Preacher (10 page)

“And I am the son of your son.”

“You are the English son of my son. Tolian is the Shawnee son of my son. But because I am of good heart today, I will not punish you for speaking English.”

Art realized then that this was the first sentence he had spoken in English in over six months. Though he missed hearing his own language, he had to admit that the total immersion in Shawnee had helped him learn the language rather quickly.

Language wasn't the only thing Art had learned while living with the Shawnee. He knew how to make traps to capture game, he knew how to find deer by becoming a deer, he knew how to watch the birds as they went to water at night so that he could find water. He knew which plants made medicine to heal wounds and which plants would treat pain. If, ever again, he found himself alone in the woods, he would not starve.

* * *

Jennie's situation had improved. It wasn't that Eby was a kinder owner than Younger—Eby was every bit as despicable as her former owner had been—but Jennie rarely saw Eby because he had borrowed money and, on his note, pledged all the income she could generate until his debt was repaid. As a result Jennie was no longer relegated to doing business from the back of a wagon, but was working in Etta Claire's Visitation Salon, a first-class house of prostitution.

Etta Claire, was Etta Claire Dozier, a former prostitute who, for fifteen percent of the take, provided room, food, and a convivial atmosphere for the girls.

For the first time in her life Jennie had a room of her own, complete with a vanity and mirror. She had clothes to wear and regular meals, and a real bed. If it weren't for the fact that she still had to entertain men, she would believe that life couldn't be better.

Before, Jennie had been on her own, servicing one man after another under all conditions. Here, at least, she was able to use a bed. Also there were other girls working in the house, so she wasn't expected to take care of everyone all by herself. Having other girls around helped in other ways as well. The girls taught her things she needed to know, telling her about various oils and lubricants that would make the process less painful, as well as showing her tricks that would give her more control over a man's endurance. That way if she was with someone who was extremely unpleasant, she could shorten the time he spent with her. On the other hand, if she was with someone who was gentle and she wanted to stay longer with him, she could prolong the session.

Although Saturday night was always the busiest night, Jennie was able to tolerate it because the next day was Sunday. All visitors would have to leave by six o'clock Sunday morning. Then the house would be closed for the rest of the day. That was a day of much-needed rest for all the girls, and they generally had a late breakfast, then slept, sewed, or visited. All of the girls were friendly with each other, and these times together were the closest thing to a family life Jennie had ever experienced.

Jennie's best friend was a girl named Carol. At eighteen, Carol was closest to Jennie's age, and the two had exchanged their life stories. Like Jennie, Carol had been a prostitute from a very early age. Carol had been born to a prostitute. She didn't know her father, but had gone through a succession of “uncles” until one of them raped her when she was twelve. She ran away from home when her mother didn't believe her. Since she had been raised by a prostitute, going into the business didn't seem that unusual for her.

Carol poured a cup of coffee for herself and for Jennie, then added generous amounts of cream and sugar. She brought the cup over to Jennie, who was sitting on a cushion in the window seat, looking out at the river.

“Tell me more about Art,” Carol said, settling down on the window seat alongside her friend.

“I don't know no more to tell,” she said. “1 only know'd him for a short time.”

“Is he handsome?”

“He ain't but a boy.”

“And you are just a girl. Is he handsome?” Carol asked again.

Jennie laughed. “I reckon he is. Leastwise, he's goin' to make a fine-lookin' man someday.”

“Maybe, when he's a fine-lookin' man, he'll come for you. He'll come for you and take you out of the life.”

“He can't never come for me. You forget, I ain't just in the life. I'm a slave. I got no choice.”

“Maybe he'll buy you. If he loves you, he'll buy you.”

“Oh, I don't reckon he loves me none. I mean, he can't hardly do that, seein' as he's white and I'm Creole.”

“But you said yourself that he stole you away from Mr. Younger.”

“He done that, all right. But then we got catched, the both of us. Now, even though he's white, he's a slave, same as me.”

“Have you ever been with him?” Carol asked.

“What? You mean lie with him?”

“Yes.”

Jennie shook her head. “Ain't never,” she said. “Been with a heap of men, but never with Art.”

“How many men you reckon you've been with?” Carol asked.

“Lots of 'em. How about you?”

“Lots of 'em,” Carol replied.

“Why do you reckon men like to do it so?”

