"Will your people still be there?" asked Noelle.
"I honestly don't know. But it doesn't matter, in the long run. You're not going back. I won't let Morrell get his hands on you again."
She smiled at that, and he realized how silly he must sound—battered and naked and weak as a kitten, armed with only a pistol which he was certain would not fire. How did he propose to protect her if the river pirates caught up with them?
But a second glance at her smile revealed that Noelle wasn't amused by his bravado. She didn't think him silly at all. In fact, the way she looked at him made him feel suddenly quite uncomfortable. At the White House levee a couple of months ago Greta had looked at him in this very same way, a look of fond wonder, mixed with that wisdom about such things that only women possess, when they know they will have the man they have set their sights on, that he will belong to her and to no other, and, further, that he will have nothing to say in the matter; he will no longer have a will of his own, or be the master of his own fate.
Thoughts of Greta propelled Christopher to his feet.
"Come on," he said. "We'd better keep moving."
He did not see how Morrell and his cutthroats could catch them now. The best dogs in the world could not track a man through a blackwater swamp, and Christopher figured they had crossed a couple of miles of bog at least.
An hour later he heard the river, and a short time after that they were standing on the western bank of the mighty Mississippi, gazing out across a mile of sun-silvered water. Christopher didn't recognize this stretch, but he realized that as a novice in reading rivers he could just as easily be upstream from the place he had left Nathaniel and the others as downstream. There was no sign of life, not so much as a pirogue.
He turned to Noelle. "I don't know where we are, exactly. Do you?"
She shook her head. She was looking at him in that funny way again, and she didn't appear to be the least bit worried about their predicament. Her eyes said I trust you to take care of me, as you promised you would.
"We'll go downriver," he said, and turned the horse in a southerly direction.
They had traveled for at least two hours when Christopher saw a man emerge from the forest into their path. He seemed to materialize out of thin air, and gave Christopher a start—until he recognized Nathaniel and let loose with a whoop of joy and vast relief.
"Grandpa!" he cried out, jumping off the horse.
Nathaniel greeted him by clamping a hand firmly over his mouth.
"Keep the noise down, boy," said the frontiersman, a fierce whisper. His keen blue-gray eyes scanned the shadowy green depths of the forest. "There are men about, and they're up to no good. Come, we must hurry. The boat is not far. Leave the horse. We'll go the rest of the way afoot."
When they reached the broadhorn Rebecca wept tears of joy as she embraced her son, and Prissy dabbled at her own eyes, even as she proceeded to scold Christopher for going astray and causing everybody to worry so.
"Oh dear Lord!" gasped Rebecca, seeing the cuts and bruises which covered Christopher's body. "What has happened to you?"
"John Morrell and his gang. I stumbled upon them as they were killing Mr. Krueger."
"We found what was left of Krueger and his son," said O'Connor grimly.
"They captured me. Took me to their camp. Noelle helped me escape. Mother, Noelle is Cilia's daughter. You remember Cilla . . . "
Rebecca's hand flew to her throat as she stared at Noelle.
"It is a small world, Mrs. Groves," said Noelle. "You saved my mother's life. I had the opportunity to return the favor."
"God works in mysterious and wonderful ways," said Rebecca, clasping Noelle's hands tightly in her own. "How can I ever repay you?"
"We must make certain she never falls into Morrell's hands again," said Christopher.
"We'd better get going, before we all do," warned Nathaniel. "Klesko, cast off the bow line."
"You found Clio, I see," said Christopher, noticing that the errant thoroughbred mare was back on board.
"She came back on her own," said Nathaniel as he headed aft to take the rudder. "O'Connor, grab a pole."
O'Connor clapped a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "I was beginning to think we had lost you."
"Not a chance. I'm going to dance a jig on your grave, remember?"
O'Connor laughed and moved on to brandish the starboard pole. Klesko took the other side, and in moments they were well away from the bank, and none too soon, for suddenly men appeared on the point of land downstream from where the broadhorn had been moored. Christopher saw a muzzle flash, a puff of smoke, and a bullet splintered a board on the cargo box.
