The Fort

Short story for a class assignment.

The Fort

Private Duncan had the midnight watch on the west wall. Standing at his post overlooking the frontier of the American colonies, Duncan breathed deeply. The cold December air refreshed his lungs. Most of the men hated the night watch, but Duncan appreciated the stillness, the silence, and the snow. It looked as if crushed glass had been thrown across a vast blanket of wool creating thousands of tiny reflections of the full moon. If he stood still and held his breath, Duncan could hear the horses in the nearby stables breathing. But something was different, there was no sound. He held his breath again. Nothing.

Duncan had an almost maternal instinct when it came to animals, and in the silence, he became aware of his own elevated breathing, and he heard his own heartbeat. Then it was silent again. He shouldered his musket and took off toward the stables at a double time march and concentrated on the crunching snow beneath his boots. Upon arriving at the stables the utter silence drove nausea into the pit of his stomach. He saw a horse’s head on the ground and the sickness began to well up into his throat. He turned away, knowing every horse in the stable was dead. He leaned against the stable door and slumped to the ground.

With a deep breath Duncan swung his musket off his shoulder and loaded it, then set the butt on the ground, pointed it straight into the night sky and pulled the trigger. In a few minutes the entire fort would be up. Lamps were lit and there was shouting and movement. Duncan perceived it all, but acknowledged none of it. He got up and turned toward the barracks. He imagined crawling into his bed and waking up to find out this was all a dream. This urge pulled him across the courtyard. Halfway to the barracks, a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Duncan! Is this another one of the Captain’s night drills?”

He turned to see his watch officer, Corporal Walters. His blonde hair was bedraggled. He was wearing half his uniform and carrying the rest. Duncan’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Wait, are you all right?” Walters asked.

Duncan’s voice came back to him, “Walt, no, the horses. I think - I don’t know.”

“I’ll have a look. Stay put.”

Private Duncan resumed his procession and this time no one stopped him. He crawled into bed and drifted off into sleep.

The rest of the company was up and active. Men eager to defend His Majesty’s western most fort jumped to the walls with loaded muskets in hand. Lookouts began relaying messages back to their superiors. No one saw any movement outside the fort walls. It must have been another drill. Captain Jameson, their commanding officer, often ran night drills to keep the men ready for anything. He stationed himself at the center of the camp. He stood tall, staring out into nowhere with his hands folded behind his back while his second in command, Lieutenant Fox, sitting in front of him, scribbled names and times into a log as the reports made it to their final destination. With the last of the reports in, he looked up at Captain Jameson. Odd, usually the Captain shaves for these drills. Jameson’s gray stubble looked out of place between his impeccable hair and immaculate uniform.

“Sir, all reports are in, and in good time. All clear,” Fox said.

“Very well, Lieutenant.”

“At what time did you set off the drill, sir, so I can record the total elapsed time, and shall I send the order to stand down?”

Jameson, still staring out into the night said, “This wasn’t a drill. Keep the walls manned, assemble the rest of the men in the courtyard.”

Lieutenant Fox assembled the men as ordered. His short stature did nothing to diminish his ability to give orders; it, instead, inspired a certain ferocity that men naturally respected. The courtyard filled up with almost eighty men organizing themselves into ranks. Each man had an assigned place to stand so taking muster was as simple as looking for any open spots. The Sergeants accounted for who was still on lookout and reported to the Lieutenant. There were two men absent, Private Duncan and Corporal Walters. Normally Fox would note the names, but he was distracted by eighty sets of eyes staring at something behind him. He turned around and saw Walters talking to the Captain. Walters pointed at the stables a few times and the Captain nodded his head slowly. Then Jameson said a few words and motioned toward a lone tent on the north end of the courtyard. Walters jogged off to the tent and Captain Jameson turned toward the assembly. Fox tugged the bottom of his coat, removing the wrinkle that crops up across his chest from time to time, and approached Jameson, who, without saying a word, walked past the entire company.

