Dr. Ray Van Neste reviewing a book by another author wrote, "It lacked the verve and adventure of other books we have read. We may be spoiled by C. S. Lewis and Douglas Bond!"
FAITH & FREEDOM, book 2 (follows
Guns of Thunder) is complete! GUNS of the
LION
is the working title (see artist's cover sketch at left). Get ready for romping
intrigue on the high seas and in the Highlands, set during the treacherous Jacobite troubles of '45
(1745-6). "What happened to Fiona M'Kethe?" many readers have asked (read
Rebel's Keep if you don't know why they've asked this question). This
book picks up the Scottish thread left dangling at the end of the Crown &
Covenant Trilogy... Read sample chapters below:
GUNS of the LION
By Douglas Bond
"Had Prince Charles slept during the whole of the expedition, and allowed Lord George Murray to act for him according to his own judgment, he would have found the crown of Great Britain on his head when he awoke."
James de Johnstone, aide-de-camp to Commander Lord George Murray, 1745
1
Paddle to Elizabethtown
Spring of 1747 burst on the upper Connecticut Valley as abruptly as turning a page in a book. One dark, gray day in early April, with a final blast of wintry fury, it had rained, hailed, and snowed all within the space of time it took to hitch Dun and Dee to the plow. His hands numb and red with cold, Ian M’Kethe had cupped them around his mouth and had blown a prolonged blast of warm air. Tingling and aching with the cold, Ian had felt certain that winter would never end and spring would never come.
But spring had come, bursting with new life and beauty like no other spring Ian could remember. It felt, and looked, and smelled like a new world being born. Ian filled his lungs with the sweet-scented morning air. It must have been very much like this that long-ago morning, he mused, when God first made the springtime with all its untainted colors, its unfouled odors, its un-dinning oratories of sound filling the world.
Slowly Ian expelled the air from his lungs. He smiled as a pair of robins cavorted in the deep blue overhead, now diving low, their wings nearly skimming the glassy surface of the river as they cut and dodged and dipped their way, then disappearing in the branches of a willow bending low over the river’s edge.
"Aye," came a voice from behind Ian. "Elizabethtown is many strokes of the paddle from these waters."
Ian looked at the paddle lying idle athwart the canoe, droplets of water falling from the blade like golden honey. How long it had lain idle, he wasn’t sure. The narrow birch bark craft had continued to skim effortlessly downstream through the river. Sometimes Ian wondered just how much his strokes contributed to its movement. Watookoog seemed never to tire, and Ian had never seen any man alive, Indian or white, who could get so much out of each stroke.
Ian marveled at how the big Indian slipped the narrow blade of his paddle soundlessly into the water and, with an almost imperceptible movement of his wrist, made the boat turn precisely where he wanted. And Watookoog seemed always to know where he wanted it to go. To Ian it all just looked like water. But Watookoog, long in advance, by narrowing his dark eyes and studying the surface of the river and the configuration of the terrain along the banks, knew where the back eddies were and where the current would best serve his purpose.
"Leave it to me, Watookoog," said Ian with a laugh. "We’ll never get to Elizabethtown."
"And college," said the Indian.
Glancing over his shoulder, Ian timed the re-entry of his paddle with Watookoog’s stroke. The Indian liked the word "college," and said it with a drawn out first syllable and a punctuated finality to the second.
"And college," agreed Ian.
"College," repeated Watookoog in his way.
Ian wasn’t sure the Indian had any real idea what college was all about. Come to
think of it, he wasn’t sure he knew what it was all about. His grandfather had first spoken of the new college forming in New Jersey shortly after Ian and Watookoog had returned with Roland from the doings at Louisbourg. They had returned just in time for the autumn harvest.
Ian remembered wondering how so much on his family’s farm in Wallop could be just as he had left it—and at one and the same time so different. After fighting on Nova Scotia, everything was different. Maybe it had made him into a man. He hoped so. Sometimes he wondered if it had only scarred him for life.
The massive guns whose recoil still woke him in the night, reverberating in the very marrow of his bones. The cries of battle--and of death. The pinching odor of blood that lay all about. The clutching hands of fear that enveloped him as he drew near the enemy. The gnawing hunger, the bone-numbing weariness, the loneliness and longing for home. And at the last, triumph, victory, conflict ended. But even victory had its confusions. He sometimes had wondered if the joy he’d felt with victory was merely relief.
