Calling Crow Nation (The Southeast Series Book 3)

by Paul Clayton

  Calling Crow, Swordbrought and the others waited watchfully, quietly talking of the escape of the night before. Although Calling Crow had taught Swordbrought Spanish, he could not speak the language with the same facility as his father. Now, together with the other braves, Swordbrought marveled at Calling Crow’s use of the Spanish soldiers’ own language to fool them. They laughed at the thought of the Spanish men’s plight at having to explain their actions to their Spanish chief later.

  Red Feather returned quickly, his eyes shining with excitement. “Mantua and his men are camped in there,” he said quietly to Calling Crow.

  Calling Crow frowned thoughtfully in the growing dimness. He wanted to recapture his cross and iron axe. He also wanted to teach this Mantua a lesson. Perhaps this was his chance.

  “He has five Spanish prisoners,” added Red Feather.

  Calling Crow momentarily put away his thoughts of revenge. “That is strange,” he said, “why would Mantua capture and hold any Spanish? It would jeopardize his relations with Avila the slaver.”

  Red Feather shook his head. “I don’t know. But inside he has five of them tied up.”

  “I will go see,” said Calling Crow, getting to his feet.

  Swordbrought quickly got up. “I will go with you.”

  Crying Wolf pointed to Swordbrought as he said jokingly, “Notice how now he will not let his father out of his sight.”

  Swordbrought gave no indication that the other brave’s words had bothered him, but Calling Crow knew his son well enough to know they had. Crying Wolf should not have said this. After all, Calling Crow himself had ordered Swordbrought and the other men to flee. But that was the way it was between these two. Although Crying Wolf was three Turnings Of The Sky older than Swordbrought, and of a different mother, the two of them competed and fought like brothers.

  Calling Crow and Swordbrought quickly climbed up and over the back wall of the village. The darkness was almost total now, for there was a new moon and only starlight to see by. They moved as quietly as owls, fleeting shadows winding their way between the small huts. Calling Crow saw the light of the big fire up at the square ground. He and Swordbrought crept past the huts, staying out of the light as much as possible. Having nothing to fear in their own territory, most of the Timucua braves had congregated in one group. But, Calling Crow knew there would be a few men moving about and he must watch out for them. Calling Crow drew closer to the large group of braves. Mantua was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was sleeping. Calling Crow saw the white men tied up behind the fire. They could be French, he thought, but long ago he himself had seen the French fort destroyed and all their people either killed or run off by the Spanish. That memory brought up much sadness for him, for it was at that time that his first woman, Swordbrought’s natural mother, Juana, had been killed. Would the French be foolish enough to settle again in what the Spanish arrogantly claimed as their lands? He didn’t think so. So who were these white people?

  Calling Crow and Swordbrought peered through the entryway of a hut, listening to the shouts and laughter of the Timucua braves. But, try as he could, Calling Crow could not make out their words. Perhaps he should just retrieve his cross and axe and leave the white men to their fate.

  Harsh laughter came from the Timucua braves. Calling Crow remembered the conversation he had overheard between Mantua and the slaver, Avila. Mantua and his men would concentrate in the south in their search for slaves. But eventually, in eight or nine moons, they would come north to Coosa Town with shooting sticks. What then? Calling Crow had been thinking about this for some time. There was only one way his people could protect themselves; they, too, must have shooting sticks. But how?

  Calling Crow looked back over at the white men. Could they be the answer? Would they get them the shooting sticks they needed to defend the village? Aieyee, they must. That was why his footsteps had been guided here. Ho! It must be so!

  Calling Crow turned to Swordbrought. Stealing the white men away from the Timucua would be dangerous, but his men would thrill to the challenge. Calling Crow signaled to Swordbrought that they would go back to talk to the other braves.

  Later, Calling Crow faced his men. “There are too many Timucua warriors, so there must be no fighting. There will be plenty of fighting sometime in the future.

  “Red Feather, take Crying Wolf with you and go to the back of the village. Lure the Timucua braves your way.”

