The King's Mercy

by Lori Benton

  “I’ve presented you an alternative I can live with, Papa. Please consider it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  29

  JUNE 1748

  The river had drawn them onward, toward the rising mountains, Alex torn between their siren call and fear of encountering their inhabitants—especially on those mornings when mist wreathed their wooded flanks, settling low in the hollows, and the stillness wrapped him in its cool, moist cloak. Had he been alone he’d have been content to press on westward, risking scalp and life to see what lay beyond the next ridge, a hunger that grew with the feeding. He was keeping them in meat with spear and snare. Jemma kept them in whatever was ripe and edible.

  “My grandma taught my mama and other slaves at Severn,” she told him when he asked how she knew to tell them apart. “Some got passed to me. Not from Mama. She died having me.”

  He’d blanched at that, yet it hadn’t caused Jemma unease. She hardly ceased talking of the bairn, or the Cherokees. Only one subject shut her up tight as a drum. Her mute, haunted look when he pressed for who fathered the bairn finally curtailed his asking.

  His most recent snare had yielded a rabbit, which he skinned to roast before they set off on a morning he thought must now be June. While the meat cooked, Jemma went to forage in the brush that edged the clearing where they’d slept. All was quiet but for birdsong and the river’s rushing until Jemma let out a yelp.

  “Mister Alex!”

  On his feet at her cry, fearing she’d been snake-bit, he found her squatting in the brush, the trailing hem of her shirt soaked through.

  “I wet myself…” She clutched her belly, groaning.

  Kneeling beside her, he braced her with an arm as she leaned into him. His gut hollowed. “How long has it pained ye?”

  “Half the night. Thought my belly was griping over something I ate.” The pang passed. She got to her feet.

  Alex rose shakily with her. “Your time’s come, lass. We’ll need water. I’ll fetch it. Lie ye down.” They hadn’t rolled their blankets. He spread his atop hers at the base of the oak under which they’d slept.

  She was in the grip of another pain when he returned from filling the canteen. Standing over her, drenched in dread, he gazed at the morning light falling in lush beams across the ridge he’d meant to climb that day.

  The breathtaking prospect afforded no comfort, or aid.

  * * *

  The day passed in agony. By the sun’s setting Jemma was screaming with each pain. He’d given her a stick to bite down on, but she’d said something rude to that and screamed the louder.

  He roasted the rabbit but ate none. Ripped his spare shirt to rags that he soaked to bathe Jemma’s face. Kept back enough to wrap the bairn. And waited.

  He was kneeling beside her as dusk descended, sick in his gut with uselessness, when an arrow thumped into the tree, inches above his head. With no more warning, the figures spilled from the darkening forest.

  Bolting to his feet, Alex stood between Jemma and the painted warriors who formed a half-circle around them. He looked swiftly for the hatchet. It lay on the other side of the fire.

  One of the warriors lunged for it himself.

  Herself. It was a woman, the only one with hair flowing to her waist. Painted like the rest in loops and whorls of red and black, brown legs bared in a breechclout, she came forward into the firelight, halting a few paces from him. One hand gripped a spear, the other his hatchet. Dark eyes menaced in a face strikingly feminine despite the garish paint. She spoke words he couldn’t comprehend while the men held back, two with arrows nocked, one with a musket leveled, the rest with spears or tomahawks clenched. Six in all, not counting the woman, whom he wasn’t fool enough to discount.

  Behind him on the ground, Jemma started another moan.

  The men stepped back a pace, leaving Alex and the woman facing each other.

  “Ye willna touch her,” he said. “Save ye kill me first.”

  The woman’s gaze shifted to Jemma. “Child come.”

  Stunned by the English words, Alex sought for a coherent reply. “Aye. No—the bairn willna come.”

  He locked gazes with the woman. Reaching some decision, she tossed aside the hatchet—well beyond his reach—and turned to address the men. She handed her spear to the youngest, then gestured at the fire, saying to Alex, “Go.”

  When he hesitated, she tapped her chest with a fist. “Help mother.”

