by Thomas Webb
“You have been to war, Colonel. You have killed, but I sense that you are a man who would never do such things. I too have fought on behalf of my people. Even killed to keep them safe.” She lowered her eyes. “But the killing of innocents? This is an offense against both man and the spirits. What is it that separates us from such evil, Colonel Montclair?”
“A question not easily answered, chieftain’s daughter.”
She nodded.
As night came on, the shadows lengthened.
“And what of your other companion?” Montclair asked. He pointed to the old man sitting under a tree on the other side of camp. “Is he your adopted brother as well?”
Ayita laughed. The sound cut through the gloom like a clear, bright bell. “No, Old Jim is not my brother. And please, colonel, no more ‘chieftain’s daughter.’ You will call me Ayita.”
“I will, but only if you call me Julius.” He gave her the smile he usually reserved for the diplomats’ wives and the expensive courtesans. Judging by the sparkle in her golden eyes, it worked. “Now, tell me about Old Jim over there.”
She looked across the camp at the gray-haired old man whittling with his Bowie knife. “Jim is a great friend of the Croatan. He ran from his chains many years ago when he was just a boy. Since then, he has lived among our people from time to time, but his love for the open land never allows him to stay in one place for long.”
“His not wanting to stay in one place—because of his past, I’m guessing?” Montclair asked.
“I would think so. After what he went through, I wouldn’t want to stay in one place either.”
“Nor would I,” Montclair said. “Not without good reason.” He ached to touch her but resisted the urge.
“Old Jim is my father’s most trusted advisor.” Ayita stared at the dry brown pine needles littering the ground. “He is as an uncle to me. My father insisted I bring him along.”
From the other side of the bowl-shaped clearing, Jim watched Montclair with suspicion. The old man kept whittling, but his coal-black eyes never left Julius.
The hunting party returned, and Ayita went to help them butcher the freshly killed doe. Her knife flashed in the firelight as it moved along the animal’s flesh. Within minutes, juicy strips of venison sizzled over the open campfires. When the meat was done, she brought some to Montclair, and they ate.
“What is this place?” Montclair asked after they’d finished. He waved his hand around the campsite. “You and your companions seem to know it well.”
“When the hunt went long and shelter was needed, my people came here. We call this place hetohko otse, ‘bowl camp’ in your tongue. The earth here is shaped like a bowl.” She took both his hands in hers and cupped them together. “If we light our campfires at the bottom of the bowl, enemies cannot see them. The sides of the bowl provide refuge. And the edges of the bowl give us ground high enough to see in all directions.” She touched Montclair’s hands in four places representing north, south, east, and west.
“Looks like it gets quite a bit of use,” he said, his hands still resting in hers.
“More now than it did. The Freedmen sometimes use it when they fight the graycoats.”
“Your people allow them to do this?” Montclair asked.
“Yes. Sometimes, we even help them. The graycoats are not friends of the Croatan.”
“And Strategic Intelligence? Are they friends of the Croatan?”
“Your Union’s spymasters.” Ayita sighed. “Since the clockwerk men came to be, many things have changed for my people. War, unlike anything we had seen, came to the land. The graycoat’s ships owned our skies. Our arrows were as nothing to their metal men and even less to the metal carriages they named ‘tanks.’ We met them in the open field at first on horseback as was our custom.” Ayita paused. “Their guns and their armor routed us.” Her eyes narrowed. “But we learned quickly. We used the cover of the forest to hide us from the eyes of the sky ships. We struck in the dead of night, while the graycoats slept and their iron tanks were useless. We ambushed them in places where their numbers and their clockwerk men were for naught. We seized their weapons and then used those same weapons against them. Your spymasters taught us the ways of explosives. They showed us how to use allira, what your people call aether, to build traps for the metal carriages.”
“You’re telling me DSI taught you how to destroy Confederate rhino tanks?”
Ayita nodded. “They taught us this and more, though then we did not—still do not—trust them. With our newfound knowledge, I led my father’s warriors to many victories, so many that we beat the graycoats back from our borders, fighting them to standstill.”
