by Paul Clayton
A cool breeze moved through the hut, bringing with it the promise of a nice cool night. It was the first corn harvest. Two more corn plantings and harvests would follow before the rains of winter arrived. Tonight the people danced at the square ground in celebration. Green Bird Woman was going to watch the festivities.
A woman half Green Bird Woman’s age entered the hut and smiled over at her. Bright Eyes’s pretty face vaguely resembled her mother’s, with full lips and soft, doe brown eyes. Although now as tall as her mother, her figure was not as full.
Green Bird Woman smiled sadly at the sight of this fine young woman. Green Bird Woman’s own daughter had died seven years earlier of the black vomit. Green Bird Woman had adopted this girl from among a group of Santee captives. She had been almost the same age as her daughter and bore a resemblance. Green Bird Woman had, of course, given her new daughter the name of the deceased daughter she replaced. And like Green Bird Woman, Bright Eyes, too, had lost her first husband, and these losses had formed a very strong bond between them.
“Mother,” Bright Eyes chided, “Calling Crow has not yet returned, and the corn cares not whether you wear your feather.”
Green Bird Woman turned to her daughter and laughed. “The corn knows,” she said, “and the people expect me to dress well. They would worry if I did not.” Green Bird Woman sighed appreciatively as she looked at Bright Eyes. She needed little to accentuate her beauty. Every unattached man in the village had his eyes on her.
The two women went out into the early evening. They walked the hard packed dirt street that bisected the palisade-enclosed village, past the corn and bean fields that filled one side. They arrived at the square ground as young men began lighting torches tied to tall poles. Green Bird Woman and Bright Eyes had gone over to talk to some women who were cooking at a pot when they heard a commotion. Several men were running toward the square ground. Green Bird Woman saw the fierce-faced top brave called Swift Arrow and the big hulking top brave called Little Bear. Both men had gone with Calling Crow and the others; her heart sank.
Swift Arrow came right up to Green Bird Woman when he saw her. He leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees as he fought for breath. He turned to Little Bear. The big man’s wide, placid face showed nothing of the pain he must have felt, “Go find Two Clouds and bring him here.”
Swift Arrow coughed and turned to Green Bird Woman as Little Bear lumbered away. “We were attacked, ambushed,” he said in a rush.
People pushed in closer to hear his words.
Small birds darted about in the dark sky overhead as if they sensed the tension in the people below. Green Bird Woman shouted at Swift Arrow. “What happened to Calling Crow and Swordbrought?”
Swift Arrow coughed again. “They are alive, I think, but prisoners. There were too many for us to fight.” Swift Arrow looked around at the gathering crowd and went on. “Calling Crow told us to flee, to come here and get help.”
Green Bird Woman looked around. “My husband-- my boy,” she said to no one in particular, “we must go get them.” Spotting two boys with lances, she called to them, “You two! Come with me. We will leave right away.”
The two boys did not move; instead, they looked at Swift Arrow in confusion.
Green Bird Woman addressed the bigger of the two boys. “What are you called?”
“I am Flat Head.”
“Come here.”
The boy approached and Green Bird Woman took his lance from him. “I will go get them myself,” she said, looking around at the gathering darkness with worry.
“Mother.” There was anxiousness on Bright Eyes’s voice. “Wait.”
Green Bird Woman did not hear her. Then a deep voice called Green Bird Woman’s name and she turned. It was Two Clouds. He was flanked by Little Bear and another young brave.
“Green Bird Woman,” Two Clouds said gently, “you must not rush off. The warriors are being assembled and Sees Far must prepare them for battle before they leave. At first light they will go and pick up the track.” He walked over and stood by her. “Now, please come back to the chokafa with me and we will talk.”
Green Bird Woman’s eyes were glossy with unshed tears as she shook her head. “No,” she said as if in a dream, “I will go get them myself.” She turned away from the stately figure of old Two Clouds.
