I Am Regina

by Sally M. Keehn

  The young Indian leaves and I begin to cry: for Mr. Bastian and Jacques LeRoy; for Christian and Father; for Barbara and me.

  Galasko unties our hands. He removes the gags from our mouths. He signs that we are not to talk. He gives us each a small handful of corn flour.

  Marie and Mary Anne crawl to Jacob. He puts his arms around them, comforting them while they try to eat the dry corn flour. Barbara, resting against the rock next to mine, raises her hand to her mouth as if she were about to eat. “Fort Schamockin,” she whispers to me. I wipe away my tears and nod, remembering the army fort located ten miles upriver from our farm. Troops must be quartered there now. Mother and John will tell them what has happened.

  “Regina,” Barbara whispers. She glances at the stallion grazing on a patch of grass just downhill from the rocks. She is telling me that she is going to escape. I know my sister’s reckless courage. She believes that she can ride the stallion to the fort. Lead the soldiers back-to us!

  “No!” I,whisper loudly. “Don’t even try! The Indians will kill you!”

  Barbara raises her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  Tiger Claw is approaching us. He settles on his haunches near my rock, keeping his eyes pinned on Barbara and me while his teeth tear into a strip of dried venison.

  Barbara commences eating her corn, but I cannot eat. I heed to talk to Barbara—talk her out of her foolish plan. Mother will alert the army.

  I feed my share of corn to the towheaded girl who rests her head against my shoulder. She must be two, maybe three years old. When Tiger Claw looks away, I whisper, “What is your name?”

  She stares at the ground. She must be afraid to talk. Or maybe she’s never learned

  “I will give you a name,” I whisper, putting my arm around her. “I will call you ... Sarah.”

  There are no night fires. We huddle together in the darkness for warmth. Tiger Claw crouches nearby. He never leaves. Often, other Indians join him.

  I do not like to look at them. They remind me of what has happened. The fierce expression on their faces tells me there will be no mercy. I am afraid of what tomorrow brings and what my sister might try to do.

  And so, I gaze at Sarah, whose head is now pillowed on my lap. She twists her finger through her hair, over and over again, the way I did when I was small and frightened. Mother sang to me then, but now the sound of Indian talk and wind soughing through trees is our only lullaby.

  CHAPTER Four

  We are walking single file through woods so deep the sun cannot reach us. Sarah is strapped to my back in a harness Tiger Claw has fashioned from my gray woolen shawl. The hard knots where the ends of the shawl are tied together dig into my shoulders and rub them raw. For the past three days, Tiger Claw has forced me to carry Sarah this way. This morning, when he lifted her onto my back, it felt as if a thousand knives were stabbing me. I screamed at the pain. Tiger Claw slapped me so hard my head spun.

  Later, at a spring, Barbara laid wet leaves on my face to ease the swelling. She told me I must try to be brave. Be stoic like the Indians. Then I will be treated with respect. But I can’t be brave when everything inside me hurts.

  I wish I were Barbara. Galasko treats her more kindly than Tiger Claw does me. Now he allows Barbara and Marie to ride Jacques LeRoy’s chestnut stallion at the head of our line. Galasko walks beside them, holding tightly to the reins. Shingask, the one Barbara says is Galasko’s son, walks on the other side. He still wears Jacques’s dark wool coat. Last night, Shingask offered Barbara and Marie strips of his dried venison to eat.

  He and Galasko seem to like Barbara. Although they don’t relax their watch for a single moment, they still treat her with respect. She is docile now and seems resigned to her captivity. I believe I’ve talked her out of trying to escape. For the past two days, she has said no more to me about it, and I am relieved. Wolves roam through these endless mountains. At night, their howls haunt our sleep. Windfall chokes the paths we follow. Barbara would be lost.

  And yet, a part of me wishes she would escape. A part of me wishes she would ride the stallion over windfall and through these dark woods toward the rising sun. There she would find Fort Schamockin. There she would alert the army, lead them back to set me free. This yoke I wear is heavy. Its straps burn into my shoulders and my legs feel weak.

