The Beaded Moccasins

by Lynda Durrant

  We gather around the fire as the forest fills with darkness and mosquitoes. We eat the same thing meal after meal: cornmeal mixed with water. It always seems as though a few handfuls of samp won't be enough, but when I drink more water, it swells up in my stomach.

  Even Sammy eats tonight.

  I'm surprised to be so grateful for little things: sitting down at last; cold water to drink; a full stomach; I will be sleeping (and dreaming) soon. As I lie down, the forest floor feels smooth under my back. Another thing to be grateful for. Last night tree roots poked into my back till morning.

  Now I can tell them apart. The old one who speaks English is their leader. The tall one always walks or sits next to him. He must speak English, too, because I know he understands what I say. The two younger ones must be brothers, they look so much alike. The fifth one has smallpox scars all over his face and body.

  I doze off to sleep to the buzzing of insects. "Escape," they whisper into my ears. "Escape, escape."

  I dream again but not of Fairfield. I'm at Campbell Station, sitting with my family around the hearthstones.

  "Escape," the fire hisses into my ears, "escape, escape."

  3. The Warning

  SAMMY CRIES AND CRIES, and I spend half the night tossing and turning. The next morning he drinks so much water, I think he'll burst. Mrs. Stewart's eyes are as red as her dress, and there are dark circles above her wan cheeks. When she tries to give Sammy wet cornmeal, he smacks her hand away with another "No!" The Indians stare as the samp splatters into a poison ivy patch. They glare at Sammy. Mrs. Stewart groans as she picks him up.

  "Please God," she says softly, cradling Sammy's butter-bright blond head. "Please give me the strength I need today."

  I say, "I'll carry him, Mrs. Stewart."

  "No, Mary. You need your strength."

  The Indians stamp out the fire while Mrs. Stewart hoists Sammy onto her back. She grasps his ankles, Sammy puts his arms around her neck, and we commence to march again.

  Sammy whimpers a bit, then falls asleep. He must feel like dead weight on her back. His wrists must be choking her. Stooped over, Mrs. Stewart falls farther and farther behind.

  It's close to noon, I reckon, and steaming hot. We are scrabbling up a steep gorge. I see a flash of Mrs. Stewart's red dress far below us.

  The Indians start talking, but of course I have no idea what they're saying. The old one, the leader, says something to the big one with the smallpox scars. We stop and wait for Mrs. Stewart to catch up.

  Smallpox Scars holds out his arms.

  "Thank you, sir," Mrs. Stewart says wearily. Sammy tumbles, still asleep, into his arms.

  Smallpox Scars takes Sammy behind a tree.

  "Where are you taking him?" Mrs. Stewart calls out. She begins to follow, but the tall one holds her arm.

  Smallpox Scars comes back with a scalp of baby-fine yellow hair covered in blood.

  I cover my mouth to keep from shrieking.

  "God in Heaven, no!" Mrs. Stewart screams when she sees the scalp. She pounds on the chest of Sammy's murderer, but Smallpox Scars just stands there stone-faced. Mrs. Stewart might as well beat on a tree trunk for all the good it does her. She collapses onto the forest floor, beats the ground with her fists, and screams and screams.

  They wait patiently for her to stop. Her screams turn to moans, then sobs. Finally, Mrs. Stewart rolls into a silent ball.

  "We walk," the old one says softly.

  I kneel next to her and touch her arm. "Mrs. Stewart, please," I whisper. "Please don't give them any trouble." But Mrs. Stewart closes her eyes and pretends she can't hear me, the way Lady Grey did when I complained about her kittens.

  The tall one lifts her to her feet.

  "We walk," the old one repeats.

  "I'd rather die," she croaks.

  "Then die."

  They pivot on their feet and walk away, the old one pushing me in front of him.

  "Mrs. Stewart," I shriek. "Please don't leave me." Which sounds peculiar because I'm leaving her.

  We commence to march again. I'm crying so hard, I can't see in front of me-I stumble and fall over logs and roots.

  After what seems like a long time, she catches up and slips her hand in mine. "I'll never leave you," she whispers. We link arms and walk. Mrs. Stewart's hands are coated with loamy earth.

  She buried Sammy, then caught up with us.

