Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Clark's Campaign: Mountain Man Series, #12
    Clark's Campaign: Mountain Man Series, #12
    Clark's Campaign: Mountain Man Series, #12
    Ebook252 pages3 hours

    Clark's Campaign: Mountain Man Series, #12

    By Greg Strandberg

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Captain William Clark leads a band of militiamen and volunteers. They're going to the Upper Mississippi to stop the British and their Sauk Indian allies from taking control of the fur trade.

    Meanwhile, a group of down-on-their-luck fur trappers escape their Arikara captors and begin an arduous overland journey.

    Further east, Black Hawk breaks with the larger Sauk Tribe and sets out on his own to end the white threat to his people once and for all. 

    It all leads to a thrilling and action-packed conclusion to this 3-volume, 'War of 1812-leg' of the overall Mountain Man Series.

    The action will continue with Book XIII.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGreg Strandberg
    Release dateJan 28, 2018
    ISBN9781386692379
    Clark's Campaign: Mountain Man Series, #12
    Author

    Greg Strandberg

    Greg Strandberg was born and raised in Helena, Montana. He graduated from the University of Montana in 2008 with a BA in History.When the American economy began to collapse Greg quickly moved to China, where he became a slave for the English language industry. After five years of that nonsense he returned to Montana in June, 2013.When not writing his blogs, novels, or web content for others, Greg enjoys reading, hiking, biking, and spending time with his wife and young son.

    Read more from Greg Strandberg

    Related to Clark's Campaign

    Titles in the series (11)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Thrillers For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      It Happened To Me…

      Dec 1, 2022

      It Happened To Me…
      8 min read

    • Article

      Please, Consider the Beaver

      Aug 1, 2018

      Please, Consider the Beaver
      8 min read

    • Article

      Bloodbath At Pyramid Lake

      Mar 26, 2019

      Bloodbath At Pyramid Lake
      12 min read

    • Article

      In The Wake Of Morag

      Jul 15, 2021

      In the summer of 1979, Morag wasn’t the only strange and elusive entity in the vicinity of Loch Morar: two LN&MP (Loch Ness and Morar Project) members told of encountering a mysterious American who claimed to be living in a cave on the northern shore

      15 min read

    • Article

      Rogers’ Remnant

      Apr 13, 2021

      Rogers’ Remnant
      11 min read

    • Article

      Griz Country

      Dec 29, 2020

      Griz Country
      8 min read

    • Article

      Going Over The Top

      Apr 2, 2019

      Going Over The Top
      6 min read

    • Article

      Another Country Heard From

      Mar 24, 2020

      On January 29, 1879, 1st Lieutenant Charles C. De Rudio took the stand during a U.S. Army court of inquiry requested by Major Marcus Reno and convened at Chicago’s upscale Palmer House to determine what exactly had happened at the Battle of the Littl

      11 min read

    • Article

      Stalingrad Of The Adriatic

      Nov 21, 2023

      Stalingrad Of The Adriatic
      12 min read

    • Article

      Into The Jaws Of Hell

      Mar 16, 2023

      Into The Jaws Of Hell
      6 min read

    • Article

      Our National Bok

      Mar 13, 2020

      Our National Bok
      7 min read

    • Article

      An Otter In The Valley

      Aug 2, 2023

      An Otter In The Valley
      4 min read

    • Article

      Stampedes!

      Sep 29, 2020

      Stampedes!
      4 min read

    • Article

      Where the Grizzlies Roam

      Aug 9, 2019

      Where the Grizzlies Roam
      5 min read

    • Article

      WHEN FISH FLY: The Revolt on the Slave Ship Creole

      Mar 1, 2022

      On October 25, 1841, twelve-year-old Pleasant Brown boards the Creole, a merchant slave ship sailing from Richmond to New Orleans with a “cargo” of 140 enslaved men, women, and children. Pleasant’s grandmother, who had been born in Africa, was the da

      10 min read

    • Article

      Arnhem Land Tales

      Jun 27, 2019

      Arnhem Land Tales
      9 min read

    • Article

      Landy Spotting

      Jun 24, 2020

      LOCKDOWN has been tough on our Land Rovers. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Except if you’re Dominic Cummings of course, but let’s not go there, we don’t (always) talk politics and religion in LRM. I have done a few trips to the head office in Linc

