by Linda Ladd
"It's me, Alysson, don't make a sound,” he whispered softly, and Alysson struggled, pulling her hands free, jerking away from her gag.
"It's a trap, it's a trap, run,” she cried desperately. Donovan brought up his pistol as blankets were flung off the waiting ambushers, every gun barrel sighted upon his chest. His eyes darted to the other side of the clearing, his only hope that Adam would be able to pick them off. He saw Adam then, rising from his cover, gun pointed at the men around Donovan. But before he could fire, an arrow whistled from the trees behind him, piercing the meat of his shoulder. Adam fell sideways, screaming in agony, and Donovan let his own gun drop as Alysson sobbed and clutched him as if she would never let go. Donovan held her against his chest, his eyes on Compton, who now stood a short distance away.
"You made good time, MacBride, better than I expected you to. But my friends there in the trees kept me apprised of your every movement."
Donovan looked around as ten lean Mohawk warriors melted out of the surrounding woods. Their faces were savage, adorned with ominous slashes of war paint, their scalp locks long and decorated with feathers and shells.
"I tried to warn you,” Alysson sobbed brokenly against his chest. Donovan's grip tightened, but his eyes did not leave Compton's face.
Douglas frowned at Alysson's display toward her husband, his voice sharp.
"Come here, Alysson, now! Or you'll make it worse for him!"
Afraid for Donovan, Alysson immediately pulled away, her face white with fear as she went to Compton's side. Compton pulled her against him with one arm, so tight that Alysson struggled to free herself.
"You bastard,” Donovan said fiercely, lunging for him, but he got no farther than a step as a scar-faced Indian behind him sent his tomahawk down in a glancing blow off the base of Donovan's skull.
Alysson screamed as Donovan fell to his knees. As the Mohawk warrior grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, Alysson pulled away from Douglas, throwing herself over Donovan's half-conscious body.
"No, no,” she cried, holding his head against her breast. Compton stepped forward before the Indian could thrust her away.
"Get him in the canoe,” he ordered sharply, pulling Alysson up and away from Donovan.
She sobbed as two of the savages took his arms, dragging him toward the riverbank. She sought to follow, pulling against Compton's grip, and his fingers tightened, his voice coming low with warning.
"Don't be a fool! Blue Jacket's my friend, but I can't tell him what to do. I can't protect you if you anger him!"
"Please, Douglas, don't let them hurt them any more. You've got them now. Take them to the fort and give them up. Please, I beg you. Both of them are hurt. They need a doctor."
"Shut up,” he said, pulling her by the arm, and Alysson stumbled along with him, her heart breaking as they passed Adam, who lay groaning on the ground. One of the Mohawks bent over him, pulling him up roughly with one hand. He broke off the feathered end of the arrow protruding from the back of his coat, pulling it out of his shoulder with one sharp jerk. Adam blacked out with the pain and was pulled by the Indians to where Donovan lay near the water.
Alysson watched helplessly as they stripped off the coats and shirts of both prisoners, and tied their wrists together in front of them, making no effort to bind the bloody wound on Adam's shoulder. When they began to spread the black, oozing mud of the river bottom on their faces and chests, Alysson grabbed Douglas's sleeve.
"What are they doing to them?"
"They always paint their prisoners before they take them back to their village. Get in the boat, quickly!"
Alysson looked back again, but Douglas shoved her toward one of the long canoes of thin elm bark that the Indians had dragged from hiding along the bank. She looked back as Donovan and Adam were dumped unconscious into the bottom of another boat, terrified at what the Indians might do to them. She had been frightened of the fierce warriors since the tall, English-speaking one brought his war party to meet Douglas. As the Indian moved agilely into the canoe behind her, her gaze fell on the dark blue jacket he wore. It was the uniform of an American officer, very similar to the one Jeremy wore, but the gold epaulettes some American soldier had worn so proudly were now hung with scalps, of every color and length.
