by Mez Blume
“Ah, young Mr. McKay.” Governor Blunt held out a plump, white hand to Wattie, who shook it. “And who might these elegant young ladies be?”
“Miss Katie Watson of the State of Pennsylvania and her cousin from London, Miss Imogen Humphreys. Both guests of my family.”
Imogen made a face as the Governor kissed her hand, then took mine. He must have noticed how grim we looked and probably smelled, but he certainly didn’t show it.
“And I understand you’ve travelled all the way from Nickajack to speak to me?” He tutted. “Children, children, rest yourselves!” He showed us to a settee by the fireplace and sat himself down beside us in a spindly chair, then crossed his legs and laced his fingers around one knee. “Now, tell me. What is this urgent business that brings you all this way?”
Wattie cleared his throat and began. “As you’ll be aware, sir, the Cherokees in Nickajack and nearby villages have suffered a number of rampages lately. Livestock have been stolen or butchered, crops destroyed …”
The Governor nodded while Wattie made his list, his fat face sombre with sympathy. “Well do I know of these troubles, son.” His voice rose and fell, as if he were reciting a tragic poem. “The woes of Nickajack are the very reason I applied to Washington to issue a cavalry guard.” He laid his podgy hand on his heart. “Though my passion for Cherokee wellbeing is boundless, I am just one man and cannot possibly prevent every villainous act of lawlessness within Cherokee borders … as much as I would like personally to see justice done. But you have my word, I will send Lieutenant Lovegood to Nickajack this very day to hunt down the perpetrators and see that they get their full comeuppance.”
Wattie and I exchanged a quick glance. This was it. The ball-dropping moment. “I’m afraid, sir, Lieutenant Lovegood isn’t interested in setting things to rights.”
The Governor looked so taken aback that a third chin appeared above his collar. “Why ever do you say such a thing?”
Wattie took a deep breath. “Because we believe… we know, sir, that Lieutenant Lovegood is behind the attacks on Nickajack. Just days ago, he led a party of horse thieves on the village, then personally struck down my cousin Crow Feather. Miss Watson and Miss Humphreys are eye witnesses. They can tell you just what happened.”
Wattie looked to me. “Yes, we saw everything,” I began and launched into the story yet again. The Governor listened, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, either trying to concentrate on every word or because the news about Lieutenant Lovegood was so distressing, I wasn’t sure.
When I’d finished retelling everything that had happened in the woods, Wattie took over again. “I’m afraid it gets worse, sir. Lieutenant Lovegood is using you to carry out his own schemes.”
The Governor raised a doughy hand to his lips and whispered, “No.”
“Yes,” Wattie confirmed. “Just three days ago, he and a couple of officers interrupted a sacred festival and announced that you were giving Nickajack three days to sell our homes or face more attacks. As if those were your orders, sir!”
Governor Blunt didn’t speak for a long time. He put his fingertips together beneath his chins and gave each of us a long, thoughtful look. At last, some of the jolly smile returned to his face as he spoke. “My dear boy, those were my orders.”
My mouth dropped open, and at the same time I heard Wattie’s chest deflate. We were both speechless.
With a sickly smile, the Governor continued. “Children, children. You are young. You couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of government … the greater picture. I must think of the future posterity of this nation.”
“What about my nation?” Wattie demanded.
The Governor actually tutted. “I’m thinking of them too. This is for everyone’s good. Why would the Cherokees want to risk their own safety and wellbeing by staying here when they could start fresh on a new land? I’m offering to buy their land in exchange for a new life. It’s a very generous offer, if you really think about it.”
“But it’s not an offer,” I blurted. “Lovegood made a threat. He said if the people didn’t sell their homes, they could expect attacks. That’s not giving them any choice.”
The Governor raised his hands as if calling for peace. “My dear, you’re quite right. Lieutenant Lovegood may have misspoken. I’m sure he didn’t mean to make any threats. After all, he is a faithful servant of the Cherokee people. I will speak to him, and I’m sure we can clear up this little misunderstanding.”
