by Robin Moore
They knew they were not alone now. Now and then, they saw the smoke of refugee bands camped along the river and once or twice they even heard the barks of camp dogs. But they skirted around the ragged villages and headed further north.
Things began to look familiar to Maggie when they reached the Great Genesee Gorge. There they climbed the great rocky cliffs that rose above the river. One cold afternoon, Maggie stood on the bluff overlooking the great falls. Even the great cold couldn't stop these falls. The water was moving at a terrifying rate over the edge of the precipice, filling the gorge with a thunderous roar as the water plunged into an icy pool a hundred feet below.
Maggie remembered how the warriors had brought her this way, two summers before, leading her along the war trail by a rawhide cord, noosed around her neck. To Maggie, that seemed a long time ago. A lot of water had gone over the falls since then.
At last, on the afternoon of their twenty-first day of walking, Maggie and Jake followed the winding river into the great Genesee valley. It was quiet, deserted, no birds in the trees, even the wind wasn't blowing.
In memory, Maggie could see Little Beard's Village as it had been during her captivity. In the warm months, when everything was green and growing, the village was like a jewel set in the center of the broad flat valley. She could still see the well-kept log cabins, the fruit trees and the gardens, the lush fields and grasslands. But she knew none of that would be there. It was winter now. And besides, Sullivan had burnt it all.
Still, Maggie half-expected the village to be there. She expected to see the houses repaired, to see the cabins snug and warmly lit, with firewood stacked neatly by the doorways and children playing in the deep snow.
But none of this prepared her for the sight of the ruins of Little Beard's Village in winter.
Maggie and Jake crossed the frozen Genesee and walked up into the trees that ringed the town. Maggie was pulling the toboggan. She stopped and stood in her harness, staring.
"God Amighty," she said.
What she saw was the blackened skeleton of the place she had known, covered in drifted snow.
"God Amighty, Jake," she whispered again, "It's all strange and ghosty up here."
And it was. As Maggie walked down what had once been the main road, each ruined house and yard held some small landmark of memory, calling back a person or a thing that had once been there.
Further down, across the ice-choked tributary of Little Beard's Creek, Maggie recognized the ruins of the cabin where she and her companion Frenchgirl had raised their babies and cooked for their husbands. Half the roof was caved in.
Maggie walked ahead, watching the ghosts of memory rise from the fields and the buildings.
"We best find a cabin to hole up in," Jake suggested. "This one here don't look too bad. Gimme that sled and I'll pull it inside."
Maggie obeyed numbly, as her eyes cast up and down the main road, watching the ghosts of memory rising from the buildings and the fields.
Then Maggie saw something that tugged at her even more strongly: Out across the windswept cornfield, standing stark and alone, was Firefly's tree. On the wooden scaffold in the branches, Maggie could see the bundle of bones that had once been her husband.
"Jake," she said softly, "I have to go down there. You keep the dog here with you."
"Don't ya wanta warm yerself by a fire first, get a cup of tea in ya?"
"No," Maggie said absently, "gotta go."
Like a woman in a trace, Maggie left the cluster of buildings and walked out into the fields, snowshoeing through the deep drifts.
At last, she was there. Removing one of her mittens, Maggie placed her hand against the rough bark of the tree and tilted her head back, looking up at the bundle of cloth on the scaffold.
"Don't worry," she whispered to Firefly, "I'll find the boy."
Then Maggie leaned forward and, placing her forehead against the tree, she closed her eyes and wept.
When Maggie opened her eyes, her vision was blurred with cold and emotion. She wiped the tears away with the back of her mitten. Then Maggie's eyes fell on something black in the snow: the dead embers of a freshly kindled fire.
Maggie glanced around.
"Someone is here. Someone is making the fire for Firefly."
Maggie searched the ground for tracks. There was nothing distinct, just a twin set of holes in the snow, leading down toward the garbage heaps, where the Ragpicker lived.
