Homecoming, page 8
“We begin,” Keekweechiweepinank announced, grandly leading the way.
Flavius was hemmed in by the three warriors. He put on a friendly air to lull the Ojibwas into thinking that he was as harmless as a newborn kitten. Smiling at the children and nodding at the men and women, he was brought to the dun.
The chief extended an arm. Flavius held his breath, dreading that the horse would chomp off a finger or two and spoil everything. For once the contrary critter behaved, and merely flinched when Keekweechiweepinank petted it. The Ojibwas were mightily impressed by their leader’s audacity, more so when he looped an arm around the dun’s neck as if they were the best of pards.
The horse stamped a hoof, a definite sign that it did not like being so close to a complete stranger. Flavius quickly went up and bent to remove the hobbles, declaring, “First things first. Have your men fetch the saddle and blanket and I’ll throw them on.”
The request was relayed. Keekweechiweepinank studied every step of the saddling. Flavius let him tighten the cinch and loosen it a few times to get the feel of how it was done. Then came the moment of truth, the glorious moment Flavius had waited all night for, the moment when he stepped into the stirrups and forked leather. He did so slowly so as not to cause alarm.
“See? Wasn’t that easy?” Flavius asked Keekweechiweepinank. “Now comes the tricky part, actually riding. The key is in the reins.” To demonstrate, Flavius flicked them and walked the dun in a wide circle. The onlookers moved back to give him room, just as he wanted them to. He exaggerated reining up, explaining, “This is how you stop.”
Keekweechiweepinank motioned. “My turn,” he said eagerly.
“Not quite yet,” Flavius said. “There’s one more basic thing you need to learn.” He straightened. The shoreline was thirty feet away. Another forty feet beyond was the bank of a stream that fed into the small lake. All he had to do was reach it and he would be safe.
Flavius gulped. He was scared. But as Davy liked to say, he had it to do. With a whip of the reins and a flap of his legs, he made his move.
Chapter Eight
Thirty feet can seem like a mile when a man is flanked by hostile Indians who would as soon see him dead as look at him.
Flavius Harris counted on the Ojibwas being so taken aback by his break for freedom that they would not let an arrow fly or hurl a lance before he reached the water. In this respect he was woefully mistaken, for no sooner had the dun loped forward than a shaft buzzed past his ear like an enraged wasp. Shouts broke out. Feet pounded. A lance nearly added a part to his hair.
Bent low, Flavius flailed the reins. He knew that the dun was as fond of water as he was, but he hoped that in this instance the horse would have the common sense not to balk and would plunge right in. He should have known better.
They were ten feet from the lake when the dun suddenly dug in its hooves and locked its legs, its rump dipping so close to the ground that Flavius was almost dumped from the saddle. He hauled on the reins with all his strength, but the horse kept on sliding, swept by its momentum into the water. The dun flung itself to the right, twisting to scramble onto dry land.
In desperation Flavius flung himself toward the far bank. He would rather drown than be tortured to death. Churning his limbs like a windmill gone berserk, for the first time in his life he endeavored to swim. To his amazement, he succeeded! But not for long. After traveling all of six feet, he inexplicably lost speed, then began to sink.
Panic numbed him. He neglected to churn, and immediately sank like a rock. Inadvertently, Flavius opened his mouth to scream. Water poured in instead. He gasped. He blubbered. He strove furiously to regain the surface. The murky, cold water dragged on his clothes, pulling him lower.
The end was near. Flavius stopped struggling. He had done his best and it had not been good enough. His only regret was that he would never see Matilda again.
An image of her rotund features floated before him. Flavius reached out for it under the impression that he could touch her. His fingers brushed a solid object.
Vaguely, Flavius felt hands wrap around his arms, hands fork under his shoulders, hands grip him by the back of his buckskin shirt. He was wrenched up out of the water and flung landward. His legs wobbled, and he would have toppled had another Ojibwa not seized him and thrust him into the shallows.
