White Fire

by Cassie Edwards

  He could not help but think that the eagle’s cry was some sort of an omen. Perhaps White Fire had run into trouble after he had left the village.

  Yet there was no proof of that except that he was not here in his lodge. He could not send out his warriors to look for him on such a foolish notion as that. Surely White Fire was all right. He would arrive home safe and would embrace Dancing Star as his birth daughter.

  “Tell me again how you came to know White Fire,” Dancing Star asked, gazing up at Gray Feather. “He is not Chippewa, so why do you care so much for him?”

  Gray Feather sighed. “There is so much about the young brave that reminds me so much of myself when I was his age,” he murmured. “And too often I have dreams that set him at my right side in council, as though he is my son by birth. Our hearts became as one almost the moment I set eyes on him when he came to our village in friendship.” He swallowed hard. “And your mother loved him.”

  “You did not have a son, only a daughter,” Dancing Star said, a sadness entering her eyes.

  “No, I did not have a son, and now I do not even have a daughter,” Gray Feather said.

  He gazed into Dancing Star’s eyes and could not find the words to tell her that he no longer even had a granddaughter. The moment Song Sparrow had placed the coil of her hair around her neck and chose the cowardly way out of life; she had yanked Dancing Star from Gray Feather’s arms and heart.

  “I will always love you, Grandfather,” Dancing Star murmured, as though she had read his thoughts.

  Taking these last moments with her, before he left her to live separately from himself and his people, Gray Feather hugged her tightly to him. “No matter what I feel forced to do, I will always love you, too, Granddaughter,” he said, his voice breaking.

  When she kissed him softly on the cheek, that part of his heart that had been left intact after the discovery of his daughter, broke into shreds.

  Chapter 29

  She bid me take life easy,

  as the grass grows on the weirs;

  But I was young and foolish,

  and now am full of tears.

  —William Butler Yeats

  His wrists and ankles raw from the chains and the weight of the balls holding them down, White Fire hung from the stone wall, the bars on three sides of him a crude reminder of what his fate might soon be.

  Stripped of all his clothing, and with welts on his wrists from trying to get free of the chains, he stared up at the window at the highest point of his cell.

  The sky was blue with only a few puffs of white clouds sailing past. He could hear the activity in the courtyard, reveille having been sounded some time ago.

  His stomach aching, he fought against his mounting hunger, for there were more important things on his mind at this moment than food; than even his own welfare. Flame.

  He wondered where she was now. All that he knew was that she was being sent upriver to a convent.

  And then there was Michael. White Fire hung his head and sighed as in his mind’s eye he saw his son and the trust that he had finally gained from him, which had been torn asunder by Michael’s adopted parents during White Fire’s absence.

  “All of this is gone from me now,” he whispered to himself.

  He saw no hope of getting free. No one but Flame and the soldiers at Fort Snelling knew that he was incarcerated. The soldiers would not dare go behind the sadistic colonel’s back and release him, though they all had to know that he was wrongly imprisoned.

  And he knew that Flame would be watched so carefully that she could not come to him and help him escape.

  “And Chief Gray Feather would have no way of knowing. . . .” he said.

  He gasped when a fat rat came scurrying by, stopping long enough to place his twitching nose at White Fire’s bare toes.

  “Scat!” he said, wiggling his toes.

  He sighed with relief when the rat scrambled on past him and left through the open spaces of the bars.

  When he heard voices, White Fire strained his neck to see whose they were. The door was closed between his cell and the outer room where guards were stationed day and night. No one had even come and spoken to him since his incarceration, or he might have tried convincing them of the wrong that was being done here.

  He sighed heavily, for it seemed even that orders had been given not to feed him. Perhaps he would not die by hanging or by a firing squad after all. Colonel Russell might let him slowly starve to death.

  He lowered his head again, his chin almost touching his chest. “Flame . . .” he whispered. “Flame . . .”

  Chapter 30

  Birds in the high hall-garden

  Were crying and calling to her,

  One is come to woo her.

  —Alfred Lord Tennyson

  Having heard the two soldiers talking about wanting more morning coffee, and knowing that only one of them was outside the cabin door, Flame took the opportunity to set her plan of escape into motion. She opened one of her travel bags and removed one of her most lightweight skirts and a white blouse.

  Her heart beat quickly. She must dive overboard soon or they would be too far downriver for her to get help for White Fire quickly enough. Flame removed her beautiful silk dress and hurried into the skirt and blouse.

  She stared at her bare feet. It would be best for her not to have shoes on during her swim. Yet knowing that she could travel shod much more quickly once she reached dry land, she stepped into a soft pair of flat shoes.

  Then she searched through another valise and found the letter her father had given to her to deliver to the head nun at the convent where she was to stay until he sent for her.

  “Obedience, ha,” she said sarcastically as she pulled out the letter. “I’ll show him a thing or two about how to teach me obedience.”

  Grasping it in one hand, Flame went to the cabin door and tapped on it. “Lieutenant,” she said, loud enough for him to hear her through the closed door. “Will you please come in my cabin for a moment?”

