Black Eagle

by Gen Bailey

  “I can.”

  “Ye’ll do it, then? ”

  Black Eagle nodded. “I will. When do you plan to leave? ”

  “In the next few days,” said Thompson. “Can ye be ready? ”

  “I am ready now.”

  “Good,” said Thompson, grinning. “Good.”

  Four

  Music from a fiddle, violins and a flute filtered into the Rathburn stables where Black Eagle was preparing the three horses—two roans and a dapple gray—for their journey. Checking over their cinches, to ensure that the leather was strong, Black Eagle was a stern critic, his eye catching perhaps what another might miss.

  He was frowning; something was not right. It looked as if . . . Pulling hard against one of the cinches, the leather fell apart in his hand. Hunh-uh! He stared at the straps dumbfoundedly. Then he picked up another cinch, making the same experiment, then the third.

  Each one was damaged in its own way, and as he studied them, he could only surmise that they had been broken at one time, then sewn and glued back together so cleverly, that the error remained undetectable. Was the white man so negligent, so unaware, that he hadn’t seen this?

  Or was there another reason for what should have been a simple repair? Certainly the white man could not be so frugal that he could ill afford the best straps available.

  He examined the bits of leather, noting that the cuts were not clean, which would make it appear that the damage was due to simple wear. But on all three?

  Was it possible that the animals were not regularly used, so that the fault had remained undetectable until now? It was possible. However, Black Eagle’s frown deepened.

  Laying the damaged cinches aside, Black Eagle’s thoughts raced, although outwardly, he set himself to mindless work. Picking up a brush, he began the long process of scrubbing the animals down for the night.

  One thing was certain: New cinches would be secured or the horses would stay behind. Either way it mattered little to him, particularly since, from the start, Black Eagle had not been in favor of taking horses. Although it was true that a horse could run faster than a man, the animal could not travel as far as a man in the course of a day, mainly because of the necessity to rest every few hours. Plus, the animal was easy to track, required too much care along the way and announced their position to any enemy.

  But, when the English had insisted that their women could not walk the entire journey, and that their “things” had to be transported with them, Black Eagle had given little resistance. It wasn’t part of his plan to negate the judgment of the English. Besides, he wasn’t altogether adverse to plodding a slower journey. If it meant a few extra days spent in the presence of the beauty, then he would acquiesce.

  Again the strains of the music from the big house trickled into the livery and Black Eagle fought a desire to be there, to watch the beauty and mayhap if he were lucky, to speak to her again. But he would not do it. Not because of the peculiarities of the English dances, since he was well acquainted with these. Nor was it fear of criticism from the Englishman’s condescending eye. Rather it was because her image haunted him.

  He was fascinated with her, and this, he knew, would not do. He might admire the young lady, might watch her with longing, but he was well aware that there was no future in the flirtation; their worlds were too dissimilar to permit a union between their respective cultures.

  As the wise sachems had often counseled, if marriage were not the intended outcome of an association with a woman, one should not indulge in it. One’s heart—and hers—could be held in balance.

  Still, as a delicate melody swept into the stable, filling each nook and cranny with the pulse of the English dance, he could little ignore it. The music was in three-quarter time, he noted, and the rhythm affected him in a way he would never have suspected it might. Unbidden, a desire to be there, to see her, to learn more about her, entered into his breast, and he could have sworn his heart ached.

  Firmly, he set the matter of the beauty from his mind, but not so the cinches. He would go in search of Thompson and make his demands.

  As he finished rubbing down the last of the three animals, he sniffed at the air around him. Was it the stables, or did he reek of horseflesh?

  A stream, deep in the forest that skirted the Rathburn property offered a simple and easy solution, and he washed up there, donning the best clothing he had. After all, Thompson might be at the ball.

  His other clothing he washed in the stream, hanging them in a hollowed out cavity in a tree. It was a very old and large tree, one he had taken special notice of as he had scouted the Rathburn property.

