by Paul Clayton
“Who is in the fort?” shouted the old soldier.
Calling Crow heard the far-off voice shout the answer in strangely accented Spanish. “We are followers of Manet, viceroy of the King of France.”
“Gentlemen,” said the old Spanish soldier, “are you Catholics or Protestants?”
“We are Protestants,” came the reply.
The old soldier’s voice boomed out, “Any Catholics among you, I will spare. But only if they come out right now.”
One of the French laughed. “Go to hell!” he shouted. Others behind the timbers hurled curses at the old soldier.
The old soldier went on. “I am Captain Lozano, representative of Viceroy Zamora, captain-general to the King of Spain, who now approaches on those two ships. We Spanish were given these lands by the Pope to teach the gospel to the Indians who live here, that they may embrace the Holy Catholic Faith of our Lord Jesus Christ. You are trespassing in our sovereign territory. Lay down your arms and banners and surrender now and I will act as mercifully as God gives me grace. Fight us, and you shall not live to see another day!”
There was no answer from the fort and Lozano and Peralta conferred a few more moments. Lozano nodded to a man and he unfurled a tall blue banner. He waved it repeatedly over his head in the direction of the ships. Puffs of smoke appeared alongside the ships, followed a few moments later by the thunder of cannons. Several of the shots landed in the river, sending up geysers of water. Then one punched a large hole in the palisade wall.
Angry shouting came from the fort and the French charged out, surging across the field. The Spanish ran to meet them and the two soldiers behind Calling Crow pushed him to his knees as they knelt to aim their harquebuses. The air filled with acrid smoke and thunder and the cries and shouts of men. One of the men behind Calling Crow screamed and fell backward, his head covered in blood. Calling Crow got to his feet and kicked the other man, sending him sprawling. He ran to the river.
Calling Crow saw several boats loaded with Spanish soldiers and their horses leaving the ships. The big ships continued to bombard the fort as the battle raged. Calling Crow saw a Spanish lying dead in the shallow part of the river. The man was wearing a sword.
Calling Crow ran to the bank and squatted next to the body. He partially pulled the sword from its scabbard and worked the cords along the sword’s sharp edges, cutting them away. Then he tied the scabbard round his waist, hefted the sword, and ran back toward the fort.
Calling Crow saw a large mob of French hurrying out of the rear of the fort and heading for the safety of the forest. There were women among them with children in tow. Thirty or forty Spanish soldiers, hidden not twenty paces in front of Calling Crow, spotted them and leapt to their feet. They quickly intercepted the group, chopping at them with their swords. Only a handful of men survived the massacre and made it into the forest.
Before the soldiers returned, Calling Crow retrieved his iron axe and tucked it inside his belt. He ran into the fort. There were still many French barricaded in the huts at the rear of the fort, shooting their harquebuses at the Spanish who ran here and there, ducking down behind bodies and debris as they pauses to shoot back.
Calling Crow ran toward the rear of the fort, keeping close to the palisade wall. He saw an opening in one of the huts and ran inside. It was empty. He ran back outside and saw some Spanish soldiers throwing torches on the roofs of the houses. Flames crackled from the thatch, sending thick tendrils of sooty black smoke skyward.
The thunder of the harquebuses raged as the Spanish returned the fire of the trapped French. Calling Crow hoped that perhaps Juana was not in the fort. It would not be long before the men from the ships would land and begin their assault. When they did, the battle would soon be over.
Smoke from the scattered fires drifted everywhere. Calling Crow could smell the pitch of burning timbers and another greasy, smoke smell that he knew was burning flesh. The heat warped the air, obscuring his vision as he searched the walls for an opening. Another group of French rushed out of a hut and ran to the rear of the fort and the forest beyond. Calling Crow wondered if perhaps Juana had been taken along with one of the earlier groups. After he was satisfied she was not here, he would have to search the surrounding forest. He watched the last group of French reach the forest. He turned back to look elsewhere spotting a small entrance on the other side of the fort he hadn’t noticed before. It was unguarded. Keeping low and against the palisade, he made his way around.
