New World Historical Fiction

      by Karle Schlieff:

     Five Excerpts from his untitled

     Work In Progress

       Nauset, Cape Cod, 1614

     Captain Hunt's crew had just secured the latest captives. They now had twenty-seven Indians on board when Hunt gave the command to head for Europe.The last day was trying. Hunt and his crew had arrived on the beach this morning and between the gunners on land and the cannon on the ship had captured twenty more Indians.The shadowy slave market at Malaga Spain awaited them. No English had been killed this morning but three were injured during the pitched battle on the beach.

      On the third day outbound they saw a ship heading west, far to the north on the horizon. The sharpest sighted seaman was positive it was a French fishing vessel. Hunt wished he could be sure. If it was Captain Smith or someone in his pay, he didn't want to have English eyes peering into his hold.full of Indians and fish. If it were the French, they were probably here for the fishing themselves, and after such a long crossing he was sure they had nothing onboard their little ship that he could possibly want. Hunt quickly evaluate all the permutations as he absently gazed at the problem on the horizon. He made up his mind and went to the conning station, high on the quarter deck.

       "Helmsman," yelled Hunt down through the grating to the man on the whipstaff in steerage. "Two more points southward! Stay that course for an hour. Bo'sun! Let us give that French ship a wide berth. You may want the sailors to re-brace the main and fore sails.see how she runs with the wind first.and pass the word.we won't be going after any prizes today. On to Malaga!"

       And they won't be coming after us either, thought Hunt.

      Later that night, by the light of two candles in the heavy flat oversized holder on his table Hunt recorded the encounter in his log, :French ship heading west, one hundred thirty leagues off America. Course: east south east, to Spain. Latitude 40, Steady breeze from the west. All is well.

       He placed his log back in his cabinet that was really a hole in the wall near the door, flung his blanket on his tiny bed and blew out the candles.

        Earlier That Day, The Francis , 1614

      The Francis was back in American waters. It had been over a year since she plied these currents. The great cape, called Cap Blanc on the French charts and Cape Cod on the English charts, was the site of their greatest fishing and their worst nightmares. Most of the seamen were new recruits but the Captian had retained the services of most of his mates, including Mr. Champagne. The Francis was owned by three men, The Captain was one of them. The other owners in Dieppe were so surprised by his good fortune last year that they made it impossible for him to turn down their demands for another voyage. They out-voted him, as usual, two to one. He had only one demand that they couldn't turn down either, more arms, powder, shot, and cannons. He vowed to stay away from the natives in large numbers.

       This morning they saw what they thought to be an English ship heading east for Europe. The Captain was glad that the English showed the good sense to continue east. The Francis was relentlessly tacking back and forth on the prevailing westerly breezes flying off the American continent. The Captian was trying to hold to a latitude of forty-two degrees. He reassured his crew that he had only come for the fishing. He told them that their voyage to America would be direct, they would fish for three weeks and head home with a full hold, a simple three month trip.

       He knew deep down that all the reassurances were for his benefit. Between the shore birds and sighting the English ship, he knew he was close to America and he was anxious.

      A week later the Francis was laden with cod. The brine casks were full of the fish and the hold was full of slowly rotting fish. They had a ton of salt but no way to save the catch. The six fishermen of the crew from Dieppe were clamoring loud and long and often, to go ashore and erect a stage to dry the rest of the catch before it irrevocably went bad.

       It was the Captain's worse nightmare. He didn't want to bring his ship near shore. near the natives.but he needed the damned hold full of fish for his backers. The dilemma churned his belly until he couldn't eat anymore. He poured over his charts from last year.

       "Mr. Champagne, bring my ship over to that large island, keep her far south of that other cursed island from last year. Sound her out and find a cove or beach on the south side that we can defend. Make sure that all the watches, on shore and ship, are fully manned," said the Captain.

       "Aye sir", said Champagne.

       "And Mr. Champagne, make sure the men know what we know.'

       Champagne could only hold the Captain's eyes with his, purse his lips and weakly said, "Aye."

      Venice, August 1614

      "Sir Walter Cope and his brother Sir Anthony are both dead. Dead and buried in the same week," said Dudley Carleton.

