by Gen Bailey
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Epilogue
Historical Note
One More Historical Note
A Prelude to a Kiss
She bit her lip and exhaled. Moonlight, indeed, was this man’s friend. As the silvery beams outlined the rises and falls of his face, she thought he was perhaps more handsome than any man had a right to be. He was tall, proud, incredibly male, and, the good Lord help her, she had never felt more female.
Sadly, he was also the exact sort of person her step-uncle would forbid her from.
Perhaps it was this that triggered that latent spark of rebellion, and she asked, “Sir Eagle, tell me. Do Indians kiss? ”
If he were startled by her question, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped toward her. He answered calmly, “Of course.”
“But I mean, do they kiss, lips to lips, like the English do? ”
“I believe” he muttered, as he placed his arm against the tree, “that the English cannot claim complete ownership over something so common as a kiss. All human beings enjoy much the same thing.”
As he spoke, his head had descended so closely to hers that she realized she could read his thoughts; it was an unbelievably intimate feeling, as though he had become a part of her. He wanted to kiss her. She knew it as surely as the fact that she wanted to be kissed.
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BLACK EAGLE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / May 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Karen Kay Elstener-Bailey.
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For Michael Badnarik, author of the book
Good to Be King and
the step-father of the Constitution
who first taught me that
we are all kings and queens
here in the land of the free
and the home of the brave.
And for my husband, Paul Bailey,
whom I love with all my heart.
Acknowledgments
A special thanks goes out to the following very beloved people, who are Gen Bailey’s Warriorettes. You have not only my appreciation, but my respect and admiration.
Author’s Note
For my brother-in-law, Robert Bailey.
Your warmth, your humor, your kind-hearted encouragement, as well as your presence in my life will never be forgotten. In all things, save one final moment, you never let me down.
Thank you for the time you were here in my life. I am better for your presence.
With love,
Gen Bailey
Prologue
It is a time of unrest. Both the English and the French are battling for control of the North American continent. Both seek the support of the strong and invincible Iroquois confedseek the support of the strong and invincible Iroquois confederation. Deprivations are extant on both sides of the quarrel, the French and Indians of Canada against the English and the Mohawk of the Americas.
As always, in any time of dissension, there are those who seek to profit from the ruin of others.
The Territory of the Mohawk Indians
The Keepers of the Eastern Door
Iroquois Confederation
Lake George area in what is now upper New York State
Saskekowa Moon, September 1755
Early evening
Flintlock in hand, with powder horn thrown over his shoulder, bow and quiver full of arrows strapped across his back, the lone runner’s feet flew over a bloody path that wound through the forested valley of the Adirondack Mountains. As he jumped over a barrier of branches blocking his path, he caught his breath. Offshoots from tree limbs and debris cracked as his foot hit against them. But he didn’t fall. It was simply not an option.
With barely a miss of a beat, the young warrior, Black Eagle, brought himself back into pace, continuing onward, ever pushing himself faster. I will be swift as the eagle, he repeated to himself silently. Since the life of my good friend, Sir William Johnson, depends on my speed, I dare even the West Wind to be faster than I.
Behind Black Eagle and in the distance, shots and cannon fire, from the battle that was still waging, echoed against the quiet of the forest. It was a strange comparison. Particularly so, since the fighting would likely carry on throughout the remainder of the day. But for Black Eagle, the battle had ended. His friend, William Johnson, lay wounded from the battle and now required help; assistance that Black Eagle and a few of the chiefs were determined to provide in the form of a medicine man and the Water-that-runs-swift.
There is no doubt I will be successful. No creature, not even the eagle, himself, is faster than I. I will sav
e my friend. With this thought in mind, Black Eagle picked up his speed.
“Did ye send him? ”
“We did.”
“Did ye tell him it was for me? ”
“We did.”
The officer let out a pent-up breath. “Then it is certain I am that the lad will be successful. How long will it be taking now?” asked former trader and Indian agent William Johnson. He grimaced as he tried to sit up.