He looked in. A corridor led away through a series of storerooms with timber walls and dried grasses scattered about on the floors. The first room was empty. In the next room he could see stacks of baskets and the square boxes the Spanish kept their things in. Calling Crow entered. The sporadic shooting and shouts of the fight grew muted. He went into the second room and saw Juana sitting in the corner on a cloth-covered mound of grasses. She saw him and got to her feet. They embraced.
Juana shook her head. “The baby is all right. Do not worry.”
They heard a noise nearby and turned. Jacques stepped into the room. Seeing Calling Crow, he pulled his sword and ran at him, swinging wildly. Calling Crow ducked out of the blade’s path and rolled away. He delivered a quick kick to Jacques’ legs, knocking him onto his back. Calling Crow leapt upon him and pinned him. He raised his axe.
“No,” shouted Juana. “Calling Crow, stop!” She came up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Do not kill him.”
Calling Crow looked up at her in confusion. “What?”
Juana looked at Jacques who, panting, was trying to regain his feet. “Tell him why you did this,” she said to him.
Between his labored breaths, Jacques spat out the words in Spanish to Calling Crow. “When I met you that time, we were all sick. My son had a fever, as did many, but no strength to fight it.” Jacques clenched his eyes at the memory. “There was no food!” he blurted out. He blinked away some tears, glaring at Calling Crow. “All the bear meat might have helped, but there wasn’t enough in what you gave us to go around.”
Calling Crow looked at Juana. “What is he saying?”
“His son died. He blames you for not giving them more of the meat.”
Calling Crow saw now that the man was speaking from his heart. The death of one’s child would reduce a man to this. He got to his feet and said to Jacques, “I did not kill your son.”
Jacques said nothing as he sat up and rubbed his arm.
Calling Crow looked at Juana. “We had better go. Soon the mounted soldiers from the ships will be here.”
“Watch out!” Juana called to Calling Crow.
Calling Crow turned. Jacques pulled a small shiny knife from his boot and got to his feet in one swift motion. He lunged at Calling Crow, cutting through the thick deerskin of his shirt. Calling Crow grabbed Jacques’ wrist and twisted. The knife skidded across the floor. Calling Crow threw Jacques backward, but the man managed to keep his feet, his eyes measuring the distance to the knife. Instead of lunging for the knife, he ran to the entrance and disappeared. Calling Crow was wondering why when the old Spanish soldier named Lozano entered from the inner chamber carrying a loaded crossbow at the ready. Spotting Calling Crow and Juana, his face hardened and he raised the crossbow to his cheek, aiming it at Calling Crow. A shout came from behind as Rain Cloud lunged out of the shadows, bringing his axe down on Lozano’s head. Rain Cloud shouted out a war cry and ran off.
Calling Crow took the crossbow from Lozano’s hands. He had seen enough people killed by crossbows during his captivity to know how to use one.
Juana went to the outer chamber and peered out the doorway. “The Spanish horsemen are coming,” she said.
“Come,” said Calling Crow, “we must hurry.”
As they approached the forest, they paused to rest. “Look,” said Juana, pointing to the sea.
A thick pillar of flame poured from one of the French ships, then climbed the rigging and sails.
Calling Crow took Juana’s hand. “We must go. S
oldiers may come.”
They entered the forest and came to a broad trail. They walked south, moving as fast as Juana could manage. For quite a while the sounds of the battle were constant in their ears. When they finally faded, Calling Crow thought that they were out of danger. He decided to leave the forest and have a look around. Leaving Juana hidden in a thick grove of trees, he moved down to the beach. Looking out of the trees, he saw the massive dark shape of one of the Spanish ships. It was anchored to the south. Two small boats were in the water and there was already a large group of soldiers and horses on the beach. They would be sweeping north to meet up with the Spanish at the fort. Calling Crow frowned. He and Juana would have to retrace their footsteps and make their way north between the Spanish and the bog lands farther inland.
