Homecoming, page 3
It was perfectly natural for a spirit, wasn’t it?
Flavius keyed his ears to a peculiar swishing sound repeated over and over. He did not hear any harp music, which Matilda swore was the favorite of angels and cherubs. What he did hear, though, moments later, was a loud grunt. It disturbed him greatly. He did not know a lot about Heaven, but he was sure that grunting, like belching and passing wind, would hardly be allowed.
Maybe he was not where he thought he was.
Maybe he had gone down rather than up.
Someone spoke in a guttural tone that sounded a lot like an Indian tongue. It confirmed his fear. Hadn’t his own parson asserted that all heathens were bound for the fiery depths, not the pearly gates?
Lord Almighty, spare me! Flavius thought, then realized to his horror that he had uttered the words aloud. The swishing ceased. The rocking motion slowed. Something nudged his leg, but he ignored it.
As a child, Flavius had frequently been hauled out to the woodshed by his pa and tanned severely for misbehaving. After each licking, he’d always felt like curling into a ball and bawling his brains out. He felt the same way now.
Again something nudged him. The same voice spoke, and he knew the speaker was addressing him. “Go away and leave me be,” Flavius said. “I want to suffer in peace, consarn it.”
A hard jab to the gut was impossible to ignore. Speared by pain, Flavius snapped up into a sitting posture and opened his eyes. He would be damned if he was going to lie there and let a demon torment him!
The first sight Flavius saw was the bright blue vault of sky speckled by fluffy white clouds. He was seated in a long canoe, water flowing gently on either side. Before him stood a stocky, short Indian dressed in a loincloth and little else. Behind Flavius was another.
There were no hellish flames. There was no brimstone, no sulphurous stench. He had not died, after all. But he might wish that he had before too long, depending on what his captors intended to do.
The man in the bow flung words at him that were so much gibberish. Shaking his head to show that he did not comprehend, Flavius smiled and held his hands palm outward. “Friend!” he declared, repeating it in the Creek and the Seminole tongues on the off chance the pair might understand. Their blank expressions were proof they did not.
The Indians were not from any tribe Flavius had ever encountered. They were finely muscled, but not in the bulging kind of way that, say, a blacksmith would be. Their tawny skins reminded him of healthy cougars. They had dark eyes, white teeth. Black hair swept back from their foreheads. The man in front wore a red ornament in his hair, held in place by a thick needle-like clip. Their buckskin loincloths covered more of their backsides than their fronts.
Like the warriors, their canoe was unlike any Flavius had beheld. It was high at both ends, which was very unusual. The skin had been made from birch, the frame of cedar. The paddles, however, as well as the thwarts that held the gunwales together, had been fashioned of hard maple. All in all, it was an outstanding craft, finely detailed, precisely constructed.
The Indians exchanged comments. Flavius had not given much thought to his personal effects until he glanced again over his shoulder at the second warrior. There, in a small pile, were his pistols, rifle, powder horn, ammo pouch, knife, and possibles bag. In short, everything that meant anything to him.
He was tempted to try to grab the pistols. But both warriors sported long knives in deerskin sheaths. The four-foot paddles in their hands would also be formidable weapons if wielded as clubs. He opted to wait until a better chance came along.
Of the dun, there was no sign. Flavius doubted that the Indians had killed it. They’d have no reason to other than to eat it, and so far as Flavius knew, the only tribe that ate horses was one he had heard of that lived far to the southwest, out beyond the Mississippi River in uncharted territory. The Apaches, they were called. He hadn’t believed the frontiersman who’d told him, but Davy had confirmed it was true so it must be.
The man in the bow turned and commenced paddling. His broad shoulders powered each swing. The paddle hardly seemed to dip below the surface, yet the canoe shot forward as if fired from a cannon. It had to be remarkably light for it to glide as swiftly and easily as it did.
Flavius was glad to be alive. At the same time, he had a new worry, namely what the Indians would do to him once they got him to their village. Quite a few tribes tortured their enemies. Not out of any perverse desire to see others suffer. No, they inflicted torture as a means of gauging the courage of their captives.