At other times, as he lay awake in his bed at night, it all seemed very far away, as if it had never occurred: no thundering guns at Louisbourg, no volley fire into the ranks of French and their Indian allies, no haunting anguish in his night musings: "How many men did I send to hell today?" And at other times there was the guilt he felt when he thought of those of his comrades who fell and died, whose mangled bodies he had helped lay to rest in the earth. Why did they die and he lived? He seemed never able to find an answer.
And then he would think of his cousin Roland chained in that rat-infested prison, the cruel evil of the French, the frontier families slaughter by them, the ships seized by their foul piracy, crews conscripted or killed, the double-dealing and betrayal. At times like these, Ian knew that he had done right to go and fight alongside the colonial militia at Louisbourg. At times like these, of this he was certain: troubling as it often was to his mind, his mind would be less at ease had he failed to do his duty and fight.
And then after harvest, his grandfather had told him about the new college in New Jersey. He’d heard a great deal about the ancient stone cloisters and magnificent halls and high stone vaulted chapels at the colleges in the old country—in Scotland. His grandfather had seen Edinburgh and he’d heard a good deal about colleges at St. Andrews, especially St. Mary’s where Mr. Rutherford had taught—and died.
"Donnae think the college ye’re off to, Ian," his grandfather had said, "will be like those grand places. Rough hewn logs for cut stones, and maple and elm branches for soaring arches and high ribbed vaulting. Expect no more," he’d said with a wink," and ye’ll not be disappointed."
Yet Ian hardly knew what to expect.
"Never scorn humble beginnings," his grandfather had continued. "Never despise the day of small things. It’s the Almighty’s way to work through small things. It’s what ye learn that matters, and what ye do for God, Lad, with what ye learn. That’s finally what matters. Make no mistake of it."
"Your stroke, Ian." It was Watookoog’s voice gently chiding him.
"How many miles do you reckon from here to Elizabethtown?" asked Ian, bending to his paddle.
"Miles?" said Watookoog. "One moon, maybe less, maybe more. Surely more if I alone do the paddling."
Ian shifted onto one knee for greater leverage and he buried his paddle in the glassy surface of the mighty Connecticut River. As he did, the package his grandfather had handed him as they cast off no more than two hours ago, gouged into the muscles of his left leg. His grandfather had said it was from Gavin, a distant cousin from Scotland.
"Ye’ll find Gavin has the gift of the gab, lad," his grandfather had said. "But ye’ll nae be able to put it down, of that I can assure ye."
Letters came from Scotland several times a year, and Ian’s family read them around the hearth many times over in the weeks and even months that followed. But this one was different. Aside from the fact that it was no proper letter--it was the size of a book and wrapped in broadcloth--grandfather had read this one alone. And he’d told them very little about its contents.
"Read it around the fire," his grandfather had said, "with Watookoog."
Later that evening, north of the rapids at Windsor, they hefted the canoe and all their things along the forest path that bordered the river. Under a mighty white oak tree, they made camp for the night.
After supper, as the stars shone brilliant against the darkening sky, Ian and Watookoog lounged companionably around the campfire.
"Now you read," said Watookoog, amber light from the fire flickering on his leathery features.
"Aye, the letter," said Ian. Draining his coffee mug, he took up the first page and shifted onto his right elbow to gain more light from the fire. Clearing his throat, he began reading.
2
The Letter
I write this to my kin M’Kethe in America because I know not what will become of me. All hope in men seems now exhausted. I’m a Whig, and we Whigs "We Hope In God." And so I hope in God. Yet, I place some small hope that by writing this letter to you I may at least vindicate myself, and perhaps save myself from my dire plight. But more of that in due time.
My tale begins on a fateful evening in June of 1745, on the moors above the towers of Strathaven Castle where my family has lived since the days of the Killing Times when our two families were forced to part, yours to America and mine, Great Grandfather Jamie and Great Grandmother Fiona, swollen with child as she was, to Srathaven. It seems my great grandfather suffered an accident that left him with a twisted leg, a crook shank, as we say in Scotland. Somehow, thereafter, the family name became Crookshank, a name I bear as a badge of family honor.