Bright Eyes hovered close to her mother as Two Clouds motioned to the braves. Little Bear gently took Flat Head’s lance from Green Bird Woman’s hand and gave it back to him. Then he and another brave each took one of Green Bird Woman’s arms. “Come,” said Little Bear, “we will take you to your house.”
The crowd had left, embarrassed and grieved at the sight of Green Bird Woman’s pain. Only the two boys remained, watching as the braves led the woman away. Bright Eyes cried as she followed along behind. Out of the growing darkness, a skinny old man hurried up behind Bright Eyes. It was Bent Ears, a friend of Green Bird Woman’s late uncle. He took Bright Eyes’s hand in consolation. “I heard,” he said.
Bright Eyes squeezed his hand in reply.
Bright Eyes kept the fire in her mother’s house burning brightly. She dipped a gourd cup into a pot of soup and extended it to her mother. Green Bird Woman shook her head and looked into the fire.
“They will find them,” said Bright Eyes. “Our young men are the best trackers. You will see.”
Green Bird Woman looked at her and tried to smile. “You are right, Bright Eyes. I was so worried about your father and brother-- I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Bright Eyes patted her hand. “It is all right, Mother.”
Outside, the night passed slowly as the two women stared into the fire. Neither spoke. Bright Eyes tried to rest, laying her head down upon her upraised knees. Periodically the slapping footfalls of a runner passed outside. Sometimes the distant singing of the warriors as they prepared themselves seemed to swell as a breeze carried it into the hut. Green Bird Woman listened to these things without thinking of them as she stroked her daughter’s head lovingly.
Bright Eyes awoke and looked up.
Green Bird Woman gave her a sad smile. “You know,” she said, “when they said that Calling Crow and Swordbrought had been captured, I found myself thinking about how it felt to hold Swordbrought when he was a new, wriggly little thing.”
Bright Eyes smiled at this description of the beginnings of the brave young man her brother had become.
Green Bird Woman’s eyes lit up at the infectious smile of Bright Eyes. “You had to hold him tightly or he would jump out of your arms. Calling Crow said he would probably run before he crawled.”
Bright Eyes laughed bravely. She struggled for something to say and fell silent. Green Bird Woman patted Bright Eyes’s hand and knelt to push a stout stick into the fire. Outside, the distant drumming grew with hopeful intensity. Green Bird Woman sat back down and lay her head upon her knees.
Chapter 4
Almost directly east of the Spanish slave ship, the dark bulk of the Contempt sailed slowly north in a steady wind. Below, out of the weather, Samuel Newman stood in a pool of flickering lamplight before John, Fenwick and two dozen others. Heads down, they concluded their prayer for their captured mate, Peter Butler. “May the Lord God deliver him from the bloody Spaniard!” Samuel intoned in a solemn voice.
“Amen,” the others mumbled.
Samuel looked round at the men. “We will have to land somewhere and secure victuals and fresh water for the return crossing.”
“When?” Fenwick said.
“Tomorrow, the day after, as soon as we spot a good anchorage.”
“Victuals and water, yes,” said John loudly, “but I’m not for going home yet.”
“Very well,” said Samuel, “after we get our water and victuals, we will leave you ashore.”
Several men laughed.
John’s face grew dark. “No, brother, you will not get rid of me so easily.”
“Ho ho,” said a man on the outer perimeter of the gathering, enjo
ying the brothers’ argument.
“Then what is it you are proposing, John?” said Samuel tiredly.
John’s voice resonated with anger. “After we victual, we should lay low until we spy a Spanish prize. Then take it, refilling our purses and repaying them for their bloody treachery.”
“Yeah,” said a man in a tentative voice, with several others mumbling their agreement.
Samuel looked round at them. “What about the rest of you? I thought you had had enough of the bloody heat and mosquitos. Do you really want to go off privateering?”
The majority of the men had become emboldened and grumbled in the affirmative. “We’ve all lost money back there, sir,” said Fenwick, “and we’d like to get it back.”
“With interest,” said a man, fired up by the thought. More of the men now grumbled in assent.
