As she cut and stitched, she thought about her food supplies. If only she had cornmeal and salt. Dried fish and goose would keep her belly satisfied, but only that. Even the fresh greens that she would pick along the way would not satisfy her hunger for more variety in her diet.
It would be nice to have flour and tea, too. Good English tea, like Everett had taught her to enjoy, brewed in the British manner.
Surely Mr. Craigie at Fort Boise would have tea. If she allowed William to accompany her to Grande Ronde, he could purchase some for her.
Unbidden a memory of a conversation with Emmet came into her mind. They had been talking of William's long walk to freedom. She had known some Americans kept slaves, but had assumed they were captives taken in raids as her mother had been.
"Slavery in the South isn't anything like what you know." Emmet had told her. "I've heard some tales that are enough to turn your hair white. I never believed that anyone would treat another human being like an animal." His voice grew hard. "Then I saw my first slaver, off the west coast of Africa." His mouth had tightened and he'd shaken his head, refusing to say more.
"But we are so far from there," she'd insisted. "It seems unreasonable that William would believe he is still in danger of being returned to his owner. Surely no one would come all this way simply to recapture him."
"Why don't you ask him?" Emmet had suggested. "He seems to be easier with you and Hattie than with me."
She had asked, and William's answer had shocked her.
"Any white man wants to, he can put me in chains, send me back to my marse, keep me for his own or sell me. It makes no difference, 'long as I got nothin' showin' I's a free man, what he does to me. I no better than them oxen there." He had jerked his chin toward the corral where Hattie's oxen had been placidly chewing their cuds. "Maybe not so good, 'cause they don't know what they's missin' and I does."
Good God! What was she thinking of, wanting William to go to the fort with her. She doubted that Mr. Craigie or any of the HBC people would care that he was an escaped slave, but Americans would be a different matter.
Flower felt a moment of shame, that she had even considered asking him to risk his freedom so that she would not need to face her fears. No, her original plan was best. She would try one more time to convince him not to go with her. And if that failed, she would make certain he could not.
The next morning she told him that she was planning to depart with the full moon in two days' time. "I cannot let you risk your life, your freedom, to go with me. You must go back to Cherry Vale."
"Woman, I told you. Where you goes, I goes, too."
"You cannot!" she cried. "Even at Fort Boise you could be in danger. And the closer we get to Fort Vancouver, the more Americans we might meet. What happens if one of them decides to capture you in hopes of a reward?"
He shrugged. "Somebody could come by tomorrow and cotch me. I don't see it makes any difference where I is...am. If I gets cotched, I'll git away. Sooner or later."
"Oh, William...!"
"I got something for you" he said, as if everything had been decided. He opened his coat and reached inside, brought out several gold coins. "These oughta get us flour and vittles enough to feed us a year or more."
"William, I will not take your gold."
"You ain't. This here's a little bit of your share of the gold we found. Mist' Em, he sent it to you."
Flower hesitated, but when his hand didn't waver, she nodded and accepted six of the coins. The journey over the mountains would be far easier if she had enough salt, flour and bacon. At the thought, her mouth watered. She had had no bacon since her last morning in Cherry Vale, eight long months ago.
James Craigie was a gentleman. By the time she got to Fort Boise, she would have herself convinced that she was in no danger from him.
"I took only what I might need." One or two of the crude gold pieces she accepted would buy all the supplies she could possibly use, with the rest left over for her passage. The money Doctor McLoughlin held for her would give her independence once she reached England. "Thank you, William."
"No need for thanks," he said, gruffly. "I just brung it to you. Mist' Em, he's the one made up those coins. He says they's like some he seen when he was a sailor."
* * * *
Almost too soon she was ready to depart. The deer hide parfleches she had made were packed with dried meat, roots, and berries. She had two spare pair of moccasins, and the tattered wool coat was patched, and as clean as she could make it. Windchaser was fat from a winter of idleness, and the mule was strong and willing, if stubborn.