  I am hungry, thirsty, footsore, heartsore, and so tired and terrified that I can't think straight. But I don't say a word. Smallpox Scars is walking ahead of me, and when I look at Sammy's tiny scalp woven into his long black braids as a decoration, and a warning, I don't dare complain about anything.

  ***

  Mrs. Stewart stumbles forward in a daze, hour after hour, day after day. When she looks at the scrap of scalp, I'm not even sure she knows it's Sammy's anymore.

  It must be June. We have been climbing mountains day after endless day for four or five weeks now, I reckon. Sometimes we spend an entire day climbing-winding our way around treefalls, pulling one another up the steepest parts, and thrashing through the underbrush-only to find that we've made little headway by dusk.

  I thought we'd be marching next to the flat creekbeds and riverbanks, but the Indians ignore the water and study the sun instead. On occasion one of them will climb a tall tree, high above the other treetops, just to get a look at it. The creeks and rivers flow south. We're following the sun, heading due west.

  We're crossing the Appalachians, I think with a lump in my throat. How will my father and brother ever find us?

  My new dress is a dirty, pricker-torn rag. My mother worked so hard to make this dress! I watch her neat stitches in the hems and sleeves break and unravel one by one.

  Mrs. Stewart slumps to the ground for our midday meal. I must say something to her to boost her courage. At first she was trying to cheer me, but now it's the other way around.

  "Not quite so hot this morning," I whisper softly. They don't like us to talk together. Her dull eyes stare into space.

  This afternoon I trip and fall over a tree root. The tall one picks me up as though I am no heavier than a barn cat. He steps on the skirt of my birthday dress, and it tears away from the back of the bodice. I feel like shriveling in embarrassment. He can see the back of my chemise as he walks behind me! But they don't even wear underwear. The five of them don't even notice.

  The heat today is fierce. Before we stop for our corn-meal-and-water supper, the old one points to a creek.

  "You and your friend wash here, Mary."

  To be polite, I reckon, the Indians walk downstream, with their backs turned to us, every time we bathe.

  "Mrs. Stewart," I whisper as we stand knee deep in the cool water, "I've been thinking. Do you think the reason we haven't been rescued is because they killed everyone else before capturing us?"

  "Nonsense, Mary," Mrs. Stewart whispers back as she pulls her dress over her head. "My husband and your father were away deer hunting."

  "What if they killed them in the woods? And what about my mother? My brother, Dougal?"

  "Everyone's fine," she says firmly. "Mary, you must gather your courage and ask the old one. He's taken quite a shine to you. But I'm sure they're fine."

  "What if Lady Grey and her kittens are all alone in the wilderness, and the other barn cats, too?" I feel worse about my family, of course, but it's the thought of Lady Grey's family that makes me cry.

  "Everyone's fine, Mary. Cats are very resourceful, nine lives and all that. The woods are full of mice and chipmunks."

  "Lady Grey must wonder where I am. What if she was hurt and her kittens are starving? I used to play with them every day," I sob. "She was so proud of her kittens. She wouldn't let anyone else pet them, just me."

  "Mary." Mrs. Stewart takes a deep breath. "Surely you would recognize the hair of your parents and brother. Surely you've studied the ... remains slung through their belts?"

  "If our folks were killed, they'd have their scalps. Is t
hat what you mean, Mrs. Stewart?"

  My brother has reddish-brown hair like mine. Both my parents are long since gray. And Mr. Stewart has hair as red as a new penny. All the scalps slung through their belts are black.

  "They're taking scalps because of the war with France," Mrs. Stewart says grimly. "At least we're not French."

  "But what about Sammy?" My question hangs in the air like the steamy summer heat.

  I dry my eyes. Mrs. Stewart flails her dress across the water.

  "They didn't kill our livestock," I say hopefully.

  We stop in the evening to eat more samp. It must be July, I tell myself. It's so hot and muggy, it's like breathing into a singing teakettle.

  The underbrush tangles around my ankles. Pricker bushes and stinging nettles hurt my legs. I look longingly at their leather leggings. A pretty birthday dress is no match for leggings.

  I sit next to the old one. I take a deep breath and, before I lose my courage, I ask him, "Who are you? I mean, what kind of Indians are you?"