       Massachusetts Harbor , 1614

       Pecksuot was a tall and muscular man. He was a warrior of the Massachusetts tribe and maintained a small cadre of equally well built warriors. They were in an Aberjona village, a days walk north of Shawmut, securing a much sought after wife for his brother, when one of the many messengers, scattered like dandelion puffs over the domain of the Great Sachem Nanepashemet, finally found him. He was summoned to meet his Sachem in two days on top of the high hill at Winnemisset, overlooking the vast island studded harbor of the Massachusetts.

       Pecksuot and his men arrived on the breezy mound, and were met with joyous chants and whoops by one hundred and fifty other men. They were well provided with food and drink, Pecksuot warily eyed the wetu where the Great Nanepashemet waited for him. Pecksuot thanked the sachem's men and made his way to the meeting.

       "Nanepashemet!" he said before he entered.

       "Pecksuot! I never need to wait long for you. You have wings for feet."

       "Nanepashemet, I am sorry I left you no word for you to find me."

       "We never know the time when events force us to seek each other out. You are here now."

       "How may I serve you Nanepashemet," said Pecksuot.

       "You have no doubt heard that a ship with the bearded men is back. It lies south in the harbor, tight up against Wawúnnes island. They have been there a week and I have sent word to all the tribes to stay away from them. I told them this is a solemn request, and anybody who disobeys will answer to me. I don't want another disaster like year."

       "Is it the same ship?"

       "Who knows? Some of the men from last year swear it is, while some of the others say it is not," said Nanepashemet.

       "Is Tawhítch here?" asked Pecksuot.

       "No. The Patuxets say he went to Montoup, He might even be with the Narragansetts, we are not sure, the messenger is still gone."

       "He would want to see this. These beasts wounded him. I thought he would never recover, but Hobomock sits on his shoulder. Tawhítch would want to see this," said Pecksuot.

       "He carries a wound greater than the one on his leg. I am not so sure he would want to hear what I am about to tell you. In the past I have told the tribes to watch and learn more about the bearded men. But this last year has changed my thinking. Since then many things are different. My son would not marry the daughter of the Mic-Mac sachem. I would not force him, but the Mic-Macs have attacked us this past autumn and say they will do it every year until their shame is satisfied. They say our corn is better then Nanepashemet's son. My son begs me to let him go, he says he will quit is new wife and go marry the dog-faced Mic-Mac girl. I told him no. The Mic-Macs fight because that is their essence. They fight for corn because it will not grow in the North lands. They eat bear and moose and have become part bear and moose. We need the bearded men to beat them back into the woods. The bearded men are that strong. The Mic-Macs have the thunder sticks of the bearded men. They say that one of the tribes of bearded men are their brothers. The bearded men come each year and trade for furs and then capture and kill our people.up and down the coast. I don't understand their reasons. No one seems to except the Mic-Macs and they are full of pride. They used to trade for corn, now they come and try to take it away. They are too busy scouring the Northlands for furs and neglect their own meager food sources. The bearded men have pulled a magnificent trick on the Mic-Macs. They have made them their slaves without the Mic-Macs even knowing it. They work all day to trade for thunder sticks and now they think they are the supreme tribe of men. They are fools and worse, they are animals," said Nanepashemet.

       "We outnumber the Mic-Macs. For every man they have we must have ten. Their thunder sticks are no match for our men. We will beat them back to woods and make them wish they never heard the name of the Pawtuckets and Massachusetts," said Pecksuot.

       "Perhaps, but here my wish. We need to capture some of the bearded men and find out everything about them. They kill and capture too many of us. Weeks ago a great ship captured more men from the Nahants. There is talk that the bearded men have many tribes. We need to seek out one tribe of bearded men.we need to make an alliance with them. We will have to teach them our language or learn theirs. If we can learn more about them we may be able to join them as brothers, against the Mic-Macs. We will be brothers, not slaves. If the bearded men want the furs, we will make the Mic-Macs get them for us, as tribute. If the Mic-Macs yearn to be slaves, they will be ours, not the bearded men's.

       "How many bearded men do you want me to capture?"

       "How long will it take for the tribes to teach them to speak the language of men?"

       "A year," said Pecksuot.