You, no doubt, have heard the tale of the siege of Loudoun Keep and the freeing of Angus M’Kethe and the others held there, accused of treason against the king and soon to be hanged. But there was no treason, indeed, against the King of kings. I’m certain Grandfather Malcolm has told you of it, and of his part in it. Word in Scotland is that Malcolm was an archer next only to his Uncle Angus for accuracy.
You’ll no doubt have heard how our great, great grandfather Sandy M’Kethe fell before Loudoun Keep and spilled his life blood for the Crown rights of the Redeemer in his Kirk. O those were grim days of woe, yet with moments of triumph for the sons of the Covenant. But alas, those days are gone, and new woes have come in their place.
New woes, I say, different woes, though woes indeed. As we have it in the Gaelic, "Cha cheol do dhuin’ a bhron uil’ aithris." Which is to say, "It is no music to a man to recite all his woe." Yet I am sore pressed and have nothing else to recite just now, and so I must. Do bear with my tale.
My woe began on that fateful evening June 1, 1745, nearly two years and a lifetime ago. Something of your American victory over the French at Louisbourg has trickled our way, and from what I’ve heard, you were in your final days of that great conflict. Meanwhile mine were just beginning. It is of them I write.
I’d gathered the last of the stray lambs and was making my way back to home and supper when it was as if the moor beneath my feet began to rumble and quaver. The dogs bristled and growled at the sound, and the ewes clumped together nervously, rolling their wide eyes in fear. Reflecting back I wonder if I might have hidden, saved myself in the heather, done anything, had I only known what lay ahead. But I scarcely knew what was happening and had no time to flee, much less place to flee, before they were upon me.
I remember the stories of old when dragoons descended on poor Christians as they worshiped King Jesus out on the moors. I remembered it just then because those same dragoons, red-coated ones, were coming on fit to trample me and my sheep. I could think of nothing I’d done to raise their fury, but there they were, and there I was staring dumb, hands limp at my sides. Scowling down at me from astride his beast was their captain.
"You are a strong young man," he said, but with a sneer on his lips. "And King George is in need of strong young men just now. In the name of said king, I welcome you to his service."
"His service?" They were the first words I managed to speak to him—and the last.
"You are, hereafter, a conscript into his Majesty’s military service. Cheer up, my boy. It is a truly great honor, I assure you."
Before I could make any further reply or objection, futile as any objection would have been, I was hoisted onto the rump of a horse behind a young redcoat dragoon and we thundered off over the moor. I wondered if he too was in the king’s service against his will. It all transpired in less time that it has taken me to pen the words, and my head spun with it all.
I’d heard of conscription. Heard of it? I’d lain awake at night terrified at its prospect. And so had my dear mother. My dear mother--I had not the opportunity to say good bye to her or my father, my brothers or my sisters. I’ve come to fear that I shall never see them again in this world. They now ken some of what has happened to me, but I’ve never laid eyes on them since, nor like to.
The weeks that followed were a blur of marching until my feet no longer seemed attached to my body. There were many gaps in that marching, and I can only assume that I was, somehow asleep, devoid of consciousness as I marched. Far more to my liking than the marching, I learned to load, shoot, and clean a musket. Of the later skill, I proved to be keen. Perhaps it is in our family blood to be fit marksmen.
Though, I confess, I found pleasure in the shooting, I remember little else with fondness. Those weeks were weeks of bad food and little of it. The oats were infested with weevils, and so inferior were those oats I wondered if it wasn’t actually the weevils that made the food fit to eat.
But the greatest difficulty came the day they presented me with my redcoat regimental uniform. I, son of the Covenant, to don a redcoat? And I spoke thus. When I recovered my senses, I was in irons, as they say, a knot on my head and dried blood in my hair. For a week the food was yet more scarce and, if it could be borne, more foul and still more full of weevils.
And then came another sudden change in my fortunes. Perhaps it was due to my reluctance to wear the redcoat, but be that as it may, I awoke one morning in the grim barracks near Glasgow and was ordered to gather my things. Such an order took precious little time as I had no things of my own, conscripted as I had been with nothing more than the shirt on my back.
