Little Bear and the Ladies

by Dani Haviland

  Morning Star set down the load of firewood and quickly kicked a stout chunk into the smoldering fire with one moccasined foot, as she reached down and picked up her son, admonishing him softly to wait just a moment longer.

  He quickly nosed-dived into her chest: he knew where his food supply was. She opened her dress and gasped sharply at his chomp. He suckled gently when he was tired and ready to go to sleep, but was voracious and insistent with his aggressive breakfasting. He slept all night now, which she and her husband appreciated, but the eight hours without nursing filled her breasts to overfull and made them uncomfortably firm.

  She stroked his long dark hair and gave him her full attention now that she had kick-started the fire. She leaned back against the wood and wattle wall of her new home and sighed, refusing to let any worry sneak into her morning routine.

  The Young One had come back from hunting yesterday, wearing a scowl that didn’t fit on his face. He had a three-point buck slung over his pony’s back and a half dozen rabbits over his shoulder; his best hunt this season. He was moving well, so hadn’t hurt himself, but something was different. She watched a moment longer and realized that he wasn’t walking with pride at his accomplishment as she would have expected. He had a detached aloofness, a warrior’s strut, or what she supposed one looked like.

  The Young One nodded to Morning Star and Rachel in greeting, then dropped his reins at their feet, letting them know that the game was theirs to prepare. They may have been born white women, but the tribe’s old grandmothers had shown them how to prepare and preserve food. Who knew, maybe he’d get a white wife, too. But with this new situation, he didn’t want to hope for anything except continued life for everyone in their little tribe.

  A group of white soldiers had come into their territory. He knew enough English to know they didn’t mean well. At least the scruffy-looking one didn’t. He seemed to spend too much time with the soldiers’ chief. The leader wasn’t an Englishman and, although he conversed with the raggedy man in English, he spoke to his soldiers in a different tongue, one he had never heard before. But he didn’t have to understand the words. The raggedy man was the one they had buried last year as punishment, the one who had abused the chief’s wife before she became one with him. The sniveling coward was back and was sure to want revenge.

  Ж

  Another blissfully boring, although a bit too chilly, winter day began. Everyone had breakfasted, and now the younger women were scraping hides while the three older women sewed beads and feathers on the new moccasins and headdress for Red Shirt. A celebration was planned.

  The tribe had gone through rough times with a measles outbreak and a shortage of game and food, but thanks to Marty—the white man they called Dances Naked—the recovery of the tribe was almost certain.

  Marty had been lost in the woods two summers ago and found by a hunting party that consisted of the three surviving braves of their tribe: Red Shirt, Number Two, and The Young One. The four men shared a meal, rescued a damsel in distress—Rachel—and punished her tormenter, her brother Grant. Chief Red Shirt was so impressed with the dynamic and sassy young woman that he claimed her as his wife. He would have taken her anyhow, but she also had a healthy young son, one who would now be his. She was not too bright, but had a nice round bottom and was sure to give him more children. And she was more than willing to become one with him.

  The crazy white man had been of great value to them, too. Dances Naked had used his horse, saddle, and the coins hidden in his vest to buy food so the tribe didn’t starve. He had also helped construct four new homes and stopped a major conflict within the tribe when a white woman wandered in. Prudence was told to leave, but Number Two quickly claimed the agreeable woman as his wife and new mother to his two children, replacing the one who had recently died of the red belly sickness. Marty was able to do some fast talking and peace ensued.

  Now called Morning Star, the new wife and Rachel were very content and worked well with the old women of the tribe. They learned how to live on and appreciate what the land and The Great Spirit provided.

  Ten months later, both young women bore sons.

  Yes, the tribe was growing, thriving. Life was peaceful and food was plentiful. A celebration was planned and with it, a new outfit for Chief Red Shirt.

  Ж

  One-Eyed Jack led Colonel Mannheim and his soldiers to a rise a quarter mile away from the Indian village. The only indication that the area was inhabited were telltale wisps of smoke rising from three small fires.

