Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Aunt Elizabeth turned her back in the wagon bed. Her eyes glistening with tears, she reached out and clasped her brother’s shoulder. “Robert, how do you fare?”

  “I’m certain it’s not too deep.” Father managed a weak smile.

  “We’ll need a surgeon to dig out the ball.” Rowena grimaced as the blood soaked the kerchief; the coppery stench watered her eyes. “Which means we must enter a town.”

  Mary crawled from the wagon. “I’ll hunt for shepherds’ purse; ’tis good for stopping blood flow, for the master an’ the girl.” She lifted her skirts and searched among the weeds. “’Tis better in an ointment, or put in tea, but we make do.”

  “Find rope, Sam. We’ll tie this blackguard to a tree.” James nodded toward the wagons.

  “And leave me to die?” Gap-tooth protested.

  “You ambushed us, remember? You deserve no better.” James jerked the man to his feet. Sam brought a length of rope and tied the rogue’s hands behind his back.

  “Please hurry, we must find a surgeon.” Rowena pulled a petticoat from the trunk and further wrapped her father’s leg. “Ask that lout where the nearest town is.”

  Sam aimed at the man’s head, though he looked reluctant to shoot another person.

  “Cedar Shoals, down on the Oconee River. At the fork a mile on, go right down the hill.” The man’s eyes flashed wildly. “Now will you release me?”

  “Very helpful, but no.” James pushed Gap-tooth to the nearest tree; he and Sam secured him to the trunk.

  “I found the herbs.” Mary held up several scraggly stalks as she hurried back. She and Rowena squeezed out the pungent juices into their palms.

  “Father, this is unseemly, but please suck the juice. I won’t dare rub it on your wound.” Rowena dabbed a handkerchief into the barely-a-sip of liquid and held the cloth near his mouth. He finally sucked out the juice as best he could, though she doubted it would do much good.

  Mary tugged down the kerchief and blotted the juice in her palm on Daphne’s throat.

  “La! That hurts worse than the knife cut.” The girl pushed her hand away.

  James and Sam checked both thieves’ saddlebags, but found nothing of value. They slapped the two nags on the butt. They weren’t worth the bother of dragging them along to sell. The horses lumbered into the trees.

  Sam stared down at the dead man, hands in fists. “Should I drag him into the thicker trees? Criminy, I never killed no one before.”

  James joined him. They heaved up the corpse’s shoulders and hauled the man into the brush, where they rolled him into a ravine.

  “You can’t leave me here!” Gap-tooth jerked at his constraints, never saying a word about his comrade’s demise.

  “Hasten, we must go!” The blood stemmed, Rowena hugged her father, fighting the icy dread she’d lose her only parent. “Father, hold the bandage with firm pressure on your wound.”

  She rushed, skirts bunched and clinking, and clambered up onto the bench of her wagon.

  Sam hopped up beside her and took the reins.

  Aunt Elizabeth sniffled, her shoulders shaking. “Oh, my dear Robert. This is horrible.” Then she turned to Mary. “Pick up the silver teapot. I was rather unladylike in my actions; but I was so, dare I say it, livid.”

  Reins slapped across their backs, the mules lurched the wagons down the path.

  “Wait, wait! Dammit!” Gap-tooth shouted. The man’s pleas grew fainter as they rolled away.

  Rowena wanted to feel sympathy, but the rogue had shot her father. She clasped Sam’s arm. “Are you all right? You reacted well.”

  “I…I did what was needed, Miss, to save my sister.” Sam’s knuckles whitened on the leather reins.

  “I’m that glad you did, Sam,” Daphne said. “You’d make Da proud. But if I’d had me own knife, I’d of gutted the thief.” She adjusted the kerchief swathed around her throat where little blood had soaked. She slumped with a loud huff against a trunk.

  * * *

  Bumping down the right fork of the trail through low hills, under a canopy of oak and hickory trees, they passed rocky outcrops and narrow valleys.

  “What is that strange plants hangin’ on the trees?” Daphne stared at the odd veils of grayish-green substance that swept over their heads, some in her face.

