by Gen Bailey
Meticulous detail helped him find the enemy’s trail, but it had taken him much time to discover it. With the necessity of backtracking and erasing his own tracks, it had been well into the afternoon before he’d come upon the distinctive markings of an Ottawa warrior. Black Eagle’s heart lurched.
Bending down, he studied the tracks, for they would tell a history of his enemy.
He was a heavy man, perhaps fifty years in age. It was possible, thought Black Eagle, that one of his victims had been this man’s son. Such would make sense, because the frenzy that Black Eagle could read in the tracks spoke of an unstable mind. Indeed, the bad mind was at work within this warrior; it was a mind filled with revenge.
There was only the one track, however, which was unusual, and equally dangerous, since a warrior seldom struck out on the warpath alone. To have done so might indicate, again, an instability, a man who would do anything.
But it wasn’t until Black Eagle beheld that the tracks were leading to the valley where he had set up camp, that his heart shot into his throat. Ahweyoh!
Black Eagle immediately set out in a run, his speed picking up pace quickly as he raced toward the valley, jumping over obstacles, knocking over branches and bushes in his way. Gone from his mind was the need to backtrack and cover his own ground.
He pulled up in the woods, just short of the clearing where he had set up camp. And it was all he could do to keep himself from rushing full force at the enemy he saw there, and engaging the man in hand-to-hand combat. To do so, however, would be folly. The Ottawa could kill Ahweyoh first, then turn and kill him.
Alert, Black Eagle watched as the man crept toward the hideaway, watched, at the ready, as the man reached down to pull back the branches that Black Eagle had scattered around their shelter to hide it.
At any minute, the warrior would discover Ahweyoh. Would Black Eagle be fast enough to avert a disaster?
Quickly, Black Eagle tried to put the knowledge he had gained from reading the man’s tracks to some plan that would defeat him. There was one thing: This enemy warrior was not altogether in his right mind. It was possible that this man had tried to convince his friends to stay on the trail with him, but they, sensing the warrior’s madness, had left him alone, going home to their own fires or to rejoin the French.
Could it be that the Ottawa expected his friends to have a change of heart? To join him in his quest for revenge? If that were the case, Black Eagle might be able to distract the man with a sign, some signal the Ottawa might expect from his friends.
Shimmying up a tree to about its midpoint, Black Eagle imitated the mother’s call of the dove, a common signal amongst tribes. He repeated the call once.
At last the warrior stood away from the shelter. He looked off to his right, to his left, his sight scanning the horizon.
Black Eagle repeated the call.
At length the Ottawa warrior retreated, angling back into the woods in the direction from where the call had originated. But the danger wasn’t past. Far from it.
Black Eagle, watching, would follow the man, if only to ensure his own peace of mind that the warrior posed no further threat.
This had been a mistake.
Marisa was the first to admit it. She should have stayed where she was. She would be of no use to anyone as she was. She was lost. Worse, she was terrified.
Every sigh of the wind, every branch that rubbed against another had her jumping.
What was that? A footfall? Dear Lord, it was pitch-black in this forest. She could see nothing but black shapes in the trees. Was she alone, or was she being stalked?
And if she were being stalked, was it some deer, elk or bear? Worse, was it the Ottawa warrior?
There it was again. The crack of a twig. A footfall.
It couldn’t be Black Eagle. Surely, if it were he, he would make himself known to her.
She knew she shouldn’t, that she should remain as quiet as possible. But she was beyond fright. She called out, “Black Eagle, is that you?”
No response.
She inhaled, brought up the musket to chest level, and spoke again, “Who is it that follows me? Show yourself.”
Nothing. At least not at first.
But then came the singing. It was a man’s voice, and the words were indistinguishable. The key was minor. It was an Indian song. But dear Lord, it couldn’t be Black Eagle.
The verse was repeated, but this time, it came in English:
“I have found an English foe. I will kill her.
I have found an English foe. I will kill her.
She shall pay for my son’s death.
She shall pay for my son’s death.
I will kill her. Slowly, slowly.
She will beg for mercy.
I swear to you, my son, that she will beg for mercy.”
This had definitely been a mistake. Involuntarily a warmth ran down her leg and she realized this might surely be the last breath she would ever take. It was really too bad, she thought, because finally she had found love. She wanted to live.
But she was no match for an Indian warrior, and certainly not one who had been trained for war all his life.
However, if this were to be her last stand upon this earth, the least she could do would be to show resistance. Why make it easy for the beast?
Perhaps it was this last thought that sparked a remnant of courage within her. She was frightened, she could barely stand up straight, but raising her musket to shoulder level, and pointing it in the direction of the shadows, she called out, “If you mean to kill me, sir, then come and do it. It must be easy to make war on a woman, since you have little to fear from me.”
Had that really been her voice? Had she truly challenged an Indian warrior?
Apparently she had, for the man stepped forward into an opening in the trees. She could barely make out his shape, but of one thing she was certain: In his one hand was a tomahawk and in his other was a musket. He was big, he was burly, and it was useless to believe she would ever be a physical match for him.