       "Capture more than one. One may die in a year. Give them to the tribes you think best to teach them to speak the language of men. Make them work hard, so hard they will be too tired to escape. Give them a wife if you can find any women to go with them. That should keep them close. In one year, Pecksuot, I will talk to them."

       "When do you want the attack?"

       "Tomorrow, the day after, soon, they may leave at any time."

       "What of the rest of the men on the ship?"

       "Kill them, they are the others, not men like us, not yet, and maybe never. The last thing we need is the Mic-Macs and their tribe of bearded men coming as one against us. Or the bearded men coming back alone with nothing but vengeance on their minds. I would rather face the Mohawks naked. This land all around us for three days walk is our home. We are not the strongest tribe, but our numbers are huge compared to the Mic-Macs. It would be our eternal shame to lose any more battles with them. It would be a shame not to align ourselves with these men in their great ships" said Nanepashemet.

       "I will plan the attack tonight and leave tomorrow. Nanepashemet, may I command your men in this battle?" said Pecksuot.

       "You will have everything you ask for."

       "What of Tawhítch?" asked Pecksuot.

       "He will not be here for your victory," said Nanepashemet.

       "You have presented me with a magnificent challenge. I will do as you ask. Thank you for giving me your vision," said Pecksuot.

       "I ask one more thing," said Nanepashemet.

       "Yes, Great One."

       "Tomorrow, in front of your men, I want to paint your battle face."

       "Nanepashemet! There are no words for this honor!"

       "Pecksuot, you have one chance for success. If you fail you make everything worse for the people. Here are the words you are searching for.I will not fail," said Nanepashemet.

      Pecksuot talked to the men from last year's sea battle. He listened to what went right and what went wrong. He listened to all the men who had ideas on how to proceed. He consulted his own men and within four hours made his decision.

       Nanepashemet gave him all the supplies and men he requested. Pecksuot split the best men into two groups of fifty. One band would make their way to the island from the opposite side of the great ship, they were to cross at night, unseen. Pecksuot's band would approach the ship in canoes, in plain sight, in the morning. The Indians on land would be heavily armed, hidden, ready to pounce on the fishermen tending their drying stages. The Indians in the canoes would only carry knives hidden in squirrel skin tobacco pouches. If Pecksuot's bold plan worked they wouldn't need arrows.

       His men would be weighed down with a brand new weapon.

      Nanepashemet held true to his word and in a stunning pre-dawn ceremony painted the battle face on Pecksuot. The awed warriors stayed in the circle as Pecksuot made his way to each man and added a single black stripe on each man, from the forehead diagonally down to the jawbone.

       "One stripe, one battle, one chance," he told each man.

       Pecksuot left Winnemisset with his men and the heavy supplies at daybreak. They made their way down to the water where the messengers left the boats they had requested last night. Fifty armed Indians had left before sunrise and should already be on the island of the fishermen, hidden away, watching, waiting for the signal. Pecksuot and his men loaded the boats and started a long swinging arc, miles wide, across the bottom of the huge bay. It was much faster and easier then walking the paths and the many fords for twenty miles. Pecksuot calculated they would be in position at noon.

       Pecksuot and his flotilla landed at a point on the south side of the massive bay. Far to the north they could see the rolling hill of Winnemisset. Less then a mile to the northeast was the island. The tops of the ship poked out above and just behind the southern end. The men got out and rested, ate, and relieved themselves. After a half hour Pecksuot gathered his men together and exhorted them into action.

       "Any man who does not want to fight today, start walking back now. There is no shame in it."

       Not a men moved.

       "Take all your bows and arrows and leave them here on this beach," he said.

       The was some rumbling now.

       "If any man wants to walk back.take your bow and leave!" yelled Pecksuot.

       All the men removed their bows and quivers, full of new straight arrows, and placed them in a row well past the high tide mark. Pecksuot stopped five men and told them to return with their bows to their canoe.

       "These men alone will carry bows. Each of you, give one of your arrows to add to theirs. They will stay in the back as we move forward in the other canoes. If Hobomock abandons us, they will be there to avenge you," said Pecksuot.

       The Indians filed past and handed the bowmen an arrow. As they did some hugged them, some looked down, some laughed. All gave them words of encouragement.

       It was time, thought Pecksuot. He continued his speech.