William had gone about his work with a slight smile on his lips and warmth in his eyes, making his own preparations for travel. Each time she tired to tell him how much better off he would be in Cherry Vale, his answer was, "I knows. But I's goin' where you is, and that's all there is to it." Finally she gave up attempting to make him see reason.
She knew the English names for the yarbs she'd chosen: boneset, yarrow, prickly lettuce, snakeweed, chokecherry, and coyote tobacco. Any one of them would make him drowsy, if given in large enough dose. But they all had unpleasant tastes, and she would never be able to get him to swallow enough to be effective. He was a big, healthy man. So she would use them all.
The moon was all but full that evening as they sat on the bench before the cabin, Since he had been with her, she had often made mint tea of an evening, using a coarse aromatic plant that grew in abundance along the muddy banks of the bathtub's outlet. Tonight she added a handful of the yarbs to the basket before she poured water into it, hoping the mint would cover the bitter taste.
"We will leave at first light," she told him as she pretended to sip. "My father used to make the journey in two days, but it may take us longer, unless we travel after dark."
With his first taste, William said, "Mint's gettin' a little old. Got a peculiar taste to it."
Flower tasted hers and made a face. "Yes, I imagine I should seek younger leaves and discard these." Oh, William, will you forgive me for what I do to you?
"It ain't too bad." He continued to sip.
She hoped he would not notice that the level in her cup remained the same while his steadily lowered.
"More?" she said, when he set his cup on the bench, empty.
"Half a cup, maybe." He held it out to her. "Too bad we ain't got honey."
"It would be good," she agreed, amazed that he would ask for more tea. It was indeed bitter, with an astringent aftertaste that reminded her of boiled willow bark.
They sat in silence for several minutes, William sipping again at his tea, and she worrying that she had given him too strong a dose.
Finally she rose, stretching. "I am tired. If we are to leave early tomorrow, we should retire now."
She went inside, but stood looking through the open doorway, watching as he walked toward the corral. His dark shape soon blended with the night.
She would wait until the moon reached the zenith, she decided, having no idea of how long the yarbs would take to have an effect. In the meantime she had much to do, for she had not been able to prevent his packing his few possessions with hers.
Flower looked around the cabin, remembering the years she had lived here. Her father had built this cabin after Everett had returned to England, for Buffalo had taken his own furs to St. Louis that summer, rather than selling them to the Hudson's Bay Company or to the American fur traders. She and her mother had stayed here.
This was where she had grown from child into woman, where she had learned to know the Bannock family who had been like grandparents to her, for they had raised Peaceful Woman as their own after she had been taken a slave in one of the frequent battles between Bannock and Nez Perce. Flower had lived here for three summers, until her mother's death. During that time, Emmet Lachlan had become Buffalo's partner.
She had said her good-byes to her foster family earlier this afternoon. She and William had gone to the Bannock village, but Flower had waited outside un
til the men were all gathered around William. Then she had gone to the tipis of Morning Mist and Goat Runner, her mother's adopted brother and sister, to say goodbye. Even now she felt a lump in her throat, for she knew she would never see them again.
So many people she would never see again.
A coyote's wail broke the silence, lone and poignant. Aware of a tightness in her throat, Flower closed the door of the cabin, let her hand rest one last time on the ingenious latch her father had carved from bitterbrush wood. "It is time to go," she whispered, knowing she had no choice but to steal away while William slept.
The night was half gone. She set her pack by the corral and went back for the larger bundle that held her food. Windchaser came to the fence, curious, but the mule-- William called him Hank--ignored her.
She had decided to take both animals so that she could carry the larger pack and still ride. On foot she would have no chance of out-distancing William, should he choose to pursue her. Riding she might.
The mule cooperated, much to her relief. Sometimes William had had to hobble it to get it loaded. Tonight it was as docile as Windchaser.