  Calling Crow looked at Crying Wolf sternly. “There must be no fighting, do you understand?”

  Crying Wolf nodded slightly.

  Calling Crow turned again to his faithful tastanagi, Red Feather. “Remember, don’t be seen. Swordbrought, Little Bear and I will go in the front to get the white men. Go now.” Red Feather turned and led his men away.

  Samuel could feel the heat of the fire lessening in intensity. It grew quieter and he called round to the others. “What are they doing?”

  “They are going off toward the back of their houses,” said Fenwick. “One of them has evidently found something back there and now they are all going to see what it is.”

  Samuel stared into the blackness. All his strength had gone and he sagged from the ropes. He was vaguely aware of Breuger’s and John’s voices when a dark shape appeared before him. It was a tall man, a native. He wore his hair long and did not look like the others that had captured them. His neck, chest and arms were decoratively banded with black marks and he wore a necklace of black feathers. Out of the corner of Samuel’s eye, he saw two others moving about. One was marked like the first man; the other was an unmarked young man in his mid-teens. The unmarked youth moved as confidently and stealthily as the two men.

  The tall man put his hand over Samuel’s mouth momentarily, indicating that he should be silent. “Are you Spanish?” he asked quietly in that language. Startled, Samuel shook his head.

  “Are you French?”

  Samuel again shook his head. “Ingles,” he said. Samuel saw that the man seemed confused by his response.

  The native man’s eyes bore into Samuel’s. “Do you have a ship?” he said.

  Samuel nodded.

  The man pulled a knife from a sash he wore around his waist. Samuel’s strength was gone and he felt strangely detached. He noted that it was a knife much like his own, made of steel. He thought the man might use it on him and he found the prospect better than the fire. Instead, the man cut Samuel’s hands free. While Samuel was gratefully rubbing his wrists, the man disappeared.

  Samuel walked around to the other side of the poles and saw John, Fenwick, Breuger, Patrick and Miles standing in a group, while across from them the three natives held a whispered conference. When they finished, the younger one, a boy really, indicated by signs that they should come with him.

  As Samuel followed him, he noticed the man who had released them walking off alone toward where the natives that had captured them had gone. Samuel and the others walked behind the boy, coming to the village entrance. John whispered to Samuel. “He speaks Spanish.”

  “Who?” said Samuel.

  “The boy.”

  Samuel nodded. “So does the big one. Rather well too.”

  John frowned. “Imagine!”

  The older of the two natives turned round to them and motioned them to silence. Using signs, he indicated that they should crouch down and wait. He then crept stealthily forward to reconnoiter the area.

  Calling Crow spotted two somber faced Timucua braves standing guard outside a hut. He knew Mantua would be inside. Calling Crow went around the back and found an opening big enough for him. He climbed in. Giving his eyes a moment to adjust, he located Mantua’s long form stretched out on a sleeping shelf across the hut.

  Calling Crow pulled his Spanish iron knife and crept silently across the hut. He stood over the sleeping man, looking down at him. Calling Crow’s cross and iron axe lay on the shelf. Calling Crow looped the cross around his neck and slipped the axe under his sash. Removing a black crow’s feather from the necklace
about his neck, Calling Crow lay it gently on the man’s sweaty, rising and falling chest. This Mantua, this chief who sells his own people into slavery, would never forget this night.

  One of the braves outside said something and Calling Crow crouched down, making himself smaller. The man stuck his head in and scrutinized the blackness. Satisfied, he turned again to talk quietly with his companion. Calling Crow went quickly back to the opening and left.

  Samuel and his men waited in the darkness outside the palisade until the older, tall native leader arrived. Samuel noted the cross now hanging upon his chest. The native led them away from the walls of the village until they came upon the wide trail. They then began running. After a while Samuel and the others were breathing heavily and falling behind. The tall native man called a halt and they rested, Samuel and the others in one group, the native men in another.