Then, raising her eyes, Maggie caught a glimpse of motion down by the garbage heaps. There, in the gathering darkness, a hunched-over figure, wrapped in a ragged black blanket, was poking through the refuse heap with a stick.
Maggie slipped behind the tree. A tingling shot up her spine. She had wanted to find the Ragpicker, yes. But she had not expected to meet up with her so soon.
A part of her shrunk back behind the tree. She debated going back to the cabin for Jake and Poordevil. But, no, she would go ahead. She would meet the old woman and do whatever had to be done to get her boy back.
As Maggie stepped off in the deep snow, she felt for her hatchet, which hung in it's leather scabbard at her belt. If she needed a weapon, she knew her short-handled axe could be deadly if it came to a physical struggle.
The snow was soft and fine and she walked quietly. The woman did not notice her.
When Maggie was a dozen paces away, the ragged figure straightened and whirled to face her.
Maggie stepped back in astonishment.
"It's you!" she breathed.
At the sound of her voice, the ragged one ran a dozen steps toward her and encircled Maggie in her arms. As Maggie peered into the dirty face before her, she knew this woman for who she was—her faithful companion from her captive days—Frenchgirl.
"Redwing, can it really be you?"
It was strange for Maggie to hear her Seneca name again.
"Yes, of course," Maggie said, holding her friend out at arm's length, looking into her care-worn face, "it's me."
Frenchgirl sighed. "You frightened me. When I first saw you, I thought you might be a ghost."
Maggie nodded. "I understand. This place is full of ghosts— ghosts of memory."
"More than you know," Frenchgirl said sadly.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, alone."
"Where are Cornstalk and the Little Rabbit and the others?"
Frenchgirl was silent. Maggie could feel her friend's shoulders trembling.
Then she knew. "They are dead, aren't they?"
Frenchgirl nodded, tears welling up in her eyes.
Maggie held her friend tightly. "You can tell me about it later. But for now, I must ask you: Have you seen Hoot Owl or the Ragpicker?"
Frenchgirl shook her head. "They are not here. I have been here for ten days and I haven't seen anything moving, nothing but the wolves and the wind. Forgive me, Redwing, but—I must ask—Do you have anything to eat? I am very hungry."
"Of course, I have a little food up in the village. I'm traveling with a friend, an old man who is a good hunter and—" "You have traveled all this way, from the Allegheny? But why?"
"We can talk later. For now, let's get in out of the cold and get you a bowl of hot venison soup."
Frenchgirl nodded. "I have been camped out in the ruins of our old cabin. Most of the roof is still there and I have blocked off the holes in the walls with boards. It will be good to sit by our own fire again, eh?"
It was almost dark now. The two friends turned and stumbled up through the deep snow, up out of the fields and into the village where Frenchgirl angled off towards the cabin while Maggie snowshoed down to the cabin where Jake was just laying up a fire in the drafty chimney.
"Jake!" she hollered in through the doorway, "Frenchgirl is here! I met her down by the dumps. We can drag the sled down to her cabin and set up there."
Jake said, "Good enough. How's yer friend?"
"She's about starved from what I can see. I hope you don't mind, I offered her some of our rations.
You can take her portion out of my share if you want."
The old man came out into the failing light and slipped into the toboggan harness, "Don't you worry 'bout that. Me and Poordevil will set out tomorrow mornin' and bring us in some fresh meat fer the stewpot."
By the time Maggie, Jake and Poordevil had reached Frenchgirl's cabin, the young woman had a brisk fire going in the hearth. Maggie could see the light coming from the holes in the walls and roof.
Poordevil pushed his way in through the door and Frenchgirl let out a terrified scream. Poordevil knocked her down and was all over her, licking her face and sniffing her hair.
"It's all right," Maggie said, "He's just friendly."
Frenchgirl laughed. It was the laugh Maggie remembered from their times together, so long ago. "No worries," Frenchgirl said. "I thought he was a wolf."
"More like wolf-bait," Jake said, stepping through the doorway, "My name's Jake Logan and if yer a friend of Maggie's you're sure enough a friend of mine. Now let me pull this sled inside and we'll get a stewpot on that fire of yers."
