“I did call you,” he said. “You were sleeping like a bear in winter. I killed the turkey, plucked it, and cooked it. Still you slept. I think Simon Brandt has a lazy woman for a wife.”
Rebecca sputtered, too angry for words, as she struggled to get into her shift without dropping the wolfskin. She did notice that not only was she dry, but her garment was dry as well. She had been asleep, and not just for a few moments.
“You seem to have lost your dress,” he said, “so I brought you the Huron’s French coat instead. I think it will fit you if you tie his belt around your waist.” He reached over and held up a blue men’s military jacket.
“You expect me to wear a dead man’s coat?”
“You will wear it, woman, or I will take your last garment and leave you only the wolf pelt to wear.”
“Go to hell!” she shouted.
“If the English are right about their god, I will. But what if the Shawnee are right, and you are wrong. Have you thought of that?”
“No.”
“Think of it while you eat my turkey and sit at my fire. Perhaps it will help you to be properly grateful to a man who has gone to great lengths to keep you from harm.”
“I’ll never be grateful to you.”
He smiled. “But you will eat my turkey.”
She nodded. “Only to have enough strength to live long enough to see you hanged for the savage you are.”
Chapter 7
Fort Nelson
The Virginia Frontier
December 1, 1751
Inside the barred gates of Fort Nelson, hooves, paws, and human feet had churned the hard-packed dirt and choking dust of summer to ankle-deep mud and sink holes overflowing with manure and scummed standing water. Around three inner sides of the stout log enclosure ran a low lean-to, divided into quarters for common soldiers, officers, and horses. A small pound to the left of the fort entrance held cattle, and a cedar-shingled building on the right was used as a combination church and infirmary. In the center, sunken into the ground, stood the powder store, a crude, octagonal structure of square-hewn timber.
Ten paces to the east of the powder magazine, carpenters had erected a free-standing wooden cage, four feet wide, four feet high, and five feet long. The trap door was nailed shut with iron spikes, and there was no solid roof to protect the prisoner from the elements.
The feeble December sunlight offered little warmth to the captive or the other inhabitants of the English stronghold. Men slapped their hands together against the cold as they wandered toward the cattle pound. There, they arranged their clothing and emptied their bladders against the split rail fence. Soon the pungent scent of human urine filled the air, mingling with the strong odors of livestock, black powder, dogs, wood smoke, and unwashed bodies.
Women and children left their tents and wagons, retreating to the corner between infirmary and stockade wall to obey the calls of nature. Most civilians passing the cage stopped to stare at the stoic Indian shaman inside. A few gawkers looked and did nothing more; some shouted insults, a gray-haired woman with a huge goiter on her neck threw the contents of her chamber pot at the old Shawnee.
Medicine Smoke ignored them, ignored the mud and feces that littered his cell, and ignored the cold that had turned his toes and one finger black with poison. His eyes were closed; he barely drew breath, and he sat cross-legged, arms folded over his chest, waiting with almost animal patience.
The ring of the blacksmith’s hammer stirred the fort to action; a platoon of red-coated soldiers marched half-heartedly to and fro in front of the commandant’s door. A cow, her udder distended with milk, lowed repeatedly. Settlers tidied their makeshift camps and prepared for another boring day locked inside the strong, upright log fortress.
The smell of boiling corn mush and frying bacon drifted past Medicine Smoke’s cage. A cat streaked over the top of the wooden pen, pausing just long enough to hiss a challenge to the three hounds in hot pursuit before leaping over the heaped snow and scrambling up on the roof of the powder magazine. The dogs howled; a baby cried, and Reverend Allan rang a small bell to summon worshipers for his Sunday sermon.
A tall, buckskin-clad English scout walked over to the Indian’s cage and slammed the butt of his rifle repeatedly against the bars. “Wake up, ye old son of a bitch!” he called.
Medicine Smoke opened his eyes. “Simon Brandt.” His words were stilted, his voice cracked and rasping.
“No, ye stupid bastard. It’s King George.”