After half a weary day trundled along in an ox cart, I and several others were deposited on the docks near Dumbarton.
"Step lively, lads," barked a big man standing arms akimbo at the head of a boarding ladder, leading steeply up to the rail of the sloop Dunure. I was not, as yet, familiar with sailing vessels and ships of war, though I was soon to become more intimate with them, but it appeared to be a vessel of some twenty-seven guns.
What followed was a flurry of activity, men yelling, whistles blowing, yards being hoisted aloft to the chant of sailors, halyards raising great masses of canvas sails, which rustled and snapped in the port breezes. And everywhere there were ropes, a dizzying maze of ropes, and ratlines that led aloft and sailors scurrying up and down them, looking very much like rats themselves. I soon learned that below decks there were rats, great tawny ones, bold as lions.
"Stow yer kit in the fo’castle," the same man barked at us. "And be quick. The tide turns within the quarter hour, and we’ll away with it."
As darkness fell, the Dunure made its way out into the Firth of Clyde. Though distressed in mind at the gnawing uncertainty of my circumstances, I’m forced to confess that that first voyage aboard a sailing vessel bestowed an inexplicable enchantment on my affections. Its yellow orb growing ever larger on the horizon, the moon came up as we broad reached along the eastern coastline of the Isle of Arran, its reflection stretching long and wide and glimmering on the gentle swell of the sea. Glowing in the moonlight, the billowing sails looked like the bulging shoulder sinews of a giant clansman straining every nerve as he tossed the caber at the games. In my mind’s eye, the mainmast became as the great log of the caber. It was fascinating, and I found my imagination taken away with it all.
We gave the craggy shoreline of Ailsa Craig a wide berth and continued with calm seas and fair winds past Portpatrick and the Isle of Man. I must have fallen asleep sometime in the night, for I awoke with the heaving of the decks of the ship and with a considerably unsettled feeling in my stomach. We were in the broad expanse of the mouth of Bristol Bay, and the tide must have turned, churning up the seas as we bore southwest toward Land’s End. Fair winds and calm seas were most definitely behind us. I shall not give more details of the unsettled state of my innards, but needless to say, I was of little help in sailing the vessel.
At last we made landfall in Plymouth, and I longed to embrace the firmness of earth. But I was not my own man. Several other vessels of similar size and bearing disengorged more men in my condition, that is, men who were conscripts of his Majesty King George II.
Marched in a line like so many prisoners, we were meanly conducted up another gangway, this to a considerably larger vessel the HMS Lion, of some sixty guns, as events would prove. No sooner on board than I and the twenty or thirty hapless men in my condition were handed scrubbing buckets and brushes and set to swabbing. On hands and knees we sweated, scrubbing the decking of the Lion, all the while the boson eyed us and our work critically.
"Ya filthy swabs," he frequently yelled, "old ladies could do better. Start again."
I had had little food on board the Dunure, and what I did have I had, shall we say, fed to the fishes in the Irish Sea. Consequently I found my insides growling and behaving as if they were about to consume me from the inside out, and I felt faint with hunger and thirst. Would it never end?
"On yar feet, ya filthy swab!"
I must have collapsed unawares, for it was these words that broke on my conscience as the boson’s whip fell hard and bitter on my back. I flung up my right arm to protect myself from the blows, only to feel his cruel lash cut into the flesh on my forearm. So this was life aboard a British man-of-war? I thought, as I watched rivulets of blood trickle down my arm. And this was the life in which I was to find such honor? I wondered about this King George II. I was many miles away from my beloved Scotland, a Scotland that had now been stripped not only of its kings but of its parliament as well.
Over the next weeks I learned many things. I learned how to tie the bowline and the figure of eight knots, and how to make a monkey’s fist out of the bitter end of a line. I learned how to scramble up ratlines and unfurl and reef sails. I learned how to chew slowly and get the most nutrients out of my meager ration of oats.
Had I been so inclined, I could have learned to curse and swear and drink grog until I could no longer stand on my feet, and until I was in a state of contemptible foolishness. Many around me had, long since, mastered these skills.
I did, however, learn valuable lessons about the ranking of the men on the ship. I learned which ones were fair and honest, a task that took far less time than finding out the opposite. I learned which men were cruel, which ones found pleasure in beating other men. And I learned how best to avoid being whipped.
