Savage Horizons

by Rosanne Bittner

  They walked behind a hedge and embraced.

  “I just wanted to say good-bye alone, Caleb, and wish you good luck.”

  He pulled away, grasping her arms. “I will come back. If I can help you some way, I will find it. You must decide, Sarah, if you want to stay in Saint Louis or not. I am a man unsettled. But maybe I can think of something.”

  “Oh, Caleb, after leaving you and father at Fort Dearborn, I’ve been so lonely. They’re good to me, but I’m not happy. I told Father I was in my letters just so he wouldn’t worry. When you came to the door today I was never so happy to see someone in my life. Maybe there is nothing you can do, but at least come back once more. Promise me.”

  Their eyes held, and again he felt strangely possessive. Was it just brotherly concern? The thought of the man named Byron made him angry. “I will come back,” he told her. “This is something I must do, and it will give you time to think. Do not be afraid. I will help you if I can.”

  Her eyes teared, and she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Caleb. I’m so glad you’re all right and I’ve seen you again. God bless you.” She turned and hurried off then, looking back once to wave at him.

  He watched until she was gone, then remounted his horse, What a strange visit it had been, so much to say and so little time to say it. They had been apart for years, and yet after moments with her it was as though they had not been apart at all. She was still sweet Sarah, but so grown up, so very beautiful. His mind was filled with her as he headed for the docks.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  EARLY January of 1815 found Caleb marching through a chilly fog that shrouded the Louisiana cypress trees. The dampness made him shiver. He knew that if he were still in the northwest it would be much colder, yet the humidity of this cold air made it seem colder than it was, and he felt like the fog was penetrating his bones.

  His horses waited at a livery, and he walked among hundreds of Tennessee volunteers, his long musket slung over his shoulder. Most of the volunteers paid little heed to the quiet, blue-eyed Indian, and Caleb was glad. He didn’t want to make friends with any of them. He wanted only to kill some British soldiers, and joining forces with Major General Andrew Jackson was a sure way to meet the enemy. It seemed to Caleb that most men were his enemy in one way or another. But for the moment the British were the most hated enemy, for it was they who helped instigate the attack by the Potawatomi against those who fled Fort Dearborn.

  How glad he was that Sarah had been sent away sooner. What if she had been with Tom that day? She was so beautiful, the Indians would have saved her for a slave, and the thought of it made him angrier. Yet if she were his to care for. …

  He shook away the thought, again reminding himself it was Sarah, his sweet sister. He could not stop thinking about her, worrying about her unhappiness, wondering how in the world he could help her. Surely there was a way, but he knew that Terrence Sax would never let her simply leave and go to live someplace with her Indian stepbrother. He wished he had more to offer her. Then too there was little Tom to think about. He had to go and get the boy.

  He missed his baby son. Caleb wanted to get back before the boy had grown too much. He would be the best father he could be, for this son came from Walking Grass, and she would expect him to give the boy only the best. But it was more than that. It was the simple fact that the boy was his son, his own son. It seemed incredible that he had a child. He felt that only now was he realizing the full wonder of it.

  He quelled the terrible hurt and sorrow that always engulfed him when he thought of Walking Grass. He must pay attention to the problems at hand. He marched with volunteers preparing to fight the British, and it struck him how savage people could be on the one hand, and how kind on the other. Sometimes friends were enemies, and enemies were really friends. He could only hope he was doing the right thing. It seemed as though the whole world was a matter of survival of the fittest, strength in numbers, like a pack of wolves devouring a single prey. Now he and Jackson’s volunteers would be the wolves, the British the prey.

  Jackson had been in New Orleans for nearly a month already, and Caleb was among some of the last volunteers who had come to join the impending battle. He pulled a strip of jerky from a pouch at his waist and bit off a piece, wishing there were some way to gather those he loved around him and protect them forever.

  His thoughts were interrupted when someone yelled that they were approaching the city. Looking up, Caleb could see people in the streets waiting to cheer them on.

  “Make way, boys,” someone shouted. “Here comes Ole Hickory!”

  Caleb looked up and watched curiously as he stepped back.

  “It’s Jackson,” someone commented.

  The man rode through the middle of the volunteers as they entered the city. He had come to greet them, and he stopped often to thank some of them individually for volunteering their lives in America’s defense. He seemed to look at each man as his equal, but Caleb had doubts. He was only fighting with this man so he could fight the British. But he was not so sure he supported Andrew Jackson himself. The man had cleverly turned Cherokee against Creek at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, slaughtering a large number of Creek and promising the Cherokee protection from exile if they helped him. The man was just as adept at turning Indian against Indian as he was at stirring up the Americans against the British, and although he was a great leader and spokesman, and claimed to be a friend of the Indian, Caleb had trouble believing it. If the man was truly for America that meant he was for American settlement and expansion, which meant that some day the Indians would have to go. Whose side would Jackson be on then?

  Still, the man’s stature demanded respect. He was a big man who rode a big horse. His appearance was commanding in spite of his gaunt and obviously ill condition. His ability to remain in command and keep the motley crew of volunteers together and in order, in spite of his own pain and illness, was an inspiration to Caleb and the others. Caleb supposed that for a white man, Andrew Jackson was a great man, and it was rumored he would be the leader of the entire nation some day.

