Black Eagle (7 page)

“Perhaps.”

“Come,” said Marisa, as she pulled Sarah with her, threading her way through the crowd.

The Albany marketplace was bustling with humanity on this fine and warm autumn day. Scents of baked cornbread, stewing apples and pumpkin pie had drawn a large crowd to the market, and the ambience surrounding the patrons on this day was delightful, the air brimming with the hum of good will and camaraderie. Conversation and laughter buzzed around Marisa and Sarah as they shifted slowly through the crowd, while a young, male servant followed in their wake.

To their right, a small crowd had gathered around a juggler, who was, Marisa noted, quite a handsome gentleman. And in the distance straight ahead of them, actors were performing a puppet show, much to the delight of several children.

Both Marisa and Sarah paused to sample the delights of some baking apples and cornbread, sharing their find with the boy who accompanied them. In due time, however, they approached the pumpkin vendor.

“Are you not excited about our trip?” asked Marisa as they gathered 'round the vendor.

“Very,” said fair-headed Sarah. “I admit that this journey comes at a fortunate moment, since the urge to leave Albany, if only for a little while, has taken hold of me.”

“Yes,” said Marisa, “although perhaps we might find the seashores of New Hampshire more to our liking, extending the length of our trip into something more permanent.”

Sarah frowned. “Pardon? ”

Marisa's gaze danced off Sarah. Had she said too much? In an effort to shield Sarah, Marisa had not mentioned her meeting with John Rathburn of a few days previous. Nor did she intend to do so now. In an effort to conceal her error Marisa rushed on to say, “Which one of the pumpkins do you think we should buy? ”

“I think,” said Sarah, after only a slight hesitation, “that we should buy two pumpkins. You pick one, and so will I.”

“Yes. A good suggestion. I'll take that one,” said Marisa, anxious to put the subject of their coming journey behind them. However, as Marisa reached out to hand over the coinage to the merchant, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. What was that? The image of a man? An Indian?

At once, her stomach dropped. Was it the savage? she wondered. The young man who had uttered such golden words to her?

Distracted, Marisa let the servant boy pick up the pumpkin for her, while she glanced to her left, so as to attain a better look. She caught her breath. It was a Mohawk Indian certainly. But it was not
he
.

The butterflies that had taken flight within her commenced to settle down, and Marisa inhaled deeply. What was wrong with her? she wondered. Had she lost all sense of propriety? How could she be reacting in such a positive manner to a man who was so completely beneath her station? Was she bored perhaps?

“I'll take this one,” said Sarah to the vendor, not noticing that her charge's attention was devoted elsewhere. “Please,” Sarah motioned the servant boy forward, “take these back to the cook, ask her to make a pie for this evening, and then return here. I'm certain we'll have more purchases.” She smiled at him, and the boy, deeply impressed, hurried off to do as bid.

“Sarah,” asked Marisa, “what do you think of the close-cropped hairstyle of the Mohawk Indians? ”

Sarah gazed quickly at her charge, then toward the place where Marisa was staring, and after a brief pause, Sarah observed, “As long as it's closely-cropped and not bald, I think 'tis fine.” Sarah smiled. “I must admit that I have a liking for their long hair in back.”

“I, too.” Marisa, who was still looking off toward the Indians, asked further, “Why do you think they shave their head? ”

“I really don't know,” answered Sarah, “nor have I ever given it any real thought. But now that you ask, I'd say that on some of the Indians, the style is attractive. On others . . .”

Marisa nodded. “Sarah, let me ask you a more personal question, if I may.”

“You may.”

“Do you think,” continued Marisa, “much as the other colonists do, that the Indians are savage? ”

Sarah drew her brows together and scowled at Marisa. “The Indians practice torture on some of their captives, and I believe that torture is a savage practice.”

“Yes,” said Marisa, “indeed, it is. But is our society any better?

