by Jamie Carie
Once outside the rustle of the fur a mere whisper as he’d moved beyond the door, he paused, looking around and forcing himself to breath evenly.
All was quiet outside. Even the village dogs seemed tuckered out past curiosity. Had he been planning an escape with anyone else, he would have made for their lodge to help.
But this was Isabelle.
If anyone could escape with as much stealth as he, or Simon Kenton or even George Rogers Clark, it would be her. He found he had complete faith in her abilities.
Now he smiled, watching her move with the shadows, knowing that if they could put a mile between them and the Shawnee before the hue and cry was raised, they might just make it.
She reached the tree and threw herself silently into his arms, kissing him square on the mouth. Just as his breathing was turning deep, she reared back and whispered, “Shall we take horses? It would be ever so much faster.”
Samuel shook his head. “Too much noise.” He noticed how heavily armed she was and grinned. “I see that you took your own advice.”
She glanced down at the tomahawk in her leather sash, the rifle grasped in her left hand, then nodded, smiling. “And look,” she raised the hem of her dress to reveal two, long, wicked-looking knives, “one for each of us.”
Samuel resisted the urge to laugh. “You were more successful than I. I have only this.” He raised the tomahawk in the air, feathers fluttering.
Isabelle gasped. “Your new brother’s tomahawk? You didn’t!”
Samuel chuckled and nodded. “Stole it right out from under him.”
“It’s a good thing you will have me nearby when he comes after it,” Isabelle teased as she handed him one of the knives. “You will need help.”
Samuel reached over and kissed her temple. “Ye of little faith,” he chuckled into her ear. “Come, let us move.”
They started back the way Isabelle had come, she remembering the way better than Samuel as he had been semiconscious for most of the trip to the village.
They didn’t talk now, just ran-crept through the moonlit marsh, swooping under branches, leaning and dodging and jumping over bush and bramble. The night air was crisp, invigorating them, giving strength to their legs. Samuel was surprised at how fast she could run and for how long. But he chided himself, knowing he shouldn’t have been surprised at all. This woman could do anything he could. But more than that, it was her spirit—it rooted him somehow, gave him some grounded purpose that he hadn’t known he lacked.
They had been at a dead run for over an hour when Samuel heard the first sounds of pursuit. Horses. He paused, leaning and breathing deep for a moment as Isabelle stopped and turned back toward him.
“What is it?” she panted. “Are they coming?”
Samuel nodded, scanning the area, looking for opportunities. They could run, or they could hide. Those were the only options.
Isabelle must have been thinking the same. “We have to go on. They will find us if we try to hide here. There is nothing but skinny trees for cover.”
He didn’t have time to debate with her, and anyway, if she could keep pace, they might be able to reach better hiding. “Do you hear water?”
Isabelle nodded and was off toward it before he could say another word.
They tore through the woods as one, breathing ragged, side by side, breaking trail for each other when the way became too narrow.
The pursuit remained at a distance but was gaining. The Indian ponies were quiet—no noisy harnesses, no clattering metal shoes, and as trained in the dark as their owners. But still, they made enough noise for Samuel to know that they were gaining on them. It wouldn’t be long now.
* * *
ISABELLE REACHED THE river first, Samuel at her heels. The water rushed and glistened like a world of its own. They plunged into its glittering darkness, legs kicking under the water, weapons and Isabelle’s skirt dragging them down. Isabelle shrugged off the rifle and threw it aside just as a noise behind them broke from the trees.
Isabelle didn’t know how much further she could go. Her lungs felt ready to burst. The horrible, blinding headaches that had receded in the past days came back with a bludgeoning effect. She found herself sinking below the surface, darkness enveloping her.
A hard kick of her legs pushed her back to the surface. She gasped for air as her head broke free, her wet hair a heavy weight around her face. She was soon pulled down again, felt the water lap against her cheeks and then her eyebrows and then the top of her head. Her dream in the aftermath of the cabin massacre rushed over her, something she hadn’t allowed herself to remember.