  Everyone there was eager and ready to fight. The British were coming to New Orleans, and when they did, the Americans would be ready. If Andrew Jackson won this battle, it would be one of his greatest victories. They would be facing hundreds, perhaps thousands of Redcoats, but they were ready for a fight. Caleb fought more for his own vengeance than for the Americans. He only hoped it would end soon.

  The volunteers and people in the street cheered Jackson, and the air was thick with excitement. Jackson had a way of recruiting men just by inspiration, and had even accepted the aid of pirates led by Jean Laffite. In all, there were about five thousand men ready for battle, surely more than enough to defeat the British.

  Led by Jackson, they continued their march into the city. Friendly faces and waving hands greeted them along the way, New Orleans citizens who, up until the last two months, had occupied an almost defenseless city and had worried the British would take the town with little or no opposition. Now Jackson had arrived, and it was a time to celebrate and bask in a victory they had not yet even realized.

  Caleb could not help catching the eyes of a few young girls along the way. Some stared back, fascinated by his Indian dress and long hair, not a few of them struck by his tall, rugged handsomeness. In spite of his sorrow over Walking Grass, certain needs were awakened in him, for it had been over two years since her death, and he had not been with a woman since. He had considered visiting one of the many brothels he had heard dotted New Orleans, but the thought of it made him uncomfortable, for he had never quite gotten over the guilt of his sexual encounters with Emily Stoner. Besides, Indians were probably not even allowed in such a place in this white man’s world.

  His eyes moved from a pretty young girl back to the troops so he would not lose his place in line. Then he glanced back into the crowd again, and it was then he saw her, just as they neared the edge of town and prepared to march into the
surrounding marshlands. She stood on the veranda with several women who were very obviously prostitutes, her white-blond hair hanging nearly to her waist. She stood taller than any of the other women and looked thin and gaunt. She wore a purple taffeta dress that dipped low to reveal nearly every inch of her breasts, but his eyes moved quickly to her face again to be sure. Yes. Though part of a black lace shawl concealed one cheek, the pale blue eyes that looked back at him sullenly were familiar. It was Emily Stoner.

  She stared back at him with a mixture of shock, guilt and fear, then turned and ran inside the building. Caleb had a sudden urge to break rank and follow her, not sure what he would do when he reached her other than plant his hands around her throat and squeeze until the life went out of her. How he hated her! Because of Emily Stoner he had never seen Tom Sax again. Yet he could not help but wonder what she had been through since that awful day they were caught. After all, she had lived as a slave to the Potawatomi.

  Caleb stared so long at the doorway through which Emily disappeared that he stumbled, and the soldier behind him gave him a shove.

  “Keep movin’, Indian,” he joked. “Don’t be gapin’ at the ladies. They’ll come after the fight.”

  Several men laughed and whistled, some of them joking about how the white whores liked Indians.

  Caleb was oblivious to their remarks, still in shock at seeing Emily Stoner standing amid prostitutes and dressed like one. He would most definitely go back to that place when the fighting was over, he decided. There were things to be settled with that one.

  There was little time to think of Emily or even Sarah after that, there was only time to make ready to fight. They would be using a new tactic devised by Jackson, and the volunteers were busy preparing that tactic. As Caleb helped dig one of the trenches, he thought Andrew Jackson was a very clever man. The major general intended to line the men up in trenches, one line behind another, so that men would be firing at all times. The first would fire, then duck into the trenches while the next row fired. It was an ingenious idea, and Jackson’s leadership abilities could not be denied.

  All through the next day orders were shouted, guns were cleaned, and directions given over and over again so the men knew how Jackson’s idea should work. First line fires, then reloads while the second line fires, which reloads while the third line fires. A leader for each line would shout when it was their turn to rise and fire again. The result would be continuous firing, in spite of having to take time to reload.

  Excitement filled the men’s blood with fire like a beckoning woman. The trenches were dug and ready. The air was still and damp on the morning of January 8, 1815, and soon in the distance they could hear the drums of the British soldiers, which scouts had already told them had landed and were coming in. Caleb’s heart beat with anticipation and not a little fear, for it was said there could be up to eight thousand Redcoats coming, many more than they had expected.

  Jackson kept scouts moving back and forth in the dense fog, keeping track of just how close the British were, for it was impossible to tell. Visibility was poor, and the thick fog distorted sound. Hearing the steadily beating drums to which the British soldiers marched but not being able to see anything made the morning eerie and unreal.

  Caleb and the others remained silent, waiting like bobcats ready to spring upon their prey. The waiting seemed an eternity, the drums teasing them, threatening them. They knew that they were greatly outnumbered, but all had confidence in Jackson’s ability and in their plan for continuous fire.

  Hands tightened on rifles as the sound of the drums seemed so close that they could surely reach out and touch the British, but whispered orders to continue to hold moved up and down the ranks. Finally the first columns of British suddenly emerged from the fog, and shouts of “Fire!” exploded in the first line. Volunteers popped up from their earthen trenches and fired, then quickly ducked down to reload while the next line stood up and fired, then the next and the next.