Alysson shuddered, numb with renewed fear as the canoe was pushed into the current. The Indians dipped their paddles into the river with deep, sure strokes, breaking the smooth surface of the water in long ripples that spread out behind them in expanding V's to break gently upon the bank.
Donovan strained to open his eyes, but he couldn't quite garner the strength to do it, and he stopped trying, feeling disoriented and confused. Something had happened, he thought dazedly, something he had to remember, something to do with Alysson. She was in danger! He forced open his eyes to a wavery, underwaterlike world, then shut them tightly as a pounding pain erupted in the back of his head, a deep, hollow clanging as if someone beat insistently upon an iron door.
After a moment, he tried again and focused upon a smooth expanse the color of copper. It seemed to wave and ripple, and when he finally recognized it for what it was, everything came flooding back to him. He continued to watch the Indian's bare back, where muscles moved fluidly with each paddlestroke, feigning unconsciousness as he tried to think. A moment later he realized that Adam lay in the bottom of the boat, slumped near Donovan's feet. At first, Donovan thought he was dead, and then he saw the slight rising and falling of his chest. Dried blood covered his shoulder and chest over some kind of blackish-gray paint, and Donovan saw then that he was covered with the mud himself. It had dried in the sun, making his flesh tight and uncomfortable.
He moved his eyes slightly, aware by the sounds behind him that at least two other Indians paddled in the stern. From what he could tell, they were already on Lake Erie, and he tried to estimate how long he had been unconscious. By the position of the sun, it appeared to be well past noon. They were heading northwest, probably toward the Niagara River.
Easing up his head just enough to see the boat in front of him, he saw Alysson in the lead canoe, the sun glinting off her bright hair. She was all right. He licked parched lips. He had to think what to do. He had to regain his strength enough to find a way to escape with her.
The journey continued, the sun burning down on the calm surface of Lake Erie, the Mohawks tireless in their paddling. As the afternoon lengthened, the pounding in Donovan's head gradually became a dull ache, and Adam began to show feeble signs of life, with muffled moans or gasps of pain.
The sun was low in the western sky when they paddled through the shadow of Fort Erie, close enough for Donovan to make out the scarlet coats of the British soldiers high atop the walls. There was no attempt made to land there, and the party of canoes passed unmolested into the channel of the Niagara River. Since they had bypassed the fort, Donovan did not know their destination, but he did know the American stronghold of Black Rock lay ahead on the United States side of the river. If they did manage an escape, that would be their only chance. Fort Niagara and Jeremy lay too far away, miles past the Great Falls. Donovan knew that Compton would have to land soon, because the Niagara River was unnavigable after it forked around a large piece of wooded land. Goat Island sat at midpoint in the river just before the waters plummeted hundreds of feet over a horseshoe-shaped fall on the Canadian side and a similar drop near the American side.
When they passed Black Rock, the Indians kept their craft very close to the Canadian shoreline, far out of the reach of the American guns. Donovan began to frown as they proceeded farther downriver in the current of the river. They were getting very close to the falls now; he could see the trees looming up on one end of Goat Island, could hear the distant thunder of millions of tons of falling water.
When the rippling white rapids that slanted across the river a mile or so from the falls came into sight, Donovan was able to see the cloud of white mist rising where the river poured in its rushing, boiling torrent to the lower r
iver channel. He breathed easier as the Mohawks shifted their course before the prows of their canoes could enter the rapids, angling toward a small island near the Canadian bank. The Dufferin Islands, he remembered, and as they came closer to the banks, he could see where an Indian village of longhouses and crude log huts was clustered on one shore. As they glided closer, one of the Indians behind Donovan gave a shrill cry like the staccato barking of a fox. Women and children spilled from the village to greet the returning war party. Donovan slowly pushed himself into a sitting position as the canoes were beached upon a sandy stretch of the bank.
Donovan was pulled roughly out of the canoe, and Adam groaned pitiably as he was jerked out of the boat to be ducked beneath the water several times to revive him. The warriors dragged him to Donovan's side, and Adam slumped forward, barely able to stand.
