Black Eagle

by Gen Bailey

  However, though she might talk of seriousness, she yet giggled, and coming up on top of him, she tickled him on his ribs. But he didn’t laugh.

  She frowned at him. “You should chuckle or at least smile,” she said. “Aren’t you ticklish?”

  “Of course I am. But I am a man. I can endure all kinds of torture.”

  “Oh, can you? Then how about this kind of torture?” And so saying, she slid down his chest, lower and lower over his belly and on downward until she was caressing and kissing the very essence of his masculinity.

  He grunted, the sound low, masculine and deep in his throat. How had he ever come to be so lucky?

  On that thought, he sighed. And his last conscious reflection, before he surrendered himself to her charm, was to avow to himself that so long as he existed he would love and protect this woman. Forever he would give of himself to her, all of his love, his loyalty, the crux of who and what he was.

  And if future times might become unbearable, they would survive. Indeed, they would survive.

  The central fire was ablaze when Marisa and Black Eagle at last joined in with the rest of the festivities. The rhythmic beat of the drum was low, was contagious, and people, old and young, were dancing. Many were singing, and the hum of talk and laughter filled the night air. The happiness of the people was a tangible thing, and it abounded around him. How could anything ever come to take this away?

  It seemed impossible.

  Black Eagle watched with delight as his wife caught and held her sister, Laughing Maid’s, eye. He watched as the two shared a smile.

  It was good. Not only were these women sisters, they were friends.

  Pretty Ribbon soon found them. This, too, was good.

  The little girl’s devotion to Ahweyoh was pleasing, he thought. And in truth, he owed the child his gratitude, for it was because of Pretty Ribbon that Ahweyoh’s transition to their village life had gone so smoothly. He would honor the girl in some way.

  His wife bent toward Pretty Ribbon as the child grabbed hold of her hand, and she hugged the little girl. Taking her in her arms, he heard her say, “I love you.”

  His heart swelled.

  Pretty Ribbon grinned back at Ahweyoh, and said, “I made something for you. Come and see!”

  Though he didn’t wish to eavesdrop on their conversation, he would have been hard-pressed not to witness Ahweyoh nod her agreement. Soon, she stood to her feet, and turning toward him, she said, “I am going to see what Pretty Ribbon has for me.”

  Black Eagle inclined his head. “Yes. Go. I will join the drumming and singing. I will be over there.” He indicated the drum with a flicking motion of his head, then smiled at her. “These songs are a part of who we Mohawk people are. When you have finished, if you would come and stand behind me as I sing, I would be honored.”

  Ahweyoh beamed at him. “I will. I, too, would be honored.”

  They shared a smile that was intimate, perhaps even passion filled, and then Ahweyoh turned to leave, the little girl still clutching at her hand.

  Black Eagle watched his wife for a while. Yet again, a sadness invaded his heart. Why did he have a bad feeling about this? Why did he worry about their future so greatly? And why couldn’t he shake the feeling?

  It was most likely nothing. Conceivably he worried needlessly. They were here. They were safe in his village.

  At least for now, things were good. Maybe the drumming and singing would clear his mind.

  He could only hope it would be so.

  Pretty Ribbon half pulled, half led Marisa to the place where she had hidden a gift. It was in an opposite direction to where Black Eagle had indicated she would later find him. With a heartfelt look at him, she bid him adieu, and willingly let herself be led by the child.

  As Marisa passed by several women whom she knew, she acknowledged them with a greeting. It was much returned.

  “What have you made for me?” Marisa asked Pretty Ribbon at last.

  “You will see. Come.”

  “Yes, I’m coming.”

  Pretty Ribbon dragged Marisa onto the outskirts of the fire’s circle, leading her up onto a grassy knoll. It was pleasant here, Marisa thought. It was here at the crown of the hill where the west wind blew up behind them, reminding Ahweyoh of the story of the Thunderer and Ahweyoh. Marisa smiled.

  Gazing upward, even the clouds and stars looked closer. As Marisa inhaled deeply, Pretty Ribbon said, “Here it is.”

