Toosh-war-ka’ma
(Across the River)
Jeanie Johnson
OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
Native American books
Apache Pride
Beyond The Heart
Cherokee Courage
Gentle Savage
Gedi Puniku (Cat Eyes)
Kiowa White Moon
Kiowa Wind Walker
No Price Too High
Paiute Passion
Savage Land
Shadow Hawk
Son of Silver Fox (sequel to Gentle Savage)
Within The Heart (Sequel to Beyond the Heart)
Historical or Regency/Victorian Romance Books
A Bride for Windridge Hall
Defiant Heart
Highroad
Indentured
Wild Irish Rose
Winslow’s Web
Contemporary Western Romance Books
Passion’s Pride
Single-handed Heart
Georgie Girl
Grasping at Straws
Historical Western Romance Books
Elusive Innocents
20th Century Historical Romance Books
Italy Vacation
Moments of Misconception
Radcliff Hall
Taxi Dancer
Action and Adventure Mystery Romance Books
Ghost Island
Futuristic Action and Adventure Romance Books
Chosen
Pony Up
Surviving
The Division
The Dominion
The Mechanism
Time travel/Reincarnation Romance Books
Egyptian Key
The Locked Room
Seekers
Seekers Two
Seekers Three
Non Fiction Books
Dream Symbols Made Easy (how to analyze dreams)
Chief Washakie (short history of Shoshoni Chief)
Peaches (inspirational)
The Prune Pickers (my childhood)
Whimper (true story of racial conflicts)
A Collection of short stories (some true)
Children’s Picture Book
Dandy The Horse
This book is a work of fiction. All characters are out of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is a mere coincidence. Description of Indian abduction taken from historical accounts of those captured by Indians in the 1700’s.
Story by
Jeanie Johnson
Copyright 2017
All rights reserved
CHAPTER ONE
1762
The sound of screaming will always fill my nightmares. It echoes in my brain as though it happened yesterday! It is a sickening sound I cannot erase from my brain. Just about when I believe it has faded over the years, when I least expect it, I find myself waking in a cold sweat, hearing shrieks and cries ringing in my ears once again. I don’t think I will ever escape the memories completely.
The screaming comes from my Aunt Millie, high-pitched, repeating and getting louder. She begs for mercy, but I don’t believe Indians know the definition of mercy. Others were screaming too, only not as loud and as frightened sounding as my aunt’s screams. I put my hands over my ears to block it out. Only it was too late. The sound had already stabbed my senses, continuing with indelible intrusion, to fill my head.
I was hiding, hoping I would not be found in the empty cracker barrel as I watched the grizzly scene through a crack between the slats. A narrow window into the horrors of someone else’s pain. Remembering it is something I try not to dwell on because that is a part of my life I must put behind me. Only I can never put it behind me completely, I fear. In the midst of the onslaught, I was not harmed, despite the savagery I witnessed. I had wondered why Jamie and I had been singled out and taken with our captors, while the rest were treated so brutally? Most of the children had been spared so they could be raised as one of them, I learned later. Only I was no longer a small child, yet I was spared too. It took several months before I discovered exactly why.
The day had started out peaceful enough, even though we had been warned the Lenape Indians, otherwise known as the Delaware Indians, had been raiding with the French in the Philadelphia area. A war had been going on between the French and British which I knew little about because I was only fifteen at the time. What little I did know was that the French wanted to take over territory the British had claimed. Apparently, the Indians had taken sides with the French to add more numbers to the French troops, since the British outnumbered them. The savages were tired of the British pushing them from their land as more and more emigrants came to the American shores. We were part of those emigrants, my family and I, which made us the enemy, I suppose. The French had promised the Indians they could keep their land if they helped get rid of the British for them. That was why there were also some French soldiers with the Indian raiders.
Many Delaware tribes had not only been decimated through war, but through the white man’s disease as well. It was the custom to replace their members who were killed, or died at the enemy’s hand, by capturing individuals from the enemy, whether they be Indian or white. Those captives would be adopted and raised as their own people to replenish their numbers. We were not necessarily English, but being Irish, meant we were from Great Britain, and that was close enough.
Many of the Adults were also spared. How they made the choice as to who to capture and who to kill, I have no idea. So there I sat, hiding while watching a massacre play out in the very house my Father had built. I could see my father’s proud, green eyes fill with fear as they darted around the room. He only glanced once at the cracker barrel, where he had hastily placed me. Like me, he hoped they would over look my hiding-place.
Those who tried to escape were chased down, tortured, and then killed. The despicable things they did to those unfortunate people goes beyond explanation or the desire to describe it. Those who cooperated were taken as prisoners. I watched as Aunt Millie continued screaming hysterically when two fierce-looking Indians, with paint on their face, and jewelry hanging from their ear to their nose, approached her. They wore nothing but breech-cloths across their groin. Paint was on the dark skin of their body as well. Their long hair fell from a circle of hair on the back top of their head, all other hair had been removed.
