“I wish we could be there this fall—with leaves turnin’ colors and flutterin’ to the ground.” Ella chewed at her bottom lip, memories threatening a flood of tears.
She added a dribble of water to the largest kettle and heated the fat to a slow cook. She planned to render it down and store it in a smaller pot. In a clean tin pan, she set aside some of the leaf lard.
Shaking off her weariness, she jury-rigged a way to roast the larger hunks of meat and legs. “I’ll cook it all night and camp here ’til Jim finds us.” She talked to herself in order to keep awake and alert. “I’ll hang the meat, smoke it … so it won’t spoil so fast and blowflies’ll take longer to lay eggs.” She figured they might survive on it, supplemented with fish from the river. But for how long, she didn’t know.
Her iron tripod served as a center brace. With sturdy forked branches, she formed a rack. From it, she hung three slabs of the meat. She also took time to dampen leafy branches and shove them in and around the logs. Smoke drifted into the darkness.
She chopped the remaining meat into bite-sized chunks and tossed them into two kettles. She pushed the heavy kettles into the fire and scraped glowing coals over their iron lids. The splattered clothes Ella wore bore evidence of gore and blood.
“It’s done.”
The moon entered its downward slide, peeking through the treetops. Sinister shadows hid the sides of the narrow river, and there was a cooler breeze. She shivered and listened to a profusion of night noises.
A rabbit squealed somewhere south of their camp, its cry ending on a sharp note of agony. A few minutes later, Ella heard the muted beat of feathered wings. An owl flew between the limbs over her head. Raccoons wandered by, beyond the fire’s gleaming light, their noses twitching and lifting in the air, scenting death and smoke. Their eyes shone—cross-eyed—before her presence sent them scurrying.
Some distance from the fire, she propped her back on a long log. The sand felt cool under her as she unwound her wet hair and shook it out. The unpleasant damp texture wrapped around her shoulders, but she shoved the hairpins into her husband’s pants pocket. Her head hurt, and she massaged her scalp, trying to relieve the throbbing pain.
A fish jumped, and the splash carried—like the crack of a whip—in the darkness. It made her think of Samuel.
Where are you? I need your help to find Jim.
Ella’s eyelids drooped. She rolled sideways, curling alongside the old log. She felt too exhausted to care about the wild country around her, the damp ground, the slinking movements under the trees, and the insects feasting on her exposed skin.
Chapter 11
Sunday, September 26, 1847
The faint crack of a twig woke Ella. Her eyes flew open. She gazed through the messy curtain of hair covering her face.
She hadn’t meant to sleep! Her back felt stiff, and her chemise was wet where it encountered the soil. She shivered with the cool air, while her sleep-numbed mind tried to process the noise.
Panther, wolves, or Indians?
Oh, please, let it be nothin’.
No sound came from the wagon.
There was a stealthy movement behind her, the whisper of fallen leaves shuffled or walked on.
Ella feigned sleep. Her half-opened eyes searched the sand between her and the river. A scavenging raccoon wouldn’t be out in the morning light. The gun! She couldn’t remember where she left it. Tensing her muscles, she sought the courage to face whatever crept closer.
With one fluid movement, she flipped toward the log, brushed hair from her eyes, and let out a strangled, horrified gasp. Three half-naked Indians and a man with curly black hair and deep dusky-brown skin stood on the edge of the woods.
Seminoles!
They stared with fixed attention, as if gauging her first reactions.
She covered her mouth and stifled a scream.
The babies! Please, God, let me make no mistake. Don’t let ’em know there’s children in the wagon. She fought to stay composed, while her breath felt spasmodic, duplicating the jerking of her heart.
One of the three Indians, with a question in his mahogany-brown eyes, glanced toward the darker man. Over six feet, the Negro towered a head above his companions. Muscles rippled in his broad naked chest—oiled to a high sheen. His eyes flashed an unusual tawny-golden brown, verging on amber. He wore a pair of faded black pants, which were cut off halfway up his calves. His bare feet showed thick callused soles. Pink bumpy scars circled his thick wrists and contrasted with his skin. They struck an instant chord with her. She knew about scars.