Imogen spluttered. She’d been silent up ’til now, but apparently she’d heard enough. “Misunderstanding? A servant of the Cherokee people? Whatever!”
The Governor looked startled by her outburst. “I’m… sorry,” he stammered.
“Weren’t you listening to anything we just said? Lovegood shot at us.” She enunciated each word. “Where I come from, that’s called a felony. And besides that, we saw him conspiring with Black Fox, so if that’s not criminal activity…”
The Governor stood up abruptly. “Black Fox? I’m sure I’ve never heard of him,” he mumbled as he dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. He seemed almost distracted as he carried on talking very quickly, as if to himself. “Well well… it is very unfortunate. Lovegood must have mistaken you for an animal… a deer perhaps. I will tell him to take more care in future. Now,” he said, pulling down his waistcoat that had crept up over his belly, “I’m afraid we must say farewell. I’m very busy, as you can see. Delegates to host. Important business… Very good of you to come all this way.” He was pushing us towards the door. “Give my respects to your father, William, and I’m going to have my cook pack up a nice knapsack for your journey home.” He patted Wattie on the shoulder with one hand while opening the door with the other. Then, with a little shove, he pushed Wattie into the corridor.
“We don’t want a knapsack!” Wattie tried to protest, but the Governor wouldn’t hear it.
“It’s no trouble at all,” he said with a wave of his hand, and next thing we knew, he slammed the door in our faces. A second later, a lock clicked.
We all stared at the door. I glanced at Wattie. His face had gone bright red, and he looked stunned.
I resisted the urge to ask the first question that arose in my mind: What do we do now?
Imogen, on the other hand, spoke her mind. “What. A. Jerk. You know, I really do hate this place. I don’t know how you stand it, Wattie.”
Wattie wasn’t listening. With the same stunned expression, he turned away from the door and began to walk slowly back down the corridor. Defeated. For me, the blow was still sinking in. We had failed.
21
The Peddler’s Potion
Wattie didn’t speak as we made our way to the Garrison gates. His shoulders slumped, but a fire still raged in his eyes.
“There must be another way… someone else we can go to,” I said, wanting to encourage him. But if there was another way, I sure couldn’t see it.
Wattie stopped in his tracks like something had just struck him. He smacked himself on the forehead. “I forgot to ask the Governor if he knew of your uncle. I…I’ll go back―”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, grabbing his arm and turning him back towards the gate. “He won’t let you back in. You saw how desperate he was to get rid of us. And I doubt Blunt has any information about our uncle anyway.”
“But you’ve come all this way to help me, all for nothing. I just can’t believe the Governor dismissed us like that,” Wattie fumed. “Wait until my father hears—” His face dropped again, as if he would be sick. “How can I face my father? He’ll be furious. He forbade me to come here, and now I’ve crossed him with nothing to show for it. If anything, I’ve made matters worse.”
Before I could think of anything worth saying, Wattie staggered off and slumped down on a wooden barrel near the stables with his head in his hands.
Imogen, who had kept her mouth shut since we’d left the Governor’s mansion, couldn’t keep her thoughts to herself any longe
r. “Well, he’s right about one thing. This was all an idiotic waste of time. Like the Governor was ever going to believe our testimony against the word of his precious Lieutenant.”
My face went hot. “Well we couldn’t do nothing! Do you really want Lovegood to get away with what he’s done to Nickajack?”
Imogen pressed her palms over her eyes. “I don’t care. I don’t care what happens to anybody. I just want to go home.” And without another word, she stormed off as fast as she could go on her crutch towards the gate, leaving me to stand alone in the middle of the Garrison yard.
I looked back at Wattie on his barrel, not sure whether to follow Imogen or hang back. That’s when I saw the grey horse at a mounting post outside the stables. Just heaving his leg over the horse’s back and sitting up proudly in the saddle was Lieutenant Lovegood.