Still if she were going to go down, she had best do it in a blaze. She said, “How is it you would prefer to die, sir?”
A knife flew toward her, finding the fullness of her skirt. It caught there, then dropped to the ground.
In reaction, she took careful aim with the musket and fired. But the man had moved out of range and her shot hit nothing better than the bark of a tree.
He leapt toward her with the swiftness and agility of a cat, and within seconds, he had thrown her to the ground, hard, knocking the breath from her. She had no more than caught a bit of air when he pulled her up, forcing her to kneel before him, he standing at her back. Then he said in English, “And how would you like to die, English woman? By fire? By knife? Either way, it will be slow. You will scream much.”
Pulling her up by her hair, Marisa had no more than registered the pain in her scalp, when the Ottawa thrust his knife against her throat. Marisa was beyond terror, and she screamed. She kept on screaming, too, until her throat began to ache.
The knife dug into the skin at her throat, and as soon as it did, she fainted. Perhaps it was for the best.
Nineteen
It was dark by the time Black Eagle returned to their shelter. He had tracked the warrior to the base of the falls, had seen the man embark in a canoe, had watched the Ottawa paddle downstream. Of course it was possible that the man might come ashore and backtrack, but Black Eagle was fairly confident that he had not given his presence away to the man.
Besides, he was worried. He had been gone from Ahweyoh for the entire day, and she would be frightened and alone. She might even be worried. He had begun to run, then, had started sprinting through the forest, passing by game that would have been easy for the taking. Perhaps some other time, they would know his prowess as a hunter. For now, onward he sped. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
Upon approaching their shelter, Black Eagle gave the usual meadowlark call to announce his return, but there
was no return signal. Every nerve within him kicked into alert.
Coming up onto the shelter in a crouch, it took him but a moment to determine that the shelter was empty. She was gone.
Gone? This he had not expected.
Nor could he ascertain much from the tracks left here. Certainly her emotions were excited. Certainly she was overwrought. But he didn’t think her agitation was due to the Ottawa warrior returning to haunt her. His tracks were here from earlier, but there were no fresh ones.
Why would she have left? She would have been safe in their shelter, particularly so because she had been cleaning their weapons, making them ready for use. With these she would have had advantage, she could have made an invincible stand if it had been necessary.
Though he could little understand her reasoning, he set about following her trail, made more difficult by an overcast sky and the darkness of night, which had fallen all around him. But staying on her trail wasn’t impossible.
On he sped, his attention on her tracks, but also alert to all around him. Now and again, he bent to trace a deep impression of a track. From these, he extracted what might be her train of thought, and he painted a picture of what he thought might have driven her from their home. Worry.
She was worried for him.
Part of him warmed to the concept. Part of him, however, wanted to scold her for putting herself in danger. But mostly, he simply wanted to find her, if only to hold her in his arms again.
But what was this? Another trail, one following Ahweyoh’s. It was a track made by the Ottawa warrior. He was back.
No sooner had Black Eagle determined this than he heard Ahweyoh’s scream. His blood ran cold.
He cursed himself, for the Ottawa warrior had outsmarted him. The man must have sensed he was being followed.
With his heart in his throat, Black Eagle hurled himself through the forest, his feet barely touching the ground. He saw them, up ahead. And it was a sight he thought might haunt his nightmares for days on end.
The Ottawa held Ahweyoh by the hair in front of him, his knife against her throat. Even in the dark, Black Eagle could see the blood dripping from the wound.
Was he too late?
The time for thinking was over. Black Eagle propelled himself into furious action. With hatchet drawn, and with a yell like the roar of a lion, he threw himself forward with such speed and force, that the Ottawa, though the bigger of the two of them, was thrown off balance.
Taking advantage, Black Eagle swung his hatchet at the man, hitting him in the forehead. It was a fatal stab. The man lurched backward. Black Eagle followed him down, the hatchet came down again on the Ottawa’s shoulder, then, as though to be certain, Black Eagle stabbed him again in the head.
It was over. The Ottawa lay dead. The man would hurt her no more.
Black Eagle turned around toward Ahweyoh, fearing what he would find. Was she already dead?
Marisa had fallen to the ground, where she lay still. Too still. Black Eagle paced up next to her and touched her on the shoulder as if he were merely reminding her to rise up.
She groaned.
It was like music to his ears.
She turned over so that she was lying face up.
“Black Eagle?” she whispered.
“It is I,” he said, his first action being to place his fingers against the cut on her throat, to see the damage made.
He let out his breath. It was a surface wound.
Unbidden, tears streamed down over his cheeks. She would be all right.
She sat up, and at last they came together, hugging and holding onto one another as though the world might end if they were to draw apart.
He brought his head down to her, nuzzling his face against hers, memorizing the beauty of the fragrance of her hair, her skin, the sweetness of her tears. He inhaled deeply, over and over again, thankful he was alive, that she was alive.
“Is the wound bad?” she asked.
