They weren’t far indeed; the trip in the dugout was too brief for Kendall’s liking. Before she had time to worry further, she saw a glow of light through the trees. They rounded a bend in the river, and at last approached the Seminole camp.
Her first impression was of strange buildings that seemed to blend into the trees. Many such buildings filled the clearing, built on posts several feet off the ground and roofed with thatch. Some were cabins with split-log walls, while others were open to the night air. Campfires dotted the clearing in the wilderness, and women and children in bright cotton dress busied themselves about those fires. Then suddenly a joyous cry went out, and scores of brown-skinned Indians came rushing to the river.
Kendall shrank into the dugout with trepidation. These were the Seminoles. The women scampering to reach the dugouts were young and old and in between. Some had coarse features, some were beautiful, their faces chiseled with nobility like that of Red Fox. A few of the young children were naked; others were dressed like their parents in clothing that ranged from cool loincloths on the younger men, to western shirts and trousers, and every possible combination in between. The colorful shirts the braves had donned in the cool of the night just past were prevalent; the women’s dresses and skirts were much the same. The village would be fascinating, Kendall thought vaguely, if she weren’t so very, very terrified.
The cries and shouts became louder and louder. The braves at last stood in their dugouts, and their families and friends rushed through the shallow water to embrace them as they pulled their vessels to the banks of the river. Kendall’s eyes darted from the homecoming scene to Red Fox, and she saw that he searched the shoreline. A broad grin broke out across his face, and he stood, rocking the dugout precariously. “Apolka! Apolka!”
Kendall followed his gaze. A young woman, slender and lovely in bright calico, gave a happy shriek and raced toward him. As she came closer, Kendall realized that, in an exotic way, the Indian girl was truly beautiful. Huge brown eyes with luxuriant lashes dominated her delicate face; she was as lithe and agile as a doe.
“Red Fox!”
He jumped from the dugout so quickly that it almost tipped. Kendall gritted her teeth as her fingers gripped the rough planking tensely in a desperate effort to steady herself.
When she was at last convinced that she would not teeter into the swamp, Kendall looked up to see Red Fox embrace the woman enthusiastically. But if she had hoped to be ignored for any length of time, Kendall was sadly disappointed, for the girl laughed, disentangled herself, and turned curious eyes to her, speaking hurriedly to Red Fox. He answered her in his native tongue, and then both stared at Kendall. She lifted her chin and returned their scrutiny.
Red Fox smiled. “It appears that you will wait, Kendall Moore. We expected the Night Hawk to be here by now. But these are troubled times. No matter; he will come. For now, you will go with Apolka.”
Kendall hesitated, eyeing the girl who continued to stare at her with open curiosity.
“Kendall Moore, go!” His voice was a sharp growl, but still Kendall hesitated. There were many Indians in the camp. How many? she wondered. It seemed that they were everywhere . . . and more and more of them were flocking near to stare at her. The very young with their round, cherubic faces, the old who were worn and leathered from their harsh existence beneath the merciless sun. The men, and the women . . .
“You will go!” Red Fox commanded again.
Apolka touched his shoulder and said something softly. Red Fox shrugged impatiently, but stepped back, his brawny arms crossed his chest.
The girl stepped forward. Her slender, work-roughened, and tanned hand reached out, palm upward as if she offered friendship. Kendall stared into the doe-brown eyes, and saw that they were soft, not pitying, but sympathetic. She paused just a second longer, and then accepted the small-boned hand that offered surprising strength.
Kendall winced as her feet sank into the mud of the riverbank. Then, knowing that she would walk through the curious crowd of Indians, she forced herself to maintain an expression as stoic as Red Fox’s, and to walk tall with pride.
They grabbed at her as she walked into the clearing. Pulling at her clothes, touching her hair. She didn’t flinch, but held on desperately to her dignity and poise. She heard the constant cackle of high-pitched, mocking laughter as the women and children jeered her, but she fought the panicked longing to bring her hands to her ears in a desperate attempt to still the taunting sound.
