“He told you that?”
“Not in so many words, but I know it.” There was a deep wisdom in the Cherokee, and he knew well how to read the hearts and minds of men, especially one such as Hawk, with whom he had been day and night for almost two years. “But it is not a squaw he needs—he needs the Jesus God of the Bible. He reads about Jesus, but he does not believe.”
Now as the two rode on, Sequatchie thought of the conversation he had had with his mother. He said no more about it, but as they wound their way through the forest, he spoke of plans to come. “There will be food now,” he said. “The buffalo will come again. We will have venison, wild turkey, and bear. The fish will be in the streams, and I will show you how to catch them with white oak fish traps.”
They paused early in the afternoon, and Hawk used a Dutch oven that he had purchased from the Scottish trader, McDougal. He made plump loaves of bread from the flour and corn, and that night they drank coffee and ate fresh trout plucked out of a stream. They also enjoyed the pulpy meat of the persimmons that had fallen to the earth in abundance, for both men loved sweets. Sitting by the small fire, they talked late into the night, and just before turning in, Hawk said, “I will go in the morning and get a deer. There are tracks around the stream everywhere.”
Sequatchie nodded, and the two men rolled in their warm blankets. Hawk went to sleep almost at once, which was unusual for him, and slept dreamlessly. When he awoke there was no yawning or stretching or coming awake slowly. One moment he was deeply asleep, then his eyes opened, and he was completely alert and aware of his surroundings.
Rising silently, he picked up his gun and left the camp, marveling at how he had learned to travel through the woods making no more sound than a cloud drifting overhead. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but Sequatchie had taught him well. He knew that it was a skill that might save his life one day, and as he moved through the forest, his eyes never stopped moving from side to side. He had also learned from the Cherokee that life in the forest often hung by a hair. The tribes that surrounded the Cherokees were cruel. Some of them were treacherous and could appear at any moment, rising like ghosts, killing, butchering, scalping, and then fading away back to their own territory.
By the time Hawk reached the creek, the sky in the east was tinged a faint milky gray. He took a stand beside a huge beech tree and checked the priming of his rifle. Holding his rifle loosely with both hands, one finger on the trigger, all he had to do was sweep it up, aim, and pull.
He was acutely aware of the sounds of the forest. He had never known how much he had missed until he had learned to still-hunt. After a time, he heard the tiny singing sound that he knew came from a mouse, called the “singing mouse” by the Cherokees. It had small white feet, and its song could only be heard if a man remained absolutely still. Overhead, an owl drifted by on his last cruise for food before daylight. His thick feathers deadened the sound of his flight, and yet the quick ears of the hunter heard it faintly. Hawk did not move, but turned his eyes upward without shifting his head and saw the great hunter glide across the sky. There was something ominous about the great bird that carried death in his mighty talons.
Time passed and only the tiny sounds, faint and mute, continued to catch his attention. Hawk’s mind suddenly went back to Williamsburg and he had a clear vision of his son’s face as he had seen it the day he left home. It came to him sharply now. He saw the round red face, the chubby fingers, and marveled at the perfection of the tiny fingernails. He remembered the dimples beside each knuckle of the red hands that were clenched tightly together. The hair was as black as his own, and he wondered if it had grown lighter. Sorrow came to him as he realized that this part of himself—this part of Faith, the fruit of their love—was alive and so far away. By this time the child would be walking and talking and becoming whatever was in him. Would he be like Faith? Would he have a dimple such as she had in her right cheek? Would he have her sense of humor? Will he become tall like me or short like her? The thoughts flashed through his mind, although he remained perfectly still. It was painful for him to think of his son, and more than once during his two years he had suffered agonies, knowing that he was wrong to leave the child alone. He thought of his own father, and his memory went far back as he recalled how he had depended on him and learned from him. He stirred faintly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, driving the memories from his mind and concentrating on the scene before him.
Even as he did, a slight sound caught his attention. Without moving his head, Hawk swiveled his eyes, and at that moment a magnificent buck stepped out from behind some alders and lifted his head.
As always, since Hawk first saw a deer, his heart started to beat like a trip-hammer. There was something regal about a full-grown, powerful buck, and he remembered back when he had shot his first deer. His hands had trembled so that he could hardly pull the trigger. He was more experienced now, having killed many bucks, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He knew he had to move quickly to swing the rifle into position, for one move and the buck would be gone, springing away at a flying gait.
Careful now. You’ll only get one shot, he warned himself. He took a deep breath, held it, then suddenly the deer lowered his head and began drinking. Hawk could’ve taken the shot then, for the deer’s eyes were, of necessity, down close to the stream and he could not see his enemy. Yet there was something so peaceful and quiet and right about what he saw that Hawk could not move. He took in the strong shoulders, the heavy rack of antlers, and when the deer suddenly lifted his eyes, Hawk snapped the rifle into position. He expected the deer to leap away, but nothing happened!
Of all the times he had hunted, Hawk had never experienced anything like this before. The slightest move, and a deer ordinarily would explode with a blinding speed and bound away, but the liquid brown eyes regarded him calmly, and Hawks’s finger on the trigger remained still. Why, he seems not at all afraid of me. I’ve never seen such a thing . . . !