  Sarah’s breath warms my neck, reminding me that my burden is but a little girl. She lies so still upon my back. Sarah has not spoken since we began this journey. She just stares at everyone with large, blue, frightened eyes. When I was small like Sarah, Mother sang to me and told me stories.

  I don’t know what has happened to my mother.

  Like giants, fir trees rise above us and the wind moans through their branches. “Once, long, long ago,” I whisper, shutting out the lonely sound, “there lived a man named Noah.”

  Sarah’s arms encircle my neck as I tell her the story of the endless rain and the waters that flooded all the earth. “Noah built an ark, a great boat, to sail upon the waters,” I whisper, remembering the warmth of Mother’s arms as she told me this story. “And then he gathered all the animals, two by two: mice, squirrels, cows, oxen, even creeping things like snakes. Hundreds of animals boarded Noah’s ark, but it didn’t sink.”

  As I tell the story, I find myself being caught up in Noah’s journey across the wiridswept sea where waves were taller than the trees rising above us now. Tiger Claw, Galasko, Shingask—all the Indians seem to fade before the horrors of Noah’s journey. I recall how I used to plead with Mother to end this story before it began, for I could not bear the tension. “Will the waves swallow Noah the way the whale swallowed Jonah?” I’d ask. “Will Noah drown?” “Will he ever find the land?”

  Mother would always smile and say, “Regina. God was with Noah as He is with us now. He kept Noah safe. Listen to the story and you will see.”

  And so I put aside my fears and listened, as Sarah listens to me now, her head resting against my back. I believe she understands what I am saying. Whatever journey we may be on, whatever horrors block our way, God is with us too.

  I think of Noah’s animals at dusk when four new Indians painted red and black bring more captives, two by two, into the camp we’ve made beside a stream. Two small dark-haired boys cling together while a tall man with a red beard supports a heavy-set woman. Her skin and clothes are gray with dirt, as if she has not washed in months. Now there are ten of us held captive.

  Barbara, Marie, Sarah and I, our table a slab of granite, sneak glances at the new captives while we devour small portions of dry corn flour, downing this supper the Indians have given us with handfuls of water we fetch from the nearby stream. Suddenly, Sarah slips out from beneath my arm. Cautiously, she approaches the little boys and offers them a fistful of bright red leaves. An Indian wearing a white man’s linen shirt says something to Sarah and she drops her leaves. He laughs as she scurries back to me.

  I comfort Sarah, offering her the last of my corn flour. But she will not eat. She gazes at the little boys with tear-filled eyes. Perhaps she once had brothers like these. I put my arm around her and I hold her close.

  Now, around a smoldering fire, the four new Indians excitedly recount their battles to the others while the red-bearded man settles the heavy-set woman beside Jacob and Mary Anne, who share their supper by the stream. He says something to the Indian wearing the linen shirt, then walks over to our table.

  Instantly, I like this man. His voice is warm and kind. He tells us his name is Peter Lick and that he often used to trade with Indians. He speaks and understands their tongue.

  “Some of the Indians are Shawnee,” he whispers, sitting on his haunches, watching the Indians riffle through a bag of white man’s clothes. “Some are Delaware. They come from villages scattered throughout western Pennsylvania and the land bordering the Ohio River.”

  “Is that where they are taking us? To the Ohio River?” I ask, my throat tightening with fear. Mr. Bastian had once told me about the great Ohio. It so
unded far away.

  “Some of you will be taken there,” he says gently. “Some to other villages. The Indians divide their captives up like spoils of battle. It is their way.”

  “Barbara and Regina are like sisters to me. We must not be separated,” Marie says, her pale arms encircling our shoulders.

  Across the clearing, the heavy-set woman begins to moan. Jacob and Mary Anne crouch over her, looking helpless as she clutches her knees, rocking back and forth in a pile of leaves. The Indian in the linen shirt grabs the woman by the hair. He pulls her head back and speaks harsh words into her upturned face. Peter Lick rushes over to intervene. The dusk fills with her moaning and our frantic whispers.

  “We won’t be separated—we can’t be,” I say, watching as Peter Lick talks to the Indian in the linen shirt while trying to comfort the woman.

  “I won’t let the Indians part us,” Barbara says fiercely, echoing Marie’s promise.

