Firebrand's Woman

by Vanessa Royall

  “We’re ready whenever you are, Ginral,” Fes allowed, when the captains had ridden up to the head of the column for orders. “What’s it goin’ to be?”

  The men sat on horseback, in a ragged circle around Jackson, who remained mounted.

  “Well, boys,” he said. “We’re a’goin’ to do it. This is the way. The village is directly south of us. Sam, you take your Boonesboro boys an’ leave right now. Strike southwest, till you get to the river. Zeb, take your men and strike southeast, hit the river, go west. Fes and I will wait here with the main body. We’ll give you until about mid-afternoon, then attack the village direct. We’ll close them against the river by late afternoon.”

  “Ginral, ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” Fes said.

  Jackson did not speak, but turned his hard eyes on the enterprising Farson.

  “Shouldn’t we have a contingent sweeping up from the south? To trap the bastards in their den.”

  No. Jackson had already decided that. Let the

  Chickasaw run if they wanted to. Fewer would die that way. “I don’t think we need it,” he drawled, which was interpreted by those present to mean that no Indian would get away, no matter what.

  The men were about to ride off, to convey the orders they had received. “There’s one other thing,” Jackson said.

  They listened.

  “We got very little reason to doubt that Firebrand and his people are goin’ to fight back. If you start hearing sounds of battle, get to it as quick as you can. All right, we’ve done this before. I want to thank you for what you’ve been to me, and to say I appreciate what we’ve been through together. That’s all.”

  Instinctively the men saluted, although it was a gesture Jackson did not encourage. Who in the hell needed a damn salute, unless he was some candy-ass nosewipe who thought being a soldier was to dress up like a peacock and strut around?

  Jackson returned the salute. Some of them might die today. He might die today. The momentary thought distressed him, a lot more than it used to. Maybe that was how it went. The older you got, the closer you got to death; the closer you got to it, the less dramatic and glorious it seemed.

  “Move ’em out, boys,” he grunted. “It’s their village for Harrisville, an’ these Indians have got to pay for what they done.”

  The messengers raced away to pass on their chieftain’s orders, and Torch was left alone with Gyva.

  “So now it begins,” he said, preparing to climb down from the tree.

  “No,” she answered suddenly. “It began a long time ago. Now it ends.”

  “What ends?”

  “The waiting,” replied Gyva. “It seems that all my life has been—”

  The weight of their bodies on the high, thin branches, combined with another sudden gust of wind from the mountains, caused them to swing together and touch, far above the ground. Colliding, Gyva started to lose her grip. She did not, but Torch’s arm went around her, and she was conscious of his closeness, his concern for her safety, his great strength.

  She released her grip entirely, of her own volition, and then was borne up utterly by him.

  “It seems that all my life has been waiting,” she said.

  Later Gyva could not remember how they had gotten down from the tree, nor how long it had taken. But she knew that it had happened, because mysteriously they were on the earth, down on the new grass of spring, clinging to one another. For an instant of such small duration that it would have been impossible to measure, his kiss was tentative, and whether or not Torch himself had the power to resist the call of his heart was beyond determination. For then the moment was over, and his kiss was urgent and reverential, hungry and wild. No thought then of chieftaincy, or sacred duty, or the promises of wedlock. In life there are many honorable things, and many more deserving of respect, and even a few things that, if violated, carry the pain of retribution. But none of these things mattered to Torch then, or to Gyva, for she was with him, had come home to him, and no power on earth or in heaven could deny the magnet of their natures, of their love.

