Hand to hand battle raged around her. The militia were heavily armed, strong men and deadly fighters, but the Shawnee were defending home and family. Only a few hundred yards lay between the white scourge and their helpless women and children. The gunshots had nearly ended. Ax and knife and warclub were the weapons that would decide the winners and the losers. Shrieks of triumph and howls of agony assaulted Rebecca’s ears.
She wanted to run and hide, to close her eyes and cover her head, but she couldn’t. Somewhere Simon hunted Talon, and in her foolishness she had given her husband an advantage he would not hesitate to use. “Let someone else find Simon,” she prayed aloud. “For the love of God, let it be someone else.”
A pistol to her left shot fire and lead. She whirled to see Fox on one knee holding the smoking flintlock. Facing him was a short bearded man in a cocked hat. He raised a rifle to his shoulder and pointed it straight at Fox’s heart.
Fox leaped sideways at the exact instant Rebecca fired. Her target yelled and clutched his shoulder. His rifle went off, the barrel pointed harmlessly toward the trees. Fox scrambled up and lunged toward his opponent. She didn’t wait to see that happened. Still clutching the empty pistol, she kept going deeper into the woods.
Moments later, she found Simon and Talon as she knew she would—together. Simon was bareheaded; his shirt was ripped to the waist, and one sleeve dripped blood. He crouched with a fourteen-inch scalping knife in hand, his hate-filled eyes fixed on Talon.
Rebecca shrank back until she felt the solid bulk of a tree trunk behind her. Talon’s thigh was sliced from hip to knee, and his chest bore a fresh wound as well. He too held a knife as he shifted from one foot to another just out of Simon’s arm length.
“Rebecca,” Simon called. “If it isn’t my dear wife. Wait a while, sweet. I’ll get to you as soon as I finish this red bastard.”
“Sweet Water.” Talon’s gaze scalded her. “Go!”
Simon dove at him, slashing upward in a mighty stroke that would have disemboweled Talon if he’d not twisted aside at the last second. Simon recovered his balance and lashed out with a booted foot. Talon tripped him and they went down, rolling over and over on the ground, first Talon on top and then Simon.
Rebecca crammed her knuckles into her mouth and bit down on her own flesh to keep from screaming as Simon’s knife blade struck Talon’s and snapped it close to the hilt. Talon let the useless weapon drop from his hand and seized Simon’s wrist. Simon wrapped his legs around Talon’s and Rebecca saw sweat break out on Talon’s face. Simon was putting pressure on Talon’s leg wound. Blood gushed from the gash. Both men strained and grunted. Then Talon flipped Simon over and rolled on top. Tendons stood out on Talon’s forearm as he forced Simon’s knife hand back.
Rebecca looked down at her useless pistol. She’d dropped the hunting bag back in the camp and had no way to reload. If the weapon was loaded, she had no doubt in her mind what she would do. Tears were running down her face, as she prayed for Talon to kill him.
Suddenly, Talon released Simon’s left wrist and slammed the base of his palm into his chin. Before Simon could recover, Talon had wrenched the knife from his hand and was holding the point at Simon’s throat.
Simon’s eyes bulged with terror. Rebecca turned away, knowing what had to be, yet unable to watch.
“You want this thing?” Talon said. “This man gives him to you.”
Rebecca spun back around to see Talon on his feet, standing over Simon.
“Never say that the promise went unfilled,” Talon said hoarsely. He shoved the knife into his sheath and reached for his fallen musket.
Simon leaped up and grabbed Rebecca before she knew what was happening. He twisted the pistol from her hand and held it to her head. Talon froze, his right hand open, his left clenched at his side.
“I’ve got ye now, ye son of a bitch,” Simon snarled. “I’ve got one shot. Which one shall it be. Her or you?”
Talon spread his hands wide. “It is a good day to die,” he said softly.
“It’s not loaded!” Rebecca screamed.
“Liar!” Simon lowered the muzzle until it touched the hollow between Rebecca’s breasts and pulled the trigger.
