Calling Crow Nation (The Southeast Series Book 3)

by Paul Clayton

  A stocky, bearded white man stood calmly next to a tall Timucua brave with a small arrow decoratively braided into his topknot. Both men watched the struggle to subdue Crying Wolf. The top of the bearded man’s cheeks were pocked with the holes of smallpox. Calling Crow assumed him to be a Spaniard. The arrow in the Timucua man’s topknot indicated rank; he was the chief of these braves.

  “He’s a slippery one, Mantua,” the bearded one said in Spanish, confirming Calling Crow’s hunch.

  The one called Mantua was slender and muscled, with a broad, rocky face. His eyes seemed incapable of mirth and were as sharp as arrow points. The Spaniard turned back to watch the struggle on the ground. “Rapido,” he commanded. “We must be gone before the ones that escaped return with more braves from their village.”

  Still, the two men could not get their cords around Crying Wolf’s wrists and legs. The Spaniard pointed and Mantua walked over and hit Crying Wolf on the head with his axe. The blow stopped Crying Wolf’s struggling, but to Calling Crow’s ears, it hadn’t sounded hard struck enough to have killed him.

  Mantua looked down at Calling Crow. Curiosity moved his leathery face as he noticed Calling Crow’s cross and iron axe. He knelt and took the cross and axe, tucking them under his sash. Ripping one of the feathers from Calling Crow’s necklace, Mantua inspected it briefly. He scoffed and threw it on the ground. “How far away is your village?” he demanded.

  Calling Crow said nothing and Mantua kicked him, knocking him over. Calling Crow rolled backward and up into a sitting position as Mantua looked at Half Knife. Deciding that he too would refuse to talk, he walked back to the front of the group and addressed the bearded one.

  “Senor Avila, they are all bound securely now. We are ready.”

  The Spaniard who was called Avila glared over at Calling Crow and nodded. “Vamonos!”

  Two of the Timucua carried Crying Wolf as they began walking at a fast clip down the trail. Soon they began running. The trail broadened and passed through a thick forest and they ran along it for the better part of the day. When the sun had moved lower over the trees, they came upon a smaller party of Timucua braves guarding about thirty captives. There were men and women in the group, many of them old, and they were not of Calling Crow’s village. The Timucua stopped for a rest. Calling Crow heard the cry of a hawk and thought of his son, Swordbrought. The hawk was Swordbrought’s spirit guide. Calling Crow looked up and saw the hawk swiftly disappearing to the west. The Timucua ordered some in this new group of captives to carry Crying Wolf and they hurried on. The trail turned to skirt a great swamp, and at this point the older captives began panting loudly. The braves in the lead slowed to a walk. A disembodied voice floated out from the hot air of the swamp. “Stop!” it commanded.

  The column halted. The voice had quieted the swamp’s cicadas, but now their drone started up again. As they waited, Crying Wolf regained consciousness. He looked at Calling Crow in shock, wondering where he was. The mysterious voice hailed them again and Calling Crow recognized it as Red Feather’s voice.

  “Calling Crow,” he called, “we will get you back!”

  Mantua’s flinty hard eyes frowned. Avila came and stood beside him. They slowly searched the scattered bald cypresses in the distance. A woodpecker’s rapping echoed over the hot, still water. Avila and Mantua consulted in whispers. Mantua waved over some of his men.

  Another voice called out from the swamp. It was Swordbrought. “Father, I will free you!”

  Calling Crow was overwhelmed at the sound of his son’s voice and could not keep himself from shouting out. “Go away or they will catch you too!”

  “Never!” Swordbrought’s voice rasped with anger and determination and it seemed to come from everywhere at once. The captives looked around as if there were invisible spirits hovering nearby. “I will never abandon you, Father.”

  Calling Crow watched with apprehension as Avila and Mantua gestured and talked with the braves. Four of the braves crept off, heading stealthily in the general direction of the highest bald cypress. Avila gave the signal to move on and Mantua and his men struck the captives, ordering them to their feet. The column began running again.