Corporal Walters arrived at the tent. Standing outside, he addressed the occupant, “Vetsky, the Captain wants you to see something.”

The only response was the repeated sound of a whet stone sliding across a blade’s edge and the low hum of some old Russian folk song. The man inside the tent was Esfir Dobrovetsky. He was a trapper and lived off the land. He traded furs for anything he couldn’t make himself. He had lived peacefully with the Indians and the French, but now due to the ever-expanding British empire causing unrest and violent resistance among the natives, he was forced to seek asylum in the fort. Captain Jameson was glad to have him. He knew the language of the land and was happy to share his knowledge with the local British garrison.

“Vetsky, please, the gunshot you heard wasn’t a drill.”

A voice rumbled from within the tent, “Ya znayu, I will come.”

When Esfir emerged from his tent, he was wrapped from head to toe in animal pelts, and with a beard that extended down to his chest, he looked more animal than man. He looked toward the stables, looked at the moon, then began walking.

 

Back in the soldiers’ barracks, Private Duncan was dreaming he was in the stables. A horse ate an apple from his hand while he stroked its neck. There was a strange coldness. A chill ran down his back. White mist swirled in the horse’s eyes, a reflection of something behind him, but he dare not turn around. The mist became heavy and gained form. Duncan felt his breath being ripped from his lungs. His body became a shell and then everything went black.

 

               Esfir arrived at the stables. Captain Jameson was waiting with his thumbs hooked into his waist coat, “Vetsky, take a look inside. Let me know what you think.”

               Esfir stepped into the stables. Every stall had a mass of mangled flesh and bone laying in pools of thick black blood. Some areas of the horse's hides had been flayed into ribbons, and some even had their heads torn off. Esfir examined a corpse. The head was a few feet from its body. The obsidian eyes were still wide open as if the gory sight could spook the horse even after death. Blood was splattered on the ceiling and the walls, suggesting the deathblows came in an upward stroke followed by a horizontal swipe, or the other way around, it was difficult to tell. Esfir kneeled down to look more closely. The chest cavity had been torn apart and the heart was missing. Esfir let out a deep breath, bowed his head, and turned to leave. Jameson was standing at the entrance, “Well?” he said.

               “Captain, I will speak with you. Privately.”

Captain Jameson dismissed the men outside and met Esfir in his personal quarters. The story that followed was remarkable, but Jameson doubted its validity. Esfir told an old Indian legend. It was the story of the Wendigoo, a spirit that has inhabited the Americas as far back as anyone can remember. Elders have long debated whether it is a creature of nature or a creature of evil, for when the Wendigoo comes, only one thing will satisfy its appetite, the blackened heart and soul of an evil man.

               “What the devil was it doing killing horses then, Esfir?” Jameson asked with an eyebrow raised.

               “It must have a way in, so it takes from something close to man, but not man himself. Not yet.”

               Captain Jameson rubbed his hand across his mouth.

               “Also, Captain,” Esfir said, “Now that it is in, it is said to take any soul it can get to gain strength until it has power enough to eat the black heart it came for.”

               Jameson paused for a moment, then a smile crept onto is lips. He said, “Esfir, you nearly had me! I didn’t know you were keen on such folklore. Really now, was it an animal or do you think the Indians had something to do with it?”

               Esfir just shook his head. “Captain, the blood on the ceiling, the splatter on the walls. No animal does that, no man makes such a mess. It is also said this thing can put a spell on men, a waking sleep. No one heard or saw anything, right? That is not usual.”

               “Unusual, Vetsky. That reminds me, I need to talk to the man who was on watch.”

 

               Private Duncan was found dead in his bed. His chest was torn open. Corporal Walters admitted to being the last one to see him, and he explained to the Captain how Duncan was in a daze in the courtyard. Two days later a man disappeared while on night watch. Again, no one heard or saw a thing. Later that same week, another man was found with his heart ripped out at his post. Captain Jameson sensed unrest growing among the rest of the company, so he assembled them in the courtyard to reassure them they would find out who was responsible for these murders, whether it was an Indian or someone in their own ranks, and see them brought to justice. Esfir watched from the opposite end of the courtyard. Lieutenant Fox spotted him and left the assembly.

