they had been following was still present, but now there were other prints, human prints.

“Hold it,” he whispered; a command that was passed along the line of men to the right and left.

Pointing, Nathanael signaled danger ahead. The others understood. They’d wait and follow his lead in silence.

Warily he continued, until a shot rang out.

Instantly, Nathanael threw himself to the ground as did many of the others. Some scooted behind nearby trees. But nothing else happened. There were no other shots. Maybe it was not aimed at them? If so, the hunting party had not been discovered. It still held the element of surprise.

Cautiously, Nathanael regained his feet and moved slowly forward, followed by the others. Soon, shapes began to take form in the mist, shapes that he recognized as the kind of temporary structures used by Indians. Instantly, he halted and waved his fellows in.

With furtive movements, they drew themselves together until the entire band crouched among a stand of white pine.

“What do we do now?” asked someone.

“They must know we’re here!”

“Don’t look like it to me…”

“What about that shot?”

“Hold on,” said Nathanael. “There’s nothing to suggest that they were shooting at us. Otherwise, there would have been more.”

“Natty’s right,” began Homer before being interrupted by a second shot, this one no doubt aimed at them as a ball shredded its way through the clustered pine branches overhead.

“Quick! Spread out and return fire!” advised Nathanael as he unlimbered his own rifle and took aim at a figure standing amid the bark structures.

Boom! His gun unloaded and for a few seconds there was too much powder smoke to tell if he’d hit his target.

When the smoke cleared, however, he had the satisfaction of seeing the figure lying in a crumpled heap on the frozen ground. By then, the air was filled with the loud retorts of other guns as the hunting party fired on the village. With a shout, the little band of soldiers advanced, some stopping to reload their muskets and firing again.

To add to the confusion, some of the men set fire to the lodges whose bark walls and thatched roofs went up quickly.

Nathanael was reloading his rifle when he spotted the Indian sitting at a campfire at the edge of the village. Throughout all the noise, commotion and flying balls, he continued to sit, smoking a long stemmed pipe just as if nothing was happening.

Suddenly determined to shatter the old man’s tranquility and to see him hop to his feet in alarm, Natty aimed his rifle and shot. The old man didn’t move. Still he sat there smoking. Unsure of how he’d missed, Natty loaded again, took more careful aim, this time squarely at the old man’s form and fired.

Again, he’d apparently missed. Impossible! He knew he was a darn good shot; could shoot the eye out of a running squirrel at a hundred yards. Something was not quite right…but just then Homer appeared, urging him to signal the retreat.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Homer. “The boys don’t like the way the Injuns all scattered. Likely the rascals are somewhere and figurin’ on comin’ back and catchin’ us unawares.”

Nathanael’s back was up however. All he wanted to do right then was to stomp up to the old man and put a bullet in him.

“What are we waitin’ fer?” asked someone else. “We don’t want to be caught in some ambush so far from the rest of the army.”

Clearly, the boys were spooked at the sudden encounter with the Indians and Nathanael felt the pressure to turn back.

“All right, let’s go,” he said at last.

But a few minutes later, he found himself hanging back as the rest of the party headed back the way they’d come. A sense of unfinished business teasing at his mind, Natty couldn’t go on until he had settled affairs with the old Indian.

As the last man passed him, he turned and faded into the mist. A few minutes later, he’d returned to the village which by that time was only a collection of smoking ruins. The inhabitants still hadn’t come back. Likely they were as shaken as his men had been and were miles away by now.

Slowly, he crept from tree to tree until coming in sight of the old man’s lodge; the only one unharmed by the recent action despite being near the center of the village. The coincidence only added to Nathanael’s curiosity as he watched the old Indian, still sitting by his fire.

Suddenly, he stood and entered his dwelling.

On impulse, Nathanael stole from cover and dashed to the lodge. Entering, he cornered the old man before he had a chance to do anything.

“Welcome young warrior,” said the Indian, startling Nathanael.

“You speak English?”