Calling Crow went back to Juana and they followed the big trail north. After a while they heard a racket from behind and hid. A short while later a troop of mounted Spanish soldiers rode past making a racket. Calling Crow and Juana remained in their hiding place until the sun set.
There was still light as Calling Crow and Juana crept out of their hiding place. They walked at a slow, careful pace and came upon a small rise. Climbing it, they came to a clearing that looked out to sea. Far out, a small French ship leaned over heavily as it maneuvered to escape a Spanish ship pursuing it. Calling Crow and Juana watched for a few moments longer, then re-entered the cover of the trees. They passed the area of the fort without being discovered and came out of the forest onto a vast, prairie-like expanse of fields. Off in the center stood a large, solitary tree. Something about it looked unusual to Calling Crow.
“See that distant tree?” he said softly to Juana. “What sort of fruit is that that hangs from it?”
Juana looked out at the tree. “I don’t think it is fruit. It looks like bundles, skins curing, perhaps.”
They watched for a while to make sure there was no one about.
“Let us cross,” said Calling Crow. “The danger seems to have passed.”
The air was heavy and many insects had left their burrows to buzz and flit about. Calling Crow slowed as they approached. The tree was huge and very old, with dozens of gnarled branches. Many French people, men, women and children, hung from the branches by their necks. The bodies turned on the ropes in the slight breeze, the ropes creaking and making moaning sounds. Calling Crow and Juana froze at the sight. One of the long branches snapped and several bodies fell in a heap, their arms thrown about one another in a final, grotesque embrace. Juana cried out and Calling Crow pulled her away. They hurried across the clearing, not stopping until they reached the dark quiet of the forest.
Senor Valdez’s youthful face dripped with sweat as he supervised a dozen men gathering up the weapons of the defeated French. They dumped them in a heap for transfer to the ships. Valdez looked up and was startled to see the bravo named Black Wolf and two of his warriors staring at him. Their faces were still painted for war, giving them a vicious, wild animal look.
Black Snake pointed at the heap of weapons. Valdez nodded, knowing what he wanted, and walked off. He found Senor Peralta talking with Sergeant Guzmán.
“Black Snake wants his harquebus,” said Valdez.
Peralta turned. “Very well. You go with the Sergeant. I will deal with him.”
Valdez nodded and walked off with Sergeant Guzmán.
Senor Peralta called Salazar.
Salazar hurried over, red-faced with exertion.
Peralta indicated Black Snake and his men. “Come with me.” They walked over to the Coosa bravos.
“Tell him,” said Senor Peralta, “that the big chief on the floating houses has told me that I cannot give a harquebus to him. Tell him that I am sorry, and that instead, I shall give him extra knives and pots.”
Salazar waited while some soldiers dumped a load of weapons on the ground with a loud clatter. He turned to Black Snake and cleared his throat. “Senor Peralta says he cannot give you the thunderstick you desire. The great Spanish cacique on the floating houses out there has said that instead, you can have several more knives and pots when we return to our fort.”
Black Snake burned with rage as he walked the wide trail back to Aguacay. He had suffered too many indignities at the hands of these Spanish. The first was having his prisoner, Calling Crow, taken away from him. Then the Spanish let Calling Crow escape. And now, before they had started back, they had forced him to divide his men up among three groups of Spanish. Only because of the powerful thundersticks had he obeyed. But he would have his revenge when the time was right. And that time was coming. He could feel it.
A commotion erupted on the trail behind. Black Snake turned as a group of French hairfaces who had evidently survived the initial assault, emerged from the bushes and rushed the Spanish. Although the Spanish outnumbered them, the French were enraged and the fighting was fierce.
Black Snake raised his lance and ran at the nearest Frenchman. The man carried a thunderstick, but dropped it and raised his long knife. His face was wild as he swung in a wide arc. Black Snake dodged the blow and tripped the man, knocking him to the ground. He drove his lance into his back.