  Marisa bent down onto her haunches to see what was so important. Whatever it was, it was hidden beneath a rock. Cautiously, she lifted up the rock to find a folded up piece of hemp parchment. Pictures were scribbled all over it.

  “I drew it myself,” said Pretty Ribbon.

  It was not exactly easy to see in the darkness, yet if Marisa squinted, she could discern certain qualities of the picture. It was a drawing of herself and Black Eagle, as seen from the eyes of a child. There he was, captured on parchment, a dark and handsome stick figure; there she was, a red-haired, pale stick figure. They were drawn holding hands. And by her side was another, tinier stick figure. A dark-haired child with two braids.

  “That’s me,” said Pretty Ribbon pointing.

  “Why it’s beautiful,” praised Marisa. “You are quite an artist. I love it.”

  “It is yours. I made it for you.”

  “You did? What a wonderful present. I will always treasure it. But where did you get this paper?”

  “Oh, from him.” Pretty Ribbon pointed back into the crowd, but Marisa couldn’t see who it was that she indicated.

  “Who?”

  Again Pretty Ribbon took Marisa’s hand. “I’ll show you.”

  And before Marisa could think to object, Pretty Ribbon was pulling her back into the crowd, winding her way between the bigger adults, until she had brought Marisa face-to-face with a white man. It was a white man Marisa knew, though just barely. It was Sir William Johnson.

  Shocked, Marisa stopped still.

  At the insistent touch of the child, William Johnson spun round toward them. At first he barely acknowledged Marisa, and he turned his back on her. However, after only a few seconds, he swung back around.

  Squinting and frowning at her, he said, “Lady Marisa? Be that who ye are?”

  “Sir William,” she acknowledged. “Yes, of course you would attend the festival. You are yourself, Mohawk, are you not?”

  He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked one of his own, and said, “But what has happened to ye?”

  “I live here now.”

  “Here?” Adopted as he was into the Mohawk Nation or not, he seemed taken aback.

  “Yes,” she repeated, “here. I had trouble on the way to New Hampshire,” she went on to explain. “We were attacked, and I have lost my maid to the falls, I fear. She was my best friend. I, myself, was rescued by a Mohawk man. I owe him my life. He brought me here.”

  “I see.” Sir William nodded, yet it was clear that he was lost in thought, for his gaze at her seemed distracted. He continued, “Then I shall rescue ye further. I shall take ye home.”

  “Please no, Sir William. I am home, and I would beg you to forget that you have seen me here. I have married into the tribe now, and I wish to remain. My old life is gone. But I have a new life, and my new life is here.”

  Sir William remained silent for far too long. At length, he said, “I understand yer fascination with these people, for I share it with ye, lass. But I fear I canna let ye stay. Ye are a white woman.”

  “Yes I am, and you have a Mohawk wife, who has left her people to stay with you.”

  That Sir William seemed taken aback by her defense was a surprise, and they stared at one another for several more moments. “Ye dinna belong here,” he said after a while.

  “Perhaps, but if your reasoning has to do with the color of my skin, then it is clear to me that you do not belong here either.”

  “But, lass, I am a man.”

  “Yes,” she said, “obviously, and I am
a woman.”

  Their looks clashed with one another. Then, as though resigned, Sir William said, “Touché. I forget the urges of youth sometimes. Stay by all means if ye must, Lady Marisa.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Yer secret is safe with me. But should ye ever desire to leave, ye have only to send me a note.”

  “I will remember,” she said, and glancing to her left, toward Black Eagle, where he sat amongst the other men, she caught his attention. Curiously, he looked up at her, then at Johnson, his gaze taking in Johnson’s hand on her shoulder. And even though there was a goodly distance between them, she could feel the heat of his regard.

  Within only a matter of moments, he had left his place at the drum, had come up behind Marisa and she heard him say, “Sir William, my heart is happy to see you. I think you have already met my wife.”

  Sir William gazed from one of them to the other. At length, he said, “Ye are her husband? ”

  “I am.”