Sarah paused. “Come again? ”

“Have we not burned witches? Have we not drawn and quartered our enemies, boiled men and sometimes women in oil? ”

“True, but—”

“Should one judge all people in a particular society based on the actions of a few? ”

Sarah gave her charge a considering glance. “You are most philosophical today,” she remarked. “To what do I owe such uncharacteristic observations?” When Marisa didn't deem to answer at once, Sarah said, “My dear Marisa, in all these many years, I have never noticed you to be curious about either the Indians or their way of life. Why do you do so now? ”

Marisa shrugged. “I wouldn't say that I'm curious. It's simply that . . . Take William Johnson, for instance, and Johnson Hall. He has made a strong alliance with the Mohawk Indians and I have heard that the Indians use his property at their ease. I have also gathered from various people that the Indians have made Johnson Hall the center of their government. And it is common knowledge that Johnson himself has taken a Mohawk wife, that the children from that union are strong and able-bodied, and . . .”

Sarah raised an eyebrow at Marisa. She said, “Has something happened to cause this sudden interest in ideology? ”

“No . . . Well, perhaps. A young Mohawk warrior spoke to me the other day—”

“With or without introduction? ”

“Without. But he was so admiring of me that I forgave him. He made me smile.”

“Smile? What did he say? ”

“He told me that my beauty had touched his heart.”

“His heart?” Sarah paused, sighing. “Oh, my dear Marisa, beware.”

“Why? ”

“Because it appears to me that he might have captured your admiration in a fashion that even your own peers have not. Has he? ”

“I am only curious about him.”

Sarah arched a brow. “Do not become too curious,” she said. “It would not do to become infatuated with such a man as he is, since no earthly good could ever come of it.”

“I speak of mere interest. Nothing more.”

“I do hope so. Though we live side-by-side with these Mohawk people, one would not seek a husband from amongst them. Such an association could never be.”

“A husband? Oh Sarah, please. Let me assure you that such a detail is not, and has never been, within my thoughts.”

“I am glad to hear it. Beware, however, that when a man speaks to you of matters of the heart, he is courting you.”

Marisa paused, and wide-eyed, she asked, “Do you believe it may be so? Do you feel he might have been courting me? ”

Sarah shook her head, then cast a contemplative glance at the Indians. At length, she returned her attention to Marisa, and said. “Beware, Miss Marisa, unhappiness lies in that direction. Besides, with your fortune and your beauty, it may be said that you could have your pick of any man in this town.”

“
If
my guardian will permit me to choose my husband without interference. Do you think he might? ”

“Most likely not . . .” Sarah paused and, perhaps more philosophical now, said, “If your uncle has anything to do with it, I fear that you will be forced to . . .”

Silence. “Forced to what? ”

“I fear I have said too much.”

Marisa frowned. “I know that my step-uncle has an eye to the fortunes of men, but I believe he is awaiting a young man of good fortune and family name—someone whom I might fancy, before he demands I marry. It is true that to this day, he has only suggested alliances to older men, most of whom I could barely tolerate, let alone marry. It is also true that my step-uncle has intimated that when I marry, I should fill his coffers with gold. But I have always considered he was joking, although I think it is safe to say that, as regards my own marriage, I may likely have little say in the matter.”

Sarah didn't answer, her silence telling.

“Perhaps it was only a dream, but it seems to me,” continued Marisa, “that my step-uncle might have once lectured me, very long ago, about marriage, but . . .” As though her head suddenly hurt, she brought her hands up to it, her brows drawn together. “No,” she said after a while, “I cannot recall it. Mayhap it was only a dream I try to recall, or maybe in my uncle's case, it might be a nightmare.” Marisa grinned.

But Sarah's look was distant, and instead of returning the smile, she said, “Your uncle is who he is, and he is a financier. I fear that within a year, perhaps two, you will be expected to marry . . . and well. Therefore, it might be well that you seek to have amusement wherever you might find it, be that source Mohawk or English . . . providing it is innocent, of course.” She nodded toward the Indians. “Shall we go, then, and speak to those young men? Ask them if they know where we might find your Mohawk suitor? ”

“Sarah! We shall do no such thing! Why, the idea is vulgar, indeed.”