  “But you and Marie belong to Galasko. While I ... Sarah and I belong to Tiger Claw.” I glance at Sarah who lays curled beside me. Sadly, she traces a finger through dead leaves.

  “Perhaps Tiger Claw and Galasko come from the same village,” Marie says.

  “No, they don’t. Their Indian words sound different,” Barbara replies, her voice lower now.

  The woman has stopped moaning. Peter Lick leads her over to the two small boys who huddle, shivering, beneath an ash tree. Galasko stands watch over them, his body alert and listening.

  “There must be something we can do,” Marie whispers.

  “My mother will find us. She will set us free,” I say, clinging to this hope above all others.

  “Regina. Mother may ... she may not be alive.” Barbara’s voice cracks as she says the words and tears well up in her eyes.

  “She is alive!” I say loudly.

  “Shhh.” Barbara glances toward the stream. Tiger Claw is approaching us. He slaps a leather thong against his leg. I push myself away from the rock and curl around Sarah, as if we were about to sleep. Barbara and Marie settle in the leaves at my back.

  It is getting dark. Even darker with Tiger Claw’s shadow hovering over us. I hear his leather thong, slapping against a knee.

  Only when the slapping becomes a distant echo does Barbara whisper in my ear. “Don’t worry, Regina. I’ll think of something.”

  I can hear the desperation in her voice. “Shingask is kind,” I whisper over my shoulder, feeling the familiar tears welling in my eyes. “He and Galasko will let me go with you.”

  “Tiger Claw will not.” Barbara wraps her arms around me and Sarah then. It is the first time she has hugged me in a long, long time. I burrow my back into her warmth and I try to sleep.

  Another day has passed. Barbara and Marie still ride the chestnut stallion at the head of our line. Nothing has changed except that the woods are thinner now. I can see the sky. I don’t know how it can be so blue when my thoughts feel black, like thunder. We are deep in Indian territory. No white man can find us here.

  Peter Lick says that soon the Indians will disband and go home to their villages. He says that’s all they speak of. Barbara must have a plan. Earlier, I saw her speak to Galasko. Tears shone in her eyes. Perhaps she’s talked him into taking me with them.

  I am hungry and my throat is dry. Since daybreak, we have been trudging uphill behind the chestnut stallion. Carrying Sarah up this endless slope creates a thirst too great to bear. I don’t know how trees can grow in this arid land.

  I have had no water since last night. My mouth is as dry as the parched corn we ate for supper. The leather shoes I inherited from Barbara last year were not made for hard travel. The soles are coming off. They make a flapping sound as I shuffle through the leaves. They catch on twigs and stones, causing me to stumble.

  Barbara’s light brown hair, Marie’s dark curls, are the beacons that I follow. They encourage me to place one foot before the other, to keep on going until nightfall when we can be together.

  I would be lost without Barbara and Marie.

  Elizabeth, the heavy-set woman, walks ahead of me, swaying from side to side, humming a strange, sad melody. Barbara says to stay away from her, for she is mad. Tiger Claw stalks behind us. I can smell the bear fat he uses on his hair and skin. I feel trapped.

  Finally, we crest the hill and I hear the sound of running water. A stream must be nearby. Downhill, Galasko halts the chestnut stallion. Shingask helps Marie dismount.

  I think of nothing but water. Fresh, cold water, laced with the taste of watercress. I rush downhill with Sarah hanging onto my neck. I rush away from Tiger Claw and toward the stream. The sole of my shoe catches on a rock and I stumble, falling to my knees. Sarah’s weight crushes against me and she begins to cry.

  Galasko shouts.

  Startled, I look up. The chestnut stallion is charging through woods on the stream’s far side! Barbara perches over his neck, her heels drumming against his flanks.

  For an instant, I don’t believe what I am seeing. This couldn’t be Barbara’s plan! She wouldn’t escape! Not now, after so long a time. We are too deep in Indian territory.

  Abruptly, I recall how she held me through the night, her quiet desperation. “I’ll think of something,” she told me.

  Now she and the stallion disappear, as if they were swallowed by the trees. Her reckless flight, her sudden absence hits me—like a hard blow to the stomach.

  Barbara is gone.

