Broken Trail (3 page)

“No time to spare. Tell him afterwards, when you have your new rifle to show off. You'll spend the night here, then start off at dawn.”

Broken Trail hesitated. Would it be right to leave on a long trail without telling Carries a Quiver about the wolverine? He looked down at his feet, then up at the ridgepole, and finally at the captain's white periwig. Well, what difference would it make if he delivered the message first? When he told the people of his village that he had been all the way through the mountains on an important mission, and had a new rifle to prove it, who then could doubt his fitness to be a warrior?

“This place, Kings Mountain, who lives there?”

“It's Cherokee territory—Indians live there, and settlers known as Over Mountain men. I don't know which are more dangerous, the red savages or the white.” His eyes studied Broken Trail's face. “Most of the way is through mountains. You can go over the mountains or follow the river valleys. Climbing cuts the distance in half.” He fixed Broken Trail with his cold blue eyes. Broken Trail broke the silence.

“I'll need food to carry with me.”

The moment he said this, Broken Trail knew that he would go. This was not a conscious decision, but a feeling that he must, although he had no idea why. This mission was something that belonged to him, just as his
oki
belonged
to him. This was different from the way in which the rifle would belong to him—it was much more special than that.

“We'll supply you with food. What else do you need, a boy like you?”

His eyes ran over Broken Trail's new moccasins of smoked buckskin, his doeskin shirt, his leather leggings with designs worked in porcupine quills, and his belt. Especially his belt, for in it Broken Trail wore his tomahawk; and from his belt hung his precious knife in its decorated sheath and his pouch that held bits of sinew for sewing, fishing line, bone fish hooks and the thong he used to rig up a fire-bow when on the trail.

“I need a gun.”

The captain chuckled. “No, my boy. You'll get the gun after you deliver the message. If I gave it to you now, you and the gun would both be gone for good.” He turned to the young officer. “Cornet, fetch this boy some hardtack.”

The young officer left the tent.

“What's the message you want me to carry?”

“That doesn't concern you.”

“I reckon it does, if I'm about to risk my life.”

The captain laughed. It was a short, dry laugh. “You're a bold lad. Well, here's the gist of it. We have an army on the march from Virginia, one thousand Loyalist troops—we call them the Loyal Americans—heading west.”

“Any Royal Greens with them?”

“Uh, yes, I believe so.” He cleared his throat. “As I was
about to say, their commander, Major Patrick Ferguson, is an experienced military man. However, he made a rash boast that has put his whole army at risk. He sent a message to the Over Mountain men, threatening to march his army over the mountains, hang their leaders and lay their country waste with fire and sword unless they stopped helping the rebels.”

To Broken Trail such a boast sounded reasonable. Among the Oneida, boasting was part of the preparation for battle. Warriors boasted about how many enemies they would kill and how many scalps they would take.

The captain continued: “Major Ferguson is a Scot from Edinburgh. He's a brilliant man, but he doesn't know a damn thing about those Over Mountain men.” He laughed again, that sharp humourless laugh. “Did you ever hit a hornets' nest with a stick?”

“Just once.”

“Exactly. Over Mountain men from every county west of Blue Ridge came swarming out hot as hornets. By reputation, they're great marksmen. No military training. No uniforms or provisions. No expectation of pay, so far as anybody knows, yet they've raised a militia force over one thousand strong. Just yesterday I received a report that they plan to rendezvous in the Watauga Valley on September 25th.”

“When is that? I haven't seen a calendar in three years.”

“Day after tomorrow. After that, they'll need about ten days to get organized for a march into the mountains, where
they plan to join forces with about three hundred and fifty militiamen from other counties. They're bent on one thing and one thing only—to wipe out Major Ferguson and all his men.”

“So you want me to warn Major Ferguson?”

“Correct. Ferguson doesn't know how to fight in the mountains. If he doesn't withdraw to Charleston, his army will be cut to pieces.” The captain unrolled a map and placed it on the table. “Here's where you're to go. Kings Mountain, South Carolina.” He rested one finger upon the intended spot. Broken Trail had never before seen such clean fingernails, such smooth well-tended hands. “After we ferry you across the St. Lawrence, you head south. When you get to Oneida Lake, go around the west end.”

“I know where that is.” He had been only nine years old, but how could he forget that place? The day he ran away, the warriors who found him led him to their band's fishing village at the west end of the lake. They took away his shirt, his breeches and his boots. They dressed him in a leather tunic, leggings and moccasins. Oneida Lake was where his new life had begun.

“Fine. From the west end of the lake, you travel southeast. You won't have much trouble until you reach the mountains in Pennsylvania. From that point, there'll be mountains all the way.” The captain reached up with both hands and adjusted his periwig, which had begun to slide towards his nose. “Have you ever heard of Charlotte?”

Charlotte! Broken Trail winced. Not her again!

“I know a girl named Charlotte.”

“Well, you certainly do get around!” The captain snorted.

“The Charlotte I have in mind is a town twenty-five miles east of Kings Mountain.”

Broken Trail scratched his head. “Oneida Lake is as far south as I've ever been.”

“Do you think you'll lose your way?”

“Not so long as sunrise and sunset stay where they belong. Besides, I can ask.”

“That's what I'm counting on. You can travel like an Indian but talk like a white man.”

The young officer re-entered the tent, carrying a small canvas bag with a drawstring top.

“Here's hardtack.” He handed the bag to Broken Trail. “A little goes a long way.”

Broken Trail peered into the bag. Its contents were pale, hard biscuits that looked about as appetizing as wood chips. He looped the bag's drawstring onto his belt.