She mounted the mare and guided her along the narrow tail toward the river. The mule followed willingly. Their hooves made little noise on the sandy ground, and the dry grass swishing around their legs was just one more night sound.
With any luck at all, she would be halfway to the Snake River before William awoke.
* * * *
William fought his way out of sleep. His thoughts were confused, his body achy and drained.
He peered out of the lean-to, barely able to hold his eyes open. Although it was gray daylight, he could not tell the time, for there were no rays of sun shining through the cottonwoods, their angle marking the time.
He lay back, thinking he would rest a bit before he rose. Surely Flower would come to him when it was time to go.
He woke again to pattering rain. The cottonwoods above him caught most of it, but the drips from their leaves were loud against the bark slabs that roofed his shelter. For a few seconds he tried to remember why he should crawl out of bed, then drowsiness overtook him and he drifted into a half-sleep, full of unfamiliar voices and memories of pain and fury...
When he'd come to his senses, it was slowly, painfully. His head had felt as if he'd run smack into a wall, and his arms was stretched above his head until his shoulder joints had screamed. And it had been quiet. Way too quiet.
After a while remembered why he was tied up this way. The silence was almost as bad as the yells and screams had been. He twisted and writhed, but no matter how he strained at the ropes holding his wrists and ankles, he could not see across the clearing to where they had dragged Flower.
The Preacher, he'd taught all the children on the plantation to pray, but William hadn't taken much to it. Seemed like whatever he prayed for, he never got, so eventually he'd stopped. What he got, he got by main strength and awkwardness, most times. Today he prayed.
"Can you see her, boy?" he muttered when he couldn't bear not knowing any longer. 'Twouldn't do to let the bassards hear him. His belly still ached where the big Injun--the one they called Short Leg--had kicked him.
"She's all curled up in a ball," Silas whispered, "but it doesn't look like they've got her tied."
"Is she..." His worst fear choked him. "They didn't kill her did they?"
"Doubt it. Long as they can get some good out of her, they'll keep her alive."
Again William pulled at the ropes, ignoring where his wrists had been rubbed raw. He'd hurt worse, probably would again.
"Any chance you can get loose?" he said, having felt no give in his bonds.
"I keep tryin'," Silas said, "but they got me tied pretty tight." William heard a rustling of willow leaves as the boy struggled.
"Godammit, you hold still." The thud of a booted foot was quickly followed by a grunt of pain. William lay perfectly motionless, but it did him no good. The same foot thudded into his ribs, sending a sharp pain through his chest. As he inhaled to replace the wind that had been knocked out of him, the pain grabbed again.
"You ain't a'gonna git loose so's you mought jest as well quit tryin'," the renegade said, bending down to glare into William's face. He was the bald one, short and bandy-legged, with a puckered, white scar circling his naked scalp. "We kin kill you as easy as not, Nigger, so jest keep on tryin' to git loose an' we will. You hear?"
William glared back, not trying to hide the hatred and rage he felt.
The boot slammed into his ribs again, and this time the knifelike pain was so intense he could hardly breathe.
He fought the gray haze that threatened to overwhelm him and wondered how long their captors intended to stay here. Wondered how long he had to live. Given half a chance, he would fight until he was free or they killed him.
He'd been a slave once. He would die before they sold him to the Blackfeet. With any luck, he'd take a couple of the renegades with him.
He dozed, until the smell of cooking beef brought him awake. His mouth watered and his belly cramped.
"Wonder which ox they butchered," Silas said. "Hope it wasn't Apollo."
"Whichever one it was, he'd sure taste good." Miz Hattie's oxen had been more like pets than draft animals, but he'd take a hunk of any one of them right about now. Cooked or raw.
More rustlings as Silas again struggled. "I'd give all the gold we found for a drink," the boy said.
"Yeah, me too," William agreed. Once more he tried to see Flower. "Can you see her now, boy? Is she all right?"
"The skinny one's at her again," Silas told him, disgust and anger strong in his voice. "God! Ain't they ever gonna get tired?"