As if to reinforce this, the deer suddenly lowered his head and drank again. Hawk could hear the sound of the deer lapping the water. Although the rifle was held in his hands with a rocklike steadiness, still, he did not pull the trigger. The deer seemed to be aware of him, yet showed no fear at all. Hawk noticed an oval ring of white fur on the deer’s haunch.
Well, old man, he thought, I’ve never seen one like you before. I guess I’ll wait for the next one. It would be like killing a man, almost. He suddenly dropped to one knee, expecting the deer to bolt, but the buck did not move. The silence of the moment was shattered by the sound of a musket exploding. In the next second, a branch over his head suddenly split with a crack and fell onto his right hand, which he held over the trigger of the musket.
Instantly, the deer exploded into action, but no faster than Hawk as he quickly threw himself to one side. He came to his feet with a lunge and hoped that his hidden enemy was alone. If so, he would not have time to reload. Hawk dashed through the forest, dodging the saplings and the larger trees, and at once caught a flash of a figure as it darted into a thicket. Running at full speed, he held his right hand over the mechanism of the musket so that the powder in the pan would not be blown away. His legs pounded, and he made no attempt to move silently now. Ahead he heard the crashing of a body as whoever fired the shot ran desperately.
Only one of them, Hawk thought with exultation. Now let’s see what kind of a runner he is! He threw himself ahead, ignoring the branches that scratched his face, his moccasined feet striking the earth as he flew through the forest. Soon he saw his assailant. It was, as he suspected, an Indian, and he saw also that it was a Chickasaw. Hawk had learned enough from Sequatchie to identify the men of this tribe. As they came out into a clearing, he could have shot the man. Instead, he ran all the harder. The Chickasaw was a small, wiry warrior, and he turned now to look over his shoulder. Fear filled his eyes, for he knew that he was a dead man. Hawk was less than thirty feet away and could not miss. Hawk called out in the Cherokee lan
guage, “Stop or I’ll kill you!”
The Chickasaw threw down his musket and ran harder. Hawk took a quick shot that veered left, then tossed his gun down to run more easily. It was a short race, for Hawk was a strong runner. He caught the Chickasaw, who tried to dodge, and wrestled him to the ground. The Chickasaw pulled a knife from his belt, but Hawk grabbed his wrist and twisted hard. The Indian cried out sharply as the bone snapped under the sudden strain. The knife dropped to the ground, and Hawk picked it up. Holding on to the injured wrist, he held the blade under the Indian’s throat. “Don’t move and you’ll be all right,” he said, speaking again in Cherokee.
The Chickasaw’s eyes flew open wide, for he fully expected to be gutted, but Hawk said, “Come along. You’re going with me. Who put you up to this?”
The Indian’s face went blank, and though he obviously understood Cherokee, he did not say a word. Hawk cut several thongs from his hunting jacket and with them tied the man’s hands behind his back. Then he led him back through the clearing, where he picked up both muskets. He shoved the Indian along, leading him back to the camp.
Sequatchie was alert and had his own musket ready, for he had heard gunshots and now the sounds of two men coming. He said nothing, but his eyes searched the Chickasaw carefully.
“He tried to put a bullet in me over by the creek.”
Sequatchie said, “He’s not part of a war party.”
“No, he was all by himself.” Hawk shrugged, and suddenly his eyes narrowed. He reached out and yanked a deerskin pouch hung by a thong from the Indian’s neck. It jingled slightly, and he opened it up and saw what was inside. “These are French coins, Sequatchie,” he said grimly. He looked at the Chickasaw and an idea came to him. “Did you get these for shooting me?” he demanded.
The Chickasaw put his lips together in a taut line and stared straight ahead. He expected to be tortured, for that is exactly what he would have done had he captured one of his enemies.
Sequatchie studied the thin face of the Chickasaw and said, “We’ll take him back to Fort Loudoun.”
“That’s a good idea. I think the commanding officer there might like to know that the Chickasaws are carrying French money.” He looked at the Indian and said, “I think they might shoot you for that.”
Sequatchie said suddenly, “Why did you try to kill this man?” There was no answer, though, and Sequatchie shrugged. “We will take him back to the fort.”
****
The English commander received the prisoner, and when he saw the coins that the Chickasaw had carried about his neck, he said, “I’ve been afraid of this. There’s money being spread among the Indians by the French. All the more reason for you to stay, Hawk, you and your companion. We could use a few more good men around here.”
“No, we must get home,” Hawk said. “What about Carter?”
“He left shortly after you did.” Lieutenant Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Do you suspect him?”
“I’d suspect him of anything,” Hawk said. “If you see him around here again, I’d lock him up, if I were you.”
“I may do that,” the commander said.
After Hawk and Sequatchie rode away from Fort Loudoun, they passed the spot of the attack but said nothing about the Chickasaw. Hawk did say, however, “I forgot to tell you. A deer saved my life right there by that creek.” He related the story of how the deer had watched him carefully and seemingly without fear.