       "I want you to prepare for battle. We will fight out on the ocean, not in the forests and fields. This is a hard thing to do. But you know my plan, I asked each of you for advise before I made this plan. Now this is your plan. When we go to the ship, I want you all to say to yourselves.this is my battle plan.and because it is yours, and yours, and yours," he said pointing to the men, ".it will work. There is much glory here today, and we are all lucky to be here. There is only one way to prepare. The boats are ready, the bows are safe on dry land, we carry our hidden knives, we have our canoe of bowmen, but we need to prepare our minds for battle. We need the sacred rite of Quarshilua. Some of you have never participated in this. To those I say: listen to your father's words in your memories, watch your brothers, focus on death stalking you and how you will cheat it. The spirit of Hobomock will guide you," said Pecksuot.

       The tight knot of fifty men slowly wandered off. Some started to talk to themselves, the sky, the beach, the water. Pecksuot and his men started the chant.

       "One Stripe.One Battle.One Chance.One Stripe .One Battle.One Chance.."

       The men on the beach started to skip and hop to the rhythm and joined the incantation. The experienced men started the Quarshilua. They screeched an unholy scream. They ran down the beach and back again. Rocks were flung into the ocean. The shriek of fifty Indians hummed in and out of synchronicity, the sound became a real thing, in the days to come some would say they saw it fill the beach. The storm of sounds moved out over the water. Some of the men gathered in small rotating circles, and yelped the sounds of beasts. Others, on their knees screamed in the direction of the ship. After ten minutes, the men were growing hoarse, they launched their private horrors and frustrations away to the winds. Pecksuot fell to the ground on his back and kicked and flailed and excoriated himself, the others were on hands and knees, in the surf, and lying in the sand. They thrashed the beach, as their anger and fists and heels and knees.and their tears.subdued the one thing that would rob them of their minds today: fear.

       The woeful resonance spread out over their bay. Pecksuot stopped screaming. He was panting, sweat dripping from his body onto the dry sand, his throat was raw. Within another minute the beach was silent.

       The Quarshilua was over. The Indians were ready for battle.

      Aboard The Francis, Massachusetts Harbor

      "What is God's name is that!" yelled the Captain.

       The men onboard the ship froze as they listened to the wailing screams. The hair on each sailor's neck and arms rose in a unconscious reflex of tingling dread. They all snapped around when Mr. Champagne yelled at the top of his lungs, "Get the gunners on deck! Get the gunners on deck!"

       "Where is that coming from?" yelled the Captain. "Is it an animal? Is it a sea creature? What is it?" he asked.

       The men on the Francis scurried from deck to deck, grabbing weapons and powder, and ran to their stations. Within minutes the mournful horrible noise wafting on the steady breeze died down and silently withdrew itself to a haunting whisper, permanently impressed on each man's soul.

       After a few minutes some of the French sailors were joking about the sound.

       "It must have been a pack of lions attacking elephants!", said one.

       "Are there elephants here? We should kill one and bring back the head!"

       "How about the lions? Do you think they will just let you?

       The watch was starting to relax as the jokes and outrageous stories of fantastic creatures passed from station to station on the ship.

       "Captain!" cried a lookout. "Indians! Coming this way!"

       The jokes stopped.

       "Damn!" the Captain said. He ran to the port waist-rail and saw the ten canoes, rounding the point, moving towards them. Ten minutes he calculated.

       "Mr. Champagne, are all the boats on the island?", asked the Captain.

       "Yes."

       "We have twenty men here and fifteen on the island. We are too divided," said the Captain.

       "Captain, I will ready the cannons on the approach side. Get all the men ready, two guns each. Make sure they stay behind something. Make sure they do not expose themselves to arrows. If we try to move the men from the island at this point, we may be putting them.and us.in too much danger," said Champagne. "Henry, We beat the Indians back last year, when we weren't even ready. If they want a fight today.we have the advantage." Champagnes's eye were wild.

       The Captain thought about the extra arms he forced his co-owners to supply.