Simon’s weight slumped against her. His mouth opened and closed, but he made no sound. Talon pulled her trembling into his arms and crushed her to his chest.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Simon fall forward, an English trade ax buried in his back.
“Do you still draw breath?”
Rebecca understood who had saved them as she heard Counts’ voice. Boastful. Full of self-pride. And as welcome as a candle in the pitch of night.
“Talon,” she whispered. “Oh, Talon. I wanted you to kill him. I was so afraid for you.”
She heard the pounding of his heart and felt the strength of his arms around her, shielding her from the blood and the pain.
“The fighting is over?” Talon asked.
Counts scoffed. “The cowards who come to kill children and burn villages will see no more dawns.”
“All of them dead?”
“This . . . this Simon Brandt was the last.”
“His killing will be a deed we will hear about around many campfires, Counts His Scalps. It was worthy of a great warrior.”
“And a great shaman,” Counts added. “Only one who speaks to the spirits would know how great was the need of his war chief.”
“So.” Talon rubbed her back gently.
“What would you have us do with the bodies?” Counts asked.
“Strip them. Carry them to the Cave of the Two Winds, and drop them down into the bowels of the earth.”
“And . . .”
“Gather their horses, their muskets, and their long knives,” Talon said. “And let them be carried far from this place.”
“To the hunting grounds of our enemies?”
“Is that your suggestion, my wise friend?”
“The Mohawk could use such good horses,” Counts said slyly.
“You will lead the party?”
“Who else could you trust to do it right?”
“No one else, Counts His Scalps. No one else,” Talon agreed.
When Counts departed to see to the disposition of the dead, Talon led Rebecca away from the spot where Simon had died.
“What would you have done with him?” she asked. “Alive, he would always be a danger to us.”
“You do not care that he is dead?”
“No.” She shook her head. “He was an evil man. What will we do now? The village, I mean. Will we be safe here for the winter?”
He exhaled softly. “This man believes so. When the militia does not return, the king’s soldiers will search for them. Eventually, the tale will surface. For now, we will spend the winter here, and in the spring—”
“We’ll move again?” she asked.
“We?” He tilted her chin up and looked full into her eyes. “This is not an easy life this man offers you.”
“Yes, Talon. We. You and I, and the child I’ll bear you in springtime.”
“A child?” He pulled her close and held her with strong, loving arms, and she heard the joyous throb of his heart. “When, ki-te-hi?”
“When the wild strawberries ripen.”
“Then we will break camp when the snows melt and take our canoes south so that our son will be born in Can-tuc-kee. It is a place of tall trees and is thick with game. The grass and water are sweet, and there are no white men there.”
“Our son?” She smiled. “Are you a shaman as well that you can tell the sex of an unborn babe?”
“Our son or daughter,” he conceded. “It matters not. I will love our child for your sake and mine.”
She clasped his hand tightly. “I must sew that cut on your leg. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Now you sound like a wife.”
“I am a wife . . . or rather, I soon will be. Unless . . .” She pursed her lips. “Can it be that you no longer wish to be my husband, now t
hat I’m going to get fat?”
“This man will have you to wife,” he said, bending and kissing her tenderly.
“Even if you have to give my adopted mother many cooking pots as a wedding gift?”
“Two, at least.” He put an arm around her shoulders.
Rebecca took a final glance over her shoulder at all that lay behind her and stepped forward beside the man she loved. Her path would not be smooth. There would be sorrow and disappointment, as well as fulfillment and happiness. But that was all part of living, wasn’t it? Didn’t the Bible speak of a time to laugh and a time to cry, a time to die and a time to be born?
She only knew that she would be content to walk beside this man all the days of her life. And when the time came to leave this earth, she would take the Shawnee trail across the river of souls following in his moccasin tracks.
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Chapter 1
The Virginia Coast
April 1664
The square-rigged barkentine pitched and rolled in the savage seas like an untamed horse. Gale-force winds ripped at her yards and topsails, tearing at the sailors high in the rigging, carrying away sections of her port rails and binnacle, shredding sails and sending yards and widow makers plunging to the deck.
