Brave Enemies (23 page)

My feet were so cold they were almost numb. With the ax I cut the bag into leather rags and tied them around my feet. The leather bandages would be better than nothing.

After putting more sticks on the fire, I lay down in my coat and the blanket I'd brought from the cabin. I found a place where there wasn't any blood, as far from the panther's body as I could get, and wrapped myself up and closed my eyes. Before I knew it I was dreaming of winding my way through the woods as fire roared behind me, and gunshots sang out. There were shouts as men hollered at me. I knew I was dreaming. I told myself it was just a terrible dream. But the dream kept going, and I kept telling myself that waking was worse than the dream.

I
DON'T KNOW HOW
long I slept, but when I woke the cave was dark and the fire had gone out. It must have been night, for no light was coming into the cave. The dark was pure as sleep. The dark was a thick
syrup drowning everything. The dark was so heavy it crushed my thoughts and made me want to go back to sleep.

I could get up and look for sticks in the dark and try to start another fire. Or I could just lie in the coat and blanket and sleep some more. In the cave I was warm enough to sleep. I didn't have any way of starting a fire, because I didn't have any flint or tinder. I might as well go back to sleep and worry about the fire later. Anyway, I didn't know where to go when I did wake up.

When I woke again gray light was coming into the cave. The place smelled of sour old smoke and rotten leaves and the dead panther. I thought of food and fire. I didn't even know where I was. I'd plunged off into the woods from the burning cabin and had no idea in what direction I'd run. I didn't know where a road was or the nearest house.

I scrunched myself up under the coat and blanket, trying to think what to do. If I stayed in the cave I'd starve. I had to go out looking for something to eat. I had to borrow fire if I was going to keep from freezing.

It occurred to me I had not had my monthly for a while, not since just after I ran away and joined John Trethman. I had worried about concealing the bleeding and rags that had to be washed out, but had done that for only one period. And after that time it had not come again and I had forgotten. I'd been too busy traveling with John and too worried about being found out. Then I'd been too excited about being loved by him, and after the fire I'd been too busy nursing him.

Now I knew there could be a lot of reasons why the monthlies had stopped. But it came to me that my monthlies might have stopped for the most common reason of all. It seemed strange I hadn't thought of that before. It was silly I hadn't thought of it. I'd been too busy trying to nurse John to think of myself.

I had to go where there was something to eat, for I was not just eating for myself. I had to go where there was fire to keep me warm. I had to go where I could get help and medicine when I needed it. With only the ax there wasn't any way I could get much to eat in the woods.

I must have lain in the coat and blanket for another hour trying to think of something hopeful. When I finally got up the sun was coming through the mouth of the cave. I stepped out into the light and the fresh breeze. At least the sun made things look different. The woods looked open, and I could see farther through the bare trees.

That day I wandered in the woods looking for a road. I followed a creek but never came to any clearing. I caught another trout in a pool but had to eat it raw because my fire had gone out. I came back and sat in the sun at the mouth of the cave and thought how it was almost certain John was dead. I was lost in the woods and John was dead. I wondered if my mind was right. Was I really remembering all the bad things that had happened, or was I dreaming them? That night I slept in the cave again, beside the cold body of the panther.

The next morning I stumbled out into the sunlight. Besides the smell of leaves, the breeze carried the scent of something else. I thought it was the faint smell of smoke. I turned to face the breeze and thought I sniffed frying bacon. I wondered if it was an army camp, or a militia camp.

I'd heard soldiers did awful things to women. It was said that Tarleton himself had raped women that he captured. I'd heard that ruined women followed Tarleton's men to sell themselves as whores, and lived in wagons and tents.

I breathed in deep to see if I could smell the scent of frying bacon again. I stepped down to the branch.

In the reflection of the pool I could see my face all smudged and dirty. I washed my forehead and cheeks and neck. I washed around my mouth and chin, and rubbed my teeth with my finger. I didn't want to look like a gypsy or a tramp.