  Toward the end of the day, when it grew too dark to move, the column stopped. Avila formed a large perimeter camp with the braves and put Calling Crow and the other captives in the center. Mantua then gave each captive a handful of parched corn to eat and posted guards. Then a Timucua brave walked about, roughly pushing Calling Crow and the others down on the ground and ordering them to sleep. Calling Crow’s head was full of thoughts of escape and his body was taut with energy, but his arms were bound too tightly and he could see no way out. His only hope was that Red Feather had dispatched a fast runner back to the village for help. But, he wondered, would they be able to reach them in time? He thought of his wife, Green Bird Woman, and his daughter, Bright Eyes. Bright Eyes, a grown woman now, would be crying at the news of his capture, her face wet and miserable. But Green Bird Woman’s still-pretty, middle-aged face would be stern and dark with anger. He could almost hear her shouting at the men who returned to report their capture. She was a good woman.

  Just before the light of day faded completely, some of the heaviness in Calling Crow’s heart lifted. The four men that had been dispatched to catch Red Feather and Swordbrought returned empty-handed. Still, Calling Crow could not sleep. He softly called to Half Knife and Crying Wolf, urging them to rest. They would all need their strength if a rescue party were to reach them in time.

  The Timucua woke Calling Crow, Half Knife, Crying Wolf and the other captives at dawn with kicks and blows, and forced them to their feet. They set off and began trotting down the trail. After a while they came to a seemingly deserted Timucua village. As they ran past the timber palisade, Calling Crow wondered why Mantua and his men seemed unconcerned at the absence of people there. The column left the village behind and continued to run south along the wide trail.

  The trail entered a forest of tall pines. After they had penetrated its deep stillness, Swordbrought’s voice called out to them. Calling Crow’s heart twisted in anger and sorrow. Here they were, deep in Timucua territory, and still his brave, foolish son would not obey his wishes and save himself!

  Avila held up his hand and the column halted. Mantua and his top braves looked about as they conferred quietly with Avila. Again Mantua dispatched four braves to try and capture the brazen intruder, and again Calling Crow felt despair deep inside. It was bad enough that he had allowed himself, Half Knife and Crying Wolf to be captured, but if his only son also ended up a Spanish slave, it would be too much for him to bear.

  The column hurried on and toward full day the Timucua braves returned alone. Again Calling Crow’s mood brightened. Perhaps Swordbrought had finally come to his senses and started back. Hope started to build in Calling Crow that perhaps a group of his men were now hurrying after them. They would have to move very fast, however, for the Timucua had kept up a steady, grueling pace. The older captives were in great pain and even Calling Crow was tiring of it. The column slowed to a walk as the day grew long.

  The column left the trail and came out onto the banks of a small river. They followed this out to the beach and the sea. Calling Crow saw a scattering of thatched huts and a great mass of people on the sand. Out on the sea, a large, solitary ship rested at anchor and a small boat moved slowly across the pale blue water toward it. Most of the people on the beach were captives. Twenty or so Spanish soldiers busily unloaded two small Spanish boats. The sight sickened Calling Crow and he felt his pain and fatigue double. They would soon be on the ship and then his men could not help them. The captives slowed to a bone-weary walk through the hot, thick sand. The Timucua braves yelled at them to hurry, but did not strike them, knowing perhaps that they could no longer move any faster. They approached another large group of captives. Avila halted the column and spoke with a soldier.

  Calling Crow looked at the great mass of captured people. They sat on the hot sa
nd in a large circle. Their arms were, like Calling Crow’s, bound behind them and they were tied one to another like animals. Crowded into mixed groups of men, women and children, they stared in shame at their feet as they waited. Between the different groups, top knotted Timucua braves walked about freely. Spanish soldiers in their distinctive baggy breeches and comb helmets carried pikes and crossbows as they paced and watched. Spanish boxes and bundles rose in orderly stacks and piles. Several Spanish women tended two large black-iron cook pots.

  The Timucua braves pushed Calling Crow, Half Knife and Crying Wolf toward one of the large groups and ordered them to sit. One of the men captives looked over at Calling Crow as Mantua and his men walked off.

  “What people are you?” said the man to Calling Crow.

