“I know about him,” Broken Trail said. “It was Washington that gave the orders for every Iroquois town to be burned. That’s how we lost our land, even though the Oneidas were helping the rebels.”
“They even stole that tune,” Elijah muttered, “and put their own words to it.”
Yankee Doodle, keep it up
Yankee Doodle dandy
Mind the music and the step
And with the girls be handy.
“It’s a good song anyway,” Broken Trail said when it ended. “I hope they give us another to pass the time.”
But there would be no encore. The men around the fire began to tell stories. From the sudden bursts of laughter Broken Trail thought they must be jokes. He was not close enough to hear them, and figured he wouldn’t understand them anyway.
Occasionally a man left the group, wandered off unsteadily into the shadows, and then returned. Gradually the voices died down. It seemed that most of the men had fallen asleep where they lay.
There was only a sliver of a moon. The flames of the bonfire burned low, and their flickering light no longer reached as far as the chicken house. Broken Trail could hardly see the two guards, but he did not think they had moved.
He leaned toward Elijah. “I’m going down to the chicken coop.”
“Too soon.”
“I’ll lie right against the sidewall, under the window. The men around the fire won’t be able to see me there. Signal when it’s safe to begin.”
“What’s the signal?”
“The call of a saw-whet owl.” It was the first thing that came to his mind, simply because it was the signal that he and Red Sun Rising had agreed to use.
“What does it sound like?”
“Halfway between a whistle and a coo: too, too, too.”
Elijah imitated the call: “too, too, too.”
“That’s good.”
“How will you know it isn’t a real owl?”
“By counting. Two means ‘Danger!’ Six means ‘It’s safe. Go ahead.’”
Elijah nodded. “Two means danger. Six means safe. Can’t get those mixed up.”
“As soon as I hear six in a row, I’ll start pulling off the boards.”
Broken Trail dropped to his hands and knees. Leaving the sumac stand, he crept forward through tall grass that was wet with dew. There was good cover until he reached the bare earth of the barnyard. From that point, he was in the open. Lying on his belly, he wriggled and squirmed all the way to the chicken house. Reaching it, he lay still, the length of his body pressed along the sill timber.
Lying there, waiting for the signal, he heard the occasional burst of laughter from the few still awake around the bonfire. Closer at hand, the harmonious snores of the two men guarding the chicken coop made music to his ears.
Elijah’s signal came, six sweet whistles to say that the way was clear. Broken Trail stood up. Running his hands over the boards that covered the window opening, he counted five, nailed vertically to the frame. To remove three would be enough. Maybe he could simply rip them off.
Grasping the bottom end of the first board, he pulled hard. Nothing moved. He tried each board in turn. Every nail held securely. Disappointed, he knew that since he could not pull the boards off, he would have to pry them free.
First he tried with his knife, ramming the blade tip between the first board and the frame. Too tight. He was more likely to break his knife than to free a board.
He might do better with his tomahawk. One end of its head was like a hatchet blade, the other like a curved pickaxe. If he forced the pickaxe point between the bottom end of a board and the log wall, he might be able to pry the board loose.
Facing the window, he shoved the tomahawk point under the bottom of the first board. Then he grasped the handle in both hands and pulled downward with all his strength. The nails released their hold with a rasping squeal. A hen squawked. Over by the tree stump, the guards continued to snore.
Broken Trail set the first board on the ground, waited until the hen settled, and started on the next board. Again the nails screeched as they surrendered their grip on the wood. More hens cackled.
Inside the chicken house, Red Sun Rising must also have been startled by the noise. Did it tell him that rescue was near? Or did he think that some of his captors were breaking in, angry men too impatient to wait for morning to see him die?
“Too, too, too,” Broken Trail softly whistled—so softly that only Red Sun Rising could hear—hoping that he would recognize the signal.
Then he set to work again.
With three boards removed, the opening was big enough. Broken Trail returned his tomahawk to his belt, placed both forearms on the sill and hauled himself up.