  “That is Spanish Moss,” Mary said. “I once studied plants…”

  “Hurry, mules, please Lord hurry.” Rowena barely noticed, so intent on reaching a doctor. A half an hour trudged by. The sound of a rushing river reached her.

  A settlement of log buildings on the river’s banks, shaded by cedar trees, came into view. She relaxed her shoulders.

  People in buckskin clothes milled about, mostly old men and children. A few women dressed in plain beige or blue gowns, covered in front by white aprons, toted baskets.

  Sam and James pulled up the wagons. Rowena hopped down and rushed into what looked like a trading post. Pots, pans, and weapons hung on the walls; deerskin breeches and gloves with musky scents were folded on shelves in open cupboards.

  “Excuse me, is there a surgeon here, or nearby? My father’s been shot.”

  James stalked in behind her. “We need immediate help for my uncle.” He frowned at her. “Ro, go tend to your father.”

  “I will take care of this first.” She refused to move.

  After a few mutterings from the patrons, a man stepped forward. He had ruddy skin, shiny black hair, and wore a leather breechcloth and leggings, his feet in moccasins; although his tailored linen shirt looked English. “I am a healer. I might be able to help. I’m called Chitto.”

  “Please, I…” Rowena had seen Indians before, but never this close. He had intelligent eyes in a triangular face, a broad forehead and pointed chin. He might have been in his thirties. “Yes, come and see my father’s injury.”

  “Is there no white surgeon?” James’ voice brisk, he glared at the native.

  Rowena urged Chitto to follow her, resisting a kick to her cousin. She was desperate for any assistance.

  James followed, shaking his head. “Do you know what you’re about, Indian?”

  “Don’t be rude. There’s no reason for it.” Rowena scowled at him.

  At the wagon, Father’s face was pasty-white, his features scrunched in pain.

  “Father, this is Chitto. He’s a healer.” Rowena removed the petticoat from his wound, the blood smell more pungent. She expected the native would see it was beyond his skill.

  The healer pealed back the rip in the breeches and examined the ugly, oozing gash. “I must cut out the ball, if you agree, then I’ll apply a medicine bundle with yarrow.”

  Father cringed. “Whatever…is required.”

  “Oh, dear. Do you know what you’re doing? Is there no actual surgeon?” Aunt Elizabeth asked as she shifted closer to the wagon bench. Mary shook her mob-capped head in disapproval. Daphne and Sam watched, eyes alight with curiosity.

  “Madam, I have done this before.” Chitto flashed her aunt a warm, confident smile. “But you may look elsewhere if that’s your wish. Though I am a good healer.”

  “I’d like to find a white surgeon, a man trained in our ways.” James glanced around the settlement as if such a man would magically appear.

  “Father, is this really what you wish? We shouldn’t wait much longer.” Rowena’s conflict rife, she prayed this Indian knew how to treat such an injury.

  People had congregated near them, commenting, whites and natives alike. A wagon pulled by oxen rolled by them with a woman and three children.

  A small woman in a faded green dress, holding a basket, approached. “You may use my cabin, if you need to. It’s close by.”

  “If you’re capable, Chitto, I’m willing.” Father, sweat beading on his forehead, sighed and scrutinized the healer.

  “I will gather what I need.” Chitto strode back into the trading post.

  “Thank you for your offer, Ma’am.” Rowena said to the solemn woman in the green gown.

&
nbsp; Sam and James picked up her father and, following the woman, carried him toward the log cabin. Inside the tiny, dim home, she indicated a bed in the far corner. The place smelled of cooked game and fragrant cedar.

  “Do you have an old blanket? We don’t wish to ruin your bed,” Rowena asked, before realizing all of this woman’s bedding might be worn. “We’ll pay for any coverings, and to light extra candles.”

  The woman spread a thread-bare blanket over the bed. Sam and James set Father onto it. He groaned and stretched out on the thin mattress which crackled with straw.

  Aunt Elizabeth entered with Mary and Daphne. Chitto squeezed around them, carrying a leather sack.

  “I still think we should wait and find a proper surgeon,” James said as the woman lit more candles. An animal-fat aroma filled the room.

  “No, and please stop protesting, dear James.” Rowena said a second prayer that she wasn’t making a mistake. Her fears lumped in her throat.

