Judith E. French (20 page)

He’d seen his father once more, when he and his mother had gone to Annapolis to trade for needles and gunpowder. His parents had spoken to each other, argued, and then Sterling had been hurried away. His mother had wept bitterly—he remembered that clearly. It was the only time he’d ever seen her cry. Sterling had not set eyes on the baron again until after his mother’s sudden death of a high fever.

“Why did you take me away from these forests—from this earth?” he whispered into the night.

Eyes glowed in the darkness, and Sterling knew instantly that it was the wolf who’d been shadowing the Mohawk raiders since they’d left the plantation clearing.

“You again,” Sterling murmured.
You’d best get far from here, or you’ll end up part of a Mohawk breakfast.
The old wolf had obviously attached himself to the group for a reason. Perhaps it was too old to hunt and hoped to find scraps around the camp.

Then, the answer to his question rang through his brain as clearly as if his father were standing beside him.
Why did I take you from the Indians? Because you were my son. Because you carried my blood, and it was my duty to bring you to Christianity and to return a Gray—even a Gray of mixed heritage—to civilization.

It was all Sterling could do to keep from laughing aloud. All his life, he’d tried to be what his father wanted, and in all that time, his father had not seen him as a person, only as a possession.

Why hadn’t he guessed the truth before? Among his mother’s people, children belonged to the Creator, while the Europeans considered them possessions without rights or free will.

The wolf stepped closer.

Sterling blinked and tried to fathom the logic of a wild creature willingly coming close to its only mortal enemy. Then one of the Mohawks groaned in his sleep, and Sterling snapped his head toward the sound. When he looked back, the wolf was gone.

Sterling waited, fully alert. The rain came down harder, lapping over his body like a warm bath. He tilted his head and let the delicious liquid sluice down his throat. The warm downpour soothed his wounds and washed away his confusion.

Cailin is safe. If she lives, I live as well.

With his mind at ease, he drifted into a peaceful sleep and dreamed of the strawberry meadow and Cailin ... dreamed of the scent of her hair and the taste of her berry-stained lips ... and of the feel of her bare, silken skin pressed tightly against his.

M
oonfeather stalled for another two days before she led Cailin, Cameron Stewart, and six warriors out of the Shawnee village. Cailin’s feet were still tender, and Moonfeather had serious doubts that the Scottish girl could make the journey to the Mohawk village near the big lake the English called Ontario.

Learning the war party’s destination was a piece of luck that Moonfeather thought could only have come as a direct blessing from Inu-msi-ila-fe-wanu, the great spirit who is a grandmother. Moonfeather had heard of Ohneya, the Mohawk Cailin said had captured and terrorized her, but the Iroquois were as numerous as the leaves of the trees. There were many Mohawk villages. Since the Shawnee were presently at peace with the Iroquois, she could have gone to the first Iroquois village she saw and asked Ohneya’s whereabouts. But she had little faith that she would have received a truthful answer.

Instead, she found out the name and location of Ohneya’s camp from a Lenape warrior named Lachpi who had been born beside the great salt ocean at the mouth of the Delaware River. Lachpi had once hunted whale with his grandfather from a twentyman dugout, and he had lived to see his family’s homeland claimed by Swedish and later English settlers. Now, he no longer speared fish by torchlight on the Delaware, and the only whales on which he used his knife were those he carved of cedar. Lachpi had drifted farther and farther west as his people died of the white men’s sicknesses and he watched their culture fragment. Last summer, he had become the husband of a Shawnee widow and a member of Moonfeather’s clan by marriage.

Two years ago, before Lachpi had met his wife-to-be, he and his grown son had been trading beaver skins north of Lancaster. This same Mohawk Ohneya had attacked Lachpi, stolen the furs, and taken Lachpi’s son back to his village. Lachpi had trailed them to the camp, but it was too late to save his only son. Now, Lachpi was eager to lead Moonfeather north to the Mohawk town.

“If you seek revenge in blood, this may not be the time,” Moonfeather had warned him. “This woman goes in peace to try and negotiate a prisoner’s return.”

“A father’s memory is long,” the man replied. “A debt must be repaid. You have the word of Lachpi that he will not fail you. In exchange, this man would have your word. If Ohneya the Mohawk must be killed, let me do it for you.”

“A peace woman does not seek violence,” she answered softly.

“Storms come before the rainbow.”

She had nodded at that, thanked him for his information, and agreed that Lachpi should go with them into the domain of the Mohawk.

The animosity between the Shawnee and the Iroquois nation stretched back hundreds of years, since the Iroquois had first claimed the huge chunk of land in the center of the Algonquian-speaking tribes’ hunting grounds. The Shawnee were blood cousins to the Lenape, or Delaware as the English called them, and the Mohegan, thus they were honor-bound to support and defend one another. This common kinship of language and intermarriage extended to the Nanticoke, the Powhatan, and other nations such as the Ojibwa, the Menominee, the Fox, and the Miami.