Twice we put to sea and practiced firing all sixty cannons. The noise was deafening and the stench of spent powder choked the breath out of my lungs. On these short voyages I first met our captain, Captain Percy Brett, a man for whom I came to have a certain kind of respect. He was a brilliant seaman, a navigator of the first rank, a man who knew his ship, and a man who knew men. At a word from him the men manned their battle stations and prepared their guns. At another word--even a nod of his head--we would fire them.
And somehow he inspired us, with very few words, to serve him, to want to please him, to want to manage his ship in a way that would give him victory. I do not know if it was merely the knowledge that his victory was our victory and, correspondingly, his defeat was our defeat, and the only thing more cruel than life aboard a British man-of-war was life—short life—as a French prisoner, the certain result of defeat, if we survived. Perhaps it was that knowledge, but I came to believe there was something more with Captain Brett, and though I cared little for King George, I so wanted to win my captain’s favor.
On the forth day of July, 1745, we put to sea, leaving Plymouth behind. Our mission, said Captain Brett, when we were well clear of port and the Lizard was merely a hazy mirage on the shoreline, was to patrol the mouth of the English Channel on lookout for enemy vessels.
"We shall encounter the enemy," he said with emphasis on the last word. "And we shall engage and defeat the enemy," again with emphasis on the word "enemy." He paused, his steady eyes appraising ours.
He stood high above us on the quarterdeck, his first mate, Mr. Hastings, to his right, the master of the ship, Mr. Marston, to his left, and the ships doctor, Mr. Bradford, to his left. Other men of rank in their respective places about him. We all stood with faces raised to them as if in veneration, the way one looks heavenward for help in time of need.
"Your king and country expect that every man of you--" here the captain broke off and began again. "Your captain expects that every man of you shall do his duty."
Suddenly a cheer rose from the men. Though I did not begin that cheer, I found myself joining as lustily as the next man as soon as it was aloft.
It occurred to me to wonder, as the cheering finally died away, how many of us would be cheering in the days ahead?
3
French Waters
For two days we sailed due south, following the meridian of the Lizard. For the past twenty-four hours, however, our course shifted southwesterly—toward France. Our ship, the HMS Lion was a sound vessel and Captain Percy Brett and his officers knew precisely what they were doing sailing her.
It was a wonder: miles of rope, acres of canvas, sixty cannons with mounds of ball each, hundreds of barrels of gunpowder, cutlasses, pistols and muskets, 360 degrees of the compass, wind and current, the sea stretching in all directions as far as the eye could behold, dozens of men, all different—and with a mere word, one man commands the whole. It was, indeed, a wonder. Again, I’m forced to confess, though the food was bad, and the company for the most part profane, there were moments when I found pleasure—profound pleasure--in my life at sea.
This was one of those moments. I was on the first watch the evening of the seventh of July, a glorious evening. The sun bent low to its rest, spreading brilliant yellows hues, and purple ones like heather on the moors in springtime, stretching across the western sky. It took the breath away gazing at it all. All those colors shimmering on the sea, and we sailing through the painted water with a fair wind filling all our canvas. The Lion cut a path through the deep, the waves swooshing against the great belly-round planking of the vessel, the ship’s bell clanging out the hours, and the wind shying in the...
NEW RELEASE!
GUNS OF THUNDER
"Here comes Douglas Bond--again--to say that those of us who love the truth, are not consigned to live lives of boredom and dullness. In Guns of Thunder, he's got action from beginning to end. I wish I'd had this kind of book to read when I was a kid."
Joel Belz, Founder, WORLD MAGAZINE 
"Your characters seem so much like real people, it’s amazing! I really like how you pay close attention to detail in your books. Telling about what the character sees, hears, and feels literally adds a whole new dimension to your writing, which is one of the things I love about it! Someday I would like to write books like you do." Anna Brooks (14)
Design stages of a book cover: detailed email to artist; rough sketch; finished artwork; book cover; signed birthday gift!