  “We are the Coosa people,” said Calling Crow.

  The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he backed away a bit. Calling Crow looked at the man’s topknot. “What people are you?” he said.

  “Timucua.” Crying Wolf spat at hearing this.

  Calling Crow frowned as he looked at the Timucua man. “It was your people that captured and brought us here.”

  The man said nothing.

  “Why are you and these other people bound?” said Calling Crow, “while others of your people walk about free?”

  The man grew angry. “Mantua has betrayed us to the Spanish, Avila. Mantua and our chief had a disagreement. Using that as a pretext, Mantua, with the help of Avila, came and made us prisoners. Mantua has sold us to Avila for shooting sticks and the powder and ball that go into them! They say that they will take us out to the ship in the morning.”

  The man looked away, shaking with impotent rage. “One day Mantua will pay for his treachery. I will find a way to kill him. I swear it!”

  Calling Crow looked at the many soldiers and braves walking about, some of them peering over at the captives suspiciously, and he doubted that this man would ever have his revenge. He said nothing.

  Calling Crow heard voices speaking in Spanish. He strained to listen as, a few feet away, Mantua argued with Avila the slaver.

  It was official government policy of the Audiencia of Santo Domingo not to trade harquebuses to the Indios. Pedro Avila, however, was not a government official. He was a businessman, dealing in slaves and pearls, and lately the demand for slaves had been growing. Although blacks were being brought in to the islands in growing numbers, there was still money to be made in Indian captives. The rogue cacique, Mantua, had been his tool in exploiting this demand. Mantua provided Avila with the manpower and information for the operation, and for a bargain: fifty captives per harquebus. Now he was trying to increase his price.

  “No,” said Avila, “the price stands. But here is something extra.” Avila pulled a bone-handled knife from his belt. “This is a gift for you.”

  Mantua brought the knife close, inspecting the filigree carved into the handle. “Gracias, senor,” he said in Muskogee accented Spanish. He pointed in Calling Crow’s direction. “Where these people came from, there are at least three more villages. My scouts have told me this.”

  Avila looked over at the new captives and shook his head. “That may be, but I want you to concentrate in the south for the next eight to ten months. The season of storms approaches and I don’t want to venture too far north. I will tell you when to go north again.”

  “Si. Mantua tucked the knife under his belt.

  Avila walked off and Mantua knelt beside the box on the ground. He lifted the harquebus from it and inspected it carefully. Bringing it to his cheek, he sighted along the octagonal black-iron barrel, aiming it squarely at the big captive who had worn the cross. The man glared back without fear and Mantua thought that he must not know what the shooting stick could do to a man. Ha! For him it no longer mattered. But someday his people up north would know. Mantua’s flinty eyes narrowed in contempt. He, Mantua, would show them.

  As the sun began to set, the Timucua braves left the area, going back into the forest. When the light was gone, the Spanish lit torches and moved about. They ordered the captured people to sleep, but of course, they could not. Hidden by the dark, more and more of the women and children gave vent to their despair and cried at their plight. Calling Crow was moved by their deep sorrow and wanted to tell them something to raise their spirits, but could not. Having once been a Spanish slave, he knew that they were in for much worse than their tormented minds could ever imagine.

  The night passed slowly and daybreak brought not hope, but more sadness, for the people knew that it would be the last day they would spend in their lands. Soon they would be put aboard the Spanish ship.

  When the light was bright enough, the soldiers and the Timucua braves began shouting and moving the people down onto the beach. Many dugout canoes had been brought up onto the beach at first light and the people were loaded into these and paddled out to the ship. The loading took all day and Calling Crow, Half Knife and Crying Wolf were with one of the last groups to leave. As Calling Crow was paddled out to the ship, he remembered the recurring vision he had had. In it, he was on a boat going away from his people. Always in the vision it had seemed to him as if he were making the journey of his own volition, but now, sadly, it appeared that that was not to be the case.

