Judith E. French

by Shawnee Moon

  The worst of the storm passed, but it continued to drizzle rain. The Indians built a small campfire in front of the unfinished cabins Sterling had been building for the bondsmen. Cailin thought she counted more than twenty warriors, but there was no sign of any other captives. The raiders laughed and talked to one another, and roasted what looked like the haunch of a horse over the coals before rolling up in blankets.

  She couldn’t understand why the Indians chose to make a wet camp instead of sleeping inside the house. That section of the clearing was dark. She saw no light from the window, heard no sounds of activity. It was puzzling. It wouldn’t be so hard to reason if her head didn’t hurt so much. She couldn’t remember being hit. So what was wrong with her, and how had she been injured?

  Jasper. She fought off the urge to drift into unconsciousness. Who was caring for the baby? He was alive. She’d heard him crying. She almost wished that she’d asked Ohneya to let her tend the infant. She hoped they hadn’t left him lying in the rain. A darker suspicion nagged at the corner of her mind, but she wouldn’t let herself imagine that possibility. Surely the Indians would show mercy toward a helpless child. If they hadn’t killed him during the attack, they must mean to do right by him.

  Minutes passed and then hours. No one came to her, and no one stirred. She thought she slept for short bits of time. On the far side of the clearing, she heard two Indians call to each other, but they were too far away for her to see in the dark. Sometime later, she heard an owl hoot, but she wasn’t certain if it was a real bird or some signal.

  Suddenly, she was fully alert as a sense of being watched came over her. Fearful, she looked around, straining at her bonds. And to her surprise and relief, the wet leather ties on her left wrist loosened.

  She knew she should try to escape, but the overwhelming impression of eyes staring at her was unnerving. She held her breath and peered intently into the tangled shadows of the forest ... and heard a slight rustle of twigs.

  Cailin’s skin prickled as the outline of a wolf materialized from the darkness just beyond the cart. Her sanity wavered as familiar glowing eyes flickered red, catching the reflection of the firelight.

  “You,” she whispered. “Go away.”

  The creature crouched down and crept closer until she could hear its heavy breathing. She wanted to scream, but she didn’t dare.

  Could this be the same wolf that had come to the campfire before Sterling had finished the house? Was it a pet as he’d suggested, or had it come to feast on the dead or the living? “Go away,” she pleaded.

  “Cailin.” Sterling’s voice was slurred and weak, but she knew him instantly.

  “Sterling?”

  “Here. On ... on the cart wheel.”

  For a moment, that confused her. “But I’m ...” she began. Then she realized that he was tied to the wheel on the opposite side. Had he been there all along? “You’re alive?”

  “Have you lost your wits, woman? Do I sound like an angel?”

  She almost laughed. Then she sobered, remembering his snakebite ... remembering how she’d seen him last, overwhelmed by the enemy “How bad are ye hurt?” She yanked frantically at her wrist bindings, slipped her left hand free, and began to work on the other one.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Men. They were all as crazy as bedlamites, she decided. “What do ye mean, it doesn’t matter? Of course, it matters.” She squirmed and dug at the cruel rawhide knot, but the lashing held, cutting deeper into her wrist.

  “My arm ... is swollen as thick around as my leg.”

  She gave up on the wrist ties and concentrated on getting her ankles loose. “Wait,” she said. “I’ll come to ye.” She kicked hard, and the final thong snapped. Still attached to the wheel by her right hand, she squirmed under the cart and strained to touch him. “I’m here,” she whispered. “Can ye—”

  Warm fingers brushed her, and she grabbed hold of them. Sterling groaned.

  “Oh. Is that your ...” She didn’t finish. It was his bad arm. His fingers were swollen beyond belief. “Be the pain bad?” She felt a shudder ripple through his hand.

  “Not so bad,” he said.

  She knew he was lying. “Ye should have hidden,” she said quickly. “Ye shouldn’t have tried to fight them.”

  He gave a scornful chuckle. “You didn’t do so bad yourself,” he said. “For a Highlander.”

