by Mez Blume
Now, pulling on my moccasins, I tiptoed over to the log as quietly as I could, reached over Imogen for the package, and returned to my mat with it. I untied the bit of twine and peeled back the layers of cloth. Inside was a soft, leather journal, about the size of a photo album and tied with a leather strip. I unfastened it and folded back the leather cover.
I stared motionless at the picture in my lap. Was it my sleepy brain or just the dark making my eyes play tricks on me? Pushing myself up, I walked on my knees closer to the dying fire and held the open journal up to the embers. My hands began to shake as I slumped down onto the ground.
I was wide awake. This was no dream. In my hands was a painting of a girl sitting on a giant black horse. My shaking hand reached up for the chain around my neck. I prised open the locket. The tiny painting inside showed the same horse. And the girl, well, I’d have known her anywhere. She was me.
19
Journey to the Garrison
When dawn came, part of me wanted more than anything to hold the painting in front of Imogen’s face and say, “What did I tell you?” But I fought back the urge. Instead, I carefully rolled up the painting in its leather wrapping and tucked it safely and secretly away in my quiver.
I needed to work this one out by myself. I can’t tell Wattie, and Imogen wouldn’t understand, I told myself. She’d probably just get stroppy and tell me to march back up that mountain and demand that Old Grizzly tell me everything. The thought of doing that turned my blood to ice. I could just imagine that bear of a man would probably shoot me for trespassing before I got so much as a word in.
I just needed to think … to make sense of the painting. If Ramona had left Nickajack eight years ago, when could she have painted it? How could she have known about Vagabond … about me? I’d spent ages the night before examining every inch of the painting for a date or any kind of clues. All I’d found was a tiny, ink kingfisher in the bottom right-hand corner. I guessed it must’ve been Ramona’s signature. She obviously had a thing for the birds, naming her daughter after them.
If I could only speak to Ka-Ti again, I thought. Then I reminded myself, if she could only speak at all. But maybe, just maybe with Wattie’s help, I could see her in private … try to get more information about her mother. We’d be coming back past Raccoon Mountain in a couple of days. I’d have time to think of a plan before then.
Meanwhile, we still had our mission to Hiwassee Garrison, and no time to lose if we were to prevent Lovegood from whatever horrible attack he was planning on Nickajack. I’d just have to keep my eyes open for any clues along the way.
I tried hard to feel hopeful as we pushed off in the canoe that morning through a cold, dense mist. The weight of the secret painting was bearing down on me, and Imogen’s bad mood certainly wasn’t helping. Her spirits had remained in the doldrums all that morning as we packed up camp, her scowl never budging even when Wattie helped her into the canoe and cushioned her foot with furs and sacks.
Though I wasn’t making such a show of it, my spirits were feeling pretty stuck in the mud too. I had been so sure I’d find answers, and all I’d come away with were more questions. I felt as though something had been snatched out of my hands; what was more, I had to admit to myself that Imogen and I really were in a pickle now, and it was all up to me to fix it.
The weather matched Imogen’s temper all that morning. The fog fell so heavy across the river, sometimes we couldn’t even see one another clearly in the canoe, let alone what lay ahead. We were forced to crawl along at such a slow pace that there was no time to stop for rations.
“Was that your stomach or mine?” It was the first time Imogen had spoken to me in hours.
“What?”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “That rumbling. Was it your stomach? Because I for one am starving and I just wondered if other people were too.”
“It wasn’t mine … wait a second.” I listened and heard a definite low rumbling noise, but it wasn’t coming from inside the boat at all. It came from the sky where a mass of black clouds was careening in our direction like a herd of wild horses.
“Um, Wattie?”
He turned and followed my eyes towards the menacing storm headed our way. “Lord, help us,” he whispered and started paddling as fast as he could. I stuck in my paddle and tried to keep up. All the while the cloud mass drew nearer, the rumblings louder. We were just a stroke away from the shore when the clouds broke loose. Bullet-hard raindrops pummeled us as lightening flashed across the sky with an ear-splitting crack. Wattie was out in the water in a flash, dragging the canoe to shore, throwing all its contents onto the bank, then lifting Imogen out and setting her down in the mud.