  More weak-kneed with relief than fear, he obeyed. The warriors made a path for him to the fire, where he stood, too wary to sit among them. To a man they were well-built, though he was nearly a head taller than the tallest, a lithe warrior with small eyes deep-set, hair plucked to a scalp-lock above a hatchet-blade face painted black across its upper half. Feathers stood up like a crest from the back of his head. Two bloody scalps, long and black, hung from his belt sash.

  Jemma screamed. Alex whirled to find her clutching one of the woman’s hands, face contorted. The woman’s other hand moved over the mound of Jemma’s belly, sure as a midwife’s.

  Exhaustion shuddered through him. He had to sit down, never mind he was surrounded by warriors who looked as if they’d gut him should the woman give them leave. Two of their number, the oldest and Hatchet-Face, took up station, one to either side of him. Alex ignored them, his gaze on Jemma, but looked away when the examination became more intimate.

  The warriors put their backs to the ongoing drama, except the youngest, a lad with the lankiness of one in his teens, who alone seemed interested in the birthing. The rest watched Alex with looks ranging from mistrust to hostility. He’d expected to be bound, but they’d refrained, as if they knew the only binding needed was Jemma, whose screams went on as the night deepened, growing hoarse and weak despite the woman’s efforts.

  The youngest warrior looked frequently over his shoulder at Jemma, face gleaming in the light of a fire that now and again he fed with sticks. The lad had stiffened more than once, looking ready to leap to his feet. At last he spoke, addressing the oldest warrior standing at Alex’s shoulder, who gave a gruff reply. The young one shook his head, features set in determination.

  The warriors followed the conversation, faces disapproving, but before any who reached to stop him could do so, the young one was on his feet and crossing the clearing to the oak tree where Jemma labored. The woman looked up, painted face grim. The lad spoke. The woman hesitated, then nodded.

  “What’s he doing?” Alex started to rise. Firm hands held him down.

  He struggled briefly before resigning himself to watching as the youth crouched beside Jemma, placed his hands flat against her belly, and muttered, “Fah-der-in-heh-ven. Fah-der-in-heh-ven. Fah-der-in-heh-ven.”

  The lad repeated the phrase, rocking and praying—surely what he was doing—until Jemma gave a cry and sat up, grasping the woman’s hand and one of the lad’s. The woman spoke. Jemma nodded violently. Together they pulled her to her knees. At an order from the woman, the young warrior, looking no longer determined but terrified, got behind Jemma to support her. By the evident strain on her face, she was bearing down.

  “Father in heaven?” Alex muttered, drawing the gazes of the warriors nearest him, now talking excitedly among themselves.

  The woman was speaking, too, terse and urgent. Alex didn’t want to look again but did, to see Jemma fallen back into the lad’s arms and the woman with a slick and squalling bairn in her hands.

  Alex was too stunned to rise.

  The woman washed the bairn and wrapped it in a skin. She laid it beside Jemma, then came to stand before him. She pointed at mother and child. “You?”

  Did they think he’d fathered the bairn?

  “The child isna mine.” Whether she understood or not, he’d had enough of their restraint. Ignoring grasping hands, he rose. At a word from the woman, they let him go.

  He squatted b
eside Jemma. “Mo nighean?”

  “Mister Alex.” Her voice was a thread. “Got me a boy.”

  “Aye, he’s bonny,” he said, though he’d barely glimpsed the bairn in the oak’s shadow. The young warrior still knelt beside Jemma, protective as a new father. Alex eyed him warily. “Jemma, d’ye ken whether these people are Cherokees?”

  Her eyes drifted shut. “I hope so…”

  He lifted the bairn from her unresisting arms. “Jemma?”

  She was fast asleep. He eased her onto her side and lay the bairn beside her, then rose to face the woman and her warriors, all now on their feet.

  * * *

  “His name’s Runs-Far,” Jemma told him, nodding at the youngest of the warriors, all of whom were still asleep or quiet at the fire. “He knows some English. See that one with the gray in his hair? That his daddy. He ain’t their leader, though. It’s the woman!”

