by Paul Clayton
When the ceremony concluded, they moved out to the darkness and headed for the palisade wall. Samuel and his men carried muskets, although they had agreed to use them only as a last resort. It was hoped that the swords they wore would enable them to dispatch the Timucua savages guarding the cannon without much commotion.
Up on the fighting platform, Calling Crow talked quietly with Red Feather and his squad of men as they looked out at the distant torches. Samuel turned to his own men. In the dim moonlight, Fenwick’s small, violin-shaped figure was dwarfed between the hulking height of Philip the farm boy and Taylor’s bearish bulk. Samuel hoped that Fen would fare well. Initially, Fenwick had argued for trying to reach the ship, but Samuel had countered that it would be impossible, pointing out that the savages could move much faster in the forests and more than likely they’d all end up as Spanish galley slaves, with a lifetime of whippings and toil to look forward to. That sad forecast had given Fenwick enough resolve to volunteer for the cannon attack and Samuel hoped his horror-driven valor would sustain him during the entire maneuver.
Samuel looked back at Calling Crow. Strange as it was, he realized that his fate, and the fate of his men as well, was now bound up with Calling Crow and his people. If they could triumph here, this could be the point for England’s long overdue entry into the Americas. Trade and colonies would follow eventually. There would be trips to Court, an audience with Her Majesty. Perhaps a governorship. If they were defeated, well, they would all suffer the same fate.
As Samuel studied the distant forest, he heard Calling Crow utter some command in Muskogee. Red Feather and his men immediately dropped down over the palisade wall, disappearing into the darkness. Then, Samuel and the others waited while Calling Crow searched the black night. For what? Samuel wondered. What could he possibly see from up here? Samuel turned to watch one of the distant pinpoints of torchlight. It seemed to divide into two and them fuse together again. He blinked his eyes and his head ached. Someone touched him on the back. A Coosa brave’s hideously decorated face hovered close by and Samuel involuntarily stepped backward. “Go,” the man said softly in his language. Samuel touched Fenwick’s sleeve, indicating he should get the other two. Samuel watched the brave walk off. To see one of them suddenly come at you from the darkness, he thought, would be enough to stop many a heart cold. He hoped the Coosa’s war paint would have a similar effect on the Timucua savages.
Down on the ground, Samuel and his men followed in file as Calling Crow and the squat, broad-shouldered brave called Fox-Disappears led the way across the darkened fields. They entered the forest and worked their way north. Samuel stumbled along, his head dizzy, making more noise than he should. After what seemed like half the night they came to the riverbank and a long dugout canoe which Calling Crow and his men had evidently hidden there. Samuel gratefully sat in the middle and soon they were gliding down the black river. Calling Crow’s men were so expert at paddling the long boat that the only sounds that reached Samuel’s ears were the occasional splashes as fish jumped to take the many flies and mosquitos Samuel could not see, but which continued to bite voraciously at his exposed flesh. Samuel grabbed the gunnels as a dizzy spasm ran through him. In his fevered state, there seemed to be no up or down, only black, and the movement of his head to the strokes of the rowers.
The canoe slid onto land with a gravelly rustle and stopped. Again they walked quietly through the darkness beneath the trees. A hand forcefully grabbed Samuel’s shoulder, urging him to his knees. Samuel turned and motioned Fen and the others to kneel out of sight. Turning, he tried to see in the dark what Calling Crow and the others must have seen, but there was nothing. They knelt in silence for a while. Samuel was on the verge of asking Calling Crow why they had stopped when he heard it-- the distinct tramp of feet upon leaves, the cracking of a branch underfoot, a softly muttered reproach in that strange tongue. Not ten feet away, a number of men were marching by, yet they were invisible to Samuel. After the tramping sounds had receded, they moved on. They walked for half an hour or so until Samuel stumbled into the brave in front of him. The file had stopped.
The brave pushed Samuel forward and he knelt beside Calling Crow and Fox-Disappears as they peered across a small field at something. At first Samuel could see nothing, then the dark outline of the boat became visible against the starlight reflected in the water. It was tied up upon the bank. Two savages stood beside it, looking at the water. Samuel knew there should be more, but he couldn’t spot them.