  Samuel watched the natives as he caught his breath. They did not sit, but rather squatted down, their buttocks almost touching earth. They said nothing as they stared out into the blackness. Samuel got to his feet.

  “Where are you going?” said John between rasping breaths.

  “To talk to the big one. He is evidently in charge.” Samuel walked up to the native men and squatted down in their fashion. In Spanish he said, “Thank you for helping us.”

  The native man seemed surprised at Samuel’s words. “It was the will of the Great Spirit,” he said.

  “The Great Spirit?” said Samuel.

  The man indicated the night sky and the trees. He touched the ground beneath their feet. “He who rules over all.”

  Samuel nodded and touched his own chest, indicating the man’s cross. “What is that?” he said in Spanish.

  “Spanish medicine,” said the man, “very powerful. It stopped an arrow once, saving my life.”

  Samuel tried not to frown. The Spanish had already infected him with their cross worship. What else had they taught him? he wondered.

  “There are many Timucua,” said the native man, “very bad men. They were going to trade you to the Spanish for shooting sticks.”

  “But-- the fire,” said Samuel.

  “That was for a celebratory dance.”

  “I see,” said Samuel. “Why did you help us?”

  “Because you will help us.”

  “How?”

  “We will speak of that later.”

  Samuel nodded “Very well.” He pointed in the direction he presumed the sea to be. “We must get back to our ship. Our people will think we are dead and leave us.”

  “We will take you,” said the man. “And then you will take us onto your ship and take us to our village.”

  “How will you find the ship?”

  The man stared off into the distance. “We will follow the tracks you and your men make.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Yes.”

  Samuel paused a moment to catch his breath. “What is your name, sir?”

  “I am called Calling Crow.”

  Samuel nodded. “I am called Samuel.” He went back to his men, who had been watching the exchange anxiously.

  “What’d he say?” said Fenwick.

  “His name is Calling Crow,” said Samuel, “and he will take us back to our ship before morning.”

  “In the dark?” said Breuger.

  “That is what he said,” said Samuel.

  None of the men said anything for a few moments.

  “Did you see his cross?” said John. “Imagine, savages with crosses!”

  “The Spanish gave it to him,” said Samuel, “along with their religion, no doubt.”

  “Did you see their markings?” said Fenwick in awe.

  “Yes,” said Breuger.

  “Like the ancient Picts,” said Samuel.

  “The Picts?” said Fenwick.

  “A wild white tribe of England and Ireland,” said Samuel, “long gone. They, too, went about naked and marked up like that. They were also known for taking the severed heads of their vanquished enemies home with them.”

  Fenwick scratched his head. “You think these fellows are Picts,” he said worriedly.

  “No,” said Samuel.

  “What rubbish,” said John, “wild white tribes indeed. What else did the big savage say to you just now?”

  “He said,” said Samuel patiently, “that those natives, Timucua, he called them, were going to sell us to the Spanish.”

  “What?” scoffed John. “They were going to eat us. What in blazes do you think the fire was for?”

  “A dance. He says they were going to dance around the fire.”

  “A bloody dance!” John’s voice rose in volume and the one called Calling Crow looked over disapprovingly. “And you believe him, I suppose,” said John in a softer tone.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” said Samuel. “He set us free, did he not?”

  “Yeah,” said John, “but why? What does he want? I don’t trust him.”

  “Me neither,” said Fenwick.

  “Nor I,” said Breuger.

  Patrick and Miles said nothing, staring into the surrounding blackness.

  “Well,” said Samuel, “we have no choice.”

  The natives got to their feet in the darkness, silhouetted against the faint starlight. The one called Calling Crow waved at Samuel. As Samuel and his men stood, the natives took off running quietly. After a while, when Samuel and the others began to fall behind, Calling Crow slowed the pace. They left the broad trail just as the sun was coming up. Samuel and his men were staggering as they pushed through the bushes. Finally they came out to the tied-up skiff.