“I don't know, but they surely do. And it don't seem to make no difference to them who they are with; one woman seems to be 'bout as good as another to them,” Carol said.

“That's true.”

“They say that if you lie with the right man, it can be good for a woman too,” Carol said.

“Really? Has it ever been good for you?” Jennie asked.

Carol shook her head. “No. It ain't never been good.”

“It ain't never been good for me neither.”

“Maybe it would be good for you if you were with Art.”

“Maybe,” Jennie agreed.

Carol laughed. “See there. You are in love with him.”

“Am not,” Jennie said, joining in the laughter.

“Are too,” Carol insisted.

“Maybe,” Jennie said.

“You know what you ought to do? You ought to think of Art when you are with the other men,” Carol suggested. “If you would think of Art, it might not be so bad.”

* * *

It was two days later, and Jennie and Carol were sitting in the parlor waiting for the evening's business to begin, when Jennie shared something with Carol.

“It worked,” she said.

“What worked?”

“What you told me to do. Whenever I'm with a man now, I think of Art.”

“Oh! And do you like it now?” Carol asked.

“No, I still don't like it. But it's better.”

“I wish I had someone I could think of,” Carol said. “I know. I'll think of Art too.”

“No, you can't,” Jennie said. “He belongs to me.”

Both girls laughed.

It was the perfect place from which to launch an ambush. The river was only navigable on the east side of the island, so the flatboats would have to maneuver very carefully in order to negotiate the island.

There were two other advantages to the island. One was that it was heavily infested with old-growth timber, thus making concealment easy. The other advantage was that the island was south of the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi, so that downstream traffic from both rivers would be passing by. That doubled the targets of opportunity.

Unlike his days on the Ohio, when Eby was primarily a front for the pirates working the river, he was now taking an active role in the venture. He no longer had an easy outlet for the goods that were stolen. That meant that the operation was much less profitable than it had been because he had to make deep discounts on the stolen goods in order to sell them. It was that lack of profitability that had forced him to get personally involved.

He had seven men with him, and two swift skiffs. Having so many people further decreased the profit from the stolen merchandise, but it also made the operation less dangerous.

Most of the flatboats would have a crew of no more than three or four men, and often, the hands were mere boys. There were always guns aboard, but rarely were the boat crews prepared for a swift attack, especially from a force of eight men. On several previous occasions the crew had abandoned the boat at the first sign of attack, thus leaving Eby and his men with nothing to do but pull the flatboat ashore and begin unloading.

At the moment, Eby was high in a tree, using a spyglass to search upriver. Below him, a few of his men were playing cards, while a couple others were throwing their knives at a tree. One was sound asleep.

“Damn you, Philbin! I know damn well you didn't have that card!” one of the cardplayers exclaimed.

“You men shut up down there! You want to queer the whole deal for us?” Eby shouted.

Eby had no sooner finished his scolding than he heard laughter. The laughter had not come from any of his men, so he opened the telescope and began the search.

In addition to the laughter, he heard someone speaking. Then he saw the boat coming around the bend, some one thousand yards upriver.

Eby snapped the telescope shut, then slid down the tree and joined the others. He wore a smile that spread all across his face.

“Here comes one, boys, and from the way she's ridin' in the water I'd say she's a fat one.”

“How many men?” Philbin asked.

“Only three.”

“We got us easy pickin's, boys,” Philbin said. “Easy pickin's.”

Each of Eby's men was armed with two pistols and one rifle. For the next couple of minutes, they busied themselves priming, charging, and loading their weapons. Then, when all was in readiness, they moved down to the skiffs, climbed into the boats, and waited.

Eby watched as the awkward flatboat maneuvered into the mainstream. It began to drift to one side.

“Earl, get her back in the middle and keep her there,” the flatboat master said. “Else we'll ground on a sandbar, then I'll have you three boys out, standin' in cold water up to your ass, pushing us off. And with the weight we're a'carryin', that ain't goin' to be no easy task.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Varner,” the boy on the tiller said.

“Shoot the boy on the tiller first,” Eby whispered to the others. “With him dead, they'll start driftin', and like as not they'll wind up on one of the sand shoals.”

Two of Eby's men, the better marksmen, aimed at the tiller. They waited until Eby gave them the word.

“Now!” Eby said.