The Hurons, for example, once tortured an Iroquois by burning small parts of his body at a time. The man endured the torment for almost twelve hours before he gave up the ghost. Then he was cut into small pieces which were passed around for the Hurons to eat in tribute to his bravery.
The memory made Flavius queasy. He’d much rather that his captors did him in quickly. If not, his only consolation was that no other whites would witness his screaming and pleading.
Flavius was not about to deceive himself. He wasn’t the most courageous of men, and his threshold for pain was very low. It wouldn’t take much to reduce him to a pathetic wreck.
The stream they were on joined another, which in turn was linked to a third. High reeds and wild grass flanked them most of the time.
Flavius’s head hurt, and there was a knot where the dun had kicked him. He needed to rest, but he forced himself to stay awake. His life depended on getting his hands on his guns. Eventually the Indians were bound to make a mistake.
Mile after mile fell behind them, however, and the pair never let down their guard. Only once did they stop, so the man in the bow could go off into some trees. The warrior behind Flavius kept a hand on the hilt of his knife the whole time.
The sun was on its downward arc when the canoe swept around a bend. Before them appeared a large island dotted by trees. Flavius looked up and his heart sank. He would never have an opportunity to get away now.
A large village had been established on the island. Odd dome-shaped wigwams outnumbered the trees. Wisps of smoke curled from cooking fires. Adults and children were everywhere, some of the former taking their leisure, some busy at various tasks. Canoes similar to the one in which Flavius rode lined the shore.
The man in the bow stood, tilted his head, and yipped long and loud. It drew dozens to the water’s edge to greet the newcomers.
Flavius wanted to crawl into his own skin and hide. He was doomed. He just knew it. He’d never see Matilda again, never savor one of her intimate cuddles. It wouldn’t surprise him if he wound up like that Iroquois, and he could only hope that all those who ate pieces of him became as sick as dogs. It would serve them right.
The Indians were chatting gaily until the canoe coasted to rest. Silence descended as each and every one regarded Flavius so intently that his skin prickled with gooseflesh. He was half-afraid to twitch for fear of being riddled with arrows.
A commotion at the rear of the crowd heralded the arrival of a tall warrior dressed in exquisite buckskins, including a coat adorned with weasel tails and woven beadwork that must have taken months to make. A fur headband crowned his mane of hair, which was tinged with gray. In his right hand he clasped a ball-headed war club, the ball crafted from metal, not wood as Flavius would have expected.
The deference paid the tall man marked him as a tribal leader. Stalking to the canoe, he pointed the war club at Flavius and uttered a stern pronouncement. The next moment the warriors swarmed forward.
~*~
Davy Crockett slapped his legs against his sorrel as the three Fox warriors plummeted toward him. The horse had barely taken a stride when the men were on him. He brought up his rifle too late. A heavy body rammed into his shoulder and sent him sailing.
Wawaneechotinka cried out, but there was nothing Davy could do for her. He had his own hands full. As he crashed to earth, he rolled onto his knees. Two of the warriors sprang, one grabbing Liz, the other pinning his arms so he could not defend himself. With a brutal heave, Davy wrenched free, but lost his rifle.
Pushing backward to gain room to move, Davy resorted to his pistols, drawing both. As he leveled them, the vegetation around him parted, disgorging a dozen more swarthy figures who were on him in a twinkling. Under the press of numbers he was forced to the ground. Knees gouged his stomach, his legs. Iron hands wrapped around his arms.
One of them jostled Davy’s left hand. His finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger and the flintlock went off. Several of the warriors jumped back. For a few seconds his left arm was loose, and he bashed it across the temple of a hefty Fox holding his right arm. The man sagged.
Davy sought to take advantage by jerking his right arm free, but the warriors had others ideas. Recovering, they closed in, so many covering him that he could not lift a finger, let alone shoot. The pistols were pried from his grasp. His knife was taken. So was his tomahawk.