After drying my face and hands on the blanket, I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders like a cape. I was dressed in Mr. Griffin's clothes still, but the pants were dirty and torn in places. I didn't have any shoes but the rags of leather tied around my feet. I did look like a tramp.

I licked the first finger on my left hand and held it up in the wind. The
breeze was coming from the southwest, opposite the early sun. Gripping the ax I turned and walked into the breeze, following the bank of the branch.

The smell of smoke in the wind came and went. Sometimes the scent was strong and certain, and other times it just seemed to disappear.

I picked my way through laurel thickets, and walked under tall hemlocks by the water. The spruce pines smelled of mold and must as they always did in winter. I lost the perfume of smoke until I came over a rise. There was a branch ahead, and I looked around for a log or big rock to cross on. Then I heard a holler, and another holler, and there were shouts one after another.

I hunkered there on the ground and listened. There was a banging and rattling that sounded like pots and pans knocked together. Wherever there were pots and pans there would be something to eat. And then there were shouts that sounded like barks. The rattling and banging went on.

On the other side of the branch was a cedar thicket. I couldn't see a thing through it or beyond it. The noise was coming from the other side of the cedars and I had to go through the thicket to see what was there. I jumped across the branch, but the cedars were so close together I had to crawl under them or slip sideways between them. The sharp needles pricked my face and hands.

When I came out of the cedars I was at the edge of a clearing. It was a field way off in the woods. There were campfires around the edge of the field, and little clusters of men all across the field. I thought at first it was some kind of ball game. They had gathered to play football or some other sport.

But then I saw some of the men carried rifles, and they marched in step, or were trying to march in step. And with every group there was a man hollering orders at them. Some men had uniforms or pieces of uniforms. Some had gun belts and others wore buckskin or hunting shirts, or plain carpenter's jumpers. Some had muskets or rifles, and some had pistols in their belts. The men barking at them sounded angry.

I backed into the cedars to sit and think. This was a militia on a muster ground. I should slip away into the woods and look elsewhere for something to eat. It was dangerous to have anything to do with soldiers. I had smelled bacon from their campfires, but I couldn't walk out into the field and ask for something to eat.

I stood up and started walking away, back toward the branch. But I knew there was nothing in that direction. I had come that way. Maybe I should slip around to the other side of the camp. There were wagons and horses there in the trees. Maybe I could steal something to eat.

I worked my way through briars and brush and cedar thickets to the other side of the camp. There was a wagon backed between two pine trees there, but it had a canvas over the top and I couldn't see inside. I figured if I could just crawl to the back of the wagon and look in maybe I would find a pone of bread or a piece of fatback. Holding the ax and stooping low as I could I threaded my way through the brush.

“Throw down that ax!” somebody yelled at me. I turned to see a man holding a rifle pointed at my head. He wore a blue coat with stripes sewn on the sleeves.

“I'm not doing anything,” I said.

“Not yet you ain't,” he said. He prodded me with the gun barrel and I dropped the ax. “Are you a spy?” he said.

“I'm not a spy,” I said. I knew that spies got shot or hanged.

“Then you are a thief,” the man said. “We'll see what the captain says.” He pushed me with the gun and made me walk in front of him. I saw there were tents in the woods on the other side of the field. Horses were tied to trees and to wagons with covered tops. Rifles stacked in circles leaned against each other.

I figured the man in the blue coat was a sergeant since he had stripes on his sleeves. Only he and a few others in the clearing had uniforms. Most were dressed as rough and dirty as I was.

The sergeant marched me to a tent at the edge of the field. A man in a cleaner blue uniform sat at a table. A fire blazed near his chair and the
top of the table was covered with papers weighted down by a pistol and musket balls.

“This is Captain Cox of the North Carolina militia,” the sergeant said. He prodded me to stand in front of the table. The man behind the table wore a blue jacket and a black cocked hat. He was a handsome young man.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and made the movement of what I thought was a salute.

“And who might you be?” the captain said. He had blue eyes and a scar on his cheek.

“I'm Joseph Summers,” I said, and swallowed.