Black Snake picked up the thunderstick and turned to see Peralta fighting a French hairface out of sight of the others. Black Snake followed them. He raised the thunderstick and pointed it at Peralta. Nothing happened! He shook it, and again pointed it. Nothing! Enraged, he threw it down and ran at Peralta, striking him from behind. Peralta collapsed like a stalk of corn and the French hairface looked at Black Snake in confusion. One of Black Snake’s bravos dispatched the hairface with a blow from his axe.
Black Snake took stock. He wanted to search the area where the fighting had taken place to find another thunderstick, one with its medicine intact. But the Spanish were already calling out to each other and re-forming. Black Snake dragged Peralta’s body under some ferns and took the ring off his finger. He motioned his men to follow him and they moved off the trail and disappeared into the forest.
Peralta awoke lying on his back, his eyes looking straight up. He remembered the force of the blow reverberating through his spine. All rigidity had gone from his body and it collapsed beneath him as if made of silk. Then rough hands had seized him and blackness swallowed him up. In the distance he heard the rattle of swords and the grunts and screams of battle, but he could see none of it. The low bushes and ferns obscured his view and he was unable to turn his head or move a muscle. Soon the battle was over and the commotion subsided to the quiet trod of feet and soft, muffled talk. His men were leaving, but for some reason his voice had left him and he could not call out. It grew very quiet. He did not recall anyone stripping his body, but his relic ring was gone. He prayed to God he would recover it.
The light faded as a half-moon rose into a blue-black sky. Beneath the great trees it remained dark. A howl sounded in the distance as Peralta’s forehead flushed with sweat and quickly cooled in the night air. The howl came again, closer, and was soon joined by another and then another. Peralta could no longer see anything, just blackness. He prayed that someone would come back for him.
Peralta passed in and out of consciousness. He felt the forest grow strangely quiet, as if holding its breath. Then he heard a low growl and the soft noise of padded feet moving about. He heard cloth tearing and teeth clicking, and realized with horror that the wolves were eating the bodies of those who had died in the battle. He had always heard that these creatures were cowards and would not come near a live man. He was alive, but he could not move.
More wolves arrived and fought over the bodies. Oh, God, Peralta prayed, please help your humble servant in his hour of need.
A branch snapped nearby and Peralta felt himself moving. Someone had returned for him and they had pulled him clear of the bushes. The he saw small groups of wolves. Heads down, they growled and chewed, gulping hungrily. Peralta began moving again and he saw that two wolves had him by his boots!
One of the wolves dropped the boot and tore open his s
hirt, biting into his flesh. Peralta felt a tug as the skin ripped away in a long strip. He felt no pain, only revulsion, at the moist, salivary sounds as the animal masticated the flesh, then gulped it down.
A large wolf placed its paws upon Peralta’s chest. When the creature’s eyes met Peralta’s, it growled deep in its throat. Its ears bent back against its head as its hair came erect. Lunging, it clamped its jaws about Peralta’s throat, crushing his windpipe.
***
Calling Crow sat on the bank at the dream place. Juana had gone off to find some medicine to dress his wounds. As he waited, he thought of the people hanging from the tree. A captured bravo could expect a gruesome death for an attack, but these people simply worshipped the Great Spirit differently than the Spanish. Surely the Great Spirit didn’t mind.
Juana pushed through the thicket and knelt behind him. She smoothed some herbs and spider’s web over his wounds. They sat for a while, staring at the black water of the pond.
She caressed him. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Tomas the Black Robe told me and I followed the trail of the Spanish soldiers.”
“You see,” she said, “I told you Father Tomas was a good man.”
Calling Crow said nothing. Running Wolf’s ugly prophecy about the Black Robe still haunted him.
“I was going to warn the French people,” said Juana, “but Jacques captured me. He took me because he knew you would come.”
Calling Crow pulled her close and looked into her eyes. “I would not want to live in this world anymore if I lost you again.”
She smiled a little smile and lay back. They made love gently and afterward bathed in the pond.
Calling Crow pulled her close. “I must go now. I want to see you here tomorrow at full day.”
