By the Wind's Will

by Nat Burns

  Part Two

  Chapter Seventeen

  August 1758

  IT WAS A sweltering day in late August when Foxy gathered together her meager belongings and prepared to leave Finley. Numb since Maggie’s horrific death several months ago, she knew one thing only. She had to escape from the memories and guilt that plagued her every day at Finley Plantation. After packing, she took a long walk about the plantation and hiked out to Dreams. She found the house overgrown with honeysuckle vines and the sad structure seemed to deeply manifest its loss.

  Heartbroken, not even entering the virgin home, she walked swiftly away toward the big house. She stood looking at it a long time, in the afternoon light, fixing every detail in her memory. It was her first home in this new land and so deserved a sacred place in memory. She knew its beauty would stay with her forever and breaking from its welcome haven was proving difficult.

  Unnoticed by any of the workers, she made her way back to the cabin. Her mother still hadn’t arrived from the big house and her father was no doubt at the tavern, this time of day. Sighing deeply, she propped explanatory farewell letters and a pile of coins upon the kitchen table. She then hefted her pack and headed for the stables.

  Caution, her beautiful mare, awaited her. There was a young stable hand there, by name of Royce and tears welled as she remembered her friend Fid. Absently, she laid a hand on Royce’s shoulder as she asked him to saddle her horse.

  “You goin’ out, Mistress?” he asked as he cinched the saddle tight for her.

  “Yes. Yes, I thought I would. Who’s your sire, boy?”

  “It’s Henry, a fiel’ hand. My dam’s Allee. She fiel’ hand, too.”

  Foxy nodded and pulled two folded horse blankets from the tack rack. She belted them securely to the pack then attached the pack to the leather saddle panniers with a braided rawhide cinch.

  “And do you love the horses, Royce? Is that why you’re not in the fields as well?

  “Yes, Missum. I’m good wit’ dem, too, Master Charles says. I like dis work.”

  She lifted herself into the saddle and looked down at Royce, the last friendly face she would see at Finley.

  “I know your people believe in the afterlife, Royce, in a glory land that will come after suffering, but I sincerely hope you can find joy here, while in this life. Enjoy the horses. Find love...and hold it close. Let life bring you contentment.” She leaned down and rested her hand on his shoulder once more. “Be happy.”

  Foxy straightened and pulled her felt hat more securely down onto her crown then wheeled Caution around and rode her slowly out into the evening.

  THE NEXT MORNING a thoughtful, broken Foxy rode along Bull street into the heart of Savannah. It was early yet, before daylight and the twin fort towers looked ominous against the lightening heavens. She paused at the intersection of Bull and Oglethorpe to look around herself. She’d been here many times before but somehow today everything looked different. There was little activity at this time of day, but she breathed deep of the flower-scented air and waited patiently.

  Presently Master Butler, of Butlers Supplies unlocked his front door and swept the boards before it, clearly an invitation that he was open for business. Foxy spurred the mare forward, dismounted and went inside to prepare herself for the long road ahead.

  The smiling faces all around her reminded her yet again how secretive she and Maggie’s love had been. No one here in this nearest town even knew of Foxy’s loss and they carried on as though nothing had happened to her. As though her life hadn’t been stolen along with Maggie’s. They might mention Charles and Margaret’s loss but that was very different.

  Somehow, Foxy managed to smile and act normally, minimizing the need for so many odd supplies with lies and subterfuge. By the time she left the mercantile, she was morally and physically exhausted as well as angry. She was actually glad to see the last of Savannah, Georgia.

  August 1758

  I am not really sure why I feel as though I have to undertake this foolhardy journey. I suppose it is a form of escape, escape from all the ugly things that have sprung up and tarnished my life. Maggie’s death, though a few months old, seems as fresh in my mind as if it had happened this morn. In traveling, I can only hope to speed the healing of my soul and help the horrid memory fade a little faster. She stands before me now, in my small campfire, wearing one of her beloved peach-tinted frocks. She is beautiful, eyes shining and cheeks capturing the rosy glow of the flames. Alas, she is no more, reality has stepped in and she has vanished into glowing embers.

