by Jamie Carie
The Americans had come to rescue them.
* * *
CLARK’S MEN HAD been waiting among the tree whispers, the rustling of forest leaves and gusts of wind covering any sound they made as they watched from the outskirts of the Shawnee village. They had taken in the moonlit scene with weapons drawn and ready, their breath short and expectant in their chests.
Clark had kept his hand upraised in the quiet stillness, feeling their combined straining to rush forward and affect rescue but holding them back until he fully knew the moment. So they watched, undetected, for a long time, seeing a play as it were, a worship service where an outsider had stolen a heathen stage. They wanted to cheer Isabelle on, many of them knowing the God she worshipped. Most of the men had never met her, and yet, suddenly and completely, they were on her side, eager to battle for her. Isabelle didn’t know it, but she had just won another kind of warrior to her side, and they were the loyal sort, the kind who would fight to the death for her.
Clark saw Samuel sitting off to one side watching the dance. Now he understood. He couldn’t blame Samuel for his eagerness to lead such a woman and her brother back to Vincennes. She was like no woman he’d ever seen.
He’d left Kaskaskia to personally lead this rescue. Father Gibault and the good doctor Lafont had convinced him that they would lead the conquest of Vincennes. And so, with a few of Clark’s best men, he’d allowed them to travel to the fort in his name and secure it, without guns, without a fight, but with a message of peace and hope for the American cause. Not that he hadn’t had doubts or sleepless nights over it, but he trusted the priest for some reason that he couldn’t quite understand. He was giving up his element of surprise, leaving so much into the hands of strangers.
But right now, Samuel, his friend, needed him.
He was glad to see the man intact and seemingly in good health. Now he would have to decide: Should he rush and attack—take him and this woman by force and surely make enemies of this tribe and others aligned to them? Or should he pursue the path of diplomacy? Everything in him shouted the latter, and yet he knew his men wouldn’t be too happy about it. They had been eager finally to engage in a fight, and this scene had no doubt fired them up.
Now Clark sat atop his prized stallion in front of the startled tribe, having seen and heard the moment he’d been waiting for and knowing that if they’d waited one more second something terrible would happen to the woman. So he’d given the signal to charge forward.
Clark held up two belts of wampum—the red of war and the white of peace—one in each hand. He shouted into the clearing, holding them enthralled. “Will the Shawnee choose the side of peace … or the side of war?” He bellowed it as a conqueror, as if ten thousand men were at his right hand, as if he could singlehandedly take them all, so sure of the rightness of his cause.
Several of the tribe backed into Samuel, fencing him in, but Samuel was a full head taller and just grinned at Clark.
Someone yelped something, and then two younger braves went to flank the chief as he moved forward. It took some time before the old chief made his way to the front of the group. Stopping in front of the white horse, the chief motioned for Clark to dismount. Sunukkuhkau materialized at his side, seemingly to interpret.
“Why would this man bring us wampum?” the chief asked in a croaky voice, which Sunukkuhkau asked in stilted English.
“Do you not know?” Clark demanded in a loud voice. “Are you old dogs slow of hearing? The Americans have taken the British forts. The French are aligned with the Americans. We wish to make an alliance with the native people and bring peace to this land.”
The old chief looked askance at the fire-haired man. “We know only that the white man has come into our land, slowly taking our hunting grounds until there is nothing left to fill the bellies of our women and children.”
“The white man has many faces, great chief. I have come to show you the face of honesty and truth. Will you hear this face?”
The old chief considered Clark, looking tired and defeated. Finally he nodded. “We will smoke the pipe of peace and council together.”
Clark nodded in respect, then directed his men to dismount. They were led, slowly and with much study from the villagers, to a wigwam. At one point Clark came abreast of Samuel and whispered, “I have seen Isabelle, but where is her brother?”
“Julian is dead. Burned at the stake in front of her.” Samuel looked square in his leader’s eyes. “Whatever deal you make with them, know that I will not leave here without her.”