Aunt Millie was going to have a baby, and she was holding her stomach as they dragged her to a corner. Her squeals never fading as a group of braves surrounded her. I closed my eyes when I realized what her fate would be, as several heathens took turns grunting over her while they each desecrated her body, then scalped her alive before putting an end to her misery by shooting her with arrows, when they were finished with her.
It made my stomach turn and I had to hold my mouth to prevent myself from losing my breakfast and giving away my hiding-place. Perhaps they did not want to be burdened with a woman heavy with child, when they took everyone prisoners, I thought. It seemed the only explanation since some were allowed to survive while others were mercilessly murdered.
The leering brutes took delight in stripping the clothes from the husband of our neighbor who had come to our home for safety, while she watched on. Our neighbors had come, along with others, when they heard the Indians were marauding in the area, all believing our house would be the safest place to gather. How wrong they were! The heathens brutally cut off her husband’s man parts and then scalped him alive, the same as they had done to my aunt. His wife fainted before they had finished with him, and then she was next to meet the same end that Aunt Millie had suffered. After that, I just kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to see any more horrors.
By the time the screaming stopped, there were o
nly my parents, Jamie, my cousin, and his older sisters, Nellie and Beth, along with a few other adults who lived at neighboring homesteads in our area. And then, there was me. They had found my hiding-place, picked me up and pulled me out of the barrel, placing me with the others they had not killed yet. I made a point not to scream like Aunt Millie had done. It seemed a brave reaction was the only thing the Indians respected.
The group was busily tearing the house apart, looking for whatever they felt they could use. Mostly food, cooking pots, blankets, money or jewels, and was stuffing them in bags they brought for that purpose. I heard one of the Frenchmen say something about the British soldiers coming and then spoke in the strange language of the savages. The savages hastily collected the scalps they had taken, stuffing them in pouches, while they still dripped with blood, and the three Frenchmen were pulling the ones who had not been scalped to their feet, prodding them forward.
When we got outside, we saw we were not the only prisoners. There was a whole group of children, all frightened and crying, and a few more adults. One of the Indians had a whip, which he started snapping at everyone to get them moving. We had to stay ahead of the pursuing British, one of the Frenchmen informed us. If we didn’t want to lose our scalps too, we had better cooperate.
By that time, I was eager to do anything they asked of me, not to suffer the treatment of so many others who had been at our residence when the Delaware burst in without warning. Although the accurate name of the tribe was Lenape, because they lived along the Delaware River, everyone just called them Delaware Indians, instead.
I looked over my shoulder as we were forced from our house, the O’Malley’s homestead, as people called it. My father, Tobias O’Malley, was well respected in the area, another reason everyone had gathered at our place. I wondered if I would ever see my home again?
The trek we took was a grueling and horrific journey. We were forced to walk relentlessly across fields and through wooded areas. When the children cried for water, the Indians gave them urine to drink. I did not cry for water or for anything else, for that matter. They made us walk for miles and miles, without eating or drinking, stumbling over rough-ground and through densely wooded areas to keep hidden from our pursuers. Even at night we continued walking without any rest or food.
However, the British were closing in, and one of the three Frenchmen mentioned something about having to make better time. They began dividing the children up among them, each taking a few and then all going in separate directions. I noticed Beth and Nellie was were separated, each going with a different group of children. The Indians had removed all the children’s shoes. They had us put moccasins on our feet. The moccasins felt strange and flimsy. I wondered why they were changing our shoes?
When my mother saw what was happening, she whispered, “Be brave, Candice. I think they are going to keep you, and the other children, but I heard the Frenchmen talking about lightening the load. I don’t think they plan to bring the adults. I may not see you again. I wished you had died as a baby rather than know what you may face ahead of you. At least then, it would have been easier to accept your death. I cringe to think of what they may do to those they are taking captive. Don’t forget I love you!”
I wanted to cry, fearing what would happen to my parents and my older brother, Ben. Only I didn’t dare. I reached out and touched my mother’s long auburn hair, the same color as mine, and then they were dragging me away from her. They brought Jamie along with me.
The one who took us, placed us together a distance away and went back to where my parents and the other adults waited. I did not see it, but I heard the cries and the fear that rose from their voices as the Indians killed them.
Because we were left on our own, Jamie begged me to take him and escape the Indians, but I knew if they caught us, we would be killed as well. The secret, I kept telling myself, was to cooperate. If that didn’t save us, nothing would.
One of the Frenchmen told me they wouldn’t have had to kill the others if the British had given up their pursuit. He acted like it was the fault of the British, not theirs! I wondered what their excuse was for killing the people back at our home? If they couldn’t take the adults with them, why couldn’t they just leave them behind and let the British have them? I believed they were merely bloodthirsty, which was the only explanation I could come up with.
The journey continued for another day, with no food or water. I dared not ask for water, for fear of being forced to drink urine. Jamie and I followed behind the Indian who was our captor, and one Frenchman who helped translate for us. We traveled through woods with trees that were bent on crowding each other out. It was a wonder we could even find a way to walk between them as our trail snaked one way and then another.
