Black Eagle (37 page)

“Aye. I thank ye. Tell yer uncle that I appreciate his bringing this to my attention.”

Guy Johnson nodded. “And now if you will excuse me. There are other matters I must attend to.”

“By all means. By all means.”

The two men rose, shook hands, and Guy Johnson turned to leave the Rathburn study, perhaps to report to his uncle his success with the head of the Rathburn estate.

However, little did Guy Johnson know that when he departed, he left John Rathburn sitting at his desk, frowning, twiddling his thumbs and deep in thought.

 

 

The days had turned colder, the bright autumn leaves were falling in greater numbers than they had been only a few weeks prior and the men were organizing hunting parties. Black Eagle was amongst them.

Winter was around the corner and the time to hunt was now. As was typical, the men planned to be gone for many months, since most of them would be traveling great distances. Some would go to the Ohio Valley, some would go north and east to Lake Champlain. Others might travel to the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania and still others might traverse all the way up into Canada or to the Niagara Falls in the country of the Seneca. All told, their men would be away from the village for more time than Marisa liked to consider.

Parting for such an extended time period had been difficult for both Marisa and Black Eagle, and Marisa had begged to be taken with the men. But the way was too far and Marisa too inexperienced, and the fact that none of the other women would be accompanying their men on this trip made the likelihood of her going almost impossible. In the end, both Marisa and Black Eagle had decided it was better if she stay in the village, hard though it might be on them. Maybe next year she could accompany him when she was more accustomed to travel and when he might not be journeying so far.

She missed him terribly, of course, and even the constant work and the prattle of the other women couldn't make up for his absence. Nights were the hardest. If not for Pretty Ribbon, who kept Marisa constant company, it would have been even harder.

Gradually, however, as Marisa became more accustomed to village life, the rhythm of the days seemed to flow one into the other, and life began to follow a pattern. Also, she was surrounded by family, who watched over her carefully and ensured she always had enough company.

But today there was excitement. Today they were to leave the village and go out into the woods, nut gathering. The nuts would be ripe now and they were needed for many different things. The oil from the butternut, for instance, was fed to babies; some nuts were soaked and pounded into flour, or boiled. Others went into the corn bread for flavor or mixed into puddings. Nothing was wasted.

It was all new and interesting to Marisa, who hadn't known the woods abounded with so much nutritious food. Apparently, there were all sorts of nuts to be found in the woods, as well; there were black walnuts, hazelnuts, acorns, butternuts, hickory and chestnuts. Indeed, the work would be long and intense, and most of the women and girls in the village would, themselves, be gone from the village for several days. This included Marisa and her sisters.

“I like hazelnuts best of all,” said Pretty Ribbon as she skipped along beside Marisa. Equipped with bark baskets in hand, the women and two guards had already entered the woods. “What nut do you like best?”

“Hmmm, I think I like roasted chestnuts. Yes,” said Marisa, “it would be roasted chestnuts.”

“Oh, look!” It was Laughing Maid speaking. “Do you see? Over there, in the clearing—it's the biggest walnut tree I have ever beheld. Let's see if we can get there before the others find it, and let's fill our baskets. There must be hundreds, maybe thousands of nuts in that one tree, alone. Won't our clan mother have great praise for us if we come home with all of our baskets filled? And so soon.”

“Yes, let's try.”

Pretty Ribbon, however, wasn't pleased. She held back, saying, “I think we should wait for the others.”

“Good,” said Laughing Maid. “You wait for them. Tell them where we have gone.”

“I want you to wait with me.”

“Do not be such a child. You'll be fine. Tell them where we've gone.”

Pretty Ribbon seemed mortified at the reprimand, and she nodded quietly.

“Don't worry, Pretty Ribbon, we'll be back in only a moment,” said Marisa, and the two elder sisters set off at a fast pace toward the walnut tree.

“There is always a contest amongst us to see who can gather the most nuts. I have never won. Maybe this time I will.”

“I'll help you,” said Marisa. “I'll fill up your basket first before mine.”

“No,” said Laughing Maid. “That would be cheating. The contest is won on your own merit or not at all.”

“Oh,” said Marisa as she rocked back on her feet and exhaled. Never had she been amongst such honest and hardworking people. Invariably, given half a chance she might yet lead her sisters astray. Luckily when her suggestions were a mite off-color for them—seeming right to her, but breaking some moral code for them—someone usually corrected her.

“Let's hurry,” said Laughing Maid.

As they ran toward the tree, they didn't hear the men, who had been waiting. Nor did they sense the men's presence until too late.

They struck the two women from behind furiously and fast. One of the brutes hit Laughing Maid so hard that with a scream, she fell to the ground. Marisa's scream split through the forest, but these men were fast, and stuffing a dirty handkerchief into her mouth and grabbing both of her hands, one of the bullies picked her up and ran.

Marisa tried to scream again, but it was useless.

Who were these people? They weren't Indians. She could smell the dirt and grease on their clothing, inhale the scent of their body odor. These men didn't bathe so often. They were definitely not Indians.

As she was jostled on the shoulders of her attacker, she wondered if any of the Indian guards would follow. The guards themselves were only teenagers, since most of the men within warring age were away from the village. Plus, with a war on, most of the older teenagers were away, and what was left of the male population in the village were the old men and children.

Because of this, it was doubtful anyone would be able to put up a rescue party.

