Seneca Surrender (Berkley Sensation)

by Gen Bailey

  Soon White Thunder returned and crouched down beside her in a position that afforded him a view of the enemy’s approach. He held his rifle in a ready position and gazed out toward the path the warriors were making.

  Perhaps they were lucky this day, or mayhap this particular group of men was overconfident because their numbers were great, or maybe they were returning from a battle, and thus were unaware of their environment. Whatever the cause, they missed seeing the tracks of the two people who had been on that path minutes before them.

  Still, it seemed to take the war party forever to pass by, and when at last their rear was no more than a distant speck, White Thunder continued to wait, his body and his gun held in a position to do immediate battle.

  How many minutes passed, Sarah could not estimate, but it must have been at least a half hour. At last, with his weapon still held in a primed position, he whispered,

  “Huron war party. We will no longer travel over known paths. They are dangerous. Our way from here on will be hard, but safer because we will travel through untouched land.”

  “Untouched? ”

  He nodded. “Land through which there are no known paths,” he explained. “It will be hard for you, but it must be done, since it appears the Iroquois Trail is no longer safe for travel. Be that as it may, we will, of necessity, go where few wish to travel. Have you a weapon?”

  “No. A terrible oversight on my part,” she said.

  “Do you at least have a knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep it ready to use. I little know what to expect. Wait here while I go back and erase our most recent tracks, but then we must leave quickly before they at last see our earlier prints and backtrack to find us.”

  “That could happen?”

  He nodded. “Easily.” Rising up, he left to erase their passage as thoroughly and quickly as possible.

  Sixteen

  “Inthe days before the European came to our country, a person could walk the Iroquois Trail from one end of it to the other and never meet with any danger . . . at least not from a human source.”

  “Truly?” she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “And what exactly is the Iroquois Trail?”

  She scooted closer to White Thunder as he took his time answering her question. They were sitting within a temporary shelter White Thunder had fashioned from tree branches, leaves and dirt. Since it was made from materials gleaned from the environment, it literally blended into its surroundings, disappearing to all but the most discerning eye.

  The night was cold, they had no fire, nor did they dare to light one, since, as White Thunder had said, “The smoke from a fire travels farther and faster than a man can easily flee.”

  They sat close together, not only because they wished to remain close to one another, but for warmth, as well. They were huddled on one of their blankets; the other he had wrapped around her. Even still, she shivered.

  “The Iroquois Trail,” he explained, “is a path forged through the forest long ago that links all the villages of the Iroquois Confederation, one to the other. It stretches between the land of the Mohawks in the east to the far western tribe of the Confederation—my tribe, the Seneca. Always in the past, the trail was kept clear and free of branches or other debris so that a runner or anyone, even a child, could easily travel upon it. In the old days, no enemy dared to use it or molest anyone upon it, because the Iroquois were strong and could defend what was theirs. But all this has changed since the English and French have come here to stay. Now we see war parties of enemy tribes traveling upon our trail, where never they used to go.”

  “I’m sorry. It sounds as if it had once been ideal,” Sarah commented. “But I still don’t understand. We’ve talked of this before, about how the coming of the English and French changed your people. But, sir, weren’t the Indians at war long before the Europeans arrived?”

  Again it took him some moments to answer. “The change took place over a long period of time, a few hundreds of years. Before the English arrived, the Iroquois were a powerful nation, a peaceful nation. But it wasn’t always so. In the very long ago, perhaps as long as seven hundred years ago, there were revenge killings and the people were often crying, for there seemed no end to it. But two great men, Hiawatha and the Peacemaker, brought about a better way to settle grief and to appease the spirits of the departed. They sought to end all war because at that time most wars were started due to the need to avenge one’s dearly departed.

  “They set up a system of government that, with certain ceremonies, would pacify the grief of their loved one, and it would ensure prosperity and peace. When this was done, a great calm fell upon the land.

  “This was how it was when the European first came to this country. But we soon learned that the Europeans quarreled among themselves—not out of revenge, as we had, but due to a thirst for wealth. They had, themselves, no great peace. It wasn’t long before we also realized that not only did they quarrel with themselves, but they sought to incite the Indians to their different sides in their disputes. Witlessly, Indians took sides. Thus, the great peace ended, and all with the coming of the European, for soon, there was one war after another on this land.”

  “But this is fantastic, sir. You must know that the English tell the story of their coming entirely differently. According to our history, it was the Indians who were treacherous, who were always at war, while our own English ancestors tried to restore peace among them.”

  He gazed at her askance, then said, “It has long been noted that when a man has no defense against the truth, his only option is to accuse another of those things he does himself.”

  She frowned at him. “This you have mentioned to me before, and it is a bit of wisdom I have never heard.”

  “Simple observation will show you this is true,” he said, then continued. “Now, there are many of my brothers within the Iroquois Nation who have made friends with the English, though I think they are unwise to do so. They fight his wars. They take up his arms. They think they must, for they have become dependent on the things the English can give them. But not all the Iroquois have been bought by the English or the French. Not all of the Iroquois experience the greed that the trade has caused among our people.”