“If Black Eagle meets with no resistance, we should rendezvous with him by nightfall at the Water-that-runs-swift.” It was White Hair speaking, an aged warrior from the Oneida tribe.
Johnson fell back against the sturdy tree that sheltered him. “Good,” he said. “Good. ’Tis glad I am that ye sent Black Eagle, for I could not be liking a young man more if he were my own son. Indeed, while possessing the wily wit of a Mohawk, Black Eagle yet has the manners of an Englishman. Havena I seen to that myself? ”
“He is also the fastest runner in all the Mohawk Nation,” said White Hair.
“That he be. That he be. At least we won the skirmish this day, thank God.” Again Johnson grimaced in pain. “Where is Dieskau, the French commander? ”
“He has been taken to your bed, and your surgeon is with him now.”
“Dieskau will also need to journey with us to the Water-that-runs-swift,” said Johnson. “I fear that if we leave him behind, upon our return, we may find him scalped.”
White Hair frowned, then said, “If you tell the warriors to leave the commander alone, they will do as you say.”
“And can ye be promising me that? ”
White Hair hesitated a little too long.
“No,” said Johnson. “The French commander will come with us. The Water-that-runs-swift shall help him, as well as myself. Are the others with ye ready to take us there? ”
“They are,” replied White Hair.
“I thank ye for yer friendship,” said Johnson. “Where is my good friend and yer chief, Henrick? He should have met me here.”
“Has no one told you of the great sachem? ”
Johnson frowned. “No.”
“Forgive me for being the one to bring you the sad news that Henrick fell into a group of women, wives of the Abenaki Indians allied to the French. It is they who killed him. They stabbed and scalped him.”
Johnson shut his eyes and placed his head in his hands. At length, he said, “I shall be missing him.” Lifting his gaze, he addressed White Hair and said, “It is a sad ending for the gallant sachem that he was. When this business is done here and we are back in yer camp, we will speak words of condolence to his relatives and to those others who will mourn him.”
“It will be so.”
“And my brother-in-law, Matthew Farrell? . . .”
White Hair remained silent.
“Was he, too, killed? ”
White Hair’s silence spoke better than words could have.
Johnson, who had raised himself up onto his elbows during this short exchange, fell back to the ground. “ ’Tis a dreadful business we do here. I fear my sister, Catherine, young Farrell’s wife, will ill abide these sad tidings.” Johnson breathed in heavily. “But come,” he continued, “we must see to those who be still alive. Be it a long journey to the Water-that-runs-swift? ”
“Not long,” said White Hair, “but arduous for you and the Frenchman, since it will pain you both to move.”
Johnson nodded. “And yet it must be done.”
White Hair bent his head in agreement. “If our friend and brother Johnson is to remain well, it must be done.”
Again Johnson nodded. “Then let us be doing it. How many men will be carrying us to the water? ”
“There are five of us, but I will ask more to help since we must move the Frenchman, as well. Are you ready? ”
Johnson looked deeply into the red-painted face of this native-born warrior, a Mohawk fighter. Inhaling quickly, it did not escape Johnson’s notice that these odd-looking natives were the truest of friends.
On a deep sigh, he said, “The very air here smells of gun powder, blood and death. Bad business, it is. Bring Dieskau here to me so that I might explain what it is that we do.”
“It will be done . . .”
Black Eagle continued to fly along the narrow path that had seen more battles than he cared to recall. The very woods echoed with the departed spirits of his countrymen. That such a beautiful ground should bear great strife was to be lamented, and Black Eagle couldn’t help but consider that Hiawatha and the Peacemaker of the Iroquois confederation would be unhappy to learn of the number of wars that had come to their country . . . and in the name of “peace.”
Such thoughts, however, were a waste of precious energy. The white man’s war was here, and whether the Iroquois people liked it or not, their homeland was situated between the two fighting nations.
Passing quickly through a stream, Black Eagle set his pace again and turned his thoughts to other matters, to the woods that greeted him on every side of the path, and to the sounds and scents of the forest. It was a beautiful time of year, trees and bushes wearing their orange, gold and red leaves, as though they would announce their departure from this world with beauty and vigor.