  From the village, sounds of preparation for battle, shouts and cries. And down from the smoky mountains came the endless roll of the war drums, a wild, mesmerizing sound, a rhythm as old as doom and time. As old as love. No matter that Torch and Gyva were unsheltered, no matter that they were covered but by leaves and sun and sky. He stripped her and spread her bare and warm upon the warm, bare earth that had known their love in ages past. Gyva, after that first heart-stunning moment in his embrace, captured by his kiss, found that she could not kiss him enough, could not hold him enough, could not touch him enough. But one mouth for a kiss, one tongue? Too few, too few. And how had Ababinili been so blind that day as to award his children but two eyes to feast in love upon one another: the soft curves and supple body of Gyva, and Torch with his hard, swelling aspects, born for love and war? How had the Great Spirit not known that two hands would not suffice, in the high sweet heat of passion on the wing, or that words might be heard ten times as well as two? And why did not the tongue have power to write words forever on the very flesh of a beloved’s yearning body, arched and breathless for the flashing lance, and for the nest that it is meant to seek?

  But, ah! Pleasure sufficient unto itself, pleasure enough, for no more could be borne. He came upon her as he had beneath the willows. She was a woman now, and not a girl, and he a man and not a boy, and so it was better for them than it had ever been. The cunning of the flesh is that it grows sweeter with the years, and wiser, to know better the giving of delight, and better the enjoyment thereof. Gyva took him unto herself, and held him so tight for so long that he could not move, but only moan and beg to be released. No, no, she sobbed, not yet, not yet! But for a moment stay in me this way! But then she, too, could not hold back the bursting need, and loosened the embrace of her body, that he might caress with sweet and never-ending thrusts all that she was and had ever been.

  That her mother had loved her father: This love was why. That Four Bears had rescued her at Roaring Gorge: This was the reason. That she had’ grown in years and in beauty: Now she knew the purpose. That she had fought Little Swallow, and unmasked Hawk and been banished; that she had struggled against Gale Foley, and loved Jason, and given birth to Andrew: At last, at long last this very day, she knew that her entire life and everything in it had led her to this embrace on the holy grounds of her people, a union no less holy; that she should feel her always and only lover, her always and forever love pulsing within the vibrant honey of her body’s tender heat, and wait now as he came toward her, rise up, push back, and feel him slip almost but not quite away and come toward her, within her, once again, so sweet, so agonizingly slow, rise up, push back, and hold, and hear him say, No, no, release me, let me go, and doing so but knowing he would almost but not quite, never quite, go from her now, because their natures had conspired that this is the way it must be, as he came forward again and pressed with himself the living womb, the stroked and tingling walls of her desire, so bend yourself like a bow to take the arrow, and rise up, and hold. It was perfect and seemed to be forever, truly, but then their bodies could take no more of waiting, no more delay, and suddenly Gyva felt her entire being shuddering out of control, felt herself writhing against him, and Torch against her, and there seemed no way to stop it, no way to cease. The air was gone from her lungs, the light from behind her eyes, and there was nothing, nothing, nothing but her being, her body, and what it wanted, what it commanded her soul to attain. Her soul obeyed; and so, at one with Torch, at the exact same moment, there on the spinning, magnificent earth, Gyva knew more love than she had ever known before, and more delight. And then Gyva held and held and held and could not move, and somewhere far back in her pleasure-driven mind she was curious to hear the cry of some wild woman lost intolerably in pleasure.

  The world, after the lovers had broken from their embrace, was still where they had left it, but changed.

  “No more shall we ever be apart,” Torch m
urmured, stroking her glistening black hair. “No more.”

  Beautiful words, thought Gyva, thinking sadly of the imminent battle, and trying not to think of Bright Flower. In spite of her love for Torch and his for her, which was sacred in its way, yet was Torch wed to another. What retribution might await the transgression of that bond? How could there be retribution, Gyva reasoned, when the approbation of all divinity must have been granted by the pleasure she had known while Torch was loving her? The love and the pleasure were reason enough, were they not?

  But Ababinili might have looked down upon them with other eyes. After all, he had created but one mouth to kiss, two hands to stroke and tease, two eyes alone to feast…

  Suddenly Gyva felt cold, and shivered. She felt that something terrible was about to happen. How could it, no way to cease. The air was gone from her lungs, not felt pleasure beyond that bequeathed to mere mortals?

  “What is it?” Torch asked with some alarm, feeling her shudder in his arms.