So, it had been prophetic then.
This was how she would die. A watery grave.
She sank deeper, unable to make her legs move fast enough to carry her up. She opened her eyes under the water, wanting to see her last, dim, watery moments. The water was dark, but as she turned her head back and forth, seeing only the little bubbles of her last breath, a shallow shaft of moonlight penetrated the depths and reached toward her.
She felt a hand on her upper arm dragging her up and clung to the arm just as she felt the water seep into her nostrils.
Samuel and Isabelle broke the surface together to shouts and shrill sounds coming from the bank of the river, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew they had been found, but she couldn’t seem to care. She just clung to Samuel’s suede-covered arm and choked and coughed and gasped for air.
But Samuel dragged her along. Swimming fast away from the pelting of bullets making little splashes in the water all around them, he struggled with her dead weight, the current fighting them, her lack of energy fighting them, and then he said something that changed everything.
“I love you, Isabelle Renoir.”
He dragged her farther, swimming with strokes that seemed impossibly strong and enlivened.
Then she began to swim too.
Energy poured through her, reaching into every limb and fiber of her being. So much so that she laughed aloud.
She pulled free of Samuel’s arm and began to swim on her own. Together they closed in on the opposite bank.
They were looking into each other’s eyes as their feet hit solid river bottom. They were sharing their triumph when they heard another sound, this time in front of them.
They turned as one, and the blood drained from their faces.
Three mounted Shawnee stood waiting for them.
20
Samuel pulled the tomahawk from his belt as he waded up the bank. Isabelle, close behind, had a knife in one hand, a tomahawk in the other. They watched as the Indians dismounted, pulling forth their weapons.
“Keep to my back,” Samuel instructed her.
“If I can,” she answered, catching her breath.
They took a fighting stance, back to back, as the three Indians approached. A wicked gleam off a scythe caught the water and added to its glitter. Sunukkuhkau approached Samuel, the gleam of his weapon matching the promise in his eyes.
Another, smaller warrior whom Isabelle did not recognize approached her, condescension radiating from him. Isabelle nodded at him, smiling. Let him be overconfident; it was always easier that way.
Then she remembered how tired she was after the miles of running, the swimming against a strong current, the near drowning. She now stood cold, her clothes hanging like a dead, water-logged animal around her shoulders. She could still swing the tomahawk, but she knew, as surely as she stood there, that she only had a few good swings in her. That they had to count.
She felt Samuel move away from her as the swinging scythe arced toward his shoulder. He dodged it, then righted himself and swung the tomahawk. High to the left, quickly back, then low to the right. He caught Sunukkahkau’s ribs a mighty blow, but the warrior barely flinched. The scythe was swinging for Samuel’s neck.
* * *
SAMUEL QUICKLY DUCKED, then turned, knowing a presence behind him. But no one was there. Breathing heavily, his hair swinging free from its leathe
r thong, he turned back, seeing Sunukkuhkau bearing down on him. But it had given him a second to assess. Isabelle was holding her own against the small one, but where was the third? And then he saw him in the shadows, kneeling in the dirt and doing something with an open bundle that made the blood congeal in Samuel’s veins.
They weren’t just fighting men in this battle.
The Shawnee had brought a shaman.
“Pray!” Samuel shouted to Isabelle. “Call on the name of the Lord.”
* * *
ISABELLE SAW THE Indian, not knowing what he was doing but understanding that something was happening that was darker than this physical battle.
She faltered, fear seizing her, seeing in that brief moment the crazed, dilated eyes of the one who watched them. Then he rattled something at her, and her whole body spasmed. God in heaven, help us, she silently cried out, not having any other words. She found she couldn’t lift her tomahawk. Her arms refused to move.
“Samuel?” she whimpered as the warrior grew close and grasped her by the hair. The tomahawk dropped from her hand, thudding to the ground.