      4 min read

    • Article

      Lonesome Pine

      Oct 8, 2021

      Lonesome Pine
      5 min read

    • Article

      Song Of The South

      Oct 10, 2023

      Song Of The South
      9 min read

    • Article

      Mataura Lessons with Merv

      Feb 17, 2022

      Mataura Lessons with Merv
      8 min read

    • Article

      ADVENTURES On The ALCAN

      Feb 21, 2023

      ADVENTURES On The ALCAN
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Last Man In England

      Dec 1, 2021

      The Last Man In England
      5 min read

    • Article

      The Field From The Archives

      Dec 10, 2020

      BEING an American, there is a telephone at my bedside, and I was awakened on the first morning of the New Year by the ringing of the bell. The familiar voice of Holland, my huntsman, came over the wire: “Good morning, sir. Happy New Year. Is it brown

      4 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Clark's Campaign

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Clark's Campaign - Greg Strandberg

      Introduction – Capture

      The early morning sun pierced the snow, melting the topmost layer of ice covering the hilly plains. American trappers Michael Immel and Robert Jones, as well as their French companion, Maurice LeDuc, stood on one of those small hills. They were half a mile from the Mandan villages, watching a mixed group of Mandan, Arikara, and British Northwest Company men ride toward them.

      A few moments before the three men had been eight, but mountain man Edward Rose, explorer Rueben Lewis, and the trappers John Dougherty, Louis Lorimer, and Peter Weir had ridden off...God only knew to where. There was nowhere to go, at least that’s the way the three of them standing there saw it. For one thing, Jones’ leg was still on the mend from the break over a month ago. For another, they had no more horses. And finally, where was there to go besides into the river? As cold as it was, they’d be dead in minutes if they chose that route, perhaps seconds even.

      So they’d stayed while their companions had rushed off. They’d watched them go before turning back to the British and the Indians coming at them.

      Well, I guess this is it, Jones said, then looked to Immel. I want to thank you, Michael, for stayin’ with me.

      Immel smiled and clapped Jones on the back. You’d a done the same for me.

      Jones smiled and nodded and then both men looked to LeDuc and thanked him as well. Then the three of them looked at the forces coming at them. The Indians were out front, just about 300 yards away now, while the Brits were close behind. Further off, the three men’s companions rode for dear life.

      ~~~

      The five men stood on the boulder-strewn bluff that rose several feet above the Missouri. The river was three-quarters of the way covered in ice, with just a narrow strip in the center flowing freely. That water was moving swiftly, too, meaning a man would be fighting both the current and the cold. To William Weir’s way of thinking, that made her a deathtrap.

      Whoa...wait just a minute here, the trapper said to the recent remark by his fellow trapper, Edward Rose. "Are you talkin’ about...jumpin’ in the river?"

      Got a better idea? the mulatto asked, those white teeth momentarily flashing into a grin, and making quite the stark contrast against his black skin in the process.

      Trapper John Dougherty shook his head at the question. Can’t swim, while beside him Weir looked down at his feet before muttering, Ain’t gettin’ me in no freezin’ river in January.

      Fellow trapper Louis Lorimer threw his arms up in a gesture of unbelief. Goddamn it, man – there’s no way we can survive those freezing waters! He pointed at the river as he spoke. Just then a larger-than-usual chunk of ice went floating past, one the size of their torsos.

      It’s either take our chances with the river or take ‘em with the Indians, Rueben Lewis said, ...what’ll it be?

      Lorimer frowned to that and crossed his arms. The sound of the pursuing horses getting closer caused him to turn that way, however. They were now only 200 yards from them.

      "Oh, hell! Lorimer said. I guess if it’s freezin’ or gettin’ scalped, I’ll take my chances with freezin’."

      Weir...Dougherty? Rose said, eyeing the men as he made some last-minute adjustments to his pack and his gear and whatever else he hoped to keep dry. Both men just shook their heads but said nothing. Have it your way, he said next, and with another look at those coming with him, he took a breath and jumped in the water.