  He looks at me and smiles. "Unami. Part of the Delaware."

  "Delaware!" I scream. "Delaware!"

  My father used to say they're the worst, the worst of the lot. Worse than the Iroquois, even worse than the Shawnee. Once the Delaware lived along the Atlantic Ocean, as far north as New York, as far south as Virginia. But one hundred fifty years of warfare with us have turned the Delaware into pitiless murderers.

  "Please sir," I cry. Mrs. Stewart pats my hand. The Indians sit in a circle, waiting for me to finish crying. And finish I will, of course; no one can cry forever.

  "I won't breathe a word, on my honor," I sob. "I'll say I got l-lost in the w-wilderness. I won't say anything about you if you'll just take me home."

  As I weep and wail, the forest around us becomes quieter and quieter. Maybe the birds and animals have never heard a person crying before.

  The old one sits very still. He doesn't tell me to hush up; he sits and waits. Finally, I stop.

  "You don't understand, Mary Caroline Campbell. You're to be given as a present to our king, our sachem, Netawatwees Sachem. His granddaughter has died. You will replace her."

  He pulls samp out of his waist pouch. "We eat now."

  "I want to go home," I say softly. No one even answers.

  We are on the march again before I remember that I was going to ask the old one if my family is still alive.

  The next day one of the brothers has a deep cut in his foot, so we rest for the afternoon. The other brother strips a piece of bark off a willow tree and pounds the inner bark into a powder. He adds a bit of water to make a paste. His brother winces in pain as he lies down. He chews some of the paste and pulls a face.

  "We have no cranberries," the old one tells me. "Cranberries are good medicine. Good medicine to eat, good medicine to use on the skin. Willow bark stops pain, but it does not help the healing."

  I take a deep breath and my heart starts pounding. "What happened to my family?"

  "They are well," he replies.

  They are well.

  "...and are waiting for you on the banks of the Allegheny."

  "No, the Campbells, I mean." I hold my breath.

  "The Allegheny..."

  "They were killed? You killed them?" I ask in a low voice.

  "No." He looks at me coldly. "Your family is waiting."

  ***

  Tonight they smear something greasy on my face, neck, ears, and arms. Clouds of mosquitoes buzz around me but don't light. The grease must keep them away.

  Why are there so many mosquitoes now? On this side of the mountains the earth is different-level, soft, and damp. Are we closer to the Allegheny? When will I see the Susquehanna again?

  I lie awake and scold myself. This is your fault, Mary. That rumpus on your birthday morning, that's why you're here now. These Delaware heard you shouting. How could you have been so stupid? Why were you all alone in the pasture? Why didn't you run?

  A tree root digs into the small of my back. Recriminations buzz stubbornly around and around my head for most of the night, just like the mosquitoes.

  The next morning I awake to what feels like tree bark rubbing my cheek. It is the old one, touching my face with his rough palm.

  "We walk after eating."

  After a breakfast of cornmeal and water we're on the march again.

  I can tell no British have ever lived in these woods. There are no farms, no roads, no inns, no taverns, no blacksmith shops. There are no fences. Just trees-as big around as fireplaces and taller than church steeples. The trees are so dense, we can't see the sun. We walk day after day in a greenish, leaf-cloyed haze. When it rains, I hear thunder rolling and crashing above us, but under our thick canopy of trees the rain is as gentle as mist.

  And the animals! Bright birds fly from tree to tree, so far up they look like tiny wildflowers caught in the wind. Squirrels and chipmunks scold us from high in the tree-tops. Once we see a dozing bear with two cubs sleeping by her feet. Does and tiny fawns nip at the grass growing in the glades.

  One day we see a fox with a stick in his mouth walk slowly into a creek. The brothers smile at each other and kneel behind a log to watch. The old one sees me frowning and explains softly, "He has tiny insects in his fur. Watch how a clever fox gets rid of them."

  As the fox walks slowly into the water, I can see the fleas jump higher and higher onto his back. Finally his head is black with fleas, his eyes narrowed to slits because of the teeming insects. Now some of them are jumping onto the stick the fox has in his mouth. When the fox is entirely in the water with just his nose and teeth showing, and all the fleas are on the stick-he lets go of the stick! The flea-covered stick rushes downstream.

