The Glovemaker's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  34

  We crossed the lake in a birch-bark canoe which was hidden by the shore. We passed bushes, stuffing cranberries in our mouths using our loosened hands to tease them out. Another day’s walking followed. My feet were bleeding, my belly pinched with hunger but I refused to beg from these savages. I took note of every signpost of trees and trail in case we could escape but it was a forlorn hope.

  As we approached their camp, the men let out whoops and yells to herald they had prisoners to view. We were surrounded by women and children fingering our skirts and pinching our skin, pulling off our collars and caps and fighting over them. It was then I knew real fear for the women seemed more fierce than their men.

  The camp bore no resemblance to the tidy clean dwellings of White Deer and her kin but was a temporary huddle of makeshift, skin-covered tents which were easy to take down when they moved on. Out of one such, two white faces appeared, a man and a younger boy with ginger hair who stared at us with eyes wide with fear. In heavily accented English the older man – a Dutchman by birth, whose name was Wim – warned us of what was to come.

  ‘They have a game to welcome us, a custom none of us can avoid. When they line up opposite each other you must run between them from start to finish. If you stumble or stop you may not rise again. Watch for the squaws with staves.’

  ‘But who are these people?’ Tamar asked.

  ‘Rogues, scavengers the lot of them. They will sell us on to other tribes for a good price. Do not try to escape or they will kill us all in revenge. Watch for the big fellow, he’s a very devil in cruelty and shows no mercy to the weak.’

  We stood together, sharing our names and stories. It was good not to be alone but then as Wim had warned, the whole camp gathered clutching stones and sticks, laughing and chanting, their eyes on us, waiting for their game to begin.

  The chief turned and spoke through an interpreter. ‘The spirits of our dead warriors cry out for vengeance against their killers. Now we must show their anger at you, white face murderers who steal our land.’

  I made to protest but Wim stopped me with his hand. This ordeal must be faced if we were to survive. First the lad, Jan, made his dash between the lines; young and nimble, he dodged and darted, bending low, avoiding most of the blows until he reached the end of the race track.

  Seeing what was to come Tamar began to weep. ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘Yes, you can. God will guide thy step,’ Wim encouraged her as he began his own trial. He was slower than the boy and the blows rained down on his back and head until he stumbled and was beaten but he struggled to his feet, blood streaming down his face as he crawled across the line.

  I pulled Tamar to the start but she drew back, shaking her head. ‘I can’t . . . You go and leave me.’

  ‘Just do it! Bunch up thy skirts and run like the wind, set your feet on fire and show no fear. They will not defeat us.’ The poor lass did her best but being tall she was an easy target and the squaws took delight in hitting her hard until she could only crawl. How she got to the finish line I will never know but then it was my turn and I was fuelled by such fury at this cruel treatment of exhausted captives. I fixed my eye on a post at the far end and forgot my bleeding feet. I thought of Jordan Thane and Sabine, Mary and the children of Good Hope. I was not ready to be murdered for their sport. I hitched up my own skirts and ran as never before, chest out, eyes on the finishing line. Sticks came down but I did not feel them. Never in my life had I been so swift or determined and to my astonishment I cheated them of much sport with only bruises to show for this ordeal.

  We were shoved together in a tent, guarded by young braves, given water and some corn stew to eat. The boy asked for water to wash our wounds but none came. We lay down as best we could, tied to each other by the neck at first, too exhausted to talk. I was relieved to be away from those dark curious hawk eyes. We stank with bodily waste, sweat and fear, a ragged bunch of captives whose fate was unknown. I knew the women would want our skirts and shirts. To relieve ourselves we pissed where we sat but we were not defeated.

  Tamar led us in the Lord’s prayer and then we shared our stories together and talked about those we had left behind. Were they out in the forest searching for us? Did Liddy reach her mother in safety?

  Jan and Wim were carpenters, ambushed on a trail further north, their horses stolen, and then passed on to work as slaves. This cruel welcome ritual was a trial of strength to test our fitness to work. They would not feed us for long without expecting us to earn our keep.

