Broken Trail (2 page)

As Broken Trail leaned over the edge of the pool, a water
spider swam through his reflection. He studied the face that looked up at him. Brown hair, blue eyes, skin bronzed by the sun yet paler than the skin of his friends. I look like Elijah, he thought, before immediately trying to drive the thought from his mind.

Broken Trail imagined that he could hear Elijah's voice and feel his hand upon his shoulder. “I'll take you hunting,” Elijah had said. But he never did. All white men were liars.

I must not think about him, Broken Trail told himself. He plunged his hands into the water, and the reflection vanished. Lifting his cupped hands to his mouth, he drank the cool, fresh water. Then he stood up, raised his face to the sky and chanted the prayer that Carries a Quiver had taught him:

As he finished the prayer, his heart felt suddenly light, and his head as well. A dizzy sensation came over him, but he forced himself to stay on his feet.

“I'm ready,” he said. “Let my vision come to me.”

As if summoned, a wolverine walked out of the bushes
and stood looking at him—the biggest wolverine he had ever seen. It had the shape of a bear and the size of a wolf. Its shaggy fur was dark brown, with two broad yellowish bands, one on each side, reaching backward from the shoulder to meet at the base of its tail. Broken Trail smelled its pungent musk. The wolverine looked at him sideways. Opening its mouth, it showed Broken Trail its sharp yellow teeth.

Broken Trail waited, afraid to speak lest he offend it.

It spoke to him in thoughts, not words, so that he heard its message not with his ears but with his mind. “Broken Trail, I am your
oki,
come to protect you from all harm. Hear what I say, and remember well.”

“I will,” the boy whispered.

At that instant, a rifle cracked. Within the rush of noise, Broken Trail felt a sharp pain in his right thigh. He grabbed at his leg, but his eyes were still on the wolverine as it raised its head, turned aside, and loped into the forest.

As he watched it disappear into the undergrowth, Broken Trail tried to call out, to summon it back. No sound came from his lips. His mind was numb with disbelief. At the very moment of revelation, he had been shot, and his
oki
had run away.

Broken Trail felt his knees give way. For a moment his eyes were still directed toward the spot where the wolverine had slipped away. Then the pain of his wound forced him to look down at the red stain spreading around the hole in his legging where the bullet had entered. He felt wetness run down his leg.

Should he go back to the village? He took one step, and then another. Despite the pain, he could walk. But he was not sure what he wanted to do. If he returned home, he would have to tell his uncle that his
oki
had gone away before revealing his destiny. Had such a thing ever happened before? It might be a terrible omen. Yet the wolverine had appeared to him, and it had spoken. His vision had not completely failed. If the elders believed more was needed, maybe they would let him try again.

Through the turmoil of his mind came the crashing sound of men's boots. White men.

Someone shouted, “You got him, Frank. We'll find the brute and finish him off.”

Broken Trail flinched. Better slide into a thicket where they would not see him. But before he could hide, two men burst through the undergrowth. Redcoats. Each carried a rifle. Both looked ready to fire.

When they saw Broken Trail, they lowered their guns. They stared at him. He drove the pain from his expression to return their stares. They were young men. One was tall and thin, with fair hair pulled back in a queue. The other was short and sturdily built, with black hair.

The short soldier laughed. “Frank, that's not a wolverine.”

“No. God forgive me. I aimed at a wolverine, but I shot a boy. He's hurt. Sam, what are we going to do?”

“We'd better see how bad he's hurt.”

Broken Trail felt his body swaying. In a moment, he would faint like a girl.

“Hey, there!” The tall soldier grabbed one arm, and the short soldier took the other. Broken Trail tried to shake them off, but they had a firm grip. When they had him sitting down, Frank undid the thong that attached Broken Trail's right legging to his belt. He pulled down the top of the legging.

“Not too bad.” Sam gently touched the area around the wound. “The bullet passed in and out. A flesh wound. He's lucky it never touched bone.”

“But he's bleeding, and he's looking mighty weak. We'd best take him back to camp so the surgeon can bandage that leg. I shot him. I can't just leave him here.”

“No!” Broken Trail blurted.

“Hey!” Frank exclaimed. “The little savage speaks English.”

Broken Trail looked up. Two pairs of blue eyes met.

“You're no Indian,” Frank said slowly. “You're as white as me.”

Broken Trail decided not to say another word.

“There's a mystery here,” Sam said. “Captain will want to meet this boy.”

WHAT A STRANGE DAY
this had been! And it was not over yet. First, his
oki
had appeared to him. But before it could show him a vision of his future, the crack of a rifle had driven it away. At the same moment, a bullet had struck his thigh. He had only a hazy recollection of what had happened next. Two soldiers had carried him to an army camp. The surgeon, an officer wearing a smock over his uniform, had bandaged his thigh. Broken Trail touched the bandage with his fingers. Yes, this really had happened.

And now he was lying on a narrow cot in a tent, wondering what would happen next. Clearly visible against the white canvas was the shadow of a soldier standing outside
the entrance, holding a musket. Broken Trail could think of no reason why he should be under guard. It must have something to do with the captain who the soldier had said would want to meet him. But why? Because he was white? He had heard of captives who had been adopted by Indians being forcibly returned to their white families. If anybody did that to him, he'd run away again.