“We’ve got to turn it over!” Wattie shouted over the deafening rainfall.
I followed and grabbed both sides of the canoe. Then, on Wattie’s count— 1-2-3! —we lifted it, flipping the bottom up over our heads and sitting down. It felt like being inside a giant’s helmet in battle. The canoe was taking a mighty beating, but we were safe.
For a second, we were silent. Then Wattie began to laugh and hoot as if he were enjoying a theme park ride. I found myself smiling and looked over at Imogen. She was hugging her knees in to her chest, sniffling, her teeth chattering. She wiped her face on her wet sleeve, but I could swear more droplets were falling from her eyes. I looked away with a guilty twist in my stomach. Something told me it wasn’t the storm that had got to Imogen, but the real and growing fear of never getting home.
The storm passed as quickly as it had sneaked up on us, leaving a muggy mist behind it. Imogen never said a word as we shook the water off our bundles and pushed back off down the steamy river as if nothing had happened.
The mountains soon flattened into meadows, and the river broadened out into marshland. Out of the clearing mist up ahead, an enormous flag on a tall pole was furling and unfurling itself. It had red and white stripes, just like any American flag, but the stars were arranged in a circle instead of in rows against the blue.
“What’s that flag doing there?” I asked Wattie.
“It’s marking the Garrison,” Wattie shouted over his shoulder. And then I saw, getting clearer and clearer as we paddled nearer, the lookout towers and tall tree-post walls rising up out of the fog, and my stomach did a somersault as I realised I was about to meet the Governor dripping wet and covered in mud.
20
A Blunt Audience
We did our best to freshen up before approaching the Garrison, scrubbing our faces and arms in the river. Wattie unrolled a bundle of clothes he’d packed especially for meeting the Governor and disappeared with them behind a bunch of shrubs.
“Why didn’t we bring a change of clothes?” Imogen moaned. She was leaning on her crutch and looking down with a grimace at her mud-stained, soggy dress. I looked her over and had to admit that she did look terrible. And not just because of the sopping clothes. Her blonde and black hair hung in limp strands around her face which had gone a shade paler than normal. But what really startled me were her eyes. They weren’t bored or sarcastic anymore. All the confidence, all the fiery temper had drained out of them. They were just … hollow.
“Are you all right, Immy?” I muttered.
Her hollow eyes looked into mine. “What do you think?” Then she looked away again.
For a fleeting second, I thought about showing her the painting, then imagined the rant that might follow and decided against it. Instead, I said, “I haven’t given up, you know. I’ll find a way home.”
She made a noise that sounded something between a sigh and a laugh.
Just then, Wattie reappeared in a smart—if slightly damp—suit. He looked much older dressed like that, and suddenly I was feeling a little self-conscious too. “Do you think they’ll let us see the Governor dressed like this? I mean, you look fine, but we look like a couple of lost orphans.”
He looked at the two of us a moment, biting his lip, then shrugged. “Governor Blunt knows my father. He’ll see us, cl
ean clothes or not.” He became suddenly sombre. “He has to see us. He has to put a stop to Lovegood today, before that scoundrel descends on Nickajack and starts driving people from their homes.”
I knew what he was thinking. None of us had said it, but we each knew painfully well that it had been three days since the Stomp Dance. Today, the people of Nickajack would be faced with a decision between remaining in their homes or facing a new onslaught of attacks unless we could put a stop to it first. It was all down to this moment. We had to persuade the Governor that Lovegood was a crook, or… I shuddered at the thought of Ulma and Little Beaver shivering in the cold night air as their home went up in flames. “Let’s do this,” I said with a sudden rush of urgency. “There’s no time to lose.”
Wattie led us up the bank to the broad road that ran to the Garrison. We had to stick to the muddy side as a steady stream of carriages and men on horses passed us by.