“Then let us leave here. We have more shopping to do yet this day.” Sarah paused. “Oh, do look, over there. Someone has made apple cider. Shall we go and sample their wares? ”

“Yes,” said Marisa, then again, “Yes.”

So, with the subject tabled—at least for the moment—the two women picked up the chiffon material of their skirts and headed in the direction of the next vending stand.

 

 

Black Eagle would have had to be blind not to notice that the beauty he had so recently admired was here this very day. At present, she was strolling through the marketplace, arm in arm with another woman, who was almost, but not quite, as pretty as she.

The two women added to the beauty of the landscape, and Black Eagle noticed that they were drawing the eye of many a fine young man. That none of those men solicited the women's attention seemed unnatural to Black Eagle, especially when such pleasure could be drawn from a mere conversation with the object of one's adoration.

He wondered, was the Englishman too busy with his own business to indulge in more than a passing glance? Or was the reason something else? Were the white women too heavily guarded by their relatives, that one dare not approach?

Most likely it was the last, since no man in his right mind would ignore the opportunity to indulge a moment's pleasure. That this also included him did not escape his notice. Crossing his arms over his chest, Black Eagle leaned back against a wooden post, that he might let his gaze roam leisurely over the beauty's figure.

She was small, although perhaps it was her waist that made her appear so, since it looked to be uncannily petite. A green ribbon, placed strategically at her breast brought emphasis there, although the beauty of her face was not paralleled. Her soft, green dress flowed over her curvy figure, and her reddish golden hair was caught up in an ivory-colored net in back. A straw hat, complete with another green ribbon tied around it, decorated her head. Although he couldn't see them from here, he knew her eyes to be a golden brown, and from within their depths a smile could be coaxed.

Once again, the desire to tease the beauty, to witness that smile and feel her response, overrode an inclination to merely sit back and enjoy the show. He had come away from the post where he had been lingering, and had already taken a step forward, when he stopped short. Something was preventing him from proceeding any further.

“Did ye hear me, boy? ”

Black Eagle looked down at the hand that had taken possession of his own arm. Following that hand up to its owner, Black Eagle grimaced. Where had this man come from? Had he, Black Eagle, been so out of touch with the environment around him, that such a man could sneak up on him?

It should not have been. Especially since the man's stench alone should have alerted Black Eagle to his presence. Ah, he thought. What a woman could do.

“I have spoken to several Indians this day,” said the man whose breath seemed to be worse than his general odor, “and I have discovered from each, in turn, that ye is the best guide to be had in this country. I be goin' to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, into Abenaki territory, and I have need to hire me a damn good scout, since I intend to keep me scalp. What say ye? ”

Black Eagle didn't even deem to answer. Instead, he gazed again at the place where he had last seen the beauty. He exhaled. She was gone.

Disgruntled, he turned his attention to the man who was so demanding of it. Said Black Eagle, “I am not interested in scouting for you. Seek out someone else.”

“But ye havena even heard how much coinage I aim to be paying ye.”

But Black Eagle had already made his decision. He disengaged his arm from the other man's hold.

“Now see here, ye young savage . . .”

Black Eagle turned, presenting his back to the man, and made to step away, when the brute, who must have been speaking to himself, said, “I reckon I'll have to tell Miss Marisa that we be delayed yet again.”

Black Eagle paused.
Miss Marisa?
Had the beast's tongue actually spoken the name of the beauty?

Black Eagle turned back. Looking askance at the man, he said, “Miss Marisa? Will there be others traveling with you into Abenaki territory then? ”

“Aye,” said Thompson. “Havena ye been listening to me? I'll be escorting Miss Marisa and her maid to the east, toward the sea. But I'll be needing a guide to ensure our safe passage. I'm willin' to pay ye well.”