Spirited (2 page)

So … perhaps it was not admiration that caused Major Whyte to look at her so often. Perhaps he was simply fascinated by her bizarre appearance. Or perhaps he was wishing her away. He had strenuously objected to her traveling with her father to Fort William Henry. He had said it was far too dangerous for a lady, with savages in the wilderness and pestilence in the garrison, and that she should stay in Albany.

Though her father agreed with the major, Isabella would not hear of it.

So far we have been safe. Perhaps our luck will hold
, she thought.
And as for the pestilence, Papa is bringing the soldiers the medicine that will cure it. I’ve naught to fear on that score.

A sudden movement caught her attention. Her eyes widened in wonder as a bright red cardinal fluttered from inside a hollow in a thick tree trunk. It cocked its head at her like a toy cuckoo in a clock. It chirped at her once; then rose effortlessly into the canopy of gold and scarlet, disappearing into the azure sky.

The wilderness was a busy, noisy place. Birdsong trilled as squirrels chittered up and down the branches of the birch, maple, chestnut, and pine trees. The leaves blazed in their glory. The soldiers marched, their leather boots thudding on the forest path. In a quick intake of air, she breathed in her horse’s clean scent and the odor of the damp, black earth.

To think that I almost missed this… that I almost consented when Mama and Papa begged me to remain in England, safe and securely buried in the country with Aunt Mary-Elizabeth. It was the first time I refused either of them anything.

Something told my heart to come here, to this strange New World. I just
knew
that I had to leave London and journey across the water. It was as if an angel whispered in my ear that I was wanted here.

And good thing, too, now that Mama is gone. Though my father claims that his work fills the emptiness she left behind, he would not have lasted a fortnight in the Americas without me.

She fingered the locket around her neck, a lump forming in her throat.

The second time I disobeyed Papa was coming with him now, on this journey. When Major Whyte explained how dangerous it was, he begged me to stay in town. But as before, something told me to come with him. And as before, I listened.

I wonder what will come of that decision.

At that moment, lacy yellow-green ferns shifted and bobbed as something moved among them. She
caught her breath—or tried to. Then a delicate deer raised its head from the ferns. It was exquisite, its head so thin and its innocent brown eyes soft and gentle. It did not move a muscle, but gazed placidly at the young Englishwoman riding through its home.

Isabella leaned over and tapped her father’s arm. He was riding closely beside her, keeping a protective watch over her. When she had his attention, she gestured with her head toward the deer. Dr. Stevens followed her line of vision and cocked his salt-and-pepper head beneath his three-cornered hat. His smile was a joy to her. He didn’t smile so often these days.

“Papa, it’s so beautiful, is it not?” she murmured.

Her father nodded without speaking. He reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze.

Eagerly she added, “The wilderness is so much more wonderful than I had expec—”

“Miss Stevens, I beg of you, keep silent,” Major Whyte said quietly from his position just ahead of them. He turned in his saddle as he spoke. The gold buttons of his coat flashed in the sun as he touched his gloved hand to his lips. He was being stern, and yet there was courtesy there, and respect.

Cheeks burning, she inclined her head in a gesture of apology. He gave her a small nod, his look lingering on her face. Blushing harder, she lowered her gaze to her gloves.

He
stares at me because I look strange
, she insisted to herself.

When she glanced back at the deer, it had vanished from sight.

They rode on, bridles jingling, the black leather boots of the soldiers thudding against the dirt. The men wore the peaked mitre caps of their regiment and were quite smartly turned out in their uniforms and knapsacks, all matching like lead nursery toys. The sight of them filled her with pride. With men like these in her regiments, England would prevail once again over her enemies.

Let it be soon
, she prayed.
Too much blood has been spilled in these colonies; there has been too much death for a land so young and fair.

She soaked in the vista surrounding her, taking in the lacy ferns, the shadowed woods, the dappled bower of colorful leaves. It was difficult to believe that this wonderland harbored death, but it did, and they must move through it as quickly as possible to the fort. The British were at war—with France, again—and the Indians who dwelled in these dense woodlands had taken up sides. Some fought for France, and some had allied themselves with Isabella’s sovereign, King George II of England.

But none of them was to be trusted any more than one would trust a wild animal. She shuddered at the memory of the Indians she had seen in Albany—half-naked, copper-colored men adorned with bizarre tattoos all over their bodies, some even extending across their faces. With their flintlocks and tomahawks strapped across their backs, they swaggered
through the streets as if they owned them. They wore their contempt as they wore their battle scars, displayed for all to see. Feathers and beads decorated tufts of black hair on the tops of their heads, arranged in a fashion to give their enemies something to grab onto while scalping them.

She tried to keep herself from forming an image of a scalped man.

She had not been able to understand how civilized men could have anything to do with such savages. Her father had explained to her that the natives hadn’t the same sorts of minds as civilized people. But all the same, they had the ability to fight. The French were using them very poorly, promising them all sorts of outlandish things in order to secure their help in their war against the British: Gold, jewels, rum, gin, and brandy. Huge quantities of drink. Firewater, as they called it. Not a man among them could handle it. And what need had savages for fine jewels and gold bracelets? They had no sense of taste or refinement. It had to be the sparkle that attracted them.

