A group of women stepped into the circle of light. Chi-gwi-lat and her friends were among them. This dance was different from that of the men. The women did not dance in single file, but walked around each other, swaying as they moved, twining their hands together over their heads as they met. The song that accompanied this dance had words, not just thumping syllables, though Charlotte had no key to what they meant.
“What dance is it?” she asked Drooping Flower.
“We call it Sisters of the Fields. Your body sway like the corn. Your hands make the bean vine grow up the corn.”
Charlotte liked this dance. The women’s graceful movements seemed to have a spiritual meaning, like the enactment of a prayer.
At the end of the women’s dance, when the drumming and singing had stopped, a hushed silence fell. Then the drum started up again, but with a different rhythm. It was louder and stronger, making the heart beat faster and the air itself pulse with the beat. Drooping Flower, her fingers drumming rhythmically on the ground, stared off into the darkness with an expectant look.
Suddenly a figure burst in upon the dancing circle with a wild yell, brandishing a war club. There was another yell, and another warrior shot forth into the firelight, his tomahawk upraised. Another followed, brandishing a spear. Then another, and another. Okwaho was among them, shouting and leaping. Above his head he waved something that looked like an embroidery hoop mounted on a pole. The piece of leather stretched on the hoop was painted half red and half black on one side. The other side was brown and bore a crest of stiff black hair with trophy feathers still attached. Charlotte shuddered. She had never seen a scalp before. Looking at it made the top of her head prickle. She glanced at Drooping Flower, whose dark eyes glittered with excitement.
It was a wild dance, with its display of charging, striking and slashing. Eight warriors, naked except for breechcloth and moccasins, circled the fire, their bodies gleaming in the firelight, their feet thumping on the hard earth. The pounding of the drums set Charlotte’s blood racing.
Suddenly it was over. The drumming stopped. The warriors lowered their weapons and their trophies and returned to their places around the fire. Okwaho, glistening with sweat, joined Charlotte and Drooping Flower.
“Tonight you saw real dancing,” he said.
“Yes. That was real dancing.” She was glad that she had seen it, knowing that she would never see it again.
She returned to the hut moments before the old woman and Chi-gwi-lat. Lying on the bearskin with the rabbit fur blanket pulled up to her chin, Charlotte put her fingers to her face and rubbed at the greasy paint. Tomorrow she would scrub her face clean. But she knew that this day would remain in her memory long after the last trace of paint was gone.
Chapter twenty-three
Charlotte had awakened before dawn, and now she sat on the log outside the hut watching the sunrise. Beside her, tied into a bundle, were the boy’s clothes that she had been wearing when the Oneida warriors found her. The old woman had returned them to her. Charlotte knew that she would never wear them again, just as she knew that she would never again have her face painted red, green and blue. She had had a taste of being a boy and a taste of being an Iroquois maiden. Perhaps a little from both experiences would cling to her. She hoped that it would. But now she was ready to be Charlotte Hooper again.
Wolf Woman had sponged the rawhide bands that bound Charlotte’s shoulder, wetting them over and over again until they became pliable enough to unwind. While they softened, she scrubbed the paint from Charlotte’s face.
When at last her arm was free, Charlotte cautiously stretched it, rotated it, shook it, and raised it high. The arm still worked, though the skin was pale and pasty and the muscles had no strength. There would be no paddling for her on the journey to Carleton Island. She could relax while others did the work.
Down by the river, Axe Carrier and another Mohawk warrior were loading the canoes. After a few minutes, Okwaho and Drooping Flower joined them. It was time to leave.
Charlotte picked up the bundle of clothes. Some youth back at the Loyalist camp would be glad to have them. But was there anything in the bundle that Chi-gwi-lat and the old woman might like? Quickly Charlotte untied it. Her knife was there in its sheath. She was surprised to see it, for she had taken for granted that the warrior who disarmed her would have kept it. Wolf Woman would be sure to value a good knife. Now what about a gift for Chi-gwi-lat? The red neckerchief? That would please her, for it matched the paint that Chi-gwi-lat used to colour the part in her hair.