      The others watched from the bank as he went under and then shot up a few moments later, clearly in shock at how cold the water was. That was all Rueben needed to see – he jumped in next, and then Lorimer followed right behind. By then Rose was already a hundred yards downriver.

      Dougherty looked over to Weir standing beside him. Now what?

      Weir turned back around to look at the Indians, the British coming up behind. Hell’s bells! he said, pointing. They’re already at the others!

      ~~~

      Donald McTavish didn’t slow as he approached the three Americans standing there. Instead he put up his arm, waving back at Bart and whatever other men were back there. A moment later he heard the tumult of horse’s hooves lessen behind him. Some men were slowing, and they’d get those three prisoners secured. Now, McTavish thought, if I can just get to that riverbank in time...

      He wouldn’t, he saw. Still a few hundred yards out, he watched as one of the men – that black bastard that Bart had complained of so much – inexplicably jumped into the river.

      My God! McTavish muttered under his breath despite himself, for he was completely shocked that a man would do such a thing. He’d been looking at the river just that morning, had even put his hands into it for half a minute. They’d come out numb.

      A few moments after the first had jumped, another did so and then a third. That left just two men standing there on the slight bluff above the river, though McTavish could tell even from this distance that they weren’t stupid enough to make the plunge. Instead they just stood there, watching their companions float away before turning to the men advancing upon them.

      McTavish rode the last hundred yards and was already in the process of dismounting while still twenty yards from them. By the time his horse had raced up beside them he was on the ground, had one man punched across the face and falling to the ground, and the other clamped around the wrists and struggling and cursing all the while.

      You British bastard...unhand me! the American yelled.

      Take it easy, Weir...I’m alright, the other said as he wiped a trail of blood from his mouth and began to get up, giving McTavish a harsh look all the while. McTavish just kept his grip on his man, who was still struggling. By then, however, some more of his Nor’Westers were riding up, as well as some of the Indians behind them. McTavish addressed them right away.

      Go, downriver after those three, he said, nodding his head back south toward the river.

      No way they could survive that! one of the men replied.

      Then you should have no problems bringing me their bodies, McTavish replied with a glare. Now go!

      A few of the Nor’Westers did so, with more staying put. There were also several Indians. McTavish looked to them, then gave a flick of the chin back a ways behind them, to where the other three Americans had been.

      Taken? he asked.

      One of the braves nodded. Our prisoners, he said in that stilted-English that so many of the Indians spoke, and with a smile, added, our trappers.

      Part I

      1 – The Hunt

      The pig ran for its life. Over the rough and rocky forest ground...under the low-hanging pine branches...past the scrawny and barely-budding bushes. It raced and raced, grunting from time to time as an obstacle blocked its path – large rocks mostly, but sometimes a particularly thick patch of trees. In those moments it dashed left or right, whatever direction its instincts told it to go next. There was no plan to the beast’s movements, just the desperate need to escape whatever large creatures were hot on its tail.

      Those creatures were horses, two of them directly behind and a few more on either side. On those horses were men, loud men...men shouting and laughing and feeling quite good. It wasn’t everyday that they scared a wild boar out of its daytime napping spot, after all. And after three days of slim pickings when it came to their hunting, the men were ready for the feast that awaited them. All they had to do was keep up the chase and run the damn thing down.

      In a way, the boar knew this. Oh, it didn’t know about the fire that awaited it, or the hungry bellies that rumbled at the thought of its rich – and roasted – meat. It did know that if it slowed even a bit, or took a wrong turn or just about any of a dozen other mistakes it could commit, that its life would be over. Instinct simply wouldn’t allow that to happen, so onward the boar charged, its legs beginning to shake, its body growing weary.

      Behind the animal the nearest riders called and beckoned to one another.

      Go left, one said.

      Aye, and you stay right here on him, the other added before making a left turn.

      Their horses crashed through the underbrush and the tree branches slapped at them. No longer could the two riders hear sounds coming from their companions, the other riders that’d took off when the boar had been spotted. They’d left most of the column of men behind, they figured, but not all. But who knows, they thought...and kept up their pursuit, knowing that men far behind were depending on them for their daily meal.