"Is she fightin' back?"
"She ain't movin' atall. She's just layin' there."
William closed his eyes, even though he could see nothing but the darkening sky above and the leaves of the willows to which he was tied. At first she had fought, and fought well. He'd heard the men's curses as her blows landed, as her fingernails raked skin, but not since yesterday night. The big one, Pyzen Joe he was, had whupped her hard, using his belt, while two of the others had held her. Then he'd raped her yet again.
Flower had not fought since....
William tried once more to free himself. But his hands weren't tied. His feet, neither. He rolled over and pushed himself upright, shaking his head. It felt stuffed plumb full of cotton bolls, so that his thoughts just sat there and went nowhere.
Gradually he recognized his lean-to. And remembered.
They had escaped the renegades, with Mist' Em's help. Running for their lives, they'd found Cherry Vale. For too short a spell, William had believed he'd found his kingdom.
Then Pyzen Joe had showed up, threatening to take the women.
William shook his head, hoping to clear it. Why did he feel this way? He wasn't ailing, yet he felt just as weak and clumsy as he had when Mist' Em had first found him, half froze, half drowned.
Forcing his thoughts in the direction he wanted, he found memories of a long walk through snow-fast mountains. He'd been seeking some trace of his Flower. And now he remembered finding her, a scairt, shy girl, nothing like the brave, fierce woman he'd known before.
Then he remembered something else. Flower was going away and didn't want him with her.
"No!" He pushed himself to his feet with the help of his spear, staggered from the lean-to and up the path to the cabin.
It was empty. The door was latched, with the latchstring hanging out for any weary traveler to see. The corral was empty, as well.
She was gone.
Without him.
* * * *
Flower made good time to Fort Boise. She arrived just before sunset on the second day, camped in a grove of cottonwoods about a mile downstream from the fort. All the way here she had watched her back trail, wondering if William would follow her.
Wondering if the yarbs she had given him had been enough. Too much?
Is he all right? Did I give him
enough to harm him?
She slept poorly, even though she knew the mule was better than a watchdog. He would alert her if anything larger than a mouse approached them.
What kept her awake much of the night was not just her concern for William. How I wish I knew if he is well. She also worried and fretted about what she must do in the morning.
She remembered James Craigie from earlier visits to the fort, and knew he would treat her with kindness and respect. He would give her a fair trade for the small pelts and the deer hide she had, possibly enough salt, cornmeal and tea to last her until she reached Fort Vancouver. Then she would not have to meet strangers who might see her as the renegades had.
A squaw, and therefore theirs for the taking.
She shivered, and fell once more into restless, disagreeable dreams.
* * * *
William's body had rid itself of whatever had sickened him, through hours of gut-churning pain. When he'd finally woke, shaky and wet with cold sweat, the moon was on its way down the western sky and he'd felt like he might live another day. He drank as much water as he could hold, shouldered his pack--it weighed about as much as one of Hattie's oxen, he reckoned--and set his feet to the west.
He didn't know exactly where Grande Ronde was, but there was sure to be a road wore in the sagebrush, as many wagons as were heading that way. And Flower said she was gonna stop there and visit some folks. It might take him a while, but he'd catch up with her.
For an hour each step seemed like it'd be his last, then he started to feel better. He dug a hunk of jerky out of his pack and gnawed it as he walked. Then he drank some more water. Pretty soon, he was trottin', making good time along the rutted trail.
At noon he rested for a while, dropping off to sleep in the shade by the river. Seemed like he'd done a heap of sleeping this past while, so he was able to wake when the sun had gone scarce a hand's breadth across the sky.
That night, he walked until the stars faded into a chilly dawn. Ahead of him was a wide river. He scrambled down the bluff and found himself a snug nest in a clump of willows. After he'd slept a spell, he'd go ask the folks at the fort if they'd seen his Flower.
Ice Princess Page 4