by Henke, Shirl
Barbara scrambled to her feet as they began their struggle. When McGilvey's back turned to her, she raised her knife and plunged it with all her strength into his back. He let out an oath of surprise and pain as he jerked around to face her. She quickly backed out of his reach.
“I'll kill you for this, real slow,” McGilvey snarled, advancing toward her.
“McGilvey, you're a dead man,” Devon cried out, desperate to distract the renegade. A Muskogee war cry rent the night air at that moment and McGilvey quickly forgot about Devon and Barbara. Clutching his left shoulder, where Barbara's blade was still embedded in his back, he shambled off into the darkness.
The last thing Devon heard before everything faded to black was Barbara's scream.
Chapter Twelve
‘‘For the love of God, do something! He's bleeding to death!” Barbara cried as Pig Sticker ran toward them. She had Devon's head cradled in her lap and was struggling ineffectually to stanch the blood flowing from his side.
The Muskogee glanced to where McGilvey had vanished into the trees, then knelt beside his fallen kinsman. Quickly he removed his knife from its sheath and reached for her tattered petticoats. “Cut for wrapping wound,” he said in serviceable English.
Barbara at once obeyed him, pulling the tapes loose and then yanking one of her few remaining overskirts from her waist, being careful not to disturb Devon any more than necessary. In minutes, they had packed the ugly gash with cloth and wrapped it tightly to slow the bleeding.
”I return. Wait with my cousin.”
As he quickly ran from the campsite, Barbara marveled that all along he had been able to speak English and never said a word. Then she remembered some of her scathing insults and reddened in mortification. Good God, he could scalp her if the fancy took him!
When Pig Sticker returned, it was obvious that he harbored no ill will toward Barbara. In fact, although she did not realize it, he was most impressed that she had saved Devon's life by using the skinning knife at the critical time. He had secured the stolen trade goods they had been sent to retrieve and led the string of mules into camp, along with their horses. Barbara sat bathing Dev's face with cool water as Pig Sticker quickly and efficiently rigged a deer-hide sling between two mules. She helped him lift Devon onto the conveyance, and they set off toward a village which he assured her was only a day's ride away.
Traveling at night was very slow going, but the mules were surefooted and they had covered some ground by dawn. Before the sun rose, the Indian stopped and poured some of the vile libation he was accustomed to drink into a wooden cup. After performing the same disgusting ritual she'd witnessed the preceding day, he checked Devon and then remounted, ready to continue their journey.
Barbara was frantic with fear for Devon, and Pig Sticker was her only hope to help the wounded man. She had to understand this savage. “Why do you do that—drink that black brew that makes you sick?” He looked at her with fathomless black eyes, his face utterly devoid of expression. For a moment she feared he would not answer. Then he replied, “Black drink makes me pure. Makes a warrior strong, not sick. Same way washing. White men do not wash in water. Weak, dirty.”
Recalling Devon's comments to her about her filth-encrusted odor, she reddened with embarrassment. Changing the subject, she asked, “How long until we reach this village?”
“Soon,” was the laconic reply.
He was equally noncommittal about Devon's condition. With increasing horror, Barbara watched the red stain soak through the bandage. The terrifying night replayed over and over in her mind as they crossed the flat, seemingly trackless land. She could still smell McGilvey's fetid breath, feel his big, bruising hands on her body, hear him cry out to Devon, ”I got yer woman, Blackthorne.” She looked down at Devon Blackthorne's still face, pale in spite of his swarthy skin. His woman? She could still feel the heady, scorching touch of his hands as he rubbed oil into her skin so intimately. What would happen to her if he died?
No, you cant die! I shan't allow it! He had come running to save her, leaving a trail of his own blood as he did so, taunting and attacking that huge brute McGilvey, even though he was in no condition to withstand any combat. What she would have given at that moment for one insolent leer or wink from his disturbing dark eyes!