Her right hand instinctively covered the raised scars marring the left side of her neck. Her bent arm partially covered her breasts but gave scant protection from prying eyes.
Marks of a chain. He’s been a slave? A runaway. His age, stature, and build would’ve made him a valuable one.
The nude chests of two braves bore necklaces of shell and beads. Long white feathers sprouted from entwined cloths wrapped around knots of raven-black hair secured on top of their heads. One Indian wore a white man’s bleached cotton shirt, which ended above his knees. Serving as a belt, a bright piece of wine-colored material decorated his waist.
Ella’s eyes locked with his.
Oh, Lord, I don’t see Jim’s gun.
Black markings and stripes accented the Indian’s round face, and his eyes were charcoal-lined. No one spoke. She dropped her eyes and feigned respect, but stared at his feet.
He walked in decorated, high leather moccasins, and he carried a gun.
Ella’s fingers dug into the dirt. The heavy silence made her want to scream.
The other two men had charcoal lines painted on their faces. One wore a white-and-brown beaded piece of leather tied around his neck, but they both wore only leather breechcloths and twisted pieces of lengthy green material tied around their waists. Long bows hung on their backs and leather moccasins encased their feet.
She shuddered, but not from the cool morning air. One piece of green cloth bore flat buttons, made from either a gourd or a piece of wood.
It’s a dress!
Ripped in half, it conveyed a bleak story.
Her eyes searched the immediate ground for her weapon or the knife. The axe and hatchet lay on the other side of the fire, left near the pile of wood. She could barely make out the fire pit and the hanging meat. The hearty fire, left unattended, had died. Wisps of smoke slipped from the ashes.
She stood to face the four men.
Oh, for shame! I’m standin’ near nude before them.
The lightweight chemise of thin cotton, scoop-necked and sleeveless, did nothing for modesty. Her bare feet showed, and she wore her husband’s pants with the legs rolled. With her left hand, she pulled a bunch of long hair over her shoulders, shrouding more of her exposed form and the scars on her neck.
Ella tipped her chin, making up her mind to keep her wits about her and do whatever she could to protect the babies sleeping in the wagon. Even if it meant—
Oh, Father, preserve my life in your righteousness.
“Ma’am,” the slave said, but paused. His eyes shifted over her scantily clad body and then to the ground where Ella’s dirty toes showed under the rolled hem of her husband’s pants. Splattered hog’s blood blotched one pant leg. It showed in dried reddish-brown stains. “We—they’re—Seminole, the Free People. We … ah, smelled the campfire. They wish to eat.” He motioned to the meat, smoked and crusty-brown. His soft words stumbled over his curved lips, as if he wasn’t accustomed to speaking them.
Her mind and heart raced in unison, but she nodded. Amazed they asked without taking, she pointed.
“Yes … tell ’em, welcome. Take some. Eat the meat!” Ella made hand signs to mimic eating.
He speaks English. He’s not one of ’em. God, thank you for the wild hawg.
They didn’t wait for a second invitation. The men squatted around the fire’s coals. They plucked smoked meat off the green branch she had rigged as a support. One man pull
ed a handmade knife from the waist of his breechcloth and sliced through the chunk in his hands. The biggest Seminole grunted in appreciation and handed the slave a share. They ripped the slightly raw meat into strips with their teeth and hands, stuffing it in their mouths. Amid grunts of satisfaction, they ate like ravenous wolves. Grease lined their lips, and their chins glistened.
Ella stood frozen. The hammering of her heart echoed in her ears.
They’ll go away—let ’em stuff themselves. They’ll not hurt us.
“Good … they say ‘good,’” the former slave remarked. “Who killed it?” Curious eyes, with golden flecks in them, studied her. His gaze focused on the skimpy chemise. Abruptly, he blinked and averted his eyes.
Her throat went dry. “My cow kicked it. I didn’t … no one kilt it.” Swallowing, she tried to control her voice. “It came into camp. Its head … got smashed by my cow.”
