by Eric Flint
James Rogers chuckled harshly. “You spend too much time reading American books and newspapers. What’s the ‘war’ and ‘allies’ got to do with anything? This’ll be a clan fight.”
The last and oldest member of their six-person party spoke up. Nancy Ward, that was.
“I’m sure James is right. There was a killing nearly two months ago, farther down the river at a trading post below the Suck. One of James Vann’s relatives—second cousin, I think—was said to have killed a Chickasaw.”
James and John Rogers nodded, as if that explained the matter completely.
Ross, on the other hand, rolled his eyes, and Sequoyah shook his head. Like Tiana, both of them thought the situation was absurd.
She glanced at Nancy Ward, and saw that the old woman had a tight, disapproving look on her face. Clearly enough, Nancy was of the same mind.
It was odd, Tiana thought, how differently her brothers seemed to look at the world. James and John were just as mixed as she was—which meant, in terms of blood, that they were actually more white than Cherokee. But both of them held to a very traditional Cherokee viewpoint. One that she couldn’t entirely embrace.
John Ross didn’t think that way, either, which might be explained by the fact that seven of his eight great-grandparents were Scots.
But Nancy Ward was a full-blood, even if her second husband had been a white man. And her way of thinking was a lot closer to Ross and Sequoyah and Tiana herself than to her brothers.
“James Vann.” Ross pronounced the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. Which, they probably did.
Vann had been a prominent Cherokee. He was dead now, murdered over five years ago by an unknown assailant. It could have been just about anyone, as many enemies as the man had made in his brutal life. No one, not even his own clan, had tried to find out who’d done it. But he’d left a legacy that continued to this day. Unfortunately, Vann had been a town chief, as well as a prosperous mixed-blood trader. He’d had more than one wife, a slew of offspring and relatives, and a small host of hangers-on. No doubt it was one of those who had killed the Chickasaw at the Trading Post.
The person who’d done it, like James Vann himself, wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought to the political repercussions of his violence. Neither, probably, had his victim. The Chickasaw was just as likely to be a mixed-blood as the Vann cousin, and just as loosely connected to his clan.
But that didn’t matter. When a killing like that happened, the ancient customs came into play. The dead Chickasaw’s clan would be out looking for revenge—and any Cherokee would do. The fact that there was a war going on, in which both the Chickasaws and the Cherokees were allied with the Americans, just didn’t matter.
Angrily, Ross scuffed the soil of the riverbank with his boot. “It’s no wonder the Americans always play us for fools! The British and the French and the Spanish, too. Half our people—every tribe’s—are too busy with their idiotic feuds to even think about what’s happening to us all.”
James Rogers shrugged. “I’m not going to argue the point, since I probably agree with you. But so what? Before we start for Washington, we’ve got to get to Oothcaloga and meet up with The Raven. That’s a fair distance itself—and those Chickasaws won’t have given up. We probably just ran into a few of them, and now they’ll gather their whole war party.
“This thing isn’t over yet.”
Oothcaloga
Cherokee Territory, in northern Georgia
“No, Colonneh. If I go, it will seem like an official delegation. And no such thing has been approved by the council.”
Major Ridge smiled wryly. “You lived among us. You know how quick one chief is to suspect another of conniving with the Americans. If I go with you to Washington—and especially if I agree to anything while I’m there—I’ll be accused of being bribed when I come back.”
Sam tried to come up with some way to argue the point, and couldn’t. It was true enough. On both counts, for that matter, since it wasn’t simply a matter of suspicion. Bribing chiefs was a standard method by which the United States sowed division among the Indian tribes, and bent them to its will.
They were standing on the porch of Major Ridge’s big house. Suppressing a sigh, Sam let his gaze wander for a moment across the landscape.
It was a prosperous-looking countryside, with its well-tended orchards and grazing cattle. Sam could see a few signs left of the depredations committed by the marauding Georgia militiamen, but not many. That wasn’t surprising, given that Major Ridge had been home for weeks before Sam arrived, and had something like twenty slaves to do the work of repairing the damage.