      The boar was depending on its speed, but more so on its knowledge. This was its forest, after all, and it wasn’t going to be taken easily. A left...a right...another right, and then a left again. Zigging around this tree, zagging around that bush. Under the nearly-fallen tree, through the half-rotted log, over the pile of leaves. It didn’t miss a beat, it didn’t slow in the slightest. And it was quiet, too – quiet as it reached the crest of a small gully and began to go down.

      The two riders behind were losing the beast. It’d been loud at first, spooked and on the run, grunting and chortling from time to time. But now they were several minutes into the chase, and the animal was easing up on the grunts to save breath for what was really important: running. That running wasn’t as loud as it had been, either. Before there’d been plenty of crashing through brush to follow. Now there was the occasional shaking of leaves, perhaps a branch being pushed back. It was barely enough, and one rider thought he was following the sound of his companion’s horse more than that of their prey.

      The boar knew none of this – it just ran. Now it was downhill, something it could do faster, though it had to slow itself a bit to avoid tumbling head over hooves down the slight gully. Already it was halfway down, and it knew from its explorations of this area that if it made it down into the thick underbrush at the bottom, it’d be able to disappear and run along the old streambed to get away.

      The first rider tore through the trees and pulled up on his horse’s reins just before careening over the lip of the gully.

      Whoa! he shouted out, his horse reared up on its hind legs for a second. Then he got the animal settled and craned his head to listen. Nothing. Worse, there was no rattling of branches or shaking of leaves, not even the slightest bit. He was sure the animal had gone this way, and if so, it had to be going downhill into that gully, or down into it already. He took out his rifle, and began to take aim...hoping a bit of movement would tip him off.

      Sound coming from behind him disrupted his concentration, however. The second rider appeared, and seeing his companion there with his rifle out, he narrowed his eyes and looked down into the gully. He couldn’t see a thing – just green shrubs, half-dead bushes, and weeds making their early-spring appearances.

      Where is he? the second rider called out.

      Hell if I know! the first answered, still holding that rifle to his face in the hope that he’d see something.

      The second rider bit his lip, glancing nervously from the gully to his companion and back. His stomach rumbled. God, don’t let it be another night of rations! Their bread had been as hard as a rock for over a week now. He couldn’t stay silent.

      "You’ve got to see him!"

      I can’t! Lowering the rifle from his face, the first rider sighed and shook his head. I can’t see–

      His words were cutoff as the distinct sound of a rider coming through the trees could be heard. Branches crashed, the leaves of bushes tore, and the earth and rocks were kicked around as a brown horse came into view. Atop the animal was a man no one would mistake for another.

      Captain Clark! the second rider called out, both surprised and elated by the sight, while the first rider only managed to mumble a, where...how...? and not much else.

      Clark ignored them both, his gaze set on the gully before them. Without taking his eyes from it, he spurred his horse on with his heels while taking the rifle from his saddle. He had the weapon up to his face by the time the animal was at the edge of the downward slope, and there he sat, holding the gun and staying quiet.

      Moments passed, then nearly a minute. Both the riders looked at each other nervously, then to Clark, down to the gully, then usually back at each other. They shrugged, nodded toward Clark, and finally the first rider got up the courage to say something.

      Sir, we think the animal’s gone already, we think–

      BOOM!

      The rifle shot was deafening, the plume of smoke it sent up blinding. Even before he’d brought the weapon from his face, however, Clark knew he’d found his target.

      From below came a squeal, then another and another. Clark looked to the two riders, both standing there dumbfounded, looking back and forth from the gully to Clark.

      Men, Clark said as he heeled his animal around, putting his rifle back in his saddle as he did so, why don’t you finish that beast off and see that it gets back to camp. He gave a slight smile as he nudged the horse back into the trees. You know your fellows will be overjoyed at the work you did here today.

      Their faces screwing up in surprise as they looked at one another – and their thoughts making them wonder if they’d indeed done any work this day – the two riders could only mumble out a few, Yes, sir’s! to Clark’s back.

      2 – Around the Fire

      The smell of roasting boar wafted through the camp still, though most of the animal had been eaten. Already the fires were burning down for the night, but that didn’t keep the men from turning in just yet.