The aging Shawnee smiled thinly. His white hair was matted with dried blood and mud; his lined face was streaked with dirt. His mouth was swollen; one ear had been nearly ripped from his head.
“Are ye ready to listen to reason and sign the peace treaty?” the scout asked.
“The land is not mine to give.”
The white man reversed his rifle and drove the steel barrel through the narrow bars into the shaman’s ribs. The resulting dull snap and Medicine Smoke’s hiss of pain made Simon’s pale gray eyes widen with obvious pleasure. He waited for some further reaction from the Indian, but when there was none, he said, “You’re a stubborn fool. I’ll hang you. By God, ye know I will.”
The older man spread his hands, palms up. One finger was broken so badly that the bone pushed through the torn skin. “It matters not what you do to me. I am finished. I have given my people bad council. Now the Shawnee will strike the war post and blood will feed the forest floor. Your women and ours will mourn their fallen sons and husbands.”
“It ain’t too late to stop the hostilities. You kin rein in your son, Fire Talon. Force him to—”
Medicine Smoke’s rheumy eyes glowed with amusement. “You of all men should not suggest such a thing. Have you not tried to kill him for twenty years?” He shook his battered head. “Mahtah. No man, red or white, controls Fire Talon. His heart is hot—his fist is strong. You lit the torch, Simon Brandt. You killed his mother, my wife, when my son was little more than a child. You taught him hate. You made of him a war chief such as the old ones tell about in legends. And you will reap the whirlwind of his fury.”
“Not before I see your neck stretched on the gallows and your mangy carcass thrown to the dogs.”
The prisoner shrugged, almost imperceptibly, and closed his eyes.
“I’m late for church services, or I’d have them drag ye out of there and give you a taste of the whip,” Simon threatened. “I don’t have—”
Zeke Taylor, a balding man in homespun, came toward the two at a trot. His oversized shirt was untucked and his beard half shaven. “Simon! Simon!” he shouted. “Bad news. Amos Dodd just come into the fort. He heard from a half-breed Nanticoke that yer cabin is burnt to the ground.”
“What?” Simon spun to face Taylor. “What’s that you say? My place burned?”
“I swear to God. Dodd just told me. He said the Nanticoke, Red Jim, has a message fer ye, but he’s scared to come into the fort, ’fraid of what you’ll do to him.”
“Red Jim? That drunken whoreson? Why would I believe anything he said? He ain’t got half a brain. The other half’s rotted away from drinking trade whiskey.”
“Dodd says Red Jim’s got proof. Your woman’s dress and a piece of her hair. You’d best come quick, Simon. The Nanticoke says Shawnee have got her,” Taylor continued excitedly. “This one’s son, Fire Talon. Red Jim says another Shawnee told him that Fire Talon took your wife and her little brother and they’re holdin’ them ’til you let old Medicine Smoke here go free.”
Simon scowled and gripped his rifle tighter. “The hell, you say.”
Taylor nodded. “A dress could be any white woman’s. But this sure looks like your missus’ hair. Ain’t many got that fox color. Red Jim claims that Fire Talon’s messenger says he’ll swap you. His pa, alive and unharmed, for your wife. If anything bad happens to Medicine Smoke, Fire Talon claims he’ll kill your missus and send you the rest of her scalp.”
“Did Dodd see the burned farm for hisself?” Simon asked.
“No, he didn’t, and that’s a fact. Dodd would soil his breeches if he ever come up on a real Injun in these woods. You know he keeps close to the fort. But Red Jim sells him a lot of beaver pelts. Dodd says that Red Jim’s tellin’ the truth about your place.”
With a smothered oath, Simon set off across the parade ground in search of Amos Dodd. Medicine Smoke pulled his ragged deerskin around his shoulders and smiled.
After dark that same day, Talon left Rebecca sleeping in the cave and went out to meet Fox near the stream where the Huron had died. The war chief exchanged formal greetings with the Shawnee brave and then asked about the safety of the rest of his companions.