At least they did not hurt her!
Although she couldn’t understand their words, Kendall was certain that Apolka scolded the other women. When they at long last reached a sturdy cabin built on a platform, Apolka pushed her toward a rickety ladder, then turned and said something to the gathering of tormenters who still followed. Sullenly, they began to move away.
A small lamp burned on a squat table in the one-room structure. Kendall glanced hurriedly about, noting that the two windows were unobstructed, but very high. A pile of colorful blankets lay in the corner of the room, and next to the lamp was a rough pottery pitcher. Water, she hoped.
Besides that, the room was bare.
“Kendall.”
The soft pronunciation of her name sounded very strange on the young Indian woman’s lips, but Kendall turned to her, sensing that Apolka had elected to offer her the only kindness she might receive. Apolka made motions that Kendall quickly realized referred to eating. She nodded eagerly. She was starving.
Apolka turned gracefully on her heel and left, closing the planked door behind her. Kendall heard a sharp thud—and realized that although Apolka had decided to be kind to her, she was taking no chances. The door apparently had a slip-log bolt. And it would always be bolted.
Kendall nervously walked about the room, vaguely noting that the floor and the blankets left her were surprisingly and pleasantly clean. The pitcher did contain water, and when she greedily reached for it—then paused, forcing herself to drink slowly and carefully—she was gratified to find the contents clear and deliciously fresh.
Apolka returned before she had set the pitcher down. Apolka handed her a wooden bowl filled with an awful-looking gruel. But Kendall was too hungry to accept the protest of her mind, and she whispered a soft thank-you as she took the bowl.
“Koonti,” Apolka said.
The word meant nothing to Kendall, but she gave the girl a wavering smile. Apolka said something else, then shook her head with exasperation, aware that Kendall didn’t understand her. Then she pressed her hands together and placed her head on them, mimicking sleep. Not knowing what else to do, Kendall nodded. Apolka seemed satisfied. She left Kendall again, closing the door firmly, and sliding the bolt.
Kendall exhaled a long and shaky sigh, and sank to the floor with her bowl of gruel. She tasted the mixture and shuddered. It felt grainy and coarse in her mouth. She set the bowl aside, and wondered if they had dragged her all this way just to poison her.
And with that thought, her mind began to spin again. She had to escape. She couldn’t escape. If she did escape, she could be lost in the swamp forever. No, not forever. Until she encountered a snake or an alligator or a pit of quicksand . . .
“Dear God!” she whimpered, folding her arms about herself and rocking on her haunches as terror seemed to rush about her in a conscious sapping sweep. “No, no, no, no,” she repeated over and over. There would be a way. She would find a way.
Pull yourself together, Kendall, she told herself silently. You can endure; you will find a way. You have survived all the blows that have come your way so far. What can they do to you? No one can take your pride or your spirit. You survived John; you survived life in a Union barracks while war raged . . .
At last she stopped rocking. There would be a way. She was unharmed and strong and healthy. She would watch everything around her. She would learn, and she would escape.
She picked up the bowl of gruel again and forced herself to eat. She couldn’t allow her strength to wane.
&
nbsp; When she finished the gruel, she drank another few sips of water, then snuffed out the lamp and fashioned a pillow from one of the blankets. She lay down and drew the other about her. She was going to sleep, as she was going to eat, so that she would remain alert and calm and healthy.
But tonight she couldn’t sleep. She stared up at one of the windows, transfixed by the pale moon that glimmered in the otherwise total darkness.
Who was the Night Hawk? A brave like Red Fox? She was protected from harm now because of him. But what happened if he put in his appearance before she could escape?
She groaned and twisted on the floor, closing her eyes tightly. The Night Hawk did not murder women, Red Fox had told her. And yet he sought revenge. What did he intend? Rape? Mutilation? He would not need to kill her to chop off her fingers one by one and feed them to the alligators.