Clark measured the moment, then nodded.
They made their way into the lodge, sitting in a crowded circle of men, about ten braves, some of Clark’s men, and Samuel. Once everyone was settled, the chief motioned to Samuel. “You know this man.”
Clark nodded. “One of my best.”
The chief smiled, showing a few missing teeth in his tanned face. “One of my best,” he corrected.
Clark nodded acquiescence. “Yes.”
The chief seemed to like that. They all waited while a pipe was filled and lit.
Clark began, talking with wide gestures of the American cause, about what he had come here for. His words were solemnly interpreted, sentence by slow sentence, explaining the vast change that was occurring on the frontier. Then Clark motioned to Samuel.
“Samuel Holt is my scout. He was commissioned to me by the Virginia government. If you agree to join our side, you must see that he is mine but on the side of good for both.”
The old chief stared hard at Samuel. “He is Patamon now, of the Shawnee.”
Clark nodded solemnly, staring at the old man, waiting a long minute in the silence of the curling smoke. Then he said quietly, “He has been Samuel Holt much longer than Patamon of the Shawnee. He is where his heart lies.”
The old chief appeared to consider these words, looking at Samuel then back to Clark. “Our way is the old way. Patamon has replaced our dead brother, bringing justice to our fallen and peace to the family of our fallen. He is Shawnee now.”
Clark nodded, then argued, “We believe a man can only be truly adopted if he is bereft of family.” He nodded to Samuel. “I see the value of such a warrior and that you would not want to lose him as a son. But this man, Samuel Holt, has sworn an oath to my service. He is mine.” The last was spoken with authority, with an underlying threat.
The chief pursed his thin lips together. Then, after a long pause, he nodded, “Another then shall have to take the place of our dead brother. Do you have another among you?”
Clark stalled, taking a long drag from the pipe, peering up into the smoke hole of the lodge house. Turning to the chief, he leaned toward him. “There is more at stake here than a dead brother’s recompense. You must choose sides in this war between the British and the Americans. We will not make you our harlots as the English would. If you do not choose the side of the Americans, you will lose far more than Samuel. You will lose everything.”
The statement was prophetic; they all felt it, as if it were a common fact—so simple, so true—and this kind man was merely pointing it out to them.
The chief looked down into his lap, his old thin legs crossed, his white hair wispy around a tanned and deeply wrinkled face. He nodded. “I can see that Samuel Holt,” he used his English name, “is your son.” He paused for a long moment, then looked up to Clark. “But Cocheta is ours. She belongs with us.”
Clark saw the determination in the chief’s eyes, knew a verbal battle lost, and nodded in agreement. “We thank you, for the return of our brother.” Clark rose and reached out his hand.
The chief looked at him a long moment, judging that outstretched hand, then nodded again, and shook it. “We will take the white wampum. We will not fight against the Americans.”
Clark thanked him, bowing out of the lodge house, his men and Samuel following close behind. Once out into the night air Clark turned toward Samuel. “We’ll come back for her. Ransom her.”
Samuel shook his
head, looking around the clearing, then finally back at Clark. “I cannot leave her here.”
“Yes. You can.” Clark took a step toward him. “You won’t do her any good here. If you go with me, we can raise a ransom. Find a hostage of their people to trade her with, something. Here you will only watch her become more and more their captive.”
“You don’t know her.”
Clark stared hard at his best man. “After tonight … I think I do. I know enough to know that she will be all right for a few more weeks. It’s her only chance. They won’t give her up willingly.”
Samuel looked into his leader’s bright blue eyes. “We could take her, tonight, by force.”
“I can’t risk war with the Shawnee, not with so much at stake.”
Samuel nodded his understanding. “She will think I’ve abandoned her. She won’t understand.”
Clark glared hard at him. “Don’t forget why we came here. Your purpose, our mission. I won’t risk all that for a woman. Not even … such a woman as she.” He clapped Samuel on the shoulder. “She is stronger than you give her credit. Did you see what she did during their ceremony? How she turned it against them? And still they didn’t dare destroy her. She holds some magic over them.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. If she doesn’t give in to them soon, or at least pretend to, they will kill her.”