“Now,” said the captain, “here's the message you're to deliver to Major Ferguson.” He gave Broken Trail a folded sheet of paper. “Don't give it to anyone else. That's the only way you can be sure it reaches his hands.”

“How will I know who he is? What does he look like?”

“Small in stature. He has brown hair, which he wears powdered. On the battlefield he stands out because he wears a checkered hunting shirt over his uniform, rides a grey
horse, and gives orders by blowing a silver whistle. However, he won't be on the battlefield when you see him. Ask a sentry to direct you to his tent.”

Broken Trail started to unfold the paper.

“Hold on there,” the captain said. “No reason for you to look at that. Just keep it safe.”

“I want to know where it says, ‘Give this boy a rifle.'”

“Smart lad.” The captain took back the paper and, without unfolding it, took the charcoal pencil that the young officer had been using and hastily wrote a few words. He handed it to Broken Trail. “I'm surprised that you can read.”

“I had three years of schooling.” Broken Trail studied the note. He read aloud, ‘If this reaches you, give the bear a rifle for his trouble.'” He frowned. “What's this about a bear?”

“That's you,” the captain laughed his short, sharp laugh. “The word I wrote is ‘bearer,' not ‘bear.' You should have stayed in school a while longer.”

IT WAS HARD TO RELAX
on the narrow army cot, especially with so many thoughts whirling in his head. Twelve days to deliver the message. The journey would be long. Beyond the wrecked fishing village at the western end of Oneida Lake, Broken Trail knew no landmarks by which to measure his progress toward Kings Mountain.

All he could do, he thought, was travel as fast as possible. The sooner he delivered the message, the sooner he could return home. He did not care about the fate of Major Ferguson and his Loyal Americans, but for a rifle he would do his best.

Only once in his life had he ever had a chance to fire a
gun. The warrior Swift Fox, his uncle's friend, had owned an old muzzle-loading musket picked up from a battlefield twenty winters ago, in the days when the Oneida nation had helped the English against the French. When Broken Trail was eleven, Swift Fox had let him try to shoot with it. The noise had deafened his ear, and the kick had knocked him off his feet. Such a gun was not the stuff of his dreams.

He admired the new breech-loading rifles that several Oneida warriors had bought from traders. Not only were these weapons lighter and more accurate than a musket, but a warrior could reload while lying under a bush. Among boys his age, only Spotted Dog owned such a rifle—a gift to celebrate his mystic vision. If Broken Trail delivered his message in time, maybe Major Ferguson would give him a gun like that.

In the moments before sleep, Broken Trail imagined the rifle that would soon be his.

A bugle's blare woke him at dawn. Broken Trail blinked up at the ridgepole of the tent. He barely had time to focus his thoughts before a soldier entered, carrying another bowl of pork and beans. This soldier was older than the two who had brought him to the army camp.

He waited until Broken Trail sat up before handing him the bowl. Instead of leaving the tent, he watched from under the brim of his forage cap while Broken Trail picked up the spoon and took his first mouthful.

“So you're the boy who's taking a message to the great Pat
Ferguson. He's a man I long to meet. I envy you, though I reckon you won't have much chance to talk with him.”

“Reckon not.” Broken Trail shovelled another spoonful of beans into his mouth.

“Ferguson's designed a new kind of rifle. They say it's five times more accurate than an old firelock. There's talk the light infantry will be outfitted with Ferguson rifles. If that happens, we still might win the war.” He heaved a sigh. “Not likely, more's the pity.” Then he clamped his mouth shut, as if realizing too late that he should not be talking like this, even to a boy.

But a moment later he started up again. “The officers don't tell us anything. But we men think this company is about to be sent down south. That's where the real fighting is going on. Virginia. The Carolinas. Georgia. With luck, I still might end up under Major Ferguson's command.”

Broken Trail, busily scraping the bottom of the bowl, did not answer. When he had finished the last spoonful, he set down the bowl on the folding table.

“I'm ready.”

“The canoe's waiting. It's time to be off.”

Fog shrouded the river. Broken Trail, sitting in the middle of the canoe, saw only whiteness all around. Nor was there anything to hear, apart from the dripping of water from the paddles.

As the sun burned off the fog, dozens of islands came into
view. Some were large and wooded, and others just a rock with a single gnarled tree clinging by its roots. The canoe wove among them on its way to the St. Lawrence River's south bank.

On one island he saw an osprey's nest, a rough platform of sticks balanced at the top of a dead pine. His friend Young Bear's
oki
was an osprey. If Young Bear were with him now, Broken Trail would tell him about the wolverine. A wolverine must be the equal of an osprey. It was larger and fiercer, though maybe not as noble.

Young Bear was slightly older than Broken Trail. He had completed his dream quest in the spring, three moons ago. Now he was entitled to wear his hair like a warrior, with a scalp lock into which was woven a decoration of bright beads. No trophy feathers yet. Ready for his first war party, he had been waiting all summer for Broken Trail to catch up.

Broken Trail wondered what his friend was doing right now. He might be checking his snares. He might still be asleep on his bearskin on his family's sleeping platform in the longhouse. If awake, he might be thinking about Broken Trail, worried that something bad had happened to him. Eleven days had passed since his dream quest began. That was a long time.

The backward churning of the stern paddle roused Broken Trail. The canoe had reached the far side of the river. The paddlers held the canoe steady while he climbed out onto the bank.

With a brief, “Good luck,” the soldiers backed up the canoe and turned it around. Broken Trail watched their departure. After a moment he turned away and, with the sunrise on his left, began to walk.

The path led through leafy woods, their green tinged with scarlet and gold; then there was a stretch of low scrub, followed by more woods. Broken Trail kept to an easy pace that would not cause his wound to start bleeding again.