“And then?” Montclair asked.
“Then your Chieftain Lincoln gave the order that made slaves into Freedmen. This was good, but the Freedmen had nowhere to go. As their numbers swelled, food became scarce. Now, the graycoat nation wages war upon both Croatan and Freedmen in hopes of taking whatever lands and resources remain.” Ayita brushed a strand of black hair from her face. “I do what is best for my people, Julius. That means I must partner with your new chieftain, Grant, and I am only able to do that through the spymasters.”
“I’m ashamed to admit the Union could do a sight better by a whole lot of folks, the Croatan included. Why do you trust us?”
“We’ve been left with little choice, Julius. Your Chieftain Grant has promised that when your nation is whole again, both my people and the Freedmen are to be granted dominion over our lands and left alone. In exchange, we act as your Union’s eyes and ears. My father and the other chieftains see the danger in this pact, but . . .”
“The Union has a poor record of keeping its bargains,” Montclair said, completing her thought. “I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to see that my country does right by your people.”
“We would appreciate that, Julius.” She smiled. “I would appreciate that.”
Montclair moved in closer, close enough to catch the scent of her hair, faint but intoxicating, like wild jasmine, tanned deerskin, and warm summer days. The forest was quiet at night. Montclair heard the crackling of the fires, and the murmured conversations between the soldiers.
“May I ask you something?” she said softly. “If you prefer not to answer, I will understand.”
“You could ask me anything you wanted, and I would answer it,” Montclair said.
“Do you ever grow . . . lonely? I don’t mean in the physical sense. I’ve heard much of your exploits as far as that is concerned. What I speak of is a different kind of loneliness.”
“My exploits?” Montclair laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I do know this loneliness you speak of. It’s a loneliness felt only by those who bear the burden of leadership. As War Chief Tooantuh’s only daughter, you will one day rule the entire Croatan nation. Not yet even chieftess and already you feel the isolation. I know it too well.”
The chieftain’s daughter stared at the fire, nodding in agreement. Montclair placed his hand to her chin and moved her face toward his. She closed her eyes, her mouth parting ever so slightly. Montclair leaned in, licking his lips in anticipation and drunk from the scent of her skin. The chieftain’s daughter’s eyes flew wide open. She pushed Montclair away.
“I’m—I’m sorry Julius,” she said. “I promised Old Jim I would take the first watch with him.”
Then, she was gone. Montclair watched her shapely backside as it disappeared into the darkness.
“Well, damnation,” he said, shaking his head.
The night passed uneventfully, much to Montclair’s chagrin. He’d slept, stood his watch, and then slept again. Before dawn, he woke from a dream. He didn’t remember much of it, only that Ayita was in it, and that he was disappointed when he found it wasn’t real.
“Sleep well, my friend?” Greg asked. The Marine major held a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
Montclair yawned and took stock of all the sore areas of his body. “Like a baby in its mother’s arm
s.” He emptied his canteen over the dying coals and went to refill it from the stream.
“The old man doesn’t care much for you, does he?” Gregory asked, joining him.
“Old Jim? No, I don’t think he does.”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with you sniffing around the Native princess, would it?”
“Can’t imagine where you’d get that idea.” Montclair scooped a handful of water from the stream and splashed it on his face.
“One of my Marines overhead the two of them arguing last night.”
Montclair shrugged. “The whole camp overheard them. Too bad it was in Croatan.” Montclair watched as Gregory’s smile widened. Suddenly, he understood. “One of your Marines speaks fluent Croatan, don’t they?”
“You can never be too careful when DSI’s involved,” Greg said, laughing. “And she doesn’t speak fluent Croatan, but she does speak enough.”
“Impressive. Warn me never to play chess with you.”
“I’ve warned you every time we’ve ever played. But don’t let me discourage you. Maybe one day you’ll manage to win.”
“First time for everything, Greg. Now wipe that look off your face and tell your commanding officer what you know.”
“The old man is more than just the princess’s traveling companion, Julius. She’s his goddaughter.”
Montclair swore. “That would explain a lot.”