The powerful Iroquois Confederacy, consisting of the Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, and Mohawk, had realized the military importance of forming strong ties with the Dutch, the English, and the French in the early seventeenth century. The Iroquois had used their political might and their new white friends to conquer or destroy the neighboring Indian tribes around them. The Mohegans had been completely destroyed; the traditional homeland of the Delaware was now in English hands—sold to the British by the Iroquois, who never had rightful claim to the hunting grounds along the Delaware River. And now the Iroquois were trying to extend their rule into the heart of the Shawnee territory, the Ohio River country.

The Iroquois were enemy to the Shawnee, and the Mohawk tribe was the greatest enemy of all. The Mohawk called themselves Ganiengehaka, People Who Live in the Land of the Flint. The Delaware called them Mohawk, Eaters of Men, after the custom of ritual cannibalism practiced by the Iroquois, and the Mohawk in particular.

Moonfeather knew that if they did not arrive in time, Sterling would meet a hideous death. Still, she had waited for Cailin to gain strength and for her own inner feeling that it was the right day and the right hour for their departure. Moonfeather had spent the time in prayer and meditation. She had offered tobacco to the sacred council fire, and she had cleansed her own body by fasting and ritual bathing.

Her vote against war had kept the Shawnee council members from passing the black string of wampum and seeking revenge with tomahawk and long rifle. The strike at Sterling’s plantation had been more than an attack on an English settler; it had been a blatant insult against the Shawnee. Sterling’s land was Shawnee hunting ground. Ignoring the raid would mean accepting Iroquois domination; contesting the affront could mean a long and bloody war against not just the Mohawk, but the entire Iroquois Confederacy.

But if a Shawnee peace woman could go to the Mohawk village, recover the prisoner, and demand apology and token payment from the Iroquois without being slaughtered or taken captive herself, then the shaky peace would hold a while longer. No Shawnee children would be orphaned, and no women made widows before their time. Shawnee cornfields would ripen, and the old men could sit in the sun, smoke their pipes, and speak of times when the world was a better place.

Moonfeather glanced back at Cailin. The girl was breathing easily and having no obvious problems keeping her place in line. Tomorrow, the pace would be faster, but Moonfeather had quietly told her men that they would start out slowly and make up time as Cailin proved her ability. A final glance over her shoulder assured Moonfeather that Cameron was holding his position at the rear.

Relieved that all was well, she let her mind slip back to the conversation she’d had with Cameron last night. She remembered every word and motion with crystal clarity.

“What chance of success do we have?” Cameron had demanded.

She’d spread her hands and shrugged. “A chance.”

He’d looked skeptical. “You put a lot of stock in Iroquois honor.”

“Some. They do ken honor, not English honor or Scot, not even Shawnee honor, but we are more alike than even you realize.”

“I don’t like this,” he said. “I’m sorry about Sterling and for Cailin, but there’s no need for you two to die trying to get him back.”

She laughed softly. “Who was the first to say he would go?”

Cameron shook his head. “That’s different. I’m an old man. My joints hurt in the morning, and if I ride too long, my back kills me. I’ve had a long life—a good one. There’s little enough I’ve done for this daughter. I owe her.”

“You’re a rogue, certain,” Moonfeather answered. “A little gray around the ears, mayhap, but not yet too old to seek out adventure. You’re bored. The Chesapeake’s too tame for ye.”

He smiled, and she saw again why Cameron Stewart had broken so many women’s hearts. “This journey will give the two of you time to see into each other’s souls.”

“You should have told her the rest of it,” he said. Moonfeather paused in packing her medicine kit and looked up at him. “Have I lied to Cailin?”

“No.” He uttered an exasperated sound. “You just didn’t tell her all the truth.”

“The Shawnee have a saying, ’Truth is a knife with a sharp edge. Take care where you stab it.’ ”

“That’s not Shawnee, it’s Chinese.”

She shrugged again and laughed. “Wisdom has many faces. It’s better that she doesn’t know everything at once.”

“She has the right.”

“Nay.” She shook her head. “The right must be earned. She has the Eye of Mist. She must prove worthy.”

“I’ve said it over and over. You’re a stubborn, willful woman. Your sister Anne was never this difficult.”

“I’m more hardheaded than even my sister Fiona?”

“Aye. You are. You know you are.”

“And you are a man of reason.”

“Aye, I am,” Cameron agreed. “But it still irks me to have you call me by my Christian name.”

“I’ve called ye—”

“We won’t dig up old misunderstandings. You are a grandmother, and I’m a great-grandfather. We both need to have our heads examined for willingly going into Iroquois land.”

She tucked a packet of dried trillium into the otter-skin pouch and tied the closures tightly. It was true that she was no longer a young woman, but the lure of an unknown trail that led to danger still brought a youthful excitement to her heart. She had a good husband and loving children who understood that they could be part of her world, but not all of it. If she didn’t return from this mission, they would mourn, but they wouldn’t blame her for going.