“Joins the River will recover. Counts and Osage Killer have told the story a dozen times to our camp. Now they can’t wait to dance the story at the Shannopins Big House council fire for our Delaware brothers at the feast of child naming. Counts has already made himself a new wolfskin headdress to match Osage Killer’s.”
“But not good enough to match your eagle-wing dance costume,” Talon teased.
Fox grinned. “I paid dearly for that garment.”
“I’m sure you did. Just how old was that widow you spent the winter with?”
“Old enough to teach me a few tricks even you don’t know,” Fox retorted good-naturedly.
“You never seem to have any trouble getting women to sew for you,” Talon said, looking with envy at his friend’s thick beaver-skin cloak that hung to the tops of his fur leggings.
“It’s because I take the time to make myself attractive to them, and I have something more to say than boasting of my battle feats.” Fox struck a pose and both laughed. The younger man wore his hair cut at chin length on either side of his face and long in the back. Tufts from an eagle’s plumage hung from his silver earrings.
“It’s time you settled down and found a wife.”
“Right after you do,” Fox answered.
Talon laughed.
Fox removed a few strips of dried meat from a pouch at his waist, and they shared the meal in fraternal silence.
When he had finished, Talon drank from the cold stream and glanced at his friend. “Has my message reached Fort Nelson?”
Fox shrugged. “Who can tell? The Nanticoke has had enough days to get there. I paid him with an English musket to carry the word to Simon Brandt, and I put the white woman’s dress into his hands.”
“And her hair?”
The slim man nodded. “I gave him the lock of her hair.”
Talon’s features took on a grim visage. “Then we wait for Simon Brandt’s answer.”
“We wait,” Fox agreed. “Will you bring her to the village now?”
“No. And make certain that the white trader, Clancy, and the French priest come to camp. They will both ask questions. The Frenchman is a spy for the English. When both sources report that Brandt’s wife is not with the Mecate Shawnee, Brandt and the soldiers will search for her elsewhere, and leave my people in peace.”
“It is not safe, you being alone with her. There are many dangers for a warrior without friends.”
Talon shook his head. “No. What I do is for my father. I will not bring ruin on the village for this. I have the blood feud with Simon Brandt. I will not risk another Shawnee life unnecessarily.”
“Counts, Osage Killer, Badger Scent, and I, we could come with you.” Fox smiled and clasped Talon’s arm. “We killed our first buck together. You pulled me from the river when I hit my head and nearly drowned. It grieves my heart to let you face the English wrath alone.”
“So long as I am your war chief, I will say who walks the forest and who guards the people. As soon as the priest and the trader leave, move the camp south to the banks of the Salt Lick River. And if there is trouble, say to the council that I want them to take the people west of the Ohio.”
Fox’s high forehead creased with concern. “At least, let me accompany you. If Simon Brandt comes—”
“When Simon Brandt comes after me, I will travel faster alone.”
“You have the woman to slow you down.”
“On the day an enemy woman slows me down enough for Simon Brandt to catch me, you can take my place as war chief.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Talon. He’s evaded you for many years.”
“His days are written on the drifting smoke from my mother’s pyre. I cannot change them; he cannot change them. I only know that I must hunt him down and destroy him.”
“And the woman? Counts says you do not have the belly to kill her if her man will not release your father.”
Talon scoffed. “Counts talks too much.”
“Will you? You have never stained your knife with the blood of a woman.”
“You carried my word. Have you ever known me to break that word?”
Fox exhaled softly. “No.”
“A war chief who does not speak the truth is not fit to lead.”
“Then, for all of us, I hope Simon Brandt and the English soldiers see the sense in this bargain.”
“He will—in time,” Talon said. “But first, he will not be able to resist the urge to try and rescue her.”
“Maybe.”
Talon made a quick gesture with his right hand. “No. Not maybe. He will come. I know him all too well. Sometimes, I think I know him better than I know my own father.”
“Medicine Smoke is a wise man, a good man. Don’t blame him for this one mistake. He believed that a treaty would be good for the Mecate.”
“He is too soft, my father. He has never learned that they will not rest until our forests fall to English axes and the spring grass grows green on our graves.”
