by Paul Clayton
Samuel awoke. Something covered his head and eyes and he could not see where he was. There was a steady roar in his head and the sound of someone crying-- or was it singing? He wasn’t sure. Then he seemed to be flying dizzily through the air. He sank back into unconsciousness.
Light seeped through Samuel’s eyelids. Someone had removed the covering from his eyes and head. He looked up into the bent sapling rafters of a small hut. He tried to move his head, but his neck shrieked in pain. He realized that the steady sound was a heavy rain; he could feel its dampness on his cheeks, the rest of him being covered with skins. A withered face looked down at him briefly and he realized the other sound was singing. It was the old conjurer, Sees Far. “What happened?” asked Samuel.
Sees Far disappeared and another face came into view, a pretty face, Bright Eyes. “The one called Mantua hit you on the head,” she said. “He was about to take your scalp when my father stopped him.”
Samuel blinked his eyes in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“At the battle. You were tending to your friend.”
Recollection flooded through Samuel. “Yes. I remember now.”
Bright Eyes disappeared from view and he called her back. Again she hovered over him.
“Bring your father here. I want to thank him.”
The smile went from Bright Eyes’s face. “You must sleep now, Samuel. Sleep.”
Samuel grew angry. “No. I must thank him and I must do it now.”
Worry gripping her features, Bright Eyes moved out of view. Another head appeared above Samuel. White-haired, red-faced; it was William.
Samuel reached up and grabbed William’s doublet. He tried to pull himself up, but dizziness overcame him and he fell back. “How are the men, William?” he said weakly. “How is Fen?”
William smiled. “The men are well. Fenwick is walking, has been for two days now.”
“Two days?” said Samuel incredulously. “How long have I been lying in here?”
“Eight days, m’lord.”
Samuel closed his eyes. “Eight days-- It is very strange. It seems like only a moment ago I was looking down at Fen and then-- ”
“Yes, Sir,” said William, “by the grace of God, eight days. And in that time we accumulated well over half the skins we’ll be taking back with us. The Indian king says we’ll collect the rest in a month’s time. Then we can set sail for home.”
“Go home?” said Samuel groggily.
“Yes, to England.”
“Oh, yes; go home to England.”
Over two hundred miles south of Coosa Town, at the Spanish garrison on Parris Island, a longboat slid onto the beach. Senor Pedro Avila, the slaver, and a half dozen Indians stepped out into the knee-deep surf and walked up the beach. Avila pointed to the shade cast by the palisade, and the Indians waited there as he went inside to the largest of the newly constructed adobe buildings. As Avila trudged into the commandant’s quarters, he was not happy over the report he had to make.
Over by the window, General Ruiz, a pudgy, middle-aged man with muttonchop whiskers, sat at a desk reading a ledger. His face ran with sweat and his white linen shirt was soaked, his soft, hairy chest showing through the thin material.
Avila walked up to the desk and bowed.
The general put down his ledger tiredly. His face clouded over with anger and disappointment. He had been counting on this expedition to succeed. His percentage would have enabled him to buy his way out of this hot hellhole. “I have heard,” he said, “that you and Mantua did not have much success this time.”
Avila nodded sadly. “The other Indios attacked. They had many, many more men than Mantua’s scouts had reported, and muskets too. It was totally unexpected and put Mantua and his men on the defensive.”
“Mantua was routed, eh?”
“Si,” said Avila begrudgingly.
Ruiz sighed. “Very well,” he said. “You may go now.”
Avila did not move. “Mantua would like to attack again.”
Ruiz frowned. “What? If Mantua was fool enough to let some of his muskets get away from him, then he deserved the defeat he received.”
“But, sir,” sputtered Avila defensively.
Ruiz waved away Avila’s words. “No! Let him choose another target. What was his haul? Three slaves?” Ruiz laughed disdainfully and picked up his pen. “Tell Mantua to reconnoiter the area south of here. Reports are that there are many displaced Indios there that could be easily captured.”
“There is more, sir,” said Avila persistently.
“What is it?” snapped Ruiz.