The Idalwa, as Pig Sticker called the village, was a town of sizeable proportions, set out along the banks of a narrow but deep stream. The outskirts were filled with large mud-plaster buildings erected on wooden frames. Many were two stories high and had neat wood-shingled roofs. The arrangements seemed rather helter-skelter to Barbara as they rode through the twisting pathways between garden plots and buildings. Some structures were homes, some seemingly storage warehouses filled with deer hides and implements.
The people were overjoyed when they sighted the caravan of mules laden with trade goods, but became grave when they saw Devon. Barbara endured the curious stares of round-eyed children, all innocent of clothing in the summer heat. The women wore full calico skirts and brightly colored men's shirts, many of them bound at the waist with plaid sashes. The men were usually far less decently covered, many wearing only scandalous red breechclouts. Everyone was adorned with the disfiguring earrings that elongated their lobes, as well as beaded headbands, necklaces, bracelets, and belts.
Their open curiosity about the strange, bedraggled-looking Englishwoman was neither hostile nor friendly. Barbara tried not to stare at the men's painted and tattooed bodies and simply looked straight ahead, her chin high and her back straight. I'll show them what an Englishwoman is made of!
The crowd parted to allow them to move toward the center of the village, where an immense round-domed building stood. To one side of it, what looked like a public square of some sort was surrounded by tiered and roofed seats on all four sides. A fire, tended by several young boys, burned in the center of the open area.
Pig Sticker reined in by the round structure and dismounted. A small delegation of elderly men, covered with tattoos and draped with ceremonial blankets, emerged from the entrance of the building and stood, waiting for Pig Sticker to approach. A rapid exchange took place in their language, with frequent gestures to Devon and to her.
Barbara desperately wanted to know what Pig Sticker was saying about her. Then Devon moaned and began to twist his body in pain. At once she dismounted and went to him, placing her hand on his head. “Quiet, Dev, quiet. You'll make the bleeding worse. We've brought you to a Creek village. They'll help you.” If only they can!
After a few moments, one of the elderly men, whose face was as brown and wizened as a London mail pouch, walked to her and spoke in English.
“I am Kills the Bear of Wind Clan. Welcome to village. We take care of Golden Eagle, who you call Devon Blackthorne. His mother of our clan. Is honor have him return. We make strong medicine, heal him.” He gestured, and two young men approached and unfastened the sling holding Devon, then began to carry him away.
“Where are you taking him?” She started to follow, but Kills the Bear placed a surprisingly strong hand on her arm.
“He be safe. Strong medicine. You rest now, eat. My woman take care for you.” Again he had but to raise his hand and several young women, led by one older one, approached, chattering excitedly. Two of the younger women smiled shyly at her, but the third glared with sullen black eyes. The older woman, whom Kills the Bear introduced as his chief wife, Mocking Bird, nodded gravely and then led the way to a large, mud-plastered building.
Barbara swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and entered the rude dwelling as if it were the Tower of London. They climbed a sturdy ladder to the second floor, which was surprisingly spacious, orderly, and clean. Simple pallets of animal hides lay around the perimeter, and a variety of clay vessels and iron utensils were placed in one corner. Barbara took a seat as Mocking Bird directed her.
One of the friendly younger women diffidently touched Barbara's loose hair, obviously enthralled with its color. The Englishwoman smiled at the child,
for surely the girl was barely past puberty.
“She thinks your hair is magic,” the older one with venomous eyes said in perfect English. Her voice was as cold as her expression.
“Blond hair is common among my people, not magic,” Barbara replied, wondering where the strikingly handsome female had learned to speak so well.
“Devon has golden hair. That is how he received his name, Golden Eagle. He belongs to me, skinny white woman. Do not think he will stay with you.”
Barbara smiled coldly. “So that is how you learned English. Do not threaten me. I've learned to fight for my survival.”
The hateful woman returned Barbara's hard-edged stare for a moment, then stood up gracefully and left the room. Mocking Bird ignored her departure and silently set a bowl of what looked like porridge in front of Barbara, along with a flat dish filled with griddle cakes coated in honey and some other clear, pungent substance. There were no utensils for handling the food. At first Barbara hesitated, but it was obvious that they expected the guest of honor to partake first.