Down at the river, the two canoes were already in the water.
Charlotte handed the knife to the old woman. “Atatawi,” she said, hoping that she would understand the Mohawk word. Then Charlotte ran into the hut carrying the red neckerchief. Chi-gwi-lat still was not stirring. Charlotte lifted the girl’s sleeping head to pull the neckerchief around her neck, a surprise for when she wakened. But as Charlotte was tying the ends, Chi-gwi-lat’s eyes blinked open.
“Good-bye,” Charlotte said. “I’ll miss you.”
The Oneida girl reached out her slender brown arm, touched Charlotte’s cheek and murmured something that probably meant good-bye.
Sitting on a folded blanket in the bottom of the canoe, Charlotte leaned back against the centre thwart and watched the fields and towns of the Mohawk Valley roll by. It was safe to travel in broad daylight, for there was nothing suspicious about a pair of Indian canoes heading north.
Although paddling against the current, they made good progress. On the second day they passed the place where Nick’s canoe had been hidden while Tom and Joe planted Mrs. Dow’s potatoes. The third day was spent paddling west up the tributary of the Mohawk that would carry them toward Oneida Lake. In two more days they completed the portage to Oneida Lake, crossed the lake, and reached the Oswego River. They lost one day to rain, huddling in the shelter of the canoes while lightning flashed and thunder rolled. But the skies cleared before morning, and the river ran in sunshine again.
On the final day of her journey, the morning song of the birds wakened Charlotte. For a few minutes, she lay rolled in her blanket, listening to trills and twitters from the trees. From the camp kettle came the sweet smell of corn meal mush. Drooping Flower was already preparing breakfast. Charlotte climbed out of her blanket and joined her. Drooping Flower filled a bowl for each of them, and the two girls sat down beside the fire.
“Tonight you see father,” said Drooping Flower. “You be home.”
“Yes,” said Charlotte doubtfully. “I’ll be home.”
She knew it was not true. The army tent in the Loyalist refugee camp was not home. Her old home was forever lost; her new one existed only in her mind. Yet she could picture it clearly: neatly chinked log walls, a window set with four little panes of glass, a big stone fireplace. There would be a long wooden table in the kitchen, and a cradle for the baby in a corner where it was warm but not too close to the fire. Nick would come in from the fields. Who could ask more?
“Drooping Flower, do you have a home?”
Drooping Flower pointed to Okwaho, who was still rolled up in his blanket, asleep near the canoes. “My husband. He make any place my home.”
“Yes,” said Charlotte, with a bit of envy. She had a further question that she had wanted to ask for days. “How did you get married? I know about the basket of biscuits. But after Okwaho ate the biscuits, did you have a ceremony, or just start living together?”
“We have marriage council.”
“Please tell me about it.”
Drooping Flower frowned. “I try to.” She paused for a minute. “At marriage council we sit around fire. Okwaho sit one side, me other side. Man speak for Okwaho. Woman speak for me. Woman speak first. She say Drooping Flower is daughter of Turtle Clan. She say good things about me. I beautiful. I good cook. I make nice clothes. I faithful to ceremonies of our people. She tell me, be true and kind.
“Man speak for Okwaho. He say Okwaho is son of Bear Clan. He is good
hunter and brave warrior. He follow teachings of elders. He know sacred dances and songs. Man tell Okwaho, be true and kind.
“Then we stand up. I have two braids that time. I throw my braids over my husband’s shoulders. He give me bunch of flowers. Everybody smile. We make big feast.”
“That’s beautiful,” said Charlotte.
Charlotte, kneeling in the bottom of the canoe, peered over the broad shoulder of the paddler in the bow. Carleton Island lay ahead. She could see the red, white and blue of the English flag. Then the tower and the top of the blockhouse came into view, and after that the Indians’ huts outside the fort’s walls. When she put up her hand to shadow her eyes, she saw two men standing on the shore, looking west, straight at her, or so it seemed. One appeared to be leaning on a crutch.