  Breathless, I try to stand. Tiger Claw grunts. He kicks me to the ground. Whimpering, I cover my head, expecting his next blow. Struggling to hang onto me, Sarah screams.

  The Indians talk above me and Tiger Claw yanks me to my feet. Sarah clutches my neck, trying to regain her balance. I stumble over a rotted log as I am herded with the other captives to a clearing by the stream.

  Galasko stands framed by the gold of poplar leaves. He raises his rifle in the air then disappears in the direction that Barbara rode. Six Indians follow him.

  I wish courage for Barbara. I wish wings for the stallion’s feet. I wish for the trees to part, making a path that will lead her through this wilderness to the soldiers who will return to rescue me.

  My legs are shaking. I cannot seem to catch my breath. Marie lifts Sarah off my back, then she puts an arm around me. She always used to smell like violets.

  Now she smells of fear. “Barbara will be all right,” Marie whispers. “She is so brave.”

  The five remaining Indians keep us closely guarded as the minutes slowly pass. The silent minutes seem to stretch—to nine, to ten, to twenty, maybe more. The sun glances off the nearby stream, turning it to gold.

  I am thirsty.

  If only I could ignore the threat of the Indians’ rifles. If only I could skirt the Indian in the linen shirt and walk the seven paces to the stream....

  Water could quench my burning thirst, my fear. Water could tell me, “Barbara will be all right.”

  The forest fills with a wild sound, as if a hundred wolves were howling.

  “The Indians,” Marie gasps, turning to me. “What are they doing? What have they done to Barbara?”

  My hands feel as cold as ice.

  Mary Anne hides her head in the folds of Marie’s blue dress. Jacob crouches, watching the trees where Barbara disappeared.

  “Your sister will die,” a low voice whispers.

  I turn. It is the madwoman, Elizabeth. One dark eye looks at me, the other drifts, now looking at the stream, now at Tiger Claw who slouches against a tree, his rifle resting on his forearm.

  “They will build a bonfire and burn her.” Elizabeth laughs.

  “No,” I whisper, shaking my head from side to side.

  The howling changes pitch. Now it rings with triumph and beside us Tiger Claw starts yipping like a moon-crazed dog.

  Marie tightens an arm around me. Only her arm keeps me from falling. Moments later, the chestnut stallion, riderless, trots into the clearing. His reins are dangling. The whites of his eyes roll.


  CHAPTER Five

  All my hope of being rescued, of escaping from the Indians, dies when, minutes later, Galasko and Shingask emerge from the poplar trees holding Barbara up between them.

  “Regina! No!” Peter cries as, throwing fear aside, I run to my sister. I stumble through the stream, Indians shouting angrily behind me, and reach for Barbara. Galasko holds his rifle up between us and tries to push me back. But the look in Barbara’s eyes transfixes me and I cannot move. My bones seem to turn to ashes. Barbara’s eyes look ... stunned ... like a badly injured fox, legs mauled by a trap. “What have they done to you?” I whisper.

  Peter pulls me backward, out of the rushing water. He leads me to the other captives Tiger Claw and four other Indians guard beneath a grove of birch trees. The bark reminds me of dead people’s skin, cold white and pale. I feel the dark barrels of Indians’ guns focused on me now.

  “You cannot help her,” Peter whispers, as Galasko and Shingask drag my unresisting sister over to a dead ash tree standing in the center of the small clearing just a few steps away from me. Bark hangs in ragged sheets from its forked branches. Barbara’s cheek and neck are gashed. Blood has stained the collar of her gray homespun dress. Her eyes look dull and lifeless, as if all her courage has now died. I cannot bear to see it die....

  Galasko wraps a rope around Barbara’s waist while other Indians emerge from the forest, talking excitedly among themselves. He secures Barbara to the ash tree and I force myself to reach for him, touch the bared skin of his arm. “Please. Leave her alone. She has been hurt enough,” I plead, searching his stony face for a sign of mercy.

  Galasko shrugs me off, as if my fingers were flies. Desperate, I turn to Shingask who watches his father bind Barbara to the tree. Shingask must be about John’s age, only sixteen. He is too young to hide the hurt I see in his eyes. He thinks Barbara has betrayed him.