“Sir, they weren’t Mantua’s guns.”
“Then whose were they?” Ruiz asked in angry exasperation.
“I’m not sure, sir, but there were white men in the village. Mantua said they were Englishmen.”
“English!” Like everyone else, Ruiz had heard the rumors of an English settlement somewhere between the Castillo de San Marcos at St. Augustine and the Bahia de Santa Maria de Jacan. His hatred flared at the thought of the English pushing into their territory. He got to his feet and leaned forward. “Are you certain?”
Avila nodded vigorously. “Mantua says he almost got the scalp of one of them.”
“Bring Mantua and the others in here. I want to hear it from them myself.”
After Avila left the headquarters, Ruiz looked out the window at the wildly forested mainland. An English settlement! It was like a gangrenous sore on the Floridas and would have to be cauterized. Nearby, not two hundred yards away, the tall, stout-hulled galleon Madre de Dios lay at anchor. A five-decker, there were over eighty cannons on her. They could get some of them upriver on the long boats, or, if need be, there were two carriages on board; they could haul two of the biggest overland. The beautiful ship could carry over five hundred soldiers and Indios if need be.
A mosquito hovered around Ruiz’s neck. He waved at it and it refused to go away. Ruiz smiled. This operation would be news all the way back to Court. It would be his passage out of this miserable swamp!
If there really was an English settlement, it would have to be destroyed immediately. For the glory of Spain he would wipe it off the map of Florida and leave not a trace.
Many torches lit the chokafa, their quivering light moving over the people crowded inside. The Muskogee braves from Cussitaw Town formed the largest group and Fox-Disappears sat at their head. Not far away, Fenwick and a dozen Englishmen sat in a tight cluster. Samuel still rested in Bright Eyes’s house, although he was almost fully recuperated.
Calling Crow stood and picked up the sacred pipe. He beckoned, and Fenwick and Fox-Disappears got to their feet, joining him. They sat and the people silently witnessed the bond being cemented between them. Afterward, Fox-Disappears and Fenwick returned to their places.
Two young women entered the chokafa carrying a bundle between them. They lay it before the leader of the Cussitaw braves. Fox-Disappears broad face was dark and serious, but Calling Crow noticed him look up briefly and fondly at one of the women, White Flower. Fox-Disappears had already gotten her mother’s permission to marry her and would not go back to Cussitaw Town with his men. After he and White Flower married, they would move into her house and he would be adopted by her clan.
Two braves entered next. One of them carried a large English leather pouch full of musket balls, wadding and other things for the muskets; the other carried a barrel of black powder. After they left, Fox-Disappears stood and held up the two muskets Calling Crow had given him earlier. One of them was Fox-Disappears’s, the other was Calling Crow’s gift for Fox-Disappears’s chief.
Fox-Disappears raised the two muskets high over his head and turned slowly to show his men. After he sat, women dancers filed in and drumming started.
As the women began their stomp dance, Calling Crow’s heart should have been singing. After all, they had just routed the Timucua force. And Fox-Disappears’s new Coosa wife and his dependence on Calling Crow for powder and musket balls would bin
d tiny Coosa Town tightly to the Muskogee confederacy for a long time. Calling Crow’s heart should have been soaring like a hawk. But instead he felt a twinge of premonitory worry. Something was not right. The feeling, like an ache in his bones on a cold morning, would not go away.
Chapter 42
The two Coosa boys, Flat Head and his friend Fish Boy, had done well on their hunt. A fat raccoon hung over Flat Head’s shoulder and two long rabbits hung from Fish Boy’s belt. They had been gone two days now, skirting the forest along the sea to the south of Coosa Town. Now the sun had set and the air was hot, humid and still. They looked for a good place to spend their second night.
They came upon a small copse full of leafy deadfall. As Fish Boy cleared a sleeping place for himself, Flat Head climbed a nearby birch tree to tie their game up out of reach of four-leggeds.
“Is the light out there?” Fish Boy called up to Flat Head.
The night before they had seen a strange apparition near the sea. A bright, white diamond of light, it had appeared in the distance like a low-lying star.