Clark smiled at his friend. “You’ve never been so taken with a woman before, have you? Let me tell you. After seeing what I saw tonight, I don’t believe they will harm her. Samuel … trust me. Come with me. We will get her back.”
“Yes.” He looked ashen, so sick to leave her, wondering what she would think of a man who would turn tail and run out, leaving her with the enemy.
24
Isabelle woke to the news that Samuel and Clark and the Americans were gone. Her hope for salvation had deserted her on a white horse and night wind.
She had been hurried to bed the night before with the other women, the Green Corn Dance abruptly over. Waking early, hoping for some news, she had rushed out into the summer sunshine to find they had left her there. Alone. With the enemy.
The realization was crushing, like a great weight on her chest, her next breath a forced thought. She kicked at a little stone on the ground, watching it roll over and over in the dirt. She picked it up and stared at it in the palm of her hand. It was one of the blue stones she had given Samuel last night for her dance fee. He had thrown it away.
Isabelle turned toward a sound behind her. Sinchi slowly approached, head down, her big solemn eyes hesitant. Isabelle saw that this woman, this enemy, had tears in her eyes.
“I am sorry for you.” Sinchi spoke quietly, knowing the traitorous sentiment for what it was. She looked at the stone in Isabelle’s hand, recognized it, and pressed her lips together, her hand coming up to rest on Isabelle’s shoulder.
Isabelle looked into Sinchi’s eyes, her own filling to match her friend’s. Then she dashed them away and took a bracing breath.
“I am not sorry.”
She dropped the stone in the dirt and turned away toward her morning chores. After a few steps away she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Thanks,” she whispered the only word she could force past the tightness in her throat.
The tears flowed down Sinchi’s round cheeks as Isabelle turned and walked away.
* * *
OVER THE NEXT few days the camp seemed to embrace Isabelle, elevating her chores to those more to her liking, giving her choice food, presenting her with gifts, and Sinchi staying nearby and speaking to her in English.
Sunukkuhkau did not press himself on her, didn’t demand that she speak to him or expend herself in any way on his behalf. He was simply there, a quiet presence beside her. Together they would look off into the sunset, feeling the evening breeze, not speaking.
Every day she found little presents from him left on her bed or in her moccasins—a beaded necklace, an armlet of beaten brass, a clutch of downy feathers. She couldn’t help her smile this morning as she awoke to a baby bird sleeping next to her bed, its tiny, glossy head tucked under a wing. Upon inspection she discovered that one of the wings was wounded.
She carried the bird with her as she did her chores, careful not to bump it, but not knowing what to do to help. The other women, when she asked, only shrugged and gave her a secretive smile.
She hadn’t seen Sunukkuhkau for a couple of days, and as she looked around the camp for him, she was surprised to realize that she missed him. Then, looking at the baby bird in her palm, she felt him come up behind her.
“Did you leave this for me?” she asked, raising her head to look at him.
He looked good, tall and lean, strong muscles in his chest and belly. His face was serious and full of compassion. He nodded. “I found it in the woods, fallen from a high nest. Not ready to fly.”
“Will it ever fly again?”
“If you help it.”
“I don’t know what to do. I have asked the women, but they just shrug. Even Sinchi, who I know understands me.”
“That is because they know that the bird was not the gift. The gift is the lesson. I will teach you to mend its wing.”
A few weeks ago Isabelle would have dumped the bird in Sunukkuhkau’s hands and walked away, but now she did not. She nodded, as solemn as he. “I would like to learn such a thing.”
They walked to Sunukkuhkau’s lodge house and entered, her eyes adjusting to the dim light after the August sun. She had never wondered before why he lived alone, but now she thought it aloud.
“Why do you live alone, Sunukkuhkau?”