Sam had wound up being delayed in Fort Jackson for some time before he set off on his expedition. In the meantime, James Rogers had returned to his uncle John Jolly’s island on the Tennessee, with Sequoyah and John Ross in tow. James had wanted his brother John to join them on the expedition to Washington, and Ross wanted to visit his family in nearby Chatanuga before they left. Especially his wife, Quatie, whom he’d only married a few months ago.
They’d probably all be on their way back here, by now. They’d agreed to meet up at Major Ridge’s plantation before starting off for the capital.
Alas, it looked as if the main reason Sam had set Oothcaloga as the meeting place had become a moot point. Major Ridge’s refusal to accompany them had been stated in a friendly manner, but very firmly nonetheless.
Ridge was not considered asgá siti for nothing. If the man said “no,” the word meant “no.”
“However,” Major Ridge continued, “if John Ross and Sequoyah go with you, as you say they plan to, I will promise to pay careful attention to what they tell me when they return.”
He said nothing about James and John Rogers. That didn’t surprise Sam. The two Rogers brothers were excellent warriors, but neither of them had a reputation for anything other than their fighting skills.
“John Ross and Sequoyah have earned enough respect for their words to carry weight, when they return,” said Ridge. “But neither of them is a recognized chief, so we will avoid that problem. That will be better all the way around, Colonneh. We will get the advantage of a good discussion in the council, without the chiefly rivalries and suspicions. Trust my judgment, if you would.”
Sam nodded. Started to, rather. The nod broke off into a frozen little gesture when he saw that the smile on Major Ridge’s face had become very wry.
“However, there is a way you can keep me directly connected to the situation, without requiring my own participation.”
Ridge turned and beckoned to someone who had been lurking inside the house, so silently that Sam hadn’t known they were there. Two young boys stepped forward onto the porch, followed by a girl. The boys looked to Sam to be about twelve years old. The girl, perhaps two years older.
Ridge placed his hand on the shoulder of one of the boys. “This is my son, who is known as John Ridge, though his Cherokee name is Skahtlelohkee. And the girl is my daughter, whose American name is Nancy.” His other hand came down upon the shoulder of the second boy. “And this is my nephew Gallegina—or Buck Watie, as he is often called. All three of them have been studying at Spring Place, at the school set up by the Gambolds.”
Sam knew of the school at Spring Place, although he’d never visited it himself. The Reverend John Gambold and his wife were Moravian missionaries who’d emigrated to the United States from Germany. Since then, they’d devoted themselves to bringing learning and the Christian faith to Indians on the southwest frontier.
He had a bad feeling he knew what was coming.
Sure enough, Ridge continued:
“They came home just recently. The Gambolds are fine people, but I would like to place the children in a school which is more substantial, where they can continue their education in the American manner. Since you are going to Washington anyway, I wish you to do me the favor . . .”
So now I’m a nursemaid, Sam thought sourly.
He couldn’t
refuse, of course, given the nature of his mission. If he was to get any significant number of Cherokees to return to rejoin General Jackson’s forces, Major Ridge would be the key to his success. Most of the other Cherokee chiefs were still too furious at the wreckage the Georgian militia had made of their homes and lands—while they’d been down in Alabama fighting as Jackson’s allies, no less!—to even consider joining Sam’s proposed expedition to Washington, much less volunteer to fight any further in the war.
Gloomily, he wondered what else could go wrong.
With the Rogers brothers involved . . .
A lot.
By sundown, Tiana and her companions had made it to a small island where they decided to rest for the night. The isolation gave them the advantage of enjoying a campfire. No revenge-seeking Chickasaws could attack them there without making some noise crossing the water—and Tiana’s brothers had even better hearing than she did.
“Wait’ll Colonneh sees you!” James laughed, as he fed fuel to the fire. He was grinning widely. “He thought you were joking when you told him, three years ago, that you’d have him for a husband.”