  “I’d worked out that much.” Alex knelt in matted oak leaves beside Jemma, who was propped against the tree, cradling her son. “D’ye ken what they’re doing hereabouts, all painted?”

  Or they had been. Most had washed their faces and bodies. It was morning, gray and overcast. The warriors had stayed with them through the night, always a few awake and watchful. Though the men ignored Jemma—save for Runs-Far—they’d given Alex little rest. Without apparent provocation, now and again one would feign to attack him. The hatchet-faced warrior started it, with a silent rush he’d made no attempt to conceal. Alex had leapt up to meet it. Those awake watched with interest as they grappled, struggling for mastery of Hatchet-Face’s knife—until a word from the woman broke them apart and the warrior swaggered back to his place by the fire, leaving Alex tensed, blood singing but unspilled.

  Through the night, others followed Hatchet-Face’s lead, leaving Alex bruised and scraped. He’d given back the same. Once he’d turned a blade and drew a bloody score down a warrior’s arm. He’d expected swift—and deadly—retaliation, but the warrior merely withdrew to tend the wound.

  The woman watched it all, gaze keen with speculation.

  Near dawn he’d been allowed to sleep at Jemma’s side, but roused when she woke in need of tending her son, who was making urgent noises of hunger. With a confidence—and immodesty—Alex found disconcerting, Jemma pulled down the neck of her shirt and put the infant to a breast.

  After a moment she giggled. “Look at him. She showed me how to do it.” Jemma canted her head at the woman, asleep nearby.

  “What do they mean to do with us?” he asked. “That lad give ye any notion?”

  Jemma watched her baby nurse. “Reckon they’d have killed us by now if they meant to?”

  In no wise certain, he stayed near Jemma, keeping the fire in view. “How do they ken the English they do? From traders, d’ye think?”

  “I tried asking. Runs-Far pointed at himself, said something like tee-muh-tee.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Mister Alex, I got no idea. Maybe we ’bout to find out.”

  The woman had sat up, wide awake. Ignoring Alex, she appraised Jemma in the graying light. “You walk?”

  Jemma nodded. The woman moved to the fire. Alex glared after her. “She means for ye to walk? Where?”

  “Wherever they going, I reckon.”

  “Can ye walk?”

  “I’m sore as kingdom come, but reckon I better try.”

  Alex crouched on the balls of his feet. “No, Jemma. I willna let them take ye.”

  Jemma reared back her head. “Don’t cause trouble, Mister Alex. Just go along. I want to.”

  “I canna let—” He broke off his words as the woman returned. She’d brought them each a strip of jerked meat to gnaw.

  “S’gi,” Jemma said with a smile the woman returned.

  “Hawa,” she said.

  Hoping Jemma’s word meant thanks, Alex echoed it. “Ye’re learning their words already?” he asked once the woman drew off again.

  “Just what I said. I think she said you’re welcome. I mean to get Runs-Far to tell me more.”

  As soon as Alex helped Jemma up, two warriors flanked him. He swept the clearing with an assessing gaze. Before he could decide whether to take down the nearest or make a lunge for the one who’d left his hunting knife lying, Hatchet-Face took up his knapsack, then lowered it quickly, looking at Alex with surprise.

  Mouth set in determination, the warrior hefted the pack again.

  Everyone was watching, Alex noted. He could take Hatchet-Face now, if he could get free of the two gripping his arms. He shot a glance at Jemma. She was glaring back at him, shaking her head in warning.

  Iron clanked as Hatchet-Face dropped the knapsack, neck veins standing out from the strain.

  The oldest warrior was next to give it a go. His brows shot high when he tested the knapsack’s weight. He gave it a half-hearted try before setting it down. After that all the warriors had a turn. It evolved into a congenial competition, with hooting and shoving, until at last the woman, sounding very like an exasperated mother, said something that made them desist.

  Hatchet-Face rummaged through the knapsack and removed the hammer and other implements. Alex thought he meant to parcel them out, but the older warrior stopped him. Looking displeased, Hatchet-Face replaced the tools, motioned Alex over, and gestured for him to don it.