The British watched these exchanges … and learned. They bartered more reasonable items: beads that the Indians used for their clothing and also as money; blankets and axes, that sort of thing. Seeing that the Indians could not be expected to sort out complicated loyalties, the English simplified their agreements with the local chiefs. The King was spoken of as their Great White Father, and the British authorities were his representatives. The Indians
were called the children of the Great White Father, and it was quite appropriate. They were simple, like children—at times surly and stubborn; at others, impulsive and quite unable to restrain themselves when the urge to violence came upon them.

And that urge came swift and sure, as the hapless settlers in these parts could attest: the Hurons, allies of the French, had torn through settlements not far from here, butchering and scalping the men and capturing the women and children, either to torture to death or keep as slaves.

As if he could read her darkening thoughts, her father checked the pistol tucked into his belt. His powder horn was looped around a clip on his saddle. He was not a warlike man; he was a physician, and they were riding to the fort on a mission of mercy. But he was also an officer, and he had seen battle before. He could be counted on if there was trouble.

Still, Isabella couldn’t believe that he would need to use his firearm. Because their traveling party carried medicines to Fort William Henry, they were noncombatants, by the rules of war. Instead of a drummer, their company was led by a soldier carrying a white flag, the universal symbol of peace. Surely even primitives would honor their banner and grant them safe passage.

She glanced anxiously at her father, studying his profile. She saw new lines in his forehead and creases around his mouth. This year in the Colonies had aged him.

And it had killed her mother, who now slept beneath a weeping angel in the churchyard in Albany. Her personal physician had declared her death to be a result of nervous exhaustion. From the moment they had debarked their brig, the
Necessity
, she had hated this land and begged to go home. Though disappointed to be parted from his wife and child, Papa made all the arrangements to send them back. Aunt Mary-Elizabeth’s it was to be, after all.

But then war had been declared between Britain and France the following May, both at home and in their American possessions. Sea travel was out of the question.

“We are trapped!” her mother had shrieked, grabbing onto Isabella as if she were drowning. Her blue eyes nearly spun, she was so overwrought. She clung to her child and shouted at her husband, “My child and I will die in this godforsaken wilderness!”

And so Mama had.

As Isabella rode motherless beside her father now, she felt a sharp pang, then resolutely forced it away. She grieved only at night, and only alone, when the shadows cloaked her from her father. She would not for the world disturb him with her tears. Their nation was at war, and his skills must be at the ready for the wounded and the sick. Mourning was a luxury denied him. It must therefore be denied to his daughter as well.

Later, we will weep for Mama. But not now.

We have men to save.

Chapter Two

On the craggy cliff overlooking waves of purple-ridged mountaintops, Wusamequin, the young medicine man of the People of the River, raged and mourned his dead.

Surrounded by maples, chestnut trees, and arrow-straight pines, he sat cross-legged as he leaned forward toward the campfire he had built of rocks and birch wood. With his jaw set and hard, he wafted the holy, fragrant smoke over his face and head. His dark, deep-set eyes watered. He had unbound his black hair, and it hung past his shoulders and over his chest, where twin tattoos of bears crouched on the bulge of his pectorals.

He was in deep mourning. A thick black line crossed his chest, etched with smaller tattoos of triangles with their points hanging downward, to symbolize tears. Fresh tattoos of triangles ran up and down his biceps and encircled his wrists. With each moon that passed with no honor to his name, he had sought out the pain of the tattooing in order to feel alive. His body cried out in despair. His heart pounded the drum of grief.

But Wusamequin was a very private man, and he did not weep.

Though the air was chilly, he wore only his loincloth, leggings, and moccasins. He felt nothing, and everything. Mindful of his shame, he had visited the sweat lodge alone. He had chanted and prayed, but he had found no relief from the fury that boiled inside him.

Then he doused himself in the icy lake to slake off the poisons that he had sweated from his body and his spirit. Purified, he was now prepared to seek counsel from the land of the spirits as he marked the anniversary of the murder of his family.

He chanted for a time, low and steadily, his voice like teardrops on the body of the Great Mother, from whom the world had formed. Time passed, and his voice grew still. Feeling more centered inside his sorrow, he pushed with the sides of his feet and rose to a standing position. He was tall for a man of his people; his name was a good name, speaking of strength. It had also been the name of a number of illustrious chiefs of his people.

He reached into his medicine pouch and sprinkled the ashes with dried tobacco, bee balm, snake-wort, and tobacco. The mixture disappeared inside the mouths of orange and red. He rubbed some of it onto his face and his arms, then covered his eyes with his fingertips, forcing back a heavy sob.

He lowered his arms to his sides, took a deep breath, and raised his chin. He was Wusamequin, and he had the right to speak to the spirits.

“Thirteen moons have passed since my wife and
child were stolen from me,” he told the east wind. “From the chill snowy moon, which is Wolf Moon, to the thaw of Pink Moon; from hot Sturgeon Moon to bountiful Harvest Moon; to the darkest moon, which is Cold Moon, I have mourned my dead for an entire cycle of the Mother’s life.”