“I am the peace woman,” she said simply. “Who else could do this?”

“We could contact Mountain Standing of the Onondaga. He could attempt negotiations.”

“In time. Meanwhile, Sterling could be bound to a stake, have his eyes burned out with hot coals, and have his insides wrapped around—”

Cameron swore.

“I only speak aloud what we both think,” she answered softly. “Although, if they mean to prolong torture, they would leave his eyes until last—so that he could—”

“Enough.” His mouth tightened and his eyes took on a steely hue. “I’m no coward, but you know how I hate torture.”

“We are reaping the harvest of your sowing,” she said. “Is this the last? Or have you sprinkled daughters in the Far East as well?”

“I cut the Eye of Mist into four pieces when you were a child. Four parts of the whole. I can only think that there are four daughters.” He ran lean fingers over his eyes. “I’ve loved many women, Moonfeather. That’s been my curse and my blessing.”

A cold chill passed through her, and she stared into his eyes. “Ye dinna believe that you will return this time, do ye?” she asked. Unconsciously, the heavy burr of her childhood speech had crept into her voice.

He tried to laugh off her sudden fear. “I like to be ready for any possibility. I’ve written a new will. Cailin will be provided for, whether or not her husband survives.”

“English gold cannot make her happy.”

“Do you deny that Brandon’s wealth has made your life easier—and that of your tribe?”

“My husband’s inheritance has provided many things, but my mother’s legacy has given me more.”

“Most women would trade their immortal souls to be the beloved wife of Lord Kentington.”

“Aye, that may be so,” she agreed, “and my heart is his, but my soul has never been for sale. You taught me that.”

“Another moment and we’ll all be weeping like sailors at a bosun’s funeral. I don’t agree with your decision, but I’ll keep your secret for a while longer.”

“When the time comes for her to know—if it comes—I’ll tell Cailin myself.”

He reached out and laid his hand on her cheek. “I love ye, lassie. Have I ever told ye how much?”

“You have,” she replied. “But ye may say it again as often as ye like.” She smiled up at him and hoped her earlier chill was not a premonition of heartbreak to come.

Moonfeather felt none of that dread this morning. All her doubts had been pushed from her mind. It was too late to consider what they might have done; she had made a decision. She would follow her instincts until they successfully rescued Sterling or until the mission was lost. And if she or Cameron or even Cailin was meant to die trying, then it was already written in the star path, and nothing could prevent it.

 

Cailin lay awake staring up at the stars long after Moonfeather and Cameron Stewart were asleep. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to stop working long enough for her to relax. So much had happened since she and Sterling had laughed together by the river. First his snakebite, then the massacre, and now this man who claimed to be her father.

She supposed she should summon affection or even resentment toward him from the depths of her being, but she couldn’t. Her emotions were drained. She had no reserve of strength left to deal with him. If he said he was her sire, she accepted his word. She’d not question how or why he’d found her—she’d simply use him and his wealth to try to save Sterling’s life.

A shadow moved in the trees. Behind her, a night hawk called. The sound was answered.

Mentally, Cailin counted the sleeping figures around her. Six. Seven, if she included herself. Two braves were keeping watch. One of them was the fierce Kitate who had come with Moonfeather to visit the homestead in May. Sterling had told her that Kitate was Moonfeather’s Shawnee son, born before she married Brandon, Lord Kentington. Cailin could see little resemblance between the hardened warrior and his mother. He seldom spoke or smiled.

Cailin felt at ease with Moonfeather, but not with Kitate, who watched her every move with heavy-lidded black eyes. She didn’t like him, and he made no attempt to hide his distrust of her.

The other Shawnee were Ake, a tall, light-skinned brave with a wide mouth; a short, husky man who went by the Christian name of Joseph; a seasoned warrior with graying hair called Pukasee; and Koke-wah, a boy of about sixteen years of age. Koke-wah walked directly behind Cailin on the day’s march, and once, when she’d nearly tripped, he’d caught her arm, smiled reassuringly, and steadied her balance. The sixth member of their guard was a Delaware brave named Lachpi. He had never said anything to Cailin, but he laughed so easily that he reminded her of her cousin Alasdair, and she couldn’t help but be drawn to him. Lachpi was the other man standing guard duty with Kitate.

They’d not built a fire. Moonfeather had explained that they would rest for a few hours and then travel on through the early morning before dawn. Supper had been water from a fast-running stream and a mixture of dried meat and berries that had a strange consistency that Cailin found surprisingly filling.

No one had undressed. They had simply spread blankets on the ground and gone to sleep. Cailin had wanted to remove her high-laced moccasins, but she was afraid that if she did, she’d be unable to get them back on her swollen feet. She was the only one garbed in European clothing, a plain wool skirt and a bodice of Lincoln green that Moonfeather had given her.