“Yes. I learned it many years ago when the first wooden villages came to fish off of these shores. In those days, none of my people had ever seen a white man and we were very curious about them. I was young then myself and being bolder than most, I clambered aboard one of the ships when invited and was taken to England. There, I learned your language.”

Nervous, Nathanael looked around quickly before replying.

“You’re talking a hundred, two hundred years ago, old man.”

“Longer.”

“What…?” Nathanael managed, confused.

“It does not matter. I know why you have come.” The old man fingered a small metal locket that hung around his neck. “You cannot put it into words, but you wondered why I was not harmed when you shot at me before. It is because of this.” He lifted the locket away from his chest. “I obtained it in England long ago. It contains a gift from Wahn-di-ko that has given me favor for many years, but now I am tired of it. I have lived for too many years. That is why I am prepared to make a trade with you.”

“A trade?”

“I give you the gift and in return, you kill me with your musket. In the heart. Do not miss.”

“You want me to kill you?”

“Is that so hard? You are a warrior. You have killed before. Even now you go with many of your fellows north to kill again. What is one old Indian?”

At that, the old man lifted the locket from around his neck and presented it to Nathanael.

“Keep it with you always. With it, you will never come to harm. And with Wahn-di-ko’s favor, you will prosper.”

Nathanael took the locket and clutched it tightly in his fist.

The old man stood back and pulled his thin shirt open, exposing his chest.

“Now, kill me!”

Almost without volition, Nathanael found himself tucking the locket into a pocket and raising his musket. He hesitated a moment and wondered if it was his imagination or if the old man’s skin was really wrinkling before his eyes, spotting up, turning a pale waxy yellow…

Boom!

Nathanael had pulled the trigger and the blast of his gun sounded like a cannon inside the walls of the lodge. Wondering if what he’d seen had been his imagination, he waited for the powder smoke to clear to make sure of his kill.

The old Indian lay there, his chest a bloody mess, but a smile nevertheless teased the corners of his mouth, an ironic smile it seemed to Nathanael who retreated from the lodge. Not waiting to reload his rifle, he quickly stole back into the surrounding forest, suddenly eager to catch up with the rest of his comrades.

Chapter One

Best Laid Plans

“A chicken farm?”

Glenn Springer still recalled the incredulity with which his revelation had been received by Paul Roundhouse, the chief accountant at Silver and Sax where he also worked as office manager.

He smiled at the recollection, especially juxtaposed against the high rises of downtown Boston that formed the backdrop to the 36^th floor office space rented by the firm in the John Hancock Tower.

It wasn’t the kind of thing that often came up for conversation in such an environment, but it was one ventured by Springer when he sought some unofficial counsel from Roundhouse.

“A chicken farm?” Roundhouse asked again after nearly spurting out the mouthful of coffee he’d sipped just after Glenn had mentioned his plans. “You mean, like roosters and clucking hens and heads being chopped off?”

Glenn laughed. “Well not the head chopping part, anyway. It’s not that kind of farm.”

“What then?”

“Eggs. It raises eggs for market in supermarkets and stuff like that.”

“Eggs, heads, what’s the difference? A farm is a farm in a nowhere backwater. Why are you even thinking of burying yourself out in Hicksville anyway?”

“It’s not Hicksville,” said Glenn defensively. “It’s Bingham, Maine.”

“Whatever. You mean you’re serious about this? You want to buy a chicken farm?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Well, about buying a farm anyway. But a chicken farm raising eggs is even better. Less labor intensive.”

“But still, isn’t that a little drastic just to get some fresh air? Why not just plant a garden in your backyard?”

“Hard to do that when I live in a condo in Lowell.”

And even harder when he spent hours every day making the commute from Boston to his condo located in a restored mill building.

Renovating nineteenth century mill buildings was all the rage at the moment, especially in Lowell where such buildings had stood empty and crumbling for decades before the federal government began pouring in urban renewal and national park funding into them. Now they were mostly high end condominiums that had proven attractive to up and coming professionals who found the rents and real estate values in Boston not worth the quality of life involved.

Lowell offered the sophistication of an urban environment without the close quarters or crime levels of the big city. And it was an easy commute from Boston. Well, it was supposed to be. Only forty-five minutes on a good day, more often work days meant an hour and a half at best.