Maggie reached into her beltpouch and pulled out a stick of dried jerky.
"Here," she said, "chew on this until we can get some real food going."
Frenchgirl took the strip of meat and made a meal of it.
"I'll make us up some sassafras tea," Maggie was saying, "and I have enough flour for some Callahan biscuits. Remember the biscuits I used to tell you about? And—Oh yes!—I almost forgot!—We've got some smoked bear's meat here—that'll bring back your strength."
Frenchgirl sunk down on the dirt floor by the fire and chewed on her strip of jerky, watching as Maggie and Jake bustled about, getting a meal on the fire.
It took forever for the tea water to boil and for the stewpot to heat. But at last they ladled the steaming food out into bowls and poured mugs of hot tea all around. Jake laid out some marrow bones Rory had given them for Poordevil. Then the four settled down to the serious business of eating. No time for talking now. They were eating what Maggie knew was the last of their thin rations. It wasn't a feast exactly, but it felt like it.
At last, when they had finished, Maggie asked, "What happened that day—the day Sullivan came? I lost track of you in all the noise and confusion."
Frenchgirl licked the venison broth from her lips. "I lost track of you as well. I was with the clan women when the call came in, we didn't have time to pack anything. I just snatched up my little girl and wrapped her in a blanket. We ran for the woods and hid the best we could. The soldiers did not come after us.
"We hid out there, with our children for a long time. Then we heard the soldiers coming in, with their music playing. We saw the dust clouds raised by their horses. Then we saw other clouds—clouds of smoke— and we knew that they were burning the village.
"The soldiers took our village without a fight. Redwing, how many soldiers did this General Sullivan have?”
Jake spoke up, "I heared he had an army of 1500 men. They destroyed 'bout forty villages on the whole campaign."
Frenchgirl nodded. "I heard later that the British and our warriors tried to mount a defense but that it made no sense, so they abandoned the valley. The British told us we could come to Fort Niagara, five days march to the north, and we could winter there with them. They said they would give us shelter and food and blankets. But Redwing, they lied.
"At Niagara, there were not enough provisions for the British themselves. So we were forced to live on short rations of our own corn, corn reaped from Seneca fields and stored at the fort. And Redwing—it was the coldest place I have ever been. We built bark huts on the lakeshore around the fort. The wind coming in off that lake carried cold air from the North and froze us. Many people died of disease and cold. Then the British poisoned our corn."
"They did what?"
"They put poison in the corn they gave us. That is how my husband died. It was a ruthless way of cutting down on the number of hungry mouths to feed.
"I left Cornstalk up in the land of frozen winds and went away from that place with a few other women. We took our babies and left that evil place. We were determined to make it back here and spend the winter in our own valley. But that was a foolish plan. Traveling the winter trail was worse than staying at the fort.
Frenchgirl stared into the fire. "I woke one morning in our trail camp and saw that I was the only one alive. All of my companions—" and here her voice began to break—"all of my trusted companions, women I have know since I was a girl, and our young children too—they were frozen solid in their blankets. I don't know why I am still alive. I left my little Rabbit, wrapped in blanket, up in the crook of a cedar tree. If I am still alive in the spring I will go back and bury her."
Maggie stared into the fire. There was nothing to say. Frenchgirl's grief lay heavy in the room. Jake quietly poured a cup of tea and passed it to Frenchgirl.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
They drank the tea until it was gone and then they rolled up in their blankets by the fire. Maggie spread her blanket down on the dirt floor beside her friend and gathered her up in her arms. It was like holding a small, frail child. Maggie lay awake for a while, looking at the dirt-streaked face of her friend. She was thin now, but still lovely. But when Maggie gathered her body up in the blankets, she was astonished at how thin her friend had become.