Sucking in precious air, Flavius blinked to clear his vision. His legs buckled. He fell to his knees in inches-deep water and wiped a hand across his face.
Half a dozen warriors were in the lake with him. Two others had retrieved the dun. Jamming the shore were scores of Ojibwas, their countenances like those Flavius had once seen at a funeral. At the forefront was Keekweechiweepinank, and he was the most somber of the bunch.
“You try trick me, white man.”
What could Flavius say? There was no denying the truth. He placed his hands flat to rise, but a pair of brawny warriors beat him to it. Jerked erect, he was forced up the incline and made to kneel in front of the chief.
“I maybe let you live you done what I want,” the leader said.
“How was I to know?” Flavius rasped.
Keekweechiweepinank frowned. “You bring this on self.” Removing the red blanket, he handed it to a warrior, who gave him a war club in exchange. Keekweechiweepinank gripped the handle and hefted the deadly weapon several times. “Your end be quick. There be no pain.”
Flavius had recovered enough to spit out, “Don’t do me any favors, damn you! You’re nothing but a red butcher!” It had been a petty outburst, but Flavius could not help himself. He was about to die.
The war club slowly rose. Flavius stared at the rounded head complete with vicious studs. The chief had powerful shoulders. One blow was all it would take. He braced himself, silently mouthing the Lord’s Prayer.
Keekweechiweepinank tensed for the killing stroke.
“Stop! Hold it right there!”
The outcry came from the east side of the village. Flavius, like everyone else, glanced around. Unlike everyone else, his eyes filled with tears.
Davy Crockett held his long rifle at his side as he approached the Ojibwas astride his sorrel. He did not draw a pistol or unlimber his tomahawk. He wanted to do nothing they would construe as a threat. Plastering a smile on his face, he said good-naturedly to the man with the war club, “My friend’s noggin is as hard as iron. You’re liable to break that overgrown stick of yours if you hit him.”
Keekweechiweepinank appeared as astounded as the rest of his people. Slowly lowering his weapon, he demanded, “Who are you? How you get here?”
“Folks call me Davy,” Crockett said. “As for how I found your charming village, you can thank this lovely lady for showing me the trail.” Shifting, he nodded at Wawaneechotinka, who had grown strangely quiet the past few miles. He did not add that she had not been in any rush to get home. That she had, in fact, done her best to delay them by having him make frequent stops and dragging her heels when it was time to saddle up.
Davy winked at Flavius, whose mouth hung open wide enough to snag a blackbird on the wing. Greeting everyone he passed by saying, “Howdy!” or “How do!” he drew rein near the tall warrior who had been about to slay his friend. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this,” he said as he dismounted, “but I had to fetch Wawaneechotinka back. A Fox warrior by the name of Kiyo Kaga tried to steal her.”
At the mention of the dreaded Fox leader, murmuring spread among the Ojibwas.
“You took long time bring her,” Keekweechiweepinank said, his mistrust as thick as jam on bread.
Davy went on smiling anyway. “It’s not my fault,” he retorted amiably. “Those polecats captured us. Took me a while to slip loose, then we had to run for our lives. If my horse hadn’t shown up on its own we would still be wandering around out there with the Fox war party dogging our heels.” He helped Wawaneechotinka down. “You must know this lady. She’s one of your own. And now she’s back safe and sound.”
The tall warrior tossed the club to another. “Wawaneechotinka is my sister. I am Keekweechiweepinank, leader of my people.”
Davy figured that brother and sister would leap into each other’s arms, but they merely stood and stared fondly at one another. Some tribal customs were like that. Public displays of affection between members of the opposite sex, even blood kin, were frowned upon.
The old woman who had been with Wawaneechotinka at the hill came rushing up. Uttering a high-pitched yip, she hugged the maiden, who reciprocated.
Her mother, Davy recollected as he sidled over to Flavius, who had yet to close his mouth. Clapping his friend on the back, he said in Flavius’s ear, “On your feet. We have to get out of here while they’re preoccupied.” Aloud, he declared. “Well, let’s get going. I’m sure the chief will do what is right and let us go our way now that I’ve brought his sister home.”