  “They’re down there, sir. Whole bunches of ‘em. It don’t look like much from here, but that’s because they’re tucked in amongst and betwixt the trees. We’ll have to go in right there,” he pointed to a gap below. “There’s also a narrow pass on the other side where they can sneak out if attacked, so you’d better position some men there, too.”

  “Thanks for your advice, Private. First, though, I’d like to ride in with a couple of men and talk with the chief. I don’t see how there could be dozens of warriors… Still, I guess they could be hiding stolen weapons.” The colonel turned around in his saddle. “Hermann, you and Fritz come with me. Sergeant Bressler, take the other men and position them so that if there is fighting, you can cut them off before they leave the area.”

  Grant picked a pebble out of his pocket and tossed it at the sergeant. Sergeant Bressler reached up and swatted it away, thinking it was a fly. Grant threw another, this time harder. That one got Bressler’s attention. He looked back to see who had thrown it. He should have guessed.

  “What?” he mouthed.

  Grant pointed his index finger at him, his thumb raised as if he had a pistol in his hand. His lips formed the soundless order, “Shoot him.”

  The sergeant grimaced, then nodded. The colonel may not be his favorite person in the whole world, but the men were his responsibility. If something happened to the officer in charge, they would become the problem of the next highest ranking soldier—him. And he definitely didn’t want to shoulder that burden. There was no way he’d shoot his commanding officer.

  But he wouldn’t let Grant know that. First, he wanted to pick his whisky-pickled brain to find out the details about that treasure he kept bragging about.

  Ж

  The sergeant led his twenty men to the far side of the little glade, keeping a wide berth so as not to be detected. He looked back and saw the colonel and his small contingent milling around silently, waiting to approach the encampment until the others were in place.

  And then he noticed it. Grant had disappeared. He groaned softly, but proceeded to position his men so egress by the Indians was cut off. He tied a handkerchief to the end of his saber and raised it high, signaling the colonel that they were in place.

  Colonel Mannheim appraised the small village. Except for the four mud huts, it looked more like a hunting party with women and children. One woman—a white woman—was leaned against one of the earthen abodes, nursing her baby. Before he could get her attention, to tell her that he was here to speak with the chief, a shot rang out.

  Whiz! Poof!

  It rang past his ear and embedded into the mud wall just inches from the woman’s head. She looked up, eyes wide with shock, but surprisingly, no scream escaped. She clutched her babe close to her and looked around, confused.

  A young brave burst into camp, running faster, if possible, than if he had been on horseback. “Run! Hide!” The Young One screamed.

  Rachel, Morning Star, and her stepdaughter, Little Sister, each grabbed a baby or two and ran for the woods, leaving the men and the old women to take care of themselves.

  Morning Star heard the ‘pop’ of a gun firing. She looked back .just as The Young One fell face first onto the ground. She didn’t need to, nor want to, see more. “Don’t look back!” she screamed to the others. “Just keep running!”

  Suddenly, Sergeant Bressler and his contingent were swarming over the area, shooting, slashing and hacking indiscriminately.

  Pop pop! Pop
pop! Pop pop pop!

  The guns firing didn’t cover the sounds of grunts and groans as the members of the tribe fell, slaughtered in their own peaceful village.

  “Stop! What did we do? Why are you killing us?” Old Woman shouted in her native tongue, but to no avail. She knew they didn’t understand her, but she still wanted to know. Why us?

  “Rachel! No!” Morning Star shouted. “They’ll kill you, too!”

  But it was too late. Rachel was running for her husband, Red Shirt. The chief had been caught without a weapon and was hand-to-hand fighting with a very tall man with a patch over one eye.

  Pop! Pop!

  And then her husband was dead.

  Colonel Mannheim had no idea who had shot first, but it couldn’t have been one of his men. “Grant,” he hissed.