“I was joking,” Tiana said, with as much dignity as she could manage.
Was I? she wondered.
It was hard to remember. The difference between a sixteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old girl was enormous. At the time, Sam Houston had seemed as glamorous and exciting a husband as any Tiana could imagine. Exotic, yet familiar enough with Cherokee life to make such a union seem possible. Not to mention witty, intelligent, good-natured. Even good-looking.
But she wasn’t sure, anymore. She was a lot more practical-minded than she’d been at the age of thirteen. And Sam Houston had been gone from John Jolly’s island for those three years, back to the American society he’d come from. So she’d had time to think about things without the distraction of his presence.
Marriage to a white American certainly wasn’t out of the question. Her own mother had done it, after all. But whether it would be successful or not depended mostly on the man’s ambitions.
The ambitions of Captain Jack Rogers had been those of an adventurer, who liked the frontier and intended to stay there. “Hell-Fire Jack,” they called Tiana’s father, and for good reason. He didn’t care in the least about the good opinion of proper society, as Americans figured it. If they chose to call him a “squaw man,” he’d return the sneer with plenty of his own. What did he care? It wasn’t as if he was planning to run for office, or get appointed to some prestigious position.
Sam Houston, on the other hand, had different ambitions. Tiana was pretty sure of that. And whatever his other qualities, he was not a man to let sentiment get in the way of his goals. He wouldn’t do anything immoral to advance himself, as he saw it—and Sam had a pretty good sense of morals. But he’d stay focused on his purpose, and not let himself get diverted by passion or desire.
Something of her skeptical thoughts must have shown in her face, even in the dim light of the campfire. Old Nancy Ward leaned over and asked her softly: “So why did you come, girl?”
Tiana shifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess I just needed to find out. Or I’d wonder about it for years.”
“Good reason.”
“You think so?” Tiana was genuinely interested in the old woman’s opinion. Nancy Ward was a Ghighua. The Cherokee word had several translations into English. “War Woman” was one of them. But Tiana just thought of her as “wise.”
The old woman smiled, wisely. “Oh, yes. Best reason there is to do anything, I sometimes think.”
CHAPTER 16
JUNE 18, 1814
Tiana and her companions left the island before daybreak, hoping to elude the Chickasaws altogether. If they pushed hard, they’d be safe by midafternoon, and they could make it to Ross Landing by nightfall. The area around Chatanuga was not one any hostile Chickasaws would venture near.
Her brother James predicted that the maneuver wouldn’t work, and it didn’t take long to find out that he was right. Just as the sun was coming up, they saw two canoes coming upriver toward them. Even at a distance, they could see that the canoes were packed with painted warriors.
“Chickasaws, sure enough,” James said, reading the colors on the distant faces. That was enough, even if he couldn’t see the specific patterns yet. He swiveled and studied the river behind them.
“Go back?” asked his brother. “Or go ashore?”
“Neither, I think. There’s at least one canoe back there, although I can barely see it.” His eyes quickly scanned both riverbanks. “And they’ve probably got warriors in the woods, too.”
The canoe bearing John Ross, Sequoyah, and Nancy Ward drew alongside.
“What should we do?” asked Ross. The question was asked flatly and calmly. Technically, it could be argued that Ross was in charge of the expedition. But the young man was self-confident enough to know that James Rogers would have a better idea what to do than he would.
“Go at them directly. That’ll keep the numbers closer to even. And they’ll have the sun in their eyes, this time of day. If we can get past them, they’ll never catch us.”
His brother John winced. “True—if we get past them. They’ve got five men on each of those canoes, to match against our total of five.”
Seeing that Nancy Ward was giving him a cold look, he hastily added: “Six, I mean.”
Ward snorted, and drew a pistol from under her wrap. The Spanish-made weapon looked even older than she did. “I knew how to use this before your grandfather was born.”