“I’ve been to the Garrison many times before,” Wattie said as a large black carriage pulled by a team of four horses drove past, spraying us with a fine mist of mud. “But I’ve never seen the road quite so busy.”
We soon found out the reason for all the traffic when we arrived at the tall, wood-post gates. Two guards were just pulling them shut and about to drop a heavy crossbeam to lock them.
“Wait a moment!” Wattie shouted, quickening his pace. “We need to enter the Garrison!”
“Name and business?” one of the men in a navy coat and flat black cap demanded.
Wattie cleared his throat. “I’m William McKay. My friends and I are here to speak with Governor Blunt.”
The guard didn’t move his head, but his eyes scanned each one of us before he answered. “Governor Blunt’s a busy man. What matter of business do you wish to discuss with him?”
Wattie’s face hardened. “It’s an urgent and a private matter, one intended for the Governor’s ears only.”
The other guard, an older man with a handlebar moustache, sauntered up to Wattie. “Now look here, boy. You ain’t gonna see the Gov’ner today. He’s entertainin’ a whole bushel of delegates over from England and don’t have time for a bunch of younguns, so you can just be gettin’ on your way, you hear?”
“You don’t understand.” Wattie sounded angry. His face was so close to the guard’s that their noses nearly touched.
“I don’t think you understand,” the guard said through his teeth and laid a hand on the gun at his side. I froze, debating whether to jump in or not, when, to my surprise, Imogen took a step forward on her crutch and cleared her throat.
“Listen, you numpties.”
All four of us turned to look at her with the same surprise on our faces.
Imogen continued with a roll of her eyes. “We know all about the delegates, obviously. I’m the daughter of one of the delegates.”
“Which delegate?” the older man demanded with some uncertainty.
Imogen pursed her lips and gave him a withering look. “Lord Humphreys is my father. Advisor to the Queen… ahem, I mean the King of England,” she answered coolly. “Father’s busy with all these tiresome delegation meetings, so I decided to go off for a bit of an explore. Only, I injured my leg, as you can see.” She raised her bandaged foot a little higher and both guards glanced at it. “Thankfully, I met these kind peasants.”
She gestured towards Wattie and me. He and I exchanged a look but didn’t dare interrupt.
“If they hadn’t mended me up and brought me back, who knows what would’ve happened to me in this God-forsaken wilderness?” As sudden as a snap, she dropped the pitiful tone and took on a commanding voice. “Now, will you please let us pass? I’m in a lot of pain, and I need to see my father immediately. I’d hate to tell him that the American guards had behaved in an ungentlemanly way.”
As if a general had just barked an order at them, both the guards sprang into action and pushed open the gate. The younger of them doffed his hat as we passed. “Beg your pardon, Miss. We didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“Hmph,” Imogen replied, and with the air of a queen, she stuck her nose in the air and hobbled through the gates with Wattie and me following in her train.
“That was incredible,” I whispered once the gates closed behind us. I had to admit it, Imogen’s performance deserved an award. In fact, it had earned an award: a free pass into the Garrison.
“Mum and Dad sent me to drama camp last summer,” she whispered back. “I hated it.”
“But at least it paid off,” I said.
She shrugged one shoulder and, with a slight smirk, answered, “I never said I wasn’t good at it.”
Once inside, Wattie took over, leading the way down the middle of a big, rectangular sandy courtyard. Long buildings with many doors ran down the right side. The other side looked much less official. There were greenhouses, a tanner and blacksmith’s shop, and… I stopped in front of the farrier, the familiar sound of snorts and stamping hooves grabbing my attention. A tall, grey horse was stamping temperamentally while the farrier tried to get hold of his foot. The farrier was getting nowhere, leaping backwards each and every time the horse stamped. I knew the horse the instant I saw him, tall and proud, just like his rider.