A low moan escaped her. Stop, she chided herself. Stop. Over and over she repeated the word, as if she were counting sheep.
At long last she drifted into a restless sleep plagued with nightmares in which the strong figure of a man came to her in the darkness while night hawks shrieked, and she shuddered because there was no escape . . .
Chapter Three
“Damn!” Kendall groaned, wincing as she scraped the largest blister on her palm against the rock with which she strenuously beat the clothes she had been given to wash. Of course, as a southern lady she really shouldn’t be using such a word, but she had never felt less like a southern lady. She sat back on her haunches and studied her hands. Her nails were cracked and broken, and her flesh appeared raw.
In a spurt of fury she tossed the shirt she was laundering out into the river and watched with satisfaction as the slow-moving current took the colorful garment out of sight. Then she sighed, for the act of defiance had done her little good. A large stack of clothing lay beside her, and if she tossed it all away, the Seminoles might decide to wreak a little violence upon her, although such actions were apparently taboo. But she sat back, determined to rest. She had been with the Indians a full week now, and she was learning.
She had feared at first that they would keep her constantly bolted inside the high cabin, but that had not happened.
Life was busy in the swamp. Braves, she learned quickly, left the camp with the morning’s light. They spent their days hunting the hammocks for deer and fowl and scouting to keep the territory safe. Old men whittled and did minor repairs, relating stories of their past days of glory to one another as they worked. Children tended chickens and pigs, and women cooked and sewed and laundered, performing the most strenuous and tedious tasks.
No woman was ever allowed to sit idly in a cabin. From her first morning onward, Kendall had been taken from her prison at dawn and set to some task. The first Indian word she had learned was the once mysterious koonti, mentioned the night of her arrival. It was a root that constituted a staple of the Indian’s diet. It was ground and made into bread and gruel, like the gruel she had finally managed to consume in her hunger and determination that first night. And grinding koonti all day was backbreaking labor.
Kendall glanced at her hands again and sighed. It was hard to imagine that she had once been a dazzling southern belle, stunning in silks and velvet and crinolines so numerous she had lost count. Hard to imagine that only a week ago she had been treated like a prized pet by the Union soldiers. Too late she realized that when John had been gone, her life had actually been pleasant and easy. She had been in Union barracks, yes, but the news that came to her always told of thrilling southern victories.
Kendall glanced down the river to where two dugouts were dragged up on the bank. “Tomorrow!” she whispered.
As she had promised herself, she remained always alert. She had meekly accepted all the tasks given her, and she had watched every movement in the camp with meticulous care and cunning. She believed that the Indians had come to trust her; they were probably certain that she would never try to escape into the swamp. It would be suicide . . .
But it might not be.
The darkness had terrified her so that first night. By daylight, she could be reasonable and weigh her chances. As long as she armed herself with plenty of food and water—and succeeded in her plan to steal a dugout—she should be all right. She would follow the river, and never leave the dugout. The alligators were dangerous, but if she remained in the safety of the dugout, she needn’t worry about them or the gripping muds or the snakes. The moccasins might lurk beneath the surface of the river, but she would not stick her hand out searching for them.
And she could steal the dugout easily, she was certain. The Seminole had grown so sure of her compliance with their rules that they left her alone on the riverbank each afternoon with the laundry. Each day was the same. Mornings she ground koonti root; afternoons she washed clothes. And for the last five days, she had come to the river with Apolka to bathe before dusk settled. She had felt terribly vulnerable as she stood naked in the water, which could be filled with God only knew what frightening creatures, and also within close range of several dozen healthy young braves—but she had slowly come to realize that the Seminole were a very moral society. Marriages, even when polygamous, were sacred, and the young women were strictly guarded. Apolka was Red Fox’s wife, or woman—Kendall wasn’t sure which—and none of the men would entertain the idea of molesting their chief’s property. Kendall’s time in the river with the gentle Apolka, bathing and learning how to swim, proved to be her salvation many a day when she was certain that the humid heat would drive her to a burst of rebellious temper. That sort of outburst she had to avoid, for her escape depended totally on her docility. And when the other women weren’t exasperated with her lack of expertise as she fumbled at her tasks, they were kind enough. Apolka had accepted her; the others grudgingly went along with that acceptance. In the short span of a week, it seemed that she had become adopted, somewhat like a curious pet, into the tribe.