By the feeble light that came through the window opening, he saw glints of gold on the chicken house floor. Then his eyes made out an elongated shape about the same size as Red Sun Rising. It squirmed, and the glints of gold moved, too.
Broken Trail pulled his shoulders higher. Leaning farther in, he saw that he would not have a clear drop from the window to the floor. Below the opening was some kind of shelf. Uncertain what it might be, he reached with one hand and grabbed… a handful of feathers firmly attached to a warm and startled hen. She squawked. He let go.
A nesting box! Looking to left and right, he saw that the shelf extended along the entire wall, supporting a row of nesting boxes. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that every wall was similarly lined with shelves, and every shelf held nesting boxes. The only way to reach Red Sun Rising was by climbing through the nest of an already flustered fowl.
He paused, half in and half out of the window while the hen’s clamour diminished to peevish clucking and finally to a rustling of feathers as she settled back to sleep. Silence seeped in. The only sound he heard was his own breathing. Then from out of the night came a sleepy voice.
“Hey, Levi! You hear anything?”
“Just chickens.”
Broken Trail held his breath.
“More like a squeal.”
“You think pigs got in the chicken house?’
“How could they? The door’s locked. Anyway, it wasn’t that kind of squeal.”
“We’d better look.”
At that instant, Broken Trail heard the call of a saw-whet owl. Too, too.
Plunging forward, he dived through the window opening. A wing smacked his face. An eggshell crunched under his hand. Warm slime squished between his fingers.
With a tumble and a bounce, he cleared the edge of the nesting box and landed partly on top of Red Sun Rising.
“Humph!” Red Sun Rising grunted, wrenching his body to one side.
“It’s me. Lie still!”
Squawking filled the air. Ignoring the cackling, flapping chickens, Broken Trail unsheathed his knife and in a flash severed the rope that bound Red Sun Rising’s wrists.
He had no time to do more. From outside the window came a man’s voice. “Look at this! Somebody’s pulled off half the boards.”
“You think Captain Cherokee got away?”
Broken Trail rolled beneath the bottom shelf of nesting boxes, against the wall under the window.
“I can see him. He’s still lying there.”
“What else can you see?”
“Besides chickens, not a damn thing.”
“Stick your head all the way in?”
“And get it knocked off? From the racket the chickens are making, somebody else must be inside. We better wake the other men so we can surround the hen house.”
“The fellows won’t be too happy with us, seein’ as we didn’t notice anything when we was supposed to be on guard.”
“We got no choice. I’ll fetch them. You stay here to keep an eye on that window.”
Footsteps retreated. Peeking between two logs where the chinking had fallen out, Broken Trail saw a man standing with his rifle aimed at the window opening. No escape that way.
When he turned his head, his eyes fell on the
stone fireplace with its big chimney that reached all the way through the roof. Could they crawl up through the chimney? Well, they had to try.
Broken Trail crept from beneath the shelf. He freed Red Sun Rising’s ankles and cut through the twisted kerchief that gagged his mouth.
“We’re going up the chimney,” Broken Trail hissed. “You first.”
“Good.” Flashing a quick look that was almost a smile, Red Sun Rising crawled across the dirt floor into the open fireplace. In moments his body disappeared. Broken Trail heard a scraping sound from inside. Then a muffled cry, barely audible above the cackling of the fowl.
“I’m stuck.”
Broken Trail scrambled into the fireplace. Stretching up his arms, he felt two moccasined feet. With all his strength, he pulled, backing away just as Red Sun Rising landed with a thud and a shower of soot.
“My coat make me too big,” he gasped.
“Take it off.”
With a slash of his sharp knife, Broken Trail sent gilt buttons flying through the air. Red Sun Rising wrestled his arms from the coat sleeves and crawled into the fireplace again. Without the coat and its wide shoulder epaulettes, he had enough room to scramble up and out.