“There is nothing tonight,” said Flat Head as he tied up the game. He climbed down and laid out his sleeping skin across from Fish Boy.
“Maybe it was a spirit,” said Fish Boy as he looked up into the blackness, “or the sun come down from his home in the sky.”
Flat Head said nothing for a moment. He didn’t think it was the sun; it wasn’t bright enough. It might have been a fire, but he had never seen a fire that big! “It is gone now,” Flat Head said finally. “We can tell Sees Far about it when we get home.”
The boys fell silent and soon slept.
Half the night had passed when Flat Head suddenly awoke. He was puzzled, for he had heard nothing and smelled nothing, yet all his senses were alive and warning him of danger. He sat and listened. Strange, there were only the sounds of crickets and frogs, the drone of the mosquitos. So what had awoken him?
He got to his feet and climbed up into the game tree. The strange light was back! This time it was much brighter and appeared to wobble and move.
A nearby noise startled Flat Head and he almost fell out of the tree. It was Fish Boy, climbing up beside him.
“Aieyee!” said Fish Boy. “So bright! It is the sun come down, just as I said.”
Flat Head said nothing.
“Should we go see?” said Fish Boy, a slight quiver of fear in his voice.
Flat Head was frightened, too, but could not let his younger friend know this. “Of course,” he said.
They climbed down and started warily down the trail. After walking for a long time, they left the trail and began moving through the trees. Finally they came to the edge of the forest and peered out across the expanse of sea grass. A light, brighter than the sun, had lit on the beach ahead. Warped, indistinct figures moved before it, dancing perhaps.
Fish Boy touched Flat Head on the arm. “It is spirits,” he said. “We should go.”
Flat Head thought it might be men. He hoped that it was men, and not spirits.
Both boys stared for a few moments longer, mesmerized by the beauty and intensity of the light. Flat Head’s curiosity grew greater than his fear and he turned to Fish Boy. “Stay here. I want to go up a little further so I can see better. Then we will go back to the village.”
Flat Head waited until Fish Boy squatted down safely out of sight among the bushes. Then Flat Head moved off. He felt brave, but, strangely, despite the growing cool of night, he was bathed in sweat.
Flat Head moved stealthily between the dark trees and palmetto, pausing from time to time to peer out at the light. Unfortunately, staying within the cover of the forest prevented him from getting closer to the light. He stopped, straining his eyes as he watched the tiny figures that seemed to dance in front of the light. He knew it was not cold this night, yet he was shivering. It must be spirits, he decided. They had cast a spell over him. He started back to Fish Boy.
On the way back, Flat Head slowed several times to peer back over his shoulder at the eerie light. It was not following him and he reached the black patch of bushes where he had left Fish Boy.
Flat Head crept over to the spot, but Fish Boy wasn’t there. Flat Head felt he was far enough away from the light to safely call Fish Boy’s name, and he did, but he received no response. Flat Head checked the area they had come from, back for about the distance of a bow shot, but still could find no trace of his friend. Feeling his courage slipping away, Flat Head forced himself to go back to the place where Fish Boy had disappeared. By now, Flat Head was shivering uncontrollably with fear and loss. A tear pushed its way out of his eye and he rubbed it away. He must be brave. He managed to calm himself for a bit, then thoughts of Fish Boy pushed into his head. Where was his good friend now? Had the spirits taken him away to the netherworld? Aieyee! He should never have left him here alone. He was too young. It was Flat Head’s fault! What would Fish Boy’s mother think of him? The others? Flat Head took one more look at the light and its attendant spirits and then hurried away.
A light rain fell from a gray sky as Calling Crow crawled slowly along the sodden ground through the maiden cane grass. The surf rumbled with a mighty voice not far away and an occasional seabird cried out hungrily. Flat Head’s light had, as Calling Crow suspected, turned out to be a large fire. Its attendants had inexplicably abandoned it in the middle of the night and gone southward. Day would soon break and Calling Crow wanted to get closer to the site of the fire before he went back to hide in the forest. He crept closer. Despite the steady rain the fire continued to smolder, issuing a sulfurous plume of smoke that shifted direction with the wind.