Black Eagle couldn’t help but be aware of the comparison between himself and his people to these trees. So much better it was to leave this earth in the full glory of battle, than to cower and hide in fear. Such was the Mohawk spirit.
Brown, red, gold and green leaves littered the path as he ran onward, the musky scent of the leaves filling his nostrils and causing him to recall other times when he had enjoyed their fragrance. Those past times were happy days, filled with harmony and sunshine, times that were in deep contrast to the present.
Johnson, who was a staunch friend of the Mohawk longhouse of the wolf, must live. For his sake, for the sake of the Iroquois. With Henrick taken in the day’s battle, Black Eagle could only surmise that Johnson would become more and more important to the Iroquois.
It was probably safe to say that, though few white men had ever earned the love and respect of the Mohawk people, Johnson had accomplished it. Not only were his dealings as a trader honest and fair, his knowledge and adherence to Mohawk tradition was without fault. The fact that he had also married a beautiful Mohawk maiden had sealed his acceptance, causing him to become a person who was much loved by the Mohawk people.
But he was particularly special to Black Eagle. Because of Johnson, Black Eagle had attended a white man’s school—at least for a year. Because of Johnson, Black Eagle had come to an understanding of what the white man was about.
It was probably safe to say that Johnson was as influential to him as an uncle or other member of his clan.
He must be saved. By now several of the Mohawk warriors should be carrying Johnson to the place where the water runs fast—a location known to the whites as Saratoga. It was well known amongst his own people that the water there was special—it was healing . . . and it would particularly be so if a medicine man could be persuaded to accompany Black Eagle there.
Thus, since Black Eagle was acclaimed as the fastest runner amongst the warriors—both Indian and white—it had been put upon him to run to the nearest Mohawk village, a village called Canajoharie. The medicine man there was renowned. It was hoped that with persuasion, the medicine man would accompany Black Eagle to the Water-that-runs-swift.
Black Eagle frowned; the hour seemed late. There in the western sky, he could discern traces of the pinkish orange rays of sunset.
Had he run so long? It had been late morning when he had started on this journey.
But what was this, ahead of him? Was it sunlight streaming into the dark forest? Was his journey almost at an end?
With leg and thigh muscles that felt burned from his hours-long exertion, Black Eagle sped forward, bursting from the forest only minutes later. Immediately he was engulfed in the neat, clean fields of the three sisters, corn, bean and squash, and his heart rejoiced. At last, he thou
ght, he was amongst the civilization of the Mohawk, the village of Canajoharie.
But he was not from this village. He could not simply storm into it.
“Our people have been so much put upon by other tribes, and by the white man, that it is difficult for a man to be able to distinguish enemy from friend. Therefore, if you ever wish to visit a village that does not know you, you must sit and smoke a pipe of peace before entering the village. If you do this, a messenger will come to you.”
So had spoken a sachem from his tribe.
Producing a pipe, Black Eagle sat and smoked, and soon, he was met by a scout from the village.
“Brethren,” said the scout as he approached Black Eagle, “I see by your clothes and the tattoo on your arm that you are of the wolf clan of the confederation. Brother, I see also by your actions that you come in peace.”
“It is so,” Black Eagle returned. “But I come bearing news on the war that has been waged nearby here.”
“Did you fight in this battle? ”
“Nyoh, yes, I did.”
“Then the news that you bring is good news? ”
“It is both good and bad. The French have been defeated, but our friend William Johnson has been hurt, and it is feared that he may not recover. Several warriors are carrying him to the healing place of the Water-that-runs-swift. I have been sent here to Canajoharie to seek the assistance of your medicine man. I have this wampum belt to show your sachem my sincerity.” He pulled the belt from a bag that hung from his shoulder.
The messenger nodded. “It is good. We are close to the Water-that-runs-swift. Come. Welcome to our village. I will take you to our medicine man at once. But before I do, let me inquire if you have had an evening meal.”