  “Protect the women and children!” he screamed, but it was too late. An ancient crone with braids to her knees crumbled before him, her ceremonial hatchet clutched in her hands, held in front of the hole that blossomed red in her chest.

  “Halt! Stop! Enough!” He shouted, both in English and German. “This is not what we came here to do!”

  Gradually, the noises stopped. And then it was quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds were babies wailing. No gun shots, no war cries, no moans or groans from the wounded. Only the thin, high-pitched sounds of desolation and sorrow.

  And he was responsible for it.

  “Where’s Grant?” he asked his stunned soldiers.

  No one volunteered an answer.

  “All right, then, who fired the first shot.”

  Still no reply.

  “It almost hit a young mother—a white woman, at that—and her babe.” He waited, but he knew none of his men would answer. It couldn’t have been one of them, could it? Between One-Eyed Jack and his overly-stimulating stories, and Grant—another great provocateur—anything was possible.

  “Who’s left alive?” he asked Sergeant Bressler directly, not giving him a chance to blend in with the rest of his oblivious detachment. “I want all survivors brought to me right now. Corporal, get some men and drag all the dead bodies over there. I want an accounting of how many were killed. And whether they were women, children, braves, Colonials…” He shuddered at the image of the old woman, ready to protect her clan with a beaded and feathered hatchet, bleeding out, practically at his feet. Now was a good time for a stiff drink, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  What a debacle! Why did he even listen to the horse-blood sucking varmint? He should have gone with Hermann’s advice and let the man stay lost and without a ride.

  “Sir.” The corporal broke his reverie. “It appears that there were only three braves killed and three old women. From what the men said, those old ladies were just as fierce as…”

  The corporal saw the fire in the colonel’s eyes and stopped talking. He didn’t even ask if he could be excused. He could be as cold and silent as an icicle and wait for his orders. It was not as if he had anything else to do.

  “Any sign of rifles, cannons, or rebels?” the colonel asked through clenched teeth.

  “No, sir.” He started to add that he hadn’t looked for them, that it wasn’t his assignment, but decided to keep cold, hard, and nearly silent.

  Fritz moved one step closer to the colonel, hoping to be noticed. He didn’t want to interrupt him, but did want to know what he should do with the women.

  Ahem.

  Colonel Mannheim turned his head at the movement of someone approaching him. “Yes, soldier?”

  “We’d like to know what you want done with the women, sir.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Well, there’s two full grown ones and one about half-grown. The grown ones are the white women One-Eyed Jack was speaking of. The little one is Injun. Oh, and there’s a bunch of babies, too. Well, four of them. I can’t tell if they’re boys or girls or white or Injuns, but I don’t think that makes a difference when they’re that small, does it?”

  Colonel Mannheim shook his head in disgust. The private’s question didn’t warrant an answer. All children grew up. Or should be allowed to. What happened today was more than hideous. It was inexcusable. And if he ever found that Grant MacLeod, he’d string him up by whatever appendages he could tie a rope to, then leave him out for the buzzards to pick clean.

  “Bring the women and babies with us. And those ponies, too. We’re going back to camp.”

  Ж

  The confrontation had taken place in just minutes, but the memory and its effects would last forever. For Rachel, Morning Star, and Big Sister.

  And Colonel Mannheim.

  “That idiot said there were crates of rifles and patriot spies hiding there. There was not a single pistol nor one white man in sight!”

  “Well, these two women are white. Maybe that’s what he meant,” Sergeant Bressler said, swallowing a smirk.

  As soon as he could, he’d strip down the white squaws and search for their jewelry. Grant said they always wore it under their clothes. Finding the gold would buy him a first class spot on the next ship out of this God-forsaken country with plenty of money left over. And cutting the clothes off the buxom beauties would be the most fun he’d had in six years. At least.