      Captain William Clark leaned forward and stirred one of those fires with a stick. Few called him ‘Captain’ anymore, as his captain days were long over. It’d been nearly 8 years since the Corps of Discovery had left St. Louis on its historic voyage to the Pacific, and almost 6 years since they’d got back.

      Thinking of those days always brought Meriwether to Clark’s mind. Clark had co-captained the expedition with the older Lewis, though in truth he’d really just been following along. Lewis was the first to get the command, Clark second. It’d been the same with the governorship of Missouri Territory – Lewis had gotten it in 1807 while Clark hadn’t attained that position until...well, he hadn’t attained it. Sure, he was fulfilling all the duties of the governorship – and had been for over a year now, thanks to President Madison – but the appointment wasn’t official, and likely wouldn’t be until this damn war ended. It was because of that war that Clark was at his current location, 800 miles from St. Louis on the James River. The Dakota tribes called the river E-ta-zi-po-ka-se Wakpa, which Clark remembered from his exploring days meant unnavigable river. Thankfully they weren’t going up or down it, but across it. After that it’d be another 100 miles to the Big Sioux River, which they’d again cross, and then another 350 miles overland to the Mississippi. To get there in one piece, Clark had 50 men along with him. Just fifty, and in territory controlled by hostile tribes and, more and more as of late, the British

      Clark sighed. His reddish-blonde hair was covered in a warm fur hat, his sharp nose prominent over those purse, no-nonsense lips of his. At 42, he was older than most of the men that went upriver as trappers. He was becoming older than many of the traders he signed transport papers for each time they sanctioned an expedition. Few knew as many people in the territory as Clark did, even the Chouteaus that’d started St. Louis.

      Gathered around the fire with Clark were six other men. There was the intrepid Spanish trader, 40-year-old Manuel Lisa, his dark hair and beady eyes showing more than ever in the firelight, as was that pronounced widow’s peak of his.

      A.P. Choteau was there, now 26-years-old and a veteran of both West Point and the rigors of the Missouri. If you asked, he’d tell you that the river was a lot tougher than the academy.

      Rueben Lewis was present, the 35-year-old brother of the famed Meriwether Lewis and a competent trapper and trader in his own right.

      Edward Rose was along, the 32-year-old mountain man looking gruff and unhappy...though that was typical.

      Caleb Greenwood was another, the 29-year-old Virginian making yet another trek upriver...though this time with a goal other than trapping.

      Finally there was the straw-haired Sal Jessup, also 29-years-old and also a veteran of the upriver trade...and all that went with it.

      Lately the trade had been a lot more about the British and their Indian allies than it was about trapping beavers, skinning the animals, and getting the furs back down to St. Louis for overland shipment to New Orleans or New York, and thence to London and Paris and the dandies in their balls that just had to have a furry dead rodent gracing their head as they strutted their stuff on the dance floor and in the backroom parlors.

      Clark’s mouth edged up into a smile as he thought on that last. For more than a hundred years whites like him had been going west, wading knee-deep into frozen rivers to take the animals out, and all because of fashion. How long will it last...how long before the bottom falls out?

      Clark often thought about the tulip craze that’d swept through Holland 200 years earlier. Flowers...furs...what’s the difference? Clark thought. Either way it’s a useless commodity that only the rich can afford. And how the hell does that benefit me, here upriver 800 miles and with Indians all around?

      It didn’t, but he was here and he’d do his duty...as he’d done it countless times before. Now, if only he had more men!

      Clark stirs the fire once more and then looks up at the other six men. I’m not sure it’ll be enough. I’m not sure we have the numbers.

      Fifty ain’t much, Caleb says, and a few of the others nod to that.

      Clark frowns. Back East they’re raising twenty-five regiments, but that’ll take awhile. Until then the task will fall to the militia, he nods at the men around the neighboring fires, like you see here.

      They were a motley lot, laughing and carousing and drinking their coffee, wishing it was whiskey. They had yet to see battle, and Clark wondered how much laughing they’d do around the fires on the nights after it finally came.

      Regiments are a thousand men, A.P. says. You’re not going to find anything like that out west...even a battalion!

      Sal narrowed his eyes. How big’s that one?

      Starts at four hundred men, Clark says, not looking at

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1