“It is only a scratch. I promise you it is no more than this,” he answered. “Come, I will take you back to the shelter and tend to the wound. And then I think it is time that I take you home.”
“Home?”
“To my home,” he said.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Home. It sounds wonderful.”
And as they knelt there in each others arms, they both cried.
The scent of the rich fields of corn, beans and squash reached the couple long before they emerged from the forest. As soon as they left the woods, however, they were immersed in the abundant fields of the Mohawk village. There was ripening corn, beans and squash as far as the eye could see, all growing together. Everywhere Marisa looked she saw bounteous rows of yellowish brown and green fields. There were few people working the fields, she noted. Here and there, in the distance, she caught sight of a woman and a child or two. But the fields looked more or less deserted at this time of day.
There was a large difference, however, between the Mohawk fields and those that were generally planted by the English. For one, there were few geometrically spaced rows. For another, all three crops—corn, beans and squash—were planted together. Indeed, there seemed to be no order to the method of planting. Plus, little black tree stumps dotted the fields here and there, marring the ongoing view of green, yellow and orange crops.
There was another alien aspect to the fields, as well. Outposts, little lean-tos raised up high on poles, were stuck deep within the fertile fields. There weren’t many of them, perhaps one or two that she could easily see.
“What are those for?” Marisa asked Black Eagle, pointing toward the outpost closest to her.
“Those are used to scare crows and other birds,” he replied. “Children use them and sometimes women, too. They are built high so that one can see far distances and chase away birds or behold an enemy’s approach. Sometimes, too, the figure of a man is built into the fields. And to keep the crops safe, a crow is ofttimes caught and held upside down to warn away other crows.”
“What an interesting practice,” Marisa observed. “But where is your village? All I see here are fields.”
Black Eagle pointed upward, toward a cliff set high and slightly back from the river. He said, “We build our villages on high ground and far enough away from the river, so that we can look out over the land. In this way if an enemy approaches, we are sure to spot him before he arrives.”
Again, Marisa nodded. “That is wise.” She fell into silence momentarily, then, said, “Black Eagle. Forgive me, but I am nervous. What is going to happen to me in your village?”
“You will be taken into a home and adopted by a clan,” he said, “and I will come to live with you in your new home, though your new clan might insist that we exchange gifts first, to ensure we are married properly.”
Marisa met this news with silence, then, “What if your people hate me?”
“They will love you.”
“I wish I could be so certain. Are there not some Mohawks that are allied to the French? Won’t they look upon me with ill favor?”
“Nyoh, yes, perhaps. But they live much farther north, in Canada. There may be a few of them visiting, but they will do no damage to you while they are here.”
It sounded fair enough, but still she was unsettled, and she asked, “Black Eagle, did you have a sweetheart in the village before you left? A lover, perhaps, who will be on the lookout for you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead his response was a question to her, and he said, “Would you be jealous if I did?”
“Maybe.”
He stopped and turned toward her, and taking her hand in his, he said, “You are now my wife. Perhaps I should be truthful and tell you that there has been a girl or two who has caught my eye. It is only natural that it would be so. But there is no reason for you to be jealous. I made no girl my wife, though I could have. Know that I have not loved another as I love you.”
“You never had a special girlfriend?”
“I did once,” he answered, “but
she married another. My heart, I fear, is free.”
“Was free,” she corrected. “Then there is no one waiting for you with bated breath?”
“My mother and my sisters, perhaps.”
She shook her head. “There is something here I can little comprehend. You are a handsome man, and kind. I cannot visualize a village without a woman clever enough to have made herself a part of your life.”
“This might have happened, it is true. But the one I would have chosen to be my wife belongs to another. And I fear that my heart had barely recovered from that when the hostilities between the French and English came to our land. The hatred between these two sets of white men has disrupted our village life.”
He turned his face around, his gaze centered upward, looking toward the high ground where he’d said their village was located. “We Mohawks,” he went on to say, “are caught between these two great forces and many are the times when the English or the French have come to our village to seek our assistance to help win their war.”
“Yes,” she said, “I can imagine that the two powers would affect you adversely.”
“It is so. Long have we been at war because of the white man. Hundreds of years have passed since he came here with his wars,” he said. “There was a time—though so long ago that not even our old people can remember it—when we made our own goods, manufactured our own bowls for cooking, our own pottery, our own clothes and produced our own weapons for hunting or for war. When we did this, we Indian Nations were on an even footing with one another. We were at peace. Or so it is said. But with the coming of the white man, who brought to us his guns for killing, his metal for cooking and his trinkets to satisfy the women, our people have had to fight to stay alive. For it is well known amongst all the Indian Nations that whoever has the best arms can dominate all the tribes. No one wants to be a slave.”
“No, I should say not.”
“Once, many hundreds of years ago, it is said that my ancestors were enslaved by a tribe known as the Adirondacks. These mountains that shelter us still carry their name. At that long ago time, we had to pay them tribute. It was a hard time for my people. But we escaped them, enduring hardship, for there is one particular we Iroquois treasure above all else, and that is our freedom.”