Only when all his weapons were removed did the warriors rise and step away from him. Davy slowly sat up. War clubs, arrows, and cold steel ringed him. His coonskin cap had fallen, so he picked it up, careful not to make any sudden moves.
Two brawny men held the maiden. She kicked at their shins, even tried to bite one of them. Her resistance faded when a new man strode onto the scene. Blanching, she stiffened and recoiled as if confronted by a viper. “Kiyo Kaga!” she spat.
The fox leader was an imposing specimen. Wide shoulders surmounted a bearish frame. His features were harsh to the point of being cruel. Red paint on his cheeks and temples accented his fierce aspect, as did the strip of hair down the middle of his head, which jutted upward like the sharp quills of a porcupine. He carried himself with an arrogant swagger. In his left hand was a long lance, the tempered blade over a foot and a half long. Eagle feathers and strips of fur decorated it.
Kiyo Kaga marched up to Wawaneechotinka and sneered. Fixing his mocking smile on Crockett, he came over and examined Davy much as he might a new type of insect. He fingered the coonskin cap, and made a remark that brought laughter from a few of his followers.
A warrior had caught hold of the sorrel’s reins and was leading the skittish animal back. The horse did not like being handled by someone it did not know, so it was giving the warrior a hard time. Nickering nervously, it tugged and stomped.
Kiyo Kaga stared at the animal a few moments, then elevated his lance.
“No!” Davy hollered, flinging himself at the chief’s legs. A blow to the chest brought him up short and he collapsed in anguish, his ribs aflame. He was surrounded and heaved erect.
The leader hefted the lance but did not hurl it. Growling at several men, he gestured and hiked southward.
Leather thongs were slipped over Davy’s wrists, binding them. Another went around his neck. Like a dog on a leash he was led by a Fox who took sadistic delight in yanking on the cord every now and then, even though Davy did not flag. Behind him trudged Wawaneechotinka, the perfect picture of dejection. Her wrists were also tied, but she was spared the indignity of the leash.
A feeling of helplessness crept over Davy, but he shrugged it off and set his mind to work devising a way out of his predicament.
Not being a quitter stemmed in large part from the influence of his pa. John Crockett had been a frontier ranger during the Revolutionary War. Afterward, he took to farming and scraped to feed his growing family. They never exactly prospered, but they never starved either.
In all, Davy’s father and mother brought nine children into the world, six boys and three girls. Davy was the fifth of the boys. By the time he came along, there were so many mouths to feed that all the children toiled from dawn to dusk, helping out as best they were able.
Never once did John Crockett complain. Never once did he let hardship break him. “A man does what has to be done, come what may,” he often told Davy. “In this world of ours, it’s root hog or die. Never forget that.”
Davy hadn’t.
So now, unarmed and hogtied, flanked by cold-faced Fox warriors, he contemplated how best to save his hide and that of the lovely Chippewa.
The warriors were too watchful for him to simply bolt, nor would he even if he could if it meant leaving the maiden behind.
Brute force was out of the question. There were too blamed many hostiles. Even if by some miracle he got his hands on his guns, they would cut him down after he dropped two or three.
There was but one way out that Davy could see.
Talking his way out of scrapes was second nature to Davy, so much so that he preferred it to resorting to his fists to settle disputes. He had a gift for gab, a flair with words few could rival. When he put his mind to it, he could outtalk practically anyone, tangling them in a verbal web that left them at his mercy.
Suddenly the Fox warrior holding the leash gave another tug. Davy nearly tripped over his own feet. The warrior chortled.
Davy squared his shoulders and hiked on. It was time to let his wits be his guide. Adopting a casual air, he smiled at his tormentor and began to whistle. It was almost comical the way the warrior abruptly halted and gazed at him in blatant bewilderment. Soon every last Fox was staring at him with the same look. Except for one.
Kiyo Kaga’s stern visage never changed. He studied Davy a moment, then snapped commands. The column resumed its march.
Davy continued to whistle, pretending he did not have a care in the world. It was his opening ploy in a gambit that would either bring about his release or end in a terrible death. With the stakes so high, he whistled louder.