(Skip (12) having a happy birthday with signed copy of Guns of Thunder)
In October, 2004, the author signed a contract with P&R
Publishing for a sequel to the Crown and Covenant trilogy
set in colonial America, and entitled Faith and Freedom Trilogy. The plan includes
two more volumes, the last set during the American
War for Independence, likely culminating at the Battle of Princeton and
featuring an ironic twist. A number of readers have requested a middle
volume that returns to Scotland and follows Fiona and Jamie's line of the clan,
making this a companion trilogy. Guns of Thunder is set in
Wallup, Connecticut, near Enfield in the upper Connecticut Valley, an area where
only a few Covenanter refugees were known to have settled. The story begins in
the autumn of 1740, where Malcolm M'Kethe, now a vigorous seventy-three year-old
grandfather, teaches his grandson, Ian, to
shoot a muzzle loader.
On the left is a Colonial Flint Fowling Gun 20 gauge, 46" Getz barrel. Fowling guns play a key role in Guns of Thunder, the first book in what is called the Faith and Freedom Trilogy, featuring Ian M'Kethe (I received a letter the other day from a reader named Ian who asked me in future books "not to kill off anyone named Ian." He suggested, however, that I might make an "Ian the hero if you wanted to." Consider it done, Ian!). Young Ian learns many things, including how to shoot the American fowling gun (1730-1760); how to paddle a birch bark canoe--while attempting a beach landing under heavy enemy fire; he will fish and sail on the Connecticut River; get caught up in Indian tensions, and friendships, especially with an old Algonquin Indian named Watookoog; experience the Great Awakening and hear Jonathan Edwards preach his famous sermon at Enfield, July 8, 1741; he'll feel the tensions with French fir traders and the differences with some English settlers waning in their spiritual devotion; then Ian will get drawn into the rising tide of King George's War, also called the War of Jenkin's Ear; he will be forced to contribute to the ingenuity and determination of colonial militia taking Louisbourg (1745) from the French and freeing colonial prisoners; then he will feel the withering condescension and betrayal of the British who handed Louisbourg back to France (1748) thus, alienating colonists who fought, and and lost loved ones, at Louisbourg--and much more!
Here's what readers are saying
Dear Mr. Bond,
I just got "Guns of Thunder" in the mail a few days ago and already three people in my family have read it!! All of us agree that it's the best one yet. I especially like the rich spiritual content of the book. Great job!!
I hope you're busily at work on the next one. We can't wait!!!
Chris Short
Advanced Reader Comments
after reading the first chapter:
Dear Mr. Bond,
When Lyndsey forwarded your email to me about the first chapter of your fourth Crown and Covenant book (now Faith and Freedom Trilogy), I nearly fell out of my chair! I thank you very much for giving me the honor of having a “sneak peak” at the first chapter, which I immensely enjoyed!
The way you don’t let the reader know who or what Ian and his grandfather are aiming for and shooting at really adds suspense! (And a good laugh at yourself!) It surprised me when I found out it was...
As I was reading the chapter I could easily sympathize with Ian about all those little “annoyances” he was experiencing, like sweat in his eyes, a shaky hand, and the heavy weight of the gun that he was struggling to keep aimed. Your characters seem so much like real people, it’s amazing!
I really like how you pay close attention to detail in your books. Telling about what the character sees, hears, and feels literally adds a whole new dimension to your writing, which is one of the things I love about it!
Someday I would like to write books like you do. Thank you for making such godly and wholesome books for kids to read! May God bless you for it!
In Christ,
Anna Brooks, age 14”
"Dear Mr. Bond,
I feel privileged to be able to get a personal sneak peek into the rough-draft chapter of the next book. I must honestly say that it has just deepened more my impatience to read the fourth book (now first in Faith and Freedom Trilogy). But as my wonderful daddy tells me often when I claim to be dying with impatience, "I think you will survive." I will survive (Lord willingJ ) and I know that the longer I wait, the more I will enjoy reading it.
Your first chapter is very gripping and once I started to scroll through it, I could not stop as I awaited the first blast of the musket firing at its 'enemy'. Which I was heartily believing to be a red-coat. One thing I very much enjoy about your books is how you so skillfully describe the scene. As I read, it is as if I can smell and feel what is going on around me. I felt Ian's guilt and pity as he saw the splattered blood--his first blood.