       "I do not like this. Get the cannons ready and get back up here, I will get the gunners ready. Bo'sun get the powder and shot bags. Two guns to a man!" yelled the Captain

       For the next frantic ten minutes, the Bo'sun and the Captian ran from man to man pairing them up, two by two. Sailors were bringing up the extra guns and handing them out. The Captain told each pair that one man will shoot twice, while the other reloads the first gun. After the second shot, the other man will shoot twice, the first man reloads. Each pair was told to do this over and over again until they were either dead or out of powder. Each pair of gunners had enough ammunition for fifty shots.

       The Captain's plan, if called into action, would unleash over four hundred bullets in eight minutes.

       The canoes stopped one hundred yards from the ship. One canoe slowly started to move forward. It glided up to the ship, fifteen guns were trained on five Indians, another fifteen guns, primed and ready, were propped up next to each gunner on the Francis.

       "Do not shoot until I give the command!" yelled the Captian to his men.

      The center Indian in the canoe was kneeling and holding his new weapon, high in his outstretched arms as the came closer.

       "Men!" cried the Captain. "This is how they did it last time. The moment you see a bow come up.kill them.but not before.steady now.do not shoot!"

       The canoe came beside the large ship and the Indian in the center started to throw the unlikely weapons up to the deck of the Francis. All the Frenchmen froze. They watched.

       "Captain, I am looking right down at the Indians, there are no bows.I don't see any arrows.they look unarmed," said the cook.

       The canoe was empty except for five happy looking Indians. They waved to the men on the large ship and slowly made their way back to the knot of canoes ninety yards away now. Another canoe was making its way to the Francis and soon the same scenario was repeated; friendly Indians bringing tribute to the French! The second canoe unloaded its cargo of beaver furs the same way the first did. The Captain was examining them and smiled.

       "Stay steady men! Don't shoot!", said the Captain as he flashed a look around his ship.

       He stood before fifty furs and smiled, and there were still eight more canoes to come.

       "This is a peace gesture," said a sailor.

       "We can only hope," said the Captain. "Keep your guard up," he shouted. The sailors had relaxed their aim and half had lowered their pieces.

       The third canoe was almost at the unloading spot.

       Pecksuot's canoe.

       He had furs but he also brought food, cooked venison in a large woven basket. He threw a half dozen furs up to the men on the ship and then held the basket over his head. He brought it back down and pulled out a huge venison steak. Pecksuot took a large bite out of it and chewed the juicy meat. He swallowed, stuck out his tongue at the Frenchmen and smiled. He flung it flat with a quick snap of the wrist, it spun up to a sailor, who caught it, smelled it, looked around quickly, and bit into it.

       "Captain! Meat! They have a huge basket of cooked meat! It is delicious," he said, jawing the food.

       "It might be poisoned," said a sailor next the man chewing into the meat.

       "The savage ate it too you idiot. It's good. Try it yourself!" he said.

       The other sailor warily took a small bite and then hungrily tore into the deer meat .

       "Captain," said another sailor, "The Indian won't throw the basket up and they back away when we put the hook out."

       Pecksuot motioned to come aboard.

       The Captain took off his hat and wiped his brow.

       "Put out the rope ladder. Just one Indian!" yelled the Captain. He put his hat back on.

       Pecksuot held the basket in one arm and climbed the swaying ladder. Slowly he peeked over the rail and saw five men pointing their weapons at him. At their feet was a mound of beaver pelts. He slowly lifted himself over the rail and sat down on the deck with the basket in front of him.

       "He looks friendly enough. Why is his face painted?" asked Champagne.

       "Customs, traditions, any number of things. It is quite ugly wouldn't you say?" said the Captian. The men around him chuckled in agreement.

       "Get the trucking box up here. We cannot just take, good Christian men must give as well," said the Captain.

      Two hours later the incoming tide lifted the Francis off the sandy bottom. She started to right herself but still listed heavily to port. The tide lifted her over the sandbar and relentlessly marched her into the beach. She wallowed again and tipped on her side, the top of her main mast was all but hovering over the breaking surf on the beach. The waves crashing into her chubby exposed bottom, it ground her tight into the sand and stones. The Indians split into two groups, half the men with bows watching the ship, and the rest quietly discussing what to do next.