Keekweechiweepinank turned. “You be tired and hungry. After what you do for us, we must show gratitude. You not leave just yet.”
Davy steered Flavius toward the dun. “No need to put yourselves out on our account,” he said cheerily. “We’ll rustle up some food on our own.” Waving merrily at the Ojibwas, he called out, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you folks. If you’re ever down in the Obion Lake country of west Tennessee, be sure and look us up.”
At a command from Keekweechiweepinank, four warriors positioned themselves in front of the horses. The chief locked his gaze on Davy’s. “I insist you stay.”
“If you put it that way,” Davy said as the Indians pressed in closer.
~*~
They were called the Midewiwin, or Grand Medicine Society. They were the spiritual standard-bearers of the Ojibwas, and they had organized a special ceremony to commemorate the safe deliverance of Wawaneechotinka and Tokawonda.
The Medicine Dance, it was called. Keekweechiweepinank told Davy that no other white men had ever been privileged to attend one.
“We’re flattered,” Davy said, and meant it. The tribe was bestowing a great honor on Flavius and him, akin to the President of the United States holding a formal ball for a visiting foreign dignitary. He nudged his friend. “Aren’t we flattered, hoss?”
Flavius nodded. He was trying, but he could not marshal much enthusiasm when he really wanted to be as far from the Ojibwa village as possible. He wouldn’t put it past Keekweechiweepinank to act friendly just so they would lower their guard and be easy to wipe out later.
Pounding drums echoed across the small lake. The entire tribe was gathered around a unique lodge. It had no outer covering, consisting solely of a framework of slender saplings that formed a wide tunnel. Gaily dressed members of the Midewiwin Society entered in single file at one end and emerged from the other, dancing in time to the beat of the drums and a chorus of singers.
Davy had long been fascinated by Indian ceremonies. It never ceased to amaze him that seldom did two tribes share the same ones. In Tennessee there were tribes that lived no more than a hundred miles apart and had virtually nothing in common. Their religious beliefs, how their leaders were selected, their clothes, their weapons, everything was as different as night from day.
It had been the same in Florida and elsewhere.
Davy had long harbored the belief that if the various tribes had been better organized when the first white men sailed to North America, history would have taken a different course.
For more generations than the members of most tribes could remember, they had been at war with one or more other tribes. The constant bloodletting had left them disorganized to such an extent that it had been relatively simple for the influx of white settlers to exterminate those tribes that resisted or else push them deeper into the wilderness.
There was even talk of rounding up every last Indian east of the Mississippi and driving them west. Serious talk. In the highest councils of the government the issue was being debated.
Most of Davy’s kin and neighbors were in favor of the idea. They saw it as an easy fix to a problem that had been plaguing whites since Jamestown. They wanted the Army to do the rounding up to give the forced exodus official sanction. But they squawked at having taxpayers foot the bill.
They also squawked whenever Davy mentioned that he was against the plan. “What in tarnation is wrong with you?” they would rail. “Are you insane? Or have you turned into an Injun lover?”
Davy had every reason to hate Indians as much as anyone else. His grandparents had been massacred by them. He had fought in the Creek War. He had seen many Creek atrocities firsthand.
Yet Davy had also seen white atrocities. He had observed cruelty to Indians that downright sickened him. Neither side could claim to be totally innocent in that regard.
Then there was what Davy liked to refer to as “the incident.” He had been off hunting with several men when he had taken ill. There had been no warning. He had grown feverish and weak and keeled over within minutes, unable to lift so much as a little finger.
The attack had left him completely helpless. As he lay there, limp and caked with sweat and scared out of his wits, the other hunters, his friends, had discussed the problem and decided that the best thing to do was to leave him!
They’d figured that he was at death’s door. Besides, a couple of them had been worried that whatever had felled him might be contagious, and they had not been about to linger and risk sharing his fate.