Lady Elizabeth Sommersett fought her way up the ladder in pitch darkness and threw her weight against the hatch. A gust of wind seized the wooden door and wrenched it from its hinges. Elizabeth clung to the side of the hatchway and stared into the mouth of hell.
Waves crashed over the slanting deck, and human screams mingled with those of the horses trapped below deck. Not six paces from where she stood, Elizabeth could see the bare feet and legs of a man protruding from a shapeless heap of tangled sailcloth and rope. The bosun’s whistle sounded over and over, the shrill notes distorted and carried away by the relentless wind.
Elizabeth threw up a hand to shield her face from the driving rain and salt spray as a sailor staggered past her with an axe and began to hack at the mainsail. She stared in disbelief, too shocked by the fury of the storm to utter a sound. We’re going to sink, she thought. We’re all going to die.
Suddenly, the ship’s captain materialized out of the darkness and seized Elizabeth’s arm. Leaning close, the man shouted into her ear. “To the longboat, m’lady! Her back’s broken! We’re abandoning ship!” Without waiting for an answer, he began to drag her across the deck.
Elizabeth shut her eyes against the force of the wind and rain, only half aware of the weeping girl who grabbed on to her free hand.
“Are we goin’ t’ dee?”
Elizabeth turned to see little Betty, her aunt’s scullery maid, clinging to her. Barely eleven and thin as a rail, the child was in real danger of being washed overboard by the force of the wind and water. “Hold tight to me!” Elizabeth commanded, locking her fingers around Betty’s wrist. “I won’t let you die.”
“Quick now, Lady Elizabeth!” the captain interrupted. “The longboat’s full! We’ve no time for—”
“But what of my aunt and uncle!” she cried. But he couldn’t hear. Her words were lost in the wind. Seconds later, Elizabeth spied her aunt and uncle huddled in the small boat with a half dozen other passengers and several seamen. Four sailors were in the process of lowering the boat from davits into the angry sea.
Her aunt caught sight of her and screamed. “Elizabeth!”
“Hurry!” the captain insisted, shoving Elizabeth toward the longboat. “They’ve only room for one more!”
Betty’s face whitened, and she clung to Elizabeth, screaming. “Don’t leave me here t’ dee! M’lady! Please don’t leave me!”
“Elizabeth!” her uncle called. One end of the boat tilted violently.
Elizabeth steadied herself against the port rail. “Can’t we take the girl?” she asked the captain.
“She’s small. She won’t—”
“No! The boat is overloaded as it—”
“Is there another longboat?” she demanded.
“Yes, on the starboard side. But—”
Elizabeth spun Betty around and shoved her toward the boat. Betty’s knee struck the gunnel, and she tumbled screaming into the midst of the passengers. The sailors released the ropes, dropping the longboat into the waves below.
“You fool!” the captain cried. Taking Elizabeth’s arm roughly, he pushed her toward the far side of the ship.
A wave swept over the deck, soaking her to mid-thigh and nearly knocking her off her feet. Elizabeth covered her head with her hands as a heavy weight fell from above to glance off one shoulder. A splinter of wood ripped through her gown and cut a gash across her back. She cried out, falling forward into the captain’s arms, and he steadied her, pointing ahead to the outline of another longboat.
They stumbled toward the starboard rail together. The first officer was alone in the longboat; the bosun and the ship’s carpenter manned the davits. “No more of your nonsense, woman,” the captain shouted. “In you go.” Catching Elizabeth around the waist, he lifted her into the stern of the longboat with the first officer. Other passengers and sailors pressed closely about them. “Hold!” the captain ordered. “We’ll use the Jacob’s ladder.”
A grinding crash shook the ship as the mainsail fell. Instantly, the ship began to tilt, lifting the longboat even higher from the surface of the sea. Elizabeth clung to rough boards of the seat, trying to extricate her ankle from the tangle of line in the bottom of the boat.
“She’s taking water!” a man screamed.