“Wattie,” I whispered, and gestured to the horse. “Lovegood’s,” I mouthed, then glanced around, nervous at the thought that if Lovegood’s horse was here, that meant Lovegood himself might be anywhere. At least that meant he wasn’t right that minute terrorising Nickajack, but undoubtedly, he’d be on his way soon. And if he found out the three of us were there to spoil his plans…
Shaking off the thought, I turned my attention to where Wattie was taking us. We were passing the stables on our right. Just on our left was a small rock building. Metal bars covered its one small window, and out in front there were wooden stocks with holes for prisoners’ heads and hands and dangling chains. I caught up with Wattie and whispered, “Is that the jailhouse where they kept Old Grizzly for three years?”
He glanced left and shook his head. “He did a few nights there, just until they sent him off to a workers’ prison.”
I grimaced at the thought of spending a night in that cold, stone shed. But just ahead of us was a much nicer sight. We’d reached the very end of the Garrison, which was filled entirely by a big brick house decorated with red, white and blue swags on the windowsills. The enormous American flag swayed above its chimneys.
We passed a man splitting wood and another tending to a flower bed as we reached the elegant stairway that led up to a double door with a brass knocker in the shape of an eagle.
“Is this the Governor’s office?” I asked, impressed by just how grand it was. Not exactly the rough, frontier fort I’d imagined.
“It’s the Governor’s mansion,” Wattie corrected. “But it’s also the headquarters for the Indian Agency, where most of the delegations between the United States and the Cherokee Nation take place.” Wattie smiled, and a look of relief spread across his face. “This is it, Katie Fire-Hair. We’ve made it, and now we can put everything to rights.” And with that, Wattie lifted the eagle and knocked three times.
The door opened and a stout maid with grey curls beneath her little cap stepped out on the landing, her hands folded in front of her stomach like she was about to recite a poem. “Can I help you?” she asked, casting a suspicious glance at Wattie, then grimacing outright at the sight of Imogen’s and my mud-spattered clothes.
Wattie again gave his name, and again explained we’d come from Nickajack on urgent business with the Governor. The woman pursed her lips, and Wattie hastily added, “The Governor knows my father, John McKay. He has joined him on several delegation trips to Washington.” The woman’s expression didn’t change, but she told us to wait and closed the door. When it opened again, she smiled and said with a polite nod. “Governor Blunt will see you now.”
Wattie and I shared a hopeful look. I was sure we were thinking the same thing. If the Governor was so quick to make time for us, then surely he was
the sort of man who would take immediate action to defend Nickajack. Lovegood’s game would soon be up.
The maid escorted us down a corridor lined with paintings of military heroes and battle scenes. At the very end of the corridor, she stopped and laid her hand on the shiny doorknob. “Wait here,” she ordered, and disappeared through the door.
When she didn’t immediately come back, Wattie turned to me. “I’m glad the two of you are here. I feel certain that when Governor Blunt hears your testimony first-hand, he’ll believe it.”
I gulped. I had imagined my job would be to nod and agree with the story that Wattie told the Governor. I hadn’t realised I was to be the spokesperson.
Wattie must’ve noticed my face fall. “You’ll do just fine,” he said reassuringly. “Just tell him what you saw that day in the woods.”
I nodded, reminding myself of Grasshopper’s last words to me— “I believe you have come to Nickajack for this purpose”—and felt courage lift my head a little higher.
Next thing, the door opened and the maid showed us inside a large room. We walked across a soft carpet and stood before a polished wooden desk in front of a picture window hung with yellow satin curtains.
The man at the desk had to push back his chair to stand up. He leaned back to support the weight of his bulging belly and lightly touched the desk with his fingers, posed in just the same way as many of the war heroes and presidential-looking characters in the hall paintings … only the Governor looked more like a prize pumpkin than a war hero. His fluffy grey hair was pulled back in a little ponytail with a ribbon. His face, like his belly, was round, double-chinned, lit up with a jolly, welcoming smile. I smiled back, wondering what on earth I had been so worried about. There was nothing intimidating about Governor Blunt. After facing Old Grizzly the day before, this felt more like meeting a teddy bear.