So his friends had taken his rifle and effects and gone off to tell his wife and children about his demise, leaving him alone and frail and utterly defenseless—in the heart of the wilderness.
Davy had been furious. He had wanted to curse them, to tell them that no decent human being would abandon someone in dire need, to scream that they were cowards and blackguards and worse. But all he’d been able to do was lie there and watch them walk off, helpless, listening to the crunch of their footsteps fade in the distance.
It was impossible for Davy to describe the horrible feeling that had come over him. He had lain there for hours straining his ears in the feeble hope that they would realize their mistake and come back.
The fever had worsened. Davy had felt as if he were on fire. His lungs had burned with every breath. Perspiration had cascaded off him. He had known he was fading fast. Several times he had passed out, only to awaken later feeling worse than ever.
It must have been the fourth or fifth time Davy revived that he had been startled to hear voices. Indian voices. Since he could not lift his head, he’d had no idea how many there were or whether they were friendly or hostile. In his fevered state he had imagined himself being scalped and mutilated, and he had prayed as he had never prayed in his life.
A hand had gently slid under his cheek and turned his face upward. Three warriors, he’d counted. The oldest, a wizened man with gray hair, had examined him much as a doctor was prone to do, even opening his eyelids wide to check his pupils.
Davy had not recognized them. They’d been from no local tribe. With him being a white man, it would have been perfectly understandable if they had gone off and left him to die, just as his friends had done.
For a few seconds Davy thought they were about to. The elderly warrior began to rise, then happened to look into his eyes. The man hesitated. His brow furrowed. Kneeling, the Indian gave directions to the other two. One toted a water skin. The older man fashioned a makeshift bowl out of bark and filled it. From a small leather pouch he took a mixture of chopped leaves and roots and added them to the water. When the concoction was thoroughly stirred, the warrior had one of his companion hold Davy’s mouth open.
The taste was awful. Davy came close to gagging. It all went down, though. The Indian rose and Davy tried to thank them, but his vocal chords were as useless as the rest of him. They walked into the trees without a backward glance.
That had been the end of it, Davy reckoned. But presently the three men returned bearing a crude though serviceable litter. They carefully placed him on it, then headed eastward at a brisk clip.
Davy lost track of the number of times he lost consciousness. The journey might have been hours, it might have been days. Suddenly new voices buzzed above him. It was a woman and her two small children. The old warrior seemed to know her. A lengthy talk resulted in the warriors taking Davy into the woman’s house and depositing him on a bed before they left.
The woman, a total stranger, tended him day and night for over three weeks. When she was not there, one of her children were. They fed him. They gave him water. They even bathed him and helped him use a chamber pot.
It turned out that his benefactor was a Quaker lady who had lost her husband several years before. Most women would have called it quits and gone to live in a town where it was not quite as hard to survive. Not this one. She did the work of two, plowing fields and hunting and fishing, and at the same time doing all the work a mother normally did.
It was two weeks before Davy regained use of his voice. Two and a half before he could get out of bed and take a few steps.
Finally, when Davy was fit, the woman gave him a pouch with enough food to tide him over until he got home. On arriving, he found his family in mourning, his wife considering whether to sell their homestead, and one of his so-called friends already making a bid to fill Davy’s moccasins.
That fall, when Davy had returned to thank the Quaker woman, her cabin was a charred ruin. The stable and the outbuildings had also been razed. Someone had burned the place to the ground. Of the widow and her children there was no sign.
Fearing the worst, Davy had galloped to the nearest settlement. Not knowing anyone there, he had gone to the parson to learn what had happened. In a horrified tone the reverend had confessed the community’s dark secret, the truth piercing Davy’s core like a red-hot poker.
Some of the locals had not liked the fact that the Quaker lady was on friendly terms with the Indians. Behind her back they had accused her of all manner of misdeeds, including “cavorting with redskins.”
One fateful night when they were liquored up, the locals had paid her a visit. They’d gone there merely to scare her. But one thing had led to another, a drunk had set her cabin on fire, and the flames had spread to the other buildings.
