Sackett’s Land by Louis L’Amour
Preface
We are all of us, it has been said, the children of immigrants and
foreigners—even the American Indian, although he arrived here a little earlier.
What a man is and what he becomes is in part due to his heritage, and the men
and women who came west did not emerge suddenly from limbo. Behind them were
ancestors, families, and former lives. Yet even as the domestic cattle of Europe
evolved into the wild longhorns of Texas, so the American pioneer had the
characteristics of a distinctive type.
Physically and psychologically, the pioneers’ need for change had begun in the
old countries with their decision to migrate. In most cases their decisions were
personal, ordered by no one else. Even when migration was ordered or forced, the
people who survived were characterized by physical strength, the capacity to
endure, and not uncommonly, a rebellious nature.
History is not made only by kings and parliaments, presidents, wars, and
generals. It is the story of people, of their love, honor, faith, hope and
suffering; of birth and death, of hunger, thirst and cold, of loneliness and
sorrow. In writing my stories I have found myself looking back again and again
to origins, to find and clearly see the ancestors of the pioneers.
Some time ago, I decided to tell the story of the American frontier through the
eyes of three families—fictional families, but with true and factual
experiences. The names I chose were Sackett, Chantry, and Talon. There is a real
Sackett family my research revealed, which derives from the Isle of Ely, in
Cambridgeshire, England. For historical accuracy I decided to bring my fictional
Sacketts from the same area.
Cambridgeshire is fen-country—low, boggy land partially covered with water, and
the fen-men were men of independent mind, as are my fictional Sacketts. They
were also hunters and fishermen, which was important, though few of those who
first landed in America had any idea of how to survive. In a land teeming with
game, with edible wild plants, many were starving in the midst of plenty, and
had to learn hunting and fishing from the Indians.
Story by story, generation by generation, these families are moving westward.
When the journeys are ended and the forty-odd books are completed, the reader
should have a fairly true sense of what happened on the American frontier.
The story that follows is of the first Sackett to come to America.
Chapter 1
It was my devil’s own temper that brought me to grief, my temper and a skill
with weapons born of my father’s teaching.
Yet without that skill I might have emptied my life’s blood upon the
cobblestones of Stamford, emptied my body of blood … and for what?
Until that moment in Stamford it would have been said that no steadier lad lived
in all the fen-lands than Barnabas Sackett, nor one who brought better from his
fields than I, or did better at the eeling in the fens that were my home.
Then a wayward glance from a lass, a moment of red, bursting fury from a
stranger, a blow given and a blow returned, and all that might have been my life
vanished like a fog upon the fens beneath a summer sun.
In that year of 1599 a man of my station did not strike a man of noble birth and
expect to live—or if he lived, to keep the hand that struck the blow.
Trouble came quickly upon me, suddenly, and without warning.
It began that day near Reach when I slipped and fell upon the Devil’s Dyke.
The Dyke is a great rampart of earth some six miles long and built in the long
ago by a people who might have been my ancestors. These were the Iceni, I have
been told, who lived in my country long before the Romans came to Britain.
When I slipped I caught myself upon my outstretched palms to keep the mud from
my clothing, and I found myself staring at the muddy edge of what appeared to be
a gold coin.
Now coins of any kind were uncommon amongst us, for we did much in the way of
barter and exchange. Merchants saw coins, but not many came our way. Yet here it
was, a gold coin.
Shifting my position a bit I closed my fingers over first one coin and, then,
yet another.
I stood up slowly, and making as if to brush the mud from my hands, I knocked
and wiped the mud from the coins. In a pool of muddy water at my feet, I washed
them clean.
They were old … very, very old.
No English coins these, nor was the wording English, nor the faces of the men
upon them. The first coin was heavy, of quite some value judging by the weight.
The second was smaller, thinner, and of a different kind.
Slipping them casually into my pocket, I stood there looking about.
The hour was before dawn of what bid to be a gray day. Clouds were thick above,
and during the night there had been heavy rain. It was a lonely place, where I
stood, a place about half the distance from Reach to Wood Ditton. We had worked
in the quarries at Reach, some of us, and slept the night on a tavern floor to
be near the fire.
Long before day I awakened, lying there thinking of the distance I had yet to
go, with the work now ended. So, quietly I had risen, put my cloak about my
shoulders, and took my way to the Dyke, the easiest route in any weather.
It was a time when few men got more than a mile or two from their door, unless
following the sea or the fishing, but I was a restless one, moving about and
working wherever an extra hand might be needed, for it was in my mind to save
money, buy a bit more land and so better my position.
Now I had come upon gold, more than I was likely to earn with my hands in a
year, although it was little enough I knew of gold. Had my father stood by me he
could have told me what each coin was worth.
I made a thing of brushing my knees, which gave me time to look more carefully
about.
I was alone. There were willows yonder, farther away oaks and a hedge, but
nowhere in the vague light of beginning day did I see movement or sign of men.
Carefully, I studied the ground where I had fallen. For where there had been two
coins there might be three … or four.
Something had scarred the slope here, and rain had found it, as rain will,
gouging a small ditch to escape over the Dyke’s edge. Where the trickle of water
was, I could see what appeared to be the rotting edge of a leather purse, or
sack. A bit of a search with my fingers in the mud and I held three more pieces
of gold, and a moment later, another.
That was the lot. I kicked mud over the spot, turned about a couple of times,
then walked slowly on, plodding as if tired, stopping a time or two to look
about.
At a pool of rain water I paused to wash the mud from my hands. Six gold coins!
It was a fortune.
Two of the coins were Roman. Likely enough some brawny legionnaire had come this
way from the fighting, and when about to be overtaken had buried them. It was
likely he must have been killed then, for he had never recovered his coins.
Such a strong leather purse, if well buried, would need years to rot away, and
it might have been some later traveler. Whoever it was, his ancient loss was my
present gain.
Yet if I appeared with six gold coins, what would happen?
By some manner of means they would certainly be taken from me. A poor man, even
a yeoman such as I, had small chance of maintaining his rights. There were many
tricky laws, and the rascals would surely find one that would deprive me of my
findings.
I was a freeman living on a small freeholding at the edge of the fens, a bit of
land given my father for his deeds in battle. Actually, a great piece of the
fens was mine, but it was of small use except for the eeling and occasional
mowing.
There was a small piece of land adjoining mine, of good, rich drained land that
I coveted. Now I could have it for mine, and more, too, if it were up for the
selling.
But if I came forward with gold it would set to wagging half the tongues in the
shire, so I had best be thinking of a better way.
It was then I remembered the man from Stamford. An oldish man, and bookish. His