“I never saw anything like it, Sequatchie. He looked at me like—well, almost like he was trying to tell me something.”
Sequatchie suddenly said, “From the Book you read two nights ago about the deer. You remember?”
“Oh yes. It was from the forty-second psalm.” Hawk nodded and quoted it, “As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.”
Sequatchie turned his dark eyes on his friend. “Do you remember the second thing?”
“No, I can’t remember it off hand.”
Sequatchie said, “The Book says, ‘My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?’”
Hawk was amazed at how the Cherokee seemed to have a memory that clung to the words of Scripture. “You remember that?”
“As you read it, the Spirit of God said to me, ‘This is for your friend.’” His voice grew gentle, but his eyes were intent as he said, “I think those words are for you. I think you thirst for God, although you won’t admit it.”
“They’re just words, Sequatchie.”
“No. The Book is different from other words. They are the words of God.” He trudged on, his eyes searching the forest ahead, and finally he said, “God sent the deer to save your life, my brother.”
“It was just an accident. A coincidence, we’d call it.”
“I know not what that means, but I know the deer does not freeze when a hunter points a gun at him. He runs away at once. This one was sent from God to save your life.”
Hawk stared in astonishment at Sequatchie. He had not thought of this, but now the whole scene flashed before his eyes. As they moved through the forest that day, and for the next several days on their way back to the Cherokee camp, Hawk thought of the eyes of the deer many times, and the words of Sequatchie came back to him, God sent him to save your life. On the last night before they reached the Cherokee village, he lay awake looking up at the stars, unable to sleep. All he could think about was the deer, and he remembered clearly the white fur on the deer’s haunch, an oval ring. He had never seen that before. Finally he said to himself angrily, “I’m just getting superstitious! Indians always have these myths!”
Still he could not sleep, and the last thing he thought of before he finally did drop off was the intent, liquid eyes of the deer staring at him in a way that he knew he would never forget.
Chapter Eight
The Cherokee War
The struggle known as the French and Indian War continued without letup during the beginning of the 1760s. Little Carpenter, the skillful Cherokee chief, had won a victory of sorts by persuading Virginia and South Carolina to build forts for the protection of the helpless Cherokees. Fort Loudoun was the first European-type fort built in this part of the world. It was named after the Earl of Loudoun, the new commander of the British forces in America, and for some time it served as a protection for the Cherokees from their enemies.
The British attempts to gain Cherokee support failed, however, primarily due to British mistreatment of the Cherokees in a campaign against Fort Duquesne. The Cherokees, who had been practically the only Indians friendly to the English, turned against their former allies, and with French supplies and encouragement, they captured Fort Loudoun. One of the few survivors of the siege, and of the massacre that followed, was the British Captain John Stuart. Stuart was saved by the interception of Little Carpenter himself and was later named Indian Superintendent for the South.
The different nationalities that fought over the Ohio Valley and the vast continent that lay to the west in America did not agree on how to deal with the Cherokee Indians. The Spanish and the French viewed them as a curiosity who posed no serious threat. Most of the British and almost all the colonists saw them simply as ignorant savages to be wiped out as quickly as possible. The frontier settlers regarded the Indians as an uncivilized enemy. To the Europeans, land was a commodity to live from, an object of barter and trade. The vast wilderness of the Appalachian West offered rich farmland, plenty of trees for building cabins, and forests filled with wild game, offering food for the larder. To the early settlers it seemed to be free for the taking.
The Cherokees, who felt they were superior to all other peoples, looked upon the settlers as weaklings with an unhealthy color. They were cowards who screamed under torture, people who never kept their word, and fools who would sell their worst enemy a gun with which they themselves could be shot.
The Cherokees could not understand people whose ruling passion was to get money or own land. They believed that the land had
been given to them by the Great Spirit, and therefore it was not to be sold or traded or even owned by an individual. They saw themselves as custodians sharing the land with all living creatures, a land held in trust for generations yet to come. At first the Cherokees were willing to share the use of the land with the newcomers. But as more and more settlers arrived, the natives were soon powerless to combat the legal methods employed by the land-greedy whites. They painfully discovered that no treaty the white man made with the Indians was ever final, or permanent, or kept honorably.
With all of these differences set in place, it was inevitable that a cultural clash would occur. And this clash, which developed into a bloody conflict, began with an attack on Fort Loudoun by the Cherokees. The victory of the Cherokees in taking Fort Loudoun was perceived as a disgrace by the English. An expedition was sent at once to recover the fort, but it failed miserably. A second plan was put into action, with the future of the frontier hanging in the balance. . . .
****
The lieutenant who finally caught up with Hawk after a month’s search among hundreds of square miles of hunting lands looked as though he had just stepped off the parade ground at St. James’s Palace.
“I am Lieutenant Geoffrey Hurst, sir, and I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally make your acquaintance.”
Hawk had just come in from a long, tiresome journey all the way across the far mountain ranges. He had lost his razor along the way, and his dark beard now framed his face, giving him a rather fierce look. He had been surprised to find British soldiers so deep in Cherokee territory, and he wondered what could have brought them there.
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