Why couldn’t the warriors paddle faster? If she had a paddle in her hands, the canoe would be racing like the wind. She turned around, intending to urge Axe Carrier to pick up the pace, but changed her mind. Axe Carrier was not the kind of man one told to hurry up. He even paddled with dignity.
Slowly, slowly the canoe neared the limestone landing stage. When it touched, Nick reached out, taking both her hands in his, and pulled her out of the canoe. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. It did not trouble her that Papa was watching. She would have kissed Nick in front of the King of England and the Archbishop of Canterbury too, if they had been here.
When Nick released her, she turned to her father. His face glowed as if it were lit up from within by happiness. He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek.
“Well, here you are!” He beamed, looking her up and down. “Last time I saw you, you looked like a boy, and now you’re decked out like an Iroquois maiden, all beaded and fringed. When am I going to get my daughter back again?”
“You’ve got her, Papa.”
But what about the strongbox? Did he have that back? She was afraid to ask, but Papa must have read her mind.
“Nick brought everything. The strongbox and the tea service too.”
The tea service? Then Nick must have found it on the slope of the ravine.
Charlotte smiled. “Then we did not fail.”
Dusk turned the lake to the colour of clouds before a storm. Charlotte sat on a rock near the water’s edge, watching Nick clean a pickerel. Loose scales glistened on his fingers.
A pair of herring gulls, bobbing offshore, watched in anticipation. They looked like mates, companionable and at ease. Nick set the pickerel on a rock, slit its belly and pulled out the entrails. Then he threw the entrails to the gulls. Such a screech from both birds! The larger grabbed everything and flew away; the other pursued with squawks and screams.
Nick turned toward Charlotte. “Married life!” he laughed.
“Let it be a warning.”
“I shall keep it in mind.” He knelt to wash his hands. “I’ll always save the guts for you.”
A big fish broke the surface in a flash of silver.
“Did you see that?” said Charlotte.
After the fish had sunk beneath the surface again, the ripples moved outward in a widening circle.
“Ripples.” Nick rocked back on his haunches and gazed thoughtfully. “I wonder if they go on and on forever.”
“I think they do. Like memories.”
The moon rose. Charlotte, Nick and Papa sat by the fire outside the tent. Papa sat on one side, Charlotte and Nick on the other, their hands touching.
After so many weeks of solitude, it seemed that Papa needed to talk. He told them about clearing his fields when he was young, trading a day’s work for the loan of an ox to pull stumps. He told them about courting Mama, and about his happiness when his children were born.
“I thought that my sons …” A bleak look passed over his face. He turned his head sharply away. “Charlotte, I never expected that you would have to start out all over again.” He got heavily to his feet. “Well, I better get some sleep and leave you young people alone.” He limped into the tent.
“He’s had a hard life, for so much to come to naught,” said Nick. He put his arm around Charlotte, and she snuggled close, feeling how nicely her body fit against his. All day she had waited for this. She looked at his face, half veiled by darkness. He had shaved off his beard and cut his hair. Now it was only about an inch long, a blond halo in the firelight.
Nick asked, “Do you want to talk about that night?”
She understood which night he meant, and she did not want to talk about it. But there were things she needed to know.
“Just tell me what you did after I headed for the ravine.”
“I climbed over the snake fence and followed you. As soon as I figured nobody could see me from the farm, I ran back and forth to confuse the trail. Everything was chaos — the house burning, dogs barking, men shouting. For a few minutes I hoped they’d have their hands too full to bother chasing me. But they did come after me — at least some of them did. I couldn’t run fast carrying the strongbox. I knew they’d be right on my heels as soon as they puzzled out my trail. The only way to escape was to reach the creek and walk in the water so the dogs would lose my scent. I scrambled down the hill at the same place you and I climbed up. When I reached the creek, I waded upstream, away from the canoe. After sloshing along for about half a mile, I climbed out and hid. For a couple of hours I listened to the shouting and barking. The search never came near me. When I figured they’d given up, I went downstream to meet you at the canoe.”
“But I wasn’t there.”