“Say ‘sir' when you speak to the captain,” the sergeant said, and pushed me with the musket barrel.

“Sir!” I said, and hiccuped.

“Where might you be from?” the captain said.

“From up the river,” I said. “From Pine Knot Branch.”

“I caught him spying on the camp, sir,” the sergeant said.

“I wasn't spying, sir,” I said. My belly felt uneasy, like I'd eaten the wrong thing that morning, though I hadn't eaten anything.

The captain sat back in his chair and looked at me. He looked me up and down and studied my face. He looked at the leather rags on my feet and the dirty blanket wrapped around my shoulders. His gaze was so steady he seemed to be looking right through me. “Are you a spy?” the captain said.

“I'm no spy, sir,” I said.

Men all around the camp had turned to look at me. I hoped nobody would recognize me, unless they had seen me with John at one of his services.

“Well, Joseph Summers, if you're not here to spy on us then you must be here to join us,” Captain Cox said.

“Yes, sir,” I said. The sergeant prodded me with the tip of the gun. “I'm here to join,” I said. I was afraid if I said anything else they would shoot me or hang me. But once I'd said yes, it came to me that I wanted to join
the militia and fight the British. It was the only way I might get revenge for what they had done to John. I hadn't thought of that before.

The captain looked at my hands. “Do you have a rifle, boy?” he said.

“I have an ax,” I said.

There were snickers all around and the captain started laughing. The sergeant laughed also.

“Were you thinking of chopping down the redcoats?” Captain Cox said. “Are you a Viking, or do you plan to keep us supplied with firewood?”

“I want to join the fight, sir,” I said. The words just came out like somebody else was saying them. My life took a turn in that instant with me hardly knowing it. But I saw I didn't really have a choice. My tongue had thought quicker than my brain. They could do anything they wanted to me. Joining was my only chance to not be hanged or shot for a spy. I had to eat and I had to live. I couldn't live on my own in the woods in the cold winter. And I had to make them think I was a boy. A boy might have a chance to live in this world gone crazy. A girl unprotected would be shamed and killed, or beaten and cast away.

I saw I had to join the militia, and I had to stay with the militia until things changed or something different came up. There was no other way to live until a better time. And I hoped I could pay the Tories back for taking my husband, and killing my husband.

Something in my belly squeezed and turned. The pain was a sick ache that made me feel dizzy. I was going to be sick, and there was no way I could avoid it.

“Then you must take the oath of allegiance,” the captain said.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“The sergeant will administer the oath,” the captain said. But as he said it something broke loose in my belly. There was a roll and turn in my gut, and brash punched right up into my chest and into my throat. I closed my mouth and put a hand over my lips and just had time to turn aside and stumble to the brush beside the tent.

What rushed out of my mouth was bitter as the worst sadness. I hadn't
eaten in a long time and my vomit tasted like gall. I threw up again something yellow, and something bitter and sour at once. I threw up so hard I coughed and it felt like I was going to choke or smother, for all the air was pushed from my chest. It felt like my heart had bursted and the bitterness bursted out of my heart. I felt like I was puking up venom and the marrow out of my bones.

When it stopped I was so weak my knees trembled and my face was covered with sweat. The sergeant led me back to the table.

“Well, Joseph, I hope you haven't brought the flux to us,” Captain Cox said.

“No, sir,” I said. My mouth tasted like the floor of a chicken house.

The sergeant made me repeat after him the oath of allegiance to the Continental Congress and the North Carolina militia. I swore the oath before God.

“Give this boy a rifle,” the captain said. The sergeant took a gun from one of the piles and handed it to me. The rifle was heavier than I expected. The long barrel made it heavier than it looked. He showed me how to load it, pouring in powder and pushing in the patch and bullet, and how to cock it.

I had rarely held a gun before. I was almost afraid to touch the hammer and the long rod that fit in the rings under the barrel. The metal and the wood had been oiled, and the oil rubbed off on my hands. The oil made the gun smell like the inside of a clock, except for the burning smell in the barrel.