  Chitto removed a knife from his sack. “Stoke up the fire, Mrs. Odinsell, if you will.”

  The woman picked up her poker and stirred the wood in her hearth until flames shot up with a sizzle.

  “At least his English is decent,” Aunt Elizabeth whispered to Rowena. “I worry for my dear brother.”

  “A bad business,” Mary muttered. “That fellow is still a heathen.”

  Rowena, too, was impressed by the native’s English, but was he competent. She hoped he hadn’t heard Mary’s remark.

  Chitto stuck the knife blade into the fire, where it shone dark silver. “The heated blade should make the cut easier. I will need two strong people to hold this man still.”

  James grimaced then went to the bed along with Sam.

  “Let us step outside and allow the men to work.” Mrs. Odinsell herded the women out into the warm air.

  “Where is your husband, Mrs. Odinsell?” Aunt Elizabeth asked in a shaky voice. “Or are you…”

  “He is out hunting. His one leg is shorter than the other, which prevents him joining the military. We trade in deerskins in partnership with the Creek Indians. Chitto is of their tribe.”

  A bellow rent the air. Rowena flinched and almost ran back inside the cabin.

  “I’m prayin’ for your da, Miss.” Daphne clasped her hand.

  “How is your injury?” Rowena smiled at the maid, her little hand warm in hers; then she tugged down the girl’s kerchief, the knife cut a thin pink line. “I’m sorry you had to suffer.”

  “I be a’right. I want to be like you, no swoonin’ fool.” Daphne shrugged.

  Rowena faced their hostess. “Do you know this healer well, Mrs. Odinsell?”

  “I do; even if he is only a pagan, his skills are usually reliable.” The woman hadn’t once smiled, though her gaze was kind. Her plain, oval face was framed by a shabby green bonnet.

  “Dammit!” her father shouted. Rowena winced. Her aunt gasped.

  “I have a willow bark tincture for his pain,” Mrs. Odinsell said. “Where do you travel?”

  Rowena was leery of saying too much. “To southern Georgia. We have…family there.”

  “And do you support the king or the Patriots?”

  The fact she’d said ‘patriots’ gave Rowena pause. She hadn’t seen any soldiers here, from either side. “Right now we support our effort to survive. My father was shot by brigands, up in the hills.”

  Moments later, James came to the door, sweat dampening his face. “It’s done. The shot wasn’t deep. The Indian seemed to know what he was about well enough.”

  Aunt Elizabeth pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and flounced into the cabin, followed by Mary and Mrs. Odinsell like a flurry of sparrows.

  Rowena stalled her cousin outside. “James, tell me the truth. Why are we going south, instead of north, to New York or Nova Scotia? Did you meet with your contact?”

  “If you must know, I did meet. I also wanted to see where my father was murdered.” He wiped the sweat from his cheeks with his shirtsleeve. “My contact paid me a substantial amount for my work in Charles Town. He couldn’t leave Camden, and we need the funds.”

  “Thank you, cousin.” Rowena could hardly argue with that and hoped the money was substantial. She turned, entered the cabin and approached her father’s bed.

  Chitto was settling a medicine bundle on the incision he’d made in her father’s leg. Spicy scents mixed with the metallic stench of blood. Aunt Elizabeth was stroking Father’s hair, the mahogany-brown now streaked with gray.

  Mrs. Odinsell held a cup to his lips. “Willow bark for your pain, sir.”

  Father moaned, his face flushed. He sipped the liquid then sank into the mattress.

  Rowena leaned over the incision, noting the neat stitches applied, before Chitto wrapped the bundle and leg with a strip of cloth.

  “How do you fare, Father?” She caressed her parent’s hand. A man who’d been stripped of so much, and now nearly his life.

  “My leg is on fire, dear.” His voice faint, he closed his eyes.

  “Let him sleep.” Chitto picked up his leather sack. “I will check on him before dusk.” He nodded to Mrs. Odinsell, then departed the cabin before Rowena could thank him.

  “We can hardly impose on your hospitality.” Rowena smiled at the woman to mask her discomfort. “Is there an inn or tavern close?”