She wasn’t bragging, either. Nancy Ward had earned the title of War Woman among the Cherokee following the battle of Taliwa, against the Creeks, sixty years ago. After her husband Kingfisher had been killed, Nancy had picked up his gun and led the final charge that drove the enemy off. She’d been eighteen years old, at the time.
“Does everyone have a gun?” asked Ross. The question was really aimed at Tiana. He already knew that the four men in the party did.
“No,” she replied. “Just this.” She unlaced a small parcel at her feet and drew out a knife.
James shook his head. “Actually, she does have a gun. Or will have”—he pointed into the other boat—“after you lend her your rifle.”
Ross stared down at the weapon in question. It was a very expensive-looking rifled musket. The kind of hunting weapon that only a rich family like the Rosses could afford.
“Uh . . .”
“Don’t be stupid,” James said curtly. He bent down, lifted his own musket, and passed it forward to his brother John. “We’ve got three long guns. Sequoyah’s got one of them, and he’s a good shot. I’m giving mine to my brother, because John’s a better shot than I am. And our sister is a better shot with a rifle or musket than either one of us. Probably with a pistol, too.”
He flashed her a grin. “But I can still outwrestle her. So can John. Although neither one of us has tried in a while. Too risky, with her temper.”
After a moment, Ross’s face got that easy, relaxed smile Tiana had come to recognize in the days since she’d met him. He really was a very self-assured young man.
She decided that she liked him. It was too bad that he was already married, to a woman named Quatie. He’d probably make a better husband than Sam Houston, even if he wasn’t as handsome.
Ross handed the rifle to her across the little distance separating the canoes. “I probably couldn’t hit anything with it until we got close. And if I understand the plan right, we’re going to keep as much distance as we can.”
He cocked an eye at James. Tiana’s brother smiled blandly.
“We’ll go straight at the Chickasaw canoes until we get within musket range. Then we’ll veer off and try to pass them on the southern side.”
“Shooting all the way,” his brother muttered. “As great war plans go, this one isn’t going to be remembered.”
“Best I could come up with.” James hefted his paddle and began stroking again.
&n
bsp; “We’ll lead. You follow,” he said to Ross and Sequoyah. Ross was in the rear of their canoe, Sequoyah in the bow. He’d stop paddling once they got near enough, then use his musket. In the middle, Nancy Ward had her pistol resting in her lap.
Tiana, also in the middle of her canoe, admired her newly acquired rifle. It was a beautiful-looking thing.
“I don’t like Chickasaws,” she pronounced.
“Who does?” said James, from behind her. “And when did you ever meet any Chickasaws?”
“This is the first time. I’m a good judge of character.”
That was enough to make James laugh out loud. “Saying that! With you coming on this trip for no good reason than chasing after a bird!”
The plan went wrong right from the start. The first shot fired was by one of the oncoming Chickasaws. It was a stupid shot, made while they were still out of range.
Dumbfounded, Tiana saw her brother John twist suddenly. Then, clap one hand to his face.
She looked down and saw that his paddle had been shot right through, shattered by the lucky bullet just below John’s grip, as he’d been raising it for another stroke. What was left of it, he tossed into the river while he pawed at his eyes.
“Splinters,” he hissed. “Can’t see a thing.”
“It’ll be up to you and Sequoyah, Tiana,” James said grimly. “Don’t miss.”
He started picking up the stroke, to make good for their brother’s incapacity. Tiana gauged the distance and shook her head.
“Stop paddling. The current’s not bad, as long as you aren’t rocking the canoe.”
With a quick backstroke, James brought the canoe almost to a standstill. He was just as proficient with a paddle as he was with a war club. Next to him, moving more awkwardly, John Ross did the same.
“Have at it, girl,” James said.
Tiana brought the fancy rifle up to her shoulder, sighting down the barrel. Ross’s gun even had a rear sight, to match up against the front one. That’d be pointless with a smoothbore musket.