Chapter Nine
When Maggie woke the next morning, Jake and Poordevil had already left for the hunt. Maggie was determined to make her way down to the Ragpicker's hut and see if she could find any clues which would lead her back to her boy. She knew she should have waited for the old man and the dog to return, but she was impatient. The thought that her boy might be somewhere nearby, huddled in the arms of the old woman, was too powerful.
Before Maggie left for the hut, she mixed up a wooden bowl of flour and starter and set it by the fire to rise. She planned to make biscuits for Frenchgirl as soon as she returned.
When Maggie went out, her feet naturally lead her to the path which took her down to the Ragpicker's hut. Even if she found nothing in the thicket, she could haul back the day's firewood. Everything was covered in snow there, the hut was hidden under many feet of snow, just the very top of the dome peeking out.
Maggie couldn't shake off the idea that the Ragpicker and Hoot Owl were somewhere nearby. But what Frenchgirl had said was true, there were no human tracks going into the thicket and none coming out. There were no signs of fire-making or wood gathering or watercarrying or any of the other signs of camp life.
Maggie walked for an hour through the thicket, looking and listening, picking up firewood as she went. At last there was no point in looking anymore. Whatever had happened here was covered by snow.
But she did see something which sent a chill down her spine. An owl, circling and lighting on tree branch nearby, looked down at her as if it knew something that she didn't. Maggie stood for a long time watching the owl, then collected her firewood and headed back.
When she came back through the cabin door, Maggie noticed that the dough rising by the fire was missing. She asked Frenchgirl what had happened to it.
Her friend gave an embarrassed laugh, "I ate it."
"You ate it raw? That isn't good for your stomach."
"I know," Frenchgirl admitted, "my stomach knew that too, I felt sick and I went out and tossed it out into the snow."
Maggie was annoyed. "That is a waste of food." But then she brightened, "All right, I'll rise some more. But we only have enough for one more batch of bread, with a little flour left over. We have to be very careful not to waste anything."
"I understand," Frenchgirl said grimly.
They made a soup that night with the last of Maggie's dried beans and jerked venison.
Jake and Poordevil came back from hunting at mid-morning.
"Nuthin' movin' out there, I spec we'll have to go further up inta the woods to get us some game."
The men used to go elk hunting up into the cedar swamps a day
's travel north," Maggie offered. She remembered the swamp well. She had once been lost up there.
"Well," Jake said, "Me and Poordevil, we'll set out tonight and head up there fer a few days, bring us back enough meat to get us through 'til spring."
That afternoon Frenchgirl and Maggie sat and talked and she seemed to be her old self. Maggie told about her trek downriver and about their winter walk back upstream.
Maggie went out that night to light the fire by Firefly's tree. But when she came back, Frenchgirl was huddled in her blankets, asleep.
In the morning, Jake prepared for the hunt. He loaded the toboggan with a few provisions.
"I'll take this dog along," Jake commented. Poordevil pranced about in the snow, as if he was anxious to be on the trail once again.
Maggie said goodbye to them at the cabin door.
"Good huntin' to you, Jake. Get us something big and meaty. Poordevil, you take good care of 'im."
"He's just a travelin' nose, is all he is." Jake said. Then he pulled the shoulder harness on, snatched up his rifle and set out, headed north, up the Genssee trail.
Maggie stood in the doorway of the cabin for a long time, watching the old man and the dog disappear.
"Godspeed to ya," she whispered, knowing that their lives depended upon the luck of the hunter.
Maggie went about her morning tasks. She woke Frenchgirl and helped her friend wash herself with a bowl of tepid water and a rag. Then she set out for her morning errand, continuing the ever more difficult search for firewood. She would also collect clean snow to melt for drinking water.
In an hour, she was back at the cabin. But when she came through the door, she was shocked at what she saw.
Frenchgirl was sitting on the cabin floor with the last of the flour bag open before her, stuffing dried flour into her mouth with both hands and weeping. Her chest and hands and face were dusted with flour and the dirt floor around her was sprinkled with the last of the precious grain.
Frenchgirl looked up, her eyes red with tears, and muttered through a full mouth, "I'm sorry, Redwing. I was just so hungry."