“I’ll bet,” Greg said. “Apparently, the old man doesn’t care for his goddaughter taking up with a Union colonel, especially one with as unsavory a reputation as yours.”
Montclair looked wounded. “Unsavory seems a bit strong. You sure your Marine got the translation, right?”
Greg chuckled. “She got it right, Julius.”
“Anything else?”
“He did tell her that her father wouldn’t like her taking an interest in you. Then, she told him how she wasn’t a child anymore, how she would one day lead the entire Croatan nation, etc., etc. I think you get the idea.”
“I think I do. And then?”
“And then that was it. They stopped talking and finished out the watch. Listen Julius, I know it’s not helpful to the mission, but I thought it was information you might find . . . personally useful.”
Montclair nodded. “Things that seem insignificant to the mission have proven to be otherwise before. Either way, I appreciate it.”
When Montclair and Gregory got back to the campsite, the troops were ready to move. Ayita stood next to Old Jim, refusing to look in Montclair’s direction. She let loose a shrill whistle, and Dustu, who’d been sitting nearby sharpening his blade, leapt to his feet. Ayita pointed west, and the Native boy scrambled up and over the lip of the bowl-shaped campsite and disappeared.
“Dustu will scout ahead,” she said to the assembled soldiers. “Old Jim and I will lead. Colonel Montclair,” she said, making it a point not to meet his eyes, “you, Major Gregory, and the rest of your soldiers will follow behind. If we move quickly, we should arrive before sunset.”
Without another word, Ayita and Old Jim followed the path Dustu had taken and were gone. For the second time in as many days, Montclair was left with no choice but to trust the chieftain’s daughter.
The day’s march began easily enough, but as the morning wore on, the heat began to take its toll. Ayita made it a point to stay as far from Montclair as possible, so he respected her wishes and kept his distance. Montclair thought she might be upset with him because of what he’d done or tried to do back at the campsite. But the Native woman’s feelings, however conflicted, had no effect on her leading the march. She set them a blistering pace despite the oppressive heat.
Montclair’s cotton uniform was drenched, as were the uniforms of his troops, yet the men and women marched on in stoic silence, save for some labored grunting under the weight of their packs. Montclair couldn’t have been prouder of his soldiers or of Greg and his Marines, who were now under Montclair’s temporary command.
They moved through lowland forest, following the game trails until the woods gave way to rolling hills. That afternoon, they came to a wide, green field. Ayita stopped, and Montclair signaled his troops to follow suit. The Native woman crouched down, listening. Several minutes later and seemingly satisfied, Ayita motioned them ahead. Montclair acknowledged her with a nod. Then, he and his forces spread out into the waist-high grass. They kept low, moving with caution and conscious of every step.
Montclair noticed piles of ash and charred wood as they moved through the tall grass. This had been a village, perhaps even a small town. Beneath a patch of overgrown honeysuckle, he spotted a charred ragdoll lying among a heap of cinders. Something about the burnt, abandoned doll set Montclair on edge in a way he couldn’t explain. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He gripped his rifle tightly.
Montclair looked to his left and locked eyes with Old Jim. He sensed the old man’s hostility, crackling and electric like the sky just before a thunderstorm. It was past time for he and the old man to clear the air. The information Old Jim and his native allies provided the Union was too important to jeopardize over one old man’s opinion of Montclair’s intentions toward his goddaughter. As he opened his mouth to speak, a sound caught Montclair’s attention. Was that something in the trees ahead? He raised his rifle.
Dustu appeared out of nowhere, crashing through the forest and making more noise than Montclair would have thought the boy capable of. He stumbled into the field, regained his footing, and raced toward Ayita. The boy, covered in dirt and sweat, nearly collapsed at his sister’s feet.
“What is it?” Montclair heard her ask.
The boy, his eyes wild with fear, whipped out his bow and aimed it in the direction he’d come. “Graycoats!” he gasped.
The first bullet snapped past, and Montclair’s adrenaline surged. Montclair grabbed the soldier closest to him and pushed him down out of sight. He unslung his rifle and sighted in.