       It was late afternoon. The Indians brought the three captives down the beach and sat them in the sand in front of their splintering ship. The Francis had been their home for months and was the only known way back to Europe. Two of them looked on. Shells of men, unblinking, wide eye stares, the other was near death. The Indians possessed an almost endless supply of a trait that would drive most men to distraction, patience. They decided to camp near the beach. They waited and watched the situation unfold. They gathered clams and lobsters for a sunset feast on a beautiful summer night.

       At dawn the tide was high again and the waves were beating the ship like a drum. Nothing in the hulk had moved all night. Pecksuot told his men to prepare to walk out to her at noon when the tide would be low and the ship would lay in the sand and mud.

       Pecksuot noticed them at sunrise, five here, three there. Indians were coming down to the beach, slowly out of trails to gather and watch the warriors. They sat, a quarter mile down the beach, a small knot of Indians, watching, not daring to come any closer.

       The tide slipped from the beach into the bay, going only where the ocean knows. The ship was on exposed sand, the mast still pointing halfway between vertical and horizontal. One end of the main yard arm, the furled sail still clinging tightly to it, was only a few feet above the Indian's heads as they carefully approached the great broken ship.

       Pecksuot was the first to climb up. He threw down a kettle and two guns. He found a large knife and started to cut away the tangling rope and tossing that down too. Soon, three more Indians were onboard rifling everything on deck, no one daring to go inside the dark spaces below.

       The Captain of the Francis was bleeding from the shoulder and his ship was one her side. He broke off the arrow piercing his collarbone hours ago so he could move without it banging into something in the darkness below deck. He had a fever and his head was pounding. He heard the commotion on deck and made his way back into the light.

       The Indians saw the bloody man emerge from a doorway. He staggered and then collapsed on the slanting deck. They surrounded him with drawn knives. Pecksuot rolled him over. The bearded man's mouth was opening and closing like a fish thrown onto the planked deck. Pecksuot looked in his eyes and engaged him. The Captian saw the Indian, inches from his nose, and closed his eyes. They shared a handful of quiet words.

      In a minute, Pecksuot was investigating himself in a small cheap mirror. He smiled at the reflection when he saw Nanepashemet's handiwork on his face. The red base over his entire face was exquisite. The diagonal black lines across his face, bold! He had heard of these shiny stones that reflect your face back to you, but it was the first time he had ever held one. He suddenly remembered a story he heard in the north lands.the shiny stones can steal your soul. Pecksuot quickly looked away and pushed the mirror securely between the straps of his deerskin leggings. He forced a smile and nodded to the French surrounding him.

       The French started to smile back at him, it was dangerously contagious.

       Another Indian in the canoe held a bearskin and wouldn't let the French use the hook. Soon there were five Indians onboard, the next more subservient than the one before. The pile of furs had grown considerably. The French mood had swung from heightened defense to relaxed and merely nervous. The fleet of canoes were all near the ship and two had tied up near the ladder.

       "No more Indians aboard!" shouted the Captain. "Mr. Champagne get the trucking box and throw some things down to the others."

       Pecksuot knew that the time was near. He slowly stood with the basket of meat and opened it. He held the basket firmly as he motioned for the French to take some meat. The cooked venison below the first few were slathered in fresh bear grease. A half dozen hands and faces were soon shiny and slippery with it.

       "Nanepashemet!" Pecksuot cried. "Nanepashemet!"

       The signal!

       Pecksuot shoved the basket into nearest man. The sailor went sprawling. Pecksuot unsheathed his hidden knives from his two long squirrel skin tobacco pouches

       In a blur the Indians moved in all directions, knives flashing in each hand. First, they flew into the French with guns.

       Last night and all during the morning canoe trip, Pecksuot told his men to keep their knives away from the chest of their enemies. The knives would jam in the ribs and probably break, better to push the bearded men into the water then strike the ribs. The throat was the target. If the bearded men covered their heads, then slice open the belly and let the guts spill out. Any man mortally wounded this way instantly forgets everything and makes a vain attempt to gather back the yards of wet entrails bursting into the world.

       The French long guns were useless in close quarters, six went off in the first minute of the melee, the only effect was a sailor being killed with a bullet in his back. The Indians from the nearby canoes were swarming over the waist rails of the Francis. Three Frenchmen were thrown overboard and were overpowered and drowned by Indians diving from the other canoes

       A great noise went up from the fishing stages on the island!