"Get down!" he yelled, pushing his mother to the deck, whirling to find that Prissy was already seeking cover. Yet Noelle stood there, staring intently at the men on shore, and Christopher knew intuitively that she was seeking John Morrell, her expression once again unfathomable. Most of the river pirates were shooting now, and Christopher winced at the loud crack! each of the bullets made as they burned the air around them. He lunged forward, grabbing Noelle and bearing her down to the deck.
Wondering if they would clear the point, Christopher dared to raise his head to look, in spite of the hail of bullets. The shore along the point resembled a solid sheet of flame—twenty, maybe thirty men shooting at them. O'Connor and Klesko had to drop their poles and seek cover. Christopher looked around for a rifle or a pistol, even though he knew there was no hope of winning this fight. The odds were lopsided.
But then he saw that indeed they would clear the point. He could feel the broadhorn pick up speed as the current caught it and swept it along—in moments the craft was moving faster than a man could run.
The river—the river would save them, would carry them out of John Morrell's bloody grasp.
Christopher felt like giving a cheer. Yet, suddenly, his head began to spin, and he tried to get up, but fell down instead, and dimly he heard his mother's voice, full of alarm—"Is he shot?"—and then he felt Noelle's cool touch, her hand on his forehead. He heard the word fever as he slipped into oblivion.
A few days later they put in at a landing on the Arkansas shore, a nameless collection of squalid shanties with a ramshackle wharf. Noelle left Christopher's side for the first time, hastening ashore on some mysterious errand. Prissy took this opportunity to speak her mind to Rebecca.
"You best keep that high-colored gal away from yo' son, Miss 'Becca," she warned.
"But why? She's clearly devoted to him. Surely she means him no harm."
"You done seen dat talisman round her neck, ain't you? Dat's a voodoo talisman."
"Oh, Prissy! Really now!"
"Dat's the gospel truth, Miss 'Becca. She's a voodoo princess."
"There's good voodoo and bad, isn't there? Well, I don't care what she does, as long as Christopher recovers, and I am certain she would never do anything to hurt him."
There was, of course, no physician available in the town. The only thing they could do was try to break the fever that had Christopher in its deadly grasp.
"It's swamp fever," was Klesko's somber diagnosis. When asked what could be done by way of a cure, the riverman grimly shook his head. "Not much you can do, 'cept pray. It's a cryin' shame. He was a bright young feller."
"My son is not going to die," snapped Rebecca.
Klesko recoiled from her flashing eyes. "Whatever you say, ma'am," he mumbled contritely, and beat a hasty retreat.
Hours passed before Noelle returned. She was carrying a muslin pouch which emitted the most awful, nauseating odor—a poultice, she said, which she applied liberally to Christopher's chest. Rebecca and Prissy stood just inside the cargo box doorway, watching. Prissy held a handkerchief to her nose, which muffled her continuous muttering. "Oh Lordy. She gwine steal his soul with dat black magic. Oh Lordy."
Noelle ignored her, but there was only so much Rebecca could take. "Be quiet, Prissy," she said sternly. The sight of Christopher, bundled up in the four-poster be
d which took up the majority of the space in the cargo box tore at her heart. He was so pale! His face was covered with sweat. His eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. His cheeks were hollow. One minute he was shaking like a leaf, and the next thrashing weakly under the covers and mumbling incoherently. Horrified, Prissy could stand it no longer, and took her leave.
When Noelle was finished applying the poultice she resumed her vigil, seated in a chair beside the bed, wetting a strip of cloth in a basin of water and dabbing at Christopher's cheek and forehead. Rebecca put a hand on her shoulder.
"You are exhausted, dear. You should try to rest, if you can."
"I will rest later, when he is well."
"Will he . . . be well?" Rebecca's voice quavered with emotion.
"Yes. Do you trust me, Mrs. Groves?"
Rebecca looked deep into Noelle's hazel eyes, and nodded.