“No, you weren’t there.” He paused. “I didn’t know where you were. You might be hurt. You might be dead. When it started to get light, I said to myself: Don’t lose hope; she’s hiding somewhere. Soon she’ll be back. But you didn’t come back. After sunrise, the search was on again. Men were crashing around in the ravine, but it didn’t sound as if they’d found you.”
“I don’t know how long I lay unconscious. When I woke up, the sun was shining.”
“The Liberty men gave up hunting for me about noon. Then I started searching again. After I’d covered the bottom of the ravine, I climbed up and walked along the rim. About half a mile from our sycamore tree, I came to some broken bushes where it looked as if someone had gone over the edge. I climbed down to investigate. It was easy to see where you’d landed. Plants crushed. The ground scuffed up. But no boot marks, so I knew the Sons of Liberty hadn’t found you.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t know until I found the sack with the tea set. I took it to the canoe and hid it with the strongbox. It was starting to get dark, so I stayed by the canoe all night, still hoping that you’d make your way there.
“In the morning I decided to try something different. I have friends in Johnstown, Loyalists, although they hide their politics. If you had been captured, the news would have spread fast. Trusting my disguise, I walked right into town. It was a market day, with a good crowd of people in the street. As I passed the tavern, you wouldn’t believe the sight that met my eyes.”
“After all that’s happened, I can believe anything.”
“It was Ben Warren, his head wrapped in bandages, sitting on the bench outside. Even with a tankard in his hand, he looked mighty unhappy. Three of his friends were there too, lounging about and looking sorry for themselves. They paid me no heed as I strode along the opposite side of the street, being careful not to vary my pace or look their way. But I tell you, darling, I was bursting with gratitude to see Warren alive. Thanks be to God, I had not broken my vow.”
“Thanks be to God,” Charlotte agreed, and she meant it. She reached up to touch Nick’s cheek. “Did you speak to your friends?”
“I did. It was the talk of the town, they said, how a mob of Tories had attacked a farm near Fort Hunter, assaulted one man, and set fire to the house.”
“You and I were a mob?”
“That’s the word they used.”
“Those Liberty men caused the fire themselve
s when they built up the kitchen fire, and then left it unattended.”
“I reckon that’s exactly what happened. But a Tory mob firing the house makes a better story.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Now that I knew you hadn’t been caught, I went back to the canoe and searched for the rest of the day. By nightfall, I suspected that Indians had carried you off.”
“Did you think it was Oneidas?”
“An Oneida raiding party seemed the likeliest explanation. So I set out to find you.”
“How did you begin? I could have been anywhere.”
“Indians always camp beside water. So I set out to trace every creek and river, working my way north. My plan was to rescue you. But as soon as I saw you in that Oneida camp, sitting on a log with your shoulder bound up and your foot in a pot of water, I knew you were in no condition to run away.”
“It’s hard to run if you can’t even walk.”
“Or paddle with one shoulder tied up in rawhide. But I could see they were taking good care of you. I shadowed the camp for a couple of days, waiting for a chance to give you a sign.”
“The pebble?”
“That’s right. I sat in that thicket watching you. You turned the pebble over in your hand and gave such a smile I could hardly resist running to you and throwing my arms around you. Like this …”
He pulled her close and kissed her mouth. His warm lips made her remember how long it had been since he last held her in his arms. The kiss lingered. Several minutes passed before she pulled away.
“Just as well you did resist,” she said. “You’d be of little use to me, after they lifted your scalp.”
“They nearly did catch me,” Nick admitted. “I hated to leave you behind, but there was no way to rescue you. The sensible course was to return to Carleton Island and report what had happened. I didn’t expect Commander Fraser to order out the garrison. The important thing was to let your father know that that you were safe.”
Nick paused. His voice was husky when he spoke again. “You can imagine how I dreaded telling your father that I’d recovered his strongbox and silver but lost his daughter.” Another pause. “I didn’t know how to deliver that news. And then I didn’t have to. By the time I reached Carleton Island, Axe Carrier’s messenger had arrived.”
The Way Lies North Page 23