  Gunfire exploded around Caleb’s ears, and he trembled with the terrible and wonderful excitement of the moment. This was certainly noisier than Indian fighting, for the Indians did not yet have firearms. The trenches proved an amazingly successful strategy, more perfectly executed than even Jackson had imagined. The British fell like wooden targets amid the cheers and exultant war whoops of the southern volunteers. There was actually laughter among the men as the firing continued, and Caleb guessed there was not an ounce of fear left among them.

  The foolish British continued to march according to the rulebook, approaching the Americans in columns and being mowed down like long grass cut with a scythe. By the time the fighting was over, three hundred British were dead, well over a thousand wounded and at least five hundred more captured, with minimal American casualties.

  Caleb guessed he had killed at least ten Redcoats himself, aside from those he had wounded, and he hoped that wherever Tom Sax was, he knew. But the thought of the man brought a sharp pain to his heart, and he did not feel the wonderful joy of vengeance he thought he would feel. Killing the British had not brought back Tom Sax, just as his raids against the Crow had not brought back Walking Grass.

  His vengeance soured even more when he saw that many of the wounded and dead soldiers he helped pick up were mere boys, many of whom looked much younger than he. He felt a sudden admiration for them, realizing it had taken great courage for them to continue marching toward the constantly firing volunteers.

  Caleb’s emotions were in a turmoil. He had fought the British in anger over what had happened to Tom, yet the very Americans with whom he served would surely one day bring great sorrow to the Indian. Where did it stop? Who was really right? And what would happen to the Indian in the end? Already many eastern Indians had been exterminated through greed and disease and exile. Many of them had filtered into western lands, hoping to find a place where the white man would not go.

  All around him volunteers joked and laughed, talking about how America belonged to them and that the British could get out and stay out.

  “We showed them that once,” one man bragged, holding up his musket. “Then the damn fools tried to fight us again. When will they learn?”

  “It’s God’s plan, I tell you,” another shouted. “One day we’ll own this country from the Atlantic to the Pacific.”

  There was more laughter, and Caleb hung back. He realized that the cause of his worst anguish was Emily Stoner. Maybe things would have been different if he had not had to flee Fort Dearborn. He decided then that he was through with this army. He would get his pay and go back to find Emily.

  An attractive French woman opened the door to the brothel, looking Caleb over with appreciative eyes. “I am afraid we do not service Indians here, monsieur.”

  Caleb removed his floppy leather hat, feeling awkward in his fringed buckskins. “I do not wish such service. I only want to see someone who works here, talk to her.”

  The woman’s eyebrows arched, and she smiled. “Talk? I am not in business for friendly conversations, monsieur.” She started to close the door, but Caleb put out his hand, and stopped her.

  “Please. I want to see Emily Stoner. I know she works here. I saw her standing on your steps when we marched through here.”

  She looked him over carefully again. “You were a volunteer? You helped win that fight?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She shrugged. “Well, you do have blue eyes.” She stepped back and let him enter. “Why would you want to ‘just talk’ with our Emily?”

  “I knew her at Fort Dearborn years ago.”

  The woman frowned. “And you have not seen her since?”

  “No.”

  She folded her arms. “That one, she suffered much at the hands of the Indians, you know.” She looked him over as though wondering if he was some savage come to do the girl more harm.

  “I heard,” he replied. “I assure you, I simply want to talk to her. Could you please tell her I am here? My name is Caleb Sax.”

  The
woman eyed him a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “I will tell her, but if she does not want to see you, you must leave. I have men here who will make you leave if necessary. And if you bed her, you had better pay like everybody else.”

  Caleb nodded in agreement, hardly able to believe the once-sheltered Emily Stoner lived in a place like this, selling her body to men. The French woman ascended a curving stairway, and Caleb looked around the exotic entranceway. A thick red carpet led down a hallway, and from one room he could hear women and men laughing, a piano playing, glasses clinking. He walked closer to the sounds, unable to help his curiosity.

  He moved close enough to the arched open entrance of the room to see inside, where several men sat around tables gambling and drinking. Smoke filled the room, and half dressed women catered to the men. His eyes widened at the sight of them, some pretty, some not so pretty, all looking hard and used, their faces painted, their clothes sparkling and brightly colored. He had heard of such women, but this was the first time he had seen them so close. He thought what a contrast they were to the chaste Indian maidens and women like Sarah Sax. These women fascinated him, but he had no desire or respect for them, and it seemed incredible that Emily was really one of them.

  A man and woman sat on a velvet loveseat kissing. The man’s hand moved over the woman’s generously exposed breasts, then dipped inside the low cut dress to caress her breast fully. The woman giggled. “Wait till we get to the room,” she chided, pulling his hand away. “It won’t be much longer, honey. Carla is changing the bedding.”

  Again old needs stirred in him, but he did not want to meet them in this place.

  “Monsieur,” the French woman called from above, “do not look unless you are willing to pay.”