Maybe he ought to run away right now. From where he lay, he could see his tomahawk, his sheathed knife, his pouch, his leggings and his moccasins neatly piled on the tent floor. One legging and one moccasin were spattered with blood.

All he had to do was rise from the cot, put on his leggings and moccasins, assemble his other possessions, and make a dash for it. If he was fast enough, he should be able to escape the guard standing outside the tent.

Sitting up carefully, Broken Trail swung both legs over the side of the cot. He stood. He took two steps. Despite a sharp twinge, his right leg worked as well as his left. Four more steps brought him to the pile of his possessions. When he stooped to gather them up, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He knew what it meant; ten days' fasting had taken away his strength. He was too weak to go anywhere without first having something to eat.

The world seemed to be tilting and shifting as he staggered back to the cot. For several moments he sat still, waiting for his head to stop spinning. Then he put on his leggings and moccasins, attached the various items to his belt, and lay down again.

Someone was coming. A second shadow moved against the white canvas. The tent flap opened, and a redcoat entered. It was the tall soldier, Frank, carrying a tin bowl and a spoon.

“Here's your vittles,” he said, setting the bowl and spoon on the small folding table that stood beside the cot. “Hope you're feeling better.”

The soldier stood awkwardly for a few moments, shifting from one foot to the other and looking as if he were waiting for Broken Trail to say something. But Broken Trail, who had no intention of speaking to him, turned his face away and scowled.

“Well, good luck to you, anyway,” the soldier said. “You know I meant no harm.”

Broken Trail waited until the soldier had left before sitting up to grab the bowl and spoon. He inspected the bowl's contents. White man's food. Pork and beans simmered with molasses. He lowered his nose and sniffed. Hmm! The rich aroma made his mouth water. Long ago, pork and beans had been his favourite meal.

As he gulped down the food, his white mother's face arose before him and he could not drive the memory of a warm farm kitchen from his mind.

He had finished eating before two other redcoats entered the tent. These were men he had not seen before. One was a young officer with a stubby, turned-up nose. He carried a writing tablet. The other was a senior officer, a thin erect man wearing a white periwig. This must be the captain whom Broken Trail had heard about. He was glad that the
British had him, not the rebels, for it was the rebels who had driven his people from their land. Yet it made little difference. He hated both.

Broken Trail scrambled off the cot. To be lying down while the captain questioned him would make him look weak. Now that he had food in his belly, his legs were steady and his mind was clear.

“So you speak English?” the captain said, with no words of greeting or introduction.

Broken Trail nodded.

“We know you're white. The thing we don't know is what you're doing here in the bush, dressed like a wild Indian.”

Broken Trail shrugged.

“What's your name?”

Broken Trail hesitated. The redcoats knew he spoke English. There was no point pretending that he didn't. He did not know why the captain was asking him questions. But if he co-operated, maybe they would let him go sooner.

“Broken Trail,” he said.

“Your real name.”

“It is my real name.”

“Have you ever had a different name? Or don't you remember?”

“Moses Cobman,” he muttered.

“Where were you born?”

“Canajoharie, in the Mohawk Valley.”

The young officer's eyes widened. “Sir,” he exclaimed.“I
know who this boy is. While we were stationed at Fort Niagara, our regiment shared quarters with the Royal Greens. There was a private called Elijah Cobman who came from Canajoharie. He told us that Oneida Indians carried off his youngest brother three years ago.”

Startled, Broken Trail looked up at the young officer. For the first time in three years, he had heard someone say Elijah's name.

“Canajoharie! Is that so?” The captain looked intently at Broken Trail. “Does your family still live there?”

Broken Trail shook his head. “My father and my oldest brother joined Butler's Rangers. They were off fighting rebels when some neighbours burned our house. That's when we left Canajoharie and headed north.”

“So all your family are Loyalists?”

“I reckon so.” It would be pointless to explain that those people were no longer his family.

“How old are you?”

“Nearly thirteen.”

“Well, you're small for your age, but old enough.” He fixed his pale blue eyes on Broken Trail. “What I need is a courier, a man with experience in delivering messages between forts and to armies in the field, someone who can survive in the bush, ford rivers, and cross mountain ranges without getting lost. But we're short of couriers. When the rebels capture one, they don't treat him as a prisoner of war. They hang him from the nearest tree.”

Broken Trail waited for the captain to make his point.

“I thought of using one of my own men,” the captain continued, “but there isn't a single soldier in this company who has the skills that are needed.” He paused. “Of course, an Indian could do it. But Indians aren't reliable.”

Not reliable! Broken Trail clenched his fists. He would trust a brother Oneida long before he would trust any white man.

“But you're different,” the captain went on to say. “You're born white. You speak English. And you have your father and two brothers fighting for the King. Isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

The captain continued, “I'll take a chance on you. If you can carry a message to Kings Mountain in twelve days, you'll get a new flintlock rifle for your pains.”

A rifle! Now the captain had captured his full attention. There was nothing he yearned for as much as a rifle. If he owned a rifle, he was bound to become the best hunter in the whole Oneida nation. Walks Crooked and Spotted Dog would burn with envy.

“Where is Kings Mountain? I never heard of it.” Broken Trail kept his face rigid, not letting his excitement show.

“South Carolina.”

“I never heard of it either.”

“It's down south, through the mountains, a long way from here.”

“I'll think about it. But I can't go on a long trail right now.
First, I have to go back to my village. There's something important I must tell my uncle.”