  “Sterling, dinna ...” A lump rose in her throat. When she’d thought he was dead, when she’d expected to die at any second, she could maintain some control. But now that she’d found out he was alive and possibly dying ... She lifted his poor hand to her cheek and tried to hold back the sobs. “I was wrong,” she admitted. “I didn’t love ye when I could ... and now ... Oh, Sterling, don’t leave me.” She kissed his palm and found the flesh torn and ragged. “Please,” she begged him. “Don’t die on me.” “Cailin. Listen to me.” His tone was suddenly frigid.

  “I’m almost free,” she interrupted. “I’ll get ye loose, and we’ll escape. We’ll cross the river and—”

  “Cailin.”

  Softly, he spoke. But each word was a knife thrust into her heart. “Don’t say it. We’ll get away together,” she insisted.

  “I can’t walk.”

  “Of course, ye can walk. I’ll help—”

  “No. Do as I say. For once, Cailin. There isn’t much time.”

  “The wolf is back,” she said. She wouldn’t pay heed to what he was saying. He wanted her to escape without him. But that was crazy. “Did you see the wolf, Sterling?” -

  “I see him. He’s been here since the storm.”

  “Just let me get my other hand—”

  “Cailin. I can’t walk, and you can’t carry me.”

  “I’ll think of something,” she sobbed. “I’ll drag—”

  “I want you to untie yourself and go to the house,” he continued, as though she’d not spoken. “They tried to burn it, but the storm put out the fire. Hide in the chimney. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear. Wait until the war party is gone, then go to the Shawnee village and find Moonfeather.”

  “Go to the village? When the Shawnee came here and—”

  “These aren’t Shawnee, Cailin,” he said harshly. “These are Iroquois, Mohawk to be exact, come down from New York for scalps and booty. The Iroquois are blood enemies to my mother’s people.”

  “But Kate told me the Iroquois have a treaty with King George. They’re friendly—”

  “Kate is a fool if she believes that. The Iroquois have spent the last three hundred years trying to make slaves of the Delaware and the Shawnee. They are friendly all right—to their own interests. And they’ll slaughter English settlers or soldiers with as much enthusiasm as they will the French. Go to the Shawnee. You’ll be safe with them.”

  “You expect me to leave you—”

  “I do.”

  “Nay.” It was unthinkable.

  “You can do nothing for me but live.”

  “I don’t want to live without you,” she whispered brokenly.

  “Everyone is dead. Men, women, they’re all dead.”

  “But they kept us alive,” she argued. “Why—”

  “They kept us for sport. You don’t have much time. If you run, they’ll track you down, but they’d never find you inside the chimney. Now, get into that damned hole in the bricks and stay there.”

  “I can’t leave ye,” she pleaded. “Why should I—”

  “I understand a little Mohawk, Cailin. At dawn, they mean to head north to their own hunting grounds. But before they leave, they intend to burn us both at the stake.”

  Chapter 17

  It was mid-afternoon on the following day before Cailin ventured from the priest’s hole in the chimney. She was torn between not knowing Sterling’s fate and the overwhelming dread that she would find his mutilated body waiting for her. Her feet were swollen and so painful that she could hardly walk on them, and she was plagued by thirst and hunger.

 
; She’d not heard any sounds of humans for many hours. Overhead, a mockingbird perched on the chimney and chirped a saucy refrain. Cailin could wait no longer. With bated breath, she climbed down into the blackened hearth and crept across the great room floor.

  The door stood open. Trembling, Cailin forced herself to step outside. No amount of self-control could stop the single scream that ripped from her throat when she saw buzzards flocking around the sprawled bodies in the yard.

  “No!” she cried. “Leave them alone!” She ran at the scavengers, waving her arms like a madwoman. She didn’t stop running until she reached the river and waded into it. She dropped to her knees and drank, trying to ignore the stinging in her feet.

  And then she realized she’d seen nothing that looked like a torture stake. Laughing hysterically, she retraced her steps, .going from body to body, identify- , ing each man. She found Joe and Isaac’s mutilated remains and those of Phoebe’s husband. But there was no sign of Jasper or his mother ... or of Sterling.

