to him. It was heavier than my sabre and slightly curved, a pirate’s sword.
I peeked into the church; it looked empty. The front of the church where the preacher would normally stand was mostly open space. It would do. The Bess I set behind me. The flintlocks I tucked into my belt. As I said, I didn’t trust Myers, or his men.
Myers unsheathed his blade and whipped it up in a smart salute. I matched him.
I’ll say this for Henry Myers—he may have gotten older, he had to have been about fifty-five at the time, but there was steel in him. He was in good shape and moved with confidence. And, pirate or not, he could fence.
But I didn’t keep my sword as a showpiece either. I had been schooled as a young man and practiced in the navy, and I’d had plenty of opportunities to use it since.
He made a lunging thrust and I parried and riposted. Myers tried to beat my blade down. I retreated a step and countered with a thrust. We were body to body for a moment. He was smiling. We disengaged then. He feinted but I didn’t bite. After several quick engagements, I was starting to wonder if I was matched. He had a strong hand and equaled my reach. I lunged and he managed a stop cut, opening a small slice on the top of my wrist. Nothing serious, but the blood would make my hilt slippery. A few minutes later, he scored a cut on my weak arm shoulder.
Out a window, I could see one of his men peering in at us. I couldn’t think about them right now.
I gave Myers an invitation, letting my forearm drift out of line with my weapon. He took it and I parried again and riposted, almost catching him. He was determined then, pressing my blade out of line and redoubling his attack. I had to try to end things right there. I retreated and then came up fast with a flying parry. My blade slipped between his ribs and he fell back.
“Damn you,” he gasped. “That’ll do me. Why did you have to come along? Another year, six months even, and I would have been rich again and John Turner could have disappeared.” His sword fell from his hand and clanged onto the wooden floor. Myers sat on a pew, holding his hand over his wound, though there did not appear to be much blood.
“Someone was bound to find you sooner or later, Captain,” I said, scooping up the Bessie and ducking down behind the end of pew, watching the window.
“They had forgotten. The war made everyone forget. No one looks twice at a preacher on the edge of wild country. This was a good set up.”
“Sorry Captain, but you played yourself this hand.”
Then Henry Myers died.
Staying crouched, I loaded my Deckard. At least one of Myers’ men was by the window I was facing. I assumed that there would be at least one by the door. I remembered that there had been a window in Myer’s room. On my hands and knees I retreated back into Myers’ quarters, not easy with both the long guns.
I checked the window and didn’t see anyone. I heard the church door open.
“Captain, are you alright?”
Without waiting to see what they did next, I broke out the window with the butt of the musket and slipped out.
The rain had mostly stopped.
Keeping to the shadows, I made my way to the stables. Movement out of the corner of my eye made me drop. A gun boomed and musket ball hit the wall right where I’d just been. Staying low, I got inside and found my horse and mule.
“What’s going on?” said a voice from outside.
“Stay in the house!” I heard someone else say.
“Was there a shot?” said another voice. “Are we under attack?”
It sounded like the people of New Sinai were waking up.
I hazarded a look outside. It was still dark, but the clouds had broken up and the moon was big and hanging close to the horizon. There were about a dozen men near the church, most carrying rifles—the four who were Myers’ men and about eight men of the village. As I watched, one or two more doors opened and more men came out.
I saddled my horse and rode her out slow, leading my mule. My rifle I held easy, but had it covering the closest of Myers’ men.
“There he is! That’s the one who killed the reverend,” one of them said.
Everyone turned to look at me. I needed to get control of the situation.
The sky in the east was getting light.
“Listen to me,” I said loud enough for all to hear. “I am Cyrus Sturgis. I fought for the Carolinas at King’s Mountain and fifteen years ago, I was an officer on the HMS Susannah. We captured a pirate vessel that was captained by Henry Myers. He escaped and I never saw Captain Myers again, until yesterday. Your Reverend John Turner is Henry Myers. These four men know this, because they sailed with him on the Myrmidon fifteen years ago. They are wrong when they say I killed Reverend Turner, because there was no such man. However, I dueled Henry Myers the pirate and killed him tonight in a fair fight.
“Now, I am going to ride out of here and go home. What you do with these four and Cox and Hugh is up to you.”
Toward the gate there was a knock and a soft shout.
“Cham, open the gate. We didn’t get him, but we got them as helped him escape.”
“That would be Hugh and Cox now,” I said. I recognized Mr. Hill. “Sir, if you would indulge me and go to the gate. Open it when I tell you. As for you four, I suggest you give up your guns to these folks.”
Myers men hesitated. The villagers still weren’t sure of what was happening, but my tone was one of authority.
“Cham, George, you others, go on and put down your guns till we figure out what’s going on,” said one of the men. The fact that there were at least ten guns against them now wasn’t lost on Myers’ men; they complied.
“Mr. Hill, if you please,” I said.
He opened the gate. Standing on the other side were Cox, Hugh, and Hannah. She appeared unharmed.
“It’s the widow!” someone said.
“What’s going on George? Where’s the reverend?” asked one.
“Seems you boys were wrong about the reverend. He wasn’t who he said that he was. Drop your guns and let Mrs. Givens come to me,” I said.
They were unsure, but there were about twenty people out of their homes now. Hugh and Cox saw the others with their guns cast aside and did the same.
Hannah rode over to me. She told the crowd what she had overheard, and admitted that she had released me and was leaving with me. I waited for an angry response, but none came. The whole situation was so strange that they seemed prepared to accept anything. It was the perfect time to go.
“Mr. Hill,” I said. “Who is in charge of this settlement now that the truth has come out?”
“I don’t know. There will have to be an election, I suppose,” he said.
“When you have it, if you are so inclined, I’ll come down from the mountains and we can talk about trading. Myself and Mrs. Givens, we’re going to be leaving now. I’d be obliged if you’d keep these men here a bit longer, till we can get on a spell.”
Mr. Hill nodded. “Seems fair. I expect that they have some questions to answer before they go anywhere.”
And I rode out with Hannah Givens beside me. I didn’t know her well, but she had already shown me that she was a brave and intelligent woman. A month later, we were wed by a Moravian minister in Morganton.
I went back to New Sinai after about six months. The frame on Judgment Hill was gone. Hill was the new leader of the community. He told me that they had released Myers’ men, but not before they had told the truth about their pasts. They had also told the villagers that Myers had brought them there to look for an emerald mine that had supposedly been found by a Spanish prospector who had later been killed by a Catawba war party. Hill said that they had located the mine, filed a claim and were working it themselves.
A year later, they were attacked by the Cherokee, but I heard that they came through alright.
That was the last I heard of New Sinai. I don’t know if it is still there or not. Right after I
heard about the Indian attack on the village, Hannah and I decided that things were getting a little too crowded for us in the Blue Ridges. We had heard of the Mississippi and wanted to see it and maybe what lay beyond.
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About the author
Erik Martin is a native Clevelander who currently resides in sunny California. Judgment Hill is his first attempt at formatting for e-publishing so he decided to make it available to you, the guinea pigs, for a pittance. Hopefully, it will come through the meat grinder in recognizable form. Look for more short stories and novels available in the near future. Erik primarily writes fantasy, but also enjoys telling stories of horror, the Old West, science fiction, and more. Feel free to check out the author’s blog at https://www.martin-inabind.blogspot.com.
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