Calling Crow raised his hand and pointed. Samuel’s eyes strained. Yes, there. Back twenty feet or so, he saw five more savages sitting in a circle.
Fox-Disappears gestured to two of his braves and they silently waded into the water. Samuel and his men pulled their swords and followed Calling Crow and two other braves as they crept forward. When they were a hundred feet away they stopped and knelt to wait for Red Feather’s attack on the main camp. It was not long in coming.
A distant musket cracked and the Timucua got to their feet. Bent low, Calling Crow immediately crept forward and the others followed. Several more muskets boomed in the distance. Calling Crow raised his axe and raced forward silent as a specter. The Timucua never had time to raise his own club as Calling Crow’s blow knocked him backward. Calling Crow turned to engage another Timucua.
Samuel saw a Timucua rushing at Calling Crow from behind. Samuel intercepted the man and he quickly redirected the direction of his axe, grazing Samuel’s right arm. Samuel dropped his sword painfully and the savage howled with delight. Philip came out of the blackness and swung his sword, almost severing the Timucua’s head from his shoulders. Samuel’s right arm hung limp and useless at his side. He picked up his sword with his left as he heard splashing and grunting behind. Fox-Disappears and the others were engaged in a fierce struggle on the long boat. Philip and another savage thrashed about violently in the river.
A large mass seemed to float past Samuel as Taylor and one of the savages fought, grunting and cursing, their movements a macabre dance. The savage was big and powerful, but Taylor had evidently grabbed him from behind, pinning the man’s arms to his sides. The savage still gripped his axe in his right hand and twisted and kicked in a fury as he attempted to put Taylor off balance. Taylor, for his part, looked reluctant to let the man go. Samuel saw why. Taylor had somehow lost his sword.
Samuel’s arm was still useless from the blow the Timucua had given him. He saw Fenwick sitting on the ground. He had evidently been knocked there and was in some kind of stupor.
“Fen,” called Samuel softly, “get up and help him.”
Fenwick looked blankly at Samuel.
“Over there,” Samuel hissed.
Fenwick got to his feet and saw the two men struggling. Grabbing his musket by the barrel, he rushed over and struck the native on the forehead. The man’s legs buckled and Taylor let him fall to the ground.
Samuel walked over as Taylor glared at the collapsed native menacingly.
“Is he dead?” said Samuel.
In answer, Taylor pulled Fenwick’s sword from his side and stabbed the man. He handed the sword back to Fenwick. Calling Crow appeared out of the darkness. “The cannon is ours,” he said. “We must take it away at once.”
They went over to the Spanish longboat. Fox-Disappears and two of his braves were already aboard, Fox-Disappears examining the cannon closely in the dim light.
Samuel rubbed his arm and gratefully felt strength coming back into it. He knelt beside Fox-Disappears to inspect the cannon. It was firmly lashed with stout cords in the center of the longboat.
“Quickly,” said Samuel, “Philip, Taylor, take the oars. Let’s go!”
As the others got aboard, Samuel went forward. He found several kegs of powder, a dozen cannon balls, and four bar shot. One of the latter, if it struck the palisade squarely, would open it wide enough to drive a carriage through.
He worriedly called to the others in the darkness. “Hurry!”
As the heavy boat
moved slowly away from the bank, Fenwick turned and pointed. “Samuel, they’ve spotted us!”
Five or six torches raced toward them.
Samuel shouted, “Pull, men. Pull hard!”
Taylor and Philip put their backs into the oars. They were quickly joined by Fenwick and Fox-Disappears. The boat had moved about thirty yards from the shore when the men with the torches reached the bank. Three Spanish soldiers carried long muskets and five or six Timucua braves waved their war clubs wildly. Two of the braves immediately jumped into the water and began swimming toward the boat. The Spanish knelt and fired a volley from their muskets. The shots struck the water, sending up geysers of spray. As Samuel was reaching for his own musket, the boat leaned over suddenly, almost knocking him overboard. Two Timucua braves were attempting to climb aboard. Fox-Disappears made a move toward one of them and the man grabbed him by the hair and pulled him overboard. A moment later the other Timucua was in the boat and struggling with one of the Coosa braves.
“Look!” shouted Fenwick.
Another four or five Timucua swam through the black water toward the boat.
