War Path by Kerry Newcomb

alarming, if it had driven the fort’s commanding officer into committing such a rash act. Stark had to raise his estimation of the man. Maybe the officer had more gumption than Stark gave him credit for. He made a mental note to never again underestimate a British officer. It appeared Ransom was likewise confronting his own personal dilemma. That he chose to exorcize his demons beyond the scrutiny of the men who would have to follow his orders made a kind of sense.
    â€œJohn Stark.” Major Ransom muttered the name like he would a curse. “Do I place you under arrest and have you flogged for fleeing the field of battle or thank you for saving my life?”
    â€œI would not try the former,” cautioned Stark. “And the latter is unnecessary.” He waited for the officer to approach and then the two men continued abreast of one another along the riverbank. “Flogging,” he added with contempt. “You officers are mighty free with the lash.”
    â€œFlogging teaches discipline, Mister Stark. Without discipline, an army cannot hope to succeed.” Ransom tugged on the hem of his coat. He had exchanged his disheveled uniform for one proper and fitting and not stained with blood and powder burns. Moonlight glinted off the white embroidered facing on his tunic and the silver hilt of his sword.
    â€œThe only thing a lash ever taught a man is how to turn his back,” Stark replied. He was not impressed. “The 1st Regiment of Foot had discipline at Bloody Meadow, and you lost half your lads. And the poor bastards at Fort William Henry looked like they had plenty of discipline as they marched out to be massacred!”
    Stark knew it was highly unusual for a colonial of his station to address an officer of Ransom’s rank and stature with such familiarity. But Ransom had left that privilege behind at the gate. The two men had survived the disastrous relief attempt, battle, and the rout toward Fort Edward. It was quite evident John Stark really did not give a damn if the Englishman took offense.
    Ransom bristled at the big man’s tone of voice. Only within the walls of Fort Edward had the major begun to experience a sense of safety. And even that was suspect. He imagined the possibility of an armed host of French and Indians massing just beyond the hills, preparing for an all-out assault on the ramparts. And the command had fallen to him. Indeed, for the moment the future of the English presence in the Adirondacks rested upon his inexperienced shoulders.
    Ransom swallowed his pride, breathed deep and folded his hands behind his back. He had not slipped through the side entrance of the fort only to become embroiled in a conflict with this uncouth frontiersman. “Rogers paid me a visit.”
    â€œRobert is not a man to waste time.”
    â€œHe told me of your plan.…”
    â€œIt is both of ours. We have talked on it some.”
    â€œHe mentioned you both seek a separate command of the Colonial Militia and that it should be considered apart from the King’s troops.”
    â€œNot militia,” Stark said, eyes glinting in the moonlight as he faced the power of the mighty Hudson. “Rangers.” He turned and faced the English officer. “Do you want to win this war?”
    â€œOf course I do,” Ransom answered.
    â€œThen let us fight to win. We shall raise a force of Rangers who can outmarch, outsail, outrun and outfight any Abenaki or Frenchman in the New World. I will handpick the force. Each man will have to be a crack shot and skilled with the hawk and knife. And they will have to know the woods.” Stark folded his powerful arms across his broad chest.
    â€œIt is most irregular. I will no doubt have to answer for it,” Ransom mused, stroking his pointed chin. “That is, when General Amherst arrives to assume command. And he most assuredly will do just that, when my dispatches reach him.”
    â€œAvenging what happened