Broken Trail sheathed his knife. As he started up the chimney, the padlock on the chicken house door clicked open.
Chapter 17
FINGERS DIGGING INTO the worn cedar shingles, they lay with their bodies flat against the roof. Despite the darkness, Broken Trail could see Red Sun Rising’s eyes shining with excitement. Having come so near to death, he seemed ten times more alive.
Beneath them, so close that Broken Trail could have reached down to touch them if there had been a hole in the roof, men crowded into the space between the tiers of nesting boxes. Over the chickens’ clamour it was hard to hear exactly what the men were saying, especially since all seemed to be talking at the same time. But the gist was clear.
“There’s his coat.”
“But where’s he gone?”
“Damn Cherokees set him free.”
“Blood calls to blood.” Broken Trail recognized Judah’s deep rumble. “The hills are crawling with Cherokees. They knew we had him here.”
Broken Trail nudged Red Sun Rising. “Now! Before they think to check the roof.”
They wriggled over the shingles to the very edge. Here, it was only a man’s height from the roof to the ground. Swinging their bodies over the edge, they dropped. They started running as soon as their feet hit the ground.
Broken Trail heard shouts and then a single rifle shot before he and Red Sun Rising reached the hillside. No one wasted another bullet. Pursuit ended within moments, as Broken Trail had expected it would. At night, no one in his right mind wanted to venture into a forest that he thought was swarming with Cherokees.
Silently Broken Trail and Red Sun Rising climbed the short distance to the sumac stand. Broken Trail plunged in first. Elijah caught him by both arms.
Seeing Elijah, Red Sun Rising stopped cold. He stared. “Who are you?”
“I’m his brother.”
“Brother? I not know…” Not finishing the sentence, he pointed toward the crest of the hill. “Trail that way. You follow me.”
Elijah was the only one whose feet made the slightest noise as they climbed. Tripping over roots and snapping dry sticks under his boots, he stumbled after the others.
Near the top, Broken Trail glanced back over his shoulder. All he could see in the valley below were the flames of the bonfire, burning brightly again.
Red Sun Rising led them along a high trail that followed the contour of the hills. They walked for the rest of the night, and at sunrise descended into a wooded valley.
“This is far enough,” Red Sun Rising said. “They not catch us.”
Elijah, who looked the most in need of rest, sat down and leaned his back against the trunk of a massive oak just off the trail. Broken Trail and Red Sun Rising sat cross-legged, facing him.
Red Sun Rising peered at Elijah. “You’re a redcoat. Where you come from?”
“I was taken prisoner at Kings Mountain. Moses rescued me.”
“Who?”
“That’s my white name,” Broken Trail explained.
Red Sun Rising did not question this. He nodded. “You look like brothers.” He turned to Broken Trail. “Why you not tell me you go to Kings Mountain to find him?”
“I didn’t know he was there. For three years I hadn’t seen him or heard any word of him.”
Red Sun Rising appeared to accept this explanation. “So now you make a long trail together?”
“Yes,” said Broken Trail. “I’m going home. Elijah will travel with me most of the way.”
“It is good to have your brother with you on a long trail.” A look of sadness spread over Red Sun Rising’s face. “I travel alone.”
“Back to Chickamauga?” Broken Trail asked.
Red Sun Riding sighed. “Back to Chickamauga. No scalps. No red coat. No horse.” After a moment’s silence, he brightened again. “It is time for the fall hunt. Winter comes soon. But in the Moon of New Leaves, we fight again.” He raised his arm, flourishing an imaginary war club. “We kill the settlers who steal Cherokee land.”
Broken Trail wondered how Red Sun Rising managed to keep up his resolve, for every time he was knocked down, he seemed to rise again.
“Until we reached the farm where you and I stole the horses, I thought you were already back home in Chickamauga. What happened after you left Kings Mountain?”