“Very well,” said Samuel. “We’ll give it two months and no longer. If we spot a ship in that time, we’ll go after her. If we don’t, we’ll go home. Old Tom lost an eye and Peter Butler’s as good as a dead man. I’ll not risk any more of the lads. Agreed?”
“Aye,” the men said heartily, and the meeting broke up.
Samuel made his way forward. He touched the lookout on the shoulder and the man walked off. Samuel leaned out on the bowsprit, the large spar projecting forward from the prow. He stared into the darkness, watching and listening for the phosphorescence and thunder of surf that would indicate shoals. Samuel’s soul ached from the events of the last long day, the treachery of the Spanish, Gredilla’s cowardly departure, the destruction of their goods and especially the loss of the Butler lad. He would probably be burned at the stake as a heretic in some colonial town square, or worse, chained to an oar in one of the Spaniards’ hellish Mediterranean galleys. Now the men wanted to go privateering! Samuel’s anger flared hot over his mercurial brother’s actions and interference. All their misfortune was partly his fault and he still insisted on meddling. Samuel thought back to the bloody death of the grandee, Fernandez, on the quay. If not for that, they could possibly have won their case; the Spanish courts were as riddled with corruption as a cheese. They could have bribed someone and still turned a profit for the venture. But John’s hot head had closed that door.
Samuel forced his mind to change its tack. He could not change John, and it was his own fault for having brought him along. Well, it would be the last time. Now he must think only about what was needed to get them all home safely. They would put in somewhere and stay for two months. With luck and God’s grace they’d all get home. Then he could again relax around his hot headed brother. But from now on, he’d bear watching.
Just aft of the mainmast, down below on the gun deck, Patrick, the Irish ship’s boy, was working the ship’s pump handle back and forth. The sound, a dull, rhythmic thudding, provided accompaniment to a ballad he sang about an unfaithful maiden and a vengeful knight. His voice was plaintive and not unpleasant and Samuel gave himself up to the mournful tune, feeling it a salve for his bruised soul.
Chapter 5
In the night, a steady stream of debris floated along in the black tidal current, moving past the anchored Spanish slave ship-- seaweed uprooted by a recent storm, the husks of fruits, branches fallen from trees. The ship would sail for Santo Domingo in the morning. The debris bobbed in the water as it moved south, past the ship and out to sea. Red Feather clung to one of the things, a small log, as it moved in the flow toward the ship. The swells rose and fell powerfully as the swift current bore him along. In the dim starlight, Red Feather saw something that made his heart pound in his chest. The jumbled line the debris formed now curved outward to sea, away from the ship. He began pulling the water with one arm as he held on with the other, attempting to change the course of his drift, but the log stubbornly followed the other things on their path out to sea. He abandoned the log and began swimming toward the ship. The current was much stronger than he had thought and after a while he seemed not to have gotten any closer. Setting his jaw in determination, he forced himself to swim harder. Calling Crow was on this ship, the man whose courage and vision had led the village through many dangers in the past, the man who was loved and respected by all. Calling Crow was a man that he, Red Feather, loved like a father; he would drown before he would let the white people take Calling Crow away. Aieyee! Red Feather put all his strength into his swimming. If he could not free Calling Crow, then he would join him in captivity.
Red Feather’s breath was coming fast when he noticed that the ship had grown slightly in size. He was closer! He said a prayer of thanks to his spirit guide and swam on as hard as he could; he would make it! Finally, in his exhaustion, his fist banged carelessly into the timbers of the ship with a dull thud, but the little noise it made went unnoticed by the soldiers on guard above. Red Feather jammed his hands into the gaps in the timbers and clung tightly as he rested. Later, he became another shadow on the black sea as he moved along the bulk of the ship. Coming upon some ropes, he quietly began climbing up.
He stepped over the rail and looked around. People slept everywhere. The light was almost nonexistent, but before too long he found who he was looking for. Red Feather stood over Calling Crow’s sleeping form.