  The canoe carrying Calling Crow and the others reached the other canoes that were all jammed together around the ship as they waited to unload their captives. The loading went very slow and Calling Crow looked back at the shore. In front of the fort many soldiers worked at unloading boats of supplies from the ships, and Timucua braves walked about freely. Calling Crow’s eyes moved north along the shore. For a long stretch the forest grew right down to the water’s edge, obscuring the white sand beach. Then Calling Crow’s eyes came to a little patch of white beach where the land curved in, as if a giant sea creature had taken a bite out of the trees on the land. As his eyes rested on this place, a figure came out of the green forest and stood on the sand, looking out at the ship and the canoes. Calling Crow had the distinct feeling that the figure was looking straight at him. He could not make out any facial features on the tiny figure but he knew from the man’s weight and height and from the way he stood that it was his son, Swordbrought. Although Swordbrought was too far away to actually see Calling Crow, he continued to look at him for a few more moments and then he disappeared back into the emerald green of the forest. Sadness welled up in Calling Crow as he realized that this would be the last he would see of Swordbrought.

  The canoes crowded so tightly together that Calling Crow and the other captives were able to step from one of the rocking vessels to another as they made their way to the ship, where they were hauled up like the carcasses of animals. The belly of the ship was filled with tied-up people. It echoed with their screams and shouts, like the hell the Spanish believed waited for those who failed to worship the Great Spirit in the Spanish fashion. Calling Crow, Half Knife, Crying Wolf and the others from their boat were made to sit up on the open deck. Then their cords were tied securely to iron rings set in the wooden deck planks.

  The sun set behind the trees. Iron clanged on iron and booted feet thumped on oaken beams as Spanish soldiers shouted orders. Calling Crow wanted to question the soldiers in Spanish about where they were going, but his knowledge of their language would expose him as a runaway slave and he might be taken away from his men, down into the belly of the ship. As the sky turned from orange to violet, more and more of the captives lost their courage and began lamenting their fate. With the approach of night, the sea swells picked up and the boat rocked more pronouncedly, making many people sick. Later, when the moon and stars came out, a boat bumped into the hull of the ship with a dull thud. Calling Crow and the others watched the ropes move as someone climbed up. A soldier’s helmeted head appeared, then another. Two soldiers struggled as they pulled and pushed something aboard. A wooden thud sounded as what looked like a large bundle of cloth or grain fell onto the deck. The two soldiers climbed over the rail. They bent at
the waist, grabbing at the bundle at their feet. Then they attempted to yank Swordbrought to his feet.

  Calling Crow’s pain and anguish knew no bounds now. He watched helplessly as the soldiers dragged his son’s unconscious form across the ship and tied him to some other people. Swordbrought’s head hung limp on his chest when they finished. The soldiers climbed back over the side and disappeared.

  For what seemed like a long, long time, Calling Crow stared at his son’s still form. Then Swordbrought awoke and brought his head up to look around him. Despite the poor light, Calling Crow could see that his face was bruised from a beating. Swordbrought was studying the faces of the people tied near Calling Crow when he recognized Half Knife and Crying Wolf. Next his eyes met Calling Crow’s. Calling Crow’s look cautioned him to say nothing. As they stared at each other, a woman’s anguished cry floated up from the belowdecks. “Our days are completed,” she wailed between her sobs. “These Spanish value us less than their animals; our lives are over!”

  The other captives looked down at their feet in shame, not wanting to meet one another’s eyes.

  Chapter 3

  The rosy light of early evening flooded horizontally into the airy palm-thatched hut, illuminating the intricately woven baskets and pretty, patterned weavings on the walls. Green Bird Woman stood against the west window opening. She wore a garland of beads and shells about her forehead. Despite having moved into the middle period of her life, Green Bird Woman was still very attractive. Her well-proportioned body and her smooth face exuded health and strength. Her eyes were proud and confident, but they had a sad tint to them, for they had seen much tragedy. She looked out at the palisade wall and the forest beyond. A single, iridescent green feather was woven into her long, scalloped hair. The feather, and five others like it, tucked away in a basket, were all that remained of Dancer, the big wonderful parrot she had once owned. It was Dancer that had caused her to be named Green Bird Woman, and he had filled many of her houses with his color and voice. He had even outlived her first husband.