  She looked around the room for something with which to bang him on the head.

  She quickly thought better of resorting to that sort of violence and stepped back from the door and smiled wickedly up at Lieutenant Green as he opened it and came into the cabin. She was glad that it was him, for she knew that he had the other letter—the one that was the exact copy of the one she carried.

  Lieutenant Green’s gaze swept quickly over her and he noticed her change of attire. Then he looked guardedly at her, his eyes squinting into the soft rays of the sun as it poured in velvet, golden streamers through the one cabin window.

  “Well?” he said, placing his fists on his hips. “What do you want this time?”

  “Do you see this letter?” Flame said, giving him a wicked smile as she held the envelope out before her.

  “Sure, I see the letter,” Lieutenant Green said, forking an eyebrow. “Why? What about it?”

  “Do you know what the letter is all about?” she asked, slowly opening the envelope, and just as slowly removing the letter from inside it.

  “It’s a letter to the supervising nun at the convent,” Lieutenant Green said. “I’m to see that you, personally, place it in the hands of the nun.”

  “And what if I don’t give it to the nun?” Flame taunted, waving the unfolded letter before his eyes. “What if I tear it up instead?”

  As his eyes widened, she did just that. She tore the letter in half, and then continued to rip it into shreds.

  “Now what are you going to tell my father when you tell him that you didn’t stop me from tearing up this important letter?” Flame said, laughing mockingly.

  He didn’t know that she knew about the duplicate letter. She had seen her father palm it into his hand, looking slyly over his shoulder to make sure Flame didn’t see.

  She had turned her eyes away quickly enough so that he had not caught her witnessing his action. She had known the true purpose of a second letter. He had expected her to tear up the
one he gave to her.

  She now waited anxiously for Lieutenant Green to pull an envelope from his inside jacket pocket, to show her that he had a backup for the one she tore up.

  Lieutenant Green laughed throatily as he looked away from her long enough to slip one of his hands inside his jacket pocket for the letter.

  The moment he turned his eyes away from her, Flame stepped quickly around him and ran from the cabin. She closed the door behind her, and then ran over to the boat’s railing.

  She didn’t take the time to stare down at the swirling, muddy water of the Mississippi River, fearing she might have second thoughts about the dangers of the undercurrents.

  But she did take the time to look around her, to see if there was anyone who could quickly tell the soldiers how she had escaped. She smiled when she saw no one. Not even a crew member. Everyone was still leisurely enjoying morning breakfast and coffee in the dining room.

  With a racing pulse, Flame climbed over the railing and jumped, feet first, into the water.

  With the wide, powerful strokes that she had learned swimming in the Mississippi River back at St. Louis, she swam toward the shore. She prayed that the soldiers wouldn’t think to look in the river for her escape, but would instead start searching the hidden passageways of the boat, where someone could hide for the duration of the voyage.

  She could hear the steady swishing sound of the large paddlewheel churning the water as it took the boat downriver.

  Flame then smiled when she saw the riverbank only a short distance away. She thanked her lucky stars that the undercurrent had not been all that strong. Only once or twice had she felt it sucking at her legs and feet, and then she would swim free of the threat.

  Panting, water dripping from her hair, her skirt and blouse clinging to her like a second skin, Flame finally reached the shore. Her feet slipped and slid on the muddy bottom as she made her way toward the rocky embankment.

  Once there, she stopped and turned and stared at the riverboat as it floated farther and farther away from her.

  Smiling, she pulled her fingers through her hair and drew it back from her face, to hang in long, wet ringlets across her shoulders and down her back.

  “’Bye, ’bye,” she whispered to the soldiers, giggling. “Now what are you going to tell my papa?”

  Not wanting to waste any more time gloating over her escape, Flame rushed up the embankment and stepped into knee-high grass.

  Trying to get her bearings, to ascertain how far she was from civilization, she stopped and looked into the distance, then looked from side to side.

  Frowning, she saw that she had traveled too far downriver to go to Fort Parker to ask for Colonel Edwards’s help in getting White Fire set free.

  But she knew that she was within walking distance of Chief Gray Feather’s village. It was not that far through the thick trees. The river would be visible to her again where it made a wide turn before it straightened out and ran on past Fort Snelling.

  “Yes, Gray Feather is my only chance to get White Fire free,” she murmured, hoping that her father would not be too hasty in his desire to see to White Fire’s end.

  Flame gazed heavenward. “Lord, please let me be in time,” she prayed. “Oh, please help me find someone to help me get White Fire free. Please let it be Chief Gray Feather.”

  She lifted her skirt and ran into the forest. Yet something that White Fire had warned her about came to her so suddenly, she stopped and wondered if she was right to go to the Chippewa chief after all. White Fire had warned her that it was not wise to get the Indians involved in anything that might draw them into a war with the soldiers at Fort Snelling.

  If Gray Feather helped set him free, would not that give Flame’s father all the reason he needed to set his plans in motions to start a war with the Chippewa, and then the Sioux, until all of the Indians in the Minnesota Territory were annihilated?