  She ran to the cart. On the side where she’d been tied were the remains of the leather thongs that had held her to the spokes of the wheel. On Sterling’s side, she saw nothing but muddy earth and fresh hoofprints mingled with the marks of moccasins and the deeper indentations of Sterling’s boot heels. And a short distance away, she saw what looked like a single pawprint.

  Cailin’s mind reeled. Sterling couldn’t walk. Was it possible that the Mohawks had carried him away on horseback? Did that mean that they’d changed their plan to burn him ... or did it mean simply a delay in the execution?

  She couldn’t accept that possibility. For whatever reason, her husband was alive, and he would remain alive until she saw his dead body with her own eyes.

  She went to the well and leaned over to lower the bucket ... and found baby Jasper.

  Rage brought her back to full sanity. She hadn’t the strength to bury all the dead, but she’d be damned if she’d leave Jasper in the bottom of the well. Getting him up took nearly an hour. Finally, when all else failed, she used a branch to make an open loop in the end of the bucket rope and snagged one tiny leg.

  She wrapped him in the remains of her cloak and made a deep nest for him in the garden. The pippin apple would do for a headstone, and rocks would keep the scavengers from his remains. She tried to pray, but her words sounded hollow. An innocent child would have no need of her prayers to find God’s mercy. In the end, she commended his soul to the Lord and sang an old Scots lullaby that Corey had always liked to hear at bedtime.

  Then she set about dragging Sterling’s people into the house. It was nearly dusk when she rolled the last one over the sill. The stuffing of feather ticks provided the tinder, her remaining furniture the fuel. Using flint and steel, she struck a spark. When the cabin was blazing, she turned away and began to follow the river west.

  Moonfeather had told her that the camp was two days’ march; it took Cailin three and a half. She’d been unable to get her shoes on, so she’d walked the distance barefoot. And by the time a Shawnee hunter found her, she was out of her head with fever and exhaustion.

  Cailin was only partially aware that a man had plucked her from the shallows of the river and was carrying her into the village. And when Moonfeather’s face hovered over hers, Cailin wasn’t sure if she was real or a dream.

  “We were attacked,” she whispered hoarsely. “Mohawks. Sterling ... said ... Sterling said they ... were Mohawks.”

  “Is he alive?” Moonfeather demanded.

  Cailin nodded. “I think so. He said they were going to burn him, but they didn’t.”

  • “They took him captive?” the peace woman asked.

  “Aye. I saw hoofprints in the mud. He couldn’t walk. He was bitten by a snake.”

  “Do you know what Mohawks they were? Of what band? Did Sterling tell you a name?”

  “Ohneya. One man’s name was Ohneya. I think he was the leader.”

  “Ohneya.” Moonfeather’s brow furrowed. “This one has heard of Ohneya. He is a war chief ... a man who has taken many scalps.”

  “Aye. I saw him take another.”

  “How many dead?” Moonfeather asked.

  “All of them ... all of them.” Cailin seized her hand and peered into her face. “Even Jasper. He was a baby ... a baby. He was crying, and then ... ” She shook her head. “It’s nay right. Not a wee bairn.”

  The Indian woman touched her cheek. “Nay,” she agreed softly. “It’s wrong to hurt a child, white or red. Children belong to the Creator.” Her great liquid brown eyes glistened with moisture. “You’re certain Na-nata Ki-tehi—Sterling—wasn’t killed? Ye couldn’t have missed his body?”

  “Nay. We have to find him before—”

  “We will call a council,” Moonfeather assured her. “Now, you must eat and sleep. Your feet are badly injured. Rest now, you are with friends. We will care for you.”

  “But Sterling,” Cailin insisted. “Sterling is—”

  “He is Shawnee,” Moonfeather said. “He belongs to us, and we look after our own.”

  Cailin lost track of time. Night came and then morning ... or was it afternoon? She could see the dappling of sunlight play across the hard-packed dirt floor of the hut. She slept on a wide, soft bed. And when she lay on her back and looked up, a roof of bark curved pleasingly overhead.