  In those first days of captivity no one showed us any kindness until a young brave entered our tent bringing a bowl of nuts and berries. We counted them carefully and divided them into four portions, picking at them as if they were some rare delicacy, savouring each moist mouthful on our parched tongues.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ Tamar said under her breath.

  ‘We must bide our time,’ Wim cautioned. ‘It is too soon. They will wait for us to try and then there will be another game.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘They will make a cage or tie each of us to a pole. They set the stakes alight and prod the poor victim with burning torches. I saw it once, or what remained of the man who suffered this torture.’

  The rest of us fell silent at his words.

  I kept track of the days since we were taken by gathering little sticks: three for the trail to the lake and seven since. The nights were chilly and we huddled in flea-bitten skins waiting for our fate to be decided by the chieftain who was out fighting. His council would make tobacco offerings to their spirit guides. Our fate lay in their hands. Until then we were penned up like stray dogs in a pound, beginning to scratch at each other’s fears.

  When you struggle to find a straight place to sleep tied by feet and neck there is plenty of time to go over the life that once was and the existence endured now. When I thought of Good Hope I gave no mind to Jacob but to Tamar’s chilling account of Titus’s threats. Why could he not be scalped instead of us? He must be exposed for the charlatan he was. Then I tried to remember everything I had learned from White Deer about their customs and skills. How different was her tribe to this bunch of renegade scalp-lockers. What did I know that might help us survive, other than not to show weakness or fear?

  We had only our bodies to offer, nothing of material value to please their eye, not even a wedding ring or trinket. To be at the mercy of such as these filled me with foreboding. Surely they would not burn women and boys?

  But we burned them if they were found guilty of witchcraft. This most cruel of deaths was not exclusive to savages. It was even there in our Scriptures. ‘Suffer not a witch to live.’

  How I wished I had taken Jordan Thane’s advice and hidden the pistol on my person. There it was stuck down a tree trunk, of no use to anyone unless little Liddy had told her mother where to find it.

  How I wished to have the faith and fortitude of my parents in their captivity. Fear made liquid of my bowels but I was not alone in that. Whatever plan we made to escape, we would have to be all together and it had to succeed or the punishment would be unbearable.

  In the weeks that followed I watched the tribe preparing for winter. The men constructed a bark-clad hut, bringing fresh skins to line the inside. When the snows came there would be no chance for us to make a run for freedom. Footprints in the snow would soon be tracked.

  As I suspected, our English garments were taken, replaced by greasy skin tunics fringed at the edges, well-worn leggings and fur-lined leather boots to cover our feet. At least that was a good sign. We had a clay pot between us and some old sacks of corn meal, pots of bear grease and some strips of dried meat; but that we were four extra mouths to feed worried me. They would want to get rid of us one way or another, a sale or slaughter, perhaps? I thought it wise to hide my fears from the others, suggesting instead we make plans to escape ere long.

  ‘How can we run with ropes round our necks and braves guarding our door,’ Tamar c
ried. It was Wim who voiced the best idea. ‘It will soon be their special feast with much drinking.’

  ‘But they always leave two or three sober so as not to be caught unawares.’ That was something we had observed.

  ‘They think we are safe enough so we can ask for liquor for ourselves to honour the coming of their chief and pray our guards are greedy enough to drink our measure. When they sleep then is our chance.’

  ‘But we have nothing to cut ourselves free.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. If they give us a little fire, allow us to get close enough to it, one of us might burn his bonds and then release the others.’

  Our spirits rose at the thought of such a possibility, though I knew we needed many things to be stacked in our favour. The return of the warrior chief was one of them.

  He arrived on his horse with a band of painted warriors who carried many dried scalps of their victims on their bandoleers. The colours of the hair were both black and fair. My eyes could not see them without wanting to weep but we stood in line for inspection and I refused to bow my head in submission. We were paraded before him like animals in the cattle market. The man was handsome and muscular with a proud stance but his eyes were cold as he spoke to us in broken English.