“That day I go to find horses. No horses where we leave them. I think Over Mountain men find them first. So I go on foot, walk many days. Then I see one fine black horse in a paddock. I think I steal that horse. Ride him home.” He grimaced. “That was big mistake. Red coat very bright. White men see me.” He paused. “Big, big mistake. I think I go fast to the Land without Trouble.” He paused. “But then Yowa, the Great Spirit, sent you to help me.”
“Reckon he did,” Broken Trail answered, feeling grateful that he had been able to repay Red Sun Rising for guiding him to Kings Mountain. He wished only that he could do more. “How far is it to Chickamauga?” he said. “If you need food for your journey, I have a little corn powder left.”
Red Sun Rising shook his head. “You and your brother keep it for your long trail. I am only one day from my home.” He hesitated. “It is good we meet again. You are all times my friend.”
“And you are all times my friend.”
Red Sun Rising rose to his feet. “If I start now, I sleep in Chickamauga tonight.”
“Don’t go yet,” said Broken Trail. “Rest a while longer.”
“When I am home, is time to rest. Tonight I see my father and my mother. For sure, they think I am dead.”
“They will rejoice at your return.”
“I tell everybody how I make a friend. I say he is white, but one of us.”
Broken Trail stood up when he saw that Red Sun Rising was determined to leave. “Be strong,” he said, and clasped his hand. “May the unseen spirits guide you.”
“May Yowa watch over you and not place too many stones in your path.”
“Best of luck,” said Elijah, looking uncomfortable, as if he suspected that this was not exactly the right thing to say.
Red Sun Rising raised his arm in farewell, and then disappeared into the forest.
Elijah’s voice broke the silence that followed. “His people don’t have a chance. The British have tried to keep the settlers in check. When the rebels take over, more and more settlers will come. They’ll destroy the forest and push the Cherokees all the way to the Mississippi River. Thousands will die—people whose only crime is to live on land that somebody else wants.” His voice was utterly flat, admitting no hope. “As for your friend, he’ll be dead within a year.”
Dead within a year. The words rang in Broken Trail’s ears. In an instant, his heart felt as cold and heavy as a stone.
“At least he will die fighting.”
�
�Is it worth it,” Elijah asked, “to die in a war already lost?”
“To die with honour is always a victory.”
“But does it help his people? I don’t think so.”
Broken Trail did not argue. He sat down beside Elijah. “Red Sun Rising asked me to go to Chickamauga with him. He wanted me to join a war party against the settlers. I wish I could help his people. But not that way.”
“In the middle of a war, nobody seems able to see a better way. It’s all killing, until one side or the other gives up. Then there’s peace for a while, until it all starts over again. And I’ll tell you what I think: the longer this goes on, the more the native people are going to lose.”
“In the north,” Broken Trail said, “the British are setting aside land for their Indian allies.”
“Ah, but in the north the Mohawks have a chief like Joseph Brant to negotiate not only for them but for the whole Iroquois Confederacy.”
“The Cherokees have Dragging Canoe.”
“Dragging Canoe is shrewd and brave, but he can’t read or write, and he barely speaks English. He knows nothing about the world beyond his own mountains and forests. But Joseph Brant is an educated man. He writes letters and helps to draft treaties. He has been to England and met King George. The Cherokees have no one like that to lead them, a man who is at home in both worlds.”
Broken Trail did not answer. Looking down, he noticed a little patch of sunshine on the forest floor. A slender ray had penetrated the leafy canopy overhead. It reminded him of the quivering beam that had pierced the darkness of the cavity under the maple tree while he hid there after the fighting on Kings Mountain. That tiny light had been a sign, he had felt, that the Great Spirit had a plan for his life. Listening now to Elijah’s words, he felt afraid of what that plan might be.
Chapter 18
FOLLOWING THE RIVER valleys in a northerly direction, Broken Trail and Elijah left behind the moss-draped trees of the south. Now birches edged the riverbanks, and the cool, crisp air was spiced with the scent of pine. Elijah thought they might be in Pennsylvania, but he was not certain.
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