  “Nay, visitors usually camp outside of Cedar Shoals, or stay with residents here.” Mrs. Odinsell glanced toward the bed. “I have a son I can stay with. You are in mourning; my condolences. You may sleep here, if you are honest people. I was brought up to help others.”

  “We are honest and will pay you for your trouble. You’re very kind to offer.” Rowena saw no calculation in the woman’s eyes, but trusting people was always a risk.

  Aunt Elizabeth sat on the worn, scratched settee. “I’m exhausted. Such a day.”

  “I’ll see to the mules and wagons.” Sam tipped his hat and left.

  Rowena blew out her breath and wanted to collapse in a corner.

  * * *

  Chitto returned hours later. Father was asleep, though he twitched and moaned on the bed. The healer removed the bandage and checked the wound.

  “I see no swelling, or infection, but tomorrow will tell.” He rearranged and tucked the medicine bundle close, then applied a fresh bandage. The pungent herbal mix scented the air.

  “How much do I owe you for all you’ve done, sir?” Rowena had tried to rest in a chair, but her mind wouldn’t quiet. She stifled a yawn.

  At first she thought he’d refuse, but he said after a moment, “My wife could use a large iron pot from the trading post.”

  She smiled. “Consider it done.”

  “You are very young to be in charge,” he said as they walked together toward the door.

  “My mother is dead; as you know, Father is indisposed, and my aunt has a ‘delicate’ nature. My cousin is…very unpredictable.” The responsibility pushed heavily down on her. Her shoulders ached. She wondered how women were treated in his society.

  They spoke just outside the front door. Twilight descended and fireflies flickered in the bushes. Aunt Elizabeth napped on the settee, her Bible in her lap. Mary watched over her as she mended a stocking. Sam sat near Father. He’d dismantled and now cleaned their pistols with a cloth and the oil they’d brought. Daphne was cooking a savory-smelling rabbit stew over the hearth fire, the meal provided by their hostess before she left.

  James scouted the area on foot, to look for threats she supposed.

  “I’ll come back in the morning.” Chitto nodded, his black hair tied up in a wide leather band on his broad forehead.

  “I appreciate your diligence. Where did you learn medicine?” A breeze off the river ruffled the curls on her forehead, cooling her skin.

  “I learned from my people and father. My father was half-white, a surgeon—when he was allowed to use his skills. He perfected my English, too.” The healer glanced around them. “If you are for the king, I’d keep that to yourse
lf. Many in Georgia fight to rejoin the uniting of the colonies. If you’re Patriots, I’d still be quiet. You never know which way the lightning strikes.” His brow furrowed, the permanent lines proof that he’d experienced much hardship. “We of the People have learned that well.”

  “Good advice, thank you, Mr. Chitto.” She rubbed the small of her back.

  The native’s piercing eyes scanned the area once more. “Continental and British soldiers do ride into this town now and then.” He strode away.

  She fought a sigh and leaned like the callow lad she’d once aspired to be against the rough cabin wall. Father needed to heal, but how long could they stay if there was danger?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Rowena peered around the curtain, out the wavy leaded window of Mrs. Odinsell’s cabin. A group of mounted Redcoats accumulated about a hundred feet away. Three days had passed with her hovering over her father, afraid if he became feverish, his wound infected.

  “British soldiers are at the trading post.” She bit her lip, anxious to leave, to keep heading south.

  “Thank goodness.” Aunt Elizabeth slipped beside her. “Perhaps we can request they escort us to Florida.”

  Rowena thought of Chitto’s warning not to reveal whose side they favored—and her own experiences. She turned to her aunt. “I’m sure they are too busy to escort us that far. Besides, we’re not certain of the villagers’ allegiance, so we mustn’t make a show of approaching the soldiers.”

  The cabin’s rear door opened, and James stepped inside. “A king’s regiment is here, asking questions, checking loyalties.”

  Aunt Elizabeth raised her small, gripped together hands. “Could you arrange a private meeting with whoever is in charge, to request help?”

  “Mother, they will demand to know why I’m not in uniform.” James moved close and clasped his mother’s hands in his large ones. “The army is depleted, spread too thin around their colonies; they need men.”

  “Oh, all of this is giving me a headache.” She moved away from him. “My life was not supposed to turn out this way. Now, without your father…”