  As he stepped back toward the big house, an airy melody washed over him, and Black Eagle sighed, reminding himself he was not attending the ball, he was looking for Thompson. Unfortunately, he was all too aware of the yearning of his heart.

  As Marisa stepped with her partner in time to the music, she hid a smile. She was happy. Not for herself, of course, but for Sarah. Indeed, Marisa had succeeded; she had bested her step-uncle in a battle of wills. True, it had been a test of spirit, but she had persisted, had made it perfectly clear to her step-uncle that he was in the wrong, not only in regards to his future plans for a particular Pennsylvania Dutch settlement, but also as concerned Sarah’s past.

  This ball, which Rathburn had arranged in honor of Sarah and Marisa’s departure, proved her success. Undoubtedly, the ball was a simple affair in many ways. Necessity had made it so, due in part to the fact that both she and Sarah were leaving forthwith—the very next morning. But, though there were probably no more than fifty guests in attendance this evening, no expense had been spared. Strategically placed torches and candles lit the room, while the scent of burning wax, of food—roast meat and freshly baked bread, cakes and pies—permeated the hall.

  Gentlemen and ladies had adorned themselves in their best, causing the interior of the room to be awash in color schemes of pink and coral silks, as well as the hues of blue and gold. White wigs, with the required two curls at each side of the face sat atop the natural color of the hair. The orchestra was a simple affair, as well, a few violins, a cello, bass and flute.

  Their music filled the hall now, lending the atmosphere a certain gaiety and a rhythm that kept the guests stepping around the floor to the music of a minuet; sweep, step, step, sweep, step, step, promenade forward, turn to face one another, step up, step back, bow, curtsy.

  Her partner coughed, and Marisa smiled at the gentleman whom she had favored with the dance. The young man, who was of medium height, with a wave of sandy hair that peeked out beneath his wig, was most likely the handsomest man in the room tonight. But though he smiled at her adoringly, Marisa was not so easily impressed. Indeed, not.

  For years her heart had remained untouched. There was no reason for it to be different tonight. Indeed, for all she knew, it might always be so.

  But why? Though there were young men of whom she was fond, her affections had never progressed farther than mere attraction. Truth be known, Marisa had never been kissed; not by a man, a boy, a relative . . . no one.

  Again, why?

  Was it because she had never met a man to whom she might shower her devotion? Or was it most likely due to the reality that, as she had recently told Sarah, she might likely have no say in the matter of her own marriage?

  Marisa frowned. If the latter were the case—and she did suspect it was true—why did she think this?

  As if asking the question brought on the memory, a recollection, long looked for, but much forgotten, flashed in her mind. For a moment, she was distracted. She trembled, and daintily smiled at her partner to offset a feeling of being ill at ease. But like a book that once opened, refused to be closed, her mind replayed a scene from her past:

  Marisa had been a shy child of seven years of age when John Rathburn had summoned her to his study. Expecting the best of such a beckoning, Marisa had been overjoyed. Perhaps, after three long years of living within the Rathburn household, Marisa�
��s step-uncle was at last ready to lavish her with the love Marisa craved.

  Sarah had ensured that Marisa looked the epitome of fashion, in her sack dress of ivory silk, adorned with the white of her petticoat. True, she had still worn the back-fastened bodice, so common for her age, but this dress was her best, and it gave her confidence. As the butler had ushered her into the Rathburn inner sanctum, the lace edging of Marisa’s cap had fluttered delicately around her face, making her feel feminine and pretty.

  The scent of mildew was the first detail she recalled, then came the memory of the room, itself, which was lined wall-to-wall with books. At first her gaze had settled onto her step-uncle, who could have been the embodiment of British conservatism in his white-powdered wig and black tailored coat. Her step-uncle had always appeared to her to be a cold, foreboding and condemning sort of man, and on this day it was no different. However, there was an extra appearance of bitterness about him at this moment. Indeed, there had been an expression of disdain so great that it had set her knees to trembling.

  Instantly, Marisa’s joy had fled, replaced instead by an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. Under Rathburn’s censuring glance, she had shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  “Stop that!” Rathburn had ordered, but Marisa couldn’t stop. In truth, beneath his anger, her fidgeting became more pronounced.