Lovegood tipped the brim of his hat with the two gold sabres to the groom and turned the horse about. I stood fixed to the ground as horse and rider cantered past. He slowed slightly, and for the briefest moment, I felt his cold gaze. Did I imagine it, or had a sinister smile flashed across his face?
I watched the guards salute Lovegood as he rode out of the Garrison, probably on his way to Nickajack. Once again, everything inside me was screaming and kicking to do something. But I could do nothing. You’ve failed everyone, a nasty voice in my head chided. I was no sign of hope. Just a regular, red-headed kid lost in a dangerous world that was too big for me.
There wasn’t any point in starting the journey back that evening—the sun was already sinking below the foothills, and none of us had the heart to turn back for Nickajack. Back at the canoe, Wattie put on his Cherokee clothes and strapped his rifle over his shoulder. I could tell he was doing his best to play the part of brave leader.
“If we turn up Chickamauga Creek, just there where it runs off the Tennessee, it’ll take us to a Cherokee outpost in about a mile’s distance. We can get supplies and make camp there.”
Back into the canoe we all climbed, my backside smarting as I lowered it back down into the dugout’s rough wooden keel. But in no time, we were banking again in a swampy grove. My moccasins slurped and sunk deep into the mud with each step as we dragged the canoe up the bank. At last we reached higher, dryer ground, and went through the routine of covering the canoe with branches and vines to hide it from any would-be thieves.
“The outpost isn’t far, Katie Fire-Hair. You can come with me and bring a basket to gather some hickory nuts or pecans on the way.”
Imogen hobbled forward on her crutch and snatched a basket out of Wattie’s hand. “I’m not staying guard again. I’m coming with you.”
The pines grew close together as we crunched through the wet straw. The forest smelled musty and had a murky, wild feeling about it. When a loud voice not far ahead of us broke the silence, Imogen and I both started. At first I thought it was someone howling in pain. I picked up my skirt to catch up with Wattie and reached him just as he stepped out of the trees and onto a wide dirt road. Then I saw what had made the howling … or singing, as it turned out. Two men with their arms draped around each other’s necks and bottles swinging in their free hands stumbled out of a log shack, belting at the top of their lungs in different keys. Another man was clumsily hitching up a cart to a mule out in front of the shack, but he leaned back every few seconds to rub his belly and let out an echoing belch. All three looked as though they’d never seen a bathtub in their lives.
Wattie watched the scene across the road with a disapproving look.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It was the outpost,” he answered darkly. “Looks like a tavern these days. There’s a growing trade in Cherokee Country for liquor. It’s brought nothing but trouble to our people.” As the three drunken men moved on down the road, Wattie crossed over the road to the shack.
“I’m not going in there.” Imogen had caught up with us on the road, but she wasn’t budging a step closer to the tavern. “Not if it’s full of people like them.” She gestured towards the singing trio.
Wattie peered around at the trees, then pointed. “There’s an old walnut tree, just there, overhanging the road. Why don’t you girls gather up some nuts while I sort out the supplies? Whatever you do, just don’t get separated.”
With a roll of her eyes, Imogen hobbled off in the direction of the walnut tree. As we filled up our baskets, I stood up sniffing the air. “Do you smell a fire?”
Imogen nodded, and we followed our noses around the tree. Through the bushes was a clearing, and right in the middle of it, the three drunken men were roasting what looked like a squirrel on a spit over a smoky fire. One of the men spotted me through the bare branches and called out, “Hey there, little lady! How’d you like to buy some Indian goods?”
My heart skipped a beat as I realised the three men were getting up.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered hoarsely.
Imogen was peering around the tree now. “What do they want?”
“Let’s not stick around to find out.” I waved her to come faster, but the three men were surprisingly quick considering how poor their balance had been a few minutes earlier. Two of them were on the road between us and the outpost in an instant, the third leading the cart just behind.