               Out of earshot of the company, Fox learned the story of the Wendigoo from Esfir. Captain Jameson took supper in his quarters that evening and Fox joined him. The lieutenant shifted in his seat and took small bites of food. Fox’s behavior started to make Jameson feel uncomfortable, so he broke the silence.

               “Out with it, Lieutenant. I can tell something is on your mind.”

               “Sir,” Fox said, “I spoke with Vetsky.”

               “Do you believe him?”

               Fox took a bite of meat and chewed it to a pulp before answering, “Does it matter?”

               Jameson didn’t answer, so the Lieutenant continued, “I don’t know what to believe, but something is out there.”

               The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Fox’s words echoed in Jameson’s head. It doesn’t matter what anyone believed, something had to be done or the entire garrison would go mad. When both men were done eating, Jameson put down his utensils and addressed Fox, “Say Esfir is right. Say there is a beast hunting for an evil man. What do we do?”

               “Get rid of the evil man, Sir? I mean, whether we have sick murderer among us or some demon haunting us, we have to find out who is responsible.”

               Fox was right. Jameson instructed Fox to compile a list of any men that exhibited strange behavior or were known to be excessively crude or violent. The next afternoon he had the list. Staring at the list of twelve men, Jameson began to feel nauseous. Stranded on the American frontier there was only one way to permanently transfer someone out of the company. Jameson took a deep breath. He was trained to send men to their deaths, but only in battle when the sacrifice was necessary for the greater good. But how many more men would die or disappear if he did nothing? He must do something. He must protect the fort. He was about to embark upon a slippery path, and Jameson knew he had to take cautious steps so as to not slip. Alone in his quarters, Jameson stood up and said, “I will get to the bottom of this.”

               Captain Jameson first adjusted the watch rotations so a few of the men on the list were on the night watch. Then he sent two on a patrol far into Indian territory knowing the dangers. If they were truly good men, then divine providence would guide them back. They must not have been good men, and neither of them must have been the man, because that night, another innocent soldier was found dead. He called two more men from the list into his quarters. He told them he knew who was murdering the men in the fort and that he would be sending them on patrol with that person. Three went on patrol, one came back. Apparently one of the men deserted, or maybe no one died and two deserted. It didn’t matter, the end result was the same. In less than three weeks of manipulation, Captain Jameson had crossed every name off the list. With the unpleasant, but necessary task done, Jameson dined with Lieutenant Fox to discuss results. Before getting into the details, Fox delivered some bad news. This time it was the Captain who barely ate.

               “Sir,” said Fox, “there was another death. One of the Sergeants. He wasn’t on the list.”

               Jameson didn’t even react to the news. A commander must numb himself to his men dying or succumb to paralyzing fear and regret.

               “Captain, you did what you could. A commanding officer knows he must sacrifice some men to save others. Not every skirmish can be a victory, no commander exists that has won every battle, but we try.”

               Jameson, looking down at his plate said, “I fear there may be evil in this fort that I cannot destroy.”

               “We will find this man eventually. Evil cannot hide forever,” Fox said.

               Jameson flicked his eyes up at Fox, “Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

               They finished their meals in silence. Jameson was running out of options. It was time to visit Esfir Dobrovetsky.

               Esfir had a stash of Indian charms he collected as a novelty. Some were said to ward off evil spirits, so he hung them up in his tent. He was whittling a rabbit out of birch wood when Captain Jameson peered into his tent and immediately broke the silence Esfir had been enjoying.

               “Vetsky, I need some -,“ he trailed off and looked around at all the charms now hanging in the tent, “Good Lord, what are all of those things! They’re hideous! Apologies, I mean to say I don’t much care for them.”

               “Captain, come in,” Esfir said. He stabbed his whittling knife into the ground.