Donovan's eyes were on Compton as he led Alysson toward a wide clearing in the middle of the lodges, all the while working to free his wrists from the cords that were binding him. During the last hour he had managed to work them loose, and he continued to twist at them, down low where no one could notice. The Indian women and children gathered around the newly arrived prisoners, pelting them with rocks and dog dung, while they shouted curses and insults at the hated Long Knives.
A call from the blue-coated chief stopped the harassment, and the tormentors ran to arm themselves with sticks and rocks, then formed into two long lines facing each other. Donovan knew then what fate was planned for Adam and him. A gauntlet, he thought, a chill passing over him. They were going to have to run the gauntlet.
Chapter 26
Alysson stood next to Douglas, trying to understand what was being said as excited Indians surrounded them. Many of the Mohawk words were similar enough to Macomi's Seneca tongue that she could pick up snatches, but they were speaking very fast and she understood little other than that it was the prisoners about whom they spoke.
Trembling all over, she stared at the three tall stakes driven into the ground in the middle of the ceremonial grounds, charred black, and it was then she remembered Macomi's tales of the barbarous Iroquois custom of burning prisoners alive. She felt faint as she tried to see Donovan and Adam down near the river. All the villagers were lined up now in front of Adam, and she jerked her eyes around as Douglas took hold of her arm.
"I don't think you should watch the gauntlet. It's not a pretty sight,” he said.
Alysson's heart stood still at his words. Macomi had explained the gauntlet in gory detail back at Wildwood. Alysson started to run down toward Donovan. Douglas caught her fast, holding both her arms as she tried to twist away.
"No, let me go, I won't let them do it, please, we've got to stop it!"
"You can't stop it and neither can I. Let me take you inside the lodge before they start."
"No!” she cried, but her words were drowned out by the beginning of the drums and turtle-shell rattles.
Alysson turned her terrified gaze on the shouting women and children. Each one held a weapon of some kind, a few older youths at the far end holding thick cudgels the size of Alysson's wrist. She covered her mouth with her hands, tasting the bitterness of bile rising in the back of her throat as Adam was given a hard shove by the Indian beside him. He stumbled blindly into the far end of the deadly corridor, and Alysson groaned in pure horror as the women there raised their sticks and clubs, raining blows on his back and wounded shoulder.
"No, no, stop,” she cried, sobbing as Adam tried to move forward, making a weak attempt to cover his head with his tied hands. He fell once, somehow managing to get up, despite the blows landing viciously all over his bare back. He staggered forward again, but did not make it a yard when he was again driven to his knees.
"Stop it, stop it!” Alysson screamed, but no one could hear her for a great cheer went up as Adam finally fell to the ground and lay still.
A commotion at the far end of the gauntlet sent her tear-blurred eyes back to Donovan, and she saw him jerk away from his captor, snapping the ropes that held his wrists as he spun toward the unsuspecting warrior. One iron-knuckled fist into the Indian's jaw sent the Mohawk flying backward, but Donovan ran for the queue of stick-wielding women and boys. He rammed a young warrior at the end of the line with his shoulder, knocking him to his back, and Alysson cried out with joy as Donovan wrested the heavy club from the boy's hand.
With a great cry of rage he swung it in a wide arc around him, sending terrified Mohawks scattering in every direction away from the big white man. As he reached Adam, he jerked him up bodily and slung him over one shoulder, his eyes on Alysson's place where Compton still held her.
"Damn him!” Compton shouted, releasing his grip on her to jerk his pistol out of his belt.
"No!” Alysson cried as he aimed it at Donovan's chest. She knocked his arm upward, and when the gun fired harmlessly into the air, she lunged away toward Donovan. Douglas caught her again, and she struggled impotently as a swarm of armed Mohawk warriors surrounded Donovan. Adam was jerked from his grip, and then there was a great deal of confusion and shouting everywhere as Donovan was pulled off in the midst of the angry Indians.
Douglas cursed, pushing Alysson into the nearest lodge.
"Keep her inside,” he yelled to a young warrior near them, and headed at a limping run toward the crowd around Donovan.