A scrawny one with a scraggly blond beard and several missing teeth held up his hands. “Now look here, no need to get yer bonnets in a tangle. We’re just poor, humble peddlers. But we got some mighty fine treasures you won’t find no place else. Now just you have a look here.” He stepped aside to reveal the cart with a flourish of his hands, like a painter revealing his masterpiece. Meanwhile, a short, stocky one chewing on a pipe threw off the canvas that covered what was inside. There was an array of barrels and crates overflowing with the strangest assortment of objects, from raccoon tails to jars of what looked like pickled frog’s legs, and many bottles of some kind of clear liquid that I doubted was water.
The man with the blond beard spoke up again. “Now, fer two beeeauteeful young lassies like yerselves, how ’bout some o’ these fine Injun beads?” He picked up a basket that was full of ropes of every coloured beads and started stringing his fingers through them. “Wouldn’t those look perty on yer little necks?”
I glanced sideways at Imogen, who had clearly seen enough. Her arms were crossed over her chest in a challenging pose. “Look, we don’t want your beads or any of your junk.”
The man blinked in dumb surprise at her response.
“Unless one of those bottles is filled with magic potion that can take us through time, then we’re not interested.” She pushed right between the salesman and the cart, turning sideways so as not to brush shoulders with the unkempt peddler. I swallowed and followed quickly behind her, the three men gawking silently as if they didn’t know what had hit them.
“It’s the only way to handle hecklers. With a firm hand. That’s what my mum says whenever we go abroad.”
“But I can’t believe you said that about traveling through time,” I whispered.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Katie. It’s not like they understood what I was talking about.”
We both turned our heads at the sound of footsteps scurrying up behind us.
“Hey!” It was the voice of the bearded peddler.
Rolling her eyes, Imogen turned around with impatience written all over her face. “WHAT?”
The man stepped closer, glancing side to side, as if he wanted to be sure nobody was listening. “You said yer lookin’ for somethin’ that’ll take ye back in time?” he asked confidentially.
“More like forward in time,” Imogen grumbled.
“Yea, that.”
“But she wasn’t serious,” I said. But Imogen cut me off.
“Go on.”
“Well,” the man licked his lips and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve got what ya need.” And he pulled a bottle of some swirling, gold-flaked liquid out of his coat. “It’s an old Cherokee secret brew. Real rare. Ain’t hardl
y any of ’em left as know the recipe. I oughtn’t to sell it at all, but fer the right price…”
“You can sell your goods to the devil.” Imogen and I both whirled around to find Wattie standing right behind us, his dark eyes fixed on the man in a hard stare.
“Look here, young’n. That ain’t no way to talk to a God-fearin’ man. I was just—”
But Wattie didn’t let him finish. “What kind of a God-fearing man tries to swindle young ladies? Now take your counterfeit goods and get off Cherokee land.”
The man held up his hands again as if in surrender and walked away.
“It’s scum like that who corrupt good trade between the settlers and the Cherokee,” Wattie said, shaking his head as he watched the ragtag team of peddlers disappear into the woods. “Secret Cherokee recipes. As if any Cherokee would sell our secrets to the likes of them!”
“We didn’t need your help, Wattie,” Imogen snapped. “We were handling it fine without you.”
Wattie’s jaw tightened. Without a word, he hoisted his sack of goods over his shoulder and turned back to the road.
“He was just trying to look out for us,” I muttered, shifting the basket of walnuts under my arm.
Imogen didn’t answer. She was too busy brooding, although several times she looked back over her shoulder, as if expecting to see someone following us.
22
Missing
I needed some space from Imogen. This fruitless journey would have been difficult enough without her bad mood, which seemed to get worse by the hour.
“I’ll just be cracking the nuts,” I said, and snatching up the basket Imogen had dropped beside the fire pit, hurried off to find a quiet place to be alone. I found a couple of hard, flat stones for nut cracking and straddled an old fallen log. It felt good to smash the walnuts between the stones. At least I was taking my frustration out on them rather than on Imogen.