  Sarah sat silently for a moment. “Then you must very much dislike the society that is springing up all around you.”

  “Dislike is not the right word,” he responded. “What is more correct is that I think it is unwise to become so dependent on a people who do not know you or need you. Do you think that we of the Seneca have blind eyes and have not seen how the English and French treat the white black man who escapes into our country? Do you think we have not noticed the white black man killed or enslaved when the English can get their hands on him? And what about people like you, his own kind, whom he enslaves by means of finance and rules? Do you believe we do not realize that if he could, the English, the French, too, would do the same to us? But he cannot enslave us—at least not now—because our Confederacy is too strong. We are united.”

  Her lips parted as though she might respond. But upon further consideration, she closed her mouth. In due time, however, she said, “I truly don’t know what to say. If this is your honest viewpoint of my people, it is not a complimentary one.”

  “So it is not.”

  She shivered.

  He drew her into his arms and said, “Too much talk and not enough lovemaking.”

  Sarah smiled. “Surely, sir, you’re not thinking of making love here? Here beneath a ceiling of tree branches and leaves?”

  “I am,” he said. “It will keep us warm, if you are willing.”

  “’Tis not a point I can argue . . . sir.” She smiled.

  He grinned back. “What?” he questioned. “You do not disagree? ”

  “Am I that bad, sir?”

  “Bad? You are good. Very good.” As he took her in his arms, he brought her into a position up and over him in a straddle-like pose, and he repeated, “You are
very good, indeed.”

  They traveled through thickets and brambles with stickers that stuck to her dress and petticoats. They stepped through streams that froze her moccasins to her feet, requiring the two of them to stop while White Thunder rubbed them back to life. And always it was cold.

  “Why do you not warm your own feet?”Sarah had asked once, after observing that White Thunder never attended to his own needs. Indeed, were it not for her, he might not have stopped at all, but would have continued on their path, acting as though nothing untoward had happened.

  “My body does not require attention,” he had explained. “I have bathed in cold and icy water all my life. Even in the dead of winter, the wintry swim is a necessary part of life.”

  Sarah shivered. “I can’t imagine anything worse.”

  “It is not bad,” he said. “Over time, the body craves it.”

  She shook her head at him. “If you say so.”

  Soon they were back on the trail, even though it had begun to rain and drizzle. In the distance, the roar of a waterfall was becoming more distinct, for this, according to White Thunder, was where he’d found her.

  At last they reached the area of the falls. Though Sarah witnessed them only from afar, their roar drowned out all other sound.

  I had fallen down those? She shivered as she watched the utter power of this natural wonder.

  But it wasn’t White Thunder’s intention to stop and admire the marvel of the falls. He was plodding on ahead, and was so far distant from her, it required her to run to catch up with him. Perhaps she was making too much noise in her mad dash toward him. Whatever the cause, at last White Thunder turned and stopped, waiting for her to draw even with him.

  “Is there a reason you usually travel so far ahead of me?”she asked as she came to stand beside him.

  “There is,” he answered without looking at her. He pointed forward. “The danger is in front of us, not behind us. I must stay well in advance should there be peril, either from man or animal. In this way, you might escape while I fight the menace.”

  “Oh,” she murmured in acknowledgment. “It is interesting because it is much different in my society. Men in English society are considered mannerly only when they follow the woman.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I would not be doing my duty were I to lag behind you. It could cause you to meet the danger head-on, while I am in safety at the rear.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  He nodded.

  The rain had started in earnest now, and in her haste, she slipped over the wet leaves and fell to her knees. Immediately White Thunder was at her side, helping her up.

  “Mr. Thunder,” she said, coming up to her feet. “Is it really possible that I fell down those falls and survived?”

  His arms spanned her waist as he set her back on her feet. “It is my belief that this is so.”

  Sarah shook her head. “’Tis a shock I wasn’t killed.”

  He placed his arms around her and brought her into his embrace. “Almost, you were,” he said. “Almost.”

  As the rain fell in torrents around them, they stood in the middle of the forest, clinging to one another. He said, “We will begin our search for your friend and her husband here. If they survived the falls, they would have stayed here to mend themselves and their equipment, since no warrior of any merit would dare the forest without an adequate defense. And if they stopped here, there will be a shelter somewhere in this vicinity. That is what we’ll be looking for.”

  “I see,” she replied, raising her face to his, a perfect invitation for a kiss. Happily he accommodated her.

  There was something erotic and magical about kissing your lover in the middle of a rainstorm, if only because the downpour itself seemed to magnify the fire inside. It was another moment of pure heaven, and Sarah cherished it, committing this, too, to memory.

  But wonderful though it was, they couldn’t long stand in the middle of a forest, in the midst of a rainstorm. Soon, they were heading out again on the trail.