  “Nothing. It is nothing.”

  “Speak, Gyva. Your heart is my heart now, and mine yours. Hold back no words, as you would not hold back your love.”

  “Perhaps it is Chula Harjo and the battle,” she said, pulling on her buckskins.

  “No, it was something else that caused you to go cold. I can read it in your eyes.”

  He watched her as he, too, dressed; and because she knew that the union of their hearts was real, and had always been, she spoke.

  “Your wife has been dishonored in this, has she not?”

  Torch came toward her and placed his hand tenderly against her face. “Are you dishonored?”

  “I? I? Why, how could that be?”

  “Because in my heart, and in the heart of heaven, you are my true wife, and have been since I summoned you for the first time.”

  They embraced once more; and even as Gyva knew that he spoke the truth that was in his heart, and which she shared, yet still was Torch married to Bright Flower in the eyes of the people. She could not rid herself entirely of that vague feeling, an apprehension, almost a fear…

  A messenger raced toward them, winded and waving. Torch released Gyva from his embrace. If the brave had noticed the embrace at all, he gave no sign. Other news occupied him.

  “My chief! A scout has returned from the region of the Black Ravine!”

  Gyva knew the location of that place, and now she knew, too, that it was the color of coal that had given the ravine its name. Since returning to the tribe, she had mentioned the value of coal to several people, most of whom had laughed at her. “The white jackals are crazy!” they hooted. There had been no time to try to explain matters to these doubters.

  “Black Ravine?” Torch was saying. It was about five miles to the north.

  “Jacksa Chula’s advance guard has reached that point.”

  “And Chula himself?”

  “He rides with them.” The messenger then offered the scout’s estimate of the number of white troops riding with the advance party. Torch made quick calculations.

  “That is hardly more than a third of the number we have seen riding through the pass. So, they have divided their attack.”

  The messenger looked on, waiting, and Gyva felt currents of intelligence and power flow from her lover.

  “The river!” he cried suddenly. “They will come at us from the forest, and from the river!”

  “Which direction?”

  Torch cursed himself inwardly. Although he had retained a sizable group of braves to guard the village itself and to serve as reserves should too many others be wounded or killed, he had expected to make his stand in the forest, along Salawaullee Creek, whose unusual feature was a low bank on one side and a high bank on the other, positioned so that Jacksa and his men would be forced to ride upward into the ranks of Chickasaw defenders. The Salawaullee was a natural barrier, and a good one, but now Torch saw that he had nearly been outsmarted.

  “Send scouts immediately upriver and downriver. Command them to return with word as soon as any of the jackals are sighted.”

  “What of the braves along the Salawaullee? They are poised for combat.”

  Torch considered this. Jacksa would be marching slowly, not only because of the forest, but also to wait until his troops, approaching the village by river, got into position for attack. If Torch ordered his men forward, he would lose the natural fortification of the creek, but he might startle Jacksa enough to put the white men at considerable disadvantage. Sounds of the battle, moreover, would alarm the river parties, and disrupt their flanking attacks.

  “Your orders?” requested the messenger, looking more nervous and harried by the minute.

  “A moment,” Torch said, still thinking. He could order the braves along the Salawaullee to fall back toward the village. Thus Jackson would continue his deliberate advance untroubled, perhaps even thinking that he and his army had not yet been observed. But in that case, Jackson’s advance party and the two river parties might arrive in the village at the same time.

  “Order the drummers to drop a beat,” Torch commanded.

  “What? But-”

  “Yes, let Jacksa think we are relaxing our guard. Next, call back the men from the creek. Tall Oak must take his men west immediately to the river, and Graven Elk must go east. Fleet Cloud and Gray Eagle are to fall back to the village, and take fire upon Chula Harjo when he reaches these new defenses. Understand?”

  Listening, Gyva understood the combined ploys. While the village itself would be put in more immediate danger by staging the battle so close, a deception that caused Jackson to maintain his slow pace might give the Chickasaw enough time to decimate the river parties first, and then turn to confront Chula Harjo with their full strength.