He eyed the bodiless head. The ugly gash showed where the cow caught the hog at the right angle to kill it. With hand motions and short choppy words, he relayed the remarkable information to the Indians.
They raised thick eyebrows. Two of them made grunted replies but kept gnawing the bones and devouring the meat.
One of the men wrapped in green material, quizzically regarded Ella. His big white teeth showed when he spoke to the slave. Waving a greasy hand, he pointed to the hog’s sightless head.
Above his short, curly black beard, a corner of the dark man’s mouth tilted in an amused smile. “He says it means you’ve special powers. You got the cow to kill for you. He believes you’re keeping the head as a token, instead of boiling it.”
“Yes—yes,” Ella choked out and pulled more of her hair over her shoulders. “The cow kicked it.”
His eyes held questions, but he didn’t push for answers. He bit into a piece of meat. “They’ll watch you.”
Watch me? She didn’t reply. What does he mean? Stay here or come back ag’in? She wanted the men to eat their fill, be satisfied, and go away without checking the wagon.
The slave threw a stripped bone in the ashes. “Tender—young meat.”
While clenching one fist behind her back, Ella waited. A fly buzzed around her head. She watched precious meat go down the throats of savages.
In urgent silence, she prayed quick sentences, but her eyes remained locked on the men. Oh please, Lord. Keep Amos an’ Hannah asleep.
Ella yearned to check on the children. Fighting her anxiety, she bit her tongue and forced her eyes not to stray toward the wagon.
The meat would’ve fed her children.
She felt helpless. Would they force her to go with them? Take the children? Kill her or worse?
A trickle of perspiration ran the length of Ella’s spine. She couldn’t remain upright any longer. Her legs gave way. She slumped to the ground and sat fighting her flaring temper. A scream of rage bubbled in her constricted throat. She wanted to run at the men, beat them with bare fists, and demand they leave. She longed to jerk the meat from their greedy hands.
I cain’t abide much more of their smackin’ lips!
Never in her life had she experienced such boiling disgust for another human. Shocked at herself, she dug her fingers into the dirt. Oh, God help me to stay calm!
But then the Seminole in the wine-colored wrap pointed a greasy finger at her. He asked the slave a question, conveying his thoughts with choppy hand motions.
She held her breath and watched the dark man’s reaction. He replied in like manner.
The runaway slave faced her. So faint was his smile, she wasn’t positive she saw it.
“He asks why you dress like a white man … not white woman.”
She gasped. Shame caused her to cross her arms, concealing the dirty front of the chemise.
“I tell him … you very poor.” The man swallowed the hunk of meat in his mouth. “I tell him … you white man’s slave like me.” With the bone in his right hand, he pointed at his unclothed chest. “You runaway. Bad, bad woman. No family.” His hand waved in front of him, and his words were spoken much like the Indian’s brief words.
“What? Bad? How could you?” Aghast, Ella started to deny his shameful words but stopped. She recognized a warning in his eyes.
She dug her fingers into the sandy soil and tried to concentrate on the gritty particles wedged under her nails. She turned her face away from the smirking Indians. Her cheeks felt hot.
The men reached for the last of the roasted meat and continued eating.
The sun rose higher. The river’s gray shades turned lighter, exposing ripples and slow eddies. The fog lifted. An unseen breath of air pushed it heavenward. Ella didn’t react when an alligator drifted away from the east bank and left a v-shaped wake behind his bumpy back and head. The reptile no longer represented the most frightening peril in her world.
Prayers filled her anxious thoughts. She waited for whatever her fate might be. Maybe she could persuade them to take her away without knowing she had children. Would they ignore the wagon if she went with them without fighting? But then—what would Hannah and Amos do alone? Maybe the slave could convince the Indians to take them all captive. Would it be better?
Oh, Lord—give me strength!
Revolting stories were often told of the hideous torture done to white captives. A band of Creeks, in the mountains of Tennessee, scalped her own uncle, and the stories were the same in the Florida settlements they passed. Nerves were raw. Rumors carried hints of continuing trouble with the Seminoles. Men feared the Indians, whom they had forced to leave ancient lands.