  Somewhere along the way, Sarah asked, “Aren’t you afraid that the rain might freeze our tracks to the ground so that anyone could follow us?”

  “I might be concerned if it stopped raining,” he answered, “but because it continues, there is little danger of that happening.”

  “Oh.”

  Onward they traveled, slowly now, searching for clues. One day turned to the next, and still they found nothing definite.

  For Sarah, these days of constant wandering had begun to blur. In truth, because their path required her to traverse a muddy, cold, gray and wet land, the days were beginning to take on the color of pure misery. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the landscape, or what White Thunder was doing. More to the point, it simply was not the sort of journey that a woman might enjoy. Indeed, the land they traveled over was the kind of terrain that even a rabbit wouldn’t have dared navigate at this time of year.

  Always, the ground seemed to be moist and littered with the sight and scent of decaying leaves, bushes and undergrowth. The trees were brittle, and hosted so many branches that they often scratched Sarah as she passed them by, and her clothes were torn by thorns and stickers. Her hair had long since escaped its knot to hang in curls down her back, which, due to the drizzle, had taken to springing into waves and ringlets.

  But if the days were wretched, the nights were enchanting, perhaps making up for her daily travail. Each night White Thunder fashioned a temporary shelter, one that was built from whatever was to hand. Each night, after making love, they slept in one another’s arms. In the morning they bathed, she in the relative comfort of their refuge, and he in some nearby stream. Always the feel and scent of nature was all around her, the dirt, the leaves and the freshest air she’d ever breathed.

  It happened on a beautiful, sunny day. They came upon the body of a man, months decayed. He had certainly been a huge man, Sarah thought as she turned away from the sight.

  Carefully, White Thunder bent to examine the ground around the body.

  “There was a struggle here,” he said, “but most of the prints that would tell the complete story of what happened are long gone.”

  “Is the man a Mohawk, sir?”

  “No, Ottawa.”

  Sarah breathed out in a sigh of relief. “Thank the dear Lord. I was afraid it might have been the young man who was so besotted with Miss Marisa. You are certain he is Ottawa? ”

  He nodded. “Ottawa.”

  “How can you tell he is Ottawa? Without a doubt?”

  White Thunder pointed toward the man’s feet. “Do you see the cut of his moccasins?”

  “No. I . . . I don’t want to look.”

  “The pattern of beadwork, the cut. His style of breechcloth, clothes, weapons. He was Ottawa. He was struck several times, also; the blow to the head was the fatal blow. The man who did this was protecting something.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was unnecessary to beat this dead man so many times. Whoever it was that fought him was ensuring the Ottawa’s death. One has to ask why?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “Loved ones or a loved one was near, perhaps endangered. Only then does a man become so savage.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Sarah.

  “Besides, clamped in the Ottawa’s hand is some red hair. Was your friend’s hair red?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “It is possible they camped close to here.”

  “They? ”

  “By these clues, I think we have found the trail of your friend and her Mohawk protector.” Reaching into one of the bags that he carried around his shoulder, White Thunder withdrew what looked to Sarah to be a dried herb.

  Carefully, he crumbled the herb in his hand, then sprinkled it around the body of the dead Ottawa. After some moments, he said some words in his own language over the body before he at last came up onto his feet.

  Turning toward Sarah, he gestured. “Come, let us search for
the place where they built their shelter. If I am right, I believe we will find it close to here.”

  In the end, it took White Thunder several more days of hunting and inspecting the forest around him to locate the shelter, which was nestled in a deeply wooded valley. Constructed as it was, alongside a fallen tree, it first looked to be nothing more than the loose branches of an old, dead tree. But as he pulled one branch after another aside, the inside of the structure was revealed.

  Whoever built this, thought White Thunder, was a good man. Smart.

  “This is where they stayed,” he told Sarah. “Come, let’s see what clues they left us.”

  “Then she’s alive?”

  “I cannot say how she is now, but when this was built, she was alive—do you see over there?”He pointed into the shelter.

  “No, what?”

  “Look closely.”

  “I see nothing, sir, but branches and grass.”

  He bent and picked up a small piece of white lace. He said, “Unless our Mohawk warrior has taken to wearing a lady’s decoration, I think we can assume that your friend stayed here.”

  “Let me see that.”

  White Thunder handed her the material.

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “I recognize the design of this. ’Tis Marisa’s.” She brought her gaze up to meet White Thunder’s, and White Thunder found himself yearning to take this woman in his arms and make love to her here, now, under the broad light of day.

  He might have done it, too, were it not a dangerous thing for a man to attempt, given where they were and the circumstances of war that surrounded them. He had always been attracted to Sarah, thus he’d felt no qualms in agreeing to their pretense at being man and wife.

  But since they had started out on the trail, each day brought a new facet of her personality to the fore, and he was finding himself becoming more and more besotted with her. Her gentle ways, her kind encouragement to him, her courage in the face of so much adversity, was acting as a balm to his heart.