  Fenwick, Breuger, Miles and Patrick immediately collapsed onto the mud of the bank. Samuel and John held on to a tree trunk, breathing heavily. Calling Crow got into the skiff and sat. His men followed his example.

  “What the hell’s he think he’s doing?” said John.

  Samuel waved his brother’s comment away and went over to Calling Crow. “Wait!” he said, “we must rest.” Samuel pointed to the six casks sitting in the front of the skiff. “Agua! We would like to fill those up with fresh river water and perhaps attempt to catch some game animals.”

  “Vamonos!” said Calling Crow. “There is no time.”

  “What’d he say?” said Fenwick.

  “He said that we must go now.” Samuel frowned and turned back to Calling Crow. “How far do you reckon it is to your village?”

  “Not far,” said Calling Crow. “A day, maybe two, in your ship. Go now.” He turned away and would say no more.

  Samuel turned resignedly to his men. “Let’s go.” He climbed into the skiff and took his seat.

  Fenwick, Miles, Breuger and Patrick followed behind him. John watched them sullenly from the bank. Samuel nodded to Breuger and Patrick, who were sitting at the oarlocks, and they shipped the oars.

  “Since when do we follow his orders?” said John sullenly from the bank.

  “We don’t,” said Samuel tiredly. “We follow mine. Now get in.”

  With a grunt, John stepped into the skiff and they glided smoothly out into the black water of the river. The diffuse light of early dawn painted the thick foliage along the banks a dull green. Breuger and Patrick pulled steadily at the oars. They had not gone far when something plopped noisily into the river a few feet behind them.

  Fenwick nervously looked over the side into the black water. “What was that, a fish jumping?”

  Breuger smiled as he leaned back into a stroke of his oar “Perhaps it was an alligator, Fen.”

  Patrick smiled nervously.

  Fenwick did not laugh as he moved slightly toward the center of the skiff. Calling Crow and his men sat rock-still saying nothing. Movement along the bank caught Samuel’s eye. One of the top knotted Indians was running parallel with the river, just inside the bushes. He came to an opening and quickly shot one of his arrows at them. It struck the side of the skiff, shattering loudly.

  “What in Hades was that?” said John.

  “The
ones that captured us,” said Samuel, pointing. “The Timucua.”

  John and the others turned to see several dozen Indians pushing through the thick foliage to get down to the muddy bank.

  “God in heaven!” said Fenwick.

  The natives quickly shot their arrows and the men ducked. Two of the arrows struck the skiff harmlessly and the rest landed in the water.

  “Pull hard, damn it,” said Samuel.

  As Breuger and Patrick leaned into the oars, they craned their heads awkwardly, following the flight of the arrows. Samuel, John, Fenwick and Miles watched the natives worriedly while Calling Crow and his men sat in the middle of the skiff, staring fixedly forward, their faces showing no emotion. The river widened as it neared the ocean and Breuger and Patrick moved the skiff into the center of the stream, just out of range of the arrows. The nearest of them fell a dozen feet away.

  “We’ll be all right now,” said Breuger. “Their bloody arrows can’t reach us anymore.

  Fenwick stood up. “Yeah,” he said, “but that can!”

  Breuger craned his head around to see. Fenwick pointed to a sandy spit of land that jutted out ahead just before the ripple where the river pushed into the sea. Four Timucua waited there for them to pass. One had the musket they had taken from Tom set up in a shooting stand made from the fork of a tree.

  Breuger was red-faced from exertion. “Christ in heaven,” he said. He stopped rowing and looked at Samuel and John. “Do you think they know how to use it?”

  John scoffed. “Savages? I bloody well doubt it.”

  “Pull hard now,” said Samuel angrily. “Calling Crow said they use muskets quite effectively. They were going to trade us to the Spaniards for muskets.”

  Fenwick pointed to the waiting braves. Two of them were wading into the water. “They’re swimming out,” he said, “pull hard.”

  The skiff moved in a straight line down the middle of the river as the two braves swam purposefully closer.

  “Fenwick, Miles,” shouted Samuel, “get forward!”