  “Aye, lass, ye couldn’t have done better. Black Eagle is like me own son, and it is good to see ye. It has been several moons. I fear I did not know ye had married.”

  Black Eagle stepped forward, coming to her side. He smiled at his friend, and placed his hand on Johnson’s shoulder. He said, “I sent a runner to you. Did you not receive my message?”

  “I did, son. But there is a war going on.”

  “Nyoh.”

  “I take it that ye are the brave who rescued this lady, then?”

  “I am.”

  Sir William nodded. “Ye realize that if this marriage is known, there will be trouble.”

  “Nyoh.”

  “Ye should let her come with me. I know ’twould tear ye apart. But ’tis best.”

  “No!” It was Marisa speaking. “I do not wish to go!”

  Her declaration was met with silence, an uncomfortable silence at best, until at last Black Eagle said, “That is your answer, Sir William. I will not force my wife to do something she doesn’t wish to do.”

  “Then I will try to keep this silent, son. I will do my best. But ye might be advised to go west. Ye are close to Albany here. Too close. Word will leak out eventually. There are traders in yer camp, and there will be more and more English who will come here as the war rages on around Mohawk land. Aye, if ye wish to be together, my advice would be to go west.”

  “Nyuh-weh, thank you,” said Black Eagle. “I hope that your family is well. How is your sister, Catherine? ”

  “I am afraid she is missing her husband, who, if ye will remember died at the Battle of Lake George.”

  “I remember it well. I am grieved for your sister. It is true that women sometimes miss their husbands too much.”

  Though it was evident to Marisa that the two men were close friends, neither seemed willing to negotiate separate viewpoints as regards her. However, the offering of an olive branch came from Black Eagle, and he said, “I would be honored if you would come to my home before you leave. I would like to make a feast for you, since you missed our wedding.”

  “That would be a fine thing, son,” said Johnson. “That would be a fine thing, indeed.”

  Black Eagle nodded. “It will be done. My wife and I now go to prepare.”

  As they turned to leave, Johnson smiled at them both.

  “Yer to get her, man!”

  “I cannot. My uncle forbids it. My only purpose in seeking you out, Sir Rathburn, is to inform you that your niece is in good health and is being well cared for, although apparently she lost her maid in an attack upon them. My uncle is aware that you have offered a ransom for her return, and he begs you to release it, and to ease your mind as to her fate. She is happy and wishes to remain where she is. Therefore, the bounty is unnecessary.”

  “ ’T is very necessary. Do ye think I am the sort of man to leave her with Indians? A lady?”

  “It is her wish,” said Guy Johnson, Sir William’s nephew. “Perhaps in time Sir William or myself can convince her to leave the Indians and return home of her own free will, but if she does not wish to leave them, the Indians will defend her to a man.”

  “Aye, of course. But, perhaps if we sent an army to rescue her . . .”

  “And lose the Mohawk alliance with the English in a time of war?”

  “Aye. Aye.” John Rathburn frowned. “ ’T is not yer problem. ’Tis mine.”

  “I beg you, do not do anything foolish. We cannot risk turning the Mohawk against us. An army sent into their camp, regardless of the reason, will upset them. Simply take to heart that she is not dead, that she is well, alive and happy, and let your own heart rest in the knowledge.”

  “Aye. I thank ye. Tell yer uncle that I appreciate his bringing this to my attention.”

  Guy Johnson nodded. “And now if you will excuse me. There are other matters I must attend to.”

  “By all means. By all means.”

  The two men rose, shook hands, and Guy Johnson turned to leave the Rathburn study, perhaps to report to his uncle his success with the head of the Rathburn estate.

  However, little did Guy Johnson know that when he departed, he left John Rathburn sitting at his desk, frowning, twiddling his thumbs and deep in thought.

  The days had turned colder, the bright autumn leaves were falling in greater numbers than they had been only a few weeks prior and the men were organizing hunting parties. Black Eagle was amongst them.