Just now, Glenn was being reminded of why he’d finally decided to take the plunge into something he always thought of doing; namely, moving away from the city completely for the wide open spaces and slower pace of rural life. It was something that buoyed his spirits as he sat at a dead stop in the center of I-93, a four lane interstate highway that ran straight as an arrow northwest from Boston to New Hampshire and points beyond.

Glenn eased the brake a little and inched up a few feet before being forced to stop by the endless line of cars that stretched farther than his eye could see. Likely there was an accident ahead that everyone had to slow down to look at, thus backing up traffic for miles.

It merely served to remind him of why he hated this commute. Forcing himself to be patient, he selected the classical music station on the radio and relaxed a little, telling himself that things would soon be better. In his mind, he saw again the rambling forests of upstate Maine punctuated now and then by fields of produce arranged in geometric perfection. Potato fields mostly, he guessed, but plenty of corn too. By now the ears must be fat and ready for picking. A thousand roadside vegetable stands would be bursting with baskets of the stuff and streams of seasonal sightseers from Massachusetts buying it up for pots back home.

But he wouldn’t be one of them.

He pictured the farmhouse on the property that soon would be his. And the several outbuildings and large coops filled with squawking hens and raucous roosters. Nothing to do but get up early in the morning and collect the night’s eggs. Supervise the packing and meeting the truckers coming in to haul the eggs to warehouse distribution centers in Massachusetts. In the evening, relaxing by the fire and doing a little reading and bookkeeping until bedtime.

Glenn was imagining how good a night’s sleep would be after days like that, out in the fresh air…

A horn blasted almost right alongside him, but traffic was still not going anywhere. Jerk.

Shifting mental gears, Glenn again recalled his conversation with Paul earlier that day. He’d had a bookkeeping question he wanted to run past him and couldn’t do it without telling him about his plans.

“Seriously? A chicken farm?” Paul had asked.

“Seriously. I always like the outdoors, doing work outdoors like raking leaves in the fall or mowing the lawn in the summer, going in the woods to look for saplings I could transplant to my yard. Stuff like that. I still think plenty of fresh air is the key to health. Spending all day in an office like this, breathing in that recirculated, climate controlled air can’t be good for you.”

“Yeah, I’ve read those articles too. But why an egg farm?”

“Why not? I wanted to get a place where I could make a living, at least a modest one. And like I said, straight vegetable farming is labor intensive. Something I don’t think I want to tackle at my age. But a chicken farm, especially one that was already established and had steady customers for its eggs, I could handle that. So I looked around, checked the internet, visited a couple places, until I found a place outside Bingham.”

“You already went up to look at it?”

Glenn nodded. “Yup. It’s about a fifteen hour drive from Lowell. Pretty rural. Farm country for sure, but really attractive countryside. So, I put down a security deposit and expect to close in a couple months.”

“That soon?”

“You’re welcome to come up and check it out after the sale.”

“I just might take you up on that, Glenn. I don’t know any farmers.”

“Anyway, just wanted to ask you about balance sheets, liability, accounts payable and receivable, and payroll.”

“Anybody but yourself on that payroll?”

“Well, I’ll have a few people working to pack the eggs and, for now, there’s going to be a local farmer I’m going to let work some of my fields. We’re going to split the profits from whatever he grows on them.”

“That’ll complicate your record keeping a little but no biggie.”

“Taxes?” asked Glenn with some trepidation.

“Right.”

By that point, break time was about over and he and Paul made arrangements to get together soon at the local Starbucks to go over the accounting issues in detail. In the meantime, Glenn asked Paul to keep the chicken farm deal under his hat.

Be that as it may, news about his impending plans leaked out to the rest of the office and for the last few weeks, he’d been the target of some good natured ribbing, even from Robbie Sax himself. Glenn just hoped that Paul was better at keeping professional secrets than he was about chicken farms.

Suddenly, there was a break ahead and traffic began moving more steadily.

If he was lucky, he might make it home before dark.