The young Mohawk sat down at the entrance, watching her, and Alysson looked around the long narrow house, helpless to do anything. She paced back and forth, upset, terrified for Donovan. It had grown very quiet outside now, and she stopped, trying to see out the flap. What were they doing to him? She thought in agonizing desperation. Where had they taken him?
It seemed a hundred years passed while she waited there. Twilight descended over the quiet camp; the only sounds detectable were the rush of the river and the distant roar of the falls. When it was very dark, the Indian youth made a fire in the center of the lodge. Alysson moved to it, then whirled as two warriors entered, carrying Adam between them. They laid him on a racklike bed covered with deerskins that was built against the wall, then left again, taking the younger guard with them.
Alysson ran to her father and gently turned his face toward her. He groaned in agony, and she leaned down close to him.
"Adam? It's Alysson. Can you hear me?"
Even in the dim light, she could see that his face was so bruised and swollen that it was hardly recognizable. Tears rolled down her cheeks as he tried to speak.
"Alysson?” he managed through cracked, dry lips.
"Yes, I'm here,” she whispered, blotting gently at some of the deep cuts on his face and chest with the end of her skirt.
"I'm sorry, so sorry ... I tried to find you ... find your mother, I loved her,” he mumbled, his labored words sliding into an incoherent slur.
"I know, please don't try to talk, try to rest."
He slipped back into unconsciousness almost at once, and Alysson tore strips of fabric from her skirt, trying to bind his bleeding shoulder as best she could. He had lost so much blood, so much. He couldn't die, she thought, he couldn't die. Not before they could talk. Not before they had gotten to know one another as a father and daughter. Please, she prayed, please let him live.
The sound of faraway drums and chanting suddenly came to her, and she jumped up in alarm, running to the flap. The boy still sat outside, blocking her escape, but she could see the glow of a fire against the dark night sky. She put one hand over her mouth as nausea engulfed her. What if Donovan was there, tied to a stake? The idea was too painful to bear, and she paced anxiously, checking on Adam who breathed in rapid, shallow gasps.
"Come,” a voice said from the door, and Alysson turned to see two old women standing there.
She hesitated, looking at Adam, but each of them took her by the arm and pulled her outside.
"Where are you taking me?” she whispered in Seneca, but they said nothing, pulling her through the darkness of the village. The moon was very full and bright, glittering on the riv
er as they stopped in front of a small hut on the bank of the cove. She slapped at them as they began to pull off her ragged skirt and petticoats, but they persevered with their task until she was thrust naked and trembling into the hut.
Terrified, she went to her knees, covering herself with her arms, but there was no one inside. It was hot, stifling hot, and perspiration broke out all over her skin as she huddled in one corner, afraid of what was going to happen to her. Not long after, the same two women came for her, pulling her outside and into the cold water of the river, without a word spoken.
The water was frigid, a shock to her overheated body, and she came up sputtering and shivering, only to be pulled out and dried with a soft cloth. She was given a long fringed tunic of some soft animal skin, then taken to a lodge nearby.
It was pitch-black inside, and she could feel some kind of soft fur beneath her feet. She backed into the farthest corner away from the door, sure now that she had been prepared for one of the Indians, perhaps the blue-jacketed chief. She knew it instinctively, and she quivered all over, holding her stomach, thinking of the baby she carried, terrified for it, terrified for Donovan.
She tensed as a tall figure appeared in the door of the lodge, pressing herself farther away as he moved into silhouette and she saw the feathers of his scalp lock. She inched down the wall away from him as he stepped into the darkness of the lodge.
"Alysson? Where are you?"
It was Donovan's voice, Donovan's beloved voice, and she sobbed out his name in joy. He came to her, his strong arms bringing her tight against his chest, and she clutched him desperately, afraid that he was a dream, that she would awaken and he would be gone.
"Are you all right?” he asked softly, holding her trembling body close.
"Yes, but I was so scared for you,” she mumbled against his chest. “I thought they would kill you, burn you...