A wave of dizziness came over Samuel. He shouted over to Calling Crow. “We’ll never get the cannon out of here. Cut the ropes! We’ll have to dump it in the river.”
They began hacking at the thick ropes that secured the heavy cannon in the middle of the boat. A Timucua brave surfaced aft and attempted to climb up onto the gunnels.
Samuel turned to him, sword drawn, and the man sank back into the water. Samuel leaned his weight against the cannon, trying to move it. Calling Crow joined him in the effort, then one of Calling Crow’s braves, but the cannon would not move.
Samuel shouted over at Philip and Taylor. “Leave the oars! Help us!”
The two Englishmen joined the others alongside the black bulk of the cannon. “Heave!” called. Samuel. For a moment nothing happened, then the cannon slid with a groan, crashing up against the port gunnels. Before anyone could react, the boat flipped up and over as if a giant had surfaced beneath it. Samuel felt a knock on the head as he went into the cold water. He spun around and down. He was a tiny thing, sinking into an ink pot, blacker than night. A dark shape drew close, a grisly-looking hag. She embraced him, pulling his face close. She forced her tongue into his mouth. Cold and wet, like a raw clam, the tongue pushed its way past his gullet, starting down his throat. He gagged in reflex, and pushed her away. Clawing his way upward, he broke the surface, vomiting and coughing hoarsely. He looked around in a panic as his feet fought for a purchase and churned the depths uselessly. He was drowning, as the others must be. He went under, then fought again for the surface. He gasped for air, spotting what he thought to be the riverbank opposite from the Spanish and their savages. He thrashed, doglike, clawing for land. For the love of God, let his feet feel land beneath them. The current spun him round and he thought he saw someone or something, one of the horrid alligator beasts behind him. He cried out, continuing to claw for the land. Sputtering, swallowing water, his lungs and throat burned like fire as he fought for breath. Then, mercifully, he felt soft mud beneath his feet and crawled up onto the bank. Coughing, vomiting, he collapsed.
Samuel lay still. The distant shouts of men echoed across the water, but they were becoming less frequent and more faint. His breathing slowed, becoming regular again, and he felt his strength returning. He heard a rustling in the bushes. He felt for his sword. Thank God! It was still in its sheath. He pulled it quietly and looked up at the black jumble of the forest.
His breath left him as he saw two large black shapes leave the trees and move down the bank toward him. They would be savages; his men must have drowned. Lord God above, had he been saved from a watery grave only to be cut into pieces by the savages? He forced himself to his knees as they drew closer. He was about to leap upon the first of them when the man spoke. “Who’s there?” It was Philip! Mother of God! And Taylor was behind him.
“It is me,” he hissed at them.
The two shapes stopped.
“Samuel?” said Taylor tentatively.
Samuel got slowly and unsteadily to his feet. “Yes. I think someone hit me on the head, or perhaps it was the boat.”
Philip put his arm around Samuel, steadying him. “Where is Fen?” said Samuel.
“We don’t know, sir,” said Philip. “We were working our way back in the hopes of finding both him and you. I’m afraid he must have drowned.”
“How did you manage to get ashore?” said Samuel.
“A barrel, sir,” said Philip. “It was very buoyant and we both held on and made our way. It was God’s grace, it was.”
Taylor grunted his agreement.
Neither Samuel nor Taylor said anything for a few moments. Then Samuel spoke. “We had better find the dugout. That’s where Calling Crow and the others will be. They swim like fish and it’s likely some of them survived.”
Taylor pulled his sword and led as they moved clumsily through the brush along the banks. After walking for almost an hour, Taylor stopped and peered through some bushes. Philip and Samuel knelt behind him.
“What is it?” whispered Samuel.
“I’m not sure,” Taylor whispered, “I think there are people on the other bank. See! Something’s moving there.”
They crept closer, carefully climbing down the slippery mud of the bank.
Samuel stared across the smooth blackness of the river to where he thought Taylor was pointing, but still could not see anything. He turned round to Philip. “Do you see anybody?”
“I think so, but I cannot tell who they are.”
“Go over,” said Taylor, “and get a better look.”
Philip looked round at Samuel plaintively.