       Indians were fighting on shore, dozens of them pouring from the woods out onto the open ground near the huddled confused Frenchmen.

       The Captain and two others, fought their way to the hatchway and retreated below decks. They gathered up two guns lying at the bottom of the stairs and made their way into the darkness, frantically looking for powder and shot. The Indians started but wouldn't follow them into the black mysterious spaces of the ship.

       Only three of the French on deck were still alive. The Frenchmen didn't know it yet but they were to be captives. While Pecksuot was pummeling one of them, the other two were also being beaten into submission.

       Champagne was losing consciousness. An Indian repeatedly banged his head against the deck. He couldn't resist anymore and oddly didn't wish to. His world was closing in fast and he experienced tunnel vision, everything was silent, even though he could see the Indian yelling at him. He tasted his own blood in his mouth, and something warm was pouring from his ears. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the blue sky framed in the masts and yards.

       It is beautiful, he thought.

       Pecksuot brushed the Captain's hair back and slit his throat.

       Within an hour the Indians had stripped everything that that would move from the deck and from the well lighted cabins. They had a dozen guns, powder, shot, kegs of fish, and clothes. They had yards and yards of rope, a hatch cover, sailcloth, and three dozen wooden pins that used to hold the running lines of the Francis. Pecksuot held the ship's bell as they evacuated.

       At dusk the tide was back up. The Indians were feasting on fish and were settling down for another night on the beach encampment. The Frenchmen were still on the beach securely bound, staring at their destroyed ship. As the night and darkness fell on the beach, the tide started its march outward. A waning moon rose from the ocean in the dark eastern sky. The campfires on the sand were reduced to bright red coals. Pecksuot lay on his back and watched the arch of the night reveal itself. Every so often a hurtling bright light streaked across the sky, in a split second it was gone, sometimes a faint luminescent trail lingered on for a few more seconds.

       "The night spirits are shooting flame arrows tonight," said Pecksuot to xxxx.

       "What direction are they aiming for?" asked xxx.

       "They are intent on the north tribes tonight, the Abenanki, Passaconanway, hopefully the Mic-Macs," said Pecksuot.

       "I wish them happy hunting," said xxxx.

       "Do you think the ship will burn," said Pecksuot. "it is very wet."

       "At low tide, a big fire will drive the water from the wood. It will burn."

       "Let us signal the night spirits and give them flames for their fire arrows. We will wish them much good hunting with the Mic-Macs," said Pecksuot.

       The word spread that at low tide the ship would be set ablaze.

       As the moon crept higher three men went out to the ship with firebrands. The fire started to flicker. In minutes the ship was lighted.

       The flames were slow to start but soon the upper deck was a swirl in licking yellow orange tongues of fire, the reflection in the pools of water and the retreating tide were spectacular. The cracking of the wood was the only sound on the beach.

       Anon! A powder keg exploded in a crimson flash that tore a million sparks into the black sky. In a single voice all the Indians screamed with delight and a little trepidation. Another explosion boomed out somewhere from inside the ship and illuminated every crack and opening in the ship.

       Pecksuot turned to xxxx and said, "It makes a very great fire. The nights spirits with the flaming arrows must surely see our enormous fire. I hope it pleases them as much as it does me."

       At dawn Pecksuot found that one of the captives died during the night. He had the remaining two go under guard into the wilderness, each by a different way to a different village. Their sentence, hardship and slavery, was about to began. The Francis had completely disappeared beneath the waves. The Indians divided up the spoils of the ship and put aside most of the guns for tribute to Nanepashemet. Pecksuot started his trip back to his great sachem and to tell him of the battle.

       Champagne stumbled along the narrow but worn path. His hands were tied behind his back and a long leather cord was tied around his neck. He has being lead at a furious space by five Indians in front of him and God knows how many behind him. He knew it was a matter of time. He was going to fall and the leather noose would surely kill him. He knew he would die. In ten minutes or ten hours, but it will happen.

       At that moment the incredible thought erupted inside him. It made him stumble but he caught himself. He acted.

       I choose life!

       He stopped thinking and concentrated on his new being. He embraced it. He focused. He limited his planning to the next five seconds. He put one foot in front of the other.and did again.and again.and again.and again