  I fear it is time to seek the solace of sleep.

  Spring 1759

  I snared a small rabbit today and roasted it. The meat was tender and delicious. Food shall not be a problem, I think, there is more small game here than I’ve ever seen before. This has to be the richest land God has made. America must be “God’s favored land” as so many are calling it. I, for one, have to agree for it is sustaining me well.

  My one regret about leaving home is that I shall not be there to protect Father any longer. I dearly hope that Master Scott will be kind and understanding, and above all, patient where Father is concerned. I can’t help but wonder where the hard-working sober Englishman that I once played pranks on disappeared to. But then again, where did the happy laughing girl that I once was go? All things must change. It is evident all about me, every day there is a new leaf, a new bud or baby animal or perhaps a dying something. Never is life the same two days in a row.

  I am acquiring a strong sense of man’s mortality out here alone. Realizing the other day that I am keeping this journal in the event of my death gave me quite a jolt. It is shocking to understand the reasons we do things without thinking. I picked this sheaf up in Savannah without a second thought as to why I was keeping notes on my travels. I now know why. I have gone back to the first page and added that upon my demise the journal should be returned to Father at Finley Plantation in Savannah so he can know what has happened to me.

  A somewhat unsettling thought.

  I have been letting my hair go uncombed these many months. I keep it bound to avoid tangling in the brush I push through. My clothes are getting somewhat tattered and I fear that soon I may have to run around buck naked unless I find some other means of clothing myself. ‘Twould not hurt for me to go naked, for this is the most isolated country in the world. I have seen no one in all the time I’ve been traveling and it has been some time. Once I fancied I saw an Indian but we both kept our distance. That is my main fear—hostiles.

  Fall 1759

  What day or month is it? I have no way of being sure. The weather is chilling and the trees become more skeletal with each passing day. I feel good though, elated with freedom. I can’t help but fear the darkness, however, it is still the unknown and a very lonely time.

  Lord, how I miss my feather bed! Strangely enough, I feel no urge to go back to Finley. There I might find Maggie’s spirit and be filled with the renewed pain that I have forced from my heart. But the daily distraction of living and of traveling through wonderful new vistas does little to quell the loneliness that the night brings.

  I’m sure I have entered what is called the swampland. It is a frightening place overgrown and moist to the point of putridity, even though there is coldness in the air. At night it becomes unbearable for there is much activity and one is jumping at each and every sound. My horse mired once and it took a good afternoon before I could free her. I shall be glad to leave this stinking mess.

  December 1759

  I have just left a trapper by the name of Oshen-Paulus Oshen. He thinks I am a man named Fox Nelson. I did not disabuse him of that notion. ‘Tis safer, I think, for one hears tales of women taken by force and I refuse to be in that number.

  We spent a time together. I was surprised to find it December. This brought on a fit of melancholy for not being with my family during the holidays. Oshen taught me much and helped me fashion from pelts a warm overcoat. Winter food shall not be a problem now th
at I can trap but I do wish for a piece of Martha’s homemade bread to temper the wildness of my meat.

  January 1760?

  Snow began again this morning and the air was bitter cold. I could only watch in pity as my mare shivered. The blanket I covered her with did almost nothing to warm her. She has been a faithful companion, so I shall sleep little this night. Movement may warm us.

  How could I have been such a fool!? Never should I have traveled in the dead of a winter night. Another morning dawns but how long, how many mornings, have I lain here? I shall surely perish.

  Father, if you receive this journal, know that I died by my own stupidity. We fell into a ravine. My beautiful mare, my beloved Caution, took most of the fall and her head was bashed open by the rocks. My legs are broken, I think. At first the pain and the hunger gnawing at my belly day and night almost drove me mad. It is not so bad now and the meager snow warmed by my cupped hands has sated my thirst. I wonder how long I can last. Maggie comes to me, beckoning and welcoming me to her. I look forward to holding her again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  March 1760

  WHEN SHE AWOKE fully from her fevered coma, it was to the sound of soft singing in a foreign tongue. She gingerly turned her head end saw a young woman kneeling upon the ground nearby. Her hair was a velvety black shawl around her slender, half naked body. Foxy’s last thought before slipping back into unconsciousness was that she had to be the most beautiful person alive.