Calling Crow slept shallowly. He sensed a presence and looked up. Calling Crow’s eyes widened in amazement. Only his tastanagi, Red Feather, could have done this thing. With a nod of his head, Calling Crow indicated, someone among the people tied up to the rail on the other side of the deck. Red Feather silently crossed the wooden expanse and saw Swordbrought. He cut him free. They returned and Red Feather knelt before Calling Crow, Little Bear and Crying Wolf. Red Feather was sawing at the thick cords wrapped around Calling Crow’s wrists when they heard a sound.
Swordbrought knelt and pulled the knife Red Feather had given him. They looked about and waited. Heavy booted feet thudded somewhere on the wooden deck. Not caring how much noise they made; the Spanish clumped closer along the side of the ship. In another few moments they would be close enough to see what was happening.
The disembodied footsteps left the rail and started over toward Calling Crow and his men. Calling Crow called out commandingly in Spanish, “Rapido! Senor Avila wants to see you in his cabin.”
The men immediately turned and hurried back the way they had come. Swordbrought and Red Feather looked at Calling Crow in awe as the captives stirred around them. “Quickly,” said Calling Crow, “cut Little Bear and Crying Wolf loose.”
The Timucua brave next to Calling Crow watched Swordbrought and Red Feather cutting the others loose.
When Calling Crow was on his feet, he turned to Crying Wolf and indicated the Timucua brave. “Cut his cords loose and give him your knife so he can cut his people loose.”
Crying Wolf’s voice was full of angry incredulity, “But they are Timucua. The same people who captured you!”
Calling Crow’s voice had an edge of angry impatience to it. “Haven’t you learned anything the whole time you have known me? They are not Timucua! They are Spanish slaves. Cut him loose!”
Crying Wolf’s face was stiff with shame as he knelt and cut the Timucua man’s bonds. He gave the Timucua his knife and the man cut the man next to him free of the ropes.
Calling Crow said to the two Timucua. “Cut the ropes from your people as quickly as you can. The soldiers will return soon.”
Without a sound, Calling Crow and his men went over the rail and climbed down the side of the ship. They eased their bodies into the sea without making a splash.
The water enveloped Calling Crow like cool freedom. He swam powerfully pulling the black water past him without a sound. Saying nothing, he and the others swam toward that part of the beach north of the Spanish fort where the forest grew down to the sea. Halfway there, they could hear the splashes of the other Timucua as they jumped into the sea. Calling Crow trod water as he listened, then swam on to join the ghostly white combers racing toward the sand. Soon they were running heavy legged through the strong, foaming surf. The
y entered the forest and heard the shouts of the soldiers and then the boom of a gun as the alarm went out.
They pushed through the forest and found the big trail. All night they ran along in the dark. When daylight began to push down through the thick canopy, they stopped and listened to hear if they were being followed. Hearing nothing, they ran on.
It was the second day of their search for Calling Crow. Swift Arrow, Little Bear and the other four Coosa braves had easily followed the track the raiding party had left. Now, the pine forest came to an end at a grassy plain bordering a great swamp of water lilies and bald-cypress islands. Swift Arrow strode down to the water’s edge in a tall thicket of bushes. Little Bear and the other braves knelt on the sandy bank to inspect some prints. Swift Arrow pushed into the thicket toward the water. He thought he could see something where a creek ran out to the sea. Little Bear came up beside him and together they pushed through the thicket till they could go no farther and stood in water up to their waists. At this point, the thicket was cage-like, with wrist-thick branches rising from the water to reach and twist overhead.
“I saw it swimming this way-- Here.”
Swift Arrow and Little Bear froze. The strangely accented Muskogee voice had come from just the other side of the thicket. Clear and distinct, and no more than a stone’s throw away, it had reached their ears with no warning, no footfalls, no splashing through the water. Swift Arrow and Little Bear remained motionless. Through a myriad of holes in the thicket they watched a dugout canoe glide to a stop, the muscles in the paddler’s thick legs tensing visibly as he shifted the oar to brake. Swift Arrow and Little Bear and the others saw that the men in the canoe were Timucua. One of them held a long paddle, the other a lance. The Timucua with the lance peered into the water.