  Then she thought of Colonel Edwards’s role in this. If Colonel Edwards had taken what White Fire had told him seriously enough, surely Colonel Edwards would soon move against her father and stop any warring before it got started.

  “He’s got to have believed White Fire,” she whispered, a shiver racing up and down her spine as her worries for her beloved mounted.

  Desperate, Flame broke into a mad run through the forest. She stopped only long enough to get her breath when her side began to ache from her incessant push to get to the Indian village.

  “I’ll never make it in time at this rate,” she said, a sob lodging in her throat. But she was not going to give up that easily. She would reach the Indian village. She would get the chief’s help.

  Several warriors could go to the fort and get White Fire out of that damnable prison where chains and balls held him hostage.

  It was a horrible thought to know that what was done to him now was far worse than what had happened to him at the hand of the Sioux during his three-year captivity with them.

  “And to think that my father is the cause!” she cried to the heavens.

  Then she stopped with a start and her eyes widened when she saw a cabin through a break in the trees up ahead. Her heart pounded like a thousand drums inside her chest as she also saw a small barn at the far side of the cleared yard at the back of the cabin.

  “If only I had a horse,” she whispered, edging her way closer to the clearing that led to the cabin and barn. But she had never stolen anything. Could she now? Or should she go and ask those who lived at the cabin for help?

  No, she could not take that chance. She had no idea who lived there, whether it was a family, or a lonely trapper who might take advantage of a lone woman.

  “I have no choice,” she whispered. She had to steal a horse, if one was available.

  As she got closer to the back of the barn, she scarcely breathed while looking guardedly from side to side.

  When she saw no one, she rushed to the barn and placed her back flat against it. She waited long enough to get her breath, then crept along the back of the barn until she could look around a corner and get a full view of the cabin.

  Smoke spiraled from the chimney. But still she saw no one. She didn’t see any movement through the windows, for the sun was reflecting against them, making the pane of glass look like a shield of orange fire.

  Then her eyes widened and she turned an ear in the direction of the cabin when she heard the strumming of a guitar and a man’s voice as he began singing.

  Flame smiled. The man inside the cabin would be too occupied with his music to notice what might happen outside. The music would even drown out the sound of a horse being stolen.

  “Let there be a horse,” Flame whispered, knowing that some of the trappers in this area owned only mules, which were too often stubborn to move but an inch at a time along the trail.

  Holding her breath, her eyes watching the door of the cabin, Flame ran around the edge of the barn and headed toward the open door.

  Once inside, she sighed with relief when she saw a great roan standing in a stall, idly nibbling on hay, its big brown eyes trustingly watching her approach.

  Flame smiled at her luck when she saw that whoever the horse belonged to had not removed its saddle.

  “Whoa, boy,” Flame whispered as she approached the roan. “I’m a friend. Do you hear? A friend. You and I are going to take a ride this morning.”

  The horse softly whinnied and shook its heavy mane playfully as Flame untied the reins from around a rail. She knew that she had made a fast friend of the animal. Smiling, she led the horse from its stall.

  To be sure she had the horse’s full trust, she stopped long enough to run her hands along its withers, then allowed it to nuzzle her hand.

  “We’re pals, right?” she whispered, again patting its withers. “You’re going to get me to the Indian village real quick, aren’t you?”

  Feeling comfortable enough now with the horse, and fully trusting it, Flame led it over to the door of the barn. She stopped and stared at the cabin once again
.

  She listened intently and smiled when she heard that the man was still too involved with his music to know that he was soon to lose a valuable horse to a lady.

  “I’ll get it back to him whenever I can,” she whispered. She hurriedly led the horse from the barn.

  She walked into the shadows of the forest, then swung herself into the saddle and rode off at a fast gallop.

  When she heard a man loudly cursing behind her, she knew that the thievery had been discovered. But the man had no way to catch her. She had stolen his swiftest mode of travel.

  Feeling guilty for being a thief, Flame frowned. Then she leaned low over the horse and forgot everything and everyone but White Fire.

  Her hair flying in the wind, she imagined White Fire in balls and chains. Her father had taken her into the dark, dank dungeon where White Fire had been incarcerated. Her father had forced her to see how he was being held there, unclothed and helpless.

  She would never forget her father’s evil laughter when he saw her distress over White Fire’s mistreatment. That laughter, the harshness of it, made Flame vow that somehow, some way, she would set her beloved free.

  She rode hard through the forest, and then made her way along the Mississippi River, knowing that she should soon reach the Chippewa village. She was now familiar enough with the terrain around their village to know when she would be getting near. She was seeing much now that was familiar to her.

  When she saw the wigwams a short distance away through a break in the trees, Flames’s heart soared. Her plan to set White Fire free would work! Surely all she had to do was ask the old chief and he would find a way to spring White Fire from his imprisonment. Had he not rescued White Fire and his daughter from the Sioux?

  Keeping that thought, taking hope from it, Flame rode in a hard gallop into the outer perimeters of the Chippewa village.

  Then she saw the bitter, sour glares as she drew the roan to a shimmying halt. She wondered why she would draw such antagonistic stares from those who had recently been friendly toward her.