Fox pointed to a bundle that lay on the ground a few yards away. “I have brought leggings and fur robes for you both—and some good corn cakes that Sweet Rain made. Take care, Talon.”
“And you, brother.” He rose to go.
“What of the boy? Does The Stranger still have him? Is he well?”
“I don’t know. No one has seen them since the day of the raid. Does it matter?”
“The woman asks after him. She will give me no peace.”
“I will send a runner to his village if you wish.”
“No . . . yes, find out what you can. If The Stranger wishes to sell him, say that I will pay his ransom. If not, tell The Stranger that I would consider it an act of friendship to give him back to the English.”
“You do care about him.”
“He showed courage. We should not make of such a boy an enemy.”
“It may be that you are right.” Fox touched his chest lightly with a closed fist and loped off into the trees. Talon picked up the bundle and turned back toward the cave and his prisoner.
Rebecca moved closer to the fire and held her hands over the glowing warmth. She had awakened when Talon went out, and she’d lain sleepless since then, wondering what he was doing and where he’d gone. She’d even entertained the thought that perhaps he was leaving her—that he wouldn’t come back. She wasn’t sure whether being alone in this wilderness was worse than being a captive.
The Shawnee terrified her, made her furious with him, and intrigued her, all at the same time. He was everything she’d expected a hostile savage to be . . . and nothing. In the nine days that she’d been at his mercy, he’d never once touched her in a way that made her fear for her virtue. He’d bullied her and dragged her through forest and stream against her will, but he’d never actually hurt her.
Common sense told her that for all his paint and bravado, he was not a wicked man at heart. And she’d had enough experience with men to know that Talon was a rarity. Hadn’t her own husband blacked her eye for far less than she’d said or done to this Shawnee? What in God’s name would Simon’s reaction be if she tried to kill him—not once, but repeatedly?
Simon was like most men, neither all good nor all bad. He had a quick temper, and he lived by a harsh code. He wasn’t the man she’d have picked to marry if she’d had half a chance. But he was her
husband, and she owed him loyalty and respect. At least she’d been taught that she did.
Sometimes, they were hard to give . . .
“If Dadda hadn’t died.” Her whisper echoed in the cave. “Hadn’t died . . . hadn’t died . . . hadn’t . . .”
She shivered. Truth was, James Gordon would turn over in his grave to see his only daughter married to a rough frontiersman like Simon. Be she illegitimate or not, her father’s money would have provided enough dowry to see her wed into the Irish gentry or even to the second son of an English nobleman. Dadda had loved her well, and he’d weep to see how low she’d come.
Her father had loved books and works of art; he would have thought Simon an ignorant, impoverished man without social graces. Her husband could write little more than his own name, and he could barely read at all. Simon was poor by her parent’s standards. He didn’t own much that he couldn’t wear on his back or carry as he ventured ever deeper into uncharted Indian country. Even the land he claimed had no deed, only squatters’ rights.
Not that Simon was a man to be scorned. He was honest and brave—well respected by colonial and military commanders. He had taken her in honorable wedlock, giving her a ring and the blessing of the Church, when most indentured girls were at the mercy of their owners. Simon was not old, or deformed, or a drunkard. And if he was a hard man, it was a hard country. She should be grateful to have such a husband.
She was grateful, she corrected mentally. If only he could have showed her more tenderness, shared laughter, been more of a companion . . .
If only he didn’t hit her.
Her father would have cut off his right hand before he’d ever have struck her mother, and she wasn’t even his legal wife—only his Irish housekeeper. Many’s the time Rebecca had heard them speak harsh words, usually about religion or politics. Her mother’s disposition had been as fiery as her bright red hair. But heated words were all that had ever passed between them when they were angry.
Rebecca had inherited her mother’s sharp tongue—but not her luck in love. When she’d accepted Simon Brandt’s proposal at the Maryland dock, she’d agreed because he promised she could keep Colin with her. A Catholic priest and the sheriff had vouched for his character. No one had told her that Simon would discipline her with his hand or his belt. And no one had told her that she would be a wife in name only.
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