  When next she woke, the woman was kneeling over her with a gourd pressed to her lips. Foxy parted them and allowed the tepid water to soothe her parched throat. It was then that she noticed that the woman’s rosebud breasts were bare. Embarrassed, she dropped her eyes and the girl chucked her roughly under the chin, bringing her head back up. Solemnly, she pointed a finger at Foxy’s chest and said, with an odd accent “name”. Then reversing the finger, she laid it against her own chest. “Mi-llani.”

  Her black eyes studied Foxy’s face, seeking some sign that she understood.

  Foxy nodded and replied as best she could. “Name, Fox.” She was surprised at how weak her voice sounded.

  Mi-llani smiled widely, as if delighted that she had been understood. Nodding her head, she repeated “Fox.” Lifting a large fur hide from the floor, she deftly fit it around her shoulders, then rose and left the dwelling.

  Foxy, left alone, looked around the room and inhaled the heady odors of animals and wood smoke mixed with some sort of a medicinal tang. She seemed to be in a tent, made from thick but almost translucent hides. It was daylight, she decided, but the smoky air held no chill which led her to wonder how much time had passed as she slept. She thought back and remembered the death of Caution, her injured legs, the freezing cold. She lifted her hands and flexed the fingers. Luckily, the cold had not hampered her ability to move them.

  She was weak though. Even breathing seemed a chore. Tentatively, to test her strength. she lifted herself to her bent elbows. A sharp spear of pain raced through her legs and lower back. It felt like a hundred horses had trod upon her. A sudden fear that she might be a cripple for life gave her the strength to fling back the hide coverlet and swing her legs out into view. The left leg was in a tight, secure splint and her right was bound with a stained but dry herbal bandage. Relieved, she gingerly moved her right leg and found it stiff but not permanently damaged. Her left wasn’t even too sore though complete motion was not yet possible. She realized that she was totally naked under the furs and when she looked down at her body, she was shocked at how gaunt and thin she was— her ribs stuck out like those of a starving dog. Depressed and exhausted, she re-covered herself and laid back, trying to figure out where she was.

  The tent she was in was a small and cozy framework of wood overlaid with tanned hides and tree branches. The inside was almost empty of possessions with only piles of hide pelts for beds. There were two other pallets, one obviously belonging to the young woman. Foxy had no idea who the second belonged to.

  These people were Indians obviously, but what tribe? She anxiously hoped that they were not enemies to white men. Too many imaginative stories had made their way back to the colonists detailing what the “bloody redskins” did to captured white people. Foxy had no desire to be tied to a post and have her skin peeled, strip by strip from her body, or worse yet, be raped and forced into slavery. She thought about trying to escape the dwelling but knew that she did not have strength enough for such a feat.

  “Fox, how you feel now?”

  She jerked her head up in surprise and found herself staring up at the tallest man she’d ever seen. Mouth agape, she could not help but stare up at him. “You speak English?” she stammered out.

  The native dropped easily to the floor. His head was bald except for a long, braided scalp lock over his left ear with a single gray feather entwined into it. His hide leggings tied at the waist and were split at the bottom, so his beaded moccasins could be seen. He wore no shirt, instead a reddish animal pelt, with what would have been the forelegs knotted at his neck, served as a covering. Foxy was somewhat intimidated by his lean hawk-like face with two deep, vertical scars, one on each cheek. The scars made his cheeks seem hollow and brought his high cheekbones into prominence.

  “White father,” the Indian said brusquely.

  “Beg pardon?” Foxy was confused.

  The tall one laughed, a deep guttural sound and repeated himself more thoroughly. “I had a white father, so lived white man’s settlement.

  “Oh,” Foxy said meekly, then queried, “Where am I? What tribe are you?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Sawokli. Okiti-Yagani. ‘Misi water.”