The slave cleared his throat.
“They’d like to repay you for the meat with the pieces … the woman’s dress they’re wearing. They respect you. You must be highly favored, because of the hog and your scars. They are in awe the cow killed it for you. The dress is a gift.” He narrowed his eyes. “You mustn’t refuse.”
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth for a second, but she whispered, “Oh, please!” Her eyes locked with the big man’s intense stare.
He repeated his terse warning. “Don’t refuse.”
“Tell ’em I accept it. I … need clothes. These are dirty,” she said, indicating the chemise and dirt-streaked, bloodied pants.
He translated her words.
Two braves stood. The big-toothed Indian nodded and tugged at the faded green cloth wrapped around the other men’s waists. His long fingers left greasy marks on the woven fabric. He studied Ella, but avoided direct eye contact. Balling up the torn trophy, he tossed both remnants into her lap.
The men wiped their greasy hands in a thick clump of grass and patted their full bellies, belching in loud, explosive outbursts.
“They say thank you and show how full they are.”
The torn dress lay bunched in her lap. It felt like a dead weight hampering her breathing. She wanted to snatch the pieces and toss them into the fire pit. The owner of the dress probably died a torturous death. She fought to control her breathing.
They all stood.
The Indian with the colorful wrap stretched, grunted, and signaled something to the others. A wrinkle furrowed his brow below a discolored jagged scar running to his scalp.
“Tell ’em … thanks. Leave … please, leave.” Tears blinded her. She couldn’t catch her breath. Heavenly Father, make ’em go. Now, now—now! She appealed to the slave and begged, “Don’t let ’em hurt me.”
“They won’t. Don’t move. You won’t be touched or harmed. My name’s Luke.” His voice was low, urgent, and smooth-flowing, much like the rippling of a brook going over fine pebbles. It was pleasant-sounding, with a foreign accent woven in. There was quality and education in his simple words, which even Ella, born and reared in the backwoods, recognized.
He’s named Luke—like in my mama’s old Bible.
The Seminole with the facial scar bent and took the last chunk of browned meat from the fire pit. He weighed it in his hand and grinned at the others. Opening a stained leather pouch hanging
at his side, he wedged the small hunk of meat into it. Satisfied, he patted the pouch and made a curt remark to the slave.
Ella observed the Indian in silence. She felt the urge to jump up and wrestle the piece of meat from him or slap his scarred face.
“You have family?” Luke mumbled his words. He pretended interest in the hog’s fly-covered head. He kicked it over with a dirty foot, as if he made a comment about it. Flies rose in a buzzing cloud and settled back to crawl over the pig’s visage.
She swallowed. “Yes, my husband. He’s out huntin’ … left earlier.” Her words sounded terse, forced between her teeth with a low hiss.
He frowned. His eyes darted sideways at the other men.
Ella’s felt herself blush. One of them relieved himself in the bushes, unmindful of her standing within sight.
“We go now,” the slave said. “We’re trying to evade soldiers. You’re lucky. God’s been close. They’re only hungry and moving fast. They’re headed back to the reservation, east of the river. You shouldn’t be here. This is closed land—to the white man and settlers.”
She didn’t understand. “Closed land?”
“Yes. Tonight, when darkness fills the woods, I’ll return—to see if your husband has returned safe.”
He doesn’t believe me!
Without another word, the four men disappeared. For many moments, she didn’t move. She sat dazed and terrified they meant to trick her. She failed to hope, not believing they left her unharmed. But as minutes passed, she acknowledged the most recent miracle.
“Oh, my Lord! Thanks for sendin’ the hawg!”
She then remembered the rumpled green dress spread over her bent legs. She shuddered, shoved the pieces to the dirt, and scrambled to her feet. The paltry, discarded heap represented a lost life. Near the wooden buttons on the bodice was an extensive tear. A bit of white tatting still dangled by a thread. Telltale dark stains caught her eye.
With This Peace Page 9