Calling Crow had seen no evidence of Flat Head’s friend, but he had seen many prints on the ground, evidence of men, not spirits. He wondered sadly what the boy had told them.
Calling Crow continued crawling toward the fire until he could hear the rain hissing into the red-hot embers. He lay still. The wind moved from time to time, wafting the heat and sulfurous smoke back over him, and it took all his strength not to cough. He turned his head to take a breath and, in the growing light, glimpsed the flat impression of a booted Spanish foot in the mud. It told him what he had suspected: the fire tenders were guiding a ship in to harbor. Perhaps they would be back this evening to throw more wood upon the fire. He turned round to make his way back to the tree line and froze. Two Timucua, their lances held at the ready, tracked something through the grass. If their game took them in the right direction, they would cross his track.
Calling Crow raised his head slightly to take another look around. Seven or eight other Timucua gathered on the beach on the other side of him. He was surrounded.
Where was Mantua, Calling Crow wondered, as he lay unmoving. Either Calling Crow or Mantua would soon give the other a warrior’s death. Of that Calling Crow was certain.
The rain falling on Calling Crow’s back tapered off to a wind-whipped drizzle as the light grew. The sea rumbled and sighed, rumbled and sighed, as he lay motionless, occasionally glancing back to locate the two Timucua trackers. Whatever they were stalking had taken them away from him. Aieyee! His prayer had been heartfelt and his spirit guide had responded. He looked back at the others on the beach. They were looking out at the place where the sea met the sky. Calling Crow’s face darkened as he saw what they were looking at. There would be no more guiding fires; the ship had already anchored.
It was the largest ship Calling Crow had ever seen, looking to be two or three times the size of Samuel’s ship. Calling Crow’s initial reaction was anger. Why did the Spanish people keep coming? He wanted to fight them, to wait with his men for them and drive them back into the sea. But he knew that his people were too few, and he knew that there would be many soldiers on the ship, maybe even horses. He noted the many rows of cannons and he remembered seeing firsthand what that many big iron guns could do to people on a beach, despite the distance of the ship. It was good that they had long ago moved the village well inland.
Calling Cro
w took another quick look behind him and gripped his iron axe firmly. The two hunters had taken a turn back in his direction. He would have to fight his way out or die here. It was only a matter of a few moments before they would cross the path he had made in the grass.
A shout came from the Timucua on the beach. A wave lifted a Spanish longboat up; Calling Crow caught a quick glimpse of several heads, all but one topped with hats. The hatless head had a small arrow hanging downward from a topknot of thick black hair. The boat and the heads disappeared in a trough between the waves. A moment later Calling Crow saw the Spanish rowers ship the oars as a wave caught the boat and drove it swiftly up onto the beach. The Timucua who waited on the beach shouted again and the two men behind Calling Crow gave up their search and began running toward the others.
Calling Crow managed to make it back to the tree line without being seen. He would have liked to stay and see the extent of the Spanish force, for he was sure it would be a much larger, more powerful force than had last been sent against his village. But for that reason he decided to go back to the village right away. They would have to flee, and many of the people would be opposed to this, given their ignorance of Spanish power and weaponry. He must convince them, or they were doomed to slavery. He thought briefly of his own captivity on the Spanish island, of his never-ending toil in the gold pits, the constant whippings and the snarling, killing dogs, and a deep anger and disgust welled up in him. He must make his people realize the danger, and quickly. He turned and ran back toward the town.
Those who could not fit into the chokafa crowded around the entrances to hear Calling Crow’s address to the people. Calling Crow, Red Feather, Fox-Disappears and a half dozen other top braves sat at the front, across from the old men. Samuel and his men sat in a position of honor to Calling Crow’s left as he faced the people. The combined voices of the people raised a cacophonous din in the large, airy structure until Calling Crow stood. The noise died down and the people leaned forward as they listened to Calling Crow talk of the Spanish threat. During the pauses in his talk, the pop and hiss of the small sacred fire could be heard.