  I swear the fox is laughing as he climbs out onto the bank. He shakes his fur, gives himself a few quick licks, and trots into the forest again.

  Except for Mrs. Stewart, we all smile together. Even Smallpox Scars gives me a quick grin.

  We march. At dusk we sit down to eat again.

  "Tomorrow we'll be at our village," the old one announces. "Perhaps our sachem's granddaughter and Mrs. Stewart have to go into the creek to prepare for tomorrow."

  He looks at me steadily.

  "Oh," I say shortly. "Thank you."

  Mrs. Stewart and I follow the creek downstream a bit to a deep pool and drape our ragged clothes on the bushes. We sit in the water and scrub our skin with sand and pebbles. I let the clean water run over my sweat-soaked hair.

  My clothes are stiff with dried sweat and dirt. When I step out of the creek, I dip my chemise and what is left of my dress into the current and put them on still wet. I find a calm pool the size of a soup crock and gently scrub my lace collar between my hands.

  "Mrs. Stewart, the old one seems certain Netawatwees Sachem will want me as a granddaughter. Why? It's as though they went out looking for a granddaughter. I don't understand."

  "I don't know, Mary. All I can think about is my little Sammy in heaven and my dear husband," she says sadly. She braids my long hair and ties the ends with strips of shredded hem.

  I turn around to face her. "We could escape," I say softly.

  Mrs. Stewart turns as white as a dogwood blossom. "Don't say that word ever again. They might understand your intentions."

  "But—"

  She takes my hand. "Honey, we'd be roasted alive at the stake if we're caught. Do you want that?"

  All my life I've overheard adults whispering about the stake. Until now I'd always wondered why a captive would take such a foolish, deadly risk. Now I know.

  "I want to go home."

  "Compare the two evils, Mary-remain alive among them as a prisoner or die a cruel death if retaken. Which do you want?"

  "I want to go home."

  "If we can just wait until we're rescued—"

  "Mrs. Stewart, I'll give you a signal." With the speed of greased lightning, I give my left earlobe a tug with my right hand. "That means it's safe to try an escape."

  "Oh, Mary�
��"

  "Promise me you'll come with me. Promise me we'll try:;

  "I promise you I'll think about your intentions. That's the best I can do."

  4. The Allegheny

  LATE NEXT MORNING WE ARRIVE. We turn left at a huge buckeye tree, and I see twenty or twenty-five wigwams near a swift river. Women are washing bowls on the riverbank. A swarm of children are swimming close to shore.

  Near the wigwams huge pots hang on tripods above cook fires. Hovering above the caldrons is steam so savory it makes my stomach hurt. I'm ravenously hungry for food, any food as long as it isn't samp.

  "Allegheny?" I ask.

  The old one nods.

  Just then a tall, graceful woman holding two gourds steps out of a wigwam and comes toward us. "That's your mother, Hepte," the old one says. "Her name means Swan."

  My mother?

  The woman nods to us and gives the old one, then the tall one, each a gourd. The gourds are filled with water.

  "This is your father, Coquetakeghton," the old one continues, pointing to the tall one. He drinks a little water from his gourd and gives it back. "In English his name is White Eyes."

  That's easy, I think, looking at the tall one as if for the first time. White Eyes. But of course he's not really my father.

  Women step away from the cook fires and come toward us. Several bring fragrant, steaming bowls of soup to the old one. I look hungrily at the soup bowls brimming with meat and vegetables. The old one sips a little soup from each bowl, smiles as he says something, and gives the bowl back.

  "Netawatwees Sachem," one of the women says.

  "You!" I shout. "You are Netawatwees Sachem?"

  "Granddaughter." He gives me the same smile he gave to the women. "Welcome home."

  Netawatwees Sachem's wigwam is bigger than the others. People crowd inside, their backs pressing against the bark-and-sapling walls, their faces lit up orange in the firelight. His daughter, Hepte, passes around bowls of soup to everyone. I reckon there must not be a Mrs. Netawatwees Sachem. Hepte gives Mrs. Stewart and me our bowls of soup last. As Hepte hands me my bowl, she says something to me in a soft voice.