She moved her hand toward the bowl and received a nod of approval from Mocking Bird. Cupping her fingers together, she scooped up a small amount of the sticky gruel and lifted it to her mouth. It tasted bland and starchy, but she was starving. After making a thorough mess of her hands and mouth, she eyed the cakes. Perhaps they had a bit more flavor? She tried one, breaking off a piece and sopping up the thick liquid from the platter. A most peculiar combination of suet and honey masked the taste of the crisp patty. She ate another.
As soon as Barbara had sampled all the foods laid out, including the later addition of some dried meat of unknown origin, the others all joined her. It seemed that her table manners were acceptable, for everyone ate with their hands and then licked their fingers by way of cleaning them.
“Now, you take bath. We bring clean clothes. Come.” The chief wife of Kills the Bear also spoke English when she felt the need.
“Please, before anything else, I would like to see Devon. You've been most kind, but—”
“Golden Eagle be fine. You see soon. Come.”
The old woman did not look like one to be crossed. Barbara decided to bide her time. Biting her tongue, she nodded.
Fully expecting Barbara to do her bidding, the woman began to descend the ladder. The two younger girls waited politely until their guest had followed, then did the same. They wended their way through the village to the river and followed it downstream to where a dense stand of willows dropped their leafy branches as a shield for modesty.
“Thank heaven I won't have to strip mother-naked in front of every man in the place,” she muttered to herself as the girls laughingly pulled Devon's shirt and her much-abused skirts from her body. Just as she stood completely naked, surrounded by her companions, who were now busily shedding their own garments, the tall, hateful woman who claimed Devon reappeared.
Wrinkling her nose, she said, “You smell like all the English. I do not know why Devon kept you.”
Mocking Bird said something in their language to the girl and she argued back briefly, then left in a huff, ostensibly on some errand.
Barbara allowed herself to be led to the water's edge, but when the two girls jumped in and began to paddle about like playful otters, she stopped short. ”I cannot swim.” She appealed to Mocking Bird.
“Not deep. You tall. Stand up.” She commanded the girls to demonstrate. They quickly touched bottom. The water just off the bank was well over three feet deep, but safe enough—if she didn't lose her footing. Recalling her earlier brushes with watery death and how Devon had saved her life, she hurried on with the bath, praying that he was indeed safe and she'd be allowed to see him soon.
The girls used a spicy soap, obviously traded from the English. Although of inferior quality to what she was wont to use, it felt heavenly to have her hair and body sudsed and rinsed, then rubbed dry, even with coarse cotton cloth. As they worked, the girls repeatedly giggled and made remarks that seemed to be comparing the pallor of her skin to the duskiness of theirs, taking special notice of the pale gold curls at the apex of her thighs. She endured the innocent laughter with as much dignity as possible, until her nemesis returned and gave her body an insulting inspection.
“Your skin is as ugly as the underbelly of a fish!” She threw the bundle of clothes into Mocking Bird's arms and stalked off.
Suddenly Barbara was aware that she had moved toward the bank, her hands fisted ready to give the hateful Creek beauty a facer!
The old woman had the first hint of a smile playing about her lips as she watched the Englishwoman. “You, Panther Woman same size. These fit you.”
So she was being given Panther Woman's clothes. No wonder the odious creature had argued with Mocking Bird! Barbara allowed the girls to dress her. They weren't exactly ladies-in-waiting to Queen Charlotte, but they did an adequate job. The shirt was of deep blue cotton, a shade that flattered her eyes; the bright green printed skirt was crisp and cool, falling to just below her knees. They laced soft buckskin boots on her feet. She touched the silver chain belt they had placed snugly about her waist and wished for a mirror. Lud, I've been deprived of civilization for too long if I feel glamorous in fishwife's clothes!
But she did.