               Jameson took an uneasy step into the tent, “Look, I know you have an herbal concoction somewhere in here. The poison you use on pests sometimes.”

               Esfir grabbed a pouch off the floor and looked inside, “Captain, I don’t have much left. I don’t think I can spare.”

               “Vetsky, I need it. Give it to me.”

               “Why?”

               “I don’t need to tell you why.”

               “No.”

               Jameson drew his pistol. Esfir shrugged and tossed the pouch to the Captain and said, “Days are getting longer, Captain. I think tomorrow I leave.”

               “You’ve been a great asset to His Majesty. On behalf of the royal crown, I thank you, but I won’t stop you from going. You are one possibility I’m glad I won’t have to consider.”

Jameson left Esfir stunned, but even more resolved to leave. He always preferred the French anyway. On the way back to his quarters, Jameson’s mind was racing. Yes, he thought, this must be it. Eliminating the twelve men did nothing to stop the Wendigoo, and the list was made by Lieutenant Fox, the very man who suggested cleansing the fort in the first place. He condemned twelve innocent, well not entirely innocent, but certainly not evil, men to their deaths. The sly Lieutenant almost got away with it. Captain Jameson invited Fox over for supper to remedy the situation.

Jameson spoke first, “Fox, how did you choose those twelve men?”

“I asked the Sergeants, Sir. I had some explaining to do, but they gave me names.”

Jameson grunted, “You must be quite persuasive.”

“My father wanted me to become a lawyer.”

Jameson waited patiently until Fox sat back in his chair and clenched his stomach. “Excuse me, Captain.”

Fox ran to his own quarters. The next morning he was found curled up on the floor dead. Jameson was relieved to find out Esfir had left the fort before the news got out.

The fifty or so men left at the fort became desperate. One night, twenty two of them deserted and took many of the company’s food supplies with them. Inside the fort the situation descended into chaos. The men who stayed were forced to go out and hunt for food. Often they did not come back. Whether they got killed or deserted, no one knew. Fights broke out on a daily basis as more bodies were found ripped apart. Captain Jameson stashed away food and locked himself in his quarters for a week. After hearing no commotion outside for a full day, he unlocked the door. Peering out into the courtyard he saw a sole soldier sitting on the ground, a few bodies lay around him. Jameson walked up to the man and drew his pistol, “It was you,” he said, then shot him.

Jameson retired to his quarters to write an account of what happened. Partly to prove his innocence when the inevitable inquiry would be launched, and partly because he lost track of time and didn’t know if he’d survive until his relief arrived.

 

“…killed all of them. The greater good. I did it for the greater good. What is a man worth when in contest with a demon? He is not even worth his life. Now the monster may return to Hell with an empty stomach. Ha! I truly have beaten it! Eighty men for a victory over the devil himself. I am victorious. The greater good. I did it for the greater good.

…

I do not so much believe in dreams, but surely last night my dream carried a message. It was the most real dream I have ever dreamt. A white mist formed and curled around my feet. Then the mist became like a cloud upon which I could stand. It was cold. All was dark, but I knew the cloud was lifting me. Then part of the cloud stood in front of me and smiled. I cannot describe it accurately, but there was a knowing of things as some dreams have. Completeness washed over me. Resignation. My task was done and the cloud, surely divine, was pleased. I sensed it wanted something soon. Perhaps to reward me for my perseverance.

…

I hear something outside. Must be my relief, Captain Reynolds if I am not mistaken. I will greet him presently.”

J.T. Jameson, Captain

Royal British Army, 3^rd Battalion, 2^nd Company

1756

Author's Note

Please feel free to point out editing mistakes on top of any other criticisms.

Rev. 1: cleaned up some sentences, added a little description of minor characters, tweaks

Reviews

[Rick]

Cool story. I thought there were a few spots that could be cleaned up.

"Jameson left Esfir stunned, but even more resolved to leave. He always preferred the French anyway. On the way back to his quarters, Jameson’s mind was racing. "

I'm assuming the "He" is Esfir, but it's confusing.