Both rifles boomed as if one, and the heavy impact of two large-caliber balls knocked the helmsman overboard. He floated away from the boat.

“Earl!” one of the other boys shouted.

“Never mind him, boys. Get your guns!” Varner shouted.

“Go!” Eby commanded, and the two skiffs pulled out into the river, then paddled hard toward the flatboat. True to Eby's prediction, the flatboat hung up on a sandbar.

Guns boomed and smoke billowed across the water as the pirates and the flatboat crew exchanged fire. The master of the flatboat went down almost immediately, and the two remaining boys were killed soon after that. By the time to two skiffs reached the boat, there was nothing left of the fight but the sight and smell of gunsmoke, now hanging in a great cloud over the river.

“Careful, boys,” Eby cautioned as they climbed aboard. “Could be someone's left alive, just hidin' out.”

With guns and knives drawn, the pirates climbed onto the flatboat. The master lay on his back at the stern of the boat, eyes open and looking sightlessly into the bright, blue sky. The other two crewmen, boys of no more than thirteen or fourteen, lay dead as well, one amidship, the other near the bow. The third boy, the one who had been the helmsmen, was in the water, facedown. He had drifted ashore into a growth of cypress trees, and was now hung up on one of the gnarled roots.

“All right, boys,” Eby said, putting his gun away. “Looks like we're in the clear. Let's start unloading.”

Eby jerked the canvas cover off the stack in the middle, then bellowed out loud.

“Bibles!” he growled angrily. “This entire boat is loaded with Bibles! What the hell are we going to do with them?”

“Maybe we can sell 'em,” Philbin suggested. “I know lots of folks with Bibles.”

“Look what's printed on the cover,” Eby said disgustedly. “How are we going to sell them?”

“I can't read,” Philbin said. “What's it say?”

Eby picked up one of the Bibles and read from the cover. “This Bible printed especially for St. Mary Catholic Church, New Orleans,” he said. With a roar of frustrated anger, he threw the Bible out into the river.

* * *

“But stealing is wrong,” Art told Tolian.

“When you were white, you did honor to the things that were white,” Tolian said. “But now you are Shawnee, and you must do honor to the things which are Shawnee. There is great honor for the Shawnee to steal from his enemy. If you wish to become accepted as a warrior, you must steal a horse from the camp of the Osage.”

“Very well,” Art said. “I will go with you tonight.”

Since coming to Keytano's village nearly a year ago, Art had learned a great deal about the Shawnee, including their history. He knew about their God, Moneto, a supreme being who ruled the entire universe, dispensing blessings on those who earned his favor and sorrow upon those who displeased him. He had already known about the great Shawnee leader, Tecumseh.

But he learned also that it wasn't just the whites who did battle with the Shawnee. They had been displaced from their ancestral lands by other Indian nations, forced out of Pennsylvania and Ohio into Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois. Now the Shawnee were scattered over a wide area, and Keytano and his band had crossed into Missouri. But here, they encountered Osage and Missouri Indians.

Keytano's group had built a village on the Castor River, in an area of the Missouri Territory that was unoccupied, either by the whites or any other Indian tribes. But even though they'd tried to find an uninhabited area, the Osage, their nearest Indian neighbors, didn't appreciate the encroachment, and often sent hunting parties to take game from areas close to the Shawnee. They did this, not due to a lack of game near their own villages, but rather as a show of possession.

Because there were many more Osage than Shawnee in Missouri now, Keytano was very careful not to provoke them into war. But from time to time, young Shawnee warriors would prove their courage by individual acts of bravery. Tolian had planned an act of bravery, and invited Art to go with him. He was going to sneak into the Osage hunting camp, steal a horse, then return.

* * *

It was much easier said than done. The nearest Osage village was three hours ride away. If Art and Tolian left just after sundown and rode hard, they would reach the Osage village in the middle of the night. They could take the horses and be back just before sunup . . . provided they weren't caught.

As planned, they reached the village at about midnight. The Osage encampment was pitched on the banks of a small stream, and Art could see, by the light of the moon dancing on the water, about a dozen lodges. He also saw a remuda of horses. The remuda was right in the center of the village, so that he and Tolian would have to pass by the lodges in order to reach it.

They tied their horses to a bush, then got down on their hands and knees and began crawling toward the village. They had both practiced crawling great distances for several nights, and two nights ago, Art had crawled from a long distance outside their village into the wigwam of Metacoma. There, he had stolen one of Metacoma's most prized feathers, then worn it proudly the next morning for all to see.