“Get to cover!” Montclair shouted, already moving toward Ayita.
Ahead of him, Confederate soldiers took up positions in the trees. His heart racing, Montclair worked the trigger, laying down suppressive fire as he stayed low and moved forward. Several yards ahead, Ayita loosed arrow after arrow, each one seeming to find a mark in a Confederate uniform.
“How many?” Montclair kneeled next to her and fired. A rebel soldier fell, clutching the wound on his neck.
“At least fifteen. Maybe twenty,” she said, letting arrows fly.
Next to her, Dustu fought like a clockwerk, a ceaseless process of notch arrow, aim, fire, and repeat.
Montclair heard hoof beats. Confederate cavalry. He turned just in time to see four rebels on horseback charging into his flank. Montclair heard the crack of his sharpshooters’ rifles, and two of the riders went down. He felt the wind as the two rider-less horses galloped past.
Only two cavalry soldiers left. One of them, a woman with blond hair pulled tight under her Stetson, drew her pistol, and pointed it at Montclair. Her head snapped back before she could fire. One of Montclair’s shooters had saved his life, but there was no time to see which one. The last cavalryman had drawn his saber and was now only feet away.
Montclair shoulder his rifle and pulled the trigger, hearing nothing but and an empty click. He cursed himself a fool for failing to count his shots and dropped the dry magazine, hand already moving toward the fresh ones in his pouch. Where he should have grasped the cold, comforting weight of twenty rounds of ammunition, there was nothing but empty space.
“Damnation!” Montclair growled as he yanked his saber from its scabbard and rushed the charging horseman.
With fire in his eyes, Montclair leapt, attacking the cavalryman in his saddle. The cavalryman’s white stallion reared, throwing both Montclair and the rider to the ground. The two men went down in a tangle of limbs.
“Yankee!” the cavalryman hissed.
Montclair wrestled with the soldier, ending up on top of him. Montclair used his knees to
pin the soldier’s arms to the ground and raked the blade of his saber across the Confederate’s throat. Crimson spurted from the man’s neck. His windpipe severed, he choked on his own blood.
Montclair looked up from the kill to see more movement in the forest. The Confederates were regrouping, using the trees as cover. He sheathed his saber, reloaded from the dead rebel’s ammunition pouch, and shouldered his rifle.
“They’re in the treeline!” he shouted.
Montclair did a quick assessment of the battlefield. Ayita had picked up an enemy rifle and, with Old Jim and Dustu by her side, was sending well-placed shots into the forest ahead. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks she was unharmed. Greg and his Marines had moved right, flanking the Confederates from that side. Montclair’s own troops from the Vindication had taken the left and the center and were now advancing. Satisfied, Montclair sighted in and moved ahead in a low crouch.
A few yards later, he’d chosen his target, a Confederate soldier with a heavy belly and a grizzled beard. Slowly, Montclair rose to one knee. A deep breath, a pull of the trigger, and the big Confederate soldier dropped. They’d been lucky, running into an inexperienced patrol. These poorly trained Confederates were no match for Montclair’s elite Union troops and Ayita’s small band of warriors.
Montclair took out two more from the relative safety of the tall grass. Before he knew it, the sun had dipped toward the western treetops, and the enemy’s guns were still. Montclair scanned the field, conducting a quick tally of his forces. Three wounded but all still walking and all accounted for. The battle was over.
Ayita, Old Jim, and Dustu had mounted the dead Confederates’ horses. Ayita rode toward Montclair while the old man and the boy waited for her at the far edge of the field. Old Jim and Dustu’s mounts, unaccustomed to the new riders, snorted and stamped at the ground.
“Those soldiers were a scouting patrol,” Ayita said, reining in her newly acquired stallion. The horse, his blood high from the battle and sensing the urgency of his rider, grunted and tossed his mane. “Less than a mile from here there are horses enough for you and your soldiers. There is also clothing and food enough for a week’s travel.” Ayita’s stolen stallion reared. She got him under control before continuing. “To reach the city of Richmond, head north.” She pointed toward the trees. “Through the forest. Then follow the river.”