  6 Trading for Women

  It looked as if the wrath of God had descended upon the little camp. Boots, moccasins, and hooves had churned up and plowed the earthen floor. Sharp ridges in the soil, long and short, marked the paths of errant swords, knives, and hatchets that had missed their mark. The dark stains of spilt blood and bowels showed that not all the thrusts and parries had missed. The three braves had fought valiantly, but had been so outnumbered that their fate was sealed before the first musket was raised or the first arrow nocked. The old women hadn’t gone quietly, either. Their clubs lay useless at their sides, some with soldier’s blood smeared on them, others, pristine, the wielder knocked down before a blow could land.

  At least the soldiers had spared the young women and children.

  Little Bear peered through his blind in the bushes and saw the two white women—Morning Star and Rachel—and their children, squatting on the ground, huddled together for warmth. The soldiers had erected an impromptu corral. One end was for the horses, the other end for the women and children. The sentries, posted every few feet, weren’t needed. There was little chance of anyone escaping.

  The men weren’t paying attention to the horses or their prisoners, though. They were calling out, asking if the whisky rations had been dispensed yet. The word came back down the line, “Not yet. Maybe at dinnertime, the colonel said,” was repeated in broken English or German from one man to the next.

  The women and children, blue-lipped and shivering, were trying to keep warm with just one ratty blanket, so holey that it wouldn’t even cover an entire shoulder. Little Bear noticed several of the armed guards had Indian-style blankets wrapped over their coats and scarves, probably stolen from the women and children. He knew these men were poor and had to wait until they finished their enlistment term before they could draw a full wage, but they didn’t have to rob poor women and children, and deny them a fire for warmth.

  He hadn’t seen these men, or anyone dressed like them, in the area before. They didn’t appear to be regular British army or Colonial patriots. A few of them were chatting in German. These must be Hessian mercenaries. He didn’t care much for the King’s men—their cause wasn’t just, and that’s why he left after being a scout for them for only a day and a half—but mercenaries were the worst. They didn’t care about principles; all they cared about was money. But today, they were more concerned with whisky than wages.

  Morning Star was there. He couldn’t think of her as Prudence anymore. She was so much more now, no longer the docile and timid daughter of the trader Michael Huntsman. The tall, vibrant woman was shielding Rachel, the woman-child, and her two young babies. He knew that when he had visited the tribe last fall, Morning Star had gained a young daughter and infant son through marriage. She had
another baby now, as did Rachel. It looked as if both of them had given birth in the last few months. He had to do something to get them out of there. He didn’t know what the Hessians were going to do with them, but it couldn’t be good.

  Little Bear looked up to the sky, hoping for inspiration. The odds were not in his favor. He would need help to rescue the two young families. “All right, Lord, I know I haven’t spoken with You in a while, at least directly, but I could use some assistance here, and I think You’re the only one strong enough and wise enough to get this done. Just let me know what to do and I’ll do it.”

  At that very moment, an officer came out of the largest of the three tents set up as the command site. The grim-faced man with brass buttons adorning his dark blue and yellow uniform opened up his little leather purse. He looked inside, shook his head, then turned the pouch upside down and shook it. It was totally empty.

  He walked over to the rotund, red-faced soldier standing at attention at the next tent and said, “We won’t be getting our supplies. I just received word that the harbor is blockaded. Ships can’t get in or out. I told the men I’d get them whisky to help stay warm, but I can’t even get ale. And we’re broke, sergeant. Without some sort of hard currency, it will be a long, cold winter for us. We don’t have enough funds for food for us, much less for the prisoners.”

  And there was Little Bear’s inspiration.

  “Colonel?” he asked, as he strode up to the officer, unsure if he was using the right salutation. The well-tailored man was definitely an officer, but Little Bear was unfamiliar with the markings on the Hessian’s uniform. The straight-backed man had more confidence than a captain, but was less bloated than a general.

  “Yes, I’m Colonel Mannheim,” he answered suspiciously. The stranger addressing him was a white man, but clothed as an Indian. He obviously hadn’t been involved in the attack because he was still alive—dressed as he was now, he would have been shot on sight, regardless of the color of his skin and hair.