  “Sit!” Rathburn had said with disgust, gesturing toward a chair that looked to be three times bigger than she was. Marisa had dutifully obeyed the command and had sat back in the seat, her feet out straight in front of her.

  “Yer parents are dead.”

  Marisa gulped and straightened her shoulders at this seeming attack. Did her uncle think she was unaware of that fact?

  “Therefore ye come under my rule. Do ye understand?”

  Marisa nodded.

  “Good. The age of seven deems ye old enough to know of yer duty in this household. And it is yer obligation to me that bids ye to me this day.”

  Marisa had only stared at Rathburn with a wide-eyed look.

  “Now, yer first and foremost responsibility is to bring no disgrace to our family name. There’ll be no childish display of emotion in this house. No tantrums, no temper, no anger, and certainly no childish giggles are to echo within these walls. Do ye comprehend this?”

  Marisa nodded yet again. Had she committed some wrong of which she was as yet unaware? In her mind’s eye—perhaps in self-defense—the room and her uncle took on a dreamlike quality.

  “Additionally,” her uncle was continuing, “ye are to present yerself as calm and poised as long as ye are a part of this household. And though it might seem a trifle early to speak of it, let me detail yer duty in the marriage bed.”

  Marisa gazed down at her lap, embarrassed, but she otherwise remained quiet.

  “Ye have been seen playing with the servant boys, and this t’will never do. Understand now that yer keep is not inexpensive to me. Ye shall repay me when ye are of age, by bringing honor and fortune to the family when ye marry. Bloodline and fortune will have out, and part of the Rathburn familial obligation includes that only the ‘right’ classes shall be united. So do not be giving yer attention to the servants, lest ye fall in love with a lad unworthy of the Rathburn name. As God is my witness, ye will do yer duty to me when the time comes for yer marriage. Do ye understand?”

  Again, Marisa nodded.

  “Now speak up, lass. I would have yer word on this.”

  Marisa opened her mouth to utter what she realized must be her complete agreement, but though she tried to find her tongue to say the words, her mouth simply refused to do her mind’s bidding.

  Watching her, John Rathburn grunted in revulsion. Marisa was at once shamed. But still she couldn’t speak.

  Waving his hand at her, Rathburn said, “Ah, ye be too young. If not in age, then in disposition. ’Tis a waste of time, ye are. Now go! Leave me at once!”

  Marisa, not needing to be told twice, jumped to the floor and, ignoring Rathburn’s warning of propriety, ran out the door and back to Sarah’s waiting arms. She had cried and cried, until at last she had drifted to sleep.

  Though her steps in time to the music had not faltered, Marisa was shaken. She had truly forgotten the incident. In essence, at the time, so embarrassed had she been over her seeming inadequacy, she had not even had the courage to relay the details of the incident to Sarah. Marisa had instead cried until there had been no more tears left to be shed. Even then she had hiccupped through most the night.

  By the next morning, however, the entire occurrence had seemed to wash away, to trouble her no more. Or so it had appeared. However, it looked as if the incident had in fact receded into the dark recesses of her memory, where it had remained buried and unheeded until now.

  But why was she recalling it now?

  As Marisa looked up, her gaze fastened onto the silhouette of a man who stood amongst the guests, there toward the back wall of the ballroom. Yet he might have been directly in front of her for all that her attention clung to him.

  It was he, the Mohawk Indian. The one who had so impressed her with his oratory and admiration. Her stomach somersaulted.

  Step forward, step back, turn, swing up and exchange places, step up, step back, promenade. It was as though her feet knew the dance, for her mind was far away from the minuet’s requirements.

  Her handsome young partner coughed, bringing her attention back to him. The cough was soon followed by another in kind, then a bout of hacking. Putting a hand to his throat, he coughed again and said, “So sorry. Would you please excuse me? ”

  “By all means.” She nodded. He retreated, and she was ready to step out of line, as well, when his place was suddenly filled by another man. She gazed forward. Her eyes rounded.