She took her meals with Apolka and her two children, and spent a portion of each evening in the chickee that belonged to Red Fox and his family, and then she was returned to her bolted cabin. And each night she pleaded with Red Fox that he release her, and each night he refused. But she was no longer at all frightened of Red Fox. She believed that he granted her a certain admiration, and if she weren’t a gift to be packaged and handed over to the absent Night Hawk, he might have decided she was worthy of release. After the initial awkwardness passed, she grew used to the chickee that was home to Red Fox and Apolka and their two small children. Kendall had discovered a maternal instinct within herself when she played with the little Seminole boys. Their large, dark eyes stared at her with such solemn curiosity, and they were more than willing to crawl up on her lap while Apolka busied herself at the communal cooking fire.
Red Fox had quickly decided that Kendall would never cook. He had told her after her one experiment with koonti gruel that the food she prepared tasted worse than swamp muck.
Kendall compressed her lips as she again set herself to the task of the laundry with vigor. “One more night, you arrogant savage!”
She bit her lip as she worked, admitting silently that Red Fox wasn’t a savage at all. He was blunt and brusque, but he had never truly harmed her, no matter what the provocation. And he was tenderly devoted to Apolka and the two toddling boys she had borne him. He was a far better husband and father than many a “civilized” white man she had seen.
Kendall paused in her work again, slowly making another secret admission. She didn’t mind being with the Seminoles. She longed to be home, but home to her would always be Charleston and Cresthaven and cotton fields, and that was not the home she had been taken from. The truth of it was that it was far more pleasant to be with the Indians than it was to be with John Moore. Were it not for Red Fox’s certainty that the vengeful Night Hawk would eventually make an appearance, she would have been more than pleased to remain—and to pray that the Rebs would whomp the Yankees in no time flat and she could make her way back to Charlesto
n and reclaim the land that was rightfully hers . . .
Kendall gave herself a furious shake. She had to make reality better than dreams. Although population on the Keys was thin except for Key West, there were settlers here and there. She had to escape and find someone. If she could do that, she could go somewhere. Maybe not Charleston, but perhaps Atlanta. Or even Richmond. With the war growing more fevered daily, she could find something to do that would help the cause of the Confederacy. She could surely find work in a hospital.
With that determined thought in mind, Kendall gathered up the wet laundry and headed back toward the camp. One more night. She would be prepared to go when she meekly set off for the river tomorrow afternoon.
Kendall stopped short before the clearing, certain she had lost her mind. There were visitors to the Seminole camp. About twenty of them. Men. Men who laughed and joked in soft, familiar drawls. Men dressed in butternut and gray . . .
Confederates! It was a squadron of Confederate soldiers. “Oh, my Lord!” Kendall whispered in stunned joy. She didn’t need to escape through the swamp at all! These gallant soldiers of the South would take her to a safe harbor.
She clasped the wet laundry to her chest and hurried joyously through the trees toward the clearing. But she stopped short again on the trail. Red Fox and a white man, tall and broad-shouldered, stood between her and the clearing. What did that matter? she asked herself impatiently. She would issue her plea to the man with the tawny gold hair whose back was to her now.
“Sir!” she cried out, dropping the laundry and racing ecstatically toward him. “Oh, sir! Please, you must help me. These Indians have taken me prisoner, and they intend to give me to a savage named Night Hawk and—”
Her voice broke off and she halted in a dead freeze, her heart thundering in her chest, as the man turned toward her.
She knew him. She knew him far too well. He had haunted her sleep for almost a year, with erotic dreams, with chilling nightmares . . .
Tomorrow the Glory Page 7