Samuel jerked and then groaned. Isabelle turned her head as far as she could, pain radiating from her scalp, and watched Samuel fall to the ground, a knife in Sunukkahkau’s hand, ready to slit his throat.
“Noooo!” she screamed at the warrior. “I will be Cocheta. Don’t kill him. I will do it.”
Sunukkuhkau stared at her, eyebrows raised, nostrils flared and puffing, ready to kill, judging the truth of her words.
Isabelle met his stare, breathing hard. The wind around them had suddenly died out, as if it, too, were listening for the warrior’s response.
Suddenly Sunukkuhkau reared back and sheathed his knife. He heaved Samuel up, tied his wrists with the leather thong from his long black hair, then he pushed Samuel toward his horse.
A rope was found, thrown over Samuel’s head, and tightened about his neck. After several barked orders from Sunukkuhkau, Isabelle was pushed past Samuel and heaved up onto Sunukkuhkau’s horse. She grasped hold of the horse’s mane with tight fists, realizing with a sinking feeling that, while she would ride back, Samuel would be dragged behind them.
Sunukkuhkau mounted up behind her. She felt his arm grasp her around the waist, felt the smile in his voice, a whisper in her ear. “My Cocheta.”
A deep shiver ran through her body.
Sunukkuhkau pulled Isabelle into his chest and said, “If you fight, he dies.”
Isabelle nodded, glancing back at Samuel, seeing his narrowed eyes, then back to the man who would have her at any cost.
* * *
CLARK SAT IN his office staring out the window, turning over in his mind the message he had just received: Cahokia had been peacefully taken by his second in command, Captain Bowman, and a handful of French. He had just received word of their compliance while sitting in his easily won accommodations in Kaskaskia. And while he sat and waited, he wrote letters to his superiors in Virginia, reporting on the unexpected turn of events.
This sitting and waiting—the other side of war—made his men edgy and had them looking for trouble, hoping for trouble. These men didn’t travel nine hundred miles just to waltz into a fort and take up sentry posts. They hankered for a bloody thatch of hair, Indian-style, to hang on their belts, to prove their mettle in battle.
To the surprise of the entire company, their conquest of Kaskaskia and Cahokia had been so easy. Too easy.
Clark rose to pace.
He should be thankful. He should, even now, be on his knees giving thanks to God. But for some reason he was restless. He growled, his neck flushing, as someone knocked with a hesitant-sounding scrape on the door. “Enter,” he barked.
A woman stepped around the door, and Clark paused. Her head was wrapped in a huge cloth, making her look like the black serving women of his childhood plantation home. His brow knitted as he waved her in.
“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you, but I’ve come with news of one of your men. Samuel Holt.”
Clark immediately bade her to sit in the only other chair in the room and shut the door. This didn’t bode well.
“You have seen Samuel?”
“Yes, sir.” She began to shake visibly. “My name is Naomi Lynn. Mr. Holt and his friends stopped off at our cabin for provisions on their way to Vincennes. I had just set the noon meal on the table for us when we were attacked by the Shawnee.” She looked up at him, her eyes hard and pain racked. “They killed my husband, Jake, and my boys.” Her voice wavered, but she rallied with visible determination. “Best we could tell, they took Mr. Holt and Isabelle’s brother, Julian Renoir, captive. Me and my girls survived, thanks to Isabelle. Then she went after them.”
“Alone?” Clark gaped at her.
Naomi nodded. “She said the trail was fresh. Helped me and my two girls hitch up our wagon and then rode off into the woods. She was injured pretty bad. A head wound. I tried to convince her to come here, but she was determined to rescue her brother from the savages.”
Clark turned away, rubbing his chin as he stared hard out the window at the peaceful Kaskaskia street. What kind of woman was this Isabelle Renoir? Turning back toward her, he asked, “How many were there?”
Naomi shook her head. “At least eight, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“Shawnee are usually raiding Kentucky, not this far north. Why? Do you know why they attacked you?”