The dress, I wore, became tattered and torn as brambles and reaching branches grabbed at it. The moccasins on my feet, were light compared to the high top shoes I had been wearing. However, they were more comfortable and had I continued to have my other shoes on, my feet would have been full of blisters by then. It dawned on me why they had changed our shoes. My long, auburn hair was tangled and full of twigs and leaves as it hung around my shoulders. Jamie’s face was smeared with dirt and tears. I assumed my face looked the same. He constantly begged me to try and escape with him, but I knew we would get lost in the woods and end up dying there. It was safer to remain with our captors at the time.
When we finally stopped, it was by a welcoming stream, and the Indian we were with, let us put our faces in the water to taste the first refreshing drink to touch our lips since they captured us. I lay prone upon the bank, splashing water on my face while gulping down water, I felt I could never get enough of. The Indian pulled me away before I could get my fill. Then I remembered how my father had cautioned me not to drink too much water all at once, after going without for a long period of time. It could be fatal. The Indian must have known the same thing.
The Frenchman busied himself building a fire and starting to cook up some of the food they had brought from our home. The Indian, who was called Took-seat, meaning Wolf, squatted down, and to my horror, pulled scalps from his bag. I recognized my mother’s, fathers, and brother’s hair. The very sight was abhorring, and I wanted to run up and snatch them out of his hands, only I was afraid to touch them.
I watched, mesmerized, as he fashioned a collection of hoops, out of thin willow branches he cut from a nearby bush, connecting the bloody scalps to each one, stretching them grotesquely across the hoop. Then he took his knife and scraped skin from the back of the scalp, and placed each hoop close to the fire. As the scalps started to dry, he would remove them from time to time, scrapping more skin away and letting them dry more, and then repeated the procedure until the scalps were clean.
He painstakingly combed out each scalp with a wooden comb he had in a pouch, a proud look on his face as he did so. I remembered all the times I had watched my mother combing out her long, auburn, hair and it sickened me to have those dark fingers touching my mother’s sacred hair. Had I been braver, I would have insisted he stop, but I feared for my own scalp. I could envision him combing out my hair, tied to a hoop, so I restrained myself.
Wolf moved closer to me. I tried not to shy away, in order to show him I was brave and not afraid of him, which was the opposite of how I actually felt. He reached out with his comb. The same comb that had been pulled through my dead mother’s hair, and began combing the leaves and twigs out of my own hair. I was torn between repulsion, and amazement, as the motion of the comb seemed to calm me and bring me into the past when my mother had often combed my hair. I closed my eyes and pretended it was her combing my hair. I thought I could feel her spirit near, saying, “Don’t forget, I love you.”
I opened my eyes to greet the now gentle-looking eyes of Wolf. How could he appear so gentle, when earlier he had been scalping my parent’s and brother? I had to constantly remind myself I could not trust this heathen, no matter how gently he was combing my hair. It was almost like he was tr
ying to apologize to me for his earlier, gruesome actions. The memory of the treatment of my aunt was still fresh on my mind, but I now recalled Wolf had not been among those who had used her body. He had been involved in collecting and looting our belongings.
Now, for the first time, I appraised the man who acted as though he owned Jamie and me. He actually looked rather young. Maybe close to the age of my brother, Ben, who had been 19 at the time. His large, dark, liquid eyes, were appraising me at the same time, as they darted over my face and dress. His round tuft of hair hung loose, down the back of his head, falling over one shoulder, and it glistened in the firelight which danced over his body, giving him an eerie, menacing look. Strings of beads hung from his neck and large, heavy, silver rings bedecked his ears. The top of his forehead and the bridge of his straight, long nose was painted red. To me it represented the blood he had spilled, making him appear cruel, regardless of his now gentle actions.
The upper part of his chest, rippling in young, virile muscles, was painted in white paint. White dots of paint followed along one side of his head and down his neck. A red handprint was plastered over one white colored breast. The bulging muscles of his upper arms were tattooed with a band of geometric designs that went all the way around his arm like a piece of jewelry. His stark, white teeth gleamed in the firelight as he stretched his full lips in what may have been considered a smile. At that particular moment in time, he neither looked friendly nor dangerous. He merely looked curious to me.
His fingers started poking against my dress, as though assessing whether I had any meat on my bones. Then I realized he was checking to see how much my breasts had blossomed, indicating what stage of womanhood I was in, I supposed. Even then, I did not pull back, allowing him to examine my development at his leisure. He said something in his own language, which I didn’t understand.
“He likes your looks,” the Frenchman, stated, smiling at me. “He may consider you for his wife, but not yet. It is not time for him to take a woman as his wife. His manhood ceremony has not been performed yet. He must earn that privilege by becoming a brave warrior first. This is the start of it. It is his first raid. Once the tribe decides he is worthy, they will give him the title of a man, and then he will be expected to take a wife.”
Across The River Page 1