The most arduous task was untangling her hair with a comb made of fish bones. Then the young women braided it in a long, fat plait down her back and even offered her some beaded copper jewelry.
“Now, may I please go to Devon?” she asked Mocking Bird.
The old woman grunted and walked toward the village. Barbara followed. When they entered a large building, it took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dim light, for the day was growing late and there were only a few high, narrow windows. Devon lay on a pallet at one side of the rectangular room. He had been stripped of all his clothing and lay with only a light piece of cotton cloth about his lower body. A tall, emaciated man with a craggy, cadaverous face leaned over him. Various pots and other implements sat scattered at his bedside.
She walked to the pallet and knelt beside Devon, her hand reaching out to stroke his brow. It was warm, but did not feel fevered. She looked up at the medicine man, whose homely countenance radiated kindness.
He smiled. “The Breath Master will not claim this one yet. He is a strong young eagle.”
“Barbara?” Devon opened his eyes.
“How did you know—”
”I heard English and I felt your touch/’ he whispered, turning his head toward her. He winced as he raised his hand and grasped hers.
“Don't reopen the wound.” She leaned over him, holding his hand fast but placing it on his chest. “Does it hurt terribly?”
He grinned. ”I never had a knife slash that hurt wonderfully, but it's not deep. I just passed out from weakness—lost too much blood.”
She looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face. “Then why do physicians bleed ill or injured people?”
Dev's chuckle broke off into a slight croak. “Because, your ladyship, they don't know any better!”
“White medicine men often do foolish things,” the Muskogee healer added, not unkindly. “All this eagle needs now is to regain his strength. Then he will be fine.”
Barbara studied his weathered face. He, too, was part white, although the blood obviously ran thinner than Dev's.
Answering her unspoken question, Devon said, “This is Tall Crane, my mother s brother, who has married a woman of the Bear Clan from this village.”
“Like my sister Charity, I too grew up with our father and learned white ways. I am called Nathaniel McKinny among your people.”
Barbara searched for some resemblance between the blunt features of Nathaniel and the chiseled handsomeness of Devon. Other than their warm brown eyes, she could see none, but she instinctively felt a liking for this soft-spoken man. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. McKinney.”
“I have forsaken most white ways. Please call me Tall Crane, for I am Musk
ogee now.”
He looked from her to Devon with sad, knowing eyes, then said to Barbara, “You are English born, of a noble family, are you not?”
“Yes. My brother is Baron Rushcroft. He's in Savannah. I was coming to visit him when my ship was wrecked.”
“So Golden Eagle has told me.” He sensed the attraction between the two young people from such diverse backgrounds. “Perhaps it would be best if I spoke with Kills the Bear. He would be pleased to send an escort with you and see you safely to Savannah.”
“No.” Devon's voice was surprisingly strong. “I'll be able to take her myself in a short while.”
This was her chance for escape. She could be safely with Monty in a few days...but then she would never see Devon Blackthorne again. Only two days ago, that would have been her dearest wish. Now she was not at all so certain. She shook her head and said softly, “No, I shall stay and tend Devon. He's already pledged to take me to Savannah now that his mission has been accomplished.”
“Better send that escort with the pack mules up to the Altamaha. The micco there is waiting for his muskets and rum.”
Seeing the defiance in his nephew's eyes, Tall Crane sighed and nodded. “It shall be as you both wish.” He rose with surprising grace for a man of such lanky proportions. ”I will send women with food for you.”
Barbara was uncertain of what the exchange had meant. “Does your uncle dislike me because I'm English?”
“No, not at all. He just knows what would happen if a half-breed like me were to overreach himself,” he replied.
“I see,” she said, her cheeks flushed as she realized that Devon was not the only one reaching for the unattainable.
“I should send you away right now. You saved my life. McGilvey would've made short work of me.” His face was troubled, but still he did not relinquish her hand. The bile rose in his throat when he remembered the filthy brute's hands on his beautiful Lady Barbara. I must stop this!