"I don't believe in coincidence. I see the Master's hand in this. Your mother came to me for help, and I was able to do something for her. Now, in my son's hour of need, you appear. I feel sorry for anyone who would be so blind as to think this was all luck and happenstance."
"You knew my father. Was he . . . an evil man?"
"He was a good and decent man, but there was great misfortune in his life, and he let that turn him into an angry, bitter, and vindictive person. He was tested, and he failed the test."
"Sometimes we all fail."
"Of course we do, sometimes." Rebecca glanced at Christopher. "But even in the face of misfortune we must learn to carry on somehow."
Noelle placed her hand on top of Rebecca's. "Don't worry, Mrs. Groves. Your son will not die."
Just as they were about to cast off from the landing, a commotion on shore captured Nathaniel's attention. Three Indians had emerged from the forest. By their garb the frontiersman pegged them as Cherokees. The warrior in the lead towered over his companions. He stood six feet six in his moccasins. He did not stoop, as did many tall men who are ashamed of their height, but rather stood straight and proud. His hair was plaited in a long queue down his back. His face was covered with a chestnut beard. That made Nathaniel take a closer look.
Klesko appeared at his shoulder. "What do you reckon them savages are up to?"
"They're not savages," corrected the old leatherstocking. "They're Cherokee. And the tall one is Sam Houston, unless I'm very much mistaken."
Houston's long strides brought him straight to the broadhorn. He wore a white doeskin shirt, elaborately worked with beads and dyed porcupine quills, yellow leather leggins, and a blue breechclout. The feather of a turkey jutted from his turban of yellow silk. A brightly hued blanket was draped over a shoulder.
Nathaniel met him on the dock. They shook hands and introduced themselves.
"I am called The Raven by my Cherokee brethren," said Houston. His firm-set mouth twitched in a wry smile. "Though there are some who prefer to call me Big Drunk, a consequence of my reputed fondness for strong spirits. We have not met before, have we?"
"No, but I've heard a lot about you."
"And I, you, Flintlock Jones. I have a favor to ask."
"Ask away."
"My brothers and I must cross to the other side. Can you accommodate us?"
"Of course."
"Good. Perhaps we can share a pipe. Cuss and discuss, as they say."
"I have a jug we could share, too."
Houston's eyes flashed with delight. "Now you're talking my language! Where are you and yours headed, by the way?"
"Texas."
"Texas!" Houston said it as one might speak his lover's name. "Then we really must have ourselves a good long talk."
Sam Houson was pleasantly surprised to learn that the legendary frontiersman's daughter was Jonathan Groves' widow. He and Jonathan, he said, had fought many a battle together under General Jackson's command, and Houston had deeply mourned his death. If he had ever known that Flintlock Jones was Jonathan's father-in-law he had forgotten it in the passage of the years. He looked in on Christopher and he expressed most fervent wishes for the young man's quick and complete recovery. It was peculiar, mused Nathaniel, to hear a man clad in such garb to speak English with such fluid and gentlemanly grace.
While Klesko steered the broadhorn across the mile-wide river, Houston's Cherokee companions manned the poles. This left Houston and Nathaniel free to palaver. They invited O'Connor, who was at loose ends, to sit with them in the bow of the broadhorn.
"I came down this river about a year ago," said Houston, gazing pensively at the green water slapping against the hull. "That was shortly after I resigned from the governorship of Tennessee. Sic transit gloria mundi. I turned my back on civilization. I swore never to wear the white man's clothes again, or speak the English language. Of course, I do speak it when the occasion requires. But I was firmly committed to living out the rest of my days in self-imposed exile among my Cherokee brethren."
Nathaniel knew better than to ask for the reason Houston had abandoned politics at the height of his career. Who did not know the story of Houston's ill-fated marriage to Eliza Allen? The mystery of their much-publicized divorce had been put to scandalous use by Houston's political enemies.