  Foxy had to mull this over for a while before she understood. Somewhere it seemed she’d heard of a small Indian village called Okiti-Yagani and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a new fort nearby. The tall man was watching her curiously, so she spoke up. “How long have I been here?”

  He frowned and counted uncertainly on his fingers. Finally, he shrugged. “Four, six moons, maybe more.”

  Foxy was struck dumb. Three or four months? It couldn’t be! There was no way she’d been sleeping for months. She was ready to plague the man with questions when he suddenly rose and made a chopping motion with his hand. “‘Nough, talk no more. Sleep.” He threw back the flap door and left the dwelling.

  A few moments later Mi-llani was back, giving Foxy more of the tepid water. Exhausted, she began to drowse but before dropping off completely, she asked Mi-llani, in gestures, what the tall man’s name was. Mi-llani smiled her understanding and, laying slender fingers on her copper colored skin, said “Sawn-Re” then frowning, she drew those fingers across Foxy’s pale skin. “Squaw bastard.”

  Foxy slept.

  Chapter Nineteen

  IT TOOK FOXY a surprisingly short time to heal fully. If what the tall Indian had said was true, that she’d been in an almost comatose state for one quarter of a year, then it was no wonder.

  When she felt ready to test her weakened legs, Sawn-Re fashioned her a crutch from a tree branch and led her on a tour of the small village, an isolated outpost surrounded by miles and miles of open grassland. She discovered that she was also along the banks of the wide Misi-zibi River and that the Indians were a branch of the “white” Creeks, or Myskoke, for the most part a friendly people, calling themselves the Isti. Though the village was small it was surprisingly busy. Partially a farming community, and as it was late spring, they were working diligently, breaking the ground for their small squares of crops. She gleaned from hand signals that this was a temporary measure and that the tribe might move closer into the forested areas when winter came. Foxy imagined that winter winds on the open plains could be severely damaging to their shelters and their ability to keep warm

  With the warmer weather, the men and women had shed the majority of their clothing. With only short buckskin skirts for the women and breechcloths for the men. Foxy had a hard time getting used to so much bare skin. Get used to it she did, thoug
h, as she also, of necessity, accustomed herself to the curt language and impatient mannerisms of the people. She found her days quiet, somewhat boring, but certainly reflective as she healed further.

  She soon realized that Mi-llani was pregnant, for her bare abdomen began rounding unmistakably into the spring months. When asked, Sawn-Re explained that Mi-llani’s husband had perished, gored by a pig, during a late winter hunt.

  Foxy continued to live with Mi-llani and her mother Oge-kan as it was an unmated women’s household and they made it clear that this was her place within village mores. She felt a sense of comfort and safety listening to their gentle snores as she settled into sleep within the warm confines of their tent. And being unattached to a brave, they had an abundance of food as all the braves of the tribe laid food at their door after each hunt.

  Mi-llani and Oge-kan were soon teaching her which foodstuffs could be gathered from the land around them. Forays into the forests yielded acorns, berries and mushrooms. The banks of the river gave them strange, thin roots from under water plants as well as fish caught in reed nets. The roots could be dried, peeled and ground into flour for porridge or flat bread and the fish eaten fresh or splayed out on poles to dry. There was a specific tall grass that grew on the prairie and that, too, could be shaken in the fall and the grain ground into porridge.

  The Indians lived simply, with only basic implements and tools, and this suited Foxy just fine. She had never been one for social graces and overly plush comforts. Now that she was learning some of their language, communication was becoming easier and she was learning something of their simple philosophy. These native people were not lazy, stupid, complaining or selfish. Their only vice was boasting and this was not taken to the point of falsehood. She loved their honesty and openness and the way they treated everyone as family. Indeed, the whole village itself seemed to be one large family, though households were separate. Oddly enough, Foxy was accepted immediately as Oge-kan’s daughter and after her first day up and about, went around unnoticed as if she belonged. This only relaxed her and helped make her feel more comfortable and at ease. She quickly lost her irrational fear of the natives.