“I took it from you as you slept last night,” Art said, returning the feather to the angry Metacoma.

Now, the stealth Art and Tolian had practiced would be put to the maximum test, for if one of the sleeping Osage villagers woke up to see them, they would be killed.

A dog barked, but both Art and Tolian had come prepared. Each was wearing a sack full of bones around his neck. They opened the sacks and scattered the bones. The dogs converged on the bones, and in a moment's time, were completely absorbed in their eating.

Art and Tolian were right outside one of the lodges when a warrior came out. Art felt a quick stab of fear shoot through him, and he dropped to his stomach and lay very quietly, looking up at the warrior. Art held a knife in his hand, watching warily as the warrior relieved himself, then walked over toward the remuda for a look at the horses.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the warrior went back inside. Art and Tolian lay quiet for a few moments longer, then cautiously slipped over to the remuda.

As they tried to grab a couple of the horses, the animals whinnied and stamped and snorted, and Art was afraid that someone would come out to see what was going on.

“Easy, horses,” he said in English. He could speak Shawnee now, but still, in moments of stress and tension, he slipped naturally into English. “Easy, horses. We are just going to take a little trip together. Now, wouldn't you like that?”

Finally Art's soothing talk calmed the horses, and he and Tolian threw halters around two beautifully spotted ponies and began leading them out of the village.

They had nearly made it back to their own horses when they were jumped by an Osage sentry! The attack caught Art completely by surprise, and he was knocked flat. He looked up in terror to see the sentry, who was grinning from ear to ear, about to come down on him with a raised tomahawk.

But the sentry, who was much older than Art, grew careless. Intent only upon claiming coup on the would-be horse thief, he didn't notice Tolian come upon him. With a furious shout, Tolian drove his knife deep into the Osage's stomach. The Osage tried to twist away, but that was the worst thing he could do, for it caused Tolian's knife to make a fatal tear across his abdomen. The Osage fell to the ground with a death rattle in his throat.

Tolian pulled the knife out, cleaned it, then slipped it back into his scabbard. He looked at the man he had just killed, then immediately turned away and threw up.

Art remembered his own feelings when he had killed the river pirate, and he knew exactly what his friend was going through.

“Come, my brother,” Art said, getting up from the ground. “We must go quickly.”

Tolian stood there for a moment longer, looking down at the dead Osage sentry.

“Come,” Art said again, putting his hand on Tolian's shoulder.

“Wait,” Tolian said. Tolian dropped to one knee beside the Osage, grabbed the dead man's hair, put his knife to the sentry's scalp, then turned his face away as he completed the scalping.

“Now we can go,” he said, holding the bloody scalp in his hand.

* * *

When they returned, they showed the horses they had stolen, and Tolian displayed the Osage's scalp. As a result of their adventure, both Tolian and Art were made warriors. That entitled them to sit in, and participate in all, future war councils. This action raised the young men's status in the eyes of the other villagers, but it created so much jealousy in Metacoma that it just widened the gulf that was already there.

“I am in your debt,” Tolian told Art when the two were talking later that day.

“How are you in my debt?”

“You did not tell the others that I was weak like a woman, and that I became sick, when I killed the Osage.”

Art started to tell Tolian that he too had become sick after killing for the first time, but he stopped short of saying the words. To tell Tolian that he had already killed might be construed as bragging.

“You saved my life, my brother,” Art said. “You are the bravest warrior I know.”

“Yes, and now your life belongs to me,” Tolian replied. “I must watch out for you for all time. You will become my burden. Perhaps it would have been better to let the Osage have your scalp.” Tolian laughed, and ran his hand through Art's hair.

It was being on the war council that brought to an end Art's idyllic sojourn with the Indians. Keytano called all the warriors together to hear a redcoat warrior chief.

Since Art and Tolian were very new warriors, as well as the youngest, their seats on the council were on the very last circle. This was good, because Art was far enough from the center of the circle that their visitor, a major in His Majesty's Army, did not realize that Art was white.

“To Keytano, Chief of the mighty Shawnee, I, Major Sir John Loxley, bring greetings from General Sir Edward Parkenham, on behalf of His Royal Britannic Majesty,” the red-coated officer said.