Chapter Four
It was his worst nightmare made real.
First the dogs came sniffing around, growling and snapping if he so much as lifted a finger. Next it was the small children. Little girls who giggled and shyly spied on him from behind the lodges. Little boys who tossed dirt in his face or pelted him with rocks.
An old woman was worse. She walked past him five or six times during the afternoon, and in each instance she struck him with a gnarled walking stick.
Flavius Harris was bruised and sore and mightily famished by sunset. The sole encouraging note was that he had not been slain. Yet.
He had tried to communicate with his captors, to no avail. Who they were remained as much as a mystery as what they planned to do. Shortly before the sun went down, many of the men entered the largest wigwam in the village. For a council, Flavius reasoned, to determine his fate.
The Indians had secured him with a rope to a five-foot post they’d imbedded in the center of the village. The rope was tied to his right ankle and long enough to allow him limited movement. At first he had thought it strange that they neglected to bind his hands. Then it dawned on him that they did not need to.
Slipping out of the village without being spotted would be next to impossible. Even if he did it, where would he go? He was on an island in the middle of nowhere. They would catch him in no time.
Glumly, Flavius sat and contemplated the large lodge, hoping against hope that the Indians would decide to let him live. Or that Davy would come along soon and rescue him.
Flavius had a lot of faith in his friend. It was based on more than the fact that Crockett was one of the most competent woodsmen in Tennessee. That Davy could track a turtle across an impassable bog or shoot out the eye of a squirrel at two hundred yards was all well and good. But it was Davy’s personality rather than his ability that inspired so much confidence.
Deep in his soul, Flavius knew that his friend would never desert him, no matter what. Crockett was as true as the day was long. It was said that if you made a friend of him, you had a friend for life, and Flavius believed it wholeheartedly.
A loyal friend, a formidable enemy. That was how someone had once described David Crockett, and Flavius felt it fit. He had a hunch that Davy was marked for great things. A while back he’d said as much. Naturally, Davy had laughed and joked that Flavius had better stop swigging jugs so early in the morning.
Suddenly the flap covering the lodge entrance parted. Out came a warrior who hurried off into the darkness.
Disappointed, Flavius leaned against the pole. The patter of approaching footsteps did not register until a lean shape materialized beside him. He glanced up, and was taken back to behold the old woman with the walking stick. Figuring that she was there to brain him again, he ducked and covered his head with his arms, saying, “What did I ever do to you, you old crow? Leave me be, dadgum it!”
The woman snorted and said a few words. When he did not reply, she nudged his leg with her walking stick.
“Go away!” Flavius said. “Quit pestering me!” He peeked between his arms in anticipation of her blow, but she merely stood there staring at him as if he were a mad dog she’d very much like to put out of its misery.
The old woman shook the stick at him, then held out her other hand. In it was a birch-bark bowl filled with a steamy mass.
“You done brought me food?” Flavius declared, shocked. Bracing himself in case it was a trick to get him to lower his guard, he tentatively accepted the bowl. She nodded curtly before stalking away to her dwelling.
No fork or spoon had been provided, but Flavius did not care. He was hungry enough to eat live caterpillars. Dipping his fingers into the mash, he ladled it into his mouth. Whatever it was, it was delicious. He rolled it on his tongue, savoring the taste. Mainly it consisted of wild rice and onions, with some kind of seasoning added.
Flavius downed every last bit. When he was done, he licked the bowl. Twice. Momentarily content, he rested with the bowl cradled in his lap, wishing the old crow would bring him more. He closed his eyes and dozed.
A jab on his leg brought him around. Flavius straightened, assuming the woman was back. “I’d like a second—” he began, but turned to stone when he saw the three warriors who ringed him.
One untied his ankle. At spear point he was prodded toward the large lodge. In his anxiety he held onto the bowl until a warrior noticed and plucked it from his grasp. He had to stoop to enter, and immediately was racked by a fit of intense coughing thanks to heavy smoke that choked the lodge from shoulder height to the ventilation hole at the top.