  Already the beat of the drums grew slower; and, even in the village, a thin core of tension vibrated once, twice, and seemed to fall away.

  “Do you think it will work?” asked Gyva, looking up into his resolute face, his flaming eyes.

  “Do you have a Red Stick?” he asked her in return. “I myself put faith in strong knife and long bow-but, in truth, a Red Stick cannot hurt. Belief gives power to an amulet, as belief gives courage to a brave.”

  “I believe in you,” Gyva said softly. “And whatever happens here today, I will still believe in you, and always.”

  He smiled. “Always is a very long time.”

  “Not long enough,” she said. “Now tell me where I am to fight.”

  Fes Farson felt his nerves tighten, then tighten some more, building toward a tension of fear he had never imagined. This was deep Indian country. He might never come out of here alive, for godsakes. When the beat of the drums changed suddenly, it was all Fes could do to keep from screaming. As it was, he jerked in his saddle, and turned sheepishly to see the general grinning at him. That goddamn Jackson! Didn’t he ever show fear?

  “How come they did that?” he asked, trying to cover his discomfiture. “How come they altered the rhythm? They relaxin’, maybe?”

  “Nope, it’s a redskin trick, that’s all,” Jackson said, as unperturbed and matter-of-fact as anything. “That there Firebrand fellow is aimin’ to spring something on us.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, Festus, look at it this way. The human ear is connected to the human brain, and the human brain is connected, by a series of overlappings I ain’t got the time to go into, to the human stomach. Feelin’ a little queasy just about now, ain’tcha?”

  Fes could see no way to deny this fact without provoking considerable merriment at his own expense, so he agreed with Jackson’s anatomical estimate.

  “Yep, you do,” Jackson went on. “And Firebrand, he knows that.”

  “He knows that?” Fes repeated, glancing into the trees.

  “He sure does. So he decides to relax you a little bit. He slows down the rhythm of the drums, which fact goes in your ear, to your brain, and down to your gut, which begins to relax. So pretty soon you’re riding through these woods l
ike you’re in some promenade, and instead of thinking about keeping your eyes peeled for a seven-foot savage lookin’ to give you a haircut or worse, you find yourself thinking about how nice a cold beer would taste right about now, or about how great it was last time you had a roll in the hay, the equipment for which that seven-foot savage would also enjoy removing from your carcass.”

  Fes felt queasier than ever.

  “So don’t relax. And don’t worry. It’s all right to be a little jittery. I’d be worried about you if you wasn’t.”

  Fes gave a sick smile and shook his head.

  “Okay,” Jackson ordered, turning to the men riding behind him. “Pass the word down the line. We’re goin’ to pick up the pace a little.”

  “Why?” Fes asked.

  “Because he wants us to go slower, Firebrand does. An’ I’m an ornery cuss. When somebody goes through all this trouble to make me go slower, well, I’m a’goin’ to go faster just to show him who’s boss.”

  “But,” said Fes, as the column increased its rate of advance through the woods, “what if he’s already thought of that? What if he wants us to go faster?”

  Jackson just shrugged. “Well, then he’s goin’ to get what he wants, ain’t he? Besides, I ain’t got but two choices. Either we get this fight over with sooner, or later, right?”

  “Yep,” Fes gulped, trying to look bold. He was only slightly encouraged when they arrived at a huge ditch in the earth, with black coal, rich black outcroppings of coal, glistening in the daylight. God, if only Rupert Harris could have been here to see this! What the hell am I thinking of? Fes corrected himself. I’m glad he ain’t here. He chortled silently.

  That was small comfort when they reached the Salawaullee and Jackson dismounted to take a look around.

  “Chickasaw been here but they’re gone,” he said, with a gloomy look. “I don’t like it.” Then, from long experience, he put himself in his enemy’s position. He saw himself in the village, saw himself watching the pass, waiting. Heard himself giving the order to pull back from the Salawaullee. But why? Slow the drums. Why?