  He did so, well used to the weight. A few of the warriors made noises of appreciation.

  They let him carry the pack, his hands tied before him. Jemma’s son was bound against her in a sling the woman fashioned.

  The lass came up beside him as the warriors filed out of camp, headed westward along the river’s course. The woman waited until Runs-Far started after the warriors, then gestured for Alex and Jemma to follow. Runs-Far glanced back as they started off through a stretch of woods.

  “Yon laddie seems taken with ye,” Alex said to Jemma’s crown of tousled hair. “Why do the other men keep their distance?”

  The reply came from behind him. “Woman bleed. Luck bad—for man.”

  Alex glanced back at the woman, who wore no face paint now. She was older than he by a decade, he guessed, though vigorous and strong, with thick hair smoothly plaited.

  “Blood and bad luck gang together, do they?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Jemma said, “I don’t know. The others seem vexed with Runs-Far this morning.”

  Recognizing his name, the lad glanced back again.

  “Anything else ye talk of I should ken?”

  “I asked Runs-Far were they Cherokees. He nodded yes, then called them all something sounded like Ani-un-wiya.”

  If they were Cherokees, then the lass had got her wish. She’d found her people, and all signs pointed to their meaning to keep her. Judging by the looks of those glancing back to see he came along docilely, his own fate seemed less certain. They’d been testing him in the night, but for what purpose he’d no notion.

  30

  JULY 1748

  Despite the uncertainty awaiting at journey’s end, with each day they traveled deeper into the mountains, Alex regretted the situation less. The rounded, sometimes craggy peaks were somehow both akin to Scotland’s windswept heights, yet not at all like them. Here were slopes so thickly wooded no sunlight penetrated, until they emerged along a high ridgeline or bald. Then the prospect of layer upon layer of ridges and coves, unfolding before his eyes like ribbons tossed by giant hands, would make him catch his breath and marvel.

  “You good feeling here?”

  He’d been standing with his face lifted to the sun, wind caressing his skin, the air in his lungs pure intoxication, but looked down to see the woman come to stand beside him on a promontory overlooking one of those many-layered views. Jemma, picking up their language with studied resolve, had told Runs-Far about her grandmother, Looks-At-The-Sun.
He’d relayed the information to the woman—called Blackbird—who thought she recalled a woman by that name. Jemma was beside herself.

  “Runs-Far’s calling me their word for walnut,” she’d said their third day out. “On account I’m colored like one.”

  A nut-brown maid if ever he’d seen one, she’d taken to motherhood as she’d done the Cherokees. The furtive shadow of slavery was slipping from her as they moved westward. Not surprisingly. The very air of that place tasted of freedom. Blackbird had ordered him left unbound that morning.

  “Aye,” he told her now. “A verra good feeling.” He tried to read her gaze, keen to discover what she meant to do with them, but she moved away to speak to the warriors who’d paused to share the water skins among them.

  Jemma appeared beside him, the bairn snug in his sling. “Wish some folk at Severn could see this.”

  Thinking of one in particular, Alex looked westward where ridge and valley dipped and broke like the cresting of rough seas.

  “You thinking of Miss Joanna?” When he looked sharply down at her, Jemma made a tsking sound. “I saw how you was with her.”

  “I’ll tell ye something of Joanna,” he said, “then I dinna mean again to speak of her. I wanted to take her away from Severn. She wouldna think of leaving it.”

  “That surprised you? Then you don’t know her like you think.”

  Leaving him gazing after her, Jemma went to Blackbird and asked for water, which she was readily given.

  Alex had lost track of how far they’d traveled. Summer had deepened, likely nearing a year since the Charlotte-Ann dropped anchor in Wilmington, with him thinking seven years at sea would be his lot—unless he escaped back to Barra and his life before the Rising, a life that now seemed as substantial as a dream. Even the months at Severn seemed a lifetime ago. Still, the image of Joanna remained vivid in his mind. Ought he to have stayed, given Carey a chance to realize his innocence, found a way to help Joanna? That notion she’d had of a different sort of life there, had it been so impossible?