  ‘You white faces are thieves, you steal our fishing, hunt our deer, cut down sacred trees. You come among us and smoke pipe of welcome but your tribe is full of bad spirits, build big forts and turn big guns on our people. There is no friendship with you. When all of you are put into the earth then we will roam free over the lands of our ancestors.’

  No one spoke but hung their heads at this accusation. Yet I felt moved to defend us and stepped forward as best I could to make my plea.

  ‘I have met with Lenni-Lenape in great friendship. They say that land belongs only to Great Spirit and no tribe white or red. It is the Great Spirit who decides who lives and who dies. We are all pebbles on the sea shore, small but many. This land is large. There must be room for all without taking those things from women and children.’ I pointed to the scalps. ‘We have done you no harm.’ I stepped back, keeping my eyes upon him.

  ‘You speak mighty big words for small squaw. There is eagle spirit in you. If you work, you live. We fetch good price for young white face boy and white face woman make wife for warrior.’ His eyes roamed over me with interest and I sensed danger in them for me. ‘We speak again, Eagle woman.’

  This was my chance. ‘Let us share in your feasting, sir?’ I asked. There was no reply but I sensed a shift towards us. That evening we were brought better food and drink. Perhaps the plan might work after all.

  Two nights later the feasting began in earnest as the venison roasted on the spitfires, drums beat over the camp and the dancers thundered around the sparking fire. We sat in our usual tent hoping for a fire to warm us but none was given close enough for us to use.

  ‘What can we do now?’ Tamar cried with frustration.

  ‘Pray for a miracle,’ I snapped, being just as disappointed as she was.

  The chanting and dancing went on all night. Shadowy figures leapt around the firelight in a frenzy as we sat sunk in gloom.

  Then our guards rolled back staggering and laughing. ‘Dance, whiteface.’ They pulled up Jan, trying to making him join in, tied as he was to us. He hung back but Wim whispered. ‘Just do it, boy.’

  As they fooled around, their belts jangling, something fell onto the earth floor, something shiny and sharp in the darkness. It was the warrior’s knife. Quick as a flash Tamar pulled it with her foot and hid it under her tunic, shuffling out of view.

  Holding our breath, we knew it had gone unnoticed. The dance went on and the guards drank their fill and soon were snoring fast and hard.

  Leaning forward Wim grasped the knife with his foot and somehow got it into his hands, loosening his legs from the thongs and doing each of us in turn. The neck ties we did for each other. Now came the most dangerous time. Were the dogs alert to our movement and were other braves on guard close by?

  In the past weeks we were allowed to exercise our limbs around the clearing and recognised the direction from which we had entered but to creep away under cover of darkness unheard would be a miracle of grace.

  Slowly we opened the tent and crawled on our bellies, the last of us trying to scuff away traces of our exit. The earth was damp and I felt soil in my mouth as we edged ever slowly towards the forest, hardly daring to breathe.

  Once out in the wilderness we would be easily tracked down but we had a head start enough to scatter into the trail. We had no provisions, just one knife between us but our Indian clothing was enough to protect us from the worst of the elements.

  Those last agonising yards to freedom exhausted us. Luck was on our side if we stuck together for protection.

  Without light the path through the dark canopy was treacherous. We knew not what lurked to attack us but as first light rose from the east, Tamar and I headed in the direction of the lake that divided us from the trail home. Jan and Wim wanted to head north.

  ‘Come with us,’ I begged. ‘We will see you are returned. Divided we may fail,’ I said, sensing I was now in charge. Wim was breathless with the speed of our walking. Jan scouted about for something we might cook, for hunger was making us dizzy.

  At night we sought safety in trees out of the way of night prowlers. When it rained we gathered precious puddles of water in our leathers and sucked the liquid into our parched lips. With the rain the leaves lost their crackle and silenced our footsteps on the forest floor.

  The afternoon when Jan snared a rabbit, he wanted to eat it raw but Wim showed us how to raise fire with tinder and sticks.