I love to write, and have just completed my first readable story, A Desert Breeze. Anna Brooks is my wonderful 'editor'. Without her 'bleeding' all over my stories, the people who read them would find out how truly horrible I am at spelling and grammar. (I am trying my best to get better.)
I don't want to take away time that you could be spending with your family or...um...writing the fourth book of the Crown and Covenant Series.
My the Lord bless you and your family!
By His grace alone,
Lyndsey R. Duncan"
Read Guns of Thunder in your Book Club!
GUNS OF THUNDER
Study Guide By Brittany Bond
UNIT I (Chapters 1-3)
- Why must Ian M’Kethe wait so long before shooting his prey? What is his prey? (9)
- Why does Ian's grandfather tell him that he must be on his guard when approaching his prey? Discuss what his grandfather says. Is his grandfather talking about something more than just hunting? (12)
For 70+ study questions on CD visit Buy the books!
Guns of Thunder
Chapter One: First Blood, 1740
"Whatever ye do, lad, donnae take yer eyes off his vitals."
Ian M’Kethe felt his grandfather’s hot breath close on his left ear, and the old man’s coarse whiskers felt like the hairy legs of a spider crawling across his cheek. For an instant all he wanted was to lower the gun and scratch.
But he was too excited for that. Shivers ran through his lanky frame, and he feared that the thundering of his heart would betray their position. Its pounding reminded Ian of the marching of Connecticut militia through the main street of Hartford, fifteen miles down river, the fifers trilling, and the drummers beating time.
That was all good and well for a parade, but it would never do in the dense back woods of the upper Connecticut Valley. Announce yourself with fifes and drummer boys in these woods and every creature and savage would descend like a falcon on a field mouse.
"Steady, lad," whispered the old man. "Wait—ye must learn to wait. Meanwhile, keep yer mind on yer duty, and yer eyes on his breast."
A drop of moisture fell from the curve of an oak leaf where Ian’s breath had melted the frost. In spite of the cold autumn air, he blinked back beads of sweat that seemed bent on blinding him—and just now when he desperately needed to see well.
"Lead costs money, lad," his grandfather reminded him in a chiding lilt, though barely audible, "to say nothing of the powder."
Pushing his three-cornered felt hat farther back on his head, Ian blinked rapidly. Powder did cost a good deal of money, and he’d often heard his grandfather bemoan that the best source was from the dubious Frenchman who lived alone in Powder Hollow. If he missed, it would mean yet one more charge of powder to buy from Claude le Faux. Squinting down the long barrel, he drew in breath, set his jaw, determined to hold steady. But the gun had never felt so heavy, and his left arm began to quiver under the weight of the cold steel.
"Wait, now, lad. He turns."
All was silent in the forest save for a crackling rustle as a faint breeze moved softly through the flame-red oak leaves in the canopy above. Winter came early in New England and only the hardiest songbirds remained before taking leave of their homes for the bitter season. A robin’s cheerful tune drifted faintly from behind the pair, but in it Ian detected a hint of warning, and he feared it might betray them.
He blinked again. He so wanted to wipe away the sweat and the condensation where bursts of his hot breath met the dark walnut stock. How could he hold steady when everything seemed so wet and clammy? He took a gulp of air and held it.
"Ready yerself, lad."
Ian pressed the barrel hard against the sturdy oak behind which they lay in ambush, and he winced as the rough bark gouged into the back of his left hand.
"Ye’ll rarely hit yer mark if ye merely aim at his body," his grandfather’s words tickled in his ear. "One shot’s all ye’ll every get. Wait for the one shot, and aim true at his vitals. But ye must breathe, lad, slow and steady."
Ian’s heart thudded in his temples as he slowly exhaled. The unsuspecting living being aligned with his barrel—what was his heart doing just now? And what would become of his vitals if Ian’s aim was true and hot lead ripped through all? If his aim was true?
"Ye’ll have no better shot than now, my lad," his grandfather’s voice brought him back to the task at hand.
Swallowing hard, Ian screwed up his face. Then, bracing his jaw for the recoil, he hooked his finger around the trigger--and pulled.
Blam!
The forest erupted with noise. Echoing off stones and ridges, the retort gradually diminished, until it lingered only like the clapping and pattering of children at their play.