  “You!” It was the Mohawk.

  “Nyoh, yes, ’tis I. Forgive me,” he replied in his deeply baritone voice, “but I can hardly be expected to remain long as a spectator when the most beautiful creature in the hall has need of a partner. Would that I fill that role.”

  “Sir!” She might have protested, but being swept up in the rhythm of the dance, whatever she might have said perished on her lips. Clasp hands, swing forward, step back, then advance, exchange places. She couldn’t fail to note that, though he were Mohawk, his knowledge of the dance was without fault.

  “Once again,” she said as they promenaded, “you dazzle me with your knowledge of our English manners and culture. Pray, tell me, did you also learn dancing from the monks?”

  He smiled at her. “English traders,” he said simply. “And perhaps the influence of William Johnson who insisted that one day I would need the skill.”

  “Yes, William Johnson,” she said. “I have heard of him. He has been quite influential amongst the Iroquois, I believe.”

  “He has,” said the Mohawk.

  Though he was obviously dressed in his best, the Indian was an odd man out here in this hall, she noted, where the powdered wigs, the justaucorps and waistcoats of the Englishmen were the rule. By comparison, the Mohawk was wearing black from head to foot, though a streak of white appeared at his neck. His apparel seemed to consist of a tunic, belted at the waist, that looked to be a combination shirt and kilt. Skin-tight black leggings and high-topped moccasins completed the outfit. Over one shoulder, worn Roman-style, and draped around his waist, was a red blanket, heavily adorned with shell beads of white.

  “Have you met him? ” asked the Mohawk.

  “Who? William Johnson? Yes, he was a guest here at Rathburn Hall once.”

  With their hands still clasped, the Indian stepped toward her, she followed suit. They both stepped back, forward again, then they turned round, clasping hands once more.

  The music softened, ending in a long drawn out chord that allowed the dancers to bow and curtsy to one another. A round of applause followed. However, while the others were engaged in the act of clapping, Marisa faced the Mohawk instead, and she asked, “Have you a name? ”

&n
bsp; “Black Eagle,” he supplied.

  She nodded. “I thank you, Sir Eagle, for coming to my rescue on the dance floor.” She smiled at him before saying, “And now I must leave you.” She spun around to step away from him, only to find that he had laid a hand at her elbow, there where her sleeve ended in lace. Her nerves there tingled.

  “A moment of your time, please. There is something I would say to you, something I would ask, if you would permit me.”

  Whether she had it in her mind to agree or protest was a moot point: He had placed his other hand upon the small of her back and was leading her toward a set of French doors that opened up onto a veranda, overlooking a parklike reserve of the Rathburn estate.

  “Sir,” she managed to utter at last. “I must protest. I am without a chaperone.”

  “It is not my intention to take you away from your party or those who would protect you. In truth, I have come here tonight in search of the man known as Thompson.”

  “He is not here.”

  He nodded. “Then might it not be possible to find a quiet spot along the side of the room where we might engage in a moment’s talk? There is a matter of concern that I must relate to you.”

  Marisa shook her head. “I’m afraid that I . . .” She paused and glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom, looking to her right, to her left. Although her step-uncle was not to be seen at present, her gaze found and centered on his henchman, James. The butler’s frown at her spoke adequately for him, and Marisa knew she was being warned to act in a manner befitting her position. Moreover, if she didn’t perform as expected, James would, indeed, carry tales.

  Something within her rebelled. As a little girl, Marisa might have once submitted to the butler’s unspoken threat. But she was a woman, full grown. Perhaps it was the memory tonight that caused her to resist, maybe not. But it is perhaps well to observe that there is not a being alive who will not, from time to time, protest the bars of his or her imprisonment. For Marisa, that time was now.

  Tilting her chin upward, she stared at James, though she spoke to the Indian, when she said, “There is a path through the garden, Sir Eagle, that is quiet and will serve us better than trying to raise our voices above the noise of the ballroom. Shall I show that path to you? ”