  ‘Smoke will give us away,’ I cautioned.

  ‘Wait until dark then,’ was his answer. All day I thought of the warmth of a fire and meat juices. It would be the most delicious meal of my life but the carcass was lean and gave up little flesh. I skinned the fur, knowing it might give comfort to blistered feet. Wim was finding walking painful. He had never recovered from his beating.

  We scavenged what we could from shrubs until our stomachs heaved at the sight of crushed acorns. Our guts were loose and limbs weakened from the scouring but we pushed ever forward, following the sun, trusting we might find the lake.

  ‘They will know we will head for the water,’ Tamar pointed out. ‘What if they go straight there?’

  ‘Then we will skirt round the sides. If it is a lake we can walk round it. I have no skill to swim.’ It was with relief we saw a glimpse of water shimmering in the distance from the steep slopes of a bank. We left the trail and turned east to creep under cover of foliage, wading through the marshy edges, pushing our way through scratchy undergrowth.

  ‘We’re losing time this way,’ Tamar complained, being tired, hungry and frightened at the thought of recapture.

  ‘Better than walking straight into a trap,’ I countered.

  ‘What if it’s not a lake but a wide river?’ she continued to moan and I wanted to throttle her doubting spirit.

  ‘Then we’ll walk down it until we come out at the sea or it joins another. If we come to the De La Warr we are almost home.’ It was like trying to cajole a child.

  ‘How can you be so cheerful? I see only danger lurking behind every rock.’

  It was Jan who tried to chivvy her along. ‘There’ll be fish in the river. My cousin taught me how to tickle trout. I can find eels and we won’t starve.’

  He was right; with water alongside us we would not starve, I thought, feeling hope surging through me.

  Jan was giddy with his idea and dashed off to try his luck. That first meal of roasted fish we saved until darkness covered our little camp. The spare fish we gutted to carry for later. Then disaster struck when Jan was playing the fool waving the knife in the air. He toppled backwards, slipping on a stone, and lost his grip. Our precious knife spun into the air and disappeared into the deep.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ I yelled. It was like losing a friend and t
he one piece of security we owned.

  Wim pulled the sodden boy out of the water shaking his head. ‘We carry staves from now on,’ he sighed. ‘Better than naught.’

  ‘But how are we to cut them with no axe?’ I cried with frustration.

  Wim was not daunted by this difficulty. ‘Find a branch and hang until you snap it off or hit it with a sharp stone like our ancestors did. Everything we need to survive is here, if you know how to find it: shelter, food. There’s still fire to warm us.’

  The nights were so cold, the wind cutting through our clothing so we clung together under a shelter of woven branches covered with anything we could find. Wim’s cough was getting worse and I found willow bark to boil in a broken clay pot we found by the lakeside. It helped him rest but his colour was grey and I feared he must slow us down.

  The worst thing was knowing we had no idea where we were when the clouds were heavy, hiding the sun and the north star at night. Jan was silent and full of shame at losing the knife but all of us were afraid of losing our Dutch friend. Tamar sat with him and searched for anything we could boil, leaves, grasses, anything to fill our bellies with fodder. I had lost count of the days since our escape and with it the chance to work out how far we were from known territory.

  Next morning we walked to the head of the lake and saw a stream. ‘Follow the stream,’ I called out with relief. By the weak sun I knew we were heading east and south. Such was our raging hunger we snapped and complained each step of the way. There were few fish to ensnare and our little store had been quickly used. Jan took to throwing stones at birds and we roasted them, eating bones and all.

  Wim wasn’t hungry, being in a fever, but we couldn’t let him lie down and give up the ghost. We were the four escapees; without his wisdom and kindness, how could we have ever left captivity? ‘You go ahead,’ he croaked. ‘I am finished.’

  ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘We all go together or not at all.’

  The others agreed, taking it in turns to sit with him. Jan found enough strong branches to weave into a sled tied together with the rope-like forest vines and we dragged him along as best we could.