"I'd spent the happiest years of my childhood among the Cherokees," continued Houston after a long pull on the jug of corn liquor. "They accepted me into the tribe unconditionally. Chief Oo-loo-te-ka—He Puts the Drum Away—adopted me. It was he who christened me Colon-neh. The Raven. The young braves taught me the green corn dance, the hoop and pole game. I spent many a day wandering along the banks of streams, side by side with some Indian maiden, sheltered by the deep woods, making love and reading Homer's Iliad. I swore to return to that life and never leave it."
"What has changed your mind?" asked Nathaniel.
Houston flashed a big, loose grin. "You're a sharp one, Flintlock. A couple of things happened to me on that downriver journey from Tennessee. I admit, I drank myself into an agony of despair, and there was a time or two when I was strongly tempted to leap overboard and end my worthless life. But then came the first omen. An eagle swooped down near my head, and then, soaring aloft with a wild scream, was lost in the rays of the setting sun. I knew somehow that a great destiny awaited me in the West."
Houston indulged in another drink before relinquishing the jug to Nathaniel. "But where in the West? The answer came later, when I happened to meet Jim Bowie. Do you know of him?"
Nathaniel admitted that he did not.
"Ever since that chance meeting my mind has been a blur of dreams and dark fancies of Texas. Bowie was settled there. Married the daughter of a Mexican haciendero. They say she is one of the loveliest women in all of Mexico, and one of the richest. Bowie told me all about Texas. He spun golden tales of great riches. 'Texas is a fine field for enterprise,' he said. 'It is a matter of time before she fights for her independence. The future of those who fight for her will be assured."
"I heard rumors that you intended to engage in an expedition against Texas," said O'Connor. "That you planned to conquer Mexico, too, and crown yourself emperor and be worth two million in two years."
Houston laughed harshly. "The rumor-mongers never seem to have enough of me. Do I look like an emperor? I confess, I live like a king among the Cherokees. That's why I'm still here, and not in Texas with Bowie. Now there's a man who deserves his legend. He grew up on the bayous of Louisiana, riding alligators for sport. It's true! He is the greatest knife fighter in the country. He showed me a most remarkable knife, one of his own design, made to stab like a dagger and slice like a razor. Did you hear about that big shivaree on the sandbar off Natchez three years back? Two pistol duellists were determined to settle a grudge, but a fight broke out between the ten men who were present as witnesses. One of them was Bowie. He was shot twice, and stabbed once in the chest. Yet he managed to kill one man and slashed another to ribbons. What a free-for-all that must have been!
"I am told he has recently fought another duel, this one down in Texas. A man hired
three assassins to ambush him. Bowie decapitated one, disemboweled another, and split the third's skull to the shoulders with a single blow of his big knife. But don't go getting the wrong idea about the man. He loves peace, and he is a true gentleman. I am told that on a stagecoach in Louisiana some obnoxious fool ignored a lady's request that he extinguish his pipe—and the next instant he found himself thrown to the floor by Bowie, and Bowie's knife at his throat."
"I bet he put out his pipe," said O'Connor.
"They say the man has never indulged in tobacco since," exclaimed Houston, and they all laughed.
"Are you bound for Texas, sir?" asked O'Connor.
"No, no. Not yet. My Cherokee friends still need me. I am going to Washington, to lodge a formal complaint with the Secretary of War, John Eaton, about those damnably dishonest Indian agents at Three Forks. They sell flour and beef at outrageously high prices, and pocket much of the profit. They introduce strong spirits, knowing it will make my brothers foolish in the head. I'm not sure why, but Indians just can't seem to handle liquor. Maybe it's because they haven't built up a tolerance for it, like we have." He took the jug and indulged in another massive dose of tongue oil. "Worst of all, the government promised the Five Civilized Tribes a bounty for giving up their ancestral lands and relocating in the West. To date that bounty has not been paid, and I intend to know the reason why."
"Do you think the President will listen to you?" asked Nathaniel. "After all, he played a large part in forcing the Indians to move West."
Gone to Texas Page 19