Naomi again shook her head. “We’ve never had any real trouble from the Indians before, but,” she shrugged, looking tired beyond her years, “they have been raiding up and down the rivers for months, or so I’ve heard tell. I was hoping you might know.”
Clark sighed. There could be any number of reasons to rile them, but he feared that they had heard of the capture of Kaskaskia and were striking back. The Shawnee were no friend to the Americans. The other surrounding tribes were a battle of another kind that he was determined to win. But the Shawnee? He had little hope of convincing them to his side.
“When did this happen?”
“Thirteen days ago. In the afternoon. I would have come right away, but it took me and the girls longer to get here than I imagined it would. I kept losing consciousness,” she gestured to her wrapped head, “the blood loss, I would think, and the girls had to drive the wagon. Then, when we arrived in Kaskaskia, I wasn’t able to walk steady, and I didn’t leave my bed at Mrs. Fontaine’s store where me and my girls are staying until now. I do hope I’m not too late.”
Clark looked at the woman, comprehension dawning that the cloth covered a scalping, and he was filled with compassion. “Of course not. I am sorry for your loss, ma’am. Thank you for coming when you could.” He sat at his desk and poised his quill, then bent to writing. Looking up, he asked, “Where is your home, Mrs. Lynn?”
“About thirty miles west of here. Two days on foot, one with fast horses. I could show you.”
Clark shook his head. “I will not have you traveling. We will find it.”
The woman nodded, looking relieved.
“I’ll send a detachment to the farm. We will find them, Mrs. Lynn. Thank you.”
Naomi rose from her chair and stretched out a surprisingly young-looking hand, a glimpse of a beforehand life of promise and hope. Clark saw so much in that hand—hope for a land of their own and the fruit of their labors to comfort them in the years to come. All ruined now. In a single day, all in ruins.
But this woman who stood before him with pain and determination in her pale blue eyes thanked him.
“Thank you, Colonel Clark. I know of you. My husband was a supporter of the Americans and all you Long Knives do to keep us safe. I will go back to my farm.” Tears filled her eyes, and she looked down self-consciously, then back up at him, held herself upright, and finished. “We will not let them win, sir. Me and my girls will finish what my husband and I began here.”
Clark’s chest filled with admiration. “Samuel is one of my best, ma’am. If he couldn’t keep your family from harm, G
od only knows what could have. Thank you for coming to me, and for your courage. People like you will be the making of this country.”
She gave him a slow nod of assent, then turned toward the door.
Clark turned back to the window as she left, closing the door behind her. He sighed again, deep in concentration.
He would have to get Samuel and his friends back, no matter the cost.
And the Indians …
He had planned to wait until Vincennes was firmly in his grasp before trying to win them over, but now he felt he must act. Now was the time to make a stand and to bluff like he’d never bluffed and blustered before. He would send the tribes the white wampum of peace and red wampum of war, with the message of a golden opportunity: an alliance with the American government—a government that was not yet in full existence. Pray God, they choose the white. He didn’t have the men for the red blood of war with the Illinois alliance.
And Vincennes waited.
With Samuel captured, he would have to send someone else. He took a deep breath, seeing the word Vincennes on his paper in front of him, the ink yet to dry, shining black on the page. For some reason he felt it was the crown jewel of this country. If he could take it—and hold it—from the clutches of the British and Henry the Hairbuyer, then, by the grace of God, he would.
“Let it be so, Lord,” he said aloud in his empty office, looking up and out the window at the village street. This tiny outpost looked like nothing important, but he knew it meant everything at this moment in history.
“Yes. Let it be so.”
* * *
HOPE TURNED HER head sharply at the opening of the front door, hope rising in her breast at the sound, thinking of her children.
“On your knees, again, I see.” Joseph’s greeting was laced with disdain.
Hope rose and smoothed down her long, dusky-blue skirt as a second-nature gesture, while judging the waver of his steps and his mood. “Yes,” she said simply, chin rising. “You’re home.”