Two seamen lunged for the rail, and Elizabeth caught the gleam of steel as the captain’s sword flashed. Someone screamed, and a widow maker thrashed back and forth, knocking the carpenter over the side. Without warning, before anyone else could get in, the bow of the longboat plunged down toward the water, and the first officer fell headlong into the sea.
Elizabeth dangled head down in the swaying boat, one foot caught by the coil of rope. She cried out in pain and fear as her head slammed against the side of the longboat. Beneath her, she could see the white turbulent water.
“Cut the rope!” a man shouted.
Elizabeth’s head struck the side of the boat again, and her world dissolved into soft blackness.
Shivering, Elizabeth raised her head and stared into the emptiness of the gray morning. As far as she could see, there was nothing but whitecaps and rolling waves. The rain was cold on her face and arms; her feet and hands were too numb to feel anything. She was alone in the Atlantic, marooned on a fragile scrap of worm-riddled wood that bobbed to and fro at the mercy of the wind and tide. Elizabeth had seen nothing, heard nothing but the ceaseless wind, the waves, and the constant drumming of the icy rain. No screaming gulls, no white-patched petrels skimming over the gray-green surface of the angry sea . . . no sign of land.
Elizabeth cupped her hands to catch the cold rain. It tasted of salt, but she didn’t care. She was thirsty—so thirsty that she couldn’t seem to ease her parched throat no matter how much she lapped at the salty rainwater.
She wondered how far the boat had drifted in the storm. At first light, she’d strained her eyes to see the outline of the Speedwell, or some bobbing speck against the horizon that might be the other longboat. Common sense had told her that the Speedwell had gone to the bottom, and the other boat, if it had not sunk, would be leagues away. But she had hoped and stared until her eyes ached, and she had seen nothing but rain and water and gray sky.
She laughed, a lonely sound in the little boat. She had always prided herself on being a realist. The Speedwell was gone; her aunt and uncle and the others in the first longboat might well be dead—even whining little Betty with her grubby bare feet and close-bitten fingernails. She hoped not. They’d had a chance, surely. Her aunt’s boat had oars and seamen to man them.
Elizabeth had no idea how far they were off the Virginia Coast. Thirty leag
ues? Sixty? The captain himself might not have known exactly where they were when the ship began to break up.
Storms had plagued the Speedwell from the time it had left the West Indies. The ship had been traveling in the company with another vessel, the Fruitful Merchant, which had turned back to the Indies when sickness had broken out aboard. Her aunt had begged the captain of the Speedwell to return with the other ship to the port in the islands where they had anchored for fresh water and supplies, but he had laughed at her fears. There had been a few days of brisk sailing before they had reached Cape Hatteras, then the weather had turned foul. Near hurricane winds had battered the ship northward for days, culminating in the squall that had brought disaster to crew and passengers alike.
Elizabeth’s heart was heavy as she remembered the screams of the horses trapped in the hold. Her own mare, Sarah, and the bay stallion she was bringing Edward as a wedding gift were probably as dead as the rest. Such a terrible waste! Sarah was dear to her, and the stallion probably would have sired finer colts and fillies than any now cropping the green grass of the Virginia Colony.
She laughed again, ruefully. Her mother had accused her of being shallow and godless. Perhaps Mother had been right. What kind of woman would regret the loss of a pet horse when her aunt and uncle, and some thirty other souls, all lay at the bottom of the sea?
Elizabeth sighed and buried her face in her hands. She had not loved her aunt and uncle, but she was fond of them. Her aunt was a silly woman, all flutter and show—too lazy to be unkind and too stupid to ever have an original thought of her own. Her uncle John had no lack of brains, but they had been wasted in the foolish pursuit of loose women, as his ample inheritance had been squandered at the gaming tables. Elizabeth had learned early that it was best to stay clear of Uncle John when he was in his cups. His hands had a habit of straying where they should not, even if the object of his attention was a twelve-year-old niece. Yet, despite their faults, Elizabeth would not have wished her aunt and uncle dead. Guiltily, she offered a murmured prayer for their safety and wondered if they believed her lost forever.
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