  Any fears she might have had of being helpless among the Indians soon faded. Gentle hands spooned soup into her mouth and covered her with a light blanket in the night. Anxious copper-skinned faces stared back at her whenever she opened her eyes—some old and wrinkled, some young. But every face showed only compassion. And if she couldn’t understand the soft, lisping words, she needed no translator to tell her that her visitors were offering comfort.

  At first, Cailin was conscious of a throbbing agony in her feet that lessened when someone bathed them and rubbed ointments into the blisters and sores. She heard Moonfeather’s assurances that she would be all right, and came to accept the steady beat of drums above the rushing sound of the river.

  Sleeping and waking, Cailin smelled the unfamiliar scents of dried herbs and the contents of mysterious baskets hanging from the hut framework. Delicious odors of corn cakes baking on flat rocks drifted through the open doorway. It seemed as though all she did was eat and sleep, lulled by the rhythm of the peaceful village. ’,

  Until she opened her eyes to find a white man standing over her, holding her amulet. Cailin sat bolt upright.

  “Easy, easy, child,” he cautioned. He let go of the necklace and moved back. “I’ll nay harm you,” he said.

  Nearly buried beneath the fine speech of an English gentleman, Cailin heard the Scot’s Highland lilt. “Who are ye?” she demanded.

  The smiling man was no longer young; his hair had turned an iron-gray, and his face was lined with experience. But his shoulders were still broad, and he was still handsome enough to turn a woman’s eye.

  “Do I know ye?” she asked.

  Moonfeather entered the wigwam and pulled the I doorflap closed. “Someone special has come to meet ye,” she said.

  “I can see that,” Cailin said, sliding her legs over the side of the platform. She was decently dressed, she was glad to discover. In place of her ragged shift was a robin’s-egg-blue dress of cotton with a darker blue underskirt. “What I’d like to—”

  “What is your name?” the stranger asked her. “I know you’re the wife of Sterling Gray, but what was your maiden name, and where exactly were you born?”

  “What business is it of yours, sir?” she replied.

  “Your mother. Who was she?”

  “I’ve no Wish to play your game,” she replied sharply. Something was not right. Nervously, she glanced at Moonfeather. Sterling had said that she could trust Lady Kentington, and Cailin’s own instincts agreed.

  The peace woman smiled reassuringly. “Na-nata Ki-tehi, who you call Sterling, told me that your necklace was a family heirloom. Do you know where it came from?”

  Ca
ilin clasped the amulet. It felt curiously warm to the touch, almost alive. Oddly, the sensation was not disturbing; instead, it made her feel safe. “I don’t understand why you’re so interested in my pendant.”

  “The Eye of Mist,” the gentleman said. “It has great power—I wonder if you realize how much.”

  She looked into his face. His cheeks were stained with tears.

  “The Eye of Mist is Pictish gold,” he continued. “According to legend, it must be handed down from mother to daughter. I only wish you to tell me if it came from your mother’s family of—”

  “It was a birth gift from the man who sired me,” she snapped. “A man I have never seen, but one who wished me ill.”

  “Nay,” he answered huskily. “Never that.”

  “If ye ken so much about the necklace, then ye must know that it is cursed,” Cailin said.

  “And blessed,” Moonfeather put in.

  Cailin stiffened with resentment. “I’ve seen little of the blessing.”

  The man covered her hand with his. “The blessing is that ye will be granted one wish. Whatever you ask you shall have—even unto the power of life and death.”

  “Who are ye?” Cailin demanded, snatching her hand away. “And how can ye ken so much of my affairs?”

  “I am Cameron Stewart,” he said. “And you are the child I got on the fairest lass in all the Highlands, my cousin, Elspeth Stewart.”

  “Ye lie!” Cailin felt the blood drain from her face. “It canna be.”

  “It is, child,” he said. “On my mother’s soul, I vow it’s true. You are the babe Elspeth and I conceived, and she brought forth and raised alone.”

  “You lie. My mother’s name was not Stewart when I was conceived,” Cailin protested hotly. “My mother was the wife of another.”

  “Not the wife, but the widow,” Cameron corrected. “And she was in danger of losing all she had to her husband’s family because there was no lawful heir.”