What was Black Eagle going to think? she wondered. Would he believe she had run away? Surely not. Pretty Ribbon would put his mind to rest on that account.

What would he do? Would he come after her? Would a runner be sent to tell him what had happened? And how long would it take for a runner to get to him, and for Black Eagle to respond?

Would he be required to save her yet again?

“Don't worry, miss,” said her attacker. “We got ya.”

Oh, how she wanted to talk back to this bully, how she wished she could give this man a piece of her mind. But she was gagged and her hands were bound. She could hardly swallow, let alone talk.

She was not left long to wonder who had stolen her, however. After running only a short distance, the man entered into a camp of soldiers. But they weren't British soldiers. They were the American militia.

The burly brute who had flung her over his shoulder dumped her on the ground not so gently, and getting up to her knees, she smoothed her hands over her wrists. Next to her was the man who must have been the “in-charge” of this group.

“Please excuse the roughness of the rescue, Lady Marisa,” he said, “but we had no choice. We had to steal you fast and leave with you fast. Name's Brent. Colin Brent. Our orders are to get you and return to Albany with you as quickly as possible.”

With her hands freed, she took the handkerchief out of her mouth, and began, “You didn't have to hit Laughing Maid. I have no idea if she's alive or not. Why did you do that?”

“Sorry, ma'am, but we have to work fast.”

“Well, I'm sorry to inform you of this, but I don't wish to leave, thank you very much. So if it's all the same to you, I'll be leaving you now to go back to the Iroquois village. Goodness knows if you hurt my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, my Iroquois sister.”

“Don't know nothing about no sister, but I can't be letting you go, ma'am. There's a reward on your head, and the next man might not be so polite. Can't stay here either. We gotta be moving. I have my orders.” He nodded to the bully who had carried her here. “Get the lady, Coleman. We gotta get out. Fast. We're leaving now.”

“I'm not going.”

“Sorry, ma'am, but you are. If I have to I'll bind and gag you.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I'm not going.”

“Coleman, get moving, over here. Now. I'll need you to bind the lady, put her on the horse and tie her on. We're leaving.”

Of course she didn't have any chance of escape, but she wouldn't have thought much of herself if she hadn't tried. Without giving warning, she started running, back in the direction from which they had come.

But she was no physical match for these men and she was unarmed. The bully named Coleman caught her easily, tied her up and set her on the horse.

And she really didn't need him telling her, “It's for your own good, miss,” to anger her.

Her reply was, “I am married. You remember that.”

And then they were away, moving quickly, heading back to Albany. When she screamed, they gagged her. When she plummeted her hands on the horse, they tied them onto it, too.

Her heart was breaking, her emotions were shattered and her will was frustrated. Looking back in the direction of the village, she made a vow. Somehow, in some way, she would go back there.

Black Eagle leapt and sprinted over the pathway so quickly, he might have been a deer in flight. Flintlock in hand, with one other strapped over his shoulder, did not slow him down. Indeed, their weight served as a reminder of why he required them and spurred him onward.

They had taken his wife. They had knocked Laughing Maid unconscious and according to the last report he'd received from runners, she had still not revived.

His powder horn was full, and there were a multitude of lead balls in his pouches. Thrown over his shoulder was a bow; a quiver full of arrows was strapped across his back. His tomahawk was fixed securely in his belt. He was ready to fight. He wanted to fight.

The path over which he ran was clear, purposely kept that way by the Six Nations. Sometimes the trail was called the corridor that linked the eastern door of the Mohawk country to the western door of the Seneca, the comparison being that of the corridor of the longhouse. Ahead of him, a branch had fallen in his way, but he flew over it easily, not stopping to go back and remove it from the pathway. His mission was too important to slow down or to stop.

The woods around him reflected the anger in his heart. The leaves had fallen, the trees were stripped of their dignity, the grass was dry and brown and the coldness of winter was soon to come. The forest echoed with shouts of injustice. No one had come to the village to negotiate. No one had spoken a word. She had been kidnapped, and it had been cruelly done.

Could there have been less dignity in the act?

He would speak to Sir William. Such outrages must cease.

Darting quickly through a stream, Black Eagle set his pace again to a furious sprint, ignoring the sounds and the scents of the forest. They held nothing for him at this time of year.

He would recover her, he would discover the truth behind the attacks on her person and he would see to justice. Indian justice. Indian revenge.

Whoever had done this, whoever was doing this was a person of evil. And whoever this was, they had now insulted him. But they would be no more . . . and soon . . .

 

 

“Ye must eat something, Miss Marisa.”

It was cook speaking. It was cook who had brought a tray up to Marisa's rooms.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Stanton. But please, cease calling me Miss Marisa. I am married now.”

“Beg pardon, miss . . . ah, Lady Marisa.”

Marisa exhaled on a sigh. “Thank you Mrs. Stanton, and forgive me if I seem uncaring. I am not. I appreciate all that you have done for me in these difficult weeks. But I have changed. My maid, my best friend, is gone. My husband is lost to me. All I have ever cared about is gone. Worse, my step-uncle is seeking to rush me into marriage. He would have me become a bigamist, I think.”

Mrs. Stanton tut-tutted. “Forgive me for asking, but couldn't ye pretend to go along with yer uncle? At least so as to secure yer freedom. 'Tis not right to keep ye locked in yer room. All the servants think so.”