He was turned from her, digging in a bowl of odds and ends. He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. “You are beginning to know our ways. It is a good question.
“I lived in this house with my wife. Her mother and father died many moons ago, and my family lives with my older brother, so I live alone. My wife was,” he made a motion of a round stomach, “when she died of smallpox. We had plans to fill this house with many children.”
Isabelle nodded, looking down at the bird in her hands. “I am sorry.” She knew where smallpox came from; she knew the white man had brought it into the land. And she was sorry for him, for the life he should have had.
Sunukkuhkau motioned for her to sit beside him on the raised pallet that was his bed. Isabelle had no fear of being alone with him in his lodge; he might be a wicked opponent on the battlefield, but the Shawnee had strict rules concerning unmarried women and how they were to be treated. Isabelle knew he would never cross any boundary with her on that score.
She sat beside him, holding out the little bird in her cupped palms. Sunukkuhkau gently propped up the wing, moving the broken part so that it was even with the tiny bone that appeared to be intact. He bent over Isabelle’s hands, his breath fanning against her palm, moving slowly and carefully, while the little bird chirped and wiggled in pain.
“You’re hurting it,” Isabelle complained, but she watched closely, knowing he had done this before.
“A little,” Sunukkuhkau said softly. Taking up a tiny stick, whittled clean and white, he placed the stick on the underside of the wing. Holding it in place with one hand, he smoothed the feathers down with the other. “Lay it down,” he directed her. “Slow.” Isabelle laid the little farthing on the bed. Sunukkuhkau nodded toward her free hand and a thin strip of cloth. “Wrap it around the wing.”
With painstaking care, Isabelle wrapped the thin gossamer cloth around and around the wing, tying a tiny knot to secure the loose end to the bandage.
The bird quivered suddenly and went still. She looked up to Sunukkuhkau with alarm. “Is it dead?”
Sunukkuhkau smiled and shook his head. “Asleep. Someday, because of our care, he will fly.”
Isabelle stared into this man’s eyes, feeling herself fall victim to the spell cast by this scene. His eyes were dark brown, the pupils so black, but there was much to be read in them: strength, heat, a man’s heat for a wo
man, and something else—something that made Isabelle’s heart start to pound so hard she wanted nothing more than to run.
This was a trap.
She saw it suddenly, in its full intent. This man wanted her. Whether for love or lust or some power they thought she had, she didn’t know. But this touching scene, the little gifts, the salve on her wounds left by Samuel’s betrayal—these Indians had seen their opportunity, especially Sunukkuhkau, and taken advantage.
Everything in her wanted to stand and rail at him, to run from him, but she had learned a thing or two in these last weeks. She too could be sly. So despite her certainty of a trap, she lifted her face and smiled at him. A slow smile. The kind that never failed.
He pressed his lips together, watching her, judging her, not easily convinced, so she pressed on. “I do hope he flies someday,” she said, and she did, “but it was your care that helped the poor creature, nothing of mine.”
Sunukkuhkau wasn’t one to praise her unnecessarily. “You will learn, Cocheta.”
“Yes,” she breathed, staring into his eyes. “I believe I shall.”
* * *
WHO IS YOUR survival?
The phrase repeated itself over and over in her mind as she lay, later, feigning sleep on her cot. She had begun to pray the moment she left Sunukkuhkau’s lodge. She prayed with her lips moving, but the words were silent and constant until she found her bed. Then came the words, unbidden: Who will be your survival?
She pondered this, turning it over and over in her heart, knowing some key was hidden there. She thought back to her mother, Hope, and her lessons of Christ and His sacrifice, of God the Creator, and how He had fashioned this earth and herself. She had always found sure evidence of His glory in the forest and trees and animals and plants. She supposed there was a father-weakness there as well, a need and desire for the loving, constant presence of the father that she’d never had in Joseph. Besides, she loved hearing the Old Testament stories—the fire, the passion, the risks taken by men and women of faith. They had never failed to inspire her.