Peering through the smoke, Ian’s grandfather spoke softly. "He doesnae move." The old man rose to a crouch, drawing his dirk from his belt. "After downing yer adversary, lad, always approach with care."
Ian opened his eyes. Gulping in a lungful of air, he felt a catch in his throat and coughed at the bitter gray smoke. His eyes smarted, and he shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the ringing from deep in his right ear. Trembling in his every part, he lowered the gun and scrambled after his grandfather.
"Why so, Grandfather?" asked Ian. He couldn’t explain why his stomach churned like the foamy Enfield rapids or like the surface of the river when a squall of wind came on and black thunderclouds unleashed their fury.
"What’s that?" said his grandfather.
"Why so with caution?" he asked again, desperately trying to steady his voice as he fell in behind his grandfather and tried to match his crouching posture and the rhythm of his stealthy advance.
"There may be others," said the old man, his voice hollow. "Ye must be ready for others." He broke off, then softly added, "There’re always others." The old man’s voice trailed away.
"What happens then?" asked Ian.
The old man slowed and Ian heard him heave a great sigh that seemed to catch in his throat and come out more like a sob.
"What happens then, lad, is that ye may find yerself unready to protect those ye dearly love, those who depend upon yer protection, yer doing yer duty for God and for him that ye love so dear."
Ian barely breathed. His grandfather had halted, and Ian saw the old man’s eyelids brim full with water. This happened more often since his grandfather had past his seventieth birthday. Or perhaps Ian had only become more aware of it. He wasn’t sure which. A tear breached the dam and fell into the old man’s gray and sandy-colored whiskers. Ian tugged at his right ear lobe and waited in silence.
Wiping a homespun tweed sleeve across his eyes, the old man sighed again. "Never gloat, lad. Ye might make a clean shot of it and down yer prey—but never gloat."
"Gloat, Grandfather?" said Ian.
"Aye, gloat, I say. Never do it. When ye gloat ye’re nae giving God the glory—nor are ye ready for the others, for those that would come after and do ye and yourn harm. I ken of what I speak, here, lad. I ken too well of what I speak. Aye, so never gloat."
"I’ll never gloat, Grandfather," promised Ian, but disappointed that his grandfather seemed unwilling to tell more. There must be more to tell.
"Aye, now follow with care," said his grandfather. And with that they resumed their approach.
Moments later, when the prone figure came into view, his blood strewn about the brittle leaves and twigs, Ian felt a choking of pity in his throat—even guilt—at the sight. He’d done this. With this beautiful lean gun, he had done this. Now he felt the water rise in his own eyes.
"Now, lad," said his grandfather. "This is where it can happen."
"Where wh-what can happen?" asked Ian.
"He might not be dead," said his grandfather simply. "Only bluffing."
"Bluffing, Grandfather?" he said, working his jaw trying to clear away the last of the humming in his ear.
"While we’ve been closing these fifty yards," said the old man, pausing to look over his shoulder at Ian, "wounded, he’s been plotting his revenge and rises up and turns all his fury on us. Aye, lad, ye must be ware."
"He doesnae look like bluffing," said Ian.
"Aye, the good ones never do," said his grandfather. "Now if this were a bear, lad," he continued, "and if yer shot had only stunned him—reload and be ready’s the word, lad. Nothing quite so dangerous as a wounded bear."
"Or a man?" said Ian.
"Aye, or a man, lad. I’ve heard tell of a savage Pequot with no less than three mortal shots in his breast rise, fueled by fury, and hurl his tomahawk one last time, and with deadliest aim. He did nae look like bluffing either."
"But whatever could the likes of him do to us," said Ian, nodding at the ground, "even a big ‘un like that?"
"Aye, ‘twas a fine shot, m’lad. Nothing to fear from this big Tom," said his grandfather, grunting as he lifted the plump fowl by its neck and weighed it up and down. "What a fine Sabbath roast yer mother’ll make of him!"
"I’m thinking we should be getting back, then," said Ian, his tongue straying to his lips.
"Aye," agreed his grandfather. Then looking soberly at Ian, he said, "Be on yer guard when it’s a mere turkey--and ye’ll not be caught unawares when it’s yer enemy."