  Winter was around the corner and the time to hunt was now. As was typical, the men planned to be gone for many months, since most of them would be traveling great distances. Some would go to the Ohio Valley, some would go north and east to Lake Champlain. Others might travel to the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania and still others might traverse all the way up into Canada or to the Niagara Falls in the country of the Seneca. All told, their men would be away from the village for more time than Marisa liked to consider.

  Parting for such an extended time period had been difficult for both Marisa and Black Eagle, and Marisa had begged to be taken with the men. But the way was too far and Marisa too inexperienced, and the fact that none of the other women would be accompanying their men on this trip made the likelihood of her going almost impossible. In the end, both Marisa and Black Eagle had decided it was better if she stay in the village, hard though it might be on them. Maybe next year she could accompany him when she was more accustomed to travel and when he might not be journeying so far.

  She missed him terribly, of course, and even the constant work and the prattle of the other women couldn’t make up for his absence. Nights were the hardest. If not for Pretty Ribbon, who kept Marisa constant company, it would have been even harder.

  Gradually, however, as Marisa became more accustomed to village life, the rhythm of the days seemed to flow one into the other, and life began to follow a pattern. Also, she was surrounded by family, who watched over her carefully and ensured she always had enough company.

  But today there was excitement. Today they were to leave the village and go out into the woods, nut gathering. The nuts would be ripe now and they were needed for many different things. The oil from the butternut, for instance, was fed to babies; some nuts were soaked and pounded into flour, or boiled. Others went into the corn bread for flavor or mixed into puddings. Nothing was wasted.

  It was all new and interesting to Marisa, who hadn’t known the woods abounded with so much nutritious food. Apparently, there were all sorts of nuts to be found in the woods, as well; there were black walnuts, hazelnuts, acorns, butternuts, hickory and chestnuts. Indeed, the work would be long and intense, and most of the women and girls in the village would, themselves, be gone from the village for several days. This included Marisa and her sisters.

  “I like hazelnuts best of all,” said Pretty Ribbon as she skipped along beside Marisa. Equipped with bark baskets in hand, the women and two guards had already entered the woods. “What nut do you like best?”

  “Hmmm, I think I like roasted chestnuts. Yes,” said Marisa, “it would be roasted chestnu
ts.”

  “Oh, look!” It was Laughing Maid speaking. “Do you see? Over there, in the clearing—it’s the biggest walnut tree I have ever beheld. Let’s see if we can get there before the others find it, and let’s fill our baskets. There must be hundreds, maybe thousands of nuts in that one tree, alone. Won’t our clan mother have great praise for us if we come home with all of our baskets filled? And so soon.”

  “Yes, let’s try.”

  Pretty Ribbon, however, wasn’t pleased. She held back, saying, “I think we should wait for the others.”

  “Good,” said Laughing Maid. “You wait for them. Tell them where we have gone.”

  “I want you to wait with me.”

  “Do not be such a child. You’ll be fine. Tell them where we’ve gone.”

  Pretty Ribbon seemed mortified at the reprimand, and she nodded quietly.

  “Don’t worry, Pretty Ribbon, we’ll be back in only a moment,” said Marisa, and the two elder sisters set off at a fast pace toward the walnut tree.

  “There is always a contest amongst us to see who can gather the most nuts. I have never won. Maybe this time I will.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Marisa. “I’ll fill up your basket first before mine.”

  “No,” said Laughing Maid. “That would be cheating. The contest is won on your own merit or not at all.”

  “Oh,” said Marisa as she rocked back on her feet and exhaled. Never had she been amongst such honest and hardworking people. Invariably, given half a chance she might yet lead her sisters astray. Luckily when her suggestions were a mite off-color for them—seeming right to her, but breaking some moral code for them—someone usually corrected her.

  “Let’s hurry,” said Laughing Maid.

  As they ran toward the tree, they didn’t hear the men, who had been waiting. Nor did they sense the men’s presence until too late.

  They struck the two women from behind furiously and fast. One of the brutes hit Laughing Maid so hard that with a scream, she fell to the ground. Marisa’s scream split through the forest, but these men were fast, and stuffing a dirty handkerchief into her mouth and grabbing both of her hands, one of the bullies picked her up and ran.