Samuel nodded. “See if you can find a piece of wood to take you across, lad. Take a look and tell us what you see.”
Philip disappeared into the blackness of the bank. After he had been gone awhile, Samuel whispered to Taylor. “Do you see anything?”
Taylor shook his head. “Nothing now,” he whispered, and the two men stared in silence at the river, the noise of the frogs and crickets assailing their ears.
After a while Samuel got to his feet. “Come, we must attempt to get back to Calling Crow’s town.”
“What about Philip?” said Taylor.
“We cannot wait. The savages will be searching the river up and down.”
As Samuel began climbing up the bank, they heard an owl nearby. Taylor stopped.
“Come along,” said Samuel, turning round.
“Look,” said Taylor, pointing to the river.
Something was gliding downriver, drawing closer. As it drew near, they saw it was a canoe. Fox-Disappears worked a paddle up front as it slid up onto the bank, the current turning it sideways. Philip sat in the middle, along with Fenwick and Calling Crow.
Samuel and Taylor quickly climbed aboard and the paddlers pushed the canoe off and headed it upriver. Samuel turned round to Fenwick. “Thank God you’re alive!” he said, “I thought you had drowned.”
Fenwick pointed to Calling Crow. “I would have been feeding the alligators by now if his lordship, Calling Crow, had not pulled me out of the river.”
Samuel turned to Calling Crow. “We don’t have the cannon, but neither do they.”
Calling Crow watched the dark riverbank as Fox-Disappears and the other braves smoothly propelled the canoe upriver with quiet, even strokes. “Samuel,” said Calling Crow, “can they pull it up from the river and use it?”
Samuel stared into the utter blackness as he answered. “Yes, but it would take them weeks, perhaps months.” Calling Crow’s voice was tinged with pleasure. “‘That is good.”
“With all the men and muskets they have down there,” said Samuel, “this will only buy us one, perhaps, two days.”
“We will fight until Fire Heart brings back the Cussitaw braves,” said Calling Crow.
Samuel said nothing, his thoughts as black as the river they moved upon. He pictur
ed Bright Eyes and her baby back in the town. How long would it take the Spaniards to breach the palisade? He took the thought no further, the reality of their situation being too grim.
Chapter 44
Samuel’s ague returned and he shivered uncontrollably as Calling Crow’s braves pulled the dugout up onto the riverbank. Well north of Coosa Town, they formed a file and crept through the quiet of the forest. When they neared the town, Calling Crow’s braves skillfully avoided Mantua’s sentries, and before dawn’s light they huddled against the palisade wall. Calling Crow warbled a birdlike signal and a crude ladder was lowered. A moment late, they were within the safety of the town. Samuel’s men went to sleep in the chokafa. Samuel made his way through the now-familiar dirt streets. Drumming, singing, and the occasional trill of an Indian flute filled the cool air.
Bright Eyes was kneeling before the cook fire when he entered. She smiled up at him and he went over to look at the child. He stared down at it in wordless fascination. She came over to him and felt his clothes.
“Wet,” she said, and went to one of her many baskets to fetch him a skin robe. He stepped out of his clothes as she dipped a conch shell into one of her pots. After he wrapped himself in her warm robe, he sat down on the sleeping pallet. She brought him the shell full of hot tea. He sipped it noisily, but despite its medicinal powers, exhaustion overcame him and he lay down and fell to sleep.
He awoke, feeling her naked warmth beside him. Outside, the rain was coming down hard. Despite the night’s blackness, he knew she was awake. He pulled her close and rolled atop her. “Kiss, kiss,” she said softly, and he kissed her lips tenderly. He mounted her and they made love slowly with the sound of the rain all around them. Bright Eyes pushed him off and slipped on top of him, putting him inside of her. She rode him with cries of joy till they spent themselves and fell back to sleep.
The wind-driven rain lashed the thatch of Green Bird Woman’s house with a gentle rhythm. Dawn would not break for another three hours and Calling Crow lay in a deep sleep. Despite this, he was aware of the rain and other sounds-- water being poured into a pot, the fire noisily consuming a large stick just thrust into i, and, very far away, a baby crying. Then